by M. K. Gibson
“Excellent,” I said. “Keep up the good work, Doctor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Do me a favor and get one of the tech guys to work on the holo-calls. There seems to me a slight latency issue, and it reminds me of badly dubbed movies kung-fu theater movies.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now if you excuse me, I have another call to take.”
“Of course, sir.”
I switched the line over to the blinking light. “Go ahead.”
“Jackson . . . fucking . . . Blackwell,” Sophia seethed. Her hologram appeared in my office with such vivid detail I was almost afraid she was really there. “You put me on hold?”
“It was an important call,” I said with a shrug.
“For an hour?!”
“You’re nigh immortal in a realm where the passage of time differs.”
That mask of “Sophia” began to slip. Her eyes resembled those of a cat’s, only with double-slitted pupils. Her teeth grew into needles as her nails extended into talons. Smoky mist began to rise from her skin.
“Careful now,” I said picking up my pack of cigarettes and lighting one. “You’re beginning to show your true colors. But it’s fitting considering all you’ve done to sabotage me with Lydia.”
Fire, darkness, and fear exploded from Sophia as her Djinn form exploded through the “Sophia” meat suit. “You Forget Yourself, Blackwell!”
“Have I?” I asked, lighting the cigarette. “This entire ordeal has been about change and my refusal to accept it. I remain the constant while events change around me. If anything, I’m still the man who made a deal with a Djinn all those years ago. While you, on the other hand . . . what have you become?”
The Djinn smiled. It was unsettling. “I Swore To Destroy You One Day, For What Your Family Did To Me.”
“And I told you to go ahead and try,” I said as I puffed on my smoke.
In a flash, “Sophia” was back, smiling her perky smile. “Oh Jackson, I’ve missed this.”
I grinned slightly. “Me too.”
“You have to understand, I had to know you were still the Shadow Master and not some born-again family man,” Sophia said.
“And you had to know I would shun you for it regardless,” I countered.
Sophia sighed. “I know. I still contend Lydia is good for you.”
“Of course she is,” I said plainly. “And I am truly excited to have a child. But that does not mean it’s time to trade in my dimension for a minivan.”
Sophia laughed, and I did as well. It felt good to speak plainly with her again without the tension between us.
“So Shadow Master, what have you been doing? The occasional nuggets I can pry from King Stanley have been spotty at best.”
“You’re talking to him?”
“Don’t act surprised, Jackson,” Sophia said, cocking her head to one side, giving me the sideways glance and pointing a finger at me. “You pushed me away. Of course I’ve been communicating with him. If you can call it that. Mostly angrily composed monosyllabic messages. I think he really regrets placing the edict that allows you to go nuts and do whatever you like. How many reboots are you up to now?”
“I’ve lost count,” I said with a shrug.
“Which one are you up to now?”
“Gritty reboot.”
Sophia frowned. “Ugh. Like, is everyone all angsty and overly dark for no reason other than being overly dark?”
“Yup.”
Sophia shook her head, then chuckled a little. “Reminds me of that fantasy realm you contracted a few years back.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“You remember. The grim one with all the incest and knights who said ‘fuck’ a lot?”
“Oh. Yeah,” I said with a half grin. “If I remember correctly, I took that contract specifically because of a snarky asshole I met in a bookstore back on the Prime Universe.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Apparently that universe had enough of an influence to cause a couple of books to be written about it and this idiot would not shut up about how brilliant and edgy the books were.”
“Who was he?” Sophia asked. “The guy in the bookstore?”
“Who cares,” I said with a dismissive gesture. “He had a dreadlock mohawk with tribal tattoos on the sides of his head, hipster glasses, and those ridiculous spacers in his ears. With each addition to his nonconforming flair, his legitimate employment prospects plummeted. Kids. Always thinking in the short term. The point is, I took the contract specifically because of him.”
“Wait, didn’t you con the god from that universe to sell you merchandising rights?”
“Yes, yes I did. I told the GRIMgod that by allowing me the chance to promote his universe, his power would swell. Gods above and below.” I laughed. “The ink on the contract wasn’t even dry before I was subleasing the rights to Executivita from the realm of Harrowing Banality Ordeals.”
“Why? Didn’t that show blow up?”
“Of course it did. The show was a hit, the merchandise sold like crazy, and the books sold in the millions.”
“Am I missing something, sir?”
“You see, Sophia, I don’t need to always conquer worlds and subjugate masses of people to feel accomplished. Sometimes, all it takes to let me sleep soundly at night is knowing I beat a single person. That pseudo-intellectual, counterculture cockwad from the bookstore? His type thrives on being different. Edgy. Not ‘one of the masses’ and other such Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield childish crap. They have NO drive or sense of worth other than being different. And by different, they mean better. Which is why such people scour the world for media most people don’t know about only so they can lord it over others. As much as those hipsters claim to hate the masses, they cannot exist without them in order to feel superior.”
“Your point, sir?”
“Imagine that bastard’s surprise when his beloved books were suddenly plastered onto t-shirts available in every major shopping center. Where every normal ‘phony’ had some knowledge of it. I robbed that person of his love. I drove a spike into the heart of his being. From that point forward, he had to say things like ‘I liked it before it was cool,’ and ‘bandwagon fans’ and ‘sellout.’ I tell you, Sophia, when I think of that sad hipster . . . I pleasure myself and rest very, very soundly.”
