by Matt Carter
Speeding away, I’m turned around, not entirely sure where I am, but when I slam on the brakes I know what’s before me: chaos.
There’s at least thirty people fighting, the flickering flames of some of the attackers’ Tiki torches and the dully rotating lights of a few cop cars shining through the darkness. I can’t tell who’s fighting or why, if it’s locals or outsiders, but I can see who’s stuck in the middle.
Dissident.
She’s fighting with the ferocity of an army, whirling and kicking and striking attackers with her clubs. She tosses explosives, blades, even her own cape at the mob, yet no matter how many she takes down the others get even angrier. She won’t give up until there’s not an ounce of fight left in her body, but even from here I know she’s tiring. She should use her grappling hook gun to escape, catch her breath, but instead she uses it to snare one attacker and whip him into another.
A beefy guy with a burnt-out torch in one hand sneaks up behind her, a large chunk of broken cinderblock in his other hand. He raises it over his head.
I do the only thing I can.
I floor it.
The guy bounces off my hood and rolls over the top. He lands beside my car, still alive, but I’ll probably be investigating him for insurance fraud in a year or so.
Dissident whirls on me for a second, the eyes of her helmet sharpening.
I throw the passenger’s side door open and yell, “Get in!”
Dissident considers the fight for only a second before jumping in. I gun it in reverse, watching the dark, angry mob continue fighting, some of them throwing things at us as we escape.
“Just so you know,” Dissident says, taking off her helmet. “I had that fight in hand.”
“Obviously.”
Fadia flips down the vanity mirror by her seat, eying the blood trickling down the side of her lip. “Makeup guys are going to love me tomorrow morning.”
“They still believe your self-defense class story?”
“For now,” she says, testing her shoulder’s mobility and wincing. “But if it keeps going like this …”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad.”
“Like, bad bad, or repent all sins bad?”
“Bad to a point where I doubt there’ll be anything left west of the Crescent if this keeps up much longer. Bad where I predict this will turn into a fight for the right to WPC’s ashes between Milgram and Mayor Card. Bad where the person who set this in motion will do nothing to fix it, and everything to let it spiral out of control.”
She won’t look at me.
“So you agree that I’m to blame?”
“For doing your job? No. You’re a hired thug with a gift for the past, and you did your job wonderfully. For not using common sense? Yes.”
“Thanks,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm in.
“Well, what did you expect? You know how tenuous things are in the Crescent, better than most do, and you hand someone a bomb like this to blow it apart with?”
“Like you said, it was a job. Just a job. She said she was going to the cops. I thought she was legit.”
“If you’d brought it to me first—”
“I thought she was legit!”
“Because you wanted to fuck her?”
“What, you’re saying you’ve never fucked up because you wanted to impress a leggy blonde?”
“No. But I’ve never let things get this bad because of it, either.”
“You’re saying I should fix this?”
“Yes.”
“How? The town’s on fire and, if you haven’t noticed, I’m no firefighter.”
“This is one of those things you’ll have to figure out on your own. But don’t be surprised at people’s reactions to you either until you do.”
Fadia’s a friend, but I’m not in the mood for a lecture. All my life I’ve had people telling me what to do with my powers, and every time I’ve listened I’ve wound up in a world of hurt. So if people want to be pissed, fine, let them be pissed, but they can’t tell me how to live my life.
“Where’re you headed? The Lineup?” she asks after the silence stretches too long.
“Where else? Want me to drop you off somewhere?”
She takes a second. “The Lineup’s fine. Lucero should be there tonight; I can probably beg, bribe, or beat a healing charm out of him.”
“And Petting Zoo having a shift tonight has nothing to do with this?”
Fadia smiles. “She does? I had no idea.”
The humor in her voice tells me all I need to know; the sharp edge tells me I’m far from being off the hook.
I’ll take what I can get.
The Lineup’s about the closest thing to looking alive in the Crescent tonight, if just by the virtue of having a lit sign. When I pull into the lot, I see what looks like a welcome sight at first. Tragedii’s standing in the doorway like she’s waiting for us.
It doesn’t stay welcome for long.
She runs up to my car, her personal shield generator wicking the rain away in a spherical bubble, and motions for me to roll the window down.
“Can’t let you in tonight, Eddie.”
“What? Isn’t it group tonight? If it’s about my tab—”
“That’s not why,” she says. “Hey, Dissident.”
“Hey,” Dissident says, helmet back on.
I grip the steering wheel tightly.
“I’m really not welcome?”
“Not tonight. Not when people’s blood’s up like it is now. Me, I don’t care, but I can’t have my bar fucked up because of this. People in there … they want a safe place tonight, no cops, no DSA, no fights …”
I don’t want to beg, but I will if I have to.
“Tragedii, come on. You know me. When you had problems with those Atlantean tweakers, who helped you out?” I plead.
“And I appreciated that. But it still stands on tonight. I’m sorry.”
A door opens and closes, and Dissident’s no longer at my side. She strides past Tragedii through the pouring rain, calling back to me, “Remember what I said!”
