The Good Fight 2: Villains

by Ian Thomas Healy

  “What-happened-in-there? Are-there-any-casualties? Can-you-tell-us-their-motives? Whose-shirts-do-you-wear? How-did-you-defeat-the-robbers?”

  Then came the question I couldn’t ignore, from a short guy with a nose that looked like it had been broken far too many times. His face was had the veiny look of a heavy drinker, but his dark eyes were sharp under shaggy, greying brows. His right elbow was pressed firmly into the stomach of a taller man in an expensive suit behind him, and his left arm blocked three other microphones while it held a heavily scratched recorder just below my chin. I stared at him for a moment through the yellow tinted plastic that covered my eyes, and he repeated his question.

  “What’s yer name?!”

  I looked around at the other reporters, and they’d all stopped to listen. This old veteran had asked the question that everyone else had forgotten, caught up in the frenzy of trying to get a sound bite. I looked down at my hands, staring at the bright yellow gloves that covered them, and past them to the matching bright yellow boots. What a ridiculous colour scheme.

  Up here on the roof, looking out over the city in the last dusky light, I can replay that moment in my mind. Time had seemed to slow, or my thoughts had raced. Either way, I barely missed a beat, and certainly didn’t seem to hesitate. I didn’t hesitate to take up the mantle of a hero, and lay claim to the city as my own, under my protection.

  It turned out to be even more lucrative than robbing banks. I have more than enough to live well on sponsorships and commercials. The police force even pays me a small stipend as a ‘consultant’ on permanent retainer. I’ve yet to receive anything as ridiculous as the key to the city, but rumour has it the mayor has something like that in the works—not that it matters. This is my city now. I keep watch over it, and protect it and the citizens that live and work here from people who aspire to be as I once was.

  That one moment was the final turning point. I felt a tingle all over my body. It felt the same as when the yellow hero had taken away my powers, only the quality was different. Instead of a physical incongruity, I began to feel right again. Then, for some reason, I heard my Aunt Jane’s voice, hollow but firm in my mind’s ear. “Remember, when life hands you lemons, make . . .”

  I finished with my own voice, looking through the yellow-tinged plastic of my mask at my yellow gloves, yellow boots, yellow costume.

  “Lemonade. Call me Lemonade.”

  Back to Table of Contents

  Here Comes the Pain

  By T. Mike McCurley

  T. Mike McCurley lives in a suburb of Oklahoma City, where he tortures his wife and daughter with the constant clacking of his keyboard and the overuse of a coffee maker. His early forays into the world of superhero fiction began in 2004, and his short stories soon formed the backbone of what became known as the world of the Emergence, describing events and players in a world of metahumanity that began in 1963 and has grown since. From those stories came the tales of the metahuman cop known as Firedrake (whose adventures have now filled three books), and an Emergence setting for Lester Smith’s D6xD6 roleplaying game is in the works.

  You can follow him on Twitter: @TmikeMcCurley; Facebook: Author T. Mike McCurley

  His website is www.tmikemccurley.com and information on the Emergence setting is available at http://www.d6xd6.com/settings/add-on-settings/emergence-t-mike-mccurley/

  Of course, as a proud PCS member, he can be found within the Society at www.penandcapesociety.com/t-mike-mccurley/

  * * *

  Chapter One

  The Hospital

  The hospital was quiet until he arrived.

  He knew, as he always knew, that once he had been there nothing would ever be the same. It was always best to give them something to remember.

  Striding through the doors as though he owned the entire building, he flicked a hand toward the security desk. The guard there felt his skin seem to crawl as his uniform turned to thick sand and dribbled from his body to form a pile at his feet. The equipment belt he wore did likewise, and the pistol he carried was soon a shiny pile of metallic dust. It happened in a matter of two seconds, and the man was standing nude behind his desk. The intruder never even slowed.

  The doors to the elevator opened, revealing the emptiness of a shaft beyond. The elevator was a dozen stories above the ground floor. Without pausing in his stride, the genebooster stepped into the shaft. He floated on the air without falling. Looking up, he began to rise through the shaft until he was out of sight.

  At his desk, the guard snatched at the receiver of his telephone. As he waited for the emergency call to go through he hit the switch for the internal emergency alarm. Lights glowed a brilliant red on the desk of every nurses’ station in the entire hospital. Prepared emergency responses would be enacted shortly.

  “911, what is the nature —”

  “Security station, Saint Francis hospital, 9400 East Third. We have a hostile genebooster onsite. I need help!”

  “Do you have a description?”

  “Tall, thin, white male. Blue and red outfit of some kind. He dissolved my uniform and my gun. I mean he just, like, waved and poof it all turned to dust!”

  “We have assistance on the way to you,” the operator declared. “Would you like to stay on the line with me?”

  The guard looked down at himself, and then over to the closet where he knew an ankle-length raincoat was hanging. He sighed. “No. I’ll meet your guys at the front door.”

