“Did you say something, Victory Anna?”
“The criminal lot has gotten cowardly. It’s hardly worth our while to patrol anymore. We could be snuggling, Pol.”
“We could.” She looked down at the empty street. “But all it takes is one night when we’re not out here for something bad to happen and the media to start asking ‘Why weren’t you there?’ Besides, we get seen by a few people, they know we’re here, and the rats stay underground. Portland stays quiet.” And Vel comes back to find her city in one piece.
“That is fair,” Tory allowed grumpily. Polychrome hid her smile again.
“But really, two more streets and we can—” The scream rang out with inevitably perfect timing and before it died she’d grabbed Tory (who said she was working on a jet-pack but hadn’t perfected it yet) to fly from the roof on a stream of black light. The scream echoed between the buildings again and long training let her zero in on it, down a block and into an alley between two older business buildings where she evaluated the scene: body on the ground, screaming woman (her clothes said hooker, although in Tory’s opinion all women in her new reality dressed like whores), and big hulking grey humanoid.
“Monster!” Tory shouted, firing as Polychrome dropped her to the street. The lightning discharge lit the thing up; when it didn’t drop, Tory just laughed and changed the setting.
“Wait—” Polychrome squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears as the thing went off with a sound like unbottled thunder and lit the alley. Opening her eyes, she thought Tory’d vaporized their target until she saw it sticking out of the brick wall.
“Dammit, stop shooting me!”
“Surrender, monster!” Tory shot back, changing the setting again.
“I’m trying to!”
Polychrome stopped gathering photons and laid a hand on Tory’s arm as, with a tumble of loose bricks, the thing pulled itself out of the hole. He, definitely a he, and the scorched and burning button-down and casual slacks didn’t match the gray skin, tusks, and massively muscled body. Or the meticulously kept tight dreadlocks now lightened by mortar dust.
“And now I’m on fire. Shit.” He patted himself out. “Aren’t you supposed to say something like ‘Hands up or I’ll shoot?’”
“You threatened this—” Tory looked around, gun still up. The woman, whatever her moral status, was gone. The body was still there, but now it was groaning.
“I didn’t threaten her, I knocked out her pimp. Or boyfriend, whatever. I was coming back from a snack run,” he pointed to a couple of filled plastic bags against the alley wall, “and he decided to slap her around. So I good-Samaritaned her.”
“A likely story.”
“No, Victory Anna, I think he’s got it right.” Polychrome walked over and toed the bags. They were stuffed with enough candy and chips to fuel a guy’s football night. It was practically a law of nature that when one superhero wandered onto another superhero’s turf there was going to be a misunderstanding and someone would get punched in the face (metaphorically and often literally speaking).
Tory didn’t lower her gun. “How can we be sure he’s not a supervillain in disguise?” Polychrome snickered. Some disguise; the guy filled the classic Beauty and the Beast mold—monstrous appearance, beastly voice with educated diction, random do-gooder…
“He could monologue and then we’d know. You just want to test your highest setting.”
“Are you ladies done? Or is this the obligatory witty banter? I’m Grendel, FYI.” The big guy stretched, popping his back rapid-fire. “Nice boom stick, point it somewhere else.” Stomping over, he retrieved his bags. Reaching into one of them, he retrieved a pair of glasses and put them on before looking at the groaning man on the ground. “You might want to check his eyes, I hit him kind of hard. Dudes that slap women around just piss me right off.” He turned to go.
Polychrome blinked. “Hold on!” Privately she agreed with him, but rules were rules. “You’re an unlicensed superhero—at least I sure as hell don’t recognize you so I know you’re not licensed in Oregon.”
“Do I look like a superhero? Mask? Spandex? I’m a private citizen, going about my private business.”
“You gave a superhero name. Your mother didn’t give it to you, unless you really are Grendel and if you are you’re a little far from home.”
“Damn. Well I’m on vacation, then. And you have no idea how far. Give me a break, ladies? You’ve already destroyed my shirt, do you really want to ruin my night?”
