“You know Truman, there are three kinds of people in this world. The vast majority of people are sheep, concerned with little more than eating and drinking and shitting and fucking. They are so easily led, so gullible, that if you tell them something early and often enough, they will believe anything. It’s how religions have been able to stay in business even though they are selling an invisible product. The sheep are nothing more than overgrown children who believe in fairy tales and happily ever afters and Santa Claus.
“Then there are the shepherds. They are the ones who foolishly look out for the sheep, trying to get them to evolve and prevent them from killing themselves. Shepherds are the only reason men and women are not still in the Stone Age, picking lice out of each other’s hair while hunched over in caves. When they were not busy clubbing each other over the head, that is. Even now, if you killed off all the shepherds, it would be like flipping off the light of civilization. The sheep would be reduced to bashing each other over the head with rocks and fucking their sisters within a week, a month at the most.
“Some Heroes are shepherds. Not all of them, but some. The thing the shepherds do not realize is that the sheep don’t want to be looked out for, even though they are so stupid and depraved that they desperately need to be. The sheep resent the shepherds in the same way an ugly women resents a model or an unpopular kid resents the captain of the football team.
“Then you have people like me. Wolves. We wolves see reality for how it is, not for how society tells us it is or how it should be. The virtues schools and religions teach—hard work, humility, charity, patience, kindness, turning the other cheek, doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, that sort of thing—we wolves know it’s all rubbish, nothing more than shackles designed to keep the sheep in line and from killing each other. We wolves know you get what you are strong enough to take—no more, no less. Anything else is wishful thinking, a prayer to a universe that is not listening and doesn’t care.
“Being denied a Hero license was the best thing that happened to me. When it happened, I was already starting to realize how the world really worked and that Heroes were little more than babysitters and preservers of the status quo so the people on top of society could stay on top. Being around a bunch of different Heroes and Hero candidates during the Trials helped open my eyes. Despite their power, most of them were naive fools. I realized I did not want to be a member of any group that would have people like that as members.”
Killshot stood. She smiled down at me.
“I should go,” she said. “I’m talking so much, you would think I was a politician. If your plan is to talk me to death before our duel, I would hate to have you succeed. I will see you in a couple of days.”
Killshot turned partially, then stopped.
“After I kill you, I’ll talk to the Treasury Department about your face replacing Hamilton’s on the ten dollar bill.” Killshot smiled again. Her eyes glittered like a snake’s.
Killshot walked away, weaving through the other tables in the eatery. Her heels clicked loudly on the hard floor. Ginny and I watched her as she opened the front door to the restaurant and stepped out. And, just like that, she was gone.
Ginny turned to me. Her eyes were wide.
“That woman is crazy,” she said.
“Maybe. Do you think you can talk her into committing herself to an insane asylum? That would save me a lot of time and trouble. Not to mention maybe my life.”
“This is not funny Truman. Not only is that woman crazy but, from everything you’ve told me, she’s very dangerous.” Ginny put her hands over mine.
“I’m scared for you, Truman,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
CHAPTER 30
Two days later, I stood in the middle of the open-air Astor City Coliseum. It was a bright, beautiful, cloudless day, neither too warm nor too cold. It was just right, as Goldilocks might say. A slight breeze blew pleasantly at my back. It was a good day to die.
The sun was directly overhead. I looked at my watch. I noticed my hand shook a bit. It was almost exactly noon. The back of my neck was sweaty. It felt cool in the caressing breeze. Though people often thought Heroes did not get scared, we did and I was. They said Americans’ biggest fear was the prospect of having to speak in public. They must not have surveyed Heroes. Most of us would probably say our biggest fear was getting killed by a supervillain. An audience listening to a lecturer did not often shoot energy beams at the lecturer. Supervillains did.
My mouth was dry. My stomach felt unsteady. I very much wanted a drink. As I needed to keep my wits about me, I had not been so stupid as to have alcohol before coming to the stadium. Nor would I leave to get a drink now. I did not want to be late for my first and perhaps last duel. It would be rude. Besides, Killshot might permanently settle my unsteady stomach soon enough.
