by Scott Mathy
Dwight pulled the headset off and dropped it into the man’s waiting palm. “How do you guys get here so fast?” he asked.
The man turned the moment he had the device and started walking away, “We’re always watching. Mr. Wulf says he would like a word with you tomorrow.”
Those were the exact words Dwight did not want to hear to cap off his night. The message given, the Associates went back to their task. Dwight headed toward the stairwell and made his way down. Along the way, he thought of all the good the Phoenix had done over the course of his career, and how it had ended in a rush of violent rage. As he approached the crumbling lobby of the long-abandoned building, Dwight spotted one of Wulf’s men standing next to a rusting SUV.
Dwight called out as the makeshift particleboard door folded back behind him, “Did Wulf not want to spring for a decent ride?”
The man remained standing with his arms crossed, clearly upset about his assigned transportation, “You think he would treat you two to anything better?”
Dwight could only assume that meant the big shape in the back seat was B; he peered through the window to confirm his suspicions. B was holding a large ice pack against the right side of his face. He chuckled upon noticing Dwight climbing into the passenger side. The Associate slid into the driver’s seat afterward. He didn’t look at either of the hitmen, only waited for instructions.
B held up his huge, bloody hand for Dwight to see. “Your shot snapped two a’ me fingas.” The man’s digits were twisted in ways that would make a surgeon cringe.
“I’m sorry,” Dwight shrugged, “I didn’t realize the boss thought we needed naval artillery to kill someone.” He grabbed one of the fingers and twisted. B winced in agony, then started laughing again.
“Wha’eva, a little pain ‘ere and there’s good for the soul.” B retracted his hand and wrenched the other finger back into its proper place. Dwight’s understanding of what was left of B’s powers meant he would be back to full strength within the hour.
Dwight reclined back in his seat, “Wulf wants to see us tomorrow. I imagine he’ll send a car for us.” He turned to the driver. “Can we get something a little nicer, or is this a permanent assignment?”
B seemed confused, “I didn’t ‘ear nothin’ about Wulf. Girlie said she’d call next time one of the sods needs a fix’n.” His normally carefree attitude was suddenly buried under heavy concern; maybe Wulf was the one person B was actually afraid of. Dwight couldn’t picture anything that would make the gigantic brute back down.
Regardless, the large man snorted sharply, “Breakfast, then?”
Two
Watching B eat was something akin to engaging in a food fight with a classroom of middle-schoolers. Particles of half-eaten entrée and the crudest conversations possible were about all that could be expected. Dwight probably would have declined the invitation, but he really didn’t have anywhere to be. The threat of a visit to Wulf’s office would keep him from sleeping regardless of how tired last night’s job left him, and the thought of being home at the same time as Ian was surprisingly less appealing than dodging B’s pancake bits.
His partner had an actual name, but as was readily the way with Wulf, professionalism required he be told only what was absolutely necessary. “B” was the only identifier given to him for the giant man with the steadily regressing superpowers. Dwight himself had been given the moniker of “D” and left it at that. Regardless of how pointless he felt the entire charade was, he understood that the less widely known about him, the safer he would be when this most likely fell apart.
This is how Dwight found himself seated in the Heroes’ Welcome with his partner, watching the hitman’s wounds repair themselves as he ate. The Welcome was lined with Golden Age memorabilia: a kitschy throwback to the founding of New Haven and the first Capes to declare themselves its protectors. The whole aesthetic made him uncomfortable. Regardless of what the owners would have you believe, no sanctioned superhuman would enter the diner without violating some measure of good taste. It seemed the Welcome was going to become his sanctuary despite any reservations he might have for the décor, safe in the knowledge that one of Wulf’s contracts would never be seated across from him.
