“Would you look at this,” muttered Terry. On-screen, CNN was showing aerial footage of the devastation in Atlanta. A rolling scroll at the bottom of the screen updated the grim statistics: 127 dead, 143 missing. “The fuck were they thinking kicking that hornet’s nest?” Quick cuts to various on-the-street interviews: “If Mayor Williams thinks he can just up and walk away from this mess, he’s got another thing coming. The man ought to stand trial for mass murder.”
“The mayor was doing what he was elected to do: keep our streets safe from these costumed psychopaths. He’s not the criminal. They are!”
“Calling in the heroes caused things to escalate. They just made a bad situation worse.”
As if to underscore the point, the on-screen image switched to footage of Amazon Grace taking on Lady Draconia in aerial combat—buzzing each other like furious wasps, sweeping, circling, seeking an opening. Draconia loosening a double salvo from her arm cannons, dousing her opponent in a sustained stream of white-hot plasma. Grace, hovering in place, the bright blueness of her protective force shield deepening to a rich indigo, patiently biding her time. The intensity of the assault flickering and failing. Grace, dropping the shield and closing quickly, connecting with a thunderous right cross that sends Draconia streaking down to street level, where she collides with an antiquated five-story brick building, blowing out the entire first floor and every window in the place. The building teetering uncertainly, then lazily pitching forward to strike a facing skyscraper, remaining propped up against it like some hapless drunkard, vomiting the contents of its posh studio apartments onto the street below.
“That’s what you call a right fuckup.” Terry crunched down on a piece of ice. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone. Had to go and flex their goddamn muscles; make a show of it. Bunch of self-righteous assholes, the lot of ’em.”
Hypocritical bastards would have been more fitting, thought Marshall. Always playing to the media, their public acts of altruism little more than a bullshit patina glossing over the ugly truths—alcoholism, malignant narcissism, anger management issues. Their slightest charities aggrandized, their failings easily forgiven and forgotten, inculpable colossi towering over their lessers, imposing themselves and shattering lives with a casual indifference born of self-affected ambition.
Suddenly, a click and hiss from somewhere behind him. Marshall spun around and watched as the far wall shuddered, retracted slightly, then slid aside with a sustained whoosh, revealing the not-so-secret hidden lab he’d been expecting, its modest confines packed full of high-tech gak. And, amid the impressive display of blinky light units and state-of-the-art weaponry stood the man himself, Adam Virtue, his once disheveled salt-and-pepper mop now a sleekly styled silver, his frame a little slighter, his face a little gaunter, but his eyes as bright and full of life as the day Marshall had first met him, some thirteen years ago, at one of Trudy McIntyre’s (a.k.a. Princess Arcana, a.k.a. Mrs. Decimator) monthly poker nights.
The memories of that evening came back to him. The way Virtue’s entry hushed the raucous gathering. The way his casual demeanor and folksy presence had quickly put them all at ease. The way he’d gone all in with pocket aces and lost it all. Alas, while Adam’s social skills were proficient, his poker skills were severely wanting, and by night’s end he owed Marshall two thousand dollars. “No problem,” Marshall had told him. “Pay me back whenever.” As if to affirm the confidence placed in him, Adam suggested Marshall give him a lift back home, where, in lieu of cash, he would be free to choose something from among the numerous items in his “workshop.”
Marshall remembered being struck by the shocking normality of that modest little bungalow in the upper-class suburban neighborhood. Not that he’d presumed some hidden lair built into an inconspicuous cave or a foreboding mansion more in keeping with the legendary persona, but at the very least a well-tended garden or a roof that didn’t look like it was in desperate need of a reshingling. Virtue walked in and set his keys and wallet down on a shelf beside—Marshall couldn’t help but notice—a blinking ankle monitor. “I’m going to go make us some coffee,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. “Why don’t you head down to the basement and pick something out?”
