He was also very, very drunk; not a good idea when you're an Atlas or Ajax-type—you're always operating heavy machinery.
We landed in his yard to find him standing on the front porch of his old brick wrap-around, barefoot in jeans and a stained athletic shirt and yelling at the police who stood on the sidewalk. A large hole in the front window and a very dead TV lying in the gutter all the way across the street told part of the story. Dispatch told us the rest; a neighbor walking by had narrowly escaped being struck by the flying TV, apparently launched because Ludlow's team lost. A local unit responded, ascertained the obvious, and sensibly called for backup.
"Good evening Mr. Ludlow," I said as soon as we touched down.
After a week sparring with Ajax (more scary than I can say) and Atlas (even scarier), Atlas felt I could handle a B-class easily enough and thought I might be able to diffuse the situation. We should send in the girl who might remind him of his kid sister instead of the dude who'll just add to the testosterone, were his exact words.
I wasn't at all sure myself, but the difference between A-class and B-class meant in the worst possible outcome I wasn't the one who would get hurt.
The big guy focused on me.
"Get them out of here," he said.
I smiled and waved at the patrolmen. "You can go now. Thanks."
They looked skeptical. "Miss," the shorter one said. "I don't think that's a good idea."
Confident that Atlas would handle them, I aimed my friendliest smile at Mr. Ludlow and tried to look calm while the brief argument went on behind my back. A moment later I heard the squad car pull away. I was sure it wouldn't go far.
"Are we alright now, Mr. Ludlow?" I asked.
He thought about it, then jerked a nod.
"Damn busybodies," he said. "Always asking questions."
"Three previous disturbances," Dispatch whispered. "All just yelling."
"They just worry about your neighbors. No harm in that, is there?"
He stepped off the porch and I made myself step closer. The closer we were the more naturally we could talk and the more normal the situation would seem. He already looked calmer.
"Nah," he said. "But they shouldn't have called you. Bunch of nothing."
I nodded. "You're right, no reason to get worked up."
"That was a good TV, too." he said mournfully, looking past me. Then I heard the dying whoop of another squad car pulling in and nearly closed my eyes.
Well, hell.
"Hey!" Mr. Ludlow yelled. "I said get out of here!"
He lunged past, completely ignoring me to head for the street. He couldn't toss a tank, but he could throw a police cruiser so I was out of options.
Turn. Foot to the back of his knee, hand to forearm sliding down to his wrist as he tumbled past. Lean in and push, adding to his own momentum as he went down, just like Ajax drilled me. He smacked his front walk hard enough to spread spiderweb cracks, and before he could recover I had my knee in his back and his right arm locked behind him.
"Shhhh, shhhh. It's alright Eric," I whispered softly, patting his shoulder with my free hand, stunned to be pinning a man three times my weight. Silly, I know.
He yelled something I didn't get and tried to push off with his left, but I wasn't letting us go anywhere. I braced myself, refusing to move (sort of the reverse of flying) and the walk beneath us gave a sharp crack when he tried to push off it.
"Shhhh," I repeated, and he slumped. Then he started to cry.
We just stayed there, me crooning to him, until a patrolman brought up some titanium Blacklock security cuffs. With Atlas helping, we got his wrists and ankles snapped into them by the time the special paddywagon arrived. They took him in and charged him with Drunk and Disorderly Conduct. I heard he went into rehab.
All in all, my first real super-fight could hardly be called the stuff movies were made of.
My second fight almost made me quit.
Chapter Fourteen
Supervillain culture worships power; by definition, a supervillain is strong enough to do what he wants and lawbreaking is a display of strength. Fans of villain-rap and fashion are attracted to what it represents: total self-empowerment and a challenge to the system. Because superheroes stand for the system, they and supervillains are literally Homeric enemies, like Hector and Achilles of old.
Professor Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age
* * *
The alarm caught me in the middle of a dream that put Atlas, in costume, stretched out on my bed with a shiver-inducing smile on his face. That woke me up enough to realize he shouldn't be there, and I rolled over and off the bed with a little scream as I went over the edge. Hitting the floor woke me the rest of the way.
What was that about? And where was I?
Slow-firing neurons told me I was in my rooms in the Dome. I'd stayed up late on my webcam with Julie (she'd asked if Atlas was as yummy up-close as he looked on TV, a question that may have influenced the trajectory of my dream), and fallen asleep studying Barlow's Guide to Superhumans. I hadn't been asleep that long; the clock said it wasn't quite midnight.
Rolling to my feet, I snatched up my earbug and fumbled it on. The instant I switched it on a coffee-driven voice started an info dump.
"Last night a couple of Brothers were killed by a Sanguinary," Dispatch reported. "Five minutes ago someone called in a fight shaping up in South Side. The Brotherhood and the Sanguinary Boys are going to war."
So not good. Stripping off my sleep set, I scrambled for my costume and arrest-kit while he started in on a description of both groups.
