A Hero By Any Other Name

by Stackpole, Michael A.

  The villain lifted his right hand and opened his palm to the bank manager, a hum sounding in the pack upon his back. The dark circle in the middle of his palm pointed at the manager’s head.

  “I believe you were just getting ready to open the vault for me.”

  “I…I…I c-can’t.”

  “How droll—nobility. Open the vault, and I will leave.”

  “N-No, you don’t understand. I c-can’t. I, um, well, I hit the emergency button as soon as the wall exploded. The vault is locked down. There’s no way in.”

  “Ah, I had hoped to do this the easy way, but the truth is I really don’t need you to let me in. You see, I brought my own key.” The muscles in his hand tensed, like a finger getting ready to pull a trigger.

  “It’s a shame about you, though. Terribly sorry. What—”

  Sonic Force suddenly found himself flat on his back. Lifting his head from the rubble-strewn floor, he looked up at the figure standing above him holding his power pack, and the utility belt with all of his other toys.

  Black combat boots. Black combat fatigues. And, oh, that stupid gold fleur-de-lis emblazoned on the chest of a black shirt that was tight enough to be a second skin.

  Of course. Who else would it be? “Defender.”

  The newcomer’s mouth split into a wide smile, his straight, white teeth set off perfectly against his ebony skin. “Wow, Sonic, my man, you really can’t stop talkin’, can you?”

  A few hours and another embarrassing perp-walk through the city later, Sonic Force sat on an uncomfortable bunk staring at a small square of sunlight on the dingy wall of a New Orleans jail cell. His fist beat against his thigh as he ran through the sequence of the day for the tenth time.

  Why did it always end up like this? Oh, he did all right with the low-level street scams his crew was running, but any time he tried to pull anything big, Defender was always there. Fear was his stock in trade, and he was close to becoming a laughing stock.

  A dry chuckle filled the air of the jail cell.

  “Who’s there?” Sonic’s eyes shifted from the square of light to the dark corner of the room directly opposite it. He was sure the cell was empty when he’d arrived, and in any case they wouldn’t risk putting anyone else in a confined space with him.

  “Ahhh, Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. How disappointing your life must be.”

  Meryl. His given name. No one called Sonic Force Meryl. No one. Not since high school, anyway.

  “Whoever you are, you will call me Sonic Force. Now stop hiding!” He surged to his feet, fists balled at his sides.

  “Oh, I’m sooo sorry… Sonic Force.” That voice. It was metal rake tines scraping along broken concrete. Or a boot grinding dead, dry leaves. Sonic Force looked down and saw that his hands had lifted a little, as if to push away that terrible voice.

  A shadow detached itself from the corner and coalesced into a solid form. A black cloak covered the entire figure, blending into the shadows at the hem and ending in a hood whose shadow hid the entire face. Except for the eyes. Those evil eyes burned through the darkness.

  Sonic Force struggled to regain his composure.

  “We-ll,” he drew the word out, trying to buy time to figure out what was going on. “You had better be sorry. This is my town, Mister tall, dark, and scary, and you will treat me with the respect I have earned.”

  “An interesting phrase you use there—‘the respect I have earned’.” The shadow drifted to the other side of the room, swallowing the square of light that had been on the wall a moment before. “Do you mean earned through the numerous petty schemes played out on a daily basis through your pathetic minions? Or perhaps you mean your repeated bumbling attempts at crime that invariably end with you in here and Defender on the evening news?” The shadow perched on the edge of the one table in the room, tendrils falling to the floor like drops of blood.

  Sonic Force crossed his arms in what he hoped looked like defiance. Mostly, he didn’t want this—whatever it was—to see his hands shaking. As an afterthought, he lifted his chin.

  “I’m not worried about being in here. I can get out any time I want, as I’ve clearly demonstrated time and again.”

  “Yes, Mister Force, but the travesty is that you’re even here in the first place. You were once a world-class scientist. Now, you are a laughable criminal.” As emphasis, the specter issued forth that dry, grinding chuckle once again.

