by Jeremy Flagg
The man looked up. His cheek had been pulled partway loose from his face, blood streaming down his neck. The wound didn’t faze her—it was the twisted smile across his face that left her feeling uneasy. His shoulder cracked and popped out of socket as he stood. The pain would have made any other man scream, but the smile never left his face.
“What the fuck are you?”
His other hand latched on to her jacket, but he made no move to continue the assault. She grabbed him and spun him around as the other man slashed with an identical blade. She stared in horror, knowing the blade must have landed in the man’s flesh, but his smile never flinched.
She drew back her arm. At her command, the hydraulics powering it would thrust into motion. With a single punch, the side of his skull collapsed and his brain was nothing more than mush. The man fell to the ground, and she was met with the original attacker. Like his dead friend’s, the smile across his face stretched a bit too far and seemed to be stapled into place.
“Who are you?” she asked, backing up from the man.
Unlike his deceased comrade, he wielded the blade with superior skill. His swings were controlled, precise, and used to force her backward. She parried with her hand, sparks raining down every time the blade scraped across the metallic surface. She wasn’t a close range fighter; it was something she had never taken to. She didn’t like to get this close in a fray, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t without resources.
She grabbed his wrist. Before she could snap it, his knee came up, landing a solid blow to her rib cage. She staggered backward, swearing at the pain. There were more figures moving through the shadows, and she had to assume they were more of these ass-hats. She didn’t care if they were some drugged-up gang, they were on her turf.
She was buckled over when he took another step toward her. She launched into an uppercut with her right hand, the knuckles landing squarely underneath his jaw. The man’s body didn’t lift off the ground as much as his head disconnected from the rest of it. Fluids covered her face and favorite jacket. Her stomach turned in disgust.
She grabbed the walkie-talkie on the back of her belt. She pressed the button and yelled into it. “We have intruders.”
Clarice sat in the office, most likely dozing off from boredom. But her walkie was turned up loud enough it could wake the dead. Twenty-Seven ran over to her gun and grabbed it. As she stood up, an ear-piercing scream started to fill the streets. The scream grew until it pierced through the night and threatened to blow out her eardrums. Clarice, the equivalent of an emergency broadcast signal.
“We have men in bomber jackets. They’re hyped up on drugs. No projectiles…”
She stopped speaking, recognizing the red dots hovering in the air. Somewhere in the darkness of the alley there were synthetics creeping closer. Twenty-Seven took aim with her gun and pulled the trigger. The round dipped low, just under the synthetic’s head. The explosion tore through the metal and lit up the alleyway. There were a dozen killing machines. She pressed the button on the walkie-talkie again. “Synthetics. We have synthetics.”
She took aim when one launched itself from a rooftop. As it hit the ground, she pulled the trigger, sending the heap of metal skidding across the pavement. Then she ran. She didn’t have enough ammo to take out each of them, they’d swarm her. Their tactics were simple: overwhelm with force until the subject submitted.
There weren’t many Children in Troy with active abilities—one of the reasons they came here to hide—but there were some.
The first scream in the distance was a warning. She reached into her pocket and fumbled around, looking for the plugs. The screeching started again as she tried to force the plugs in her ears. Her robotic hand wasn’t the most adept at fine motor functions and she had to jam it in before the sound got worse. Even with squishy material clogging her ear canal, the screaming made her cover the sides of her head as she ran into a small bookstore.
“Thank God, Clarice,” she said as she checked the magazine in her gun. She hadn’t refilled from earlier in the day. She needed to make it to the armory and secure more rounds. She smashed the magazine back into place. The high-pitched screaming stopped abruptly and Twenty-Seven closed her eyes. “May you find peace.”
***
Jasmine lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Another night when she didn’t feel tired enough to sleep passed at a glacial pace. Barely midnight, and she could just as easily run a marathon as she could pass out. The ceiling was covered in a tacky popcorn plaster, giving it a rough texture. Every time she woke up, she found small bits of white on the floor, a testament that the building was falling apart.
It wasn’t cool enough to need covers, but it wasn’t warm enough to go without. She had the lower half of her body covered and her hands tucked behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. She had given up on pillow; the military had trained her to be able to sleep anywhere at any time. It might not be as comfortable, but she preferred not having her hearing dampened. Only recently had she started sleeping on a mattress, originally opting for the floor next to the bed.
When she found sleep difficult, her mind wondered back to her life before the Nighthawks. She wondered where the Paladins were or what the General was doing. When civil war erupted on American soil, she found herself rooting for the team she knew. She trained with them for years before taking over as their commander. She had been part of an old initiative to put Children of Nostradamus in charge of military units. She ate, bathed, and slept with her unit. She cheered for them in the war, hoping the Paladins she trained kept their heads about them, at least enough to survive the onslaught.
Now she hoped they evaded death so she could be the one to squeeze the life from their bodies. The smile spread across her face. With all the do-gooding she participated in with the Nighthawks, anger still felt like an old friend. She’d drift off into sleep thinking of revenge.
***
“You can’t be serious?”
Vanessa shook her head. “It is not something they promoted in the Church.”
