There were ten…fifteen…twenty of the mysterious figures, standing silently as the Medinis danced, absorbing the white mist that oozed from the motionless audience.
The dance halted. The Medinis stepped to the footlights and spread their hands out over the audience as well, and the thin mist trailed up to their fingers and seemed to be drawn in to their bodies.
Everyone in the place – audience, Miller, the musicians, even Frank up in his box – were frozen, staring open eyed, while the creatures in the aisles sucked in something from their bodies – their souls, perhaps, their very lives. The fingers of the skeleton hand around Mrs Medini’s neck moved and clattered against each other.
Harris staggered back from his place behind the stage. He wanted to rush out and grab Miller and shake him out of the trance he seemed to be in. But the monsters were out there and they might hypnotise him too.
He backed into the stage manager’s table – the stage manager, too, was just sitting there, while mist drifted from his eyes and mouth and across the stage to the waiting fingers of the Medinis.
Harris felt a burning desire to return to his stool and stare at the Medinis. A white mist seemed to hang in front of his face – it was drifting from him too! One of the monsters would take it from him as it was taken from everyone else!
It was too much.
Harris shoved his way to the dressing rooms and collapsed against the wall. What was going on? What could he do? He had to hide. Trembling, he found a dressing room and entered, slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it, gasping for air. Out in the theatre there was absolute silence as the creatures drank deeply of the white mist. Harris waited, ears strained, in the blackness of the room.
After a long time, he debated whether he should try to escape. If he sneaked along the corridor and opened the stage door, he could exit to the street and try to find help. If only he could rouse himself enough to find the courage. He glanced around the room and groaned – the trunk, the make-up, the street clothes hanging on the racks – he was in the Medinis’ room – number six!
The door handle turned.
Why hadn’t he locked it? He fumbled in his pocket for the master key, but the door started to push inwards before he could take it out. Some incredible force was shoving him away.
He fell, grasping at the dressing table, as someone entered and turned up the gas light. All four Medinis were there, silent, masked and costumed in their Commedia gear. Blank eyes stared at him. He looked around wildly for something to use as a weapon.
“Keep away!” he said. “Keep back, you demons!”
Mr Medini stepped into the room and stared at Harris. He reached out – but only to pick up something from the table. A mask. He lifted it and put the mask over the one he was wearing.
And became Mr Medini with the dark hair and thin lips.
That was the mask.
The Commedia face was the creature’s real face; the one he wore as Medini was the lie.
The others came in and lifted masks from the dressing table and put them on – and became Mrs Medini and the two younger men.
“Who are you?” Harris managed to utter.
Medini adjusted his clothes, shifting the long robe of Pantalone across his thin shoulders.
“We are from beyond,” he said. “We came to drink, and provide drink for our kin.”
“The…others out there? What are you?”
But the Medinis merely took off their costumes and pack them away into the trunk. Under their garish outfits they wore ordinary street clothes.
“We will leave now,” said Medini. “The people have provided us with what we needed.”
The two younger men lifted the trunk and all four stepped from the room, down the corridor and out of the stage door without another word. The house was silent.
Harris walked back to the auditorium and out onto the stage, where Frank’s standard wash illuminated a theatre full of the dead.
AFTER THE END, THE BEGINNING
Christine Morgan & Lucas Williams
“...special episode of Foundation Tonight.”
Theme music, title graphics.
Video montage with voice-over.
“We’ve always had our heroes. The brave men and women in uniform who daily put their lives on the line, the tireless doctors and nurses, the unsung heroes next door. We even have our celebrities, our sports icons, our musical idols, and we call them heroes.”
Montage change.
“But there are others. There are those gifted with phenomenal talents and abilities far beyond the rest of us, who use these gifts for the betterment of our world. We call them superheroes. Scions of justice, order, rightness and truth.”
Montage fades. Music fades.
