by Ben Mason
I am still Gravitas, worst scourge that Selenium City ever saw. Rogue of a dozen different heroes galleries.
The words sounded hollow. However, the pain in Christoph’s leg had drifted away as he found himself pulled toward a potential threat. The sour taste faded from his mouth. He felt young again like he hadn’t in years.
They walked fast toward the brick house, Julie leading the way, moving quick the way children naturally do, fishing her key from around the lanyard on her neck. She got to the door and froze.
“I’m scared, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’m here, child.”
“I’m not a child,” she said turning, her eyes flaring. There was that fire again. Even in the midst of worry and uncertainty she was unwilling to be talked down to. He admired that about her. Understood it, too.
“Of course not, Julie. My formal apology.”
She bit her lip as she studied at Christoph. “My dad is big and strong and he was scared. What can you do?”
Christoph chuckled. “You don’t get to be my age without a few tricks up your sleeve. Watch and learn, kid.”
Julie nodded and, putting her key in the door, she turned and unlocked it. When they walked in they saw two large men sitting on the large living room sofa, scowling at them. They were stuffing bundles of money in a black duffel bag. And in their waistbands were guns.
“Ah,” Christoph said. “Hoodlums.”
They must not have taken to the characterization well because they got up and stalked over to him, fists balled.
Chapter 2
Both of the men were large and packed with muscle. They were wearing leather jackets and dark gloves.
Christoph sighed. No class. And home invasions. It took a certain class of criminal to aim for a person’s home. Especially those who tried to make the world a little bit brighter.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Kimbles. Both of them were athletic and attractive, dressed as if they had stepped out of a Home & Garden magazine. Wendy Kimble was in a nice red blouse and white khakis while John was dressed in an olive-green button-down and gray slacks. Neither of them looked pleased to see him. Considering the circumstances, he took it in stride. “Wendy, looking lovely as ever. John, how is the practice?”
“Doing well,” John said, his voice tight.
“Hey,” the first of the men growled, stepping closer. He was almost in range. “Old man.”
“Please,” Christoph said, “the adults are talking.”
The man moved in and Christoph pulled back his hand and slapped him, making the man dive toward the floor. His skull cracked against the back of the couch. The kinds of things you could do when you increased the mass of your hand by five times the normal amount were quite astounding.
The second hoodlum’s eyes were popping out of his head. He stepped forward, a hand darting into his waistband.
Christoph tried to move over to him, but his leg acted up. Insolent thing was always getting in the way.
In my prime.
In his prime he would have cracked open every rib in these men’s bodies without shedding a drop of blood. Now he was trying to avoid a bullet.
A second later the man stiffened as a lamp smashed into the back of his head, porcelain shards going everywhere. The hood stumbled, giving Christoph enough time to get over and give the man a shove. He dropped to the floor.
Christoph fought the desire to suck in a breath. Even momentary expenditures on this level were tiring. Later he was going to make himself some chamomile tea and rest. Now he had to send these two packing. Putting his right foot on the second man’s chest, he let it rest there. And increased its mass three fold.
The man gasped.
“Now listen here. If you two don’t vacate the premises, I’ll be forced to leave nasty scuff marks on Wendy’s wonderful hardwood floor. And you’ll leave some nasty bloodstains. We don’t want to be uncharitable guests, do we?”
“No,” the man croaked.
“When you get up, you’ll think of getting the drop on me. You won’t. And I won’t be able to stop you by any half measures.” Christoph leaned forward, letting the man see his eyes. “Got it?”
The man nodded.
Christoph dropped the extra mass and took his foot off. The man staggered up, pulling his semi-conscious friend with him. He got to the door and braced it before he stopped. “This isn’t over, old man. I’m going to tell my boss about this. Heat Streak is going to mess you up.”
“Heat Streak? Why do the names get dumber each generation?” Christoph asked the ceiling. “You tell ‘Heat Streak’ if he comes here I’ll make him a skid mark. Got it?”
The man grunted, halfway between a stifled gasp and a dark chuckle. He left a second later.
Christoph turned to see Julie. “Thank you for the assist. However, it was entirely too dangerous.”
“I agree,” Wendy said, rushing over to hug her daughter. Her husband moved over as well.
When their backs were turned, Christoph flashed Julie a thumbs-up. The girl grinned back. Having a good accomplice was one of the founding pillars of proper super villainy.
John nodded his head at Christoph. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t mean to, if it’s any consolation.” Shuffling his cane in hand, the exhaustion hitting him, Christoph put his hand against the couch. “I think I need a drink.”
“I’ll make you one,” John said, heading to the kitchen.
“Thank you. I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Christoph said, following him. Wendy was still holding on to Julie. That worried Christoph. Wendy wasn’t the kind to panic. She had been heading down the CEO track before deciding to open a home decoration blog, making it a mover and shaker in the digital space. If she was clutching her child in a panic, there was a reason.
Moving into the black-and-white-tiled kitchen, John headed over to the bar rack on the far side, grabbing a lime from the fruit bowl and slicing it up. He got out a glass, hesitated, and got out another.