“I think it’s important we change this immediately.”
He stood up from the chair and held out his hand. The hotel lobby was one of the few spaces in the city they made sure to keep clean. While the rest of the buildings faded away, everything but the color of the rug remained vibrant and absent of dust. The desk where guests checked in stayed polished and the furniture kept clean. There were two high back chairs facing each other with a small table to one side. Despite the plush seating, Vanessa and Dav5d sat atop tall stools. While it was never said, everybody knew her wings presented practical issues. Dav5d refused to let her be the odd one out.
“You have to listen to him.” Alyssa pointed at the man.
“What do you know of it, child?”
Vanessa listened to the girl’s thoughts, the playful laughter echoing in her head. Alyssa stood, walked over to the grand piano, and pushed up the drawer covering the keys. Vanessa remembered the surgeon who had lived with them years ago. He claimed he needed the manual dexterity and kept his hands tuned by playing for hours each evening. With no television or even radio, it had been their entertainment for months. She thought about his mangled body, killed nearly two years prior.
Dav5d touched her chin, lifting her face. “Remember you are still alive.”
His hand lingered for a moment. As he pulled away, he let the tips of his fingers graze her cheek. Her heart swelled and she smiled. He knew her so well, and there was no way he’d let her dwell on the dead when she had more living to do. She caught his eye and couldn’t help but smile, her lips pulling back, showing both of her canine fangs.
Alyssa tapped away at piano keys. She pulled up the bench and sat at the mammoth instrument and continued. The sounds being produced made Vanessa wince. Alyssa persisted and within the minute she was playing chords, mastering the art. Vanessa turned her attention to Dav5d, who held out his hand again.
“Every beautiful woman should know how to dance,” he said
with a slight bow.
Vanessa extended her hand, taking his and standing in front of him. He guided her other hand to his shoulder and placed his against her waist. Vanessa couldn’t help but be impressed with the melodies Alyssa conjured, the music so heartfelt and sincere.
“A waltz please, Alyssa.”
“I don’t know how to play that.”
“Three four time, one chord per measure with the root chord on the first beat and up the scale for the second and third.”
While Alyssa’s abilities adapted, he took Vanessa by the waist and pulled her close. She was taller than him, his mid-five-foot frame to her six-plus-feet making the encounter comical. He stepped forward, forcing her right foot to take a step back. With his right foot he moved at a diagonal, then waited for her to repeat the step. With two more steps they completed the first rotation.
“We’ll go slow.”
Her feet were almost human, slightly longer and slightly more pointy at the heel, but for the most part human-like. She watched them, taking steps a second after Dav5d. His hand on her waist gently pushed her into place. She caught a glimpse of him staring at her, his eyes focused on her face. She could sense his admiration as she began to follow his footwork.
“Try not to look so scared,” Alyssa encouraged.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stopping mid-step. “I fear dancing will never be my thing.”
He gripped her hand tighter, refusing to let her go. He pulled her back toward him, placing his hand on her hip again. “Put aside your insecurities and let me be in control.”
She understood the statement. She had no doubt he kept track of the times in their relationship she lost control. The last time, she walked into a group of her peers and revealed her real form. Command over their abilities was an underlying requirement for a mentalist. She feared the day she ever completely let go.
The music continued and she watched as her feet moved just a moment slower than his. He lifted her head, forcing her to follow his eyes. As they continued he guided her from one step to the next until they were matching the speed of the music. She smiled at her mentor, appreciative of his persistence.
“Do you trust me?”
“Always,” she replied.
His hand on her hip guided her as they twirled about the lobby. Her feet continued the same pattern, matching his, time and time again. They moved to and fro, spinning about the piano as if they had been practicing for hours. Between the measures of music, she nearly forgot she was a telepath, or that she was the so-called leader of a group of superpowered people. For a brief moment her world vanished and Dav5d was the only thing that mattered.
Her back went rigid, causing Dav5d to freeze in place. “There’s something very wrong.”
The music stopped. Dav5d and Alyssa stared at her, waiting for her next words. She shook her head, trying to sort through the voices at the edge of her mind. She was jealous of Dav5d for being able to sort through so much information in a logical manner. She had to rely on her gut and the fear of a wrong move clung to her as she searched the aether for something out of place.
“Twenty-Seven,” she said. The name surprised even her.
“She’s terrified.” She paused. “No, she’s angry. Something’s happening.” Vanessa tried to reach out and connect to the woman, but with Twenty-Seven’s newfound ability to keep her out, Vanessa wasn’t sure she could do it.
She stood in a small room. A bathroom, the mirror cracked and covered with layers of filth. Twenty-Seven glared into it, blood caking hair to the side of her face. Twenty-Seven’s thoughts reached out to Vanessa. At some point they would have to discuss who had taught her these tricks.
Vanessa. We’re under attack. We need help.
In the mirror, behind Twenty-Seven, a man in a stark white suit watched. Vanessa’s mind recoiled, hurling back into her body. “Something horrible is happening. We need to go to Troy.”
“Go wake the others,” Dav5d said.
