“This isn’t normal,” commented Patrick as he watched the mice scurry around the room chasing people.
“No, it isn’t,” said Dr. Brandeis. “You know this might be a super crime! Mice would make a great distraction!” He filed that away as a future idea if they had to do another heist, though training the mice would probably be time consuming. He would need to delegate the training to a behavioral scientist; he didn’t really like animals.
“Shouldn’t we get out of here?” asked Candy to Emily; they were both standing on chairs. Dr. Brandeis was impressed with Candy; Pam would have just taken off and left him, but Candy was being supportive. You couldn’t buy loyalty like that, well, maybe you could, and perhaps that was the point.
“People are screaming all over the deck.” Patrick pulled out a HoloBerry.
“Is that the new 9300 - shock resistant with waterproofing?” asked Dr. Brandeis. He was thinking of upgrading, especially since the 9300 had a voice-recognition security system, which would be a good idea as he kept forgetting his password and Ian did spot checks to make sure everyone’s electronics were secure.
“Yes, it’s great, but I switched out the software for Lotus,” said Patrick. “It’s more user-friendly…hey, Annie, I’m on the Sunset Dreams and we have mice – lots of mice…yes, mice, no, it’s a lot of them…listen, just get Ops online and start doing some research!”
Dr. Brandeis found that an odd conversation. Maybe Patrick worked for a pest extermination company - that would make sense. It was definitely a very organized outfit; he would have to get their name and use them if he bought Ian’s house.
“Patrick, what’s going on?” asked Emily.
“I don’t know, but let’s find out,” said Patrick as he took off out of the restaurant. Dr. Brandeis followed him with Emily and Candy in hot pursuit. As they left the restaurant, they saw hundreds of mice scurrying about everywhere in the lobby outside.
“I’m going to throw up,” said Candy.
“It’s like a live action Ratatouille – which is sort of disgusting,” said Emily, turning pale.
Patrick ran up to a crewman who was swinging at mice with a broom. “Sir, I need to talk to the captain. I’m Cosmic Kid with West Pacific Supers.”
Dr. Brandeis went white. Now he remembered where he recognized Patrick. This was not good – a superhero! He had been talking and eating dinner with a superhero! One of the good guys, the opposition, trouble with a capital T! He needed to disappear. He took a step back and grabbed Candy by the arm. “We need to go.”
As he backed up, Patrick called out to him. “Noah, will you keep an eye on Emily while I deal with the situation?”
“Ah, sure, yes, definitely, Cosmic Kid,” said Dr. Brandeis.
“Sorry I lied earlier, but you know how it is.”
“Absolutely, you go and save the day,” said Dr. Brandeis. With that, Cosmic Kid took off. Dr. Brandeis thought about ditching Emily, but then Cosmic Kid would track him down and beat the crap out of him. Nope, best to go along with the plan.
“Let’s get up on deck,” said Emily.
“Good idea, if they evacuate we want to be close to the lifeboats.” Dr. Brandeis led the way up on deck. Candy was now clinging to his arm and looking worried, which made him feel more confident. Plus, Cosmic Kid, an actual superhero, had entrusted him with the protection of his girlfriend. That had to count for something.
They soon reached the deck where many of the other passengers had gathered and were talking in alarmed voices. Dr. Brandeis saw Boomerang, the cruise ship’s super; all of the major cruise ships had a super or two on board for security. Boomerang had the ability to throw things and control the things he threw, a fairly moronic power, but what did you expect for a cruise ship super. He even did a show at night throwing things; the four of them had planned on attending it. Dr. Brandeis wondered what Boomerang would do against the mice – perhaps throw mouse traps. No, what they needed was someone with fire powers!
“Look at that!” said Emily, pointing at a mouse. Dr. Brandeis looked at it and noticed it was dragging a silver necklace. He followed the mouse as it went towards the side of the ship and crawled into a lifeboat. He walked over and reached out to pull back the tarp and look inside.
“Don’t!” exclaimed Candy.
