Fid's Crusade

by David Reiss

  “Tell me what you know,” I finally ordered; or perhaps, in retrospect, it had been a defeated appeal. Through the vocoder’s modulation, either guess could have been accurate.

  “On the seventeenth last year, you threatened to destroy Axiom Laboratories with an ionic flux bomb; the hero named ‘Clash’ intervened.” Starnyx set down the six-pack and lifted out a bottle. “The campus was unharmed but Clash needed months of physical therapy. The thing is…I know you didn’t have an ionic flux bomb. There’s a distinctive neutrino pulse whenever a new Westler-Gray crystal is formed. I know a guy who has a sensor…The bomb was a bluff, a ruse to draw out Clash.

  “The year before that, it was Sonic, and three years ago was Salamander…Every year, mid-July: an attack chosen someplace where a single hero is forced to respond without backup. No other purpose, just a target.”

  “Sometimes, targeting a specific hero is the purpose,” I conceded, feeling oddly defensive.

  “If that were true…then why does the date matter? Three shipping containers in three nights! You’re rushing and someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “No one that hasn’t earned their pain.” I noticed that my hands were clenched into fists. When had that happened?

  “You’re rushing,” Starnyx repeated. “You’re the best of us, but even you can make mistakes.”

  “The best of…?” I growled, smelling ozone as my armor built up charge. “I’m a monster! I’m not the best of anything.”

  “You’re a monster for a few days in the middle of summer. The rest of the year, you’re Doctor Fid.”

  I stared at him, uncomprehending. I must have looked like a statue.

  “You’re a precision instrument, Doc. You plan, you do what you need to do, you get away clean.” He gestured with his bottle expressively. “You build things out of legend, you fought Valiant to a standstill, and Lloyd’s of London has an insurance policy for Acts of Fid.”

  “I’m reasonably certain that the last item is apocryphal,” I noted dryly.

  “Nope,” he grinned, popping the cap off his bottle, “I checked this morning.”

  “That is a kind sentiment,” I allowed. “I do not, however, see how this relates to your request that I discontinue my...summer tradition.”

  “The world accepts self-righteous, hypocritical violent thugs to be their defenders because everyone is afraid that the sky will fall without their protection. But you...you changed the game,” he explained, taking a quick drink. “You proved that the ‘heroes’ can lose but the world didn’t end. That makes the world wonder why it puts up with the spandex-clad vigilantes in the first place.

  “Doctor Fid is careful and precise. The guy who kept hitting Clash for half a minute after he lost consciousness, though...That guy was frightening enough that everyone who’s seen the video worries about the sky falling.

  “So... don’t go through with whatever you have planned for next week. Don’t be that guy. Have a beer; be Doctor Fid instead.”

  Silently, I evaluated his argument. There was a valid point buried within the appeals to my vanity and my desire to maintain visible self-control. Intimidation is a powerful weapon, but it must be wielded carefully; fear is useful, but panic is dangerous. Had I gone too far? If so...could I use that reputation without exacerbating the situation? Planning and detailed analysis would be required.

  Left unspoken were his secondary arguments. First, that my pattern was noticed by a villain who’d chosen to bring the finding to my attention, but an enterprising hero could make the same connections and begin planning appropriately. Secondly...that Starnyx never made a secret of his opposition towards unnecessary violence. In the abstract, I tended to agree. It was...unseemly.

  Punishing the unworthy heroes would always be necessary. Celebrating an anniversary with unspeakable violence, perhaps less so.

  “That looks like a good beer,” I finally commented.

  “It’s from a microbrewery in Brooklyn.” His smile widened. “Scottish ale, flavored with orange zest.”

  I made no promises but accepted the beer. That laboratory was abandoned and others hidden sufficiently that Nyx was never able to find another, and he and I had been on good terms ever since.

  There’d been no mid-summer battle that year, nor any year since.