  “Whatever. I’m not going to sit here and be lectured by you—whatever you are—on my abilities as a criminal mastermind. I don’t know who you are or what you want here, but as I said this is my town. You will show me respect, and you will not operate here without my approval.” Sonic Force said it with as much gusto as he could muster, but he could already sense that this situation was far beyond his control. His fingers groped at the circles in the centers of his palms in a subconscious indication of despair at his helplessness.

  The cloaked form grew taller and wider, dominating the room.

  “As to who I am, I have been known by many names across the centuries, but you may call me Deathscape.” The voice boomed now, vibrating Sonic Force’s teeth in their sockets. “Your town, you say? Your town?” A fetid wind assaulted his nose as terrifying laughter filled the room. “I was here when this city was but the seed of a village. Through the centuries I have dominated this city, emerging to feed on the fear of its citizens when I wished, and returning to sleep when I was satiated. This is, and always has been, my town. Foolish child, you have merely scuttled around the edges of this city while I allowed you to do so.”

  As the last echoes of that terrible voice faded from the room, Deathscape’s form suddenly leapt, encircling Sonic Force in shadow. And where the shadow touched, there was terror of a sort that the villain had never before experienced. It was as if all of his worst fears, all of the nightmares that he never told anyone about and even those that he had never consciously admitted to himself, had come to life. It was all of the children in all of the schools he’d been in and out of as a child laughing at him at one time. It was everything he’d built, every amazing invention, falling apart in front of his face. It was his colleagues in the scientific community casting him out once again. It was his parents dying again.

  Horrible, agonizing terror that leached his will to live and scraped away at him until there was nothing left but bone.

  And then, in an instant, it was gone.

  He lay on the floor of the cell, sobbing and shaking, his blue and gold form curled in upon itself.

  It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but that minute was devastating. Sonic Force’s pulse was racing. His body shook, and every shake introduced a new pain. His lips hung loosely toward the floor as drool dripped from them.

  For the second time that day, Sonic looked up from where he lay at the figure looming over him. This time, though, he knew true fear.

  “Your time here is done, Meryl.” The burning eyes narrowed, almost as if the fiend was…smiling. “While I slept, I was content to allow you to operate in my town. Now it is my time again. While I feed, the citizens of New Orleans will know true fear. I don’t need you wondering around providing comic relief. Leave this town. Find another place to be mediocre. If you don’t…”

  Deathscape sent out a tendril of his darkness that barely brushed Sonic Force’s forehead. The terror stabbed through his brain, and Sonic Force screamed in pain, huddling closer in upon himself, covering his head with his arms.

  “If you don’t, our time here today will seem enjoyable.”

  Silence.

  After a few minutes, Meryl Feinstein, PhD, peeked between his fingers and, sobbing with relief, saw that the room was empty.

  The Defender stood in front of his bedroom mirror, reached back, grabbed the back of his mask and, pulling it from his face, once again became Jackson Delacroix, New Orleans jazz musician.

  He turned the mask over in his hand and looked at it. It was black and gold, the shape more Mardi Gras than caped hero. His
full lips pulled back in a slight smile. As befitted a son of New Orleans.

  Jackson sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

  Make that Jackson Delacroix, tired New Orleans jazz musician. Not physically tired. That was almost impossible since the mystical force known as the Spirit of New Orleans had granted him strength and speed during Hurricane Katrina. But mentally and emotionally tired. It just seemed like he did the same thing over and over again. Catch Sonic Force. Beat him. Take him to jail. Find out he escaped. Wash, rinse and repeat.

  There had to be something more to this. He remembered how energized he was during Katrina. Not that he wanted anything bad like that to happen again, but at least he felt like he was using his powers for something that mattered.

  “That’s right, Jackson, feel sorry for yourself. Horrible thing, bein’ stronger and faster than anyone else. Man, your mama’d have something to say about that, wouldn’t she?”

