Wearing the Cape 6: Team-Ups and Crossovers

by Marion G. Harmon

  Letting go of her blue flight orb, she realized that she was slightly off-axis when local gravity reasserted itself; stumbling and flailing wildly to catch her balance, she reached up and grabbed an orb without thinking—willing it to be still while she steadied herself with it.

  “Yes! Scoville saves!”

  Congratulating herself on not eating roof and giving her face a gravel rash, she looked up and yanked her hand back—she’d grabbed Pew Pew! Released, the red sphere dimmed, feeling almost disappointed to Sydney, and she wiped imaginary sweat off her brow.

  She still wasn’t sure of Pew Pew’s safety feature yet, and Arc-SWAT had labeled her red orb "Bad for A Tank." Not needed to cut anything in half (or into discrete flaming particles), Pew Pew drifted upwards to rejoin the other six spheres orbiting just above her head in the configuration that had earned her the "Halo" moniker. (Or as Sydney insisted everyone call her, "The Mighty Halo"; it was never too early to stake out the name of your comic book.)

  “Scoville saves…” she muttered, shaking off the near-disaster as she rubbed her cold hands. Spring in Chicago definitely wasn’t spring back home; her urban camo Arc-SWAT Field Dress uniform was warm enough, but not for the first time she lamented the fact that needing skin contact to use her orbs kept her from wearing gloves. Checking the time on her wrist-com, she unpacked the thermal-wrapped spicy breakfast burrito she’d gotten from Fusion on her way out; in her hurry to leave Archon headquarters before Arianna or Maxima figured out a reason why she couldn’t fly up early to give herself a little time at the comic con before “supervision” arrived, she’d skipped breakfast.

  It wasn’t bad—the habanero salsa wasn’t what she’d call hot, but it had enough bite that her lips felt it. Finishing it, she checked the time again and reached into her jacket to pull out a dog-eared blue notebook to look at her schedule.

  The List, as she named all her notebooks, had started as her mother’s earnest attempt to help her scatterbrained daughter organize better. Sydney was on her twelfth pad, and while she’d mostly filled the first one with daily to-do lists, number twelve was chock-full of lists, doodles, movie screenplay ideas (mostly involving lots of shirtless men), and notably, grievances; the newest entry simply read "That guy in the grocery store who only bought whipped marshmallow in a jar, Nutella, and a box of Golden Grahams."

  Sydney shook a mental fist. Damn you, evil genius! It wasn’t fair—certainly not Sydney’s fault that she ate herself sick on the same, fiendishly brilliant, concoction. And not "ooh, my tummy hurts" sick, either; more like "Why does the shower curtain smell like s'mores?" sick. She flipped past it to her schedule. Her wrist-com contained an electronic version, but physically writing things down helped solidify information in her attention deficit-addled brain.

  "Yesssss!” She had about an hour to kill before the rest of the team arrived to debut at the con—time enough to wander the floor for a bit. Snapping the notebook shut, she zipped it up in her jacket.

  Time to implement her fiendish plan.

  Being one of the few superheroes working in the states came with the double-edged sword of immense celebrity status. One of the perks was getting invitations to all manner of superhero themed events (just thinking about the open invitation she’d received to the premier of Avengers III made her drool a bit). The obvious downside was being nearly as recognizable as any A-list actor—especially in uniform. Fortunately, the place below was one of the few places on Earth where she could pass unnoticed with minimal effort. Hee hee hee.

  Sydney loved cosplay, and normally she’d cosplay as someone else entirely, but she hadn’t wanted to haul a whole separate outfit up to Chicago with her. The solution was to simply dress up as The Mighty Halo!

  Sliding off her knapsack, she set it on the ground away from the puddle she’d almost face-planted into. Transferring her very real pistol, tazer and pepper spray to shoulder holsters inside her jacket, she knelt down and opened the pack to produce obviously-fake plastic replicas and holster them on her belt. Pulling out and unfolding a spoked metal ring about the size of a medium pizza and a pole about two feet long, she slid the pole into a narrow pocket on the back of her pack so that it would stick up over her head when she put it back on. The pole slotted into the center of the spokes on the ring, and seven wire frame bowls attached to the outside of the ring, facing up. Perfect!