He had a point. And the paperwork for an unregistered superhuman was a bitch. Also, their damsel-in-distress was gone, and their concussion victim probably wouldn’t remember what had happened (and couldn’t be counted on to tell the truth in an incident that involved him taking the first swing). Even if Grendel was telling the truth, his Good Deed was going to land him in jail overnight.
Polychrome, Yelena Batzdorf, had been a stick-up-her-butt, by-the-book girl for years with the Super Patriots; she could close the book at least for tonight.
“You said you’re on vacation? Why don’t you just show us where you’re staying.” She called it in while he thought that over, ordering an ambulance for their sleepy perp with notice that they wouldn’t be there when it arrived due to pursuit of potential incident. “Let’s go.”
He gave them a long look before turning to walk out of the alley, and she realized that there was something else going on. Now that adrenalin wasn’t turbo-charging her focus, every time she looked at him she had to remind herself that yes, he was huge, gray, and tusked. She barely noticed his singed clothes.
She shook her head. Her Super Patriot training let her recognize the subtle mental manipulation and ignore it, but she’d bet a box of donuts she didn’t dare eat that the average person wouldn’t look twice at the guy. Magic? Psychic Power? Well, now she knew how he’d managed to stock up on snacks without tripping a hysterical call to the Portland PD and from them to her. What else would they learn about Grendel tonight?
It felt wrong to be proceeding down the street in costume and on foot, but Grendel obviously wasn’t a flier and she wasn’t about to give him a lift—she doubted she could lift him even if that would have left Tory out. A few blocks brought them into much nicer streets and she was silently surprised when he held the door to usher them into the Kimpton Hotel. His psychic unnoticeability didn’t extend to cover her or Tory, and the night clerk behind the long desk went bug-eyed when they came through the door. She showed her card and assured the clerk that they weren’t here on business, which probably didn’t reassure the man.
In the elevator, he swiped his keycard and hit the button for the top floor suites. Between him and Tory’s gun, there was barely enough room in the elevator for Polychrome. She could see his reflection looking down at the top of her head. “See something interesting?”
“Not really.” His eyes slid to Tory’s gun and he rubbed his chest. “If you want more banter, wait a minute.”
The elevator dinged and opened into a warmly decorated hall and he used his keycard on the doors to the nearest suite. They followed him in, and it was about what she’d expected from the lobby and hallway: the kind of VIP suite that sported its own bar, floor-to-ceiling TV, and fireplace. What she hadn’t expected was the other occupants and the symbol-covered whiteboards, the mirrors, and the sand table occupying the suite’s main room. Vicky almost leveled her gun.
“Thank you, Brian,” the blonde in the green lab coat said without looking away from the furthest whiteboard. “Jamal, would you please offer drinks to our guests? I’ll be just a moment.” A black kid wearing a red hoody over his cornrows dropped the handheld game he’d been playing to blur over to the bar and line it with a selection of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks before Polychrome had a chance to breath.
A speedster. Hell’s bells.
Beside her Tory grimaced and very carefully lowered her gun. The best defense against a speedster was to be off the ground where he could get at you, or shoot him
when he wasn’t looking. They were standing on the carpet, and he was looking.
He just grinned. “What’ll it be, ladies? If you’re not driving anywhere tonight, this place has some fine stuff.”
“The year’s not bad for the wine.” That came from the woman who looked like an undead Snow White; no cheeks like roses or lips red as blood, just hair black as night and skin white as snow. “It’s kind of fruity.” She slouched on one of the couches, innocently teasing an annoyed coffee-and-cream cat with a piece of string, but every instinct Polychrome had shouted that the woman wouldn’t have looked out of place at any bloodbath of a crime scene coolly confessing “I did it, they deserved it, and can we move this along?”
A speedster, a beast, and—crap, probably a vampire. We’re so screwed. At least sunlight might take out the vampire. She started gathering photons, keeping it subtle and hoping that none of them would notice the minute dimming of the room’s lights. Then the blonde turned around and she realized who she really had to worry about.
