Powerless Against You
Published by
Good Mourning Publishing
Manteca, California, USA
www.goodmourningpublishing.com
June, 2014
All works in Powerless Against You are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Stories
Lovesick: Chasing the Storm © Agustin Guerrero
Flying Fast, Falling Hard © Kim Strattford
Skulls © Jade Black
A Lesson in Secret Identities © ME McLaughlin
No More Mr. Bad Buy © Elizabeth Gannon
Toeing the Line © K Orion Fray
Even if the Stars Fell From the Sky © Jacklyn Baker
Secrets to Keep © Kara Costegan
Crimes of Passion © Alice Hare
Things We Do For Love © Andrea R. Blackwell
Cover Art
© Kelly Shorten
Copy Editor: Chase Nottingham
www.chaseediting.com | [email protected]
All right reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0692228234 / ISBN-10: 0692228233
Contents
Lovesick: Chasing the Storm | Agustin Guerrero
Flying Fast, Falling Hard | Kim Strattford
Skulls | Jade Black
A Lesson in Secret Identities | ME Laughlin
No More Mr. Bad Guy | Elizabeth Gannon
Toeing the Line | K Orion Fray
Even if the Stars Fell From the Sky | Jacklyn Baker
Secrets to Keep | Kara Costegan
Crimes of Passion | Alice Hare
Things We Do For Love | Andrea R. Blackwell
Forward
For a long time, superhero comics was a gated community. A closed set. A quarantined area.
A no-fly zone, ironically.
There weren't any signs, really. No one put up barbed wire. But in the time before the mega-successful movies, before the many hit concurrent television series, there was most definitely a time when the genre seemed dominated, virtually owned, by two companies in one medium, dispensed by one distributor.
A narrow doorway, indeed.
And the people who worked those mines, they, in their understandable self-interest, did all they could to entrench themselves, and quite a few took the extra step to put as many bolts on the entryway as possible.
So there was a House of the Bat, and a House of the Spider, and if you wanted to write superheroes that people might actually read, those were your choices. Smaller publishers often made the attempt to duplicate their success with planned universes of their own guys in crotch-snug jammies who can fart plasma from their ear-holes or whatever, but almost inevitably, those efforts, no matter how well-crafted, would end in tears and low sales, and eventual cancellation.
But that didn't keep the readership from wanting to break in. And as the audience became more diverse, they started wanting to see more of the real world reflected in the comics. And the industry developed a bit of doggerel to respond to such requests.
"Hey, I love these comics, but how about some POC characters once in a while?
"If you don't see what you want in comics, make your own, then, kid!"
"Hello, I'm a gay man, and I'd like to see—"
"I just said, make your own, why don't you?"
"I just wanted to find a way to the bathroo—"
"MAKE YOUR OWN COMICS, THEN, SMARTASS."
Seriously, I heard this phrase, uttered not just from pros, but also from the readership, for years, over and over. Every time someone raised their hand and said, "Why can't we have some books with female leads?" Someone was there to say, "If that's so important to you, why not just make your own comics?"
It was never meant to be helpful advice. It was simply an easy way for creators and publishers to avoid looking at their own failures, their own inadequacies, by putting the onus on the questioner. If comics looked like a haven for straight, white, male, cis-gendered characters only, well, gee, why don't you go out and fix that yourself, reader?
Even though experienced publishers with millions of dollars failed trying to make successful and ongoing superhero universes, the flippant answer, the way to get the asker to shut up, was to say that it was their responsibility to undo 60+ years of nasty racism, homophobia and misogyny.
It seemed a bit cruel. How does one person fight a system THAT closed off?
Oh, wait.
The internet happened. And writing groups formed online. And ePublishing happened.
Holy crap, they don't NEED to go to that distribution monopoly. They don't need to fight the ten thousand other books coming out that month for shelf space in a store. They don't need middle-men or publishers or group editors or ad sales staff.
Turns out they don't really need anybody but a group of writers with some talent and a bit of fire in their guts.
They don't NEED the system.
But best of all?
They don't need PERMISSION.
***
Now me, I want the gates open. No, I want the gates burned down.
There's a lot to be said for polish and experience. But in many cases, that leads to comfort and caution, and that's the last thing a thriving art form needs.
I want new voices, and I want a lot of them. And I want them to look like the crowds I see at conventions all over the world. Every color, ever sexuality, all over the gender spectrum, all ages, all shapes. That's what I want.
Because I love comics, and if we have to burn down some of the old junk to make room for the next group, I am fine with that. Here, you pour the kerosene and I'll hold the match.
Because new voices bring their passion to the table. They make beautiful mistakes and they rethink old routines and they write about what is meaningful to their lives and their experience and I get a little delighted just thinking about it.
Don't ask permission, guys. Permission's overrated. Write the thing you believe in and then fight like hell if they ask you to take it out.