“They’re just house mice,” chuckled Dr. Brandeis as he pulled back the tarp and saw dozens of mice organizing jewelry, wallets, and cash into separate piles in the lifeboat. “That’s brilliant!” He wondered why he couldn’t ever think of things like this. Then again, maybe he could – the Plan was all his idea. Perhaps he had the makings of a true criminal mastermind like whoever had trained all these mice.
“Disturbed is more like it,” said Emily.
“They’re kind of cute. They’re like little mice Robin Hoods,” said Candy.
“I should replace most of my staff with mice,” said Dr. Brandeis thoughtfully.
A crash echoed nearby as two double doors were knocked open and Cosmic Kid flew out and slammed into the railing. Following him out was a huge mass of mice, mice formed in the shape of a man that ambled towards Cosmic Kid. The mass of mice writhed horrifically as it maintained its shape while running across the deck.
“Yes, vomiting now,” said Candy as she ran to the side of the ship.
“Huh?” said Dr. Brandeis. This was unexpected.
Cosmic Kid was gasping for breath and looked bad. Emily covered her face. The giant mouse man, or man made of mice, spoke. “I am Mouser!” he squeaked, though it was hard to determine where exactly on his body the sound was coming from - perhaps all of the mice speaking as one. Mouser charged for Cosmic Kid; Dr. Brandeis wanted to avert his eyes, but couldn’t; the sight was mesmerizing. Right before Mouser made contact, Cosmic Kid smiled, dropped, and rolled, and as Mouser hit the railing Cosmic Kid sprung up and smashed into Mouser’s back, sending hundreds of mice over the side.
“If anyone’s a mouser, it’s me,” said Cosmic Kid as chunks of Mouser soared over the railing into the waters below. “A mouser hunts mice, moron.”
He looked rather pleased with himself until he saw that several lifeboats filled with mice were being lowered into the water. One group of mice near Cosmic Kid writhed into a large hand-shaped formation and gave the super the middle finger before jumping into one of the lowering lifeboats.
Cosmic Kid looked dumbfounded. “We need to blow up the boats before they escape!”
“But they’re loaded with valuables,” said Dr. Brandeis, who personally felt Mouser should get away with something. He was a man mouse after all; if anyone needed a handout from society it had to be him. He wondered if maybe this was one of the supervillains Ian was hiring to distract West Pacific Supers, if so there really should have been a memo sent to him.
“Noah’s right - there’s valuables in the boats, like wedding rings,” said Emily. “It’s better to try to recover them than sink everything to the bottom of the ocean!”
Candy was nodding in agreement and Dr. Brandeis did as well, though more out of respect for a fellow supervillain.
“I guess so,” said Cosmic Kid. “At least I stopped him before he robbed the casino.”
“A thwart’s pretty good,” said Emily, squeezing his arm sympathetically.
At that a photographer ran up to take a picture. Cosmic Kid grabbed Noah by the shoulder and maneuvered him and Candy in for the shot. It had indeed been a very exciting cruise. Unfortunately, things got even more exciting the next day when the West Pacific Times ran the picture of the four of them on the front page and Pam discovered it with her morning coffee.
Chapter 21
10:41 p.m., Friday, May 24th, 2013
C Street and Moreau Avenue
West Pacific, CA
“So, let’s go over this one more time,” said Loren, who was struggling to understand how the Trio had turned something so apparently simple into something so incredibly complex. “Who are we beating up?”
“Some thug from the C-Stree
t Gang,” explained Cupid patiently. He was wearing a toga tonight, so it was hard to take him seriously, but Loren was trying. “Just not José, because he’s our informant.”
“But if we have an informant, why do we need to beat anyone up?” Loren asked.
“To provide cover for the informant!” exclaimed Goalie. “Come on, I’m getting hot. Can we get out already?”
Cupid nodded and slid open the door of Samurai’s van and they all piled out. Loren was still processing. “So we’re beating up a guy to pretend to get information that we actually already have?”
“Exactly!” Cupid beamed at him.
“And what is this information?” Loren asked, happy that he was finally grasping the basic plan.
“Big stuff,” grunted Samurai, who had finished strapping on his breastplate and was slipping on his helmet. It had a metal grille across the face and a bunch of hard leather and padded fabric flaps to protect his throat, neck, and shoulders. Loren loved Samurai’s costume, though Samurai took offense if you called it that.