The stadium had last been used for baseball. I could draw a straight line from where I was standing in the outfield through second base and then to home plate. If someone hit a line drive, I would be ready. Thousands of empty stadium seats surrounded me. I wondered if baseball players got nervous, having to perform on a high level in front of thousands of cheering and booing people. Maybe baseball players were like me, with their nerves disappearing once the game began and they were in the heat of the moment.
Looking out into the empty stands, my mind flitted to another question, a twist on an age-old one: If a superhero gets shot by a supervillain and falls down screaming in an empty stadium where no one can hear him, does he really make a sound? I desperately hoped to not find out the answer today.
I was thinking about how much less dangerous playing baseball was than being a superhero when I spotted Killshot flying overhead. She was not alone. She was carrying someone. A spectator to witness my screams, perhaps?
Killshot swooped down to deposit the man on the field near third base. Though his face was partially obscured by a brown and tan mask, the bottom half of his face was uncovered. The rest of the costume he had on was black with brown accents that matched the brown on his mask. The costume covered his entire body, except for his hands, which were bare. The outfit was form-fitting. The man was in good shape. I recognized his jawline and build. It was Shrapnel.
After dropping Shrapnel off, Killshot herself flew a bit further and then landed near first base. Though I was not close to either of them, I was close enough I would have to turn my head away from the other to be able to fully watch one of them. Divide my attention and conquer. Smart.
Killshot wore what appeared to be the same pink and white mask and long flowing cape she had on when Eugene and I had seen her near the Perk Up coffee shop. The rest of her outfit matched the colors of her mask and cape. A lot of female Heroes and supervillains wore tight, revealing outfits that made them look like futuristic streetwalkers. It was such a common thing I sometimes wondered if there was a law mandating it. Killshot’s costume was not like that. It was loose, and looked much like a martial arts gi. Perhaps she had not gotten the memo she was supposed to look like a hooker. The regulators of female Meta fashion did not have a mailing address for Killshot, maybe. As I knew all too well, she was a hard woman to get a hold off.
With both Shrapnel and Killshot in costume, I felt decidedly underdressed in jeans, a plain black tee shirt, and comfortable white and red running shoes. I would not win any Metahuman fashion awards. I was more interested in being able to move well and quickly than in winning awards. You have to stay alive to accept an award, anyway. First things first.
“I thought we agreed we would come alone,” I yelled out to Killshot.
Even from this distance, I could see Killshot was smiling.
“You are a fool to have believed me,” she said. “It’s like I said a couple of days ago: you Heroes are overgrown Boy Scouts with your oaths and misguided senses of honor. In the real world, no one gives a rat’s ass about honor. Besides, my associate has a debt to settle with you.”
“Yeah,” Shrapnel
called out to me. “Let’s see how tough you are without that black bitch to back you up.” He raised his arms, pointing his bare palms at me. I tensed. I would dive to the right and hope his spray of shrapnel missed me. I wished there was something for me to take cover behind.
It happened as if on cue. I saw it before I heard it. Shrapnel spun around, like he had been punched hard in the chest. After seeing the effects of the shot, I then heard it a split second later. The sound of the shot echoed in the empty stadium. The shot was a good one. Like a puppet with his strings cut, Shrapnel fell down face-first. He lay still. I hoped he was not dead. If he was though, oh well. I had told Shadow to avoid taking a head shot if possible. It looked as though she had done as I asked.
Killshot’s head whipped around. She looked at the empty stadium chairs surrounding us where I knew Shadow and her high-powered rifle lurked somewhere.
“We agreed to no help and no guns,” Killshot said, still looking into the stands while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on me. She sounded incredulous. “You broke your word!” The irony of her statement seemed lost on her.
“I knew you wouldn’t keep yours,” I said. “So I brought some insurance in case I was right. I was born at night, but not last night.” Actually I had not entirely broken my word. I myself was not armed. Also, Shadow was under strict instructions to leave the stadium once she had incapacitated Shrapnel if Killshot brought him along as I suspected she would. Now that Shrapnel was down, I would face Killshot alone and unarmed. I had promised Killshot earlier I would. Giving my word was not something I took lightly, even when it was given to a person like Killshot.
