by M. K. Gibson
“Oh, you mean Incredible Ant, Shrinking Violet, Nucleus, Captain Proton, and the rest of those types? We’ll never see them again.”
“Why?”
“Because something smaller than a flea cannot weigh over a hundred pounds. At least, not anything with human biology. They suffocated under their own density in seconds.”
“Good riddance.”
Sophia and I watched and laughed, enjoying the comedy of errors. You know those heroes who turn into things like metal, light, stone, air and such? Well, guess what? Once they shifted into their forms, that was it. One does not turn into steel and think good things will happen. When someone erupts into flame, that’s called spontaneous combustion.
Just ask Inferno and The Blazing Beauty. They’re over there screaming their heads off.
And me without any marshmallows.
Am I being too obtuse? It’s a polite way of saying they died horribly.
I chuckled. “You know that one loser who shoots lasers from his eyes? You know, what’s his name?”
“Flashsight?” Sophia offered.
“Eh, whatever. Look look!”
Flashsight was in a bloody heap on the beach, screaming but unmoving.
“What happened to him?”
“Heh heh, the universe let the poor sod get one good shot off before my reality caused the viscous humor of his eyeballs to overheat and burst. Ragged, burned chunks of his facial flesh flew through the air as the concussive force of the blast snapped his head back, breaking his neck.”
“How did I miss that?”
“Your need for popcorn, perhaps?” I offered.
“Damn. But I do so love that fake butter.”
Sophia and I continued watching and laughing. Shapeshifters fell over in pain as their skin ripped away due to rapid body augmentation. People with “healing factors” grew skeletal and gaunt as their bodies burned though their own body mass to heal wounds, only to die painfully of dehydration.
The psychic heroes screamed as a city’s worth of minds suddenly entered their brains, turning them into vegetables. Magnetic-powered people were ripped apart by the earth’s magnetic field. Teleporters reappeared, then walked away, not knowing who they were since they were a copy of the now-dead original. People with bows ran out of arrows in like eleven or twelve shots.
Because one cannot have a never-ending supply of arrows.
Oooh ooh ooh, speaking of arrows. Trickshot, the archer from Far Haven, fired an arrow with a boxing glove on it! Yeah, it flew like ten feet before crashing into the sand.
Adorable.
“Check this one out,” I said to Sophia. “This is a prime example of what super strength gets you.”
Mastodon, the Variant-born strong-woman, squared off against her brother Monolith, the living statue. Monolith instinctively turned to stone (and died, of course), but Mastodon didn’t know that when she grabbed her brother, ready to throw him as they’d done in the past during inter-family scuffles. Once Monolith was above her head, Mastodon’s knees cracked, her shoulders popped, her spine collapsed, and her shinbones broke through his flesh.
“Wait, I thought all people with super strength had invulnerability?”
“Misconception,” I dismissed with a wave of my hand. “It’s what we’ve accepted as normal but reality doesn’t allow for. People can be strong, of course. You ever see one of those videos where power lifting goes really wrong? They aren’t pretty.”
“Pulling up one now. I’m Youtube-ing ‘Worst Powerlifting Accidents.’”
“Try not to vomit,” I said.
“Oh, gross!”
“I know. The universe here allowed for the big woman to have the superhuman strength, but my reality reminded her of the limitations of the human body. Tendons, ligaments, cartilage, and bone density did not allow a human to lift, let alone hold aloft, several tons.”
I lit another black cigarette, wishing I had some of Sophia’s popcorn. She was right. That fake butter flavor was addictive.
Oh, Monolith, by the way? Yeah, he snapped apart because Mastodon’s strength caused micro-fractures to the overall statue. Incredible strength doesn’t stop giant objects from breaking. Which is why lifting airplanes and such feats is bullshit.
The stony body of Mammoth’s dead brother fell on top of her while she lay in the sand, screaming in bloody pain.