Christoph took a seat at the kitchen table, laying his cane across the back of his chair, and by the time he was seated comfortably his drink was sitting in front of him.
“Thank you, John. You’re a good neighbor.”
“So are you,” John said, giving a grin. He had a darker complexion than his daughter and that mixed with his shaved head made his smile all the more dazzling. Christoph bet more girls than Wendy had been charmed by it over the years. “Screw having a security system. I’ve got a senior citizen.”
Christoph took a sip, letting it hide his smile. “What happened?”
John darted his eyes toward the kitchen entrance. Wendy was still preoccupied with an obviously frustrated Julie.
Ah. So that’s why she’s holding on. Wendy and John were quite the team.
“A few days ago the guys came over. The threat was implied, but the shakedown was obvious. They had more than two of them. And they gave off the impression they had more than regular muscle to back them up.”
“Why not call the police?”
“They couldn’t give us round-the-clock surveillance. Not even if it was a super. And they threatened the rest of our family and church as well.”
“Heroes?”
John took another slug of his drink. “You know how they are, Walt. First it’s the big explosion, then they make their entrance.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Christoph said. It was true. Every hero he had met over the years had a penchant for the dramatic. So did he, but only in service to the job. The more invulnerable they were, the sillier the goody-two-shoes got about being majestic figures for justice.
The thought was so sugary it almost made him toss his drink. “How much were they asking for?”
John’s eyebrows furrowed. “That was the weird part. They asked how much I had and then asked for one-fifth. It was part of the reason I went along with it. They weren’t going for the maximum amount. I got the feeling this was a neighborhood shakedown. Pic
k a few well-off people and then move on. You know?”
Christoph didn’t. It made no sense going after suburbs and upstanding people. And whoever the super was who was backing them was clearly no big figure. Christoph kept abreast of the goings-on in the community and had never heard of (sigh) Heat Streak.
“You want this kept under wraps?” Christoph asked. He finished off his drink before John answered.
“Yeah. Julie’s not one to be locked down, and sooner or later…”
“Of course. I’ll make sure to keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks,” John said. He finished his drink. He stared at the empty glass for a second before getting up and grabbing both his and Christoph’s.
“Walt?”
“Yes, John?”
“How did you do that? Take out those big bruisers the way you did?” His eyes said he knew the answer. They also said, Lie to me.
“Some old training. I used to do some combat sparring back in my youth. All about where you strike and when.”
John nodded as he headed to the sink. Christoph didn’t check to see if he had any more questions. His mind was racing over the possibilities. Much as he hated it, he had a phone call to make.
Chapter 3
Christoph retrieved the phone from the false back of the bookshelf in his attic. He coughed a few times as he adjusted to the dusty atmosphere.
He put it down on top of a stack of cardboard boxes and stared at it. Sighed. Reached for it and stopped.
Reached again. Sighed again.
He really wasn’t looking forward to this call.
The rays of the afternoon sun were peeking through the open blinds of his window, giving him the excuse of pulling them shut and putting off other tasks a little longer.
And he needed a comfy chair. He wasn’t about to go about making disagreeable phone calls without one.
He pulled the rocking chair from the corner close to the phone, dusting it off.
Staring at the phone, scowling, he snatched it up and flipped it open. He speed-dialed the last number called. The only number in the phone.
The other side picked up on the third ring.
“Chris, this is a surprise!”
“It’s Christoph, Robert,” Christoph said wearily. His old handler had told him there were going to be monthly calls as part of his release deal, to make sure he wasn’t plotting any new schemes. They had become weekly as Robert found himself facing retirement (put off a few years by his divorce and renewed zest for government bureaucracy).
“So this isn’t about getting in a round of golf?” The hurt was fake, the question real.
“You’re never going to catch me in one of those hideous vests or wearing those ugly trousers. And besides, Robert. The hats.”
“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” Robert said laughing.
“How is Denise?” Robert had started dating in the last year.
“We broke up. Turns out she wants me to be more available. And the kids hated her. I think it was the SoCal accent.”
Christoph sat down in his chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, I have one more question before I sign off to commit my dastardly deeds of preparing dinner.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you had any word of a new ring of criminals—low-level—with a super fronting them, going after irregular targets?”
“Why?” Robert said, the humor dropping out of his voice. “Have you heard anything?”
“No,” Christoph said quickly.
In the ten years Robert had worked on him in prison, he had first asked for information. Super-villains, crime syndicates, and weaknesses, where the best lairs were. Christoph, like all super-villains, was a self-enterprising individual, but he had convictions. One of them was not giving out information. He had lasted a decade before the government gave up. He wasn’t about to give up now.
“I was checking is all. An old man like me out in the quiet suburbs. I’m not as young as I used to be and the potential to be embarrassed…well, you understand.”
“Boy, do I,” Robert said, a guarded edge still in his tone. “The new guys are gunning for my seat. They’re forcing me out in a few months finally.”