  * * *

  The intruder swept through the hall, maneuvering around equipment and rolling desks filled with charting computers. His feet made no sound at all as he walked, despite what looked to be heavy boots. A careful listener could discern a gentle hiss as the short cape of white hide that hung over his left shoulder brushed against the blue and red outfit he wore, but beyond that he was silent as creeping death. His hands played at a pattern before him, bending the light around his form and rendering himself invisible to the security camera that peered at him from the junction of two hallways. It was a parlor trick to someone with his ability.

  In all truth, he knew he need not bother. There was no way any of the locally sanctioned boosters could pose a threat to him, and the heavy hitters that might be called by the Department of Metahuman Affairs would be hours away. Still, courtesy was the mark of a civilized man. A pitched battle could easily result from any rude behavior, and while he had no qualms about turning the local boosters into dog food, the possibility of collateral damage was too great.

  It was in room 1138 that he located his prey. His sources had provided that information and he knew that there was no reason to doubt their report. There never was. Few would be foolish enough to lie, and providing mistaken information to him was known to be a truly bad idea. Folding the light once again, he opened the door and entered the room. The camera would see the closed door once he was through the portal, but for now, his sudden appearance on the video feed could only cause further alarm.

  The light was out in the room, and the only meager illumination was provided by a single bulb situated above and behind the bed. It was more than enough for him to see the shell of a man that lay in the cramped confines of the metal-railed bed. His face was deeply lined with wrinkles and a permanent grimace was evident there. He was nearly bald, and what hair he had was comprised of wispy white strands that lay limp upon his spotted scalp. Gnarled hands clutched at the thin blanket that covered him, and his breaths came short even with the cannula feeding oxygen into his nose. Tubes and needles pierced him in a half-dozen places, and the quiet beeping and humming of the computerized monitors that rode on the same pole as his IV were all further evidence of the condition of the man who occupied the bed.

  “Richard,” the intruder said, his voice enough to break the quiet but not carry far even in the still conditions. He repeated himself twice. On the third call, the eyes of the bed-ridden man fluttered open and he croaked out his confusion.

  “Who is it?” Richard asked. His voice cracked and he
wheezed with the effort of speech.

  “You are Richard Dyers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will ask of you your patience, Richard. Do not panic when I identify myself. I will make all clear to you. Do you understand?”

  There was a silence, followed by a whisper in the affirmative as Richard attempted to look at his guest. The intruder approached the bed and allowed the elderly man to gaze upon him for a minute before he introduced himself. The words he spoke were not comforting.

  “I am Professor Pain.”

  Richard stiffened and pulled away, his legs pushing with feeble effort as his breath went shallow and he began to cough. His hand scrabbled across the sheets, feeling for the nurse call button.

  “Please relax,” Professor Pain urged. “I mean you no harm.” He waved a hand and Richard felt a wave of calm pass over him. His pain ebbed and he felt able to breathe freely for the first time in years. It was as if whatever the booster had done had taken away all his ills. He had not felt this good in decades.

  “Why are you here?” asked the elderly man.

  “You know why, Richard. Your time is at hand. The doctors here have surely told you.”

  The man blew out a breath and let his head fall back onto the pillow. “So it’s true.”

  “Every man dies. Even I cannot stop that yet. What I can do is see to it that you do not suffer.”

  “Oh? Why me?” Richard asked, looking with suspicion on the man that news broadcasts had told him time and again was one of the deadliest geneboosters on the planet. Facing him was a man who had been responsible for hundreds of deaths through the years.

  “My father died on Okinawa.”

  Richard’s eyes flared wide for a moment as memories flashed behind them. He nodded in a tight move, his lips pressed together.

  “So you come for those of us that didn’t?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I am not here to punish you for living, if that’s what you are thinking. Father was a Navy Corpsman. It was his job to ease your pain. I like to think I’m keeping his legacy alive, if you will. From time to time, as men like yourself near the end, I am able to help make your transition a smoother one.”

  A ghost of a smile creased through the lines that surrounded Richard’s mouth. “I thought you were coming to kill me,” he said.

  Professor Pain shook his head. “No, the cancer did that.”

  “But you’re . . . I mean . . .”

  “I am fully aware of how I have been painted in the media, Richard. I would disavow their accounts, were they not accurate. I am not a pleasant man.”

  “You don’t seem that bad to me.”

  There was a quiet chuckle from the genebooster. He leaned forward into the light, gracing the elderly man with a scarcely-seen smile.

  “Thank you for that,” he said. “I assure you, however, that I am more dangerous than you see.”

  “So why do this?”

  “No one looks after the people that have come before them. You are tucked away out of sight and promptly forgotten in the mad rush to be a success or famous or any of a thousand other reasons. No one bothers to learn from the past of men and women who have experienced life for decades. The old, the infirm, the elderly . . . You are treated as if you abandoned your worth when you crossed a certain calendar date.”

  “Best if used by 2002,” Richard quipped. Both men laughed.

  “I happen to believe otherwise, and I have learned from a thousand men and women lessons that other men ignored. Lessons that shaped me and left me able to become the man I am today.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I have often wondered the same thing.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you just hate people? If you’re really the monster that they say you are, I mean.”