  ◊◊◊

  It would have been simpler, perhaps, to travel home and return another time; Nyx was, as the bartender noted, expected to be present at Lassiter’s on the following evening. Instead, I chose to find a quiet shadowy rooftop to sift through a flood of information gathered by my automated systems. Starnyx had no idea who stood encased by Doctor Fid’s armor, but he was a friend none-the-less. I’d discovered his civilian identity some years ago; it was no great hardship to seek out his current location.

  Traveling through the night sky of New York City while wearing full supervillain regalia was strange. In some ways, it was easier than one might expect; my powered-armor can be quite stealthy and could easily swerve amongst the buildings to avoid radar or other forms of detection. Even the sound of my flight was muted, with anti-gravitic thrust carefully tuned and air-resistance minimized by shaped low-friction force-fields. Few pedestrians look up and fewer waste more than a moment’s attention on anything that isn’t an immediate threat.

  And yet, the city of New York contained more so-called superheroes per square mile than any other locale. All that it took was one unusually diligent late-night office-worker reporting a sighting of the notorious Doctor Fid flying past a window and suddenly everyone wearing spandex and a mask started watching the skies. I’d developed a program that monitored the police-radio bands and marked off suggested course corrections, but detection was still a possibility. The majority of so-called ‘heroes,’ however, were familiar enough with my reputation that they usually thanked the fates that I was heading away from them and pretended not to have seen me.

  Sometimes, however, luck failed me and some costumed buffoon decided to try their luck.

  It was more than an hour (my powered-armor sustained only minor cosmetic damage, and the now-concussed Blockbuster would likely make a full recovery within days) before I arrived at Starnyx’s location. I set down on his rooftop and waited; my sensors indicated that security cameras had recognized my approach and triggered appropriate alerts.

  I didn’t need to linger for long. A familiar pale, slim, rumpled and unshaven figure opened the door and peered wearily at me. Starnyx was not, apparently, prepared for company: rather than his costume, he was wearing faded blue jeans, a black ‘Han Shot First!’ t-shirt and gray fuzzy slippers.

  “Christ. This is my apartment, Doc. I live here,” he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. The man looked haggard. “My neighbors‘ll notice if I walk you through the halls.”

  “My apologies.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot, embarrassed. “I’ll meet you at the Den tomorrow.”

  “Nah. ‘ss all right,” he sighed. “I’ll open a window for you. 14th floor, northwest fire escape.”

  I nodded silently and floated off the rooftop. Yawning tiredly, the unmasked Starnyx trudged back inside.

  My early powered-armor suits had been powerful, but not nearly so graceful as recent models. I wouldn’t have been able to land silently on a metal fire-escape using the Mk 17, much less carefully squeeze through an open window without causing damage to the architecture. I’d developed highly accurate synaptic feedback for the Mk 18 when Nyx announced that he was going to teach me how to pick locks. Adding sufficient sensitivity to accurately control a torsion wrench and feel a tumbler settle into place had been an entertaining diversion and eventually yielded tremendous benefits for my dexterity while armored. Presumably, it also saved wear and tear on window frames.

  The apartment was not the sort one would imagine a supervillain to maintain. There were no exposed city maps with thumbtacks identifying possible targets, no walls of humming machinery or blinking lights. It was small but well-appointed, with wood paneling and warm earth-t
oned accents throughout. There were photos and artworks placed sporadically along the walls, seemingly chosen more for pleasant remembrance than for ostentatious presentation. This was a lived-in home, not a lair.

  Even out of my armor, it’d been years since the last time that I’d stood in a friend’s domain. In academia, I’d had coworkers and peers with whom I socialized but never truly been close. When I left the University and founded AH Biotech, I'd entertained employees and investors at Terrance Markham’s house for the expected dinner parties and soirees, but that hardly counted; that residence was a front, carefully tailored to maintain my civilian identity’s charade. I lived in my laboratories, not in any house. I could not recall accepting any invitations from employees or investors looking to reciprocate. And (with the exception of our first personal encounter) Starnyx and I had always met at Lassiter’s or some other neutral location. I felt strangely out of place, as though trespassing on holy ground.

  Perhaps Dr. Markham would have felt comfortable in a place like this, but Doctor Fid did not. And Starnyx knew only Doctor Fid.

