Origins of a D-List Supervillain

by Jim Bernheimer

  “Way to hedge your bets there, Doctor,” I said, scoffing at the image on the screen.

  “They sure do repeat themselves a lot,” Bobby added, while they turned to their next expert, an associate editor at Superhero Weekly.

  “Of course the last time someone tried to trick Lazarus Patterson into coming without his armor, it turned out to be Ultraweapon’s teammate Rakashsi, the shape changing Buddhist monk, so Maxine would probably anticipate such tactics.”

  “How can her super speed be used against Lazarus Patterson?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, but one possibility Doctor Lee just mentioned is that she’s fast enough to get away. She may be working with someone else, and luring Ultraweapon into a confrontation guarantees that they know where he will be. This whole thing could be just to get Ultraweapon away from their real target.”

  They continued to debate back and forth for several minutes, and I was about to tell Bobby to come get me when the action started, when the windbag in the anchor chair, said, “I’m getting word that Ultraweapon is approaching the hostage situation.”

  The inset with the traffic copter’s view expanded. In the distance, I could see the tiny streak of something flying through the air—Ultraweapon. Naturally, he was heading directly for the chopper to ensure he got his promo shot.

  “Kelly, you’ve been close to Ultraweapon in the past, what must be going through his mind right now?”

  Considering the co-anchor was blonde and attractive, I had little doubt as to what she might have been doing in such close proximity to my former boss. Odds were that her interviews were conducted when she was flat on her back.

  She seemed a bit startled by the question, but hid her blush well. Clearing her throat she said, “Lazarus is a phenomenal multitasker. He is probably evaluating three different ways to take her on, as he approaches.”

  I knew those attack plans were being generated by the ATAI database and he wasn’t nearly as great as she made him out to be. Still, even I had to admit that he could think on the fly.

  He’s a world class douchebag, but he does actually have to run the suit. Given all my minor mishaps, I had a new appreciation for just how much work went into that.

  Ultraweapon sent a series of bolts from his force blasters, which was really just gauging Maxine’s ability to compensate and react.

  “C’mon, Max!” I shouted. “He’s calibrating his targeting system for your speed.”

  Maxine burned through two of my pulse pistols sending a barrage of energy against his flaring shields.

  “I’m concerned about that object on Max V’s belt,” Doctor Lee spoke over the action. “Can we get a close up of it?”

  The producers of the show struggled to comply and they focused on the item strapped securely to her belt. My latest invention was on national TV. It was black, about the size of a cantaloupe that had been cut in half, and I said a quick prayer for my ass if it didn’t work, because I knew Maxine would have my sorry behind.

  I tried to tune out the commentators and focus on the action. Ultraweapon scattered his fire, allowing his targeting system the opportunity to predict where she might be next. So far, Maxine continued to give as good as she got; hitting him repeatedly with the pistols I built for her. At some point, Patterson would have to land to take the strain off his systems. Running flight, shooting weapons, and absorbing damage with his force field generators took a toll on his personal power grid. My guestimate, based on what I knew of his armor, was five minutes for his old suit. How long he let this go on would tell me how much more efficient his platform had become, and give me something to measure my suit against.

  Sadly, I knew my suit could go “all out” for a whopping two minutes and thirty seconds under the hoops Max V was making him jump through, and I was still nowhere near as comfortable flying in the suit. The bastard made it look easy!

  To be certain, I was pulling for Maxine Velocity to take him out, but I had that sinking feeling in my gut that it wouldn’t happen. Lazarus was a sneaky piece of work. I told her if she gets him and thinks he is dead, to go a little overboard to make damned sure he wasn’t just faking it.

  It’s what I would do, given half a chance. Too many times his opponents had thought they’d finished him, only to be proven wrong.

  Maxine disappeared behind a series of shipping containers and came out on the other side with a shoulder launched Stinger missile and fired it right at him. Clearly, she’d brought along some heavy artillery.