  She slung the pack on again and looked up, mentally adjusting the orbits of her orbs until it looked like they were resting in the bowls, almost cackling as they settled into place and the whole thing began spinning slowly.

  This was going to work! She had considered adding a wig to cover her very distinctively floppy “rabbit ear" bangs with much less convincing distinctive bangs, but thought she'd chance it for now. If anything was going to give her away, it was probably the fact everything she wore was professionally made, even her “orb-rack.” To be really cosplay-authentic, she should have made the contraption now attached to her backpack out of bent up coat hangers; instead it looked like it had been made by someone who had access to a machine shop. Or who had access to someone who knew how to make stuff in a machine shop without injuring themselves or others.

  Sydney wasn’t allowed in the Archon headquarters machine shop.

  Ready to mingle in anonymity, she summoned the flight orb to her hand and drifted down into the service alley between the parking garage and its neighboring business building. And…we’re safe! Exiting the alley and walking to the intersection with a gaggle of con goers, she was invisible; nobody pointed and said “Look! It’s the real Halo disguised as fake Halo!”

  Standing at the crosswalk, waiting for the light and watching people streaming purposefully towards the center with their reserves of pre-con energy, she did a little happy-dance. No stranger to comic book and sci-fi cons, having traveled the circuit for years with her father, Sydney Scoville Senior, she expertly “weighed” the crowd.

  An experienced eye like hers could always tell what day of the con it was by the energy level of the attendees. First day, everyone was chipper and excited to be there. First night, the enthusiasm was still there, but the energy would have waned considerably and most people were looking to turn in or find a party. The second day was equal parts energetic new arrivals, the caffeine kick-started, and the bravely beating back a hangover crowd. The third day had fewer new arrivals and a lot more caffeine fueled zombies. Today was obviously First Day.

  Sydney named each cosplay as she spotted them. A Master Chief shared the corner with her, carefully not crowding her halo rig. Across the street she spotted two Doctor Who's, one of whom held the hand of a little girl wearing a TARDIS dress. A tall woman of better-than-average attractiveness wore designer paramilitary gear, probably from a video game but maybe SHIELD. (She was too far away for Sydney to get a good look, but based on the quality of the outfit she guessed the woman was a professional cosplayer.)

  She also spotted Naruto, a better Naruto, several Star Wars characters, and an Astra from the new Sentinels TV show. Probably another pro, she judged from the authenticity and well-cut fit of the blue skater-dress-and-cape costume. Even the blue calf-high boots perfectly matched the rest of it, and footwear was where most cosplay costumes fell down.

  "Is it actually legal to dress up as one of those Arc-SWAT dudes?" The question snapped Sydney out of her appraisal and the guy waiting behind her leaned in, eyeing Sydney’s uniform critically. "I mean they're cops, right? Like, federal super cops? Aren't you impersonating an officer of the law if you dress up like them?"

  Hah! She knew the answer to this. "You can dress up as one as long as you don't actually represent yourself as law enforcement. Also your outfit can't be exactly correct, it has to be obviously different in some way."

  "Yeah, well yours looks pretty accurate except for that blue plastic gun. Where’d you find the patches?"

  Crap! She’d meant to replace the Arc-SWAT seals with dummy patches. Oh well, it's not like I can get in trouble for pretending to be
me. She opened her mouth, paused. Can I?

  The guy watched her think for about twenty seconds before waving his hand in front of her face. "Hello?"

  "Oh, uh, thanks! Ordered it made special—hopefully I won't find out if it's too accurate, right? Quality stitching! That's the key to proper cosplay! Feel that!" She tilted her shoulder towards the guy, and he ducked to avoid her halo rig, taking her up on her offer and tentatively pinching the fabric.

  "What kind of material is this? It feels like a cross between silk and canvas."

  Oops. "Well it's not a proprietary fiber coated in a non-Newtonian liquid making it even more bullet resistant than Kevlar if that's what you're asking! Hah hah... Hah!" Sydney gestured excitedly as if to cast a spell of forgetfulness on him. These are not the droids you are looking for!

  It worked, or at least he leaned away from her. "Uh..."

