• • •
Two days later, the new armor is beginning to take shape. It still has some of the slim lines Omar designed, but it now looks a tad more menacing and more reptilian in appearance. The leg joints are reversible, so I can use it in both my hybrid and human forms. One of the things I have to actively fight is my desire to load this thing down with weaponry. Once I can get the portal shards into it, I can give it the overhaul that it deserves. Until then, be fast and vent plasma balls all over the place.
“If it isn’t my favorite Techno-Mal. How’s it going?” Dean asks, gawking at the suit suspended from a pair of chain falls, with the legs cycling at full speed. Assuming he’s been keeping tabs from the cameras, he already has a good idea.
“The damage is repaired and the mods have been installed. I’m testing the patch job you did on the control harness. Thanks for all that delicate work, by the way.”
“Is it holding up?”
“Seems to, at least at speed,” I say and let the legs spin down. “Below ten miles per hour, it has these glitches that I can’t seem to isolate—spasms. Eventually, I’ll have to build a replacement harness, but if I had to use it now it would work. Trying to stand still would make me look like a drunken sailor. Might not even be damage. It might me some kind of feedback loop considering it was designed for a pure human.”
“Already planning some jobs when you get out of here?”
I nod and flick my tongue. “You could say that.”
“Good. You do realize, I wasn’t allowed to just give you the repair parts. You’re going to be in the General’s pocket until you pay off your debt. We aren’t running a charity here.”
At least I am expecting this—the old company store hustle. Villainous organizations don’t do favors and there are no free lunches. Hell, they’re probably deducting the meals and any extras from all the hired help’s paydays. For the tech types, there’s the workshops. The other half of the cafeteria level houses a mini-mall, bar, and brothel. The week-long “debriefing” is to ensure no one betrays the operation and also gives General Devious the opportunity to reduce the amount she’s actually paying.
“Yeah, I realized you were the good cop and Bryce was the bad cop pretty quickly. Are they looking for money or servitude? More importantly, how much extra will it run me for enough tech to wire a replacement harness instead of counting on this?”
Might as well fish for some extra tech. I can do without a suit that’s prone to seizures at low speed. It’s not like I’m going to be repaying them, either.
Dean smiles and looks relieved. “Oh, good. I was worried I’d have to explain how things work to you. Beats me, I’m the nice one, remember? Bryce is the one you’ll have to negotiate with, but I’d take whatever he offers you. It’ll likely be the best one you get.”
People like Nurse Sharper are still the exception and not the rule. Even this Dean fellow, or Bryce . . . no, scratch that! Bryce is probably still a tool. Anyway, even Dean might be an OK guy out in the real world.
This is about as far as you can get from the real world.
Hell! For all I know, Gina is probably in on it too, and some bean counter is probably up there adding the cost of Omar’s medical care to my account. That’s one of the many downsides to the supervillain lifestyle—
the healthcare plans usually blows chunks.
If I am a betting human/dinosaur hybrid, I’m guessing my missions would involve just enough damage to the suit to keep lil’ old Matt Harrell indentured to General Devious’s Company Store until the cows came home.
“I’ll be happy to speak with Bryce about the necessary arrangements. Why don’t you go ahead and start pulling together the material I’ll need for a new harness, while we hammer out the details?”
A few seconds later, Bryce walks in. “Glad to hear you’ll be joining us, Matt. Dean, grab the stuff for a new harness, and also we’ll be needing a sprayer attachment and a two gallon cylinder to mount on the back of the suit. Praetorius has a job for you, Mr. Harrell.”
Chapter Ten
The Many Deaths of José Six-Pack
Bryce leads me toward the south end of the level and calls the elevator. Dean is busy getting all the components I’ll need for the new control harness, along with the sprayer attachment. Since it looks like I am starting a tab with the company store, I might as well abuse it.
