Emergence

by Various

  “And how did your department close in on the sniper?”

  “Ballistics data indicated that the shots were fired from distances of one half-mile to one mile away, from the upper floors or roofs of tall buildings. These findings were consistent with a military scout/sniper team using a .50 caliber rifle. We compiled a list of all city residents from foreign and domestic police or military units with sniper training.”

  Lars paced the audience and fumed. The polished detective made it sound as easy as filling out a crossword puzzle. He wasn’t a chimeric. He had not been splashed with his friend’s blood. He did not have to live with the feel of crosshairs on the back of his neck.

  The prosecutor pointed at the old man. “And was Timothy Hathcock on your list of suspects?”

  “Yes, sir. Timothy Hathcock is a sniper.”

  “Objection!” Ms. Ryu glared at the prosecutor. “My client’s service was over forty years ago. That does not mean he is currently a sniper.”

  The judge leaned in with interest. “Sustained.”

  The prosecutor smoothed his suit jacket. “Tell us about Timothy Hathcock’s military record.”

  Detective Khan recited from memory. “Mister Hathcock enlisted in the U.S. Marines at age 18. He attended the 1st Marine Division Scout/Sniper School at Camp Pendleton and graduated with top marks before shipping out to Vietnam.”

  Lars loomed behind the old man. This trial was taking too long. The court was supposed to condemn Hathcock, not list his life history and achievements.

  “How many confirmed kills did Mister Hathcock have?”

  Ms. Ryu sputtered. “Objection! I don’t see how this is relevant!”

  “Your Honor, I am establishing character and Modus Operandi. If Mister Hathcock was a conscientious objector or a lousy shot it would certainly have bearing on the case.”

  “Overruled.” The judge regarded Mr. Hathcock with morbid curiosity.

  Alec Glabrous turned and gave Ms. Ryu a wink. She clenched her fists at her side but kept her face neutral. The prosecutor gave Detective Khan the nod.

  “Sergeant Hathcock had 92 confirmed kills.”

  A gasp went through the crowd. Hathcock awkwardly folded his handcuffed arms across his chest. Lars gaped at the old man. He’d killed a hundred and fifteen people?

  The prosecutor smiled. “And isn’t it common knowledge that military snipers have far more unconfirmed kills than confirmed kills? How high do you think Hathcock’s body count really is?”

  “Objection! Conjecture!” Ms. Ryu shouted.

  “Sustained,” the judge said with a hint of disappointment.

  “In addition to his 92 confirmed kills, what else did Sgt. Hathcock achieve during his time in the military?”

  “He pioneered the use of the Browning .50 caliber heavy machine gun as a sniper weapon.”

  The crowd murmured and the jurors nodded. Ryu became a tornado of activity, scribbling notes on yellow pads and hissing to her assistant, who was juggling folders and spilling documents. Hathcock sat still as a statue.

  The prosecutor continued. “Tell us about the day you apprehended Timothy Hathcock.”

  “We got an alert on the Shot Spotter, the microphone network that detects gun shots. We responded to the roof of the Markway Plaza building. There we found Mister Hathcock with a .50 caliber sniper rifle.”

  A chorus of creaks and shuffles spread through the courtroom as murmuring people shifted in their seats.

  Alex Glabrous sauntered to the jury box and spoke softly. “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Timothy Hathcock, expert sniper with 92 confirmed kills, found by police at the scene of the crime with a smoking gun. We have not touched upon Mister Hathcock’s motive for committing these atrocities. He has chosen not to take the stand in his own defense, so we have only a final piece of evidence to present.”

  Mr. Glabrous held up a photo of a silver-haired woman. “Mary Anne Hathcock, devoted wife and doting mother, tragically killed last year by the chimeric Magnetar, leaving behind a grieving husband and son.”

  Lars shook his head. Magnetar had caused all this? How strange that his old nemesis had signed his own death warrant and found a replacement in the same stroke.

  “Revenge is the oldest motive in the world. I sympathize with Mister Hathcock, as everyone here surely does. What I can’t understand is why he kept reloading that rifle. I can’t understand why there were twenty-two more victims. Those were not crimes of passion. Those were methodically-planned and executed murders. He was hunting people. This was revenge on a Biblical scale, by a man who perched on the highest tower, looking down on us and deciding who lives and who dies.”

  Hathcock stood up, and the entire courtroom jumped. The bailiff lurched forward, almost dropping his weapon in alarm.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the old man said, freezing the prosecutor with an icy stare.

  Ms. Ryu and her assistant tried to guide him back into his chair, but he shook them off. “Your Honor,” Hathcock said to the judge, “I’d like to set the record straight.”

  Ms. Ryu whispered urgently in Hathcock’s ear. He shook his head no.

  “Very well,” said the judge, then told the bailiff to escort Mr. Hathcock to the witness stand. Everyone in the courtroom sat still, afraid the old tiger might still pounce. The marine sat straight as he was sworn in.

  Lars floated to the front row. This was the closest either of them had ever been to the other. How many times had Hathcock watched him through the scope of a rifle? Did the old man know that now he was the one being watched by an invisible enemy?

  Ms. Ryu spoke slowly for the first time that day. “Mister Hathcock, you had a correction for the record?”

  Hathcock glared at Alec Glabrous. “Yes. Magnetar killed my wife, but he wasn’t alone. He was in that bank fighting The Red Wraith. Magnetar threw a vault door at the so-called ‘hero’ and he turned intangible. That’s what killed my Mary Anne. That’s why I still hold the Wraith responsible for her death.”

  Lars remembered it had been an epic brawl. He can’t say he remembered the old woman, though.

  Ms. Ryu seized on his words. “The prosecution alleged that your motive was revenge, yet you haven’t been accused of killing The Red Wraith, have you?”