Although I'd pretty much ignored the superhero scene I hadn't been able to ignore the new supervillain trend.
Cause-driven supervillains appeared practically the day of the Event, along with professional villains who like using their powers to rob banks or armored cars or commit burglary, and rarer psychotic villains and high profile thrill-seeking villains for whom it was all a game. But for the past few years an honest-to-God supervillain culture had been growing.
Superpowers aren't always a ticket to success. A lot of powers are only useful in combat or other specialized situations, and some there's just no legitimate use for. And then there are superhumans who just don't play well with others and aren't interested in going the public-service route. It's also become a minority issue; superheroes work for the Man, the System—if you do you're a sellout. Add in the rise of supervillain rappers like Freakshow, and supervillains have turned into what Ajax calls a new subculture and "styletribe."
A lot of them are simply fashion-villains. (Supervillain fashion right now is jeans or leather pants, a leather jacket or duster, and a bright colored shirt with a symbol hand-painted on it. Tats or face-paint optional.) But the seriously hardcore believe you aren't a supervillain till you've bagged your own superhero. Bagged as in killed.
I was so not ready for this.
* * *
"I'm ready for this." I said, still adjusting the kit on the back of my belt. I'd been the third to arrive in the Assembly Room, even beating Rush.
"No, you're not," Ajax said.
Atlas looked up. "But she's coming anyway. The media is going to be all over this one; she has to show willing."
Across the table I saw The Harlequin nod and Chakra shake her head.
"We're not discussing this," Atlas said. "We've got to be in the saddle. Our source puts the Sanguinary Boys here." He tapped the tabletop projection showing a gutted warehouse on Cottage Grove and 111th Street, just south of the old Pullman Clock Tower. "The Brotherhood is headed in their direction, moving fast but not putting out scouts so it's obviously prearranged. The South Side Guardians can't handle this themselves—our source counts nine Brothers and twelve Boys. The Guardians are down one, so they're bringing four: Malory, Scarlet, Killjoy, and Sprints."
He looked up again. "Rush, move now; I want you on your bike and in position in five."
And Rush was gone, off on the Rushmobile. I'd learned Rush didn't
really move faster than the rest of us—he sped up his subjective time till he was living at a rate of 10 seconds per second of Realtime. When he really wanted to get somewhere fast he "jumped the wall," taking his gear-laden motorcycle into Hypertime, where no time passed in the Realtime world. Of course he had to drop back into Realtime to fight, since he couldn't affect the Realtime world at all from there.
"No other Guardian teams?" Ajax asked. The other CAI teams could have easily added as many as forty more heroes to the fight.
"Nope. Don't need them, don't want to look like we need them. You've read the files; four, five A-class bad guys tops. The CPD will be bringing the wagons, but we move in first—there's going to be a lot of power thrown around in there."
Ajax nodded. "Formation?"
"Nimbus, take close support. Chakra, there in spirit darlin'?" She nodded and glided from the room. "Ajax, we'll bomb. Quin, same with Astra. Blackstone, could you give us some subtle multipliers? Phantom-doubles went down well last time. Scout the action and let us know if there are any surprises."
Blackstone saluted theatrically with his cane, disappearing with a swirl of opera cape and a puff of fragrant smoke.
"Any questions?" He looked around at the rest of us. "Then let's go."
The Assembly Room's elevator took us to the bay and we launched—with the exception of Nimbus, who had no dimmer switch and would stand out in the night sky like a de-orbiting satellite. As fast as she could travel, she'd catch up when the time came. Atlas lifted Ajax with a one-hand grip by an unobtrusive handle on his armored back for just such occasions, and Quin perched on my shoulders (which had to look just a bit ridiculous considering our size difference). We flew in a high arc over Chicago.
Astra, Atlas whispered in my ear through our Dispatch link. Quin's going to dismount into the middle of the fight, and then I want you to go for the Boys' biggest Ajax-type. His name is Brick, cleverly enough, and he's bald as an egg and will be wearing an orange brick-tiled coat. He's mid A-class, so he can take anything you dish out without breaking, but you should be up for him. Nimbus will keep anyone else off your back while you're bustin' him.
Translation: Nimbus will nail the guy if you can't. I nodded, then realized that wouldn't work. "Got it." I could feel my heartbeat high in my throat, but my voice was steady enough.
And that was it. Atlas refined his instructions to the others as we flew and he got reports from Rush and Blackstone. We slowed down, flying wide over Lake Michigan. Why? The show had to be starting any minute. My nerves stretched thin, thinner, but we flew even slower until finally Atlas called out again.
Boys and girls, it's time to be rude. Go.
We got.
Chicago's two supervillain gangs had decided to meet in an old abandoned warehouse. It must have been a regular meeting place, maybe even an arena, because someone had thoughtfully rigged the place for lights. Which made target acquisition easy for everyone as we dropped on them. Leaping off my shoulders, Quin did a triple somersault as she dropped through the old building's ceiling ribs. Ajax just dropped, released like a targeted kinetic bomb.
