by Jay Phillips
“I’ll take it. I can work with a maybe.”
He looked up. Seventy-five. “Any way you can tell how many guards are outside your door?”
“I’ve heard at least two, maybe three.”
“You know what I’m about to ask, don’t you?”
She sighed. “You need me out of your head, so you can concentrate on killing people.”
Eighty.
“When you put it like that, it just makes me sound bad.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
Eighty-five.
“Maybe. Depends on what it is.”
“Please be careful.”
Ninety.
He made his voice as sincere as he possibly could. “I will do my best.”
“Thank you,” she said as her voice faded out of his head, taking the pressure and some of the head pain along with it.
A bell dinged, and he looked up to see the digital display flashing the number ninety-nine. The doors silently slid open, and with Peterson’s gun held firmly within his hand, he stepped out of the elevator.
_______________________________________________
The Detective stepped out the elevator, half expecting to walk into yet another dimly lit hallway. Instead, the entire area was a sea of white: white walls, white floors, white ceilings, all of it awash with the glow of fluorescent light. Within a few yards of the elevator, he saw an unmanned guard station, complete with security monitors, communication devices, and various other paraphernalia he would associate with the art of running a floor dedicated to detaining The Agent’s various “guests.”
He took a glance at the monitor; the screen was split into several quadrants, each showing a different holding cell, and they were all empty. He assumed there would be more stations like this further down the hall, and he assumed Emily would be in the cell with actual guards out front.
He continued walking, the pistol he stole/took from Peterson still clutched firmly within his hands. The gun was a tad bit heavier than his, and he thought it would have a bit more kick as well; the heavier weight would probably throw his aim off ever so slightly. In a situation like this, life and death, imminent shootouts with heavily armed storm troopers, he would have preferred to use his own gun; but his gun had four bullets left, and this one had a full clip. This choice, at least, was easy; all of the rest he’d had to make in the past twenty-four hours, not so much.
And that’s the moment when the doubt crept into his head, and the obvious question came to the forefront of his thoughts: what in the hell was he doing here? The past twenty-four hours had seen him go from an unconscious prisoner, surviving his imprisonment in a cryogenic tank, to an unwitting investigator, helping, of all people, The Ice Queen herself try to find who had just murdered The Iron Knight and taken his armor on a cross state murder spree, eliminating each of The Seven, one-by one.
And now, he was in The Agent’s tower, searching for the little sister of a member of The Seven, who had been taken as a pawn to lure him here, and he had happily obliged, all the while knowing it was nothing more than a trap. Was he stupid? The last time he had checked he wasn’t, but his actions did nothing to prove this to be the case. Maybe everything he had always suspected about himself was true, and he was nothing more than the world’s largest glutton for punishment, a masochist of the highest order.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was what Emily kept calling him: a hero, and The Agent was just using this whole situation to prey on that part of him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to save an innocent, especially one who was only in danger because she had encountered him. Maybe, it occurred to him, The Agent had been using all of his traits against him: his curiosity, his natural desire to fight, his love of pretty women, his inability to leave a situation like this unfinished.
Could it be that all of this had been about him, just for the insane purpose of getting him here, to this place at this exact time. He knew it was crazy, but on some level, it made sense. It wasn’t in his nature to be vain, to believe that everything was about him, so this entire line of thinking went against his nature. But at this point, crazier things had happened, and even crazier was bound to keep happening.
He shrugged the thoughts away, trying his best to break off from this line of thinking. Who the hell was he? He had been a lowly homicide detective, struggling to keep his powers hid from those around him, never letting anyone get close enough to him, lest the fact he was a freak become public knowledge to everyone he knew. Then came the war, a war he couldn’t identify with either side on, so he did the only thing he knew to do: he hired a technokinetic who’d worked as a hacker, and he paid her a ton of money to wipe his digital footprint clean. Her name was Mara, and he remembered, for a woman with a Mohawk and plenty of tattoos, she was quite lovely. She erased him from the world, removing all records of his fingerprints, DNA, retinal scans, dental records, even his elementary school records, effectively eliminating his presence from the planet, making it as if he had never existed.
He left Mara’s apartment that day as The Detective, and The Detective had been his only identity since. He packed a single suitcase of belongings and made a run for Canada, knowing that no matter which side won, the United States would no longer be the same. Once there, he watched the war play out alongside the rest of the world, everyone wondering when the effects of the conflict would spill into their own respective backyards.
In Canada, he did what he always done and became a police officer, but The Detective, unlike the man he had once been in America, had no reason to hide his abilities. It wasn’t long before he was noticed by the higher ranks of the government and assigned to a task force of operatives, made up of a combination of supers and normals, all with the same goal in mind: to prevent The Agent’s forces from making their way North, to prevent the atrocities taking place in America from happening in Canada. And, despite many losses in the process, they had, for the most part, succeeded.
As interesting as he found his own private episode game of Memory, none of that served to answer his initial question. Who the hell was he? Why would he think himself so important to deserve this much attention from the Supreme Chancellor himself? Maybe, he thought, this was just the way the old man got his kicks and giggles. Just choose a random prisoner, release him, and watch him run through the maze like a rat dying for one last piece of cheese.
