Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer

by Ian Thomas Healy

  Harlan glanced up and shot his older sister his most withering look. It infuriated him that as much as he couldn’t stand her, she was friendly and even kind to him. Just once, he wished she’d get angry, call him a name, scream at him. Such a display of real, human hate from her would give them common ground from where they could forge a real sibling relationship. But no, she always smiled pleasantly at him and spoke to him with love. He knew he was supposed to reciprocate, but he felt nothing, and that made him hate her even more. “You look like a strawberry slush with whipped cream,” he said in a weak attempt to be mean.

  Irlene laughed it off. “That’s wonderful, Harlan. Thanks. I feel that sweet. Hey, maybe you can come with me to visit Just Cause Headquarters sometime. I bet they’ve got some really cool equipment there that you could look at.”

  “For God’s sake, Irlene, don’t encourage him,” said Momma. “The fool boy spends all his time playing in repair shops and junkyards instead of learning what he ought to be in school.”

  “School’s stupid,” mumbled Harlan.

  Momma sighed in exasperation and turned back to Irlene. “You better be off, sweetie. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

  Irlene laughed. “Momma, I’m not punching a time clock with them. I’m a superhero, not a line worker.”

  “But they are paying you?”

  “Yes, Momma. The Devereaux Foundation—they’re the folks that run Just Cause—they pay us all a salary.”

  Momma’s eyes glistened with tears. “I’m so proud of you, Irlene. If only your father could see you now.”

  Harlan only had faint memories of his father, who’d disappeared when Harlan was only two. Most days he wore the old man’s army jacket from when he served in Korea. He often laid awake at night wondering whatever had happened him. Momma wouldn’t ever speak of it. In his active imagination, he fantasized about his father doing some kind of great work in secret, and that someday he would return to take Harlan away to a life full of adventure and excitement instead of his current miserable existence.

  “You best be on your way, sweetie,” said Momma at last. She stopped fussing with Irlene’s costume and stepped back.

  “Guess so. Don’t wait up, Momma. They might want me to do a night patrol or something.”

  “Make me proud, Irlene.” Momma picked up a dishcloth and commenced her assault upon the prior evening’s dinner dishes that she’d been too tired to clean after her second job.

  “I will, Momma.” She shrank down to the size of a pigeon, flitted around the kitchen once, and then sped out the window to head south toward the ritzy part of Manhattan.

  Harlan growled deep in the pit of his throat. Momma must have heard him, and a wooden spoon cracked across the back of his hand. “Boy,” she said, “you best rethink your attitude before you leave this house today, or there will be hell to pay by the time you get home.”

  Harlan hung his head just a little lower.

  #

  The lazy smoke from his clove cigarette curled in the breeze from the ceiling fan as Tommy lay naked amid mussed sheets in his Greenwich Village apartment. A couple of pigeons perched on the fire escape outside his window and cooed to each other over the noise of the morning commuters below. The closed bathroom door muted the hiss of the shower. André was nothing if not considerate. Tommy had met the French Canadian at the beginning of the man’s vacation, but it was ending today and André would have to return home. The thought made Tommy feel a little wistful; André had soft and delicious skin, but like so many other relationships, this one had been doomed to fail from the start.

  Tommy didn’t try to sabotage his relationships on purpose. They just seemed to fall apart after a month or two, or a night or two. Sometimes he felt all he ever did was jump from the arms of one man to another. “Perpetually rebounding,” Pony Girl said to him. He supposed it was a good description. He took a long drag on the cigarette and let the fragrant blend assail his lungs from the inside. The time with André had been good. He was thoughtful, kind, generous—everything Tommy could hope to find in a long-term partner. But of course, when he did find someone who exhibited those traits, circumstances demanded it be only short-term.

  The shower stopped and a moment later André stepped into the bedroom, one towel wrapped around his waist as he dried his hair with another. “Bonjour, mon cher,” he said in his soft tenor.

  Tommy smiled. “Good morning to you too.”

  André raised a finger. “Ah ah, en français, s’il vous plaît.”