The basement held a “mad professor’s garage sale” assortment of weapons, accessories, and formidable-looking god-knows-whats. It was nothing short of overwhelming. “How’re we doing?” asked Virtue when he finally came down carrying two coffee mugs.
“I was thinking of this.” Marshall held up a pair of virinium-lined gloves, the most modest item he could find. “If that’s all right with you.”
Virtue tut-tutted and set down the coffees, walking by him and wading into the mass clutter. “No, no. You can do better that that. Hmmmm. Let’s see … How about this?”
“This” was a jet black exosuit that, Virtue explained, was fashioned of first-generation virinium polymer less than a tenth of a centimeter thick, bulletproof and resistant to temperatures in excess of 2800 degrees Fahrenheit yet possessed of ultraflexible second-skin technology. A smart chip, centered in the crown of the cowl, fed power to a multitude of transistors within the suit attuned to the approximately six hundred muscles in the human body, providing the boost that would amplify his already extranormal strength, speed, and dexterity tenfold. Its cost far exceeded the two thousand owed, but Adam was more than happy to suggest an arrangement. Marshall could have the suit and apply the two grand against its purchase price, then pay off the balance by working for him. And thus, Downfall was born.
He could have paid off that original suit in a year, but there was always something—an added accessory, some sort of upgrade—that kept him in Virtue’s employ. Eventually, they stopped keeping count and Marshall continued working with him, not because he owed him, but because Adam was his friend. They formed a bond so strong that, in the beginning, Marshall had even considered the possibility that Adam was his long-lost father come to secretly make amends. But, in the end, it turned out to be mere wishful thinking on his part as he quickly learned that, while gifted with above-average intelligence, Adam Virtue was just an average man, possessed of no extranormal powers. And even though, in his heart, he knew it had been a reach, having his theory quashed proved shockingly disappointing at the time.
And now, suddenly, seeing his old friend again and knowing he had come back to betray his trust filled Marshall with an ineffable sadness.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to find me.” Adam threw his arms wide and welcomed his former protégé with a hug. Then, noticing: “And who’s this?”
Marshall glanced back at Terry, standing awkwardly behind them, drink in hand, anxiously awaiting his introduction.
“Terry Langan,” said Marshall. “An old friend.”
“Pleased to meet you, Terry.”
“Pleasure’s mine, sir—uh, Mr. Virtue.”
Virtue gave them a wink and cocked his head back toward the hidden room. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”
They followed him back into the lab, where he took up position behind a computer adjacent to a floor-to-ceiling circular containment field emitting a low, soothing hum. It was roughly two feet in diameter, its walls an impenetrable shimmering pearl. Adam input a sequence and hit a switch. The shield powered down, its opaque walls dropping to reveal the prize concealed within: a full-body exoskin hovering in place. Marshall felt his neck prickle, a thousand tiny centipedes creeping up his spine.
“It’s for you,” said Virtue, confirming Marshall’s darkest fear. “Welcome home.”
“Holy shit!” marveled Terry, stepping in for a closer look but maintaining a respectful distance all the same. A sustained, reverential gaze and then again, almost a whisper: “Holy shit!”
“It’s a microthin, shifting-state, liquid nanite construct,” Adam explained, barely able to conceal his pride. “State-of-the-art, second-skin technology offers unsurpassed strength, speed, and agility. Thrusters in the boots deliver limited hovering ability.
Once manually activated, the smart chip in the trigger arm band initiates a neural link to all active in-suit systems, including impulse-command wrist-mounted persuaders—”
“I can’t.”
Adam’s mouth fell open in muted shock. It was Terry who spoke up: “You’re kidding, right?”
An uncomfortable silence and then Adam found his voice: “If you’re worried about the cost—and it is significant—we can work out a deal—”
“No,” Marshall was quick to respond. “No deal.”
A twitch of his silvered eyebrows, and Adam dropped his gaze, twisting his mouth up into a half frown. Several seconds of considered contemplation, and then: “All right.” He glanced up, brightening. “Consider it a gift.”