Sophia and I watched as heroes whose powers were derived from gamma and X-rays screamed. Their hair fell out, their guts fused, heat burns appeared on their skin, and then they died of radiation poisoning. As did those heroes near them, seeing as the dead radiation reactors were now piles of nuclear waste.
Heroes with invulnerability could no longer feel anything. Neither pleasure nor pain. If they survived the fight, their lives would forever be one of solitude, trapped in their own bodies, devoid of sensation.
Street-level ninja-warrior types were exhausted within several minutes of full-impact, full-speed combat. Even Olympic boxers have round breaks to catch their wind. All the cardio in the world can’t prepare you for this level of fighting.
Aquatic heroes literally liquefied right there on the beach. Since the universe decreed their natural state was equal to a deep-sea creature, being on land, the pressure—or lack thereof—coupled with warmer temperature brought a final end to the deep-water natives.
Physics. It’s a bitch.
Surprisingly, power armor heroes did just fine, although their movements were no longer fluid because metals don’t flex like they do in the comics. Their battle suit batteries overheated, and sand clogged every servo, actuator, and gear they had. Soon, their made-up power sources ran dry and they were left immobilized.
And with all of this horrible reality upon them, the heroes kept on fighting. Why? Because the program I activated on my phone was part of a psychic motivator Dr. Reality installed back in Chapter 28.
The aggression enhancer forced the heroes to ignore the horror and keep fighting. Over and over, they threw themselves at one another while reality exposed what truly happens in warfare.
Yes, yes.
I am aware of how bullshit it is to enforce reality one moment, while simultaneously using a fictional aggression-enhancer the next. Some might even call it unfair. Or lazy writing, perhaps? Well, those people are idiots. I think I’ve made it perfectly clear I bend the rules to suit my purpose.
********
The war wound down, as battles tend to do when the sum of the marshaled forces died in droves. After a time, when the brash noise of conflict ceased, only the wails of the dying and the silence of the dead played a simple symphony for the final conflict. An accompanying piece, if you will.
A final melody for the last two combatants to dance to.
The alien and man. Both orphans. Both determined. Both pushed beyond their limits as they continued their dance of death.
Watchman’s right arm was broken, as were several of his ribs. His left eye was missing. His front four teeth were broken, and he had more lacerations than I could count. Apex was similarly wounded. Despite her alien heritage and adaptive system, her body was nearly torn apart from the constant writing and rewriting of her genetic code. Her uniform hung off her, as her body was withered to its breaking point. She used the dead Beobog’s holy hammer as a crutch.
They came at each other once more, throwing punches. Watchman’s magically enhanced leather glove struck hard against her jaw, breaking his remaining good hand. Apex’s hammer strike came down on the Watchman’s clavicle, snapping the bone.
They fell to their knees at the same time, face to face.
“I’ve always hated you,” Apex said, looking into Watchman’s remaining eye.
“And I’ve always loved you,” the Knight of Far Haven said.
The two dying combatants fell into a passionate, bloody kiss, as they were always meant to.
Superhero Fun Fact #10
In Supergirl Vol. 4 #79, Superman was exposed to Pink Kryptonite, which turned him . . . “flamboya
nt.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Where I Take a Victory Lap, Build a Throne, and Get Arrested
“What?!”
“Oh, don’t act surprised,” I told Sophia. “Those two have been dancing around the will-they-or-won’t-they sexual tension through every incarnation of their being. It’s about time they finally admitted their feelings, if you ask me.”
“Feeling romantic, sir? Should I mention this to Lydia?”
Having drained a large portion of my godly power by imposing realism on a universe, I held back my normal sarcastic retort. And perhaps the feelings for Lydia were just there, under the surface.
“If you must,” I finally said. “Now shh, you’re going to miss the end of the romantic comedy.”
Apex held Watchman’s head in her hands, continuing the kiss. Likewise, Watchman returned the kiss with equal passion, wrapping his arms around her. So alike, yet so different, they joined in a way that only two halves of a broken, singular soul could.