“Superheroes. Certainly, Foundation has known its share. But in all that time, none has ever stood taller, or prouder, or been a greater hero to our fair city than…this man.”
Still image.
“He watched over us. He protected us. He defended us. Whenever disaster struck, or a threat arose, Exemplar was there to save the day. Whatever it took. Whatever the cost.”
Slow dissolve to black.
“Even his own life.”
~~~
They went to commercial on that, of course. The entire show was a shameless piece of propaganda brought to you by your friends at Foundation Mutual, the Liberty Bridge Mall, Skyline Realtors, the Daily Minuteman.
And, of course, SHARD Industries.
SHARD, your go-to source for the most cutting-edge developments in science, technology, and superhuman research. SHARD, the next step, the future can be yours, etc. SHARD, providing safe, sane, eco-friendly goods and services since the 1950s.
Yeah.
He shook his head.
The show returned with an exterior shot of the newly-finished Memorial Hall. It was everything anybody could expect: columns, marble dome, flagpole, spotlights. And a huge statue, Exemplar in dramatic pose – cape flaring, feet braced wide, fists on hips, chest outthrust, head held high, chin strong and expression vigilant.
Blah-blah-blah went the voice-over. “Tribute to an incomparable man…spanning a heroic career…the least a grateful city could do…his commitment to duty, his ultimate sacrifice…”
Here were display cases and priceless exhibits. Forcefield-reinforced imperviplast panes set in techlonium framework. Here was a gallery of the dozens of criminals and villains Exemplar had put behind bars over the years.
No mention of Turncoat. No place in a tribute like this for the darker side of the story. The truth nobody wanted told.
The closest they would come was assurances of safety being the paramount concern. “...top-notch security measures…curators and museum staff working hand-in-hand with SHARD Industries…”
Here, a five-ton chunk of space-rock, a pitted oblong, sinister and ugly. The largest remaining piece of Hanes-Marshall, after Exemplar destroyed it in orbit. Beneath it sealed in a vault, the actual tomb where Exemplar’s remains had been laid to rest.
The VIP guest list for the weekend’s ceremony was to include the mayor, the police commissioner, several visiting heroes, a bestselling author, a movie mogul, and the SHARD Industries CEO.
Here was a glimpse of the snack bar and gift shop.
Then another commercial.
Snack bar and gift shop. He shook his head again, unable to believe he was watching this. Yet unable to change the channel, unable to switch it off.
He needed a drink. Several drinks. To get drunk.
No use. He’d tried. It wasn’t possible. Not for him. Not now, not anymore.
Not since Project Hourglass.
Next up was a grim look back to the Patriot Hill bombings. Blast Wave’s rampage. The explosions. The panic. The chaos. People staggering, bleeding, screaming, crying. Roiling clouds of gritty smoke. The aftermath. Dust and soot and ashes. Chunks of debris. Cars, crumpled like pop cans. Rescue workers prying through the rubble in an ever-more-futile search for s
urvivors.
Out of all that destruction, one bright ray of hope. Just when the rescue efforts were about to be called off, Exemplar finding and saving a final survivor.
“…three years old, trapped for almost a week, in the dark, beside the broken bodies of her parents…”
The picture next. The picture that had made magazine covers nationwide, black-bordered for tragedy, black-and-white for stark effect. Exemplar, standing stoic as the funeral procession went by. His posture military-perfect except for the little girl held in his arms. Her stricken face. Her huge, solemn eyes.
“…who became a symbol of Foundation’s renewal and rebirth…adopted by Exemplar, raised as his ward…the city’s darling, the city’s own…watching her grow from child to teen sidekick to hero in her own right…no memorial would be complete without an exclusive interview…”
After this commercial break.
~~~
Epitome.
Her outfit, derived from Exemplar’s, was practical. Cute, in a modest, tomboyish way…but practical. Wholesome. All-American. Like everything else about her.