“Someone’s hiring muscle and shipping them out to some offshore location,” said Goalie, leaning against the van as she snapped on her inline skates. “They’re flush with cash and looking to hire all the goons they can get.”
“Whoa!” said Loren. This was big. “This could be the Avalon One we’ve looking for! We need to get this information to Midnight right away!”
“Keep with the program, Truthfinder,” said Goalie. “Midnight already knows. First we beat up Marcus to ‘get’ the information, then we go stakeout the boat and stick on the tracking device. You do have the tracking device, right?”
“Of course,” said Loren quickly.
“Good. Once we get the tracking device on, then we report back to Midnight, who probably calls it all in to White Knight.” Goalie adjusted her hockey mask, which looked new - some sort of mask and cage combination.
“Nice mask,” said Loren admiringly.
“Oh, do you like it?” Goalie sounded pleased. “It’s really cutting edge, fiberglass and Kevlar.”
“Who’s Marcus?” asked Samurai.
“The thug who’s after José’s girl,” said Goalie. “Pay attention.”
Samurai frowned, or at least Loren thought he did; it was hard to make out his facial expressions behind the kendo gear. “I don’t think we should be getting that involved in gang politics,” Samurai said. “It might tip someone off that José is our guy.”
“Better that than José deciding not to deal with us anymore,” growled Goalie. Loren wondered if she and Samurai had been having another one of their fights.
“Plus it’s love,” piped up Cupid, who was jogging to keep up with the three of them. “We are duty-bound to save the relationship from Marcus’ machinations.”
“It’s unnecessarily complicated,” Samurai persisted. “What happens if we can’t identify this Marcus guy?”
“He wears a black leather jacket with a face of Jesus crying blood,” said Goalie.
“Wicked!” said Cupid. “I call dibs on the jacket!”
“Why do you want a jacket with a picture of Jesus crying blood?” asked Loren, curious.
“For my collection,” said Cupid. “I’ll put it right next to the 24-karat-gold Madonna that we pried off that drug dealer’s car.”
“He’s like a freakin’ headhunter,” Goalie said to Loren. “He has this insane trophy collection. It was bad enough when it just junked up his room but now it’s spilled over into the living room.”
“Isn’t that kind of… ” Loren wasn’t sure what to say.
“Sick?” suggested Goalie helpfully.
“Well, I was more thinking illegal,” said Loren.
“Not at all!” said Cupid cheerfully. “They’re the bad guys and we’re the good guys, remember? Salvage is just part of the game.”
Loren was quiet. Not all vigilantes were comfortable with the idea of salvage, though some practically made a living off of it. Evidence of course was always turned over to the police, and guns and drugs were a big no-no, but other stuff was more of a personal call. He’d heard a lot of vigilantes call it “recycling” and Night Fox had once given him a long explanation of how it was an ancient tradition going back to the practices of freelance knights in the Middle Ages. Loren tended to think it wasn’t right to profit off of his heroics, and he suspected that Samurai agreed. Then again, Loren had kept a set of genuine thieves’ picks that he’d found one time, as well as a nifty night scope…
“Listen, it’s called living in the real world,” said Goalie, who was apparently thinking along the same lines. “Professional supers have endorsement deals, multimillion dollar salaries, and health insurance. We, on the other hand, have second-hand gear, rent to pay, and more than our fair share of ER visits. Salvage is just basic fairness. The sick part is when people keep the stuff,” she continued, looking over at Cupid. “I still say you should sell that Madonna. The meltdown value alone would be worth it.”
“Never!” cried Cupid. “My collection is sacrosanct!”
“Quiet,” said Samurai in a low voice. He stopped to wait for them to catch up and then gestured at what could only be described as a sinister-looking alleyway.
It had all the classic signs of trouble: busted out street lights, a homeless guy passed out in the gutter, an abandoned car with broken windows, an overflowing dumpster that stank to high heaven, and a rough-looking group of 20-somethings hanging out at the end next to a tricked-out muscle car with a booming bass system. Loren looked at them nervously, but the West Pacific Trio seemed suddenly to be in high spirits. Cupid gave a big grin as he said, “Okay, Trio, let’s get ready to rumble!” Goalie even reached over and gave Samurai’s hand a squeeze; Loren realized that her snappishness earlier was probably more nerves than an actual bad mood.