  "Welp! Time to make like a chicken and cross the road!" Sydney turned and bolted through the crosswalk—finally the light had changed.

  Behind her she heard Master Chief say, "You know what? I think that might have been the real Halo disguised as a fake Halo."

  * * *

  The rig kept her from ducking through the shuffling crowd like she wanted, but nobody came after her whatever Master Chief thought. "Should have brought the wig..." she muttered as she carefully wove her way towards the convention hall. Someone in Archon’s PR office had had the foresight to get every attending member of the team a plus-one guest pass in addition to their VIP passes, and she used hers to enter the con without drawing any more attention to herself. Safe again!

  Wandering the convention floor, she studied the map and checked the schedule, collecting comments and compliments on her costume and even stopping a couple of times to take and pose for pictures. Arriving at the dealer’s room, she found the doors still closed. C’mon! She’d half-frozen her ears and hands off—whatever the season, high-altitude air was cold and her shield sphere was thermally conductive—to get here early and make her grab without anyone being the wiser, dammit! Nooo! Couldn’t the convention cooperate? Turning, she heaved a sigh that turned into a hiccup when she almost ran into Maxima.

  Well, not Maxima—a tall and busty girl wearing a purple wig, gold body paint, and a pretty good approximation of the Arc-SWAT team leader’s uniform. Sydney’s brain switched from near-panic to professional evaluation. Not bad—the purple wig’s a bit too red – wait, not a wig, she actually dyed her hair. The body paint doesn’t shine like buffed gold chrome, but—

  “Hey, cool Halo costume!” Maxima’s obvious boyfriend said. “Can we get a picture?”

  Sydney nodded, swallowing her all-too-familiar body envy; while six or seven inches shorter than the genuine article, something the woman had gotten almost exactly right was Maxima's chest measurements. Trying not to stare, she estimated that the woman's bra was taking up some of the slack and suppressed a snicker. She wasn't sure Maxima would have appreciated the attention to that particular detail; bashful was never a word that could be used to describe The Golden Glamazon, but she always wore heavy leather jackets in public to downplay certain dimensions.

  She could testify from experience that, almost without exception, superhumans looked very much like the supers of comics: taller than average, muscular, zero excess body fat whatever their diets. Yet female supers were still... How did that one article put it? Blessed with womanly abundance? Yuck. Most of the women on the team didn't seem to mind—why would they?—but Maxima hated it, grumbling that it distracted from her authority and ability to intimidate. Definitely a soldier first and a woman second.

  All Sydney’s powers came from the orbs she’d discovered scuba diving off the Florida Keys (which showed the universe was fundamentally undramatic—she should have found them in a mysterious antique store). Not a superhuman, she would have been happy if her body were even of average build but she was more on the leeward side of that particular bell curve. Before joining Arc-SWAT she’d been no more prone to A-Cup Angst than any other woman not better endowed, but given that most of her teammates were supers, sometimes it wore on her.

  Wait, Boyfriend’s mouth had been moving. What was he saying?

  "Yeah Maxima's definitely my favorite... We're going to make a mess on the sheets tonight, right honey?"

  Eww.

  "Paul!" Maxima exclaimed, then turned to Sydney. "Sorry about that. I'm Casey by the way."

  Sydney cheeks heated but she managed a shrug. "What are boyfriends for if not embarrassing us? Also, opening jars."

  "Right! And protecting us from spiders." Casey smiled.

  "Absolutely. I'm Sssssssssss..." A name! Think of a name! Committed to a name beginning with an "S", she’d totally blanked on all other women's "S" names. C’mon, brain! "ssssss...." Wait! Sydney was the name of the main character in the movie Scream, but in the spoof version, Not Another Scary Movie, her name was super similar and also began with an "S" sound...

  "ssssCindy! Yeah, Cindy. Sorry, I have a tic."

  "Oh. Well, nice to meet you." Casey allowed only a slight wrinkle to crease her brow as she moved closer to pose with Sydney.

  Blame a disability to cover errant behavior! Score! Tourette’s syndrome, good for a thousand public missteps.

  "Anyway Paul!” Casey smacked her randy boyfriend in the chest. “I only painted my arms and face down to my... you know... V-neck."