Watchman plunged a small, hidden knife into her back. The dagger’s metal, made from the salvaged remains of the ship that brought her to earth, was programmable metal. And the weapon’s program was the same as all weapons: to kill.
The blade instantly began to dissolve Apex at the genetic level, unbinding her DNA so that every strand flew apart.
Apex shuddered as she felt the end coming. She broke the kiss, still holding Watchman by the sides of his face. She showed no signs of anger, nor of tears, nor of resentment. Instead, her eyes showed only understanding.
Watchman looked back into her eyes, also with the truest level of awareness and understanding. He nodded his head slightly, as if agreeing to an unspoken communication between them.
With a sudden snap, Apex twisted The Watchman’s neck, breaking it and killing him instantly.
Apex fell on the sandy beach, holding her murdered friend, greatest enemy, and deepest love. “I wouldn’t have changed anything. Except,” she said, pausing, “I would have liked more time.”
Apex’s withered body dissolved, liquefying into its primordial biologic components, leaving the corpse of The Watchman in a puddle of her effluence.
Gently, the waters of the sea lapped ashore. And with the gentle grace of nature, all remnants of the greatest superhero ever washed away into nothingness, erasing her forever.
The sun was rising, bringing the promise of a new day. Red and gold tones pushed away the purple-blues of night. And for the briefest of seconds, the beach was calm. There was no sound other than the gentle, rhythmic waves of the sea. The tranquility was deafening when juxtaposed with the imagery of the beach and the gruesome slaughter of dead heroes.
And in that second, in the briefest of moments, one could hear the world itself shed a tear for the noble dead.
“WOOO!” I screamed my best Ric Flair howl of joy as I threw my hands on the air.
Hopping down from my perch, I cranked my phone as loud as it would go, blaring “The Touch” by Stan Bush. Sophia tsked.
“One would think Queen’s ‘We are the Champions’ is the song to play when you win.”
“That is a common fallacy for fools. There is no ‘WE’ when it comes to being the champion. There is ME. And I’ve definitely got the touch.”
I accentuated the point by taking a power-strut victory lap, or two, around the bodies of the dead heroes. I soaked in the dulcet vocal tones of Mr. Bush while pointing and mocking the bodies of the dearly departed heroes.
“I killed you, I killed you, I killed you, I definitely killed you, damn sure killed your ass, you got killed by him, and she offed your ass, but it was all my doing! I am the goddamn king!”
“A king needs a throne, sir.”
“Gods above and below, you’re right,” I agreed.
I used my shadow powers, reaching out into the pools of darkness along the blood-soaked beach. Tendrils of pure shadow rose up, obeying the will of The Shadow Master, and began stacking the corpses of fallen superheroes into a simple dais at first. Then, slightly more elaborate in construction, the dead, lifeless husks of dumb, dead, do-gooders began to resemble stairs, leading upward.
Upward toward my throne.
I ascended the bodies, placing one foot in front of the other, finding purchase along the slightly squishy path. As a man of refinement and taste, I forced my cultured self to endure, and not snicker, when the dead bodies began to expel gases and fluids.
No matter how funny it was.
The Watchman’s body formed the seat and backing to my new throne. I took my position, seating myself atop the macabre monument to my magnificence.
“Hiya Trent, how’s it going?” I asked Watchman’s corpse. “I’d like to say you’d see your parents in heaven, but you won’t. They were good people. You, on the other hand, killed, used fear and extortion, and were generally a bad person. You’re definitely in hell. But hey, I know a few demons. I could put in a good word for you.”
“Will you, sir?”
“Hell no!” I laughed.
“Has anyone told you not to play with your food, sir?”
“I don’t see how that’s apt here, Sophia,” I said with a smirk. I lit a black cigarette and watched the sea from my regal place of honor. “Besides, I think I’ve earned a moment or two to just enjoy the win before I’m arrested.”
“Sir?”
I squinted, noticing the incoming speedboats. “You see there? Those are go-fast police boats coming in from The Reef, that underwater prison Apex was taking me to.”