Terry uttered his third “Holy shit” of the afternoon.
“I can’t accept.”
“What?!” Terry’s outrage at Marshall’s response was surpassed only by Marshall’s outrage at Terry’s outrage at his response.
“Terry, why don’t you go wait in the lounge,” Marshall suggested, trying very hard to keep his anger in check. “Do me a favor, huh?”
Terry vacillated, throwing the exosuit a longing look and then, picking up on Marshall’s palpable frustration, nodded. “Sure, sure.” And happily complied.
“I don’t understand,” said Adam, his voice edged with uncertainty. He looked lost, like a child denied some life-altering trifle.
“I’m done with Downfall.”
This seemed to strike Adam as altogether confounding. He looked at Marshall, uncomprehending, brow furrowed, as if trying to work something out in his head. “I realize you don’t want to take a chance of ending up back behind bars, but this suit’s impulse defense systems can detect molecular-level threats. They’ll lock down, vent, and seal you off from any airborne attack. If you’re worried about Nantech—”
“I’m not worried about Nantech. I just—” Marshall sighed and found himself unconsciously fingering his belt, the belt. He’d put it on before leaving his hotel room, not on the off chance he’d cross paths with Virtue, but because it looked good with his jeans. No fucking prescience. Just dumb luck, a spur-of-the-moment decision that had unwittingly completed his betrayal. “I just don’t want to do it anymore.” He was already thinking about where he would dump the belt. Somewhere far away from both the Science Center and his hotel, possibly a bin in some alleyway or in the dense forest on the city’s outskirts. “I have a new life now, one that doesn’t involve any of this.” He swept his arm wide to indicate the veritable treasure trove of high-tech toys: lasers and rocket boots and plasma cannons and frost grenades. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to put the people I care about at risk. I don’t want to spend my nights worrying about whether I’ll be able to get the suit on before they can kick in my door and get to me. I left it all behind years ago.”
Adam’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t you ever miss it?”
“Sure. But not enough to risk everything I have.”
“And what do you have?”
“A wife who loves me, who I won’t disappoint.” And then, almost as an afterthought: “Peace of mind.”
Adam managed a weak smile and nodded. Marshall wasn’t sure whether it was understanding or acquiescence. “So you’re definitely out?”
“Yeah.”
Virtue’s eyes narrowed. Fists in pockets, he threw Marshall a searching look, clearly confused. “Then … why did you come back?”
To meet the terms of my conditional release? To track you down? To betray our friendship? “Because I wanted to see you.” Which was partially true. “I never got the chance to visit you in the hospital.”
Adam conceded the point with a shrug and a faint smile. “I never got the chance to visit you in prison.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we were both kind of busy.”
That managed to elicit a chuckle from the old man. But his good humor was short-lived. “So I was wrong to think you were coming back for this.” His tone was almost accusing. “It never even crossed your mind? Even with The Imperial out of the way?”
Inwardly, Marshall reeled at the dangerous and unexpected turn in the conversation. “What the hell does The Imperial have to do with it?” he snapped.
Adam hesitated, threw a look at the exosuit, and then seemed to think better of it. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He seemed suddenly bitter.
Time to go. For both their sakes. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say before turning and heading back into the lounge. There, he found Terry at the bar, fixing himself another drink. “We’re going,” he told him.
“Can I finish my drink?”
“We’re going,” Marshall repeated, not even breaking stride as he headed out into the corridor without so much as a parting glance for his former mentor.
The drive back to the hotel was a quiet one. Terry sensed something was up but knew better than to ask. He kept the radio off and his mouth shut, not even bothering to question Marshall’s actions when, halfway through the ride, he suddenly stripped off his belt, snapped off the buckle, and tossed them both out the passenger-side window.