  Ultraweapon’s energy pulse detonated it, but the shockwave bounced both of them around a bit and he dropped from the sky. Immediately, he fired his weapons into the asphalt surrounding them, sending chunks of pavement flying in her direction. It also made her path to him more rugged and difficult to cross. It was a good strategy to slow Maxine down.

  Not one to be deterred, Maxine circled and sent a steady stream of beam energy from what must have been her ninth and tenth pistols. From the satchel strapped across her back, she produced a series of grenades and tossed them at the besieged buffoon. They exploded in a sea of blinding light and thunder—a dozen flash bangs mixed with several standard fragmentations lit up the battlefield.

  Patterson tried pulling a runner right there, and fly away, but Maxine was ready for him. She stopped right behind him, yanked my device off her belt, and slammed the flat side of the hemisphere just above his attached jetpack, where the control circuitry for his flight system should still be.

  It was a moment of truth as the Stringel “Chilly Pimple” (patent pending) sent a burst of liquid nitrogen fueled cold in a six-inch wide circle. Realistically, Ultraweapon’s fuel lines were too insulated for my weapon to freeze the lines, but the temperature monitoring system wasn’t protected nearly as well. The device didn’t have to cause a blockage; instead it needed only to trick the failsafe mechanism into thinking the lines were clogged. Automatically, the flight system would go offline for no less than ninety seconds while the pumps recirculated his fuel to clear something that wasn’t actually there.

  Good old Lazarus had his takeoff aborted and he dropped back onto the rubble in a rather undignified heap. I smacked my gauntlets together and gave myself a mental pat on the back for the success of the Chilly Pimple. Way to stick it to the man, Cal!

  While I was making my internal victory lap, Max V wasted no time and emptied two more pistols before diving back into the alley separating two of the buildings, and returning with the first two of her Boomrings—made from a circular detonator wrapped in a layer of C4 explosive. Like some psychotic carnival gamer, Maxine played the most deadly game of ring toss ever imagined. Her first attempt missed and she detonated it next to Patterson, tossing the so-called hero into the side of the shipping container. Her next attempt was snatched out of the air, but before Ultraweapon could hurl it away, she blew it up as well.

  C’mon, Maxine, finish him!

  With the symbol of everything wrong in my life dashed to the ground and struggling to rise, the blue streak of the woman who may or may not be Patterson’s half-sister darted to where she’d staged more Boomrings. This time she had four and was a bit sluggish, for her, getting back. She paused about thirty feet away from him and it felt like my heart wanted to stop.

  No! No! Don’t stop to rub his nose in it. Just end it!

  Every second she wasted caused the gnawing pit in my stomach to grow. Just as Maxine Vivian Davros started to move, there was an explosion that was followed by several more in the surrounding buildings, including the one where the Promethia employees she kidnapped were held hostage.

  Disbelief flooded my soul as the scene unfolded and I tried to comprehend what had just happened. Two of the surrounding buildings were heavily damaged and another had partially collapsed. A police chopper closed in and blew the dust cloud away as I swallowed, suddenly concerned for the fate of the fifth fastest person in the world. Maybe she’d been able to get clear if she realized quickly enough what was happening. The optimist in me hoped, but the
engineer in me doubted, that she could get far enough away from ground zero to save her psychotic ass.

  As I feared, Ultraweapon was still moving, but he was obviously in bad shape and I wished that Maxine had brought some backup. If I was there, I could’ve finished him right then! Dammit to hell! But I wasn’t, and neither was anyone else.

  She’d failed. Her failure felt like my failure and I looked over at Bobby, who shook his head and cracked open another beer.

  “Damned shame,” he said. “She was okay, in my book.”

  • • •

  It took me a couple of hours to figure out what had happened. The rings Maxine used were detonated by a radio signal from her controller. Beaten, Ultraweapon broadcast on every frequency and triggered the explosives she held and the ones in the surrounding buildings. Now, I was watching a hastily called press conference where Patterson’s spin machine was trying to put the chaotic mess in a positive light. His latest PR doll was a “retired” model and though I couldn’t say for certain that he was doing her, if he wasn’t then I had even less respect for Lazarus—if that was even possible.