  “I’d like to think I’m far worse than they know,” Professor Pain said with yet another chuckle. “To answer your question, though, No, I do not hate people. I just find them so boring and pedantic, so frequently resistant to the changes that absolutely must be wrought in order that their lot might improve. They are often violent in that resistance. I have patience, Richard, but when one pits himself against me with force, I have no reason not to respond in kind. Sadly for my opponents, my force is often exponentially more destructive than that which is being used against me.”

  “Why do you do what you do?”

  “To help those that need help. I know, they say the government is there to do that, but face facts: they do what in your time would have been termed a ‘piss-poor job’ of it. I achieve results where they stagnate with their committees and councils.”

  “But that’s how we do things.”

  “And we have all seen the folly inherent in such a system. Those that follow my lead live comfortable lives. They have their needs met and they perform valuable functions. No one is left wanting.”

  “I’m gonna say something, and it’ll probably piss you off pretty good,” Richard said, propping himself up on an elbow. “What makes you any better than them sons of bitches we marched across Europe to stop?”

  Pain smiled then, a thin expression that carried little warmth.

  “They were wrong and I am right,” he said after a moment. “They sought to rule and I seek only to aid those not as blessed as I have been.”

  “Even if we don’t want your help?”

  “Why would anyone refuse utopia?”

  “Because it don’t ever work out. You’re always gonna be in charge and folks don’t like feeling like they’ve got a king looking over ‘em.”

  “I am no king.”

  “A meta-criminal, then. I remember when you people first showed up. I remember Lady Justice and all the problems we had when she died. You think people want to follow a madman?”

  “I wasn’t always like this,” Pain said.

  “What were you like before?”

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Becoming

  Herschel Newton made the rounds on the weekend with his mower and hedge trimmers, helping homeowners and businesses alike maintain their appearances. The grounds of the Bayview retirement home were one such task, and one for which many boys his age had vied. Despite the large lawn area and care necessary each week, it was seen as a lucrative contract in the neighborhood. Herschel was frequently the target of bullies on the playground or in the streets, and Bayview was only one of the reasons. The fact that his mother worked for a living was enough to open him to ridicule. Add in Herschel’s love of reading and his lanky, poorly-muscled physique, and he was doomed to be the victim in a society where emphasis was placed on physical ability.

  He always saved Bayview for his last job of the day, and he was there every Saturday, even in the rain. He finished it faster than any of the other children who mowed in the area would have done, wasting no time on breaks or going slowly where he could push himself. Other kids his age would have finished the task and headed for home in hopes of playing baseball or football with their friends. Herschel was different. Herschel loved the stories told by the residents, and he hurried his task so that he could talk with them. They, in turn, had come to cherish the time Herschel spent with them. Each of the elderly people housed within Bayview managed to see their own son, or nephew, or brother in Herschel, and they were all happy to speak with him at length because he reminded them that they were alive, and that they were still people.

  On this particular Saturday, the talk of Bayview was Herschel’s new black eye. He was forced to tell the residents again and again how he had been beaten for the heinous offense of reading during recess. Embarrassingly enough for Herschel, many of them asked what he had been reading, and he wound up admitting that he was reading escapist novels from the old pulp era. They were affordable to him on the tiny allowance his mother forced him to take from his wages. It was the arrangement they had made: Herschel would provide all that he could to the family from his various small jobs, and
he would take three dollars in allowance every week. Compared to the ten or fifteen that his classmates were gifted with each week, it was a mere pittance, but Herschel was also much less a consumer than his peers.

  As always, the residents encouraged Herschel to stand up for himself and face off against the bullies. He had, and it had earned him the shiner. He had the courage to stand up, but not the ability to fight that those who tormented him had. A couple of the veterans worked with him to teach the youth a few of the signature moves that had served them well in the trenches.

  After he had spent his time at Bayview and left to return home, Herschel found himself confronted by three of his usual bullies. Making his life miserable on a singular basis had apparently lost some of the appeal. It seemed they had decided to combine forces.

  “Hey there, Professor,” called Kyle Masters. He was the largest of the teens, having failed and retaken his sixth grade. He was also the most brutal of the schoolyard bullies, frequently threatening horrific punishments (and, it was rumored, responsible for both the broken arm Charlie Sutton had experienced and the humiliation of Darrin Flanders, in which Flanders had been forced into the girls’ gym without his clothing). He had a habit of calling Herschel Professor, because to Masters, anyone that willingly read books was destined to be one of the college-bound ‘eggheads’ about which his father ranted.

  “You ready for a lickin’?” asked Junior Wilks. He had a heavy stick in one hand and was smacking the other end into his palm over and over. Junior liked to fight, and his bullying style was simple, straightforward violence. He had no subtlety, but his methods were quite effective.

  The third bully was Leroy Hoover. Leroy almost never spoke, and when he did, it was a statement to a new victim of what they needed to do to avoid his wrath. After that he would simply look at them. Leroy was fond of taking Herschel’s dessert at lunch.

  “I’m . . .I’m just going home,” Hershel said. He looked straight ahead, even as Leroy and Junior began to flank him. Masters shook his head at the statement.