  “I heard ’bout your fight ‘gainst the Guardians. You okay?” Nyx asked, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of 15-year highland scotch from a cabinet.

  “I’m fine,” I shrugged self-consciously; the media coverage to which Starnyx referred had universally declared Doctor Fid to have come out the poorer from that conflict. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. How are you doing?”

  He paused, then sighed. “I take it you heard ’bout Beazd?”

  “Not exactly. I was at the Den and Bill let something slip,” I stalled, pulling up a flurry of data feeds on the screen inside my helmet. The founding members of the FTW were Starnyx, Beazd, Root, Hax and Colonel Panic; Beazd (Real name Kenta Takuma) was arrested once, served his time and retired, ’though he had often violated the terms of his parole to put on the old costume and drink with us at Lassiter’s. No recent arrests, no news articles, no...ah. Damn. Obituary notice. Car accident. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, man.” Nyx poured two fingers’ worth of scotch into each glass. He handed one to me and I accepted.

  “I didn’t know him that well, but he seemed like a good man.” Beazd had come up in conversation often, but we’d only met in person five times. The former villain’d had a subtle sense of humor, oft betrayed only by a mischievous smile: a playful smirk that reminded you to think back through the wording of the last few rounds of conversation and contemplate what joke you’d missed.

  “The best.” Nyx took a sip of his scotch, his hands shaking. “He was my friend since grade school, didja know that?”

  “I did, yes.” My suit’s drinking-extension automatically slid from my suit’s forearm to sample the scotch. It wasn’t a ‘straw’, exactly...a bellows system pumped precise amounts up the tube, to match the volume that would have been poured based upon a shift in my wrist’s position and the tilt of my head. “He helped form the FTW, didn’t he?”

  “It was his idea.” The mourning supervillain stared at his glass as though he wanted desperately to take a swallow but held back out of some misguided self-punishment. “I was a better hacker, better public speaker...but the core, our manifesto: that was all Ken.”

  “I think you mentioned that the Hamblin International caper was his idea?” I browsed a few articles on the grieving process and determined that it would likely be optimal to keep Starnyx thinking about good memories. I held little experience at this and witnessed few positive exemplars save for portrayals of bereavement and support found in mass-media. My own coping mechanisms tended towards directed violence and even I had to admit that was probably unhealthy.

  “The Westmont Corporation, too. Every step.” He smiled sadly, “That video got nearly a million hits. Put us on the map.”

  “That job was very well planned,” I nodded in approval. “I was one of the viewers.”

  “I ever tell you how he got caught?” He took another drink from his glass; this scotch was excellent, but I wasn’t sure that Nyx tasted it. Not tonight.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “We were leaving the Mitchel & Mitchel Fidelity headquarters an’ he got surrounded. If they’d been wearing their tac-suits, it wouldn’ve been a big deal...Kenta was strong, he coulda pushed through ’em and gotten away. But your Ghost advised ’em to take off their protective gear and Beazd couldn’t get away without hurting someone. So, he just surrendered.”

  “Admirable.” I took another sip from my glass, remembering the deceased. His powers had been simple: strength, durability and endurance. Not in the class of, say Titan or Gamma, but certainly significantly greater than human. Hmm. “The Red Ghost, you mean?”

  “Yeah...he was still a member of the New York Shield back then.”

  “The Red Ghost is…” I paused, considering my descriptor carefully. “…Challenging.”

  “Yeah.” Starnyx chuckled painfully. “Smart though, I guess. Used Ken’s morality against him.”

  “That level of conviction is remarkable.” Another sip. “I wish that I’d known Beazd better.”

  “Heh. He hated you at first, hated that I talked to you.” Starnyx gestured towards me with his glass; the contents sloshed but didn’t spill. “It wasn’t personal, he just disliked violence. Kenta could throw an engine block through a brick wall, but wouldn’t throw a punch to save his own li—”

  He trailed off into a tormented silence.