“Dav5d, think you can give me a hand?” Alyssa pointed to the computer screen wrapped around his wrist.
A dozen videos on high speed later, the remaining Nighthawks stood in the room with them. Conthan was the last to walk in the door. Vanessa didn’t need to ask to sense the fatigue radiating through his bones. He had been experiencing the same bad dreams she had, and it seemed they were getting worse. Every night he vanished, his conscience taking him on a mission to undo the act of killing a man in cold blood. The pain in the back of his mind tugged at hers, a reminder they shared a taint of darkness.
“Can you get us there?” asked Vanessa.
She knew the answer before he shook his head. She tried not to pry, but the memories were fresh with a life of their own. She saw him saving an innocent woman. She pulled back, trying to leave him some amount of secrecy. “I can, if you do that thing you do.”
I’m sorry.
Do what you must, Conthan. None of us can judge you. We have all been where you are now and had to make decisions about the lives we would live afterward.
“Do it.”
It was familiar as she reached into his mind and triggered his powers. The portal opened and a moment later another one appeared in the middle of an intersection in downtown Troy. She ignored his blackened eyes, a reminder that she had pushed him further than she should. She would feel guilty later, but now, they had Children to save.
***
She pulled the trigger, aimed, and pulled again. The first machine exploded, its head nowhere to be found. The second she caught in the hips, removing both legs. The synthetic dug its digits into the earth and gained ground between them, determined to get at its target. Twenty-Seven, attempted to ignore the two teenagers huddling in the corner of the kitchen while she worked.
Twenty-Seven grabbed onto the machine’s skull with her enhanced hand and squeezed. The metal resisted, but as she growled, the skull collapsed in. With the processor crushed, the synthetic slumped to the ground. “We’re getting you out of here.”
The boy nodded, holding the girl close to his chest. Twenty-Seven slung the rifle over her shoulder and reached out to the two. “We clear this building, get to the bunker. You know the drill.” She could see he was trying not to shiver. The shock had worn off and the terror began to set in. If they’re going to get to safety, it has to happen now, she thought.
The kitchen was modest, without the most state-of-the-art appliances, but it had managed to make a killer steak once upon a time. She grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. Not her weapon of choice, but if any more of the smiling people showed up, she was going to make sure they didn’t have a chance to reach her wards.
She flipped the knife in her hand so that the blade pointed down, resting against her forearm. A year ago she thought she’d die from starvation in the Outlands. A year ago, she worried how she would manage without her husband. A year ago, she was another woman. In three hundred and sixty-five days she learned underneath a scared housewife, she harnessed the spirit of a fighter.
A shadow moved underneath the door leading into the dining room. She gestured for the children to step back. The heel of her foot slammed the swinging service door, which smacked into somebody, and she burst through, on them before they could react. It was another man in a bomber jacket, the sixth one she had come across at this point. His switchblade scraped across the metal of her forearm. She slashed across his chest, sending him backward, knocking into the empty pastry case.
She latched onto his wrist and with a simple spin of a gyro, it hung pulverized, his hand dangling useless. With the uninjured one he grabbed at her throat and she plunged the knife into his chest. The bomber jacket gave way and the blade sunk deep into the man’s torso. She had no problem killing in defense, but she found the silent deaths of these men unsettling. She tore them limb from limb and there wasn’t a single cry of pain. Whatever had been done to them, she wasn’t going to leave them alive to tell.
The diner could seat fifty, but they rarely used it anymore.
It was easier to cook food in one of the smaller houses behind the main street. The checkered tablecloths had a layer of dust and the cash register sat open, dollar bills still resting in the drawer. There was something mournful when she looked at the buildings thrown into disrepair or neglected. She hoped that in the next generation, there would be enough people that these abandoned dreams would thrive again. But as she caught her reflection in the pastry case, her face streaked with blood and her hair matted to her face, she knew this fantasy was far from a reality.
“Are you ready?”
She saw the reflection in the Ryan’s eyes before he could reply. They were here. At least a dozen synthetics stalked the diner. He screamed.
She had studied each of the residents, learned who they were as people, their favorite ice-cream flavors. Tangled in the informal coffee conversations were their abilities, the things that made them Children of Nostradamus. Twenty-Seven felt her robotic arm go limp, refusing to cooperate or respond to her commands.
“Good job, Ryan.”
“Sorry, Ma’am,” he said, looking at her arm.
“I still have a good one.”
His body generated low-level electromagnet pulses. The first time they shook hands, her enhancement had died, the power source drained. He had apologized profusely, but she could only laugh at this young man who literally de-armed her with a simple handshake. If he depowered her arm, then the nearby synthetics were nothing more than lifeless statues. It would take her body an hour to power the fuel cell that kept her arm functioning. Until then, she thanked God she was a leftie.
“We make a break for it. I’m heading to the armory, you head to the bunkers.”
Just outside the town, scattered around in the parks and woods, were underground bunkers created by the townspeople for this exact purpose. He nodded again. It was the first time he had used his ability to fight the enemy. In a different time, he would have been a useful soldier. For now, it was her job to make sure he had the opportunity to grow into a fighter.
