by Jay Phillips
“And you, Detective? How do you plan to make yourself relevant in our little drama?”
“Me?” The Detective answered, his tone more sarcastic with each word he spoke. “I’m just going to stop off for some popcorn, then come by and watch the show. Nothing says entertainment like watching a despot being murdered by his own mechanical killing machine adopted son. It’s better than Hamlet on Ice.”
“I give you credit, Detective. Your knack for witty is top of the line. You remind me of a super villain I faced early in my crime fighting career, The Jokester. He, too, saw himself as a comedian, always using his banter to distract his opponents. And I really must say, he was quite amusing, up until I threw him off the top of a forty story building. Like him, Detective, you won’t be quite so funny when you’re dead.” The Agent paused for the briefest of moments, then continued. “Come to my tower, Detective. I will be waiting for you there. Let us finish this, all of this, like men.”
The phone went dead, and The Detective took it away from his ear. “Well fuck me,” he said as he flipped the phone closed. “Everyone’s a critic.”
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Journal Entry
[Found on page 82]
Note: The following is a transcription of a video found on Rogers’ computer, recorded from The Ice Queen’s penthouse in Metro City. The video shows The Agent and The Ice Queen standing in her large living room, discussing the file of paperwork The Agent has in his hands.
The Agent: (handing Ice Queen the file) Look at this.
Ice Queen: What is it?
Agent: Just look.
Ice: (sitting on the couch and looking at the paperwork) What the hell is this, Agent? Who the fuck is The Truth and Red Hot?
Agent: (looking down at her) I had hoped you would know.
Ice: Why would I know? What exactly are you trying to say here?
Agent: Look through the messages. This person who calls themselves “Red Hot” has been trading in government secrets for almost two years, sending these little messages back and forth, letting this little rebel group know all of our plans before we have even finalized them. Now I say again, I hoped you would know who this person is.
Ice: It can’t be. She wouldn’t.
Agent: She would. She has.
Ice: (slamming the folder down on the couch beside her) And how do you know for sure? It could be Barren; it could be Hope or Psychosis. Maybe one of them is planning a coup or some shit.
Agent: You know better than that, Ice: you know who the weak link in our little group is, and who it has always been. I’ve been tracking these messages for a while now. She’s done a superb job of covering her steps, but even the best are known to make the occasional mistake. It is her. And you know what you have to do.
Ice: (looking up at him, crying, pleading) Please. I can’t. She’s my partner; she’s the closest thing to family I have left in the world. There has to be another way.
Agent: There is, but it won’t be easy.
Ice: I’ll do anything.
Agent: First, you have to eliminate all of these rebel cells. I don’t care if you do it yourself or if you pay to have it done. I want them gone, and I want it to be public and bloody. I want anyone else in this country, when they consider rebelling, to remember what you did to these cells, and I want the memory to instantly change their minds.
Ice: It’ll be done. No question. I will make it happen.
Agent: Second, you will talk Fire into stepping down from The Seven. Tell her to get married, have some kids, whatever you have to say, but I want her out of my government. If you convince her to do this, she and her sister will be safe from me. There will be no retaliation, for now at least.
Ice: I will. I promise. You don’t have to hurt her or Emily. I will take care of it all.
Agent: (walking out of the room) See that you do.
(End video)
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“What are you going to do?” Emily asked. The look on her face, despite the fact she wasn’t really there, managed to convey the nervousness he knew she was feeling.
The Detective turned to his right and looked at her. “I’m going to go to Adam’s building, get this book you want, then go and see our illustrious chancellor. I’ve never been invited to a ‘tower’ before. Sounds like fun.”
“You know it’s a trap, don’t you?”
“No ma’am, I just fell off the turnip truck yesterday.” He lightly chuckled. “Of course I know it’s a trap. He wants me to come there. No. He needs me to come there. It’s all part of his plan. I don’t know why yet, but I know he needs me to be in his presence.”
She shrugged and frowned. He was waiting for the pout to come back.
“And you’re going to give him what he wants?” she asked. “Just like that?”
He shrugged back at her. “You got any better options?”
They drove along in silence for a few miles. The rain continued to batter the old truck, and the wind blew it from one side of the road to the other. Lightning flashed, illuminating the now dark sky, and the accompanying thunder seemed to shake the world around him. As violent as the storm was, he found himself liking it. It matched the way he felt inside, angry, distressed, cold, alone. Alone that was except for his imaginary friend sitting beside him.
“I’m not---” she started to say before he interrupted.
“I know; I know,” he replied as he saw the exit sign for Downtown Metro City. “You’re not imaginary. Besides if I were going to make an imaginary friend, I would make him awesome and name him Uncle Bobo.”
“Uncle Bobo?” she asked, a smile slowly crawling across her pretty face. “You’d really name him Uncle Bobo?”
“Sure would.” He slowed down and veered the truck to the right, all the while mentally calculating how far they were from Adam’s building. “Not to change the subject on the validity of naming imaginary friends, but have you come up with a brilliant alternative plan yet? We’re about ten minutes away, so now, beautiful, would be the time to share it.”