  Tommy’s smile faltered as he tried to recall some of the French André had taught him. “Uh, bonjour. Comment ça va? Is that right?”

  André took the cigarette from Tommy and took a drag. “Ça va bien. Very good. You have paid attention.” He sighed. “It is a shame I must return home today.”

  “You can’t stay another day?”

  “Mon cher…” André traced a finger down Tommy’s jawline. “Truly I would love to. You have been a gracious, accommodating host, and I have enjoyed this past week. But I would never fit into your lifestyle for a long-term commitment.”

  “What do you mean, my lifestyle?” Tommy gestured around at his apartment, full of Quaker-built furnishings, tasteful artwork, and track lighting.

  “Please,” said André. “Do you think I was born yesterday? I know who you are. Him. La Tornade. Tornado. The hero of the Just Cause team.”

  Tommy looked away. “So what if I am?”

  André gave a sad smile. “You are a superhero. I am only a florist.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Ah, Tommy. You are a sweet man, full of love and life, but it is not for me to share. Your heart belongs to another. I could see this from the moment I met you.”

  Tommy pulled away from André and slipped out of the bed, the sheet wrapped around him like a robe. He went to the window and looked out at the city beyond the fire escape. How many hours had he spent flying between those towers? How many miles had he logged with his cape flapping behind him as he tried to outrun his own feelings? “You’re wrong,” he said at last. “I’m just another swinger, André. That’s all. I’m not in love with anyone.”

  André embraced him from behind, resting his cheek against Tommy’s shoulder. “Tu es un pauvre menteur.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a bad liar, mon cher. Who is it, dare I ask? Whose face do you imagine when you make love with me?”

  Unbidden images of a stone-cold, chiseled face came to Tommy’s mind. Angry at himself, he thrust the thoughts away.

  Tommy brushed away André’s hand with a sharper motion than necessary. “Nobody,” he said. “But I think you should leave.”

  André was silent for several seconds. Tommy could sense the man wanted to say something helpful. Instead, the Canadian returned to the bathroom and shut the door.

  A profound sadness took hold of Tommy. He wasn’t the sort who cried at the drop of a hat, but his eyes got a little watery and he sniffled once or twice. Once again, he’d managed to sabotage a budding relationship, and this time he hadn’t even done anything. He sat in the windowsill and watched the world pass by on the streets of Greenwich Village below until André left the bathroom.

  André bent down and brushed Tommy’s lips with his own, his dark stubble scraping gently against Tommy’s smooth chin. “Au revoir, mon cher. May you find peace with yourself.”

  A moment later, he was gone, and Tommy watched as André walked up the street without a look back.

  The black emptiness threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t stay in his loft any longer. The sky called to him. He yanked open his closet and grabbed the garment bag containing his Tornado costume. He drew on the blue and white bodysuit, the gray boots and cape, and clasped the sparkling faux-gold bracers around his wrists. He shook out his shoulder-length hair, which a reporter had once compared to the best of both Cassidy brothers.

  A photo taped to the back of his
closet wall caught his eye. The Just Cause team smiled back at him from the grand opening of their new headquarters in the World Trade Center, completed just two years ago. Lionheart showed his sharp canines and leonine features, his mane carefully brushed out for the occasion. Pony Girl looked pert and pretty as ever beside her husband Audio. Javelin stood with the Steel Soldier, both resplendent in their polished armor, burnished bronze and shining steel. Beneath his armor, Javelin was a wisecracking Puerto Rican, whereas the Soldier’s armor protected only the circuitry and mechanical linkages of the advanced combat android. Beautiful Sundancer stood with Tommy, and John Stone hulked behind them both, eight feet of solid granite. Tommy stared at the man who looked like a living statue. John was his best friend. He couldn’t be in love with his best friend, could he?

  Ludicrous.

  Nevertheless, he kissed his fingertip and brushed it against the photo anyway, obscuring John for a moment with his blue-gloved hand. Then Tommy spun on his heel and went to the window. If anyone looked up as he climbed onto his fire escape, they’d know where Tornado of Just Cause lived, but at the moment, Tommy didn’t care.

