Masked

by Lou Anders

  As he watched a live feed of Amnesty and The Silver Gryphon take down Flashback on the grounds of the Georgia Institute of Technology, Marshall couldn’t help but wonder how a similar scenario would have played out on his old stomping grounds. Probably not all that differently, he eventually concluded. Nobody liked to have their downtime crashed, least of all volatile psychos like Shatterdam and The Purple Lamprey. Throw in The Imperial’s reckless disregard for collateral damage and you’d have been lucky to have a building standing once the dust settled. Fortunately, the authorities in Fortune City had always had the good sense to steer clear. In his day, Vinny’s, and a few places like it, were considered off-limits in the life-or-death battles waged by the costumed narcissists and their hangers-on, undeclared sanctuaries where the rules no longer applied, and every so often, it hadn’t been uncommon to see the odd hero having a drink at the bar or holding a civilized conversation with someone whose headquarters he’d trashed only hours earlier.

  The recollection of those days stirred a melancholy longing, something he found altogether baffling given that they’d been, for the most part, truly miserable times. Blaming the previous night’s excesses, Marshall showered, dressed, and headed out for some fresh air.

  Rather than pick up his spirits, however, the walkabout had the opposite effect. It was all somewhat surreal, like wandering a dreamworld cobbled together from fragmented pieces of memory, his surroundings familiar yet disquietingly incongruous. The Parkview Shopping Center, once a bustling hangout for high-schoolers and determined shopaholics, was all but deserted, its high-end shops long gone, now little more than a collection of dollar stores and knickknack emporiums. The Win Wah Buffet had also disappeared, along with its room-temperature chicken balls and uninspired shrimp toast. Gone too was the Odessa Video run by the stoic Russian couple, the woodfire pizza place that was always running out of pepperoni, and the mailing depot that doubled as a doggy daycare because half the staff used to bring their pets in to work with them.

  Some things had survived, transformed by time, while others had remained surprisingly unchanged. The Italian deli on Main Street for one. And even though he had never been a fan of the food back in the day, Marshall nevertheless grabbed a table at the adjoining café and enjoyed a sandwich and an espresso, finding comfort in the familiarity of the place.

  Partway through the late lunch, his cell phone rang. It was Allison calling to check up on him. And she sounded unusually upbeat. Between booking their Hawaiian getaway and testing out new desserts for the Dosanjh barbecue, she was beginning to prep the house for the arrival of her parents, who would be coming in for a ten-day visit sometime next month. Marshall told her not to worry, that he was being careful, and that, hopefully, he’d be back before week’s end.

  It was only after he hung up that he was struck by her puzzling change of heart regarding the barbecue. On its own, it seemed trivial, but married to his mother’s recent unsolicited advice… well, if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that they were in collusion. A few seconds of considered reflection and then it dawned on him that, in fact, he didn’t know any better.

  He paid for his meal and headed back to the hotel, his mind racing, reviewing past visits, past conversations, ferreting out incongruities, inconsistencies, correlations, and connections. The tumblers turned, aligned, and a potential conspiracy locked in place. Well, it would certainly explain a few things.

  “Hey!”

  He glanced up, reverie interrupted, to find Terry standing outside the hotel entrance. His old friend, styling in a black bomber jacket and jeans, grinned and jerked his thumb back to indicate the electric blue mustang parked across the street. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Terry sat behind the wheel, singing falsetto accompaniment to a pop tune while a detached Marshall took in the passing scenery from the passenger-side window. As the warbling vocals of Destiny Lewis singing “Gangbang Gravy” faded out, Terry turned off the radio and threw his former accomplice a sideways glance. “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Still hungover?”

  “No.” They passed through Chinatown, its faux-pagoda storefronts and stone dragon-flanked entranceways timeworn and in disrepair, the once vibrant community now reduced to less than a third of its former glory by the defections of those who had abandoned their immigrant roots for a better life in the suburbs. “Can’t believe how much has changed since I left.”

  “Well, it has been eight years.”

  “I know. Still—coming back and seeing things so different. It’s…”

  “Sad? Strange?”

  “Yeah,” said Marshall.

  “I get it,” said Terry. “You’re feeling kinda disconnected.”

  “I know, it’s silly—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s like… everything you knew moved on without you and what used to be familiar is suddenly unfamiliar, hell, even a little scary.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Marshall conceded, impressed by Terry’s surprising empathy.