Tragedii doesn’t have much to offer other than a shrug.
Then she runs into the bar and out of the rain.
I can’t tell what I am more, pissed or sad, and by the time I figure out it doesn’t matter. I’m just trying not to start punching my car.
Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to do, even when I thought I knew what was right and wrong, it all turned to shit. I do one thing, one stupid thing that I think might be me making something right, and it fucks up my whole life.
“Fucking figures,” I mutter.
I don’t want to go home. My apartment’s a dump on the best of days, and with the rain like it is and the Crescent not doing itself any favors right now, odds are my power’s out.
And I’m out of liquor. I think.
I park the car (or what’s left of it) and cross the street to my office. I keep a couple emergency bottles on hand, and the way the building’s lit up, I know there’ll be power. Maybe I can fire up my ancient computer, watch a movie, get nice and lit …
Trying to will the ache out of my left arm by resting it on Harriet, sheathed in one of my coat’s inner pockets, I unlock the front door, get in and lock it behind me, for all the good it’ll do.
What used to be my front window is now a couple sheets of plywood with some duct tape to give it personality, courtesy of the asshole yesterday who thought a chunk of concrete parking bumper would look better hurled through the glass than out in the parking lot. Whether they were part of the same group who decided to repaint my walls with the conflicting messages of TRAITOR and GET OUT SUPER FAAG (correcting their spelling was my contribution), I couldn’t tell you.
I’m just glad they didn’t steal anything.
Sitting down at my desk, I boot up my computer and slide open the bottom drawer. From it I pull a tumbler and a bottle of cheap scotch, pouring myself a drink.
“I hope you have a
second glass.”
The voice comes from behind. I deserve an award for keeping my cool.
“Hello, Miss Herron.”
She saunters out of the darkness of my back office. The bright red dress she wears is more fitting for a night out on the town than a cold winter rainstorm. She picks the glass of scotch off my desk and takes a sip, grimacing.
“For what I paid you, you can afford a little better than that,” she says, putting it back on my desk.
“I have cheap taste.”
“Especially in door locks,” she says, eying the wreck of my office, amused.
Well, that explains how she got in.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, tightening my grip on Harriet. I don’t want to have to pull her out, but I’ve no idea why Ruby’s here or why she keeps her hand in her purse.
“The man I work for was impressed with your efficiency on the Julian issue.”
“The man you work for? Found yourself a new boss already?”
She laughs. “It’ll make sense when I tell you, but you probably won’t like it.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I know how much you hate surprises.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about me.”
“I do.”
“You got your own people looking into me?”
“I’ve been watching you for quite some time now. Seeing if you were as ready as I thought you were.”
“Funny, I think I would have noticed if you were watching me.”
“Let’s just say I’m good at blending in.”
“Oh, really?” I say, tightening my grip on Harriet. My left hand aches. I need a pill bad, but I need to end this, too.
“Yes,” she says, pulling something from her purse.
I kick away from my desk and am on my feet in a flash, Harriet in hand and about to charge.
She doesn’t even flinch as she pulls the folded piece of paper from her purse. I stop in my tracks but don’t lower Harriet an inch.
“Are you going to swing that, or would you like me to explain what’s really going on?”
“What’s in your hand?” I ask, eying the paper.
She unfolds it to reveal an old, well-traveled picture. It takes me a moment to soak it all in, and a moment past that to realize I have a copy of it framed beside my desk: a picture of three teenagers who don’t know the horrors their future holds.
“What—” I start to say, before Ruby Herron starts to twist, her body slimming and lengthening slightly, her dress disappearing into her now scaled, light violet skin, replaced by a short-sleeved black leotard. She’s taller than the last time I saw her, and has filled out somewhat too, but she is otherwise the same. Still lithe, still with muted features, still with those solid black eyes that always terrified people, but that I fell in love with back in the day.
Anya Rosales.
Bystander.
“Surprised, Eddie?” she asks, her voice now familiar.
I don’t know what to do. So instead of knowing what to do, I take her in. I take her in because it feels like if I don’t, I may never get another chance. The more I take her in, the less I feel the anger toward Ruby and the more I remember of us as kids. Before I know it, Harriet’s on the floor and I find myself with my arms wrapped around her neck, laughing.
The world itself has given in to shit and chaos, but seeing her here, now, makes everything feel like it used to.
I start babbling as more than a decade’s worth of thoughts about her all fight to the surface.
“I thought you were—”
“I wasn’t.”
“But you never—”
“We were on different paths.”
“I should’ve—”
“I’m glad to see you too,” she says dryly, pushing away from me. “And there will be plenty of time to catch up later. But I’m here on business.”
Reality hits me like a bolt of light. Every memory of Ruby Herron and the Julian job comes rushing back and has me questioning everything that’s happened in the past few weeks.
I step back, try not to wobble on my nervous feet, try to keep the hard edge that’s served me well all these years, and find it’s not as easy as it was moments ago. My shell has become soft, and I’m a teenage boy trying to ask a pretty girl out for the first time all over again.