  He called to the winds, and they swirled to do his bidding. His cape filled with capricious breezes like some great parachute, and he flew skyward to heal his soul from gravity’s clutches.

  #

  Since graduating in June, Gretchen had been working at Joe’s Diner as a carhop. It was a fun job. She got to see all her friends on Friday nights and even got to wear roller skates to deliver the food to the strapping farmers’ sons in their pickup trucks and muscle cars. They flirted with her and she gave back as good as she got and even made decent money in tips.

  Then one night there was Donny Milbrook.

  He’d spent all evening parked at the diner, smoking and drinking and occasionally ordering some fries or a corndog. By closing time, his Trans-Am was the only car left in the lot besides Gordie the cook’s. Gretchen discovered he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. She gently shook him awake. “Donny, it’s time to go home. We’re closing up for the night.”

  He grunted and opened his bleary eyes to look at her. “’Zat time already?”

  “I’m afraid so, Donny.”

  He yawned and dry-scrubbed his face. “Can I give you a lift home, Gretchen?”

  Her bicycle sat alone on the rack at the side of the diner. She lived two miles away and didn’t mind riding it home even late at night; Dyersville didn’t have serial killers lurking in the bushes like big cities did. But it was a nice night, and Gretchen felt a bit lonely and Donny looked really handsome in his shiny Trans-Am with the Firebird decals on the hood. “Okay,” she said.

  The inside of his car smelled like cigarettes, beer, aftershave, and pot. She squealed with laughter as he floored the accelerator and the car fishtailed out of the lot in a cloud of stinking smoke. He took a bottle of Stroh’s from between his legs and took a swig. “You wanna beer? I got another one here.”

  “Sure.” She fumbled with the bottle opener hanging from his rear view mirror and shrieked as foam shot out of the neck.

  “Oh shit,” he said. “Drink it, quick! Don’t get it all over my car!”

  Gretchen laughed and wrapped her lips around the cool glass until the eruption subsided. Donny kept the pedal mashed down, ran through the flashing stoplight in the center of town, and blasted around a corner. Beer bubbled out of her nose as Gretchen slid across the vinyl bench seat into Donny. The car fishtailed as he reacted to her sudden, unexpected impact. She clutched at him in surprise and he responded by throwing one hand around her shoulders.

  It felt nice, so she let him hold her as he guided the car past the edge of town. “Uh, Donny?” she said. “You passed my house.”

  “Oops.” He grinned. “Guess I’ll have to find a place to turn around.”

  She looked out at the dark rows of cornfields as they gleamed in the moonlight. They were on Olde Stage Road, famous among the local youth for the numerous places to pull off the road and fool around. She glanced sidelong at Donny, who squinted into the darkness as they passed occasional turnouts occupied by other cars that rocked with the rhythmic motion of their inhabitants. He kept going, well past the last parked vehicle.

  “Donny,” said Gretchen. “Why don’t you turn around?”

  “Jus’ looking for a place. There, that oughtta do it.” He slowed and pulled the Trans-Am onto a gravel lane beside a small grove of trees and shut off the engine.

  “Donny?” Gretchen felt a little spark of fear.

  Donny leered at her, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “You’re a really nice girl, Gretchen. I like you. I been watchin’ you.”

  Gretchen slid back across the seat, putting some space between them. “You’re nice too, Donny, but I think you ought to take me home now.”

  “Oh, I will. Eventually.” He scooted over next to her and put one hand around her shoulders and the other on her thigh. “I said you’re a nice girl. Show me how nice you are.”

  “You’re drunk, Donny. Cut it out.”

  “Come on, Gretchen, be a sport. All the other girls do it.” His hand slid up her thigh toward her crotch.

  “I’m not the other girls, Donny. Get off!” She squeezed her legs together and tried to push him away. He growled in the pit of his throat, took a handful of her hair, and yanked her head back. She cried out at the shock of pain. He gnashed his teeth against her neck and sucked, giving her a hickey she’d have to explain to her parents. She slapped at him and he drove a hard fist into her face. Bright stars flashed in her eyes and the world spun around her. Her flailing hand found the door handle and a moment later, she spilled out into the shallow ditch beside the lane.