Epitome, explaining how it wasn’t about costumes and code-names, it wasn’t about battling alien invasions or diverting a volcanic eruption, it wasn’t always about saving the world. Anybody could be a hero. Anybody could do what they did.
Growing up as Exemplar’s ward…in the spotlight and under the scrutiny of herodom and celebrity. Such a legacy. Such a shadow to live under, such shoes to fill, such lofty expectations to achieve. The entire city looking up to her. Depending on her.
“I know he’d want for me what he wanted for everyone in Foundation. To do my best, to believe in myself, to hold true to my principles and strive for my goals.”
The media, making much of her, hounding her mercilessly. Sniffing for even a whiff of scandal…paparazzi ambushes in hopes of the elusive upskirt, panty flash, nip slip, unflattering pose or wardrobe malfunction…waiting with bated breath for the boyfriend, or girlfriend, the tell-all exposé…for the sex tape, the downfall, the shoplifting bust, being sent to rehab…her inevitable but spectacular crash-and-burn…
Until then, the training. The education. The equipment and gadgets and gear. Jet-cycle, utility belt, techlonium plating on imperviweave, flashpop and gas grenades, collapsible stun-baton.
And the questions. What it was like, having a mentor who was the pinnacle of superhuman strength, ageless, all but invulnerable? When she…well, when she was only a nat.
“Powers don’t make a hero. Costumes and masks don’t make a hero. Doing the right thing, helping people, that’s what makes a hero.”
And was she a hero?
A solemn pause, a long gaze upturned to the towering statue. A hushed sigh. Then, “I try to be.”
On that, of course, they went to another commercial.
~~~
“Eeeeee-pitome,” Sleek sneered, wrinkling her nose. “Oh-pity-me Epitome. Couldn’t you just puke?”
“Mom always said, you keep making that face it’ll stick that way.”
With a twist of her supple body, she aimed the sneer at her brother. “Mom also said crime doesn’t pay,” she countered, sweeping a hand to encompass their Skyline penthouse, 2300 square feet of ultramodern design with a panoramic view of downtown.
Savage grunted, conceding the point. They’d inherited more from the infamous Red Wolf than his auburn hair, green eyes and metahuman genetics. As for Mom, not like she could complain; what else would keep her in such style at that posh nursing home?
Satisfied, Sleek turned back to the television.
Yes, crime paid. Crime paid pretty damn well.
And without Exemplar around?
Better than ever. Candy from babies. Sure, there might be a glut of new wanna-be capes on the scene, each jockeying to be Foundation’s next hotshot hero…but, please! The equally big glut of punks, thugs, lowlifes and goons who thought the superpower vacuum meant their chance for the prime time crime score would keep them busy. All of which meant more work for the police and legal system, which in turn meant no competition and no opposition for the real villains.
No more Exemplar.
Damn him.
The sanctimonious, heroic, pompous jerk.
Damn, she missed him.
He’d never capture her again? Never cuff her again?
No more of his speeches about how she didn’t have to follow in her father’s footsteps, that it was a choice, that she could change and pay her debt to society. Trying to appeal to her better nature.
No more of her catching him, tempting him, rubbing and sliding against him. No more teasing to unmask, playing their little game of seduction and resistance.
No more toying with each other. Drawing it out. Delaying what was sure to be the most epic, most ultimate, encounter of their lives.
She’d never forgive him for just up and dying like that. Leaving the game unresolved, the heated questions unanswered, her need unfulfilled.
Yes, he’d saved the city plenty of times, saved the world more than once…but what about her? What was she supposed to do now? What were any of them supposed to do now?
Replace Exemplar with Epitome?
It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Superhero Skipper, Little Miss Perky with her perky snub nose, her perky cute freckles, her perky little tits and her perky little butt, wearing that stupid unflattering uniform…
Most self-respecting superheroines wore spandex, flirty little skirts, flirty little capes, thigh-high boots, and leotards. The villainesses did likewise, only usually less thereof, in leather or fishnets or vinyl. Sleek herself was notorious among them, her skintight catsuit fitting like a thin coat of paint, her black domino doing more to accentuate her killer cheekbones than disguise them.