“More time for dating,” Christoph said.
“Yeah, I guess. Get to see the grandkids, too. What about you, Chris—Christoph? You seeing anyone?”
Christoph winced as an old image came to mind. “No, I’m not.”
Robert knew not to press. The man hadn’t been given a top position without earning it. “Well, you stay clean, Holtz. I don’t want to commit the resources to bring you back in.”
Christoph smiled despite himself. Robert may have been a minder, but he was a good man. “Thank you, Robert. Have a good evening.”
“You too.”
Hanging up the phone, Christoph put it back in the shelf. He planned on going back down when the thick leather binding of his photo album caught his eye.
Come on, old man. You don’t want to be one of those sorts, do you? Sitting up in a rocking chair and reminiscing about the old days?
No, he didn’t. Not without adjusting the cushion on his seat. Once that was done he sat down with the book and started leafing through it. A smile came to his face. The first photos were in black and white. God, but he had been young! His black suit had coattails at the time (B-level heroes had snagged them when he tried to run, along with his beard before he finally started trimming it down). He had even started with a domino mask.
“What was I thinking?” he said, chuckling.
There were pictures of paper clippings mostly. Heists he had pulled off, heroes he had been captured by before breaking out of prison, and many more of the times he got away. As his powers grew as did his understanding of them, the clippings grew bigger until they were front-page editorials, each taking up its own page.
When he had been at the height of his powers, not bothering with a mask, dressed in immaculate black suits. He had even made “best dressed” in Powered magazine four times in a row (they banned him from ever winning again after the last one).
The grainy photos showed him squaring off against the best heroes of the day: Prowler. Light Beacon. Vanguard.
Shield Maiden.
The last made his breath catch. He had come to that page. His hand trembled as he thumbed the edge. Each time he told himself he wasn’t going to turn it, he was going to put the album back in its hollow space and cover it up, or—better yet—burn it and be done.
He turned the page and caught sight of an old ghost. There she was standing on a rooftop, her shield covered in Norse runes, her blond hair flowing and her leather cuirass shining. Siv Moller.
The first time he had seen her he had nearly tripped down First National’s steps. Wouldn’t that have been a sight? The great Gravitas face planted down, ass in the air, all because he saw a pretty girl.
Christoph felt the grin stretch across his face. They must have battled a half dozen times each with him struggling not to throw it all away and kiss her.
He turned one more page.
The worst page. The best.
Him standing with Siv shoulder to shoulder (not quite, considering how tall she was), smiling. Vanguard had taken the picture and handed it out to the group of seven heroes and villains who had been busy in lairs, vaults, or magic sanctums when the Shirrash had frozen all of Earth’s inhabitants and started terraforming it. They had sworn to a temporary truce to free the planet.
When he and Siv had gotten into place for the final assault, she tried to needle him to the side of good.
Isn’t there one thing you can’t get being a villain? she had asked, her eyes staring into his. Those eyes of frozen sea-green ice.
Yes, he had said, not thinking as he stared into those eyes. You.
Before she got a chance to respond, the attack commenced. They didn’t talk about it after. But two weeks later, when he had been trying to steal a few pieces of Roman silver (more for decoration than wealth), she had t
ackled him. Under her shield and away from prying eyes they’d had their first kiss. The start of two beautiful years. Years of secret dates, a few public battles that became private quickly, and whispered conversations.
In the end it hadn’t worked out. He was what he was.
To her credit, it hadn’t been an ultimatum. Just a quiet question after a long courtship: Will you give it up for me?
He didn’t. She married the Steel Chest eight months later.
Christoph understood, had even sent her a wedding gift under an assumed name. He leafed past the news clipping of her in her gown, losing himself in the years of battles with archenemies and the few turncoat allies. The very end had the first few heists from Cerebrus’s burgeoning career. Before the falling out.
He sat up when he heard a rattle against his attic window. As he stared at the closed blinds and the light coming through them, he realized it was late afternoon. Almost early evening. He had been lost in the past for hours.
Christoph stood up, stretching his legs, wincing as he did. Silly sentimentality.
The rattle came again.
He froze.
The rattle came again. In the same pattern of knocks.
Walking stiffly to the shades he used his fingers to poke an opening.
There Siv stood, floating two stories above the ground, wearing capris, a white blouse, and an embarrassed smile on her face.
“Hey, Chris. Can we talk?”
Chapter 4
“You heroes and your dramatic entrances,” Christoph said cocking an eyebrow, from across the table. “What if my neighbors had seen?”
Siv gave a wave of her hand. “Please. You don’t think I checked? Besides, you’re the one talking about it in a restaurant.”
Christoph gave a shrug as he sipped from the water in his wineglass. A gentleman didn’t let a lady eat in his house where rumors were easily manufactured. He had chosen the Dunkirk, high-end Irish cuisine. It had a private table in the back and—a true rarity in the service field—the ability to keep a secret. None of the wait staff had gawked or asked for autographs when they saw Siv, and by extension, none questioned what Christoph was doing with her.