Dwight sat quietly, studying the way the giant’s skin meshed to close his injuries. The things he had seen B walk away from could give him nightmares for days. Consequently, he’d opted not to order any food; instead, Dwight asked for a black cup of coffee to nurse while his partner went on his usual rants. Their server’s hands shook as she filled his cup. She was clearly new to this; her faux crime-fighting uniform lacked the stains of a lengthy service. The mug hit the table with a harder-than-acceptable clang. Her inexperience was going to cost this place a lot of dishware. On the other side of the booth, B’s order was sizable enough to make their table worth the woman’s effort.
B had been talking throughout the entire meal, but something he said just then brought Dwight into the conversation, “…’ey don’t know wha’ they’ve got. Not really.”
“I’m sorry?” Dwight asked, his attention returning from the recesses of his mind.
B crammed another piece of pancake into his mouth before he started repeating himself, as if it was some sort of challenge to see how much he could speak through. “These Capes, run’n ‘round playing Wulf’s game. ‘ey’re looking to get their kicks being big shots.” A few pieces flew past Dwight’s head. “All I’m say’n is I didn’t see what I ‘ad ‘til it was gone. Now alls I can do is not die a shite side better ‘an you lot.”
“That’s bullshit, B. I watched you tear the door off a steel safe tonight.” Dwight hated when B compared himself to normal people. “You went toe-to-toe with an immortal kung fu legend. The guy had an epic mean streak, and you got away with a few rapidly healing bruises and broken fingers.”
He pulled his collar down to reveal the spreading bruise which now dominated his right shoulder. “I could have lost an arm just to the kick of that cannon. You’re lucky I’m a hell of a shot, or you’d be missing that hand.” He let the cloth go; the snap stung on his wound. “You let me know when you’re dealing with any soreness for more than a few hours.”
A crash from the booth across from them brought their argument to an abrupt halt. Their waitress was already a whirlwind of apologies and napkins by the time the remaining customers could register the commotion. A shattered pot of coffee lay in pieces at the center of the table. Its contents ran in streams onto the laps of the three well-dressed businessmen seated there. The one seated by himself on the left was substantially more distressed about the matter, despite the server’s attempts to rectify the situation.
The angry man got up, flicking the coffee from his outfit over the restaurant floor with little regard for the other occupants or the woman directly in front of him. “Do you have any idea how much this cost?!” he shouted at the woman. “Are you that fucking stupid? You can’t even pour a cup?” The entire room stopped.
The waitress was on the verge of tears. She whimpered something unintelligible. The businessman was stooped over her, inches from the ear of the crying server as she rushed to clean the mess she’d created. The two other men watched with rising sadistic glee as they adjusted themselves to avoid the flowing liquid but remained in the booth, enjoying the show.
“You’re going to be fired. You’re going to pay to replace this suit,” he growled as the rest of the diner looked on. “You’ll be working the streets before-” Dwight slipped his hand between the two.
The businessman stepped back in shock. Dwight used the opening to move between them; he’d seen enough. “The lady already apologized. Let her clean, and knock off the shit.”
B watched his partner from their table without moving. Perhaps if the larger man had been the one to intervene, the aggressor would have backed down. As they stood, Dwight was a few inches shorter than the businessman.
“Oh, are you some fucking knight, here to save the day?” He raised a fist, probably expecting
to see Dwight flinch away from the threat. His complete lack of response at the gesture must have sparked some inane desire to showboat in front of the businessman’s peers.
The jab was sloppy, easy to anticipate, and even easier to catch. Dwight latched onto the wrist with his left hand and pulled forward, moving behind the arrogant businessman. He twisted hard as he pressed his other hand into the man’s spine, provoking a whine of pain. Looking over his hostage’s shoulder, he saw the terrified waitress watching the exchange, dripping napkins clenched against her uniform. He caught her panicking eyes, “Hey, relax. Apologize one more time for me.”
It took her a moment to register the request, “I’m so sorry. The handle broke.” She looked down as she spoke, afraid of both men, it seemed.
Dwight pulled tightly on the man’s arm, “Now, apologize for being an asshole to the lady.”