  Terry nodded knowingly. “It’s like watching that Brady Bunch reunion movie.”

  Marshall sized him up, uncertain as to whether he was kidding or not. And realized he wasn’t. “Uh, yeah. Kind of like that.”

  Terry redirected his attention back to the road and gave a sad shake of his head. “Man, Greg got old.”

  In fact, it had all gotten old for Marshall some time ago, and being back reminded him of just how much he too had changed. And all it had taken was the love and support of a good woman, a willingness on his part to walk away, and, of course, those five years in prison.

  Less than six months after she moved in with him, Allison stumbled across the Downfall uniform concealed behind the false wall of his closet. He came home one afternoon to find it draped over the couch, Allison seated right beside it, leafing through the latest issue of Nefaria Weekly with its coverage of the Decimator/Princess Arcana wedding. “What’s that?” he managed lamely. She threw him a look that extinguished any hope of escape, and the next thing he knew, he was fielding a barrage of questions. Yes, he was the ultracriminal responsible for crashing the Governor’s Diamond Ball last spring. Yes, he’d been involved in that massive assault on L.A.W. headquarters. No, he had nothing to do with the breakin at the Metropolitan Museum timed to coincide with the Crown Prince of Brunei’s Gold Shoe Exhibition. That was Deadfall.

  She asked, he answered, she pressed, and he gave it all up: his atypical childhood, his secret identity, even his sole foray into team iniquity with the short-lived criminal cartel Pandemonium that eventually disbanded because people kept confusing them with the popular kids’ band Pandamonium. In truth, it was an enormous relief to finally come clean, and after a while he required no prompting. Over the course of those six hours, Allison learned everything about his double life as Downfall, and, to his surprise, Marshall even discovered a little something about himself as well. Yes, more often than not crime did pay, and of course the camaraderie was an important part of it, but, when all was said and done, it was far simpler than that. He enjoyed being Downfall because it fed his ego. He had to admit, there was an undeniable rush that came with knowing he had fans, supporters who followed his criminal exploits with a fervor usually reserved for professional athletes and film celebrities. There was no greater satisfaction than seeing his name outrank the likes of middleweight heroes like Counterforce and Zero-G in the latest Google search rankings, or surfing the multitude of online communities dedicated to his alternate persona. Yes, it was ego that drove Downfall, but it was humility that killed him.

  Humbled by Allison’s willingness to forgive, he promised to change and immediately set out to make good on his word—trashing the uniform, cutting ties with his former cohorts, and enrolling in a web design program at the local community college. Downfall was done.

  For about eight months, after which his funds dried up and the lure of a one-time-only score proved too much for him to resist. With the help of two associates, Ember a
nd BlowOut, he succeeded in tracking down the bio-signature of his Downfall uniform and rescued it from the local landfill, then joined Professor Bedlam and his Agents of Chaos in a multimillion-dollar extortion plot that, had it succeeded, would have set him up for life. Unfortunately, it all went sideways and he ended up in prison, doomed to reflect upon that last unlucky roll of the dice.

  Allison didn’t attend his trial, nor did she answer any of his letters, and after his first year in prison, he gave up hope of ever seeing her again. And so, when she eventually did pay him a surprise visit during that second year of incarceration, he was shocked, to say the least. She revealed that as much as she wanted to, she was unable to move on because she still loved him and, more importantly, still believed in him. Whether he believed in himself was another matter entirely.

  And suddenly, Marshall did believe, and he attacked the remainder of his sentence with single-minded purpose, not once straying from his new role of model prisoner. After three years, his determination paid off with an offer of conditional release—provided he was willing to play ball with the authorities. Weary of his solitary existence and anxious to prove himself, he’d been more than willing.

  “We’re here,” Terry announced.

  Marshall frowned. “We are?”

  “Yep.” The parking lot wasn’t that full. They were able to find a spot right in front of the Science Center entrance.

  The entrance hall was alive with the recorded gibbers, chitters, squawks, and caterwauls of the animal kingdom. Upon catching sight of their approach, the redheaded teen at the reception desk quickly wrapped up his phone conversation, clicking off and greeting them with an annoyingly chirpy “It’s a great day to learn. Welcome to Science World. This month’s exhibits include Dinosaur Dynasty, a treat for children of all ages—”

  “We’re here to see someone,” Terry cut to the chase. Then, glancing down at the receptionist’s name tag, added, “Dirk.” He smiled amiably—or attempted a close approximation thereof. “We’re looking for Muriel.”