My concern about a weaponized form of the Manglermal process grows. It’s not too terribly hard to put a speed suit, a delivery mechanism, and Doctor Igor Mangelov together to come up with a very nasty idea. They can probably even simplify the process with a drone like my floater design—Targeted Manglerification. Do what we want or we’ll turn you into a hideous monster. Bow down or we’ll take away your humanity.
If I removed the weaponry from the floater design and installed a noise cancellation system, it would be completely quiet, low profile, and half the size.
Bad Cal! Stop trying to improve a really heinous idea!
General Devious must be proud of this one. I’m guessing she almost wishes Patterson were still among the living. Destroying Ultraweapon’s pretty-boy good looks and humanity would have been something she’d do in a heartbeat.
Me? I’m just happy that shithead is dead, and if I get the opportunity, the good General will join him. Her telepathy and telekinesis make her deadly enough, although I cling to the belief that The Overlord is the greater threat—probably because he has to work harder at it. Who knows what that bastard is up to right now?
“So why’d you go through with it?” Bryce asks as we enter the lift.
“Huh?”
“Go Mangler,” he replies.
“Money,” I answer him with something he would expect. “Or the distinct lack of money, to be more precise.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Why? Thinking of going native?”
“I’m hearing the new formula is over ninety percent effective.”
“That’s still ten percent fatal,” I comment. “If you ever played Dungeons and Dragons, that twenty-sided dice would roll a one at the worst of times.” Talk about the ultimate Critical Fail!
“Yeah, yeah. But I really want to know if it’s worth it?”
I need a more straightforward answer. I pause for a moment to get it right. “Depends on if you like hurting people by making something with your brains and your hands, or if you just want to skip the whole making part and go straight to the hurting people. Your hands will get a lot dirtier this way. If you don’t like the way your voice sounds and want a change, it might be for you. If you’re not a fan of fine dining, you don’t have to worry about getting seated at just about any restaurant, and the dating life sucks ass unless you’re into other Manglers.”
Or are Bobby. Dude’s into some freaky shit, I add in my head.
Even at the lowest point in my life, working in that run-down auto shop after being blackballed from everything resembling a tech job by Patterson’s legal vultures, I hadn’t considered becoming a Manglermal. I can already attest to how hard it is to work on a set of armor with claws instead of fingers. Besides, I mostly believe Stacy when she says that she doesn’t care about my “average” looks, but given how unimpressed she is with my hybrid form, I doubt she’d like it if the change became permanent.
The elevator comes to a halt, but the door does not open. I try to mask my anxiety as the human next to me pushes the call button three times and waves to the camera dome. The floor shudders and we descend one more level.
My previous case of base envy pops the clutch and goes into overdrive. A huge base with a bonus hidden level? Shit! I am totally going to steal this place one day!
I suppose if I am dreaming big, I’d want Mount Olympus. But to be perfectly honest, the manmade Mountain in Northern Virginia is a government facility with everything that entails—rows and rows of cubicles filled with bureaucrats who endlessly schedule meetings and use the words “metrics” and “process improvement” like it is the gospel.
I’d rather have a colon cleansing.
Even this place has its own brand of red tape, but I can deal with it. I wonder if Stacy will help me conquer this place.
• • •
My former teammate is stuck in a three-chamber plastic cell, reminding me of that bubble boy movie. An airlock separates the two ends. José sits glumly on a cot, staring daggers at all of us. He looks disheveled and run down. It sucks that I’m not in a position to do anything about it right now. Until I case the layout, it’s recon over rescue. I can’t afford to go “hero stupid” right now.
I can’t really spare him much more than a glance right now. I have my own problems staring me in the face.
“You don’t look like one of my children.” The voice belongs to Doctor Igor Mangelov. He’s the son of a German war criminal scientist and his Russian handler. The White Rhino is leaning up against a table looking bored while Praetorius is inspecting the machinery.
The part of the room consisting of José’s cell and the adjacent part look perfectly clinical, everything one would expect from a confinement unit. The rest, however, gives the appearance of a mad scientist’s laboratory . . . a very, very mad scientist. Apparently, the good doctor doesn’t care much for a janitorial staff, or maybe he ended up experimenting on them. My guess is the latter.
