by Scott Mathy
Wulf’s office would have made Fortune 500 executives salivate; it was easily the single most exquisitely detailed room to ever occupy New Haven. The floor-to-ceiling windows held glorious views on three sides; over the bay, the morning sun filtered in through dark blue shades. It gave the entire room an otherworldly quality, as if the tower was orbiting a distant, alien star. Wulf’s solid black marble desk sat twenty feet from the entrance.
A glass dome lay on its stone surface. Beneath it, a sizable, distinctly-inhuman skull held watch over whoever dared pass into Wulf’s lair. A line of six suits of medieval armor occupied the outer walls on both sides. Each held a different weapon, their sharpened points held at the ready.
Dwight had heard the stories about Wulf’s rise to power within the city’s superhuman community. The man’s only known ability was that the bastard was completely unkillable. He didn’t have super strength, speed, or flight. He wasn’t a martial artist, and he didn’t possess anything that would make him even particularly lethal to the empowered. What he had was toughness, determination, and a long enough lifespan to make his ambitions attainable. Supposedly, he had been around since the Dark Ages. The knight’s armor in his office had, at one point, belonged to his closest followers – but that had been another age. Each succumbed to conflict or their own mortality long ago. Once, Dwight heard that Wulf was a member of the Spanish Inquisition. Another story placed him at the heart of the Manhattan Project.
Wulf’s takeover of StarPoint put him forward as the premier villain in New Haven. Pulsar, the entity with the power of a dying star, had founded the corporation as a front for all their criminal activity back when it mattered to disguise those sorts of things. When Wulf appeared on Pulsar’s doorstep to challenge them for control, the CEO couldn’t resist; they wagered the company in a battle against the “normal” stupid enough to insult their might. While Pulsar unleashed all of their fury against him, Wulf simply stood there burning.
Completely engulfed in blue fire, his flesh turning to ash as quickly as it regenerated, Wulf calmly walked toward Pulsar. By the time he was within arm’s reach, the entire courtyard was a raging inferno. The concrete became molten lava; the stone statues that lined the front of the building splintered and crumbled under the intense flames.
As Pulsar’s energy finally depleted, their body exhausted from the effort, Wulf struck. He grabbed Pulsar’s face with both hands, his thumbs jammed into the stellar villain’s eye sockets. There was a sick, wet pop and the fight was over. Wulf, a naked, blackened wreck, stood triumphant over the corpse. Afterward, he had Pulsar’s body destroyed, and claimed the skull as a trophy. True to their deal, Wulf was given control of StarPoint, and had held that throne ever since. No one had come close to defeating him in over three decades, though the contest remained open: anyone who managed to kill Wulf could have the crown.
Wulf directed all the city’s villains through sheer intimidation. No Power came to New Haven without a visit from Wulf’s Associates. He liked the fresh meat to know who ruled this city. Even visiting Capes were expected to make themselves known to their king. There were rumors that each of the superhuman teams was forced to pay yearly tributes to Wulf.
One of Wulf’s aides followed Dwight into the office. As he approached the lavish chairs set before Wulf’s desk, he could see that the man was not pleased. His boss’s slim, handsome features were painted with concern. He wasn’t yelling; no, Wulf didn’t yell. Wulf methodically paced back and forth behind his throne, slender fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was listening to something in his earpiece. Wulf’s gaze hadn’t yet fallen on Dwight as he quietly moved into the seat to wait.
Wulf’s pacing stopped abruptly. From the contempt in his eyes, it was clear he was done listening to whoever was on the other end of the call. “Mr. Horowitz, you have thirty minutes to get this mess sorted out. Either those items are returned to my warehouse within the hour, or I will see to it that my Associates strap you to the next one we make use of.” He tapped his ear once to disconnect the call without waiting for a response.
Dwight thought now would be the appropriate time to announce his presence, “Lose something?” he asked.
Wulf held up a swift finger, stopping any further conversation from his guest. He fished his phone from the pocket of his white business suit. With a few quick taps of his free hand, he placed another call.