Plus, to be honest, I wanted to know if I could take Killshot down by myself. No, I needed to know. Maybe it was ego. Maybe I was seeking revenge for Eugene. Maybe it was just score-settling.
Or, in light of how low I had sunk in the past few months, maybe I just needed to see if I was still good enough.
I triggered the field’s water sprinklers with my powers. Water skeeted out all around us with a hiss. The water to the stadium had been turned off months before. I had redirected water in the city’s pipes and turned the water back on at the stadium the day before. Killshot had said I was a Boy Scout. Fine. As the Boy Scouts admonished, be prepared.
Killshot’s head whipped around to me again at the sound of the water. Her left eye glowed pink. I had seen this movie before. I dove to the right. Simultaneously, I sent several streams of water rocketing towards Killshot, turning them into ice as they raced through the air. I rolled as I hit the ground. Killshot’s plasma blast hit the ground where I had been an instant before. The air sizzled. The smell of burning turf filled my nostrils. It was better than the smell of burning Truman, though. Killshot dodged my ice javelins easily. Another glow of her eye. I dodged left, hastily throwing up a shield of ice. Her energy blast cut through it like butter, shattering it. The blast just barely missed me again. I twisted my ankle lunging out of the way. A gasp escaped my lips. Sharp pain radiated up from my ankle and set my leg on fire. I was a sitting duck out in the open. It was just a matter of time before Killshot tagged me. Time for a new tactic.
As I continued to run, dodge, bob and weave, I converted some of the water shooting out of the sprinklers into water vapor. Just like at the Guild space station and at the Golden Horseshoe Casino before that, a thick fog rapidly formed. Soon, Killshot’s figure was obscured by thick rolling clouds. The reverse was no doubt also true. Killshot would not be able to see me, either. I had already locked onto Killshot’s water signature, so I knew exactly where she was even though I could not see her.
I formed more ice javelins and sent them racing towards Killshot. She turned away from them at the last moment, though one did pierce her side. She cried out. Before I could follow up on the attack, she was airborne. She soared out of the area of fog I had created. Damn. I couldn’t fill the whole stadium with fog. The stadium was too big.
A plasma blast hit the ground several feet away from me. Another hit a few feet from that, closer to me this time. I ran. My ankle threatened to buckle under me. Plasmas beams shot from the sky, hitting the ground around me. Between the plasma and my fog, the place looked like a rock and roll concert. The beams lit up the surrounding area, like headlights cutting through a morning mist. Killshot was blasting away at random into the fog from above, hoping to get lucky and hit me. I could not stay down here praying she did not get lucky. She could take potshots at me forever. I sent more ice javelins at her. She dodged them easily. She could see them now that she hovered above the fog. More ice javelins. She dodged them, too. Those were just a feint, though. While she was preoccupied with those javelins, I send water snaking up towards her. It wrapped around her lower body. I turned it into ice as quickly as I could. Her lower body was now encased in ice. Killshot cried out in surprise and alarm. She plummeted from the sky, back into the fog. I ran towards her.
Killshot hit the ground like a bag of dropped bricks. I heard and felt with my mind the ice around her crack at the impact. I leapt on top of her, hitting her with my fists, forearms, and elbows. It felt like punching a cinder block wall. Getting close was a mistake. Killshot’s left eye glowed. I pulled back my head barely in time. The plasma beam grazed my forehead. I cried out in agony. It felt like my head had been set on fire. I smelled burning flesh and hair. Killshot’s ice-encased legs must have been freed in the fall. She squirmed under me, wrapping her lower legs around my torso. She twisted. I suddenly was hurtling through the air like a smacked baseball.