  “Muriel is finishing the two-twenty Gideon Sundback Zippermania tour. It’ll be wrapping up shortly in the blue room.”

  “Thanks.” Terry started through the turnstiles. They locked, catching him mid-thigh and doubling him over. He grunted something that sounded like “Ngraw!”, then straightened and shot a look back at Dirk, who cheerily inquired, “Will that be one ticket or two?”

  Marshall pulled out his wallet. “Two.”

  “No, no.” Terry waved Marshall back. “This one’s on me. Two tickets.”

  Dirk rang them up. “Two tickets, eighteen dollars each. That’ll be thirty-six dollars in total.”

  “Thirty-six dollars!” cried Terry, clutching the lone fiver he had fished out of his pocket. “For thirty-six dollars, those dinosaurs better do a song and dance!”

  “Actually, they do,” Dirk blandly assured him.

  “Well, I don’t care! I’m still not paying that.”

  “It’s all right.” Marshall stepped up. “I’ve got it.”

  He paid and they proceeded into the boisterous main hall, passing a Parasites of the Human Body display and stopping to check out the Robot Zoo exhibit en route to parking themselves outside the blue room where Terry glowered, still bristling over the exorbitant entrance fee and, to a lesser extent, his failed attempt to draw the attention of the mechanical lemur. This, Marshall couldn’t help but note, was the same guy who had never thought twice about dropping five to six hundred dollars a night visiting Fortune City’s upscale strip clubs. Marshall reminded him of the fact, but it did little to mollify his old friend, who indignantly countered, “Strippers are real, Marsh. Dinosaurs aren’t.”

  He was tempted to call him on it, but ultimately decided to give his buddy a pass. After all, he had come through for him. According to Terry, he had asked around, exhausted his sources, and apparently come up empty. So far as anyone knew, Adam Virtue had disappeared six years ago; vanished without a trace. Some heard he was dead; others that he had moved to British Columbia, where he was enjoying a tranquil retirement in a senior community euphemistically referred to as “God’s Waiting Room.” Still others suspected that he was in hiding, biding his time as he tried to reassemble his surviving Terror Syndicate teammates for one final shot at infamy. But it all amounted to little more than groundless conjecture. He had pretty much given up when, late that morning, he received a phone call from an unidentified woman who wanted to know his reason for asking after Virtue. Terry hedged, explained he was acting as a go-between for an interested third party, and then, when pressed, fearful she was going to hang up on him, offered up Marshall’s name—to which she’d responded by hanging up on him. About an hour later, she phoned back and provided him with a time, a place, and a name.

  The double doors to the blue room swung open and the Zippermania tour let out: schoolchildren, an elderly couple, a group of German tourists, and, bringing up the rear, a mid-fortyish, heavyset, bespectacled woman sporting the Science World navy blue suit and a name tag that identified her as MANAGER: MURIEL HENRY.

  “Muriel!” called Terry as if hailing down a long-lost relative. “Hey!”

  She stopped and threw him a suspicious look, trying to place the face.

  “Terry Langan. We talked this morning.”

  She coolly shifted her gaze to Marshall and asked, “You are… ?”

  “Marshall. I’m an old friend of—”

  “Of course.” She beamed, her aloofness evaporating. “Adam’s looking forward to seeing you. This way.”

  They followed her through a door marked employees only, down a narrow, carpeted hallway to another door with a keycode, through that door and down a flight of stairs to a bleak, gray, wide concrete corridor and up to a steel-reinforced door with a biometric lock. She pressed her meaty thumb against the pad. A corresponding click and the door swung open into a room that could have passed for a posh studio lounge, complete with sleek leather couches, kitchenette, and bar.

  She led them in. “Adam will be with you shortly. In the meantime, make yourselves at home.”