I love new writers because they see the empty seats at the table, and they don't like it. When they see that there's a lack of _________ characters and relationships, rather than get defensive, they get CRACKING.
***
Okay, so that's why this book is wonderful.
Here we have a bunch of new voices (well, new to me, anyway), talented voices, writing in the genre I have devoted a weird portion of my life to, and doing it outside of any of the barriers that the genre normally is wound around. And doing a damn entertaining job of it. Lesbian robots, superhero/supervillain bed romps, mutant/alien-supersoldier shipping, all the good stuff the big houses said was taboo for decades.
I frankly think they were afraid we might all grow to LIKE it.
***
When I was a little girl, I loved comics, and would search endlessly for portrayals of women that were as exciting and fun as those of the male characters. It was like a treasure hunt where the prize was great when you could find it, but just as often you got the soggy, dull, husband-hunting girlfriend of the REAL hero and boy, that got hard to take after a while. I can only imagine the added difficulty for POC and LGBT folks.
And the romance comics genre was long gone. Fighting, there was lots of fighting. Kissing seemed to be altogether radioactive, somehow.
The writers of
POWERLESS AGAINST YOU have sidestepped decades of nonsense, bless their hearts. They made the buck-passing mantra of the disinterested professional into a viable, working model...simply put, they made their own, then. They took an affection for this genre and they populated it with diverse casts and fresh minds and just acres of heart.
Oh, and kissing.
Lots and lots of kissing.
GAIL SIMONE
PS: Never ask permission.
Lovesick: Chasing the Storm
Agustin Guerrero
The first time we touched, sparks flew. I had charged toward you wielding a bloodied baseball bat; you raised a fist crackling with electricity and punched me through the nearest wall. Dust and debris fell around us as I looked up into your glowing blue eyes. The mask obscured the rest of your face, but I saw through it immediately. I could see your chiseled jaw, your rugged stubble, your handsome nose. I guess I fell for you in that moment. I pulled a knife out of my boot and stabbed it hard into your calf. You didn’t even cry out. You stomped my arm with enough force to break bone. I could feel the shattered humerus knitting itself together beneath my skin. I grinned up at you and rolled to my feet. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but that just wasn’t the time. I threw some of the dust from the shattered drywall into your eyes and fled.
***
Our second encounter was a little bit more romantic. I had dressed the scene: the bodies of six couples placed at tables around the restaurant and the hands and feet of the head chef cooking in the kitchen. I had even gone through the trouble of rigging the piano to blow if the pianist stopped playing. I waited for you in the center of the dance floor, hands clasped behind my back. My purple beard was neatly trimmed and dyed to match my domino mask. I looked around at everything I had built. It was a scene from a dream. I absorbed the moment and thought nothing could ever be more beautiful than this. Then you dropped in and I was proven wrong.
The room seemed to shift as you crashed through the skylight. The shattered panes of glass reflected the candlelight, giving you the appearance of a dark angel. Blue lightning cascaded around you as you floated gracefully to the floor. I smiled and opened my arms.
“Care for a dance, darling?” I asked. You didn’t bother to answer me, but let out a cry and raced toward me. I stood ready to embrace you. The lightning shot out of your fists and hit me squarely in the chest, knocking me back into one of the tables. My white suit was charred black where the bolt had struck. I felt my heart stop, physically and emotionally. My healing factor kicked in, and my broken heart was mended. I sprang back to my feet and pulled out an extendable baton.
“I would have preferred a slow dance, but I love that you brought back the Electric Slide.” I quipped before walking toward you. The blue lightning had died down around you and I could see now the brown eyes kept hidden from the world. I could see your pain, your anger, and something else. Was it love for me? I smiled wide before swinging the club at your face. You caught it easily and sent a bolt of electricity through it and me. I fell to my knees in front of you.
“You make me weak at the knees, big boy,” I said. You looked down at me, disgust masking the attraction you felt.
“Who are you? Why have you done this?” You asked. This was the first time I heard your voice. It sounded to me as though a chorus of angels had come down and immediately been struck by lightning and fried to a crisp, ashy voice.
“Why, to impress you of course. I arrived early to set the mood. My name is Sanat, but you can call me anything you’d like, cuddlebuns.” Your eyes betrayed how flattered you felt. You tried to hide it behind your anger, but I could see through it. I leaned back and headbutted you directly in the crotch. You let out a grunt of pain and stumbled away. I stood and dusted myself off.
“Now, your name is Deathflash. Everybody knows who you are. But who are you under that mask, gorgeous?” I asked. You let loose a bolt of electricity that sent me flying across the room and into the pianist’s bench. He let out a cry as he fell, flailing his arms in an attempt to keep playing notes. The pain in your groin must have been overridden by adrenaline because you came after me. I blew you a kiss as the piano blew us apart.