I can do this. Remember Mr. Ludlow; find Brick, end the fight. Right.
They'd started the fight without us, but I spotted Brick easily and went for the direct approach—I landed on him, Atlas' advice from our sparring matches echoing in my ears.
Forget your size, and don't be fancy. Let your toughness protect you while you hit 'em hard. End it as fast as you can.
I came in feet-first, right between his shoulder blades, pushing him into the ground. Grabbing an arm, I threw him through the inner wall to separate him from the crowd and then went through the hole after him. I wanted room to swing a Brick without accidentally hitting someone more fragile.
Brick was already pumped up, and surprised or not he showed me how fast he could move. I found him rolling to his feet, and kept going right into him.
He didn't bother to dodge, just swung his huge fist in a whistling haymaker. With too much momentum I couldn't slide by, so now I tumbled. But Ajax hit harder in training; I smacked the ground in a correct fall and bounced to my feet, shaking it off.
Okay, surprise over.
Brick grinned. "Awesome! I'm going to get my hero!"
And he charged.
I didn't fly; my nerves disappeared into a thrill I'd never felt before.
Step and turn. Duck inside his reach, foot to the back of his knee, help him fall down hard with a hand to the back of his head to make it harder. It worked with Mr. Ludlow.
And it worked with Brick; he smacked down so hard that concrete chips flew up like water droplets from a mud puddle and the warehouse floor bounced under my feet. He went loose, stunned, and I grabbed an arm and pulled it behind him, intending to cuff him before he could recover.
Then a crystalline fog of water particles condensed out of the night air around me, and I could feel my core temperature dropping. It felt like the horrible sliding chill you get when you slurp down a milkshake too fast, but with my whole body. My heart seemed to slow as my blood tried to freeze.
My vision fogged up as my eyes iced over, but I saw a guy in a white duster and spiked and frosted hair climb through the hole. Laughing.
"Whoa! It's our new golden girl! I got mine, but I'll trade up."
I scrambled up, but Brick grabbed my leg and pulled me to the ground. I kicked and rolled over, but he wouldn't let go. Where was Nimbus? I scrabbled in the rubble.
I couldn't get away from Brick, but the cryokinetic was the one killing me. My questing hand found a chunk of concrete, and I twisted and made a hardball pitch at white-head's center of mass. I hit his arm, heard the crack and he screamed. My vision started clearing.
I kicked Brick in the face hard enough to snap his head back, but I was too weak. He grunted but didn't let go, pulling me under him and closing his free hand in an iron claw around my throat. Forgetting all technique, I tore at his tightening grip. Then from nowhere I smelled Chakra's jasmine scent, felt her reassurance. Warmth bloomed deep inside me, like a flower opening to spill liquid sunlight instead of taking it in, and strength flowed back as the chill at my core melted.
I kicked again. Halfway under him now, I caught a very vulnerable spot and he screamed falsetto. Good to know Brick had stones.
He let go, curling into a fetal position, and I shot out from under him to land with intent on white-head. The cryokinetic screamed again when his broken arm hit the cement. Reaching behind me, I pulled out two of my three sets of police ties and quickly clipped his wrists behind him, then got his ankles.
"Don't go anywhere," I gasped. "I can always break the other one." Standing, I looked through the hole just in time for Rush to poke his head in.
"Are you done in here?" he asked. "Because I'm torn between watching and participating."
Behind him I could see the fight winding down. Supervillains littered the ground, sitting or lying down while our guys moved through the mess dispensing more ties. Twelve of us to twenty-one of them, and we'd kicked their asses.
I went back and flipped a whimpering Brick over on his stomach.
"Hands," I said, still breathing hard.
He stretched them out and I slapped the titanium thumb-cuffs on him.
Then I started shaking so bad I had to sit down.
Brick unfolded a little.
"First real fight?" he wheezed.
I nodded.
"Well, shit."
* * *
The special paddywagons rolled in with the paramedics and the media tag-alongs, and the Chicago Police Department took it from there. We returned to the Dome and I went straight to the infirmary; Dr. Beth wanted to make sure having my core-temperature temporarily dropped way below even hypothermia levels hadn't done me any lasting harm.
Chakra visited me there; yes she had been there in spirit, and had been responsible for the burst of energy that turned it around for me. She believed her powers came from tantric sex-magic, but I didn't care if she thou
ght they came from eating clown-fish.
Nimbus dropped by to apologize. She got hit in the opening round and by the time she'd refocused on me my fight had been over. Seconds are all it takes. She was very upset, but I told her we were good. I needed to learn sign language. Nimbus "heard" sound with her whole photonic body, but couldn't talk (Chakra translated for me). She didn't speak, didn't eat or drink, couldn't touch. It didn't seem right.
Then Atlas dropped by to debrief me. I'm very good at hiding my feelings, but after a few minutes he firmly pushed everyone out the door and closed it.
Wearing the Cape Page 9