“Yes, see to it that Mr. Horowitz finds his way into the building incinerator.” There was a pause as he listened, “Yes, even if the items are returned. Send a message to the others.” He yanked the device from his ear, then tossed it on the desk without looking. It slid to a stop against the glass dome.
The assistant let out a soft cough to draw his employer’s attention, “Mr. Wulf…” he said sheepishly.
“What?” Wulf hissed. He jerked his face toward the aide, his face painted with hate. The instant he recognized Dwight sitting at the desk, he shifted. Immediately, the unleashed frustration was gone, washed away under Wulf’s patent relaxed menace. Through that smile, some of the most powerful beings in existence had met their end, “Mr. Knolls, so good of you to come.” He gracefully slipped into his chair. There was no wasted movement with Wulf; it was all part of his performance, his mask. Wulf slid a hand through his immaculately styled gray hair; despite its color, Wulf’s face belonged to a man in his early twenties. To the unknowing eye, he appeared to be the younger of the two men. He gave Dwight a slanted grin.
Dwight despised that smile. It meant Wulf knew he had him under complete control. “You didn’t have to send the croc to fetch me. I was going to come.”
“You misunderstand; I just wanted to guarantee your safety.” Wulf tapped on the tablet lying on his dark desk several times, then spun it around so Dwight could see. The word “Manhunt” filled the screen. “You and your partner killed one of the most beloved defenders of New Haven last night. More than a few of the old guard have already declared you dead. Consider yourselves lucky that I enjoy your results.”
Dwight picked up the tablet and quickly read through the article. It had been published hours after the Phoenix’s death. A few lines in, he detected Wulf’s deception. “You moved the body?”
“Well, not me. The Cleaners, Mr. Knolls. It seems that the Immortal Phoenix was caught unaware in a jewelry store robbery. Someone must have finally got the drop on the bastard; caved his skull right in.” Wulf was grinning, hands crossed on his desktop.
Wulf changed the subject, “I just want you to know how much I admire what you do. The balance that we keep is something I take very personally. What do you think would happen if every Cape just went around killing whoever committed crimes in New Haven?”
Dwight knew this was a rhetorical question and opted not to answer. Wulf looked disappointed in his unwillingness to play along.
“It would be total anarchy. Imagine everyone on the wrong side of society fighting to their absolute limits to stay alive. There needs to be a point of surrender to protect the lives of people like you, the normals. If Powers were actually afraid that it was life or death every time we fought…well, things tend to get messy when some of us get desperate.”
It didn’t get any easier, hearing Wulf’s insane justification. Dwight had listened to it before, after his first job for the sociopath. “They either play the game correctly or I call the referee.” He pointed a slender finger at Dwight. “That’s you, Mr. Knolls. You’re here to keep all the little people safe from the dangerous Powers fighting their endless war. It’s fucking heroic, when you think about it.”
The entry to the office opened. Rampage stepped through the double doors. In one scaly hand, she carried a black briefcase; it looked like a child’s plaything by comparison. Making her way through the dim office, she dropped the case in Dwight’s lap, then proceeded to a row of chairs against the rear wall.
Wulf motioned for Dwight to open the case in front of him, “Go on, I don’t want you to think I’m planning on blowing you up or something. Y
ou’ve earned this.”
The case’s combination had already been set for him; he touched the release and the clasps let go. Dwight revealed the contents to himself and Wulf, who had begun leaning forward in anticipation. Inside, six tightly bound stacks of bills and a silver watch represented more wealth than Dwight had ever seen in one place. Wulf grinned with satisfaction. “I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your efforts. This is, of course, in addition to our previously agreed upon compensation. Those funds have already been transferred into your account.”
Dwight hadn’t even thought of being paid for last night’s job. In truth, most of his incoming money was appropriated by various auto-payment systems and his lawyer without even passing through his awareness. He couldn’t think of the last time he had been free to actually make use of his earnings.