  Before she could get her bearings, Donny jumped onto her. He slapped her twice across the face. Gretchen couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe from all the blood and snot in her nose. Somewhere above her, Donny was laughing. She felt the cool night air in places she shouldn’t have as Donny yanked off her shorts and underwear. Her hands fluttered, helpless against him. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t seem to draw breath. He leaned forward and forced himself into her.

  “Shit,” he gasped. “Fucking whore. You fucking bitch. You’re a fucking virgin. I love that shit.” He thrust again and again. “Nothing like—” pant “—a cherry pie—” pant “—for dessert—” pant.

  Out of her dizzy, murky brain, a single thought bubbled up. She wished he would just stop breathing on her. Her entire body had gone numb except for where she could feel his hot beery breath on her cheek. She just wished he would stop.

  Thunder crashed all around her…

  …A hand on her wrist awakened Gretchen. She started and stared around at the interior of the Greyhound bus before she remembered where she was.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the matronly woman seated beside her. “We’re almost there.”

  Gretchen leaned over to peer out through the glass at the Manhattan skyline. The buildings rose up farther than she’d ever even imagined in her tiny hometown of Dyersville, Iowa. She’d left home two days ago, without telling anyone but her best friend Elizabeth. After what had happened, she couldn’t possibly stay in town.

  “Honey, I don’t mean to pry, but did a man do that to you?” asked the woman.

  “What? Oh.” For a moment Gretchen had forgotten her black eye, tender nose, and bruised cheekbone. She’d covered it as best she could with makeup and put on some large sunglasses to hide the rest. “No, uh, I just fell.”

  “Hmph,” sniffed the woman. “Well, I hope you’re on this bus to get away from him, honey. Men are pigs.”

  “I’m not…” began Gretchen. Then she sighed and smiled. “Yeah, I am getting away from him. And he was a pig.” A flash of blue and white caught her eye and she saw Tornado flit between two buildings. That brief glimpse more than anything helped to solidify that she’d finally gotten away from Donny and Dyersville.

  Chapter Two

  July 13, 1977, 10:00 AM


  Faith stepped off the elevator onto the 95th floor, which contained Just Cause Headquarters and the related support offices. She nodded to Holly, the receptionist, and headed left into the team’s side of the floor.

  Two years ago, when the World Trade Center had opened, Just Cause’s founder and benefactor Lane Devereaux had made a strong case to both building management and the Mayor of New York to let the team move its headquarters there. With their approval, the team had packed up everything in the Lower East Side warehouse they’d been using as a headquarters and moved into brand-new facilities near the top of the city. After a year, the carpet still looked new except for some unexplained stains the cleaning staff hadn’t ever been able to completely eradicate. Faith was certain they were party-related.

  All the Just Cause traditions had likewise transferred to the new headquarters. The most important of these was Wednesday Night Poker. The weekly poker match had started a few years ago between Javelin, Lionheart, and John Stone on a slow night. As time passed, more heroes joined the game, and even crime rates dipped on Wednesdays, because nothing brought down the full wrath of Just Cause like being called away from a high-stakes hand.

  Eventually, Wednesday Night Poker became more than just a gambling night. Nowadays, it was an excuse for wild parties. Just Cause heroes, their friends, their friends’ friends, acquaintances, other celebrities—all made regular appearances on Wednesday nights. Sometimes the place was so packed full of people drinking and dancing that Faith couldn’t navigate through headquarters without getting elbowed, bumped, and groped.

  She hated those parties and all of the drinking and drugs. Both men and women had propositioned her numerous times, even though her marriage to Bobby was public record. And if she hated the parties, it must have been a thousand times worse for him with his parahuman hearing. Bobby’s powers weren’t nearly as flashy as Faith’s, but extremely useful in their own way. He could hear clearly at great distances, like a shotgun microphone, and could pick out distinct details from auditory mishmash. He didn’t like to deploy with the rest of the team; he didn’t have a costume and only accepted the code-name Audio at Devereaux’s insistence. Bobby preferred to work behind the scenes as the team's administrator.