I landed on my back with a sickening crunch. I skidded on the turf for a bit before coming to a stop. I could not help but to cry out in pain. I couldn’t concentrate enough anymore to maintain the fog. I landed with my head right next to a sprinkler. It shot water into my face, blinding and gagging me. Then Killshot was on top of me, straddling me as she pounded my head. I tasted blood. I felt something crack inside of me. I saw stars. I tried to grab Killshot, to twist her off of me, to lift my legs enough to wrap them around her as she had done to me. Nothing worked. I was too weak and she was too strong. Not as strong as Shadow, maybe, but strong enough.
Darkness closed in on the edges of my vision. I was about to pass out. I wanted to fall into the blackness, to rest. No! I could not give up. Summoning every ounce of will, I took water from the sprinkler by my head and wrapped it around Killshot’s head. I couldn’t quite focus enough to make it ice cold or scalding hot. Instead, I tried to force it down Killshot’s mouth and nose.
For one panicked second, Killshot stopped hitting me. Her hands fumbled for my throat. With her head still wrapped in water, she lifted my head. She thumped it against the ground. Fireworks went off in my head like the Fourth of July. I clung to the idea of drowning her like a man clung to the edge of a cliff. She drilled my head into the ground again. Again. Again. More times than I could count. It was all a matter of which of us would break first.
It was me. I could not focus enough anymore. I could not maintain my hold on the water around her head any longer. My hold on the water slipped away, freeing her head. Killshot gasped. She sputtered, and coughed out water. She stopped banging my head against the ground. Her hands were still around my neck though. They constricted around me like a boa constrictor. Between that and the water pounding my face from the sprinkler, I couldn’t breathe. How ironic if I drowned to death. My eyelids fluttered. I fought to keep them open. If I closed them, they would never open again.
Killshot said something. Her lips were moving. I couldn’t make out the words. All I heard was a loud roar. Something was wrong with my ears, or brain, or both.
Killshot lifted my head a bit. Water drained out of my ears and nose. Suddenly I could breathe a bit as well as hear her.
“This is my favorite part,” Killshot said. Her voice was low and raspy. “When someone is about to die, and I hold his life in the palm of my hands. There is nothing like this feeling of power.” I felt Killshot rubbing her lower body against me as she straddled me. Her dar
k eyes gleamed behind her now torn mask. Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out to lick them. Her lips were full and red. I had seen this look before, but never in this context. It was lust. This lunatic was aroused. She was getting off at the thought of killing me. It was no wonder she had killed so many people.
Killshot’s head lowered. Her lips brushed my ear.
“Just because you’ll be dead, this is not over. You broke your word to me. I’ll find Shadow and kill her too. Then your pretty little girlfriend Ginny. Perhaps I will make a wig out of her hair after all. Do you think I’d be sexy as a redhead?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The part of me that was barely clinging to consciousness was thinking about how Killshot probably could kill Shadow. She certainly could kill Ginny, who had no superpowers. I had to stop her. At that moment, though, I felt about as capable of stopping her as a minnow did a shark.
Killshot was still rubbing herself against me. She gasped into my ear. Her grip around my throat loosened the tinniest bit. Not much, but a little. I could breathe a bit. I gathered my will. I could not do much. I hoped it would be enough.
Killshot sat up on me, still straddling me. She was moving her hips back and forth on me, like she was riding me. Her face was flushed. Orgasmic. She was panting.
“Goodbye Truman,” she breathed huskily. Her left eye glowed pink.
From yards away, the icicle I had formed shot towards Killshot’s face like a bat out of hell. It wasn’t much. Maybe the size of a used pencil. It was the best I could do. It rocketed into Killshot’s glowing eye like a heat-seeking missile. There was a small but satisfying pop. Killshot shrieked. Her hands left my throat. I sucked in air hungrily. Killshot’s hands clutched her face. She fell off of me sideways, writhing on the ground in pain.
I wanted to just lie there and breathe. I couldn’t though. This was my only chance. I tried to roll on top of Killshot. My head swam, but I did it. My arms felt rubbery. I forced myself to lift them anyway. I had punched Killshot before, and I knew what that felt like. With every ounce of will I had left, I used water to form blocks of ice around my fists. I punched Killshot in the face over, and over, and over again. My powers caused the ice to reform around my fists as it cracked and chipped away.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot Page 23