“I’m not,” I reply with a dismissive wave of my ill-formed appendage. “It’s really a magical accident. It’s easier to let them think I’m a Manglermal. Actually, he was there.”
My longest claw points at José. I figure I can try and clue him in that there is more going on, if he’s paying close attention.
“Go on,” the old scientist says.
“I drove a delivery route in Louisiana a couple of years back. Some dinosaur sonuvabitch starts turning everyone into lizards. The Gulf Coasters stopped him, and fixed pretty much everyone else but me.”
José stares at me and I see the curious expression in his eyes. In the aftermath of the battle with Tyrannosorcerer Rex, She-Dozer made certain to brief the team on at least three occasions that everyone had been fixed. He should know I’m lying.
Walking to the cell, I look at him. “I never thought I would see him again. Hopefully he gets what’s coming to him. So yeah, byproduct of a magical accident—that’s me.”
I’m tempted to wink at him, but who knows where the cameras are situated, or even what a wink in my current form would look like. After the first few transformations, I never stood and watched my reflection.
Rhino’s deep, gravelly voice interrupts my staring contest with my teammate. “If he is not one of us, we should put someone else in the suit.”
“You’re not doing anything with my suit without me.”
“It’s not your suit to begin with,” Rhino dismisses my complaint. “Plus, I don’t trust him.”
“You can trust I will take your money to do the job, but we’re not exactly the Boy Scouts here.”
“My friend has a point, Mr. Harrell,” Doctor Mangler adds. “You may very well be susceptible to my newest formula.”
“I’ll make sure the suit is buttoned up tight. Besides, unless you’ve got another one of your children around with the same body type as me, you’ll lose several days while the suit needs to be adjusted. Then you’ll lose several more while someone learns how to run the suit. So if you want to go that route, I’m cool. You’ll have to pay me to rig the suit for someone else and then you’ll pay me again to teach that dumbshit how to run it. Omar isn’t exactly up for playing teacher right now. Either way, I’ll get paid.”
“You’re a smug little gecko. I bet I could just stomp you into a bloody smear on the ground. Your little claws won’t get through my hide.”
“And how exactly would that help get your job done?” I hold my hand up and make it shimmer. “There’s a bit more to me than a claw. Magical accident, remember?”
Rhino glowers at me, but when he takes a step forward Praetorius reaches out and puts his hand on the Mangler, stopping him. “Not here.”
That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. I don’t really know if the single mage bolt I could conjure would do anything other than knock him on his ass. Sadly, it would knock me on my ass too, but I don’t offer that. That’s the problem with having more determination than actual talent with magic. Right about now, I could use a plasma cannon or two.
“So since we’re not going to throw down, what’s the actual job and how much is it going to make me? More importantly, is this going to wipe the slate clean with your company store?”
“It will clear some of the debt,” Praetorius answers smoothly.
“Let’s hear about the job and then agree on the price.”
“There is some risk,” Doc Mangler interrupts. “Since you are not really one of my children, there is a chance the agent could very well affect you.”
This ought to be interesting. “Like I said before, the suit can be airtight before the end of the day.”
“Very well then. Continue on, Massimo.”
Praetorius nods. “We need to test the newest agent in the field. The speedsuit is a suitable delivery vehicle that we can take advantage of.”
“Anything specific in mind?”
Mangler answers this time. “Would you be surprised to know that this is effective against even some people with powers?”
Now that is a new one! “I have always heard that people with powers are immune to your process.”
“Ah, but sometimes when we research and experiment there is a breakthrough! And I believe that this will be the one that rewrites civilization as we know it. Since we’re out of willing test subjects, it’s time to find some unwilling ones.”
“Who do you have in mind?” It makes me wonder where they got willing test subjects from.
Praetorius takes over. “Spiritstaff and his wife K-Otica for starters. The man is magically protected through his weapon, and the woman’s power levels fluctuate radically. At speed, you should be able to dose them and be gone before they can react.”