The businessman twisted to free himself from Dwight’s grasp, but all he got was another painful wrench. He finally gave in after Dwight increased the pressure to just short of breaking his arm, “Whatever! I’m sorry!”
Looking over at the other two men still seated in the booth, Dwight nodded toward the door. He knew that neither was going to get up to defend their suffering colleague, or they would have already been swinging at him. “You two, pay for your friend.” They quickly agreed, each dropping a few bills from their wallets on the table. “Now, leave. You’re done here.”
They did as he said, each moving past Dwight’s prisoner without making any effort to help. Dwight walked the man to the door after the others left. He released him with a shove. The businessman stumbled back to his waiting friends, clutching his wrist. Dwight was confident he hadn’t done any real damage, just left him with something to think about for the afternoon. He went back to his table. The restaurant returned to normal, the exchange quickly forgotten.
His partner had a smug look about him as Dwight settled into his seat. “Ya fink you’re some kind of Cape, then?”
“Fuck no. I just hate it when I see shitheads making a person’s job harder.” He took a deep swig of the tepid fluid in his cup. “The world is already shitty enough without assholes adding to the pile. I don’t have to be a Power to stand up to some monkey in a suit who forgot his manners.”
They sat quietly for a few long moments. Dwight watched the waitress finish clearing her table as his partner gazed out at the sky between shovel-like bites. Finally, B stopped eating and set his fork down. “Ya eva’ watch a Power fly, D?” There was a faint sentimentality in his face.
Dwight was worried about following the suddenly serious conversation, but he continued anyway, “Sure, why?”
“’aving freedom like that and losing it – ‘at’s worse than any death you lot can imagine.” He stared daggers across the table, “’ese piss’ants we deal wiv, ‘ey don’t know what pain is.” He stood up from his seat, “I do.”
Then he turned and left. He was out the door before Dwight could think of what to say. He had never considered B’s old life, before his powers had left him. In truth, the giant had never brought it up. Were it not for what he had just seen, Dwight would not have guessed his partner was actually capable of complex thought.
Finishing his coffee alone, he realized that he didn’t know what kind of power B had possessed. It was clear that the man was terrifyingly strong. He was tough as well, able to not only take hits, but heal from them at superhuman rates. Dwight could only marvel at what he must have been like in his prime. Thinking back, he wasn’t sure he could place who exactly B had been in his past life. He was familiar with so many Capes – everyone was; they were celebrities. Yet, not one of them struck his memory as the crude brute he was partnered with.
From the sadness in his voice, whatever had taken B’s powers had stolen a hell of a lot more than just physical ability. The look on his face was that of a man who had lost everything precious to him; everything gone, except apparently the bitter memories of having it.
A vibration from his pocket brought Dwight’s attention back to the table. He pulled out his phone and checked the screen. A picture of the StarPoint Building told him that it was Wulf looking for him. Reluctantly, he pressed the “accept” key.
Dwight could hear breathing as he placed the phone against his ear. “What do you need?”
The voice on the other end waited briefly before responding, “No time for chit-chat, Mr. Knolls?” He sounded disingenuously hurt. “I thought we were closer than that. So, what are you up to?” There was something about Wulf’s voice that inherently unsettled Dwight. Everything sounded like a personal threat, even the pleasantries of normal conversation. The man could make the kindest words into terrifying promises.
“Mr. Wulf, B and I were grabbing a bite to eat before I came to see you. I’ll have the driver bring us after we finish here.” Dwight wanted nothing more than to end this call as soon as possible.
Another pause, “No, I’ll send someone else to your home later. Just you; I don’t need B today.” There was a short silence, as if he had been preparing to hang up when his voice returned one last time, “Besides, it seems like your friend has taken my driver and already left. I’ll see you later, Mr. Knolls.” He hung up.
Dwight searched the outside street through the window, looking for the SUV and driver. Sure enough, they were gone, along with B. He hadn’t realized how much their conversation had upset the giant. Glancing back at the table, he also noticed that his partner hadn’t bothered to pay for his feast.