  I stood motionless, reviewing what’d been said, what I knew of Beazd’s powers, what I could glean from the coroner’s statements. Something was horribly wrong; the accident report described an incident that could very easily have killed a normal civilian. The retired villain who’d helped form the FTW, however, should have walked away without a scratch.

  “Tell me what happened to Beazd,” I finally requested, setting down my glass.

  “No.”

  “Did someone do this?” I asked, confused. “Nyx...did someone kill Beazd? Just let me—”

  “No!” He finished his drink in one angry gulp then set the glass down. “Christ, Doc, this is why I didn’t call you.”

  “What?!?”

  “My best friend was a pacifist!” Nyx spat, “He hated violence for any reason, even self-defense. And you...you’re Doctor Fid. You’ve made ‘bloody revenge’ into a lifestyle choice!

  “If I tell you what happened, you’ll make me an offer.” The mourning young man offered a sad smile. “I know how Kenny would want me to respond, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to say ‘no’. So...I can’t deal with Doctor Fid right now. Just...go.”

  The most damning aspect of his commentary was its accuracy; my first thought was a cry for retribution, for terror and sorrow. To pay back tenfold any who caused my friend’s anguish! I could think of little else; the rage pulsed through me like my own blood and I ached with the need to gather up my own pain and inflict it upon someone deserving. My armaments had reflexively warmed into a ready state, glowing with malevolence. I felt...focused, directed. Like an avalanche readying to catapult downhill, awaiting the slightest trigger to release a cleansing wrath. That’s what Doctor Fid was: my vengeance forged into a faceless, implacable suit of powered-armor. I’d chosen to make Fid a scalpel rather than a battle-axe, perhaps, but the intent was the same.

  I stared down at Starnyx, at...Eric Guthrie, the man who wore Nyx’s mask.

  I could convince him, I knew. I could utter the right words, to make him howl for retribution and unleash me towards those who’d earned a just reprisal. I could see how close he was, how tempted. I could see his heartbreak.

  And I could see what it would cost him to betray his childhood friend’s wishes.

  My jaw clenched and I hesitated before departing. I didn’t want to leave Starnyx alone with his grief; I’d been alone after Bobby’s death and isolation had destroyed me. Nyx was a better man than I’d ever been. He deserved a better fate. He deserved better friends.

  I issued a command that had never b
efore been activated outside one of my laboratories; the Mk 31’s star-field motif dimmed like dark clouds pouring over a night sky, and the angry red glow faded to warm coals. My armor fell open with a quiet hiss of equalizing pressures.

  I stepped out of Fid and put a hand on Eric’s shoulder in consolation.

  “Hi. I’m, uh, Terry,” I grimaced. “I’m sorry about Kenta. Let me pour us another drink, ok?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Over the next few days, it was reaffirmed that Kenta Takuma had been an odd sort of supervillain. An idealist, he’d believed that there existed social and economic inequities that could not be addressed from within the system; he’d stepped away from that system, from the mundane and safe environment in which he most certainly could have excelled, and instead put on a brightly colored costume so as to improve the world in what ways he could. As the masked villain Beazd, his efforts had been squarely targeted towards exposing greed and malfeasance among those in power.

  His criminal career, however, ended after only a few short years. Beazd surrendered peacefully when cornered, served his time and hung up his cape. He’d retired, quietly confident that others would take up his cause.

  Kenta Takuma had been an inspiration, a teacher, a friend, and a murder victim.

  Some might have argued that manslaughter was a more appropriate label for the incident, or perhaps a tragic mishap. If that argument were so compelling, if Kenta's death had, in fact, been simply a moment of ill-fortune...why, then, did Sphinx put so much effort towards covering up her teammate's actions? Why forge evidence to hide a mistake, why shop for a corrupt medical examiner if a competent investigation would have determined the death to be accidental?

  If a criminal aimed a firearm at a police officer and pulled the trigger, then “I thought he was wearing a bullet proof vest!” would make for a poor legal defense. Common sense would dictate that choosing to employ lethal force can potentially lead to a lethal outcome. It was feasible (likely, even!) that the superhero Peregrine believed that Beazd could take the fall, but that belief is no absolution.