Wulf gestured eagerly toward the watch, “Go on, Mr. Knolls, put it on.” There was obviously something more to the accessory.
However, Dwight knew not to refuse hospitality from Wulf. He unclasped the watch and fit it around his right wrist. Closing it down, he heard a click as it locked in place. The sound reminded him of shackles, marking him as Wulf’s pet.
“I included something else in there for you.” He waited as Dwight pushed the money aside. Beneath the bills, a simple manila folder, its contents already clear to Dwight.
Wulf sat back, “It seems your backlog is just pilling up.” Dwight pulled the folder out of the case and began going through its contents. “One of my own, I’m afraid.”
The police mugshot staring daggers through him belonged to Killstreak. Dwight had heard of him before; a “speedster,” Killstreak was capable of running at a supersonic pace. Thankfully, that seemed to be the limit of his powers. He was most known for using that speed in some of the most creative crime sprees the city had ever seen. Dwight couldn’t imagine what he had done to end up in this folder. He didn’t want to ask.
Dwight’s mind went to work on the more important details: namely, how the Killstreak would come to an end. On his throne, Wulf watched as his enforcer crafted his plan.
In the end, Dwight gave Wulf a list of items he needed. Upon seeing the paper, Wulf let out a riotous laugh. He assured Dwight that it would be taken care of, and sent him on his way.
Rampage traveled with him as he was brought back to the apartment. They had not exchanged a single word throughout the entirety of the trip home. Dwight sat there, trying to shake the discomfort of being in Wulf’s presence. He felt more relaxed within arm’s reach of a violent monster than with his boss. He reviewed the folder’s papers, studying Killstreak’s profile, patterns, and abilities. As it turned out, the villain was rather predictable.
Killstreak’s signature crimson suit was designed to eliminate friction as he moved but also limited his senses. While at full speed, he only had about forty percent of his full perception. As he traveled at speeds above the sound barrier, he wouldn’t be able to hear while approaching his fastest pace. To catch him unaware, they would need to wait until they had him at a full run.
Dwight read the reports of his target’s activities for the past year. It seemed that Wulf had a hobby of documenting his employees’ movements down to the minute. Out of habit, Killstreak raced through the same routes each evening. Drawing a line from street to street, Dwight found the path he needed to execute his plan.
As the car pulled up to his building, Dwight returned the folder to the briefcase, along with the stacks of money. The blood money would have to wait while he got in touch with B and set up their evening’s work.
Dwight tapped on the face of his new watch with his fingernail. Given the detailed report he carried on Killstreak, he assumed the item contained at least a few methods of tracking and surveillance.
Finding what he guessed was the microphone, he spoke directly into the watch, “Call me in an hour; I found the spot.” He was absolutely sure Wulf would be listening.
Five
Dwight didn’t bother to go home after being dropped off. Once the car was out of sight, he headed away from the apartment. He was sure that the Doc wouldn’t appreciate seeing him dropped off by Wulf’s Associates. Despite his new bugged watch, she would at the very least like to keep the illusion of exclusivity.
A short walk and a subway ride later, he was on the eastern outskirts of the city. The microcosm of warehouses and docks along the bay were a refreshing contrast to the sprawling metropolis he had come from. There was something about the air here that helped Dwight feel at ease. Making his way between the sheet metal buildings, he meditated on the intricacies of superhuman perception and the effects of high-speed travel. The workers passing him paid no interest to his presence there; they were far too preoccupied with their work to assume he did not belong.
When he finally arrived at the Doc’s sanctum, Dwight found the disguised keypad hiding in plain sight as an electrical outlet. Pressing on the bottom panel, the entire surface slid upward, revealing an unlabeled twelve-button touch screen. He quickly tapped in the sequence the Doc set up for him and waited as the overhead garage door crawled open.