Three
It was the coming of the superhumans – people born with extraordinary mutations – that had been the breaking of the floodgates. Within three years of the first public demonstration, the Sorcerer’s League revealed their magical arts to the world. Anyone with a hidden talent for magic was suddenly a witch or wizard capable of harnessing the hidden ether all around them. Next came the extraterrestrials, refugees from a distant civil war they refused to speak of. Their great ships seeded their people all across the planet before disappearing again into the night sky. With nowhere to go, they integrated themselves into society as if they had been there all along. It was a small matter of concern that they were easily on par with the strongest “Powers,” as they had collectively come to be known. And so it was: mutant, mage, and alien, all living beyond the normal.
Walking home through New Haven wasn’t as bad as some of the other places Dwight had lived. With the highest population of Capes of any city in the world, it made sense that they also had the lowest incidence of street crime. Typically, any of the low-end stuff was committed by the up-and-comers: young Powers with something to prove. They usually formed little bands of evil and got their mischief on until they became enough of a problem to be noticed by one of the major players. The game was pretty simple from there: Capes break up the fun, beat up and arrest a few for the papers, the rest flee. After being held a few days having their abilities evaluated and registered, the young punks would be released to their parents.
The courts had discovered by then that attempting to imprison a Power was more costly than it was worth, so they turned to the other Powers to police their own kind. On that day, one of New Haven’s empowered became the first Cape, then formed the first team.
Soon, there was another, then another, and so on until the skies were filled with young, superpowered factions. They were all eager to show their stuff to a public that saw them as their saviors and idols. Overnight, movie stars and musicians just became so boring; who cares about a simple human singer when you can follow someone who can literally burn like a solar flare? This, however, often meant ignoring the fact that super-powered fights created casualties in similar fashion to minor natural disasters. As long as the survivors were compensated, no one seemed to mind for long.
Dwight hated them. He had seen into their world for long enough to know how they felt about the normals. Mr. Wulf’s grand concern was with the balance, the game he saw them all playing. As long as that kept going, he was content to
let them be. It was when one of them didn’t follow the rules that Dwight’s phone rang and a briefcase appeared at his door. By now, he realized it was only a matter of time before all their names passed through his hands. His boss’s scheme of an endless chase of hero and villain disgusted him because it meant that anyone without powers was just a spectator: someone to run for cover and watch the carnage. He had known too many people killed in the spectacle of the show, too many killed to make the players feel special.
As Dwight’s feet found their way to his apartment, he couldn’t stop thinking of the Phoenix. The man had lived a hundred times only to kill himself over and over when things got too rough. Was it possible that he had been able to tell that his death was coming, and chose not to stop it? Was killing himself this one last time just too much? All it would have taken to completely undo their efforts was a fist to his own chest. Dwight had seen the videos of the Phoenix’s methods. One moment, he was alive and fighting a hopeless battle – the next, he was up in flames, burning to nothing. A week or so later, the Immortal Phoenix would be back, fighting his endless war.
Dwight’s path carried him up the concrete stairs that led to his building. He briefly checked his mail on the way in, finding three bills and an unmarked letter. Tucking the bundle into his pocket, he trudged up the steps to the sixth floor where he shared a unit with Ian, the only person he wanted less to do with than Wulf.
The sounds of explosions and high-frequency lasers coming from behind their door informed Dwight that there was no getting in without being noticed. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, finding Ian planted firmly on the sofa in the dark, television blaring away.
On the screen, a scantily-clad heroine pummeled a group of about thirty street punks, spouting witty banter every few punches. From the piles of takeout boxes and soda cans, Dwight could tell this had been going on since he left yesterday morning. Ian still wore the same Justice Guild t-shirt from yesterday. His dark hair hung loose, partially obscuring his features. He didn’t have his standard ponytail in today. From Dwight’s observations and the lingering smell, he could guess Ian was about three days from his last shower.