  Jackson gave himself a lopsided grin in the mirror. Mama would have knocked him a good one upside the head, is what she would have done.

  “Jackson, nuthin’ more worthless than a man feels sorry for himself. You don’t like yo life, you do somethin’ ‘bout it!”

  Mama had told him that more times than he cared to think about.

  A growing, spinning light in the center of his mirror drew him back from the haze of memory.

  A small knot of excitement grew in the pit of his stomach.

  The Spirit of New Orleans! This is how it had all started back before Katrina. And he hadn’t heard from that entity since.

  As before, the light became larger and larger, filling the mirror. Jackson reached out to touch the light, and found himself surrounded by it. There was no room, no floor, no gravity. He floated, weightless, in the light.

  “Jackson. Jackson Delacroix.”

  The voice came from everywhere. It was powerful, and deep, but somehow soothing.

  “I am here. Why haven’t you spoken to me since…”

  A form emerged from the light. No, it gathered-in the light, becoming a distinct form made of light within the light. It had no definable shape, but left the impression of an old man in a robe. Not your “hand me my cane, sonny” type of old man, though. No, sir. More like the “don’t cross me or I’ll kick your tail, sonny” type of old man.

  “Jackson Delacroix, the time is at hand. The great danger. The evil you were empowered to battle has arrived.”

  “Wait, but…I’ve been doing that! I saved people from Katrina. You told me an evil would come, and Sonic Force showed up. I’ve defeated him again and again. I’ve done everything you asked.”

  Jackson was confused and hurt. There was a growing ember of anger burning his gut. He’d grown up raised by his mama, his father little but the memory of a man who vanished before he was old enough to know him. So, when the Spirit had shown up before and given him a task and the power to do it, and then disappeared, he’d felt a little bit of that abandonment again. Now, here was the Spirit, telling him he wasn’t doing the job. If he wasn’t doing it right, why hadn’t the Spirit shown up at some point to give some guidance?

  “The things of which you speak are mere trivialities. The great darkness is upon you. We have sought to prepare you for this battle, but we can do no more. We can only work indirectly through the powers we have granted you. You must be our champion. You must defend our city.”

  “Weeell, isn’t that a fancy way to say ‘you’re screwed!’ You, who are clearly powerful enough to crush me, are sending me out to fight someone you can’t beat? That doesn’t make any kind of sense at all!”

  “Jackson!” The soothing voice was gone. The figure pulsed, its energy was surging. Jackson looked away. The light got painful. If the Spirit weren’t a wise, all-knowing being, he would have said it was angry.

  Jackson could feel sweat leaking from his palms. For the first time in years, he was afraid.

  The pulsing stopped, and the Spirit seemed to take a moment to collect itself.

  “We chose you because you were good and strong. We gave you all the strength, speed, and protection it was in our power to give. You have not proven us wrong. We have faith that you will face this challenge and win. For, if you do not, the consequences shall be grave.”

  The Santa Claus voice was back.

  “Grave, like the Saints having another losing season grave, or grave like people are gonna die grave?”

  A low rumble sounded all around, shaking the walls.

  “If you fail, not only the lives, but the souls of everyone in this city shall be devoured.”

  “Oh, that kind of grave. Can you at least give me an idea of who I’m fighting?”

  Jackson waited as the Spirit seemed to collect its thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t so infallible, after all. Jackson felt like a being as mighty as the Spirit should have an answer ready for a softball question like that.

  The worst thing about the waiting was that he noticed the light surrounding him more. Sure, initially it was all “ooh” and “ah,” but eventually having blinding light shining all around you just gave you a headache.

  “Know this, Jackson Delacroix. For good to exist, there must be evil, and for evil to exist there must be good. This city is a mixture of both good and evil.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Jackson muttered.