“Descriptive, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, why are you telling me all this? You seem. . . off.”
“Perhaps I am just anxious about what’s coming.”
“And what is coming? Thanks to your little tantrum, and being on your shit list, I’ve been on media blackout.”
I nodded to the holographic image, then began counting off recalled items on my fingers. “Well, let’s see. I’ve united the villains, again, but this time I’ve reduced crime. I’ve employed the supervillains in legitimate business to create new, sloth-inducing technology for the masses. With the additional capital, I’ve bought out smaller companies, influenced politicians, steered social media, and engineered a few public tragedies.”
“How much time has passed since this reboot?”
“At least three months. I reset my youth each evening in my embassy.”
Sophia thought about it. “That’s a lot done in three months.”
“I’m very persuasive, and my presence is felt all over the place.”
“Wait,” Sophia said, thinking it through. “You—you’re starting a war. You’re using the same maneuver you did in that high fantasy realm in the beginning of your career. The one that caused a cataclysm and forced the universe back into the Dark Ages.”
“Sure. Let’s say yes.”
“But won’t that force another reboot there?”
“Not this time. I have a contingency plan in place.”
“Which is?”
“Uh-uh.” I waggled my finger at her. “While we’re being chummy, I’m still not over being mad at you. This inf
ormation is close hold at the moment, regardless.”
“Fine, be an asshole.”
“I will, thank you.” I smirked.
“You know they are going to send a hit squad of antiheroes after you.”
“I do.”
“And they are going to be major players. At your reduced power levels, outside your embassy, they could overwhelm you.”
“I suppose they will.”
“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” Sophia asked.
“Yes. Please contact King Stanley and ask him to begin listening. I will call on him very soon to settle our deal.”
“You got it, sir. Oh, and sir?”
“Yes.”
“Lydia asked me to tell you . . . the baby kicked.”
“Thank you,” I said, nodding my head and smiling.
The power to my office suddenly went out.
“I think it’s time.”
“Yes sir, good luck,” Sophia’s hologram said before blinking out. With my office’s windows privacy settings, the automatic frosting blocked out the lights from the city’s night lights. I was alone in the dark.
Well, time to flex those acting muscles.
Taking out my cell phone, the one not tethered to this world’s set of physics, I flipped on my social media account and began a live stream. With a hard, quick off-camera flick to my own balls, my eyes immediately began to water and portrayed the proper amount of fear and pain.
“M-my name is Jackson Blackwell, CEO of Blackwell Industries . . . and, oh god, superheroes are coming to kill me! P-please help me!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Where I Foil a Hit Squad, Reveal the Truth About James Bond, and Jump off a Building
“There’s no use,” a threatening voice from the darkness whispered. “Signal jammer is stopping all outgoing comms and data services. This is the end of you, Shadow Master.”
I knew the voice, of course. One does not defile another man’s ancestral home with his ding-dong without committing the other man’s voice to memory. Bad manners otherwise. I was nothing if not civilized.
The voice belonged to The Night Watchman. Or, in this reboot, he was just The Watchman. His backstory remained the same, only with a darker addendum for the gritty reboot.
Instead of just being orphaned after his parents were killed in a home invasion, the psycho who broke in made young Malcolm Flynn play a version of Russian roulette. All but one bullet was removed from a revolver and young Malcolm was forced to pick one of his parents and pull the trigger. Daddy dearest stepped up, and told his boy it would be all right. One-in-six chances aren’t terrible odds, after all.
Except when it’s a poorly written origin story.
Young Malcolm blew his father’s head off with one trigger pull. The home invader laughed, saying, “What are the odds?!” Momma dear died next. The invader, high on the thrill of the kill, shot her in the head without a second thought. Both parents were nothing more than bodies in cooling pools of blood when the thief left, having stolen only a measly couple thousand dollars’ worth of insured jewels.
Malcolm, of course, became The Watchman. And that thief? Well, that thief was the first criminal The Watchman ever tracked down and killed.
Now, if you think that is a cool, dark, and edgy backstory, then you’re part of the problem.
That story . . . is crap.
It is weak character development and bad storytelling at best. Gods above and below, it really isn’t even development. It’s an excuse to justify sociopathic actions by “edgy” writers as they vomit up their literary mommy issues.
Regardless, that broody Oedipus was in my office, and he wasn’t alone. I picked up my cigarette lighter, forcing an ever-so-slight tremble to my hands to complete the image of a frightened man. Two flicks later and a single flickering flame showed me my guests.
I saw The Watchman and his personally selected hit squad standing along the walls. “Who’s there?” I asked—for the camera, of course. I bloody well knew who The Watchman used for missions like these.
When the vigilante had his off-the-books missions, he tended to use a combination of the same heroes. The variant Timber, the Egyptian mage Ankh, the gun-toting vigilante The Warden, and last but not least Babylon, the trench-coat-wearing private detective possessed by the spirit of the long-dead god Marduk, god of the city.