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“Kill it!” Adam heard several soldiers scream in unison as he walked through the fourth sub-level, making his way towards the vault that all of The Agent’s men tried in vain to protect. He raised the wrist gun, mowing through each of them, the bullets tearing them in half, ripping the limbs away from their bodies, leaving them decimated and dying. The machine stepped on one of the soldier’s heads as he walked, leaving nothing but a blood and brain stained footprint in its wake.
Adam piloted the armor through the carrion, even as the occasional lone soldier would try valiantly to slow him down, launching a rocket or tossing a grenade in the machine’s general direction, though neither made an impact on the machine, leaving less than a scratch on The Iron Knight’s exterior, doing nothing to damage it nor slow down its trajectory.
After laying waste to every guard who stood in its way, the machine reached the vault itself. Adam scanned the container’s outer door. Almost five feet of solid steel and weighing right at twenty-two tons, there was nothing the armor had in its payload that could hope to make an impact. He looked around; a keypad sat to the right of the massive door, and Adam knew it would have been designed for only The Agent himself to gain entrance. None of the now dead cadre of soldiers would have been allowed the privilege of knowing the combination, not that there were any left alive to share such information.
Adam piloted the machine to the keypad, and without hesitation, began to type in the pass code. He knew it without question, without even thinking, knowing the one thing in the world that truly mattered to The Agent, the one thing he actually gave a damn about. Adam entered it in, one letter at a time: METROCITY.
With a loud rumble, the ground shook ever so slightly as the giant door began to slowly raise. Once he had the head clearance, Adam piloted the machine through the doorway and into the once secure room. Walki
ng into the room felt like walking into a version of The Agent’s greatest hits. Several glass display cases filled the room, each containing different mementos from The Agent’s career, both prewar and post: The Jokester’s signature playing card, Chance’s once lucky coin, Eagle Eyes’ bow, The Scarlet Widow’s black mask, each a trophy of someone The Agent had either put away or sent to an untimely demise, but on the other side of the room was the only memento that mattered, the one he had brought the machine here for.
In the last display case, placed there all alone, not sharing the space with any other trophy, was a small canister, similar in appearance to an asthma inhaler, containing the last of the country’s supply of anti-mutagen. There would have been more, but Adam himself, all those years ago during the war, had told the machines to cease production, telling them their work was done, forcing them to discontinue the process that theoretically could have momentarily depowered every super in the nation. Adam knew that this canister, this nominal piece of metal and plastic containing the smallest amount of pressurized gas, was the key to killing The Agent. It could take away his powers, leaving him as defenseless as a normal, leaving him as vulnerable as any other person on the planet, just as prone to pain and death as all the people The Agent himself had sacrificed during his march to power.
The Iron Knight rammed its fist through the glass and shattered the display case. A compartment on the machine’s left leg opened; it bent down and picked up the canister. Adam placed the precious cargo into the storage area just before the compartment closed, leaving the gas safe and protected. Adam turned the armor around, and The Iron Knight began to make its way out of the depository and back to Metro City, back to The Agent, back to one final confrontation before this could all come to an end.
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The Detective parked the truck next to the curb. He sat in the cab and watched the rain fall against the windshield and onto the pavement outside. He sat there, about a block away from Adam’s apartment, still confused on what to do next. While he could go in guns blazing, he was down to about five bullets. It wouldn’t be much of a show. He could sneak in, but he had a feeling The Agent’s little assassin duo would be hard to sneak past. There was always plan G: putting the truck back into gear and making a straight shot for some border or another.
“You wouldn’t,” Emily’s voice said from beside him. “You said you wou---”
“I’m not,” he interrupted. “I just like to keep my options open. And you said you were going to stop reading all of my stray thoughts. I really can’t control those things.”
“You came all the way here,” she said in return, ignoring what he had just said. “Why would you change your mind now?”
“You really don’t listen, do you? I said I’m not changing my mind.”
Her voice softened. “I know. I’m just worried. I’m scared.”
“About what?” he asked as turned towards her.
“I’m worried about my sister. I’m worried about the babies. I’m worried about myself.” She paused for a moment. “I’m worried about you.”
He smiled at her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m like a cockroach. The only thing that can kill me is a giant boot. Or insecticide. And probably those little roach motels. Oh yeah, those little black traps with the bait inside. Hate those things. But in case of nuclear war, I am so good.”
“I hate you,” she said with a smile and a chuckle.
He turned back towards the windshield. “I know. The pretty ones always do.” He reached over and grabbed the door handle.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked as he started to push the door open.
“Not in the slightest.” He opened the door and stepped out of the truck. His hat did little to block the rain from his face. He was quickly becoming soaked. “Figure I’ll do what I always do.”
She suddenly appeared beside him, standing outside of the vehicle and in the pouring rain. He couldn’t help but notice how weird it looked as the rain seemed to fall through her. “And what’s that?” she asked.