Stepping through, Dwight noticed he was being watched by a handful of security cameras. They tracked his movement as he entered the stark white corridor leading to the Doc’s secret lair. Four nondescript doors on each side provided no clue as to which would lead to their creator and which would be a set of creatively fatal traps. To say the Doctor was paranoid would be an understatement on par with claiming that Wulf had a passing curiosity in dominance. Just once, Dwight had been brave enough to test one of the false options. The robotic sentry inside had nearly torn his arm off before the Doc called it off. It was a mistake he had no interest in ever repeating.
The third door on the left held the deceptive supply closet that marked the actual entrance to her lab. Dwight raised an arm to the shelf above his head and started blindly grabbing. When his hand finally found the spray can, he brought it down to his height and flipped it over. The switch built into the can’s false bottom triggered the entire room to rise up and reveal the second hallway. From here, there were more traps, but these would have to be activated by the Doc herself in the event of an intruder. More cameras watched every angle of the passage, tracking his progress and verifying his identify. At last, Dwight navigated the final turn that led him into the Doctor’s inner dwelling. The last door, guarded by a simple intercom, barred his way at the end of the winding path.
As Dwight reached for the button, the sharp buzzing and click from the door informed him that the Doc was already aware of his presence. He entered the lab, spotting the Doc at her lab station on the lower level. Proceeding along the catwalk, she did not wait for him to finish coming down before she began the inquiry he knew was coming. He’d need to appease her before he could get to the next job.
She turned in her seat, still holding some kind of machinery in her hands, “You have my data?” Her goggles were covered in black soot, obscuring her eyes completely.
“Sure, Doc, I took all your readings while I was in the box.” He found the small gauge he had been hiding in his pocket during last night’s job and tossed it to her. Surprisingly, she caught it in spite of her visual impairment and the fact that Dwight was still a good fifty feet away from her table. “Everything went off without a hitch.”
She hurriedly plugged the analyzer into the bank of computers tucked under her workbench. Her work station was lined with monitors and hanging cables; bits of half-finished projects and abandoned ideas covered every available surface in addition to those lying scattered along the floor. As Dwight traversed the minefield of discarded super science, the Doc pored over her data. The events of last night’s storm played back with amazing detail as she stared at her screens, mouth open in awe.
By the time Dwight made it to her, she was finished. She closed her mouth, wiping away a small amount of saliva with her wrist. The lab coat that she wore had both of its sleeves torn away. Underneath, the vintage band t-shirt s
he had on was probably purchased at an actual concert. It was faded with more than a few well-worn holes; the same could be said of her jeans. Patches of her dark skin showed through the windows of missing material.
The Doc was older than Dwight. The long grey hair tied in her ponytail and subtle age lines gave away her lifetime of experience, but age had not slowed the woman in the slightest. Dwight had never seen her actually leave the building, or anything that looked like a bed in the complex. She was fit, and more than capable of physically defending herself. The pictures and medals hanging in her tiny kitchen belonged to a world-class fighter. The athletic equipment in the small gym tucked beneath the stairs was clearly used and cared for.
She removed her goggles. Black circles left their imprint on her cheeks and eyebrows. “Linda called looking for you. I let Alice talk to her until she hung up.” Alice was the Doc’s artificial intelligence she had programmed to manage her day-to-day business. Apparently, that now also included screening phone calls from Dwight’s ex-wife.
Dwight sighed, “I told her I didn’t want to talk to her until she was willing to be flexible.” He stiffened, uncomfortable with this conversation already.
“Is this all really about Molly?” the Doc asked. She put the device she had been working with back on the table beside her.
Dwight thought for a second, “She’s all I really care about from that shit, and I can’t even see her.” He felt miserable thinking about his little girl alone in their former home.
The image of a young woman appeared on the monitor beside Doc Ellis. Her auburn curls shimmered with unnatural light. Dwight knew that Alice had recently been given access to teen romance literature. He imagined this was her effort to synthesize the fiction into her visualization. “Would you like me to play back the message? She had some very choice things to say about the length of your–”