  “No. But I certainly tried.”

  Lars nodded with grim satisfaction. Hathcock had revealed his murderous face to the public at last.

  The photographers jostled for position. Ms. Ryu begged for a recess. Alec Glabrous shed his smooth exterior and went after her like an unleashed pit bull. Hathcock sat patiently at attention and waited while the legal system twisted and thrashed around him. When order was eventually restored, the judge informed Hathcock of his options.

  The old marine nodded. “I’ll change my plea, but not until everyone hears me out. Anchor City used to be one of the safest in the country, until the first muscle head put on a mask and declared himself a superhero. That opened the floodgates. Overnight the criminally insane started flocking here to compete for the limelight. The level of crime went through the roof.”

  Lars watched the jury nod and nearly screamed. Hathcock had all of his facts wrong. Had they forgotten his confession? Did they agree with this mass murderer?

  “None of these ‘heroes’ prevented crime,” the old marine went on, “they just fought it. They disrupted society, marginalized the forces of law and order, and used that chaos to justify their presence. It was a quagmire. The police couldn’t arrest my wife’s murderers. The legal system couldn’t give me justice. My son and I suffered just like you. We were all left powerless, forced to cower in awe and fear. That’s why we…why I… chose to engage the enemy.”

  Mr. Glabrous grinned as the clerk typed every word of Hathcock’s confession. Ms. Ryu sat at her desk and wilted.

  Hathcock looked at the jury. “I tried to send a clear message when I killed Magnetar, but it didn’t matter. The villains weren’t af
raid because they were crazy! Finally, I put a couple rounds into the heroes and the whole game changed. They all went into hiding and, just like that, the crazies stopped wearing masks. We cleaned up the last few stragglers, and when it was done I waited for the police to pick me up.”

  The prosecutor approached the witness box. “You knew what you had done was wrong, so you allowed yourself to be caught?”

  Hathcock scowled. “It was illegal. I never said it was wrong. I got justice for humanity the only way I could. When the mission was over, I didn’t want people to be afraid. I wanted normal people to turn on the news and see that their police had caught the sniper. I wanted a court of law to decide my fate. That’s all I have to say. I plead guilty to all charges.”

  Lars trembled in anticipation. Should he do it now? No, pleading guilty wasn’t enough. Hathcock needed to be judged as a terrorist and mass murderer. He would wait until the man was publicly condemned.

  #

  Throngs of people waited outside to hear the verdict. Reporters lined the steps and pressed against steel barricades. Mobs of supporters waved signs over their heads and shouted slurs at the costumed chimerics that patrolled the scene. The Anchor City skyline flared orange and unfurled its shadow across the courthouse as the sun set beneath a clear sky and gilded the marble steps.

  A circle of police officers formed a blue wall around Hathcock. His back and neck were straight and his grey eyes were focused. He wore his bulky bulletproof vest and starched orange jumpsuit like a soldier marching in his dress blues. He looked like the commanding officer of the group, not a condemned prisoner.

  Lars congealed into a shimmering red silhouette inside the huddle of police. The officers jumped back or fell in panic. Hathcock did not flinch.

  “Greetings, citizens! The Red Wraith returns! You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Evil will never go unpunished as long as I am here.”

  Lars slipped his hand through the bulletproof vest and the flesh and bone beneath. He curled his vaporous fingers around Hathcock’s heart and made himself denser, crushing the squirming lump in his fist. People in the crowd recoiled and crashed backwards against reporters, who were pushing to get closer. Chimeric heroes came from all directions, and a woman screamed.

  Hathcock’s lips struggled to form his last words. “Do it, son…T-take the…”

  “Who are you talking to, you murdering bastard?” Lars sneered.

  Hathcock’s bloody mouth flickered with a brief smile. “My son…my s-side-k…”

  Sidekick?

  The Red Wraith’s head exploded into a crimson mist. The crowd watched in mute horror. Then a sharp report echoed across the courthouse steps like the peal of thunder.

  Lars and Hathcock collapsed together and tumbled down the stairs.

  Never Go Half-Supervillain

  C.T. Phipps

  There is only one thing worse than a coked-up wannabe supervillain pointing a gun to the back of your head when you're behind the wheel of a getaway car.

  That's a coked-up wannabe supervillain amateur doing it.

  “You, human, drive!” The forked-tongue creature hissed, waving the pistol around like a madman. Well, a mad-something. He was mostly human-looking, with a bald head, tattoos, muscular frame, white T-shirt, and army fatigue cargo pants. This one styled himself Thrax and was the contact who'd hired me for this particular job, which appeared to have gone totally to shit.

  Looking up, I saw it was about fifteen minutes until sunrise. Police sirens were blaring in the distance. The imaginatively-named Mayhemers had purchased my services to provide them an exit once they finished ripping-off pro-normal ‘legitimate businessman’ Argyle Thompson's personal banks. It wasn't political, it was just convenient because he was one of the richest assholes in Motor Hills. Given there was no sign of any cash, jewelry, bearer bonds, or the other two Mayhemers, I had to assume their plan had gone awry.

  Calculating we still had about thirty-seconds before it was the optimal time to pull out, I asked, “I take it your associates won't be joining us?”

  “I said, drive!” Thrax hissed, firing his gun into the passenger's side window. The window, whose enhancements against bullets were only functional from the outside inward, shattered. Barbara was going to tan my hide for that.

  “Whoa! Relax! First of all, it's not time.” I glared at him through my rear-view mirror. “Second, this is a customized work of art in a 2014 Japanese Supra shell, created by the Mechanic six months ago at an exquisite cost to myself, so now you will have to pay for the repairs in addition to my fee. Third, it's David or Mister Korvac, not human. I am a professional, my friend, and will be