“Make it up as I go along,” he answered.
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Journal Entry
[Found on page 31]
Note: The following is a transcription of a video found on Rogers’ computer, recorded in The Agent’s tower some time after the end of the war, around when The Agent began collecting children. The Agent is going over paperwork handed to him by his lawyer, Grant.
The Agent: Where did you find them?
Grant: Homeless shelter, sir. All of their immediate family are either dead, or they just abandoned the children along the way.
Agent: Twins?
Grant: Yes, sir. A boy and a girl, twelve years old. The boy’s powers emerged with muteness as a side effect.
Agent: He can’t speak at all?
Grant: He can make assorted grunting noises and the occasional moan, but he can’t form actual words.
Agent: The girl?
Grant: She makes up for her brother’s silence by talking too much.
Agent: And he is a teleporter?
Grant: He can teleport himself, but he is more than a run of the mill teleporter, sir. He can become a literal doorway, allowing as many as ten people to walk through him and appear wherever he or they choose to be. It is quite extraordinary and very rare. Along with the transportation skills, he also has advanced strength, the power to become intangible, and the strange ability to remove any artificial light from a room; it’s as if he drains the illumination from a bulb. It is a little unnerving.
Agent: The girl, what can she do?
Grant: She has the ability to cover her body in a layer of solid light, much in the same way The Fire Maiden can coat herself in a sheath of flames. Conceivably, with proper training, she should be able to form the light into solid constructs, such as blades or projectiles. The light also has a secondary function; it has a sedating effect on those who view it for a set amount of time.
Agent: And how long would that be?
Grant: In some cases, the sedation could take affect in a matter of seconds. For the strong willed or those with telepathic type powers, the times are questionable, but during the testing, every subject we sent to her eventually succumbed to the effect, causing all of the test subjects to appear docile in her presence, obeying her commands, and refusing to harm her when given the chance.
Agent: Do they have names?
Grant: The girl has taken to calling herself Light and her brother Dark. It seems to fit.
(End video)
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He could see it on the monitor, his special children in his son’s building, silencing anyone who may have accidentally come into contact with The Detective. The twins did such good work; he could never complain. Dark blocked each floor’s exit while Light went from room-to-room, making sure no one who lived there would be given the opportunity to speak about The Detective’s earlier visit, his arrival with The Ice Queen, the finding of Adam’s decayed corpse. All of these secrets were his and his alone; they were not for anyone else to know; they were not for anyone else to share.
A warning light lit up on the base of the monitor. He bent down and pushed the adjacent button. A call was coming through, a call from the building where his special children were currently working. He picked up a phone next to the row of buttons and placed the receiver next to his ear.
“Take the call,” he said to the person on the other end of the line.
“Emergency management,” answered a man from the phone’s earpiece, “what is the nature of your call?”
“They’re killing everyone,” a woman said in a scared whisper. “They’ve been going through every apartment. They’re killing people. You have to send somebody to help, somebody, anybody, please; I’m begging you.”
He spoke into the phone. “Ask her where she is right now.”
“Miss, where are you currently
?”
“The eighteenth floor, apartment M, I’m hiding in the bathroom; oh my God, they’re killing everyone. Please, please, please.”
“Ask her if she can describe them,” he said as he looked at the monitors, pushing various buttons to find the exact apartment.
“Miss, can you describe the assailants?”
“I’m sorry; I can’t, please, send someone, for God sake; they’re killing everyone. I think I smell smoke. I think they’re setting a fire. Please, help us.”
He found the right apartment and the right room, focusing the camera down onto the woman’s face. She was young, no older than thirty or so, quite pretty. It was such a shame. “Tell her help is on the way.”
“Miss, we are sending help. They should be there shortly.”
“Oh God, thank you, thank you so much. Please tell them to hurry. The smoke is getting stronger. I think the floor above me is on fire.” And with those words, her phone went silent.
“Chancellor,” the man on the other end of his receiver began, “should we send help?”
“No,” he answered. “The team I have on the premises should be able to handle things.” He reached down to the console and pushed another button. “Light, you missed a straggler; she is on the eighteenth floor, apartment M, in the bathroom. Remember your instructions, no witnesses, no survivors.”
He hung up the phone, carefully returning it to the cradle. An image on one of the monitors had caught his eye. A truck had parked down the road from the building, a truck he recognized, and a man in a trench coat and a fedora was walking through the rain towards Adam’s building.
He picked the phone back up, pushed a button, and returned the receiver to his ear. “Light, my dear, you and your brother have company coming.”
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The Detective could smell smoke in the air. Usually, rain prevented scents from being carried across distances, but the smell was strong and coming from the general direction of Adam‘s building. It was well past curfew, and the street was devoid of people. Yet he could hear voices. No, not voices. Screams. And like the smell of smoke, they came from what used to be Adam’s home. He crossed the street, heading toward the sounds.