  “First, Mr. Patterson, and the company as a whole, extends our thoughts and prayers to the families and friends of those who lost their lives on this terrible day. Even while being treated for his injuries, he wanted to let the world know that Promethia looks out for their own. Today, and the ones that follow, are a time of mourning for our extended family.”

  I had my own opinions of how that company really looked out for their employees, but the words I could use probably wouldn’t be aired.

  “Is it true that Ultraweapon triggered the detonation to save himself?” One obviously angry reporter interrupted. I recognized the woman who’d been involved with the serial womanizer a long time ago and hadn’t particularly taken the breakup very well. Still, this was pretty brazen even for Ms. Bostic. Someone had reached the same conclusion that I did and sent it to a woman who had an emotional ax to grind.

  It occurred to me that I needed to get her contact information at some point.

  The spokespuppet cleared her throat before saying, “At this time, the authorities have not finished their investigation and it would be unfair, and even hurtful, to those who have lost loved ones to engage in dangerous speculation at this time. Rest assured as the facts become available they will be released to the public.”

  Ms. Bostic looked anything but assured and tried to ask another question, but the speaker had moved on to a friendlier question about Mr. Patterson’s injuries. I smelled a plant.

  “All I am permitted to say is that his injuries are significant, but not life threatening and he is being treated at an undisclosed location.”

  “How long will he be out of action? Is First Aid attending to him?” The same man followed up over Ms. Bostic’s question concerning whether Lazarus would be prepared to shoulder the responsibility for even more blood on his hands. Security was already moving to escort her out of the room. She went willingly, cognizant that being dragged out while frothing at the mouth would undercut her credibility.

  Despite the fact that she was clearly out of my league, I now wanted to proclaim my eternal devotion to her.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss Ultraweapon’s treatment and whether or not his teammate is with him at this time. Speaking on my own personal behalf I, and probably all of you watching, am wishing Lazarus a swift recovery and look forward to seeing the armored titan patrolling our skies once more. Thank you for coming this morning.”

  It was theater, pure and simple. There was a dash of caring mixed with compassion, wrapped in the drama of an implied catfight between two women who’d never give me the time of day. Hell, I even expected that the angry journalist had been allowed to attend in the hopes that her verbal barbs could be spun for sympathy. First Aid was a metahuman who could absorb other people’s injuries and regenerate fairly quickly. Other than his ridiculous pain threshold, he wasn’t worth a piss in a fight, but there was an undeniable reason Lazarus kept him on the West Coast Guardian’s payroll.

  The hosts of the Superhero News Channel came back on and did a quick recap of the presser before moving on to the implications of Maxine’s death and how General Devious might respond. For my part, I was still somewhat numb over her loss. Luckily, I’d been too busy constructing the Chilly Pimple and servicing her pistols to make her Boomrings. Whatever unfortunate soul was behind those, he or she probably suffered a great deal before being killed. I was moderately concerned that someone would try and finger me as the reason for her failure and subsequent demise, but I would handle that if and when it became a problem.

  Self-preservation—it should be first and foremost when dealing with the big leaguers! Hopefully, I’ll never forget that.

  With the death of Maxine, I was now free to pursue other clients. The feeling of freedom from the deceased speedster’s possessiveness was all too bittersweet, but I couldn’t let that get me down. Villains don’t always get away to fight another day. If things were different, the two of us would still be in the bowels of North Dakota. They weren’t and now the industrial park where she died would be another stop on the Battles of Los Angeles tour. There’d be a memorial and a cheesy gift shop.

  If I’m the one to finish off Lazarus Patterson, I’d stop by there afterward and pay my respects to Maxine Velocity. She’d come about as close as anyone could get to doing it.

  “C’mon, Bobby,” I said, putting my feelings aside, deciding my next move and putting the events in perspective.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Her guy should’ve filled the storage unit in Huntsville two days ago. I reckon we should go clear it out before someone else beats us to it.”