“You think her and Ex ever…?” Savage said.
“Ex? And her? No chance!”
“What? Stoic hero type, the lonely solitary act, nubile teenage ‘ward’...who wouldn’t want a bite of that?”
“You’re an animal.”
He grinned, or flashed feral white teeth through his beard, which was close enough. “You know it, sis. You know it.”
~~~
When they came back, it was with somber music and tone. For that day, that darkest day. The day the city lost a legend.
That day.
Or, at least, the official, sanitized, publicly-accepted version of it.
The supervillain attack at SHARD’s lab...the accident, the chain reaction…unstoppable…impending disaster that would have made the Hanes-Marshall meteor strike look like a fender-bender…time running out, no other way…
~~~
“... his noble sacrifice, selfless and unthinking. The world will forever owe him a debt that can never be repaid. He lived for us. He died for us. We were his life. When this Memorial Hall opens, it will stand as a symbol that none of us will ever forget.”
A zoom in on a massive bronze plaque, cast with the familiar superimposed E-and-X logo.
“That one man…that true hero…”
Then a final image, the shot that had been a poster papering the walls and lockers of a generation.
“Exemplar.”
And fade to credit-roll.
~~~
“Anything yet?”
“Zilch.”
“Looks like we might be in for another dull night here, people. Settle in, make yourselves comfy.”
“Damn. You’d think the broadcast would have had some effect.”
“They sure did lay it on thick enough. How much more bait can we set?”
“Hey, maybe even supervillains can show some respect.”
“Well, that would ruin everything.”
“Come on, have a little faith. Give it a chance.”
“Do we have any choice?”
“Not really, no.”
~~~
Epitome’s jet-cycle whirred almost silently through the night, its engine a discreet humming buzz. An electronic earbud rad
io monitored the various law enforcement and emergency frequencies, while information scrolled by on the display readouts.
Around her, in a wide sweeping panorama, the city sparkled and glittered. Lights blinked atop the towers of the Liberty River Bridge, cables glinting like steel spiderwebs the length of its span, the waterway a dark ribbon beneath. Late traffic moved on the streets. Skyscrapers rose high, rows of mirrored windows causing myriad blurred reflections to pace her course as she wove between them.
It was a quiet night. The police scanners crackled routine dispatch call-and-respond. The indie and low-clearance heroband channels were a gabble of joking, chatter, boasting, and nervous excitement.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
She almost would have welcomed a distraction. A gang war to break up, a drug lab to raid, a bank robbery to stop. Something. Something to help take her mind off that show.
Why had she even watched it? She’d known how it would be. How they would play it all up, play it for emotion. Heartstrings and emotion, as if everyone didn’t already miss Ex, didn’t mourn him. The funeral itself had been bad enough…and then there’d be the opening ceremonies at the Memorial Hall this weekend.
They’d gotten their shots of her weeping at the service, Epitome in black, the perfect photo-op to go with that other famous picture of that other famous funeral. Couldn’t they be satisfied with that much?
Oh, of course they couldn’t. They’d missed one of the moments, the iconic front page magazine cover moments, the one they’d really wanted. The one of her utmost anguish, in the wreckage, cradling Exemplar’s broken and smoldering body.
They’d missed that moment, and they would hold it against her forever. As if she, personally, had denied them the opportunity. As if she’d been supposed to stage the scene for their cameras.
She sighed, turning the jet-cycle toward the downtown business district. Her patrols were going to be lonely now. She just had to get used to the fact.
Thin spotlight beams of white, red, blue and gold danced intricate patterns in the airspace above Memorial Hall. She saw the marble rotunda, the billowing flags. And the statue, Ex’s familiar heroic stance in silhouette, many times larger than life.
Masks Page 6
