by Hayes, Drew
That plan came to a screeching halt when he saw the figure tied up in his living room. Someone had broken into his house, no small feat given the level of security, and left a bound man behind. Was it a message? A threat? Were they even really gone, or was this a trick to make him drop his guard?
With a thought, Dean Blaine extended the area of his power-nullifying bubble and stepped forward carefully. Halfway across the room, he recognized the face of the man sitting there, and suddenly concern for his well-being was the last thing on Dean Blaine’s mind.
Crispin, the head of the Sons of Progress, had been delivered to Dean Blaine bound, gagged, and helpless. He’d had this fantasy so many times that for a moment Dean Blaine wondered if he’d fallen asleep at his desk. But no, this was real. This was happening. His dearest dream had just come true.
First things first.
Dean Blaine made sure the blinds were drawn, which they were. That done, he took his dinner into the kitchen and set it on the counter. It would need to be reheated when this was over, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Just before he headed back to the living room, Dean Blaine went ahead and poured himself that glass of scotch. No matter how things went, this was a night worth celebrating. He grabbed a few other items too, tools that might not prove necessary but would be good to have regardless.
Looking at Crispin more closely upon his return to the living room, Dean Blaine noticed a small parcel resting in the man’s lap. Carefully, he unwrapped it, finding a note, a flash drive, and a digital recorder tucked away inside. Setting the recorder to the side for the moment, he read the note aloud, pacing his floor as he did so.
“Good evening, Blaine. I can’t tell you who this is, and even without my name, you should burn this when you finish reading it. Crispin’s memory has been purged, so even if he wanted to reveal who captured him, he won’t be able to. Everything you need is on the tape recorder, and there’s a backup on the flash drive just in case. You should listen to it, even though it’s hard. There are pieces that concern you – and people at your school – directly. Crispin won’t wake up until you strike him; we set pain as the trigger to end his trance. No one knows he’s there. Tomorrow, at seven in the morning, everything on your back porch is going to disappear and never be seen again. Probably end up in a volcano somewhere. Whatever winds up out there is up to you. We trust your judgment. This is my way of saying thanks for being willing to believe in old friends.”
Dean Blaine read the note twice more before going into the kitchen and lighting it on fire. Then he took his drink and the recorder to his home office where he began to listen. Some time later, Dean Blaine emerged. He grabbed his phone and sent one email, a message informing Ralph Chapman that they would be having a meeting in the morning. His glass was empty by then, but he decided to leave it that way. A few sips was enough for now. What came next demanded a clear head.
With more force than was necessary, Dean Blaine slapped Crispin across the cheek. All that kept him from turning it into a real punch was the fear of knocking him back out immediately, and that was no good. Crispin had to be awake for this. It was only fitting.
Slowly, the bound man’s head bobbed as he mentally staggered back to the world of the waking. As his eyes pulled themselves open, he got a good look at Dean Blaine and let out a low, resigned, groan. “You.”
“Me,” Dean Blaine agreed. “Somebody must really hate you, Crispin, otherwise they’d have killed you outright instead of delivering you to me.”
“I don’t know how you got me out of my bunker, but let’s skip the bluster. I’ve dealt with Heroes before, I know you don’t resort to torture,” Crispin said, gradually regaining his faculties.
Dean Blaine’s response was to reach down, grab one of Crispin’s hands, and jerk his little finger so hard and fast there was barely time to hear the bone snap. “First, I am not a Hero anymore. I retired a long time ago. Second, different Heroes have different skillsets, and different lines they’re willing to cross. Third, and most important of all, you stormed onto my campus and murdered innocent people, killing one of my students. You have no idea what I’m capable of doing to pay you back for that.”
To his credit, Crispin didn’t scream or even whimper from the injury. He simply stared at Dean Blaine with growing hate in his eyes. “Pay me back? I took one of yours. One. You and your people have completely torn everything I built down to the ground. And for what? Because I’m trying to get our kind to stand instead of bow, to rule instead of serve? You know we’re stronger than the humans, you know that means we’re meant to be above them, but you’ve let them subjugate us instead. They use our own kind as tools to beat us down; I just wanted to show people a better way.”
Dean Blaine let him talk, allowed him to say his piece. The worst part of Crispin’s words was that they weren’t mad ramblings. He was right, in some ways. Supers were stronger, faster, and more capable than humans. In nature, it would mean they were the superior version of humanity and should take their place at the top of the heap. Plenty of people believed that; some Heroes even discussed the idea from a philosophical point of view. But the problem was that they weren’t wild animals competing with raw strength. Empathy, kindness, mercy, love, these too were human traits – traits that Supers shared. That was why Dean Blaine believed in a future of mankind and variant humans living together peacefully.
Though perhaps the world could do with at least one less Super.
When Crispin paused for a breath, Dean Blaine responded. “You talk a good game, even now.” Carefully, methodically, Dean Blaine took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “But there’s a problem with your logic, Crispin. You didn’t attack the Heroes. You didn’t try to start a fight with the people you claim to hate. You went after a school, attacking people who are mostly human and barely more than children. That is not the act of a brave or righteous man. If you wanted to take a stand, then you’d have taken it against people who could fight back.”