  "That's why I brought all that extra paint!” Paul leered smugly as he backed up to as he snap pictures. “Why mess up the sheets at home when we can leave the mess to the hotel?"

  Casey looked struck. "…that's actually pretty solid," she muttered as the heat in Sydney’s cheeks turned into a burn.

  "I don't... really need to know about that."

  “It actually shouldn’t be too messy. This paint is… Paul, did you bring the alcohol wipes also? Cause this stuff is really hard to get off without them.”

  He paused in the act of taking another pic. “Define ‘bring’.”

  “Paul…” Casey sighed.

  "Well, thanks for the snaps, The Mighty Halo,” he said, pushing his phone back into his pocket, obviously immune to his girlfriend’s exasperation. “We're off to find us a Dabbler. An Anvil if we're lucky!"

  "I guess you have a type, huh?" Sydney smirked.

  Paul just laughed. "And I guess you have to play your body type, huh?" He slapped her on the shoulder.

  "Paul!" Casey slugged him in the arm, rolling her eyes. "I swear to God! See you, Halo!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him away, mouthing Sorry about that! behind his back. Sydney watched them go with narrowed eyes before reaching into her jacket, ready to make a new entry to The List when a voice like a melodramatic stage actor called from behind her.

  "Your attention, Orb Maiden!"

  She spun around to see a man dressed in elaborate armor under vaguely druidic robes. He carried a helmet under one arm that looked like Daedric plate if it had been made for a spider. The metal looked real and the stitching on the robes was excellent work, too. She couldn't place the costume, though—which was weird, given her encyclopedic knowledge of the genres represented at conventions. The man wearing it didn’t match the quality of the outfit; he might clean up nicely, but he currently looked like he’d gone several weeks without any serious attempt at grooming.

  He gestured wildly at the doors to the dealer's room floor. "Have you the knowledge of whence this Room of Dealers avails itself to the cretinous masses?!"

  At least he was staying in character, whoever it was. Maybe he's a bad guy from some obscure TV show. Ooh! Maybe he's a new villain from The Sentinels! The series’ production studio was supposed to have a big presence at the convention. “Wow, uh, who are you dressed as?” she blurted, already forgetting his question.

  “Your ignorance of His glory does you disservice, for I am a servant of the mighty Oryxarch! Destroyer of all he surveys! Consumer of hope! Engine of despair! Architect of Doom! Tipper of…”

  “Oryx… like the deer t
hing?” Sydney interrupted, suspecting Oryxarch’s resume was really comprehensive.

  “Test not mine patience Orb Maiden, and render unto me the knowledge I require!”

  "Uh, I think it opens at eleven? Never made sense to me why they wait so late. If I was a dealer who dragged my kit across the country, I'd want as much time..."

  "YES! The eleventh hour!” he cried, curling his fingers into claws. “An auspicious tolling that will HERALD THE DOOM OF MAN!"

  Sydney blinked. Usually she was the one providing melodrama. "...okay. Well. Good luck with that." She backed away slowly then turned to wander the floor until eleven.

  Twenty minutes and many, many cosplay pictures later (and nobody suspecting a thing, ha ha!), she followed the tide into the opened dealers room. Resolutely ignoring the Marvel Studios booth (even in the face of drool-worthy pecs on the costumed Thor model) and the Sentinels booth (it wasn’t like the actors were going to be there), she still found herself sucked into Artist’s Row before she could find the booth she’d come for.

  Ooooh.

  She tried to decide if she could also sneak some The Mighty Halo art back to Archon Headquarters without getting caught. Maybe she could… “You’re Halo.” The soft words, spoken right by her ear, shot panic through her wiry frame and she jumped back, coming down in her patented anti-ninja Dancing Crane pose.

  “Ayahhh!”

  The girl standing beside her—the Astra cosplayer Sydney had seen outside the convention center—blinked, looking worriedly at the orbs wobbling in their swaying baskets above Sydney’s head. “Okaaay…”

  “I’m not—” Sydney came down from Crane stance, looked around wildly. “They look great, don’t they? Ha ha.” Right, left, front, back, a few con goers had looked their way when she’d screamed and hopped on one foot, but the room was full of weird and they kept walking.