  The big man scratched his chin. “Now you’re learning, Cal. If you wanna take a trip down to Miami, I might know the address to her penthouse.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Kansas City Caper

  One of the problems I discovered with Maxine’s death was that it was still difficult getting development work. Even though the items I designed performed as advertised, there was still something of a stigma attached to the fact that the speedster perished.

  Put simply, her death wasn’t doing my business a lot of good. Feelings aside, being a supervillain was a tough business and your situation could change at a moment’s notice.

  It was yet another item to blame on Ultraweapon.

  Still, my remaining stock of pulse pistols was selling nicely and I was now free to price them at what I felt they were truly worth, without the fear of Maxine deciding that I didn’t really need all ten fingers. Jetpacks were a commodity, even though they required considerable practice, which allowed me to sell jetpack lessons as an extra source of income.

  With my gadget-making career somewhat at a standstill, I had little choice other than putting my powersuit to use.

  “Bout damned time you up and decided to start pulling some jobs in that thing!” Bobby exclaimed as he racked up the balls for another game of pool.

  It was my turn to break, and I was counting on my brilliant mind and mastery of the principles of engineering to crush my opponent. Also, I was counting on the fact that Bobby had already downed a six pack.

  “I’d still rather wait for two additional shield generators so I can use a quadrant-based protection scheme instead of the hemisphere arrangement I currently have,” I said and swiftly realized that I was wasting my time.

  Bobby shook his head at either my words or my pathetic opening shot and asked, “Well, are you planning on fighting someone?”

  “Uh, no,” I eloquently responded.

  “Then let me tell you something—the secret to staying out of prison is simple—try not to get in fights with superheroes. Yeah, sure, every now and then you have to throw down with one, but generally speaking, it’s not a great idea.”

  “You’re right,” I conceded and twisted the cap off another beer. If I can’t beat him, I guess I’ll join him!

  “‘
Course, I am,” he replied and laughed.

  “I guess I’m just nervous. The only other bank job I ever attempted wound up with me being a rather sad looking notch on the Biloxi Bugler’s belt. That’s one experience I don’t plan on repeating.”

  “That’s why you gotta man up and start with one! You know; get that monkey off your back first, before you start thinking about revenge on the Bugler, Ultraweapon, and that lawyer fella you’re always going on about.”

  Whenever Bobby started making too much sense it was a sure sign that I was already drinking too much and needed to slow down.

  Back to the task at hand, I offered, “Maybe I should just start small and rip an ATM right out of the wall.”

  With the strength the armor provided it would be a cinch; my own version of the grab and go.

  My partner in crime barely gave my compromise any consideration. “Chump change,” he declared and broke his pool stick. “If that’s all you’re after why even waste your time building your fancy suit? You crack open the ATM if you still have a free hand on your way out! Otherwise, you’re just pissing in the wind.”

  Shrugging, I quelled my lingering doubts and knew that I should quit while I was ahead, or at least before he started to call me a wussy boy. Instead of my force blasters, I’d built a plasma breeching charge out of some of the miscellaneous parts left over from my weapon building. It was crude, but wouldn’t make the world immediately think that there was someone running around using the same weapons as Lazarus Patterson did. There was no sense in revealing my suit until it was necessary. Bobby asked me if there was a way we could pin it on Seawall, but that sounded a little too complex for my taste, and I told him as much.

  I don’t even know what I’m getting all worked up over, I thought. It’s not like my target is even in a city. I’m just going to hit a small branch bank in a sleepy little town on the Florida Panhandle about twenty-five minutes away from Pensacola. I’ve even done my homework and made damned sure the chances of me running into a superhero are about as low as possible. Andydroid is in Washington DC playing bodyguard to his creator and most of the Gulf Coast Guardians will be at the Superdome as special guests of the football team there. The only two superheroes in a one hundred and fifty mile radius that I know of are the Bugler or a Manglermal who calls himself The Pelican. The first I wouldn’t mind seeing and the second never really goes after supervillains. He’s more of a DEA agent with wings and a funky helmet that has a taser ray in it. Besides, Pelican never travels farther north than Tampa.