“You’ve got some stuff to explain,” I say.
“I know.”
“Like, now?”
“Not now.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you that, whatever you think you know, you don’t. That you’ve become a part of something big. That this job I gave you was actually an audition. You did so well, my boss wants to meet you in person.”
The corners of her muted, slit of a mouth curve upward in an unsettling approximation of a smile.
“Eddie, I think it’s time you met Mr. Milgram.”
CHAPTER 10: THE SUPERHERO
He knew the risks, working out there with those people,” Mom reminds me. “I’m sure he accepted that something like this could happen.”
“Just like we do in the PCG,” Uncle Ethan agrees.
It’s just the three of us sitting around the corner table at Dorabella’s for lunch, and it seems I was the last to find out about what happened to Quentin.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, “but I can’t stop wondering what kind of new project he was working on. I keep picturing people out there waiting for whatever kind of help he was bringing, realizing it’s not coming. Do you think maybe we could hold a benefit in his honor, for the Julian Foundation? Make sure the shelters don’t end up closing down without him?”
“It’s a thought,” my mother says, noncommittally.
“Might not be a bad idea, once you’ve had time to make some connections in the big leagues who wouldn’t mind you calling in a favor,” says Uncle Ethan with overflowing pride, passing me the equally overflowing bread basket. “Nothing would bring people out in droves like a few Guardian guests of honor. How’s the team agreeing with you so far?”
Mom snags a tiny end piece as the basket passes her and then leans in over the table to listen.
I take a slice, dip it in the pesto, and take a giant bite. This is my first afternoon off since joining the Guardians, and I was hoping to consume at least half my body weight in refined carbohydrates before having to think about the Card family again, but there’s no delaying this question for long.
“It’s an adjustment,” I say, holding my hand in front of my full mouth.
“How’s Pinnacle treating you?” Mom prods.
“He’s … direct.”
Uncle Ethan laughs. “He can take some getting used to, that’s for certain. Trust me, if he’s already speaking to you at all, he likes you.”
I debate for a moment, then decide I’d rather they find out from me than on TV.
“He’s got me protecting Mayor Card,” I say, drowning another slice of bread while the two of them exchange whatever kind of look they feel like exchanging. “I’m working my way up, I guess.”
This is the conclusion I’ve come to over the past week of babysitting the Card offspring, trying to give Jacob as little usable footage as possible, avoiding being dragged into their conversations about their cars, their vacation plans, their significant others, and how darn hard it is being them.
I’m paying my dues. I’m the rookie, so I’m the one stuck with the cruddy jobs no one wants. That has to be what this is.
It sucks right now, but it’s also a relief, not only because it means things have to get better from here, but also because it means that the other Guardians know this is a cruddy job that no one in their right mind would want, which means they’re sane, which is good.
Maybe they even have some secret reason why watching Card is more important than they’re telling me, something they’re not ready to trust me with yet, and sending me to take care of it instead of one of the more senior members is their way of showing him they’r
e only helping under protest.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Mom. “Stopping the mayor from being assassinated sounds like a job for a Pinnacle City Guardian to me.”
“He’s not just ‘the mayor,’ he’s Mayor Card,” I say.
There’s a big difference.
“Which makes it a job worthy of ATHENA herself,” jokes Uncle Ethan. “Don’t sell yourself short, Kimmy.”
The food arrives and I pause with my fork over my veggie linguini. “How did you ever do business with that man?”
“He’s a pill, no denying that,” says Uncle Ethan. “But he does have a knack for motivating a certain class of people.”
“Yeah, bullies,” I mutter, twisting my fork around my plate.
Card’s practically the official mascot of all the worst people still roughing up the streets more than a week after the details of Quentin’s murder went public, the ones shouting things like “burn the gene freaks” and “we want no man’s land” and other things I choose not to repeat.
I should be out there stopping them, or protecting one of the peaceful protests that are finally getting organized and gaining steam among all the random violence, but instead I’m trying to catch my breath for an hour so I can go back to watching Card’s overgrown brats and boosting his ratings with the novelty of having a superhero on his show, no matter how unwatchable I try to be.
“People will get bored with him eventually,” says Uncle Ethan. “And then they’ll move on to the next loud voice that validates them. It’s how it always goes. But let’s hope it’s not too soon.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because as long as they’re in his pocket, they’re predictable. They’ll do what he tells them to, say what he tells them to, wear what he tells them to, so they’re easy to spot and, most importantly, buy what he tells them to. If there was ever a bunch of people who deserved a good fleecing …”
“Positively Machiavellian.” Mom rolls her eyes, blowing on her mussels marinara with a discreet puff of her ice powers.
“Say what you want about Machiavelli, he was a hell of a strategist,” adds Uncle Ethan.
“Or satirist,” I say through a mouthful of pasta, recalling a college lit class I probably haven’t thought of since finals, and crossing my fingers that Uncle Ethan either hasn’t heard this one or has forgotten.