“I attacked a problem at the root,” Crispin countered. “So what if humans died? They’re not good for much else as far as I can tell. And despite what you may think, I do mourn the loss of one of our people. I’m sure she was–”
The crack from Dean Blaine’s fist striking Crispin’s jaw echoed through the house. “You do not get to talk about her.” He resumed rolling up his sleeves, the task nearly done. “You killed a child, Crispin – by your machinations, if not your hand. True, she was one of many who died that night, but she was special. She was one of mine. One of ours. I have buried so many friends over the years, and too many students. But that’s the job. That’s the life we chose. Even at their funerals, I have the comfort of knowing they died doing the job they dedicated their lives to. They went out making a difference. She didn’t get to make that choice yet. Not officially, although in her final moments she damn sure showed what it was to be a Hero. You took that from her, and you took her from us.”
Kneeling down, Dean Blaine was now looking Crispin dead in the eye. They stayed like that for a long moment, until finally Dean Blaine spoke. “Tell me you’re sorry.”
“What?” The word was slurred through Crispin’s cracked and already swelling jaw.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” Dean Blaine repeated. “Tell me how much you regret it. How tortured you are over what you’ve done. Make me believe that there is some level of decency in you worth saving.”
Crispin said nothing, merely stared back at the Lander dean with naked animosity in his eyes.
“Good. That makes this easier.” In a motion that could have been missed with a blink, Dean Blaine wrapped his hands around Crispin’s neck and began to squeeze. “Every day. Every day since you killed her I’ve had to go look at that woman’s name carved in stone and know I failed her. Every day I think about how it was my job to keep her safe, to keep all of them safe, and I fell short. It’s my fault. Your goon may have killed her, but she’s dead because I wasn’t good enough at this job to protect her.
”
Crispin’s body was beginning to spasm. His eyes started to bulge, every part of him silently screaming out for air. But the ties on the chair were well-done, and none of them gave as he struggled.
“You are the worst kind of monster, and the world will be better off when you’re gone from it. That’s what Heroes have to do sometimes. We eliminate threats so they can’t cause problems for others in the future. My hands already have so much blood on them, it doesn’t seem like any more should matter.”
Crispin’s pale, sun-deprived skin was beginning to turn blue. Dean Blaine watched him carefully, waiting for the moment when Crispin knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to die. When it finally came, when the moment of the inevitable finally struck Crispin, Dean Blaine savored it. He’d been waiting so long to see that helpless expression, and it was better than he’d dared to dream. Then, just at the edge of no return, Dean Blaine released his vice-like grip. He watched as Crispin took hacking coughs to fill his lungs with air.
“Every day I have to try and make peace with the fact that I failed her. But killing in Sasha’s name wouldn’t make that better; it would be spitting on her legacy. So I’ll let you live, Crispin, because that’s what a Hero is supposed to do, and Sasha Foster was certainly a Hero. Make no mistake, though, there is no reprieve in your future. If you think your power will be useful enough to earn you some semblance of freedom, think again. I’m making sure the DVA throws you down the darkest hole they’ve got. And if anyone approaches with an offer to make things better, you turn them down. In fact, you run screaming in the other direction. Because if I get even a whiff of you leaving your cell, I’ll use every connection and favor I have to get in there with you.”
He leaned in, stopping only a few inches from Crispin’s tear-stained and still panting face. “And if I have to go in, I’ll make sure to finish the job.”
227.
Getting a late-night message from Dean Blaine wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence for Ralph Chapman. The man worked the hours of an HCP educator, which was to say no one knew when he slept and just assumed he survived on five-minute naps. But usually, the messages were clear and direct, relating to something that the Lander dean felt needed addressing. This morning, Ralph had woken to something more cryptic: just a brief voicemail instructing him to be in Dean Blaine’s office the next morning. No context, no explanation, only a naked demand of Ralph’s time. Even that wasn’t too strange, though; Dean Blaine could often get caught up in his job and occasionally spaced on niceties.
No, the worrying thing had been his tone. There was something in it, something impossible to place yet unmistakable. Dean Blaine’s voice had been teeming with danger and bloodlust, with elements of fury poking their heads through. None of it was obvious, but for anyone who’d held a position like Ralph’s, noticing such nuances was a necessary skill. That didn’t mean those feelings were directed at Ralph necessarily; they might have been felt toward whatever cause inspired him to send the message. Still, Ralph would feel better when this was over.
As he made his way through HCP’s underground campus, Ralph took note of another curious detail: there were no other DVA agents around. Usually at least a couple could be spotted in the early morning, attending to their various tasks before the students showed up to crowd the hallways. Today, however, there was nary a peep. The whole place felt deserted, like Ralph was the only one here. A knot of tension in his gut grew bigger; something was definitely off. Carefully, eyes peeled for some sort of trap or ambush, Ralph made his way to Dean Blaine’s office and lightly knocked on the door.
“Come in, Ralph.”
No hesitation: he’d been waiting for Ralph to arrive and knew no one else was going to knock. With a deep breath and a resigned sigh, Ralph pushed the door open and made his way inside. Dean Blaine was sitting at his desk, dealing with paperwork, and Ralph’s tension deflated a bit. This was the first bit of normalcy he’d seen since getting that message, and it reassured him that things were fine. Taking a seat, he dropped his briefcase to the side and got down to business.