Cheese. The thought simply served to remind him that he hadn’t eaten all day. He was going to be sorely pissed if he had to die on an empty stomach. Now that just wouldn’t be right.
After walking a while, he reached a crossroads; a corridor turned to the left, another to the right, while the hallway he was in continued straight for as far as he could see. He sniffed the air. Straight, he smelled nothing, just the same disinfectant, clean, hospital smell he had smelled since stepping out of the elevator. To the right, more of the same, nothing. He turned toward the left and sniffed again. This time, he hit pay dirt. To the left, there was sweat, coffee, a ham sandwich, hair gel, and several metallic smells, most likely belonging to guns and keys. If he’d had time, he could have deciphered between the various different metal scents, identifying each, but he didn’t have the time or the desire.
The left, it seemed, had people, and people, in this place, were probably guards, guards who were probably guarding the woman he had come to find. He tightened his grip on Peterson’s gun and made a left turn.
_______________________________________________
Two hundred feet or so into the corridor, The Detective noticed another security desk, complete with another monitoring station like the one he had seen earlier, only this one was manned. A helmetless guard, dressed up in all of the same swat team gear Peterson was wearing, sat at the desk, watching the computer screen, a cup of coffee in one hand, a ham sandwich in the other, his shaved head moving up and down as he chewed. The Detective inched closer; the guard never noticed, not even when The Detective moved himself within a few feet of the desk, his
gun aimed directly at the guard’s uncovered head.
The Detective cleared his throat. The guard turned, spilling the coffee all over himself as he moved. He reached for a button underneath the desktop, but The Detective stepped closer, moving his pistol closer to the guard’s head. The Detective shook his head back and forth, saying no to any idea the guard may have had about raising any alarms. The guard stopped and slowly moved his hands into the air.
“Up,” The Detective commanded in a hushed whisper.
The guard stood up, his arms still firmly raised in the air. The Detective took the guard’s place at the monitor. It was the same as the one he had seen earlier, split into several different quadrants, each showing a different view of the holding cells in lovely black and white. In one section, he saw a beautiful girl, her raven black hair disheveled and falling into her face. She sat in a chair, all alone in the middle of the room. She didn’t appear to be restrained; she nervously rubbed her dainty hands together, and her feet and ankles were tucked delicately under her chair.
In another quadrant, The Detective saw two more guards posted outside of a door. Like Peterson and sandwich boy in front of him, they were also decked out in what seemed to be the standard storm trooper gear, each with their helmets firmly in place, each with their own firearm held in place at their hips. They didn’t move; they didn’t sway; they just stood there as still as statues, staring directly toward the front, and what The Detective assumed was the only entrance into the area leading to the holding cells.
The Detective stepped away from the monitor and leaned in close to the guard, his own personal hostage. He placed the gun’s barrel hard against the back of the guard’s bald head. “How many more guards on this floor?” The Detective whispered firmly as he pressed the gun a little bit harder than he had before.
“Two,” the guard answered as quietly as it seemed he could.
Without taking any pressure away from the gun, The Detective turned back towards the monitor. Two more security personnel was all he saw, but he had to be sure. “When people lie to me, I get real happy with the trigger. You understand?”
“Yes,” the guard answered in a tone that seemed to be trying to sound as sincere as possible, but the fear in the man’s voice made his voice tremble as he spoke.
“I’m going to ask one more time, how many more guards are there?” The Detective put all of his concentration into his extra sensitive hearing, until he could hear the sound of the man’s heart beating within his chest. A nice steady rhythm, it beat in The Detective’s ears as the guard spoke again.
“Two,” he answered in a whisper. “I swear. God help me, I swear. There’s just me and the two of them. That’s it.”
His heartbeat had stayed steady, never giving The Detective the telltale sign of a skip or change in pattern that came when someone told a blatant lie. And suddenly, this all seemed way too easy. Three guards on the floor where The Agent had to know he would be going. A welcoming committee made up of, it seemed, the most inept guards The Agent could find. Was the Supreme Chancellor really not that concerned about his presence in his building, or was it simply The Agent saying he didn’t care what The Detective did? There was no fear, no worry on Rogers’ part. If The Detective wanted to rescue Emily, The Agent wouldn’t really bother to stop him. Maybe it was like Peterson had said: these men weren’t here to protect The Agent; they were just here to protect the assets, and if this was all the protection in place for Emily, it didn’t seem as if The Agent was bothered by the idea of her being rescued. Maybe, her usefulness had been used up, and The Agent no longer considered her an asset.
The Detective placed his left hand on the back of the guard’s neck while his right hand pushed the gun against the back of the man’s head. “Walk to the holding cells. Make any kind of sudden move, try to get smart in any way, and I’ll turn your brains into a post-modern abstract work of art with the wall as my canvas. We clear?”
“Clear,” the guard said in return, trembling slightly as he spoke.