The girl—and she looked like a schoolgirl, sixteen or seventeen at best—was also pale complexioned but a healthy complexion that could only be described using words like milky skin and completely unfair. Her eyes sparkled and her lips were like perfect red jewels, set off by high patrician cheekbones and a smooth brow under golden hair that tumbled perfectly around her shoulders, and she made the green lab coat look like the only possible accessory for her flawlessness. Her perfection was the opposite of cold, but the look she gave Polychrome and Victory Anna was a lot older than her biological age.
Then she smiled, and it was like being smiled at by Carrabelle; the Sun had decided to be your friend.
“Please, sit down. We have a great deal to discuss but first let me assure you that we mean no harm, to you or your city. The Question Box said that we needed to introduce ourselves to whomever Brian would meet, and now here you are.”
“And we’re thrilled,” the cat said with a yawn.
Grendel had to admit, neither girl blinked at the talking cat and that said something. Or not; Shell-Cat (she said she and Ozma had learned the trick wherever they hadn’t been a couple of months back) had been surfing the net since they’d arrived two days ago, and had been telling them all some pretty weird shit about the place.
The lady with the big-assed gun gave him a seriously disgruntled look before leaning her boom stick against the couch and sitting down to arrange her skirts. The hot blonde in the black bodysuit did the same without the look; that one was a leader, he could tell, even if right now her team was only her and the trigger-happy one. She kept her eyes on Ozma because, well, Ozma.
So why had they corralled two of this strange Portland’s protectors? Jamal shrugged and tossed him a coke. He joined him at the bar to watch.
Of course her witchy majesty had to do things properly; she introduced everyone by codename and inquired as to their guest’s names even though they already knew who they were from Shell. They also knew they were two of the winners in this place’s recent spectacular superhero civil war, and he’d half expected to meet the other local cape, Velveteen, who was normally the ringleader of this little team.
He’d wanted to meet Velveteen. She’d disappeared from all media sightings a few days before they’d arrived, but they’d been hoping she was just laying low; she was the one they’d wanted to talk to since finding out about Hope’s little adventure in Salem a few months ago. What the hell? Hope had been gone less than a week, so really, what the hell?
The suite door opened and Kitsune stepped in, carrying an unconscious club-dressed brunette over his shoulder. All conversation stopped as he looked at everyone
“Seriously, dude,” Jamal laughed. “What happened to catch and release?”
“The young lady passed out in the cab. I have had enough exposure, but the situation I removed her from was not the best and it seemed ungallant to leave her considering the condition of the street. One moment.”
He disappeared into the smaller bedroom, emerged straightening his jacket, and bowed to our guests. The guy could out-polite Ozma. “Konbanwa. I see my evening’s adventures may have been unnecessary.”
Ozma considered him. “Perhaps. What precisely do you mean by the condition of the street? Brian and our guests arrived only shortly before you.”
He shrugged. “Only the black vans with the speakers and the crowd.”
“Black—what?” Polychrome was off her couch and at the patio doors in an instant, outside to look over the rail as they followed in a rush.
“What is that?” Jamal asked for all of them. It had to be the most bizarre thing Grendel had ever seen.
At least twenty black vans had parked directly in the street outside the Kimpton, a crowd of at least two hundred pedestrians filling up the street around them and more arriving by cabs that joined the gridlock. Some of the vans sported big speakers on their roofs, the kind someone might use to rally an outdoor audience. Others were open as workers unpacked loads. Some of them started inflating. Others turned out to be full of tiny black drones that launched in swarms to dart about the street.
Artemis looked at their guests. “This isn’t normal, right?”
Victory Anna shook her head. “I have not been here long enough to be certain of that. Pol?”
“Uh, no? It looks like—”
The fire alarms went off. All of them. They could hear them up and down the street, and there were three tall hotels on their block. The alarms almost drowned out the sudden base beat from the speakers and the thrum of motors beneath the inflating balloons—which were rising.