***
I stayed away from you for a few weeks after that incident. I had to plan something special for our third date. I saw you on the news nightly, always frying criminals and saving damsels. I could tell your heart wasn’t with the ladies. As they gushed with appreciation your eyes kept looking toward the horizon. I knew you were looking for me. Absence was making the heart grow fonder. So I planned and plotted and schemed. I robbed a couple of banks for funds, though I made sure to kill all the witnesses for fear you’d arrive early and ruin everything. You have a knack for spoiling surprises.
I toiled endlessly and finally came up with the perfect spot for romance: an old warehouse on the docks. It looked a little shabby on the outside, but on the inside, I had filled it with a number of gifts. On the following Thursday, your least busy night I’d found, I proceeded to take the mayor and his family to the warehouse to witness our ceremony. We waited at the altar, all of us shaking with eagerness. I wore my charred white suit with a veil and held our dear mayor’s daughter at gunpoint. When I felt that charge in the air signaling your arrival, I hit the switch. The organ began to play our song as the doors blew open.
You were dressed in your usual black bodysuit, surrounded once more by a cyclone of blue lightning. As you glided toward us, I hit the second switch. Giant cannons rose from the pews and tracked you. You shot bolts at them as they fired. Gallons of water pumped out of the cannons and soaked you through. I heard you cry out as the vortex around you sparked and died. Now, I knew water was too obvious a weakness for you. Any thug armed with a squirt gun would be able to take you out. You rose from the puddles wet and dripping. The bodysuit seemed to cling even closer to your body. I could almost make out your package through the lower half. You rose and continued toward us. I hit the third switch.
You didn’t let out a sound as the floor fell away beneath you. You grabbed at the edge and barely caught it. Flames sizzled as water dripped from your body into the pit. You grunted with exertion as you pulled yourself up. The mayor moved to help you, and I cocked the revolver. He stopped and hung his head. You pulled your chest up over the lip of the pit, muscles flexing. I smiled as you rolled over the edge and back to solid ground. You looked up at me with those brown eyes set in determination. You stood and continued to stalk toward me. I wanted to run to you and throw myself into your sopping wet arms, but I showed some restraint. As you reached the steps to the altar, I hit the fourth and final switch.
The second step opened and sprayed liquid nitrogen on your legs, freezing them in place. The look of pain on your face was delicious. I threw off my veil and walked toward you, dragging the mayor’s daughter with me. You demanded I let her go. I smiled and shoved her back toward our family of witnesses.
“I do,” I told you as I stood in front of you. Your eyes sparked, but no lightning came out. I punched you in the mouth, just a love tap. Your head snapped back but your legs stayed glued to the ground.
“Let them go, Sanat,” you growled.
“I’d love to flashy, but unfortunately I don’t make the laws around these parts. See, we need a witness if we’re going to make this official.”
“You’re sick,” you replied. You struggled to free yourself, sparks flying around you.
“Yes, yes. Lovesick,” I answered. I hit you again. “Would it have killed you to wear a tie, darling? You’re making an honest man out of me today.”
You growled and continued to struggle. I knew how bad you wanted me. I aimed the revolver at the mayor. “Now get over here and officiate, monkey. I don’t have all night.”
The mayor quickly did as he was told. He opened his mouth to speak, but a look from you silenced him. The ground around us shook. It began to crack and blue lightning crackled through. With a roar, you let loose an electric storm. The energy hit us, and we flew apar
t. Why did you always put so much distance between us? You shot to your feet and hit me again and again with jagged bolts of energy. I couldn’t feel any of it; my body had died in the first storm. Your rage poured out onto my body and it made me happier than I’d ever felt. You finally let your fury die and went to the mayor and his family. Always trying to make me jealous. In the moment you checked to make sure I hadn’t harmed them, I slipped away.
***
Our final encounter happened the next night. I couldn’t wait any longer. It was a simple affair. I could tell fancy engagements weren’t your thing. I walked into the big park downtown just after sunset. I pulled out my remote detonator and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the courthouse exploding north of the park sent a shiver down my spine. I produced a second detonator and pulled the trigger. The police station to the south of the park went up in flames. I knew you’d be arriving soon, so I sat on a bench and waited. It wasn’t terribly long before the air crackled with energy. You landed in front of me and drew back a fist. I didn’t even attempt to dodge as you broke my nose.
You cocked your fist for another punch, not even bothering to use your electricity. As you threw it toward my face I opened my mouth. Your eyes widened as your fist struck the hypodermic needle I had nestled between my teeth. The needle punctured your skin as the force of the blow depressed the plunger against the roof of my mouth. Within seconds you were feeling the drug’s effects. You fell forward, and I caught you in my arms.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” I whispered as you lapsed into unconsciousness.
***
“And that’s how we ended up here,” I say as my captive hero shakes his head. His hands and feet are bound to the chair, and I’ve put him in a full body suit made of rubber. Deathflash, powerless here in my lair.
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