“Y-you’re all trespassing!” I stammered, calling out each of the hero’s names so that the camera would pick it all up.
“This is the end of you,” Ankh said from behind her black and silver helmet. “Your reign ends. We take no pleasure in this.”
“Speak for yourself. He’s a criminal. And criminals require punishment,” Warden said, his hands itching for the automatic pistols on his belt. “Timber, you with us?” The hairy variant simply began to shift into her nine-foot werewolf form.
“I liked you better when you were a man. But reboots being what they are, I guess a bad bitch is suiting,” I muttered under my breath.
“Enough,” Babylon said, a second set of glowing red eyes appearing above his normal eyes. “Jackson Blackwell, we have discovered all your activities. We know you engineered the Black Rock incident. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I’m innocent,” I said.
(Psst . . . I totally wasn’t innocent. Remember two chapters ago, in How to Cause a Superhero War Step 2: Turn the Media Against The Heroes, I said that if the heroes don’t screw up, you should engineer an incident? Well, I did. But more on that later.)
“Innocent?!” Watchman roared.
In the blink of an eye, he was suddenly across the room, leaping over my desk and throwing a kick to my face. My head snapped back as my nose broke. Blood poured down my face while Watchman perched atop the desk.
“Two hundred fifty-seven people died there! You’re the mastermind behind this city’s criminal empire. Everything flows through you. From your media campaign against the heroes of this city to the false police force you fund. We know about it all. Every crooked politician, bribed judge, and official in your pocket.”
“I-I just hold fundraisers for the hardworking elected people who run the city for the people. A-and I do employ former villains,” I admitted. “I believe in giving people second chances. You’d be amazed what people can do when if you just show a little support and belief in their work,” I said.
“Take these, for example,” I said, picking up the set of clear glasses from my desk by Watchman’s black leather boot. “The Technopath created these. These are linked to my smartphone. With them, I can see videos, record things I see, and transmit them. Pretty neat.”
“Google Glasses? Hardly original,” Watchman said.
“True.” I nodded. “Not original at all. But when you use a thin layer of Graphene, with a tiny power supply, some micro-thermal IR, and some other science jargon I don’t totally understand, these babies can see, record, and transmit in total darkness. They’re lightweight, durable, and relatively cheap to manufacture. We were thinking of military applications, of course. Smile for the camera?”
“You think you’re getting out of here? You’re not,” Watchman said. “We know your type. You have an army of lawyers. The system will never hold you. It has to end. Tonight. For the greater good, you have to die.”
Ankh spoke a word of power and the glasses shattered in my hands.
“Huh. I guess they’re not as durable as we thought,” I said. “I’ll talk to the lab techs and inform them.”
I stretched my neck and rolled my shoulders, washing off the scared rabbit persona. “Thank you. That act was killing me. And gods above and below, your dialogue is horrible. Really. It’s not your fault, not really, but still, just gods awful. Back me up on this, Marduk,” I said, inclining my chin towards Babylon.
The blond man in the trench coat said nothing while the glowing red eyes stared hatred at me.
“And that is people like Tiamat more than you,” I said before turning my attention back
to the Watchman. Slowly, so as not to make any sudden moves, I tapped my phone.
“Told you, that doesn’t work here. I don’t care what your glasses recorded. You’re never going to upload that video.”
I smiled. “Are you sure? Ankh, what do you sense?”
The mage cocked her head to one side, as if sensing something for the first time. “Oh. Oh no.”
“What?” Watchman asked, turning his head sharply.
“He-he had a spell up. A cloaked one. He was transmitting the whole time. This entire conversation. I didn’t notice it until he turned it off. It was as if—”
“As if I knew you were coming?” I offered. “I did. You people are nothing if not predicable. This entire back-and-forth, of you coming here, threatening me, assaulting me, and saying you were going to kill me, is already on the net.”
Timber leaped across the room, the female werewolf shoving Watchman aside. “Kill him now!”
“Tsk tsk,” I said, “Villainy 101: Always have an escape plan.”
I ducked Timber’s clawed strike at my head and tapped a hidden button on my chair’s armrest. I held on tight as my chair rocketed backwards into my office wall. The wall opened as designed and closed behind me in less than a second. Heavy latches and warding spells activated, closing the passage off to anything short of a nuke. From beyond the wall, I heard them yell and howl in fury.
Heh. I have to admit, I always wanted to do that. The contractors wanted to know why I needed an emergency escape hatch and hidden stairwell to the roof. I told them . . . well, I told them to shut the hell up, get back to work, don’t look me in the eye, and respect their superiors. I mean, come on; I’m rich and they’re contractors.
Plus, any villain who ever cheered on James Bond wanted to use a secret passage or escape hatch.
Walking up the private stairs to my rooftop helipad, I wondered why normal people actually liked James Bond.
You all do realize James Bond is a villain, right?
When you really look at him, he’s the asshole society teaches us to despise. A handsome jock who gets away with whatever he wants, has a license to kill, treats women as sex objects, ignores rules, and wins. He’s bright but not incredibly so, but he knows how to manipulate others to get whatever he wants. He abuses all his co-workers and thinks nothing of them as actual humans.