The Detective pushed him forward. “Good to know we’re on the same page,” he said in a hushed tone. They continued walking in the same position: the guard in the front, his face covered in fear, with The Detective behind him, one hand on the back of the guard’s neck, the other holding the gun. The corridor the guard led them both down seemed extra long and way too quiet. This was the most high tech building in the country, home to America’s own personal despot, yet this particular floor was devoid of life and activity; it all just seemed way too out of place. Every instinct he had was buzzing, telling him that something---everything---was wrong. Not that anything felt right or normal, but this, this moment, this trip down the deserted corridor, just felt particularly out of place.
After a few more steps, The Detective could see the end of the hallway and the holding cells just beyond. They veered to the left, and they stopped. The guard in his grasp stood there without a word. Across from them, on the other side of the large room, in front of what appeared to be the middle holding cell, stood two more men, both in the full storm trooper outfits, decked from head-to-toe in the same armor all of the other guards had been wearing.
They both quickly reached for the guns in their holsters, but they both stopped, almost at the same time, when the hostage/guard began to scream out.
“Please, don’t!” he yelled across the room. “He’ll kill me; I know he will. Just give him what he wants.”
“And what’s that?” the guard on the left, a large man with dark skin, asked, his right hand still perched precariously above his firearm.
The Detective moved himself and his hostage further into the large room, all the while making sure the guard in his grasp always stayed between their line of sight and him. “I want the young lady you have in that room. You give me her; I’ll give you your friend here, and we’ll all walk away happy.”
“And what happens if we don’t?” the guard on the right asked, a nondescript type of man who reeked of exceptionally cheap cologne. It burned The Detective’s nostrils.
“It won’t be pretty,” The Detective said in return.
Both guards laughed. “What you gonna do?” cologne guard on the right asked in a mocking tone. “You gonna kill Eugene?”
The Detective leaned forward ever so slightly. “Are you Eugene?” he asked as he leaned into his hostage’s ear.
“Yes,” Eugene managed to say in return, his voice cracking to the point that one word seemed almost impossible for him to utter.
“Nice to meet you, Eugene, hope I don’t have to kill you,” The Detective said as he resumed his previous position, allowing Eugene to be his own personal human shield. “And yes,” he yelled across the room, “that’s the plan. Give me the girl, or I kill Eugene. And right after, I’ll kill the two of you.”
“Think you can take the two of us before we kill you?” guard on the left asked, his hand noticeably closer to his gun’s handle.
The Detective tightened his grip on the back of Eugene’s neck. “Pretty sure I can, boys, so it’s probably not worth taking the chance. You will live so much longer if you just take me up on my offer.”
The two guards looked at each other, and The Detective could almost feel what they were thinking. There was a sudden scent in the air, a stench of sweat and adrenaline, and he could hear their heartbeats quicken, the rhythm in their chest gaining more and more intensity, until he saw them move, as if in slow motion, each of them almost simultaneously reaching down for the guns in their holsters.
The first bullet passed by The Detective’s right ear; he could hear and feel it as it traveled past his and Eugene’s heads. The second and third bullets hit Eugene square in the chest. He moaned with pain as the projectiles bounced off of his bullet proofed armor. The fourth bullet hit Eugene directly in his uncovered neck and traveled out the back, passing cleanly through The Detective’s left hand.
Eugene fell limp, and The Detective assumed the bullet hole in his neck had been the killing blow.
Several more bullets flew towards them, some passing harmlessly to the left and the right, others bouncing off of Eugene’s armor. The Detective held the body up, continuing to use him as a human shield as they moved forward towards the other two guards.
Within a few seconds, they were close enough for The Detective to make a move. He threw Eugene’s lifeless body at the large guard on the left; Eugene landed right on top of him, knocking them both to the ground with Eugene landing on top, and the guard’s arms pinned beneath the dead body. Cologne guard continued firing towards The Detective, who spun himself out of the way of the bullets, his own speed enhanced by the extraordinary amounts of adrenaline pumping throughout his system, until he was standing directly behind the lone remaining guard.
The Detective grabbed the man’s jaw from the rear and lifted his head ever so slightly up; with his other hand, he placed the barrel of his own gun beneath the guard’s chin, the one spot on his body not covered by a helmet or armor, then he pulled the trigger. Pieces of brain mixed with blood and bone rained across the room. As the shower of gore landed all around him, The Detective released the guard’s chin and let him fall to the floor, where he landed in a heap, the remaining blood from his head draining onto the floor beneath him.
The Detective slowly crossed the room until he stood above the other guard, the large, dark skinned man. Eugene’s corpse laid on top of him; his arms were pinned to the ground; he was as helpless as one could get. For a moment, just the briefest of moments, The Detective thought about taking the noble road and sparing him, being the bigger man, being the hero he always knew he could be, and all of that other crap he associated with the idea of being the good guy.
The man was saying something, and despite his super advanced hearing, auditory senses that could hear a fly fart from a hundred feet away, The Detective couldn’t hear a word he was saying. It was something about not killing him, about how sorry the guy was, about how this was just a job, in the end, nothing that mattered.