“For the right price, I think I can do that,” I say, realizing that it’s time to get to the negotiation phase. Nothing like dusting off my old villain thinking cap to do some old-fashioned haggling. “The op sounds straightforward, but I’m worried about the fallout. I could give a shit about the man. Hell, I’ve always thought he was an asshole. K-Otica is a whole different story. Even if I catch the woman when she isn’t near her peak, she’s very popular down this way and in the States, too. Making her into an abomination could very easily get me a price on my head and heroes chasing me to the ends of the Earth. Writing off my balance sheet ain’t gonna cut that shit, if you hear what I’m saying?”
Ding! A timer goes off from a nearby workbench. Doctor Mangler hobbles over to it and resets it. “Our negotiations must wait for a brief period.”
He points to the prisoner. “It is time for another test subject, if you please. Come now, my friend. I thought we were beyond this game of refusals and threats.”
José appears even less happy than when I first arrived, if that is possible. He mouths several curses and takes off his shirt. I’ve watched him spawn a clone before back in our days in New Orleans. It’s one of those spectacles that is so gross that you can’t help but stare. He downs a trio of carb-loaded shakes and braces himself. On the left side of his back a boil begins to form and rapidly swell like a balloon.
Turn away Cal; you don’t need to watch this! Turn the hell away.
But like an idiot, I don’t, and the boil reaches the size of a beach ball before it detaches from the back of my friend. The prime version of José stumbles back onto the bed and pulls a plastic sheet up. Within moments, the fleshy sack doubles in size and bursts open, splattering blood and puss all over the reinforced, transparent walls. In the aftermath, a goo-covered copy of José stands and twists himself back and forth for a good ten seconds, uncaring about the fact that he is naked.
I remember joking with José that if they forced high school Sex
Ed classes to watch him make a clone, the number of teenage pregnancies would drop like a rock.
I might have even offered to record it, and set up the distribution as well. But like many of my money making schemes, it didn’t pan out. Things were simpler back then.
“Experiment number three seven two,” Mangler speaks into his tablet. Pushing a button, he releases the door to the attached airlock room. He then waves to José to send his freshly spawned counterpart into the smaller room.
I cringe, realizing how many of his clones have gone through the procedure, and I know for a fact that José feels the feedback each time one of his duplicates is killed.
“Test subject will be exposed to twenty-five milliliters of enhanced protocol Four Nine Seven Three Lima, delivered by aerosol. Current success rate with this protocol has been ninety-three point four percent. Subject will be exposed to sixty different images of a jaguar at a rate of one per second for one minute before the agent is released, and for two additional minutes post-release in our ongoing attempt to steer the transformation. In addition, the scent of a male jaguar will also be released into the transformation chamber along with audio recordings.”
Targeted Manglermal transformations? He’s tried that in the past, but has never really gotten it to work. Let’s hope he isn’t any closer to getting that! Just the fact that he has a ninety-three percent success rate should frighten most people. I guess he’s satisfied that about seven percent don’t survive the process. At nearly four hundred experiments, poor José has had to experience almost thirty transformation deaths. I’ve heard those are horrible! Then again, even the ones that survive the treatment and become Manglers are killed shortly afterward. He feels each of those, too! He may be on the verge of going insane.
The clone walks with his head held high into the small booth and watches as the door back into José prime’s chamber is sealed. Defiantly, he stares Doc Mangler down and extends both of his middle fingers.
That act alone convinces me that I need to sell Wendy on recruiting José for our team. His talents are clearly being wasted working with the Gulf Coasters. I originally wanted to make cheap knockoffs of my Mark I Mechani-Cal suit for his clones to wear. I could probably do Velocizapper knockoffs for much less. There’d be no flight systems, and that would be a cost savings, but I’d have to weigh it against the increased cost of synthmuscle. One VZ suit wouldn’t be a real threat to the mid-listers out there, but five acting in concert might even give the low end of the top tier of supervillains cause for concern.
Rise of a D-List Supervillain Page 13
