by Ben Mason
He made it about halfway before an explosive pain ate at his right knee, forcing him to scream in pain. Luckily, he had learned pain was a wonderful power amplifier. A dozen forms in the darkness flattened onto their bellies, their guns becoming flatter still. The smell of cordite filled the room, leaving it heavy with the stench. Any chance of saving the suit was now gone.
Taking a moment to compose himself, checking to make sure the helmet was unharmed, Christoph buttoned his jacket (not the bottom button, never the bottom). “Now, gentlemen. I’m taking this little souvenir with me,” he said, holding up the helmet. “Surely professionals such as yourselves can see the waste of ammo and potential harm to yourselves as a fruitless endeavor. So I ask, may I have the key card and retire from here unmolested?”
Nobody spoke for a second. “He’s bluffing,” a man said. He spoke in Russian. “Superheroes don’t kill people.”
The next moment the man started grunting in pain. “I promise you, I find no joy in this, but I will kill you if I have to. Give me the key to get out,” Christoph said. He felt his power ebbing. Whatever bullet had struck his leg, it was sapping his strength fast. If they didn’t give him a way out, he was going to have to kill them.
No. These are working men, maybe with families.
A card slid toward him in the darkness and, with some effort, he bent down and picked it up. “Thank you,” he said shuffling off.
“Wait,” one of the men said. He spoke in accented English.
Christoph turned.
“What kind of hero are you?”
He gave the man a slight smile. “Who said anything about being a hero? I’m a super villain.”
Limping the rest of the way, he opened the door. The jet was waiting for him. His leg screamed with pain as the soldiers rushed out to grab him.
As they rushed forward he gave a small chuckle. “Definitely too old,” he said and fell forward into their arms.
Chapter 1
Nine Years Later
Christoph struggled with the grocery bags in his arms, his silver-tipped cane taking up his right hand. Even with the bags and their contents resting at about one-third of their natural weight, it was difficult to keep them from spilling out of his thin arms. Light eggs broke as easily as those under regular gravity. And heaven forbid he get any orange juice on his button-down or his black slacks. He may have been retired, but that was no reason for a man’s sense of dress to go to seed.
Trying to adjust the groceries one last time, Christoph allowed himself a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy his surroundings. The fresh-cut grass, the large lawns with decent hedges instead of the mass-produced small box plots of the middle class homes. It was green and blue and freshly painted like one of those tacky paintings from Thomas Kinkade. And—God help him—Christoph sort of enjoyed it.
Keeping his feet on the concrete walkway he moved up to his house, a robin’s eggshell and cream white painted ranch style number.
“Now the tricky part,” he said. Placing his cane against the archway he fumbled for his keys. A dull throb came to him as he did, forcing him to clench them.
Nine years. Nine years later and it still hurt. Not just physically either. For Gravitas, one of the greatest villains of the Silver Age to be hobbled by a random bullet…it had been a mercy giving him a false identity and moving him up the coast, away from Selenium City. No chance of meeting any caped crusaders out here. And with so much time gone—a decade in jail, almost another out to pasture—no one was going to pull him out of the telephone booth now.
“They don’t even have those anymore,” he said, chuckling at his dated phrases. Getting the keys into the door he swung it open just in time for the rotten eggs (in nature, not sell date) to tumble out of the bag and onto his entryway.
“Drat and curses,” he hissed. Biting back the urge to use real curses, Christoph put down the bags, got his keys from the door, and made his way to the kitchen to get a sponge and some soap. Thankfully he had wooden floors, and if he moved fast there was unlikely to be any permanent stains or smells.
He stumbled as he entered the room clutching the marble-topped island, dodging the low hanging cooking utensils hung from the hanging rack. The leg had been troubling him all day. It didn’t happen often.
But it’s happening more and more. Another sign the best years of his life were gone. The years when he meant something. If the past was any indication, his mood was going to be sour all day.
A drink might help. He needed—
Christoph stopped. Standing straight to his full height he took in the room. In spite of his pain, a thin smile broke out on his face.
“Pantry closet, and I suspect you’ve gotten into the macaroons.”
The door to his right stayed shut for a second before being swung open. Julie was there beaming. She was dressed in jean overalls with a pink shirt underneath. Her cornrows were pulled into a topknot with pink and purple ballies and beads wrapped around it.
“Made sure not to leave crumbs this time,” she said.
Inspecting the floor, then the corners of her mouth and chin, Christoph gave her a solemn nod. “Indeed.”
“I heard you raise your voice,” Julie said stepping forward.
“Sharp girl,” Christoph said. She was too. It was part of what he found infuriating—and refreshing—about her. Those impish eyes dancing with mischief, the grin that came out when she was trying to pull off a caper. She was a natural-born villain if there ever was one. When she became a teenager she was going to be a menace to the neighborhood.
“You look tired,” she said.
“It’s rude to say that to old people.”
“You’re not old.”
The smile on his face widened. “Ah, Julie, you do an old man good. How did you get in this time?”
“Doggy door.”
“Oh?”
She pointed over to the kitchen door, which led to the side garden. It was made for a medium-sized dog. For an eleven-year old beanpole of a girl it was a bit of a tight fit. “Got in half way and opened it. You need a bolt lock right above the knob.”