“Thanks for everything, Ter,” said Marshall when they finally pulled up to the hotel. He gave his old friend a parting shoulder pat, then got out of the car and headed inside.
He was in the process of packing when the phone rang. He briefly considered ignoring it but ultimately figured he would have to answer for his actions sooner or later and so snapped it up on the sixth ring. “Hello?”
“Marshall?” He recognized Agent McNeil’s voice.
“Yeah, listen—”
“Nice work.” Marshall fell silent, felt himself go numb. His mind scrambled and fell on the possibility that they’d had him followed. “Marshall, you there?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve confirmed trace elements of ferenium-17 in his lab.”
“How?” Marshall cursed himself for not acting on his first instinct to dump the belt somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Then again, if they’d been following him, it wouldn’t have really mattered. They’d have found it regardless. If, he suddenly realized, they’d found it because their recovering the belt would have been dependent upon their seeing him dump it, which, in turn, would have made clear his intention to back out of their deal. And yet, the tone of McNeil’s voice gave no hint that the feds were pissed. He was being played. “You don’t have the belt.”
“We don’t need it. The data is instantly transferred through wireless networks. Virtue’s our guy.” Marshall dropped the phone and stumbled back. The back of his left leg caught the edge of the bed and he dropped down to a sitting position. He heard McNeil’s voice, distant and tinny: “We’re sending a car by to pick you up. Marshall? Marshall, you there?”
Walking away was no longer an option. Armed with the certainty of Virtue’s involvement in the death of The Imperial, the feds were prepared to move against him and so, for Marshall, it came down to one of two choices: either lead them to the lab, or refuse and allow them to put the squeeze on Terry, who he’d helpfully offered up earlier that morning. Not much of a choice at all. At the very least, Marshall reasoned, he could minimize the damage already done by ensuring a peaceful resolution to the situation.
He sighed audibly, shifted in his seat, and threw a look out the window at the emptying parking lot. Night was falling. Inside the Science Center, federal agents led by McNeil were moving into position, at first blush just another bunch of paying customers milling about as closing time neared, nothing at all to worry about had you, say, glimpsed them on a security monitor. Once satisfied that the area was secure, they would signal Marshall, who would make his way into the building and lead them to the basement lab. McNeil had been adamant. Marshall was not to communicate with Virtue. He was not to involve himself in the takedown. He was not to take any action that risked compromising the operation. Simply put, his job was to lead them to the lab; nothing more, unless called upon.
Brye
rson, seated beside him in the driver’s seat of the double-park SUV, assured him that what he was about to do was the best thing for all involved, especially Virtue. Rather than quell Marshall’s mounting anxiety, his words merely served to drive home the magnitude of his treachery.
“Relax,” said Bryerson, his fingers drumming out a silent piano concerto atop the steering wheel. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be back home and this’ll all be over.”
“No,” said Marshall. “It’ll never be over. Not for me. This was a huge mistake.”
Bryerson’s voice was steady. “You’re helping us take down a murderer.”
“I’m betraying a friend—”
“A murderer—”
“—who always looked out for me—”
“—killed a fucking hero—”
“—even after all these years—”
“—poisoned him—”
“—and even though I turned my back on him—”
“—robbing not only this city, but this planet—”
“—he never stopped looking out for me.”
“—of one of its biggest defenders.”
“He did it for me! The Imperial—”
“The Imperial—”
“Deserved to die!”
There, he’d finally said it. And shut Byerson up in the process. The big man eyed him doubtfully and then, very calmly: “No. No, he didn’t. Just because he was an asshole doesn’t mean—”
“Let me tell you something, Agent Bryerson. I didn’t hate The Imperial because he was an asshole. I hated him because he ruined my life.”
Bryerson sighed. “You ruined your own life.”
Marshall responded with a derisive snort. “Yeah, I fucked up. I made some bad decisions. And I paid for them. I did my time. I had a right to a fresh start. But he wouldn’t let me.”
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