Shell climbed Grendel’s back to perch on his shoulder and look down at the street. “Jamal, could you do recon? Use the stairwell.”
“On it!” He blurred away. “Bunchofuglyfacelessguys injumpsuitswith—morelookslikehomeless gettingoutofvans. Noweapons butwatchthetinydrones latchingontobystanders!”
“Swell,” Shell said. “FYI, just checked and city shelters have reported a slight downtick in beds filled and requested. Someone’s been sweeping the streets.”
Grendel turned to Polychrome. “It’s your town.” The weird beat and tone from those speakers was driving an icepick into his brain, and the balloons lit up with a strobing light that jabbed in through his eyeballs. He grew filters. Below them, the hotels started emptying out.
“I can shoot the hellish balloons!” Victory Anna announced.
That broke Polychrome’s paralysis. “No! You might hit the crowd! Everyone, remain here until we know it’s not some kind of mind control!” She launched herself off the patio, streaked towards the balloons, and instantly caught flack. She dodged like a pro.
“They’reshootingbeams fromtheirheads!” Jamal announced. “Thefacelessguys!”
Grendel watched Victory Anna’s gun twitch as she struggled hard to not just lean over the rail and start firing at the whatever-they-were things trying to shoot her friend. Ozma looked up at Shell on his shoulder. “And the behavior of the drones?”
“They’re like little Frisbee-copters—they’re attaching themselves to the backs of bystander’s necks at the base of the skull and, yeah, controlling them. There are thousands of them.”
“I see. Brian?”
“Gotcha, boss.” Detaching Shell and handing her to Ozma, he flexed his neck, popped his spine, and grew a bridge of armor up from between his shoulder blades to a Mohawk crest. It left him barely able to turn his head, but nothing was getting to him there. While he was at it he grew thick membranes over his ear canals, around his earbuds. The “sound” from the speakers was unfocusing his world. Then he jumped.
He aimed for one of the trucks, trusting Crash to get the heads-up from Shell and track his descent to remove any bystanders in the impact zone. Smashing down on a truck close to the center of the two-lane convoy got the no-faces’ attention. They were freaking ugly suckers; not just no face, but no ears and no hair, just eggshell-white skin with the fronts of their skulls squashed inward in a deep ridg
ed horizontal crease.
The nearest turned and shot him with flattened pulsed beams that erupted out of those creases with a sizzling whooom, the pulses burning without burning. He staggered, growing another thick layer to get his nerve endings as deep below his skin as possible as he charged the next speaker van.
“Jamal.” Ozma had elected to talk over the open channel. “Shell is doing signals analysis to try and understand the clinging drones. What are they doing to the people?”
Grendel smashed into the side of the second van, flipping it as the bystanders around it vanished into Jamal’s blur.
“They’rejuststandingthere! Lookingat thecenterof thestreet!”
Overhead one of the balloons blew up. Checking first to see Polychrome weaving above them as she continued to engage, he oriented and looked to see what Jamal was talking about. Okay, that’s not good. It had to be some kind of trick; in the center of everything the lines were all curving, bending in towards a point like an optical distortion at the center of a photograph. “Ozma, they’re doing something freaky to the world!”
Another balloon blew, another, and the jabbing pain of the flashing lights became a little less intense.
“I understand, Brian, thank you. Jamal, I need you to start removing the controlling drones from their victims as quickly as you can.”
“Toomanydronesare makingmorezombies!” The kid was right, the air was thick with the little suckers, zooming all over the place like guided starling swarms and plenty of fresh victims were still coming out of the hotels.
“We are working on a solution, but we need you to stop as many as you can.”
He smashed a third van, heard the snap-snap-snap of Artemis’ elasers, and spotted her dancing through the crowd; she’d wrapped a towel around her head and was ignoring the no-faces and the drones to drop zombie bystanders as fast as she could shoot. That’ll work, too. To his left a swerving flight of drones blew up sequentially as Jamal blurred through swinging something Grendel couldn’t quite see.
Wearing the Cape 6: Team-Ups and Crossovers Page 36