Her mocha skin wasn’t smudged by dirt and neither were her clothes so he had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but he bet she was.
“How many macaroons did you have?” He gave her a reward for helping him find weaknesses in his home defenses. Really he was giving her a prize for being so devious.
“Five,” she said quickly.
“Julie. Say it slower and meet my eyes next time. Otherwise I’ll get suspicious.”
She sighed, staring up with a hangdog look. “Seven.”
“Much better. And the real number?”
“Twelve. Can I clean up the mess?”
“Of course,” Christoph said. He waved her on. Most days he would have said no—a gentleman never let a lady do such work—but it was one of his hard days. When he drank a few too many whiskeys (or whatever else he had on hand) and dwelled on a few too many dark thoughts.
Julie placed the bags on the island then disappeared with a wet rag before he was able to stop her. She was a good kid. Not a great thing to be if you wanted to be a villain in this day and age. Christoph’s mouth fell into a scowl. The new breed: no class, no art, and no self-respect. Even his own protégé Cerebrus (the poor boy had thought people would call him Ce-Re-Brus instead of assuming he was named after a three headed dog) was a bit of a disappointment. Using his telepathy and telekinesis to use normals as hostages. Well the fault lay with the teacher.
The pain in his leg stabbed deeper as if in response. When it got this bad sometimes his powers flared out of control. No more than for a moment, but with the girl around, that was all he needed.
“Got it cleaned up Mr. Morgan,” she said. It took him a second to remember Walt Morgan was his alias.
“Thank you, child,” he said turning. His eyes went wide when he saw his cane. It was cradled in her hands. “Give that to me!” he snarled.
Julie froze i
n place, her eyes getting wide. He tried to move forward and founds his movements jerky and frustrating before he snatched it from her.
Panting he felt his face fall. “I’m sorry child, I didn’t mean—it’s my leg. Where are your parents?” he said, feeling a sheen of sweat over his face.
“They told me to not come over. They were having friends.”
“And they didn’t want you to be a problem. Why?” The girl was wonderful around company, someone to be proud of, not hide away.
Julie hesitated, staring at her feet. “I think they’re scared. I don’t think the people coming over are friends at all.” She raised her head and there was worry in her eyes. She was too smart to be afraid for no reason. So were her parents.
The Kimbles were both respectable people, and Mr. Kimble, a doctor who was former army, was an intimidating presence at six two. Whoever was coming over either had them financially strapped or…no, the possibility was ridiculous. But worth investigating.
“I’ll walk you over, child,” Christoph said, walking back to his hallway and fetching his jacket from his coatrack. “I want to meet these friends of theirs.”
Christoph saw the extra car in the driveway as they moved across the street to the Kimbles’ two-story Georgian Colonial. He took a moment to slick his hair back and draw himself up, trying to look regal and imposing instead of tired and old.
I am still Gravitas, worst scourge that Selenium City ever saw. Rogue of a dozen different heroes galleries.
The words sounded hollow. However, the pain in Christoph’s leg had drifted away as he found himself pulled toward a potential threat. The sour taste faded from his mouth. He felt young again like he hadn’t in years.
They walked fast toward the brick house, Julie leading the way, moving quick the way children naturally do, fishing her key from around the lanyard on her neck. She got to the door and froze.
“I’m scared, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’m here, child.”
“I’m not a child,” she said turning, her eyes flaring. There was that fire again. Even in the midst of worry and uncertainty she was unwilling to be talked down to. He admired that about her. Understood it, too.
“Of course not, Julie. My formal apology.”
She bit her lip as she studied at Christoph. “My dad is big and strong and he was scared. What can you do?”
Christoph chuckled. “You don’t get to be my age without a few tricks up your sleeve. Watch and learn, kid.”
Julie nodded and, putting her key in the door, she turned and unlocked it. When they walked in they saw two large men sitting on the large living room sofa, scowling at them. They were stuffing bundles of money in a black duffel bag. And in their waistbands were guns.
“Ah,” Christoph said. “Hoodlums.”
They must not have taken to the characterization well because they got up and stalked over to him, fists balled.
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Author Notes
Confession: I like how James Patterson writes.
2nd confession: I don’t much care for his genre or what he writes about. I mean, I like explosions and attractive people as much as the next guy (and he is a far better writer than me) but I wanted to see this kind of writing in fantasy,, specifically in superhero fiction. But it didn’t exist so I decided to create it.
This story wasn’t supposed to exist either. I had no plans on writing about Katie or her friends. I was running around on the Internet and saw a predesigned cover from The Cover Collection and the story exploded into my mind.
So I took my two random ideas and slapped them together. I hope you like it. I certainly liked creating Katie and (if I have to be completely honest) Dr. Kessler.
Hopefully I’ll see you down the road in-between the pages of another book.
Until then.
About the Author
Ben Mason is the pen name of a shy guy who doesn't understand social media that well, along with a website which he sometimes blogs on thus making him the least tech savvy millennial ever. Oh, he also writes stories about superheroes and swords and honorable warriors and stuff. Click on the link to see new posts and fun lists and articles.
https://benmasonbooks.com/
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Copyright info
Ben Mason
Copyright 2017 © Ben Mason. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Reproduction of this work in whole or in part in any manner without express written consent is forbidden.
Book cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design.