  “We represent the bright side of the soul of this city. Every act of kindness, selflessness, love, and every moment of joy feeds our power. Just as we represent the good, however, there is another who embodies the evil. A being who feeds on the darkness and the terror of men.”

  “Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me that I’m going up against something that gains power from all of the dark deeds of this city? Of New Orleans? Man, do you have any idea how crazy this city is? How am I supposed to fight that?”

  “You will succeed because you must.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He crossed his arms over his chest, large biceps threatening to split the seams of his shirt. “I can’t tell you how much confidence that gives me. Can you at least tell me where to find this… thing, whatever it is?”

  “His domain lies where only the dead reside.”

  “Oh, come on, man! Where the heck am I going to find ‘where only the dead reside’ on a map? Couldn’t you just say ‘why, yes, Jackson, he lives on the corner of Canal Street and Dauphine Street’?”

  Jackson could feel a shift. He had weight again, and could feel the floor through his boots. He found himself once again standing in his bedroom as the light pulled back into the mirror.

  “Jackson Delacroix, remember this, at the last, when defeat is nearest, your greatest enemy shall be your salvation…”

  As the light faded, the voice faded with it. Eventually, the mirror was once again empty.

  Jackson felt a little empty, too. And pissed.

  “What kind of crap was that? Where only the dead reside? My greatest enemy will be my salvation? What does that even mean?”

  Jackson pulled back his fist and punched the mirror in frustration. It shattered.

  This “man behind the curtain” crap was really pissing him off.

  “Watch where you’re going, you stinkin’ bum!” The words followed a violent push on the shoulder, and the man who used to be Sonic Force fell forward onto the cobblestone street. He looked up to see a flabby rear end and the back of a shirt that said “Fear This!” receding from him.

  He looked back down to see that his overcoat, already filthy, was getting even worse as it soaked in the murky water running down the side of the street. He pulled himself up and tried to brush off the coat as much as possible. He’d found it a couple of days ago in a trash bin. It wasn’t much, but with three solid days of rain, it was better than nothing.

  One week. One week since he’d been visited by Deathscape in his jail cell. Within an hour of that visit he’d been able to get free, but to what avail?

  He was too afraid to go back to his lair and get his toys, sure that Deathscape would find him. Too a
fraid to approach any of the street thugs who worked for him, even. And too afraid to leave the city. New Orleans was all he had known for years. It was the only place he’d ever had any power. What would he do if he left? Instead, he moved from day to day, moment to moment, sleeping in different alleys every night, jumping at every shadow or patch of darkness.

  A week ago, no one would have dared push him. Now, he cowered away from his assailant, seeking safety in distance. He’d had to get rid of his costume and his mask, of course.

  And, in a week, the city had changed. New Orleans had always been noise, and energy, and laughter, and excitement painted over a deeper layer of darkness and danger. Now, though, that bright layer of paint was fading. The laughter that remained was forced. The excitement had turned to fear.

  And, even though no one was exactly saying it, everyone knew it.

  “Y’hear ol’ Antoinne kilt himself?”

  “Antoinne the numbers guy?”

  “Nah, Antoinne the barber. Him, too, though. That was a coupla days ago. That’s like a dozen I know this week!”

  “Can ya blame ’em?”

  Meryl turned to look at the waiters busing tables as he stumbled by. And there it was. Conversations like that all over town made it clear that the city’s soul was rotting.

  What could he do, though?

  A jolt of shock coursed through him. Why would he do anything? Why should he care about these people? He was a villain!

  “Hello, Meryl.”

  He’d been walking, caught up in a battle with himself, but the voice snapped him back to reality. That voice. Deathscape.

  Meryl looked up.

  Deathscape loomed across the middle of the street. Broad daylight, in front of the entire city, and here he was.

  “I was sure that I had told you to leave my domain. Was I mistaken, Meryl?”

  Deathscape moved forward, flowing over the front end of the vehicle stopped in front of him. The vehicle’s driver curled into a ball in his seat. Deathscape paused as his form engulfed the driver.