“Late night calls and demands to show up at your office, I assume something big is going on?”
Dean Blaine looked up from his papers and all of Ralph’s easing tension came rushing back even stronger than before. There was a look in those eyes, something that hinged between blind rage and controlled hatred, none of it boding well for Ralph Chapman. If it came down to a fight, there would be no contest; he was a government paper-pusher going up against a trained Hero. Even if he’d had a gun or a knife, the odds were monumentally stacked against him.
“Do you like what you do, Ralph?” Despite the glare in his eyes, Dean Blaine was calm, which somehow made things feel even worse.
“I feel like I have a job that provides a necessary public service, and I enjoy the daily challenges, so yes, I do,” Ralph replied.
“Not the job. Well, not exclusively the job. I’m asking about these witch hunts you go on. Targeting Mr. Reynolds, for example, or any of the other Heroes you’ve set your sights on through the years. Do you like tearing people down?”
“Vince Reynolds is a child to whom nature handed a nuke with no instructions. I don’t apologize for treating him as a potential danger, and as much as you all protest, I think deep down you know I wasn’t wrong to worry. As for the ‘others’ you have alluded to, I built my career on going after Heroes who used their clout and connections to avoid proper justice. Yes, Blaine, I do like that. I like knowing that there are standards, laws that even the mighty Heroes have to answer to. I like that our protectors are accountable. And I don’t feel the need to defend that to an HCP dean. We’re done here.”
Ralph started to rise, expecting Dean Blaine to jump up and stop him. Instead, he observed Ralph’s every movement, waiting until he was out of the chair and halfway to the door before speaking.
“If you leave this room right now, you’ll probably make it as far as the lifts, or perhaps even above ground, but no farther.”
“Are you threatening a DVA agent?” Despite keeping his voice calm, Ralph could feel sweat breaking out along his back as his mind cast back to those empty halls. This whole thing had been planned from the start.
“Of course not. That would be impractical and dangerous. But once you leave this office, you won’t be a DVA agent anymore. I’ve already spoken at length with Graham DeSoto about you. He’s a former Hero, you see, and keeps odd hours by nature. Your fate is entirely in my hands. So you either sit down and we talk, or you leave. About three seconds after you pass through the door, the order will go out for your arrest. The only question is whether your fellow agents will reach you before my staff does, and if it’s the latter I can’t imagine you’ll be handled gently.”
There was no chance Blaine was bluffing. Regardless of whether he had the authority to make good on his threat or not in the long term, he’d absolutely have Ralph brought down hard the moment he was out of this office. “Arrested on what grounds, exactly?”
“Graham and I talked about that a bit too. There are some conspiracy charges that will be easy to make stick, as well as perjury, but we both think that with a strong lawyer and a little detective work we might be able to get you locked up for treason. After all, the HCP is a government facility, and you knowingly worked with Nathaniel Evers, who was instrumental in the attack on Lander last May by the Sons of Progress.”
Ralph Chapman had only seconds to make a choice he knew would impact the rest of this life: try to lie and deny, or admit the truth and see what Blaine was after. The mere fact that he’d called this meeting (rather than busting down Ralph’s door in the middle of the night and beating him half to death) meant that there were options other than prison. But that would likely depend on Ralph’s willingness to play ball. If he tried to weasel his way out, those options might vanish.
Slowly, Ralph Chapman walked back across the room and took a seat in the same chair. He’d tried to leave so quickly he hadn’t even r
emembered to grab his briefcase. “Mind if I ask how you know?”
“Last night, Crispin, head of the Sons of Progress, was captured, and on his person was found a tape of him making a full confession. And I do mean full. Your involvement was just one interesting tidbit he let slide. That’s where the other agents are, by the way. Processing someone like Crispin is an all-hands-on-deck situation. All hands that we can trust, anyway.”
Dean Blaine was still composed as he spoke, even if the look in his eyes was getting progressively more and more dangerous. He closed the folder full of papers on his desk, set his pen aside, and gave Ralph Chapman his full, undivided attention.
“Now then, let’s get down to business and talk about your future, Mr. Chapman.”
228.
Globe stood as Clarissa entered the room; he’d been waiting to hear what the result would be. No sooner had she caught sight of him than she shook her head, causing unexpected relief to bloom in Globe’s chest. “He didn’t do it?”
“That, or he found another way to dump the body. Given what we offered, it seems like a good bet that Crispin is still alive and kicking, probably under a battalion of DVA custody.”
Despite all the ways he knew it could go wrong, all the potential pitfalls letting someone like Crispin live left open, Globe smiled. It was comforting to know that the Blaine he’d spent so many years training with, the Blaine he’d trusted to educate his son, was still in there. Sparing Crispin couldn’t have been easy – the temptation had been hard enough for Globe, and he didn’t bear the weight of loss or responsibility that Blaine surely did. Yet he’d let him live all the same. It wasn’t hard to find joy in knowing that his old friend hadn’t been taken over by his darker urges.