  Terry already was, taking up position behind the bar and fixing himself a drink. Marshall, for his part, was far more interested in the collection of framed pictures adorning the far wall. They offered a timeline of Virtue’s life: a teenage Adam at the state science fair being presented with the first-prize trophy by then governor Edmund G. Brown, a young and up-and-coming Virtue and his coworkers outside the head offices of military subcontractor Farrow-Marshall, Virtue and the rest of the Los Alamos research team meeting President Lyndon B. Johnson, Virtue as head of military R&D meeting with President Richard Nixon, a rare group shot of the Terror Syndicate, Donald Rumsfeld presenting Virtue with the Secretary of Defense Medal for Outstanding Public Service, Virtue being presented with the NASA Distinguished Service Medal by President Ronald Reagan, Virtue receiving the Presidential Citizens Medal from President Bill Clinton, Virtue the former national hero being led into court for his arraignment, Virtue on the steps of the courthouse addressing the press following his sentencing. Of course, house arrest barely slowed him down and, while Doc Arcanum may have ceased to exist, Adam Virtue continued to operate, quietly supplying the underworld high-rollers with everything from plasma gauntlets to cloaking technology until a heart attack finally succeeded in doing what the heroes and authorities could not: end Virtue’s criminal career.

  “So, uh, what’s the deal here?” asked Marshall, finally giving voice to the question he’d been nursing since the parking lot.

  Muriel smiled, the crow’s feet around her bright green eyes deepening. “The bulk of the funding to build the Science Center came from private donations—and one investor in particular. In fact, if not for Adam’s continued financial backing, the center would have closed down ages ago. He’s been a great supporter of efforts to promote science education in developing minds.”

  “That right?” mused Terry, not even bothering to look over as he took a sip of his coc
ktail, frowned, and added an extra shot of bourbon.

  Muriel ignored him. “About five years ago, we were looking to complete some major renovations. Again, as he’d done so many times in the past, Adam stepped up. Over the years, he’s helped us immeasurably and never asked for anything in return. This time, when he did ask, we were more than happy to accommodate his small request.”

  “Small request?” Terry swung around the bar, cocktail in hand, and dropped himself onto one of the comfy-looking leather couches. “This place is nicer than my apartment.”

  “Adam greatly values his privacy.” She threw Terry a look that could’ve melted the ice cubes in his highball glass. “I trust you won’t do anything to jeopardize it.”

  Terry put his feet up on the ottoman and hit the remote, turning on the wall-mounted flat screen. Then, realizing she was referring to him, he furrowed his brow and shrugged, clearly annoyed. “Who am I going to talk to?”

  Muriel’s sour look turned cherry sweet as she swung her gaze back to Marshall. “It was nice meeting you, Marshall.”

  Terry watched her go, then sniffed and redirected his focus to the TV. “What a bitch.”

  Marshall barely registered the remark, focused as he was on a rare group shot of the Terror Syndicate. He guessed it was probably taken sometime in the mid-seventies, just before its members went their separate ways. On the left stood Funkmaster Fly, formerly The Groovinator, and, later, Crunk Daddy, who eventually tired of his life of crime and turned himself in. He repaid his debt to society through the many years of community service that ended up endearing him to various inner-city leaders, stoking his successful run for a seat on the Detroit city council and, in time, the mayor’s office, where his two terms as The Motor City Maverick won him the love of his constituents, national attention, and a later career as a political pundit. Beside him stood The Gargantuan, six hundred pounds of corpulent fury, who fell on hard times after the team’s breakup and, following a series of arrests, briefly made a name for himself on the competitive eating circuit before being felled by a massive coronary in Bridgetown. To his left, arms folded across her iron and leather yoroi and sneering defiantly at the camera, stood Onna Buegeisha, who was reputed to have once fought Commander Liberty to a bare-knuckle draw. From what Marshall had heard, she was now managing a ladies-only bar in Oakland. Beside her and front and center stood the man himself, Doc Arcanum, a.k.a. Adam Virtue, his face concealed behind a first-generation virinium helm, looking surprisingly buff in his form-fitting midnight black exosuit. To his other side and practically leaning up against him was another masked teammate, the pixyish Silver Sylph, whose secret identity allowed her to fade into obscurity soon after The Terror Syndicate called it quits. To her left stood The Antagonist, the lovable rogue who achieved celebrity heights as “the villain no jury could convict.” He parlayed his charm and good looks into a small screen career, winning accolades for his performance as Matt Marvelous on the critically acclaimed HBO underworld series Sinners & Saints. Finally, standing on the very right and just a little off on his own was the aptly named Discord, another mystery behind his mask and cowl, whose rumored falling out with Doc Arcanum was said to have precipitated the team’s dissolution.