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” Loren asked, but Goalie was already moving into action. She fished a scary-looking metal puck with serrated edges out of her satchel and dropped it on the ground, lined up her metal hockey stick, and started blading towards the group with smooth, practiced strokes and glides. Samurai grasped his modified wooden sword and rushed forward. Cupid straightened his toga and plucked an arrow from his quiver. The Trio was ready for action.
It was a quick, brutal battle that Loren mostly observed from behind the rancid dumpster. His Truthfinder persona wasn’t what you’d call a fighting vigilante, so he assumed the role of lookout to make sure that they didn’t get bushwhacked by unexpected gang reinforcements. He kept an eye out, but mostly he just watched the Trio do their thing. Goalie was ferocious, all the fluidity of inline hockey combined with ice hockey aggression. She brought down one thug with a gorgeous redirect that sent the puck directly into his face; Loren winced at the scream that accompanied what must have been the guy’s jaw breaking. She brought another down with a sweep of her hockey stick to his knees. Samurai was slower but no less effective. His favorite maneuver seemed to be a thrust to the throat, usually accompanied by a fighting shout and frequently an impressive foot stomp. Cupid meanwhile stayed out of the fray, firing arrows in rapid succession. Cupid had once explained to Loren that his arrows were designed for impact, not piercing. Which was good, Loren thought, or else he would be slaughtering people. Even so, the gang never stood a chance.
Only a few minutes after the fight began, the few who remained scrambled into the car and floored it out of the alley, nearly creaming Loren in the process. Goalie quickly bladed over to see if he was okay and gave him a hand up. Samurai was picking up a Hispanic kid with slicked-back hair and a black leather jacket with the face of Jesus crying blood on the back. “Let him have it, Samurai!” Goalie yelled. She sounded exhilarated. “Cut him to shreds if he won’t talk!” She winked at Loren and bladed off down the street, looking for stragglers Loren guessed, or maybe just letting off steam.
Cupid was dashing around the battlefield retrieving arrows and scavenging for dropped gear. “Don’t forget I want the jacket!” he called to S
amurai, who was thrashing Marcus, though Loren could tell it was more of an intimidation than an actual beating. The kid didn’t seem to realize that, though, and he was definitely spilling the beans.
“Yeah, yeah, I got your jacket,” grumbled Samurai, who spun Marcus around and pulled off his jacket in one fluid motion that sent the kid careening to the ground.
“Okay, let’s go!” Samurai said, throwing the jacket to Cupid.
Goalie swooped by and gave a war whoop as she high-fived Cupid, who was now jogging back towards the van with his spoils. Samurai caught up with Loren and shook his head. “She’s going to be impossible tonight,” he muttered, a comment that Loren thought best to ignore.
They climbed into the van and Samurai took off his helmet before starting the engine and driving quickly away. Goalie had flung off her hockey mask; her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Oh yeah, we kicked ass!” she cried. “I gotta get me some pancakes! IHOP! IHOP! IHOP!” she started chanting, with Cupid beating time on the side of the door.
“Quiet down you two,” said Samurai from the front. “We still have to stake out the harbor, remember?”
“Oh right,” said Goalie, deflating a little. She stopped chanting and rifled through a bag on the seat next to her to find a towel to wipe off her sweaty face.
Loren felt like he had to say something to compliment their victory. “That was really impressive back there,” he offered.
“Yeah, we rocked!” said Goalie, looking excited again.
“They were two-bit gang members,” said Samurai from up front. “Not a mutant among them and the worst they were packing was switchblades. It was hardly a fair fight.”
“Spoilsport,” said Goalie, sticking out her tongue at Samurai. “We were on our game tonight!”
“I agree,” said Cupid, smiling magnanimously at them as he put the black leather jacket on over his toga. “We should celebrate the moment. This is definitely an IHOP night.”
West Pacific Supers: Rising Tide Page 25