“Then you should leave, sir.”
“And go where?” I asked. “Since Watchman and his group was coming to kill me, it means that Apex and her faction already alerted the police to my crimes. No doubt there are several squad cars of supervillain response teams coming this way from the city. I can’t go back there. My assets will already be taken and my empire destroyed.”
“What about the police you own and your politicians?”
“Sophia.” I tsked. “I just organized the mass slaughter of the city’s heroes. No amount of political clout can buy me out of this one. Plus, enforcing reality greatly weakened my abilities. For the moment, I’m basically a vanilla human. No, I am going to be arrested and taken to The Reef. It’s OK,” I said in earnestness. “It’s all part of the plan.”
“Is there anything I should do?”
“Of course. Please be so kind as to pass a message to King Stanley. I want to settle our bet now. Tell him he can come visit me once I’m in the prison’s confined cell.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Sophia asked, sounding displeased.
“Yes.” I smiled. “Now, let me enjoy this.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Lights began flashing, both the police strobe lights and the flashes of cameras. News outlets were already there, filming the grizzly scene. I did after all declare on social media that heroes were coming to kill me.
The go-fast boats rocketed up to the shore, and police combat responders piled out, their boots splashing into the surf. The responders merged with the police, coming from inland to form a cordon around me. Within moments, fifty-plus cops had their weapons drawn as they advanced on me.
I sat there, atop a throne made of the corpses of dead superheroes, my legs crossed, my fingers steepled under my chin, and a wide, vicious grin plastered on my face. I couldn’t cut a more villainous profile if I practiced.
Which I do.
You have to practice these things. Part of the business, you understand.
“Don’t look now, Trent, but the po-po’s here,” I said under my breath to The Watchman’s corpse. “Just be cool and act natural. I’ll do the talking.”
The lifeless body continued to stare into oblivion.
“Perfect. Good job, Trent.”
As the police drew closer, I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward, looking down from atop my throne. “Is there a problem, officers?”
“Jackson Blackwell,” a loud voice called from a megaphone, “you
’re under arrest for--well, for all this.”
“But of course,” I said, standing with my hands up. “Take me to jail. Trent, you stay and mind things here while I’m gone.”
The Watchman’s body said nothing.
“Good lad, Trent.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Where I Meet My Enemy and Things Do NOT Go My Way for Once
I tapped on the static energy field of my prison wall with the tip of my finger. Instantly, the skin sizzled and burned.
“Ouch.” I nodded in approval, sucking on the burn.
“Silence, prisoner!” a voice called over the PA system.
Me? Silence? These mortals. They don’t know me very well, do they? Talking is kind of my thing. But there was no reason to start anything with my new hosts. So I took the moment to lie down on my single bunk and assess my situation.
Following my arrest at the beach, I was of course taken into police custody. They cuffed me, threw me into one of those go-fast boats, and took me over twelve miles off shore into international waters. There, the Reef was waiting. The floating prison was big and imposing, and a complete financial boondoggle. I know because I leased out several of these facilities back in the real world. A lot of money can be made, and laundered, through the criminal justice system.
I was brought aboard, stripped of my clothes, given a prison orange jumpsuit, and thrown into a laser-walled cell designed for superpowered villains, complete with a sub-floor power inhibitor. My cell was in the middle of a large open cargo bay. It was brightly lit and had a variety of monitors hooked up to camera feeds and automated tracking weapons. I was cut off from my assets, my lawyers, my power base, and my cadre of indentured supervillain servants.
Just where I wanted to be.
Oh, and by the way, what I just did was a quick summary, skipping past the need for you to read an unnecessary chapter (or waste the audiobook narrator’s precious time). See, this is one of those times when telling is more valuable than showing.
From my bunk, I could see the cameras pan back and forth as my guards watched from a safe distance. Smart. Who knows what I would be able to do, or whom I could manipulate, if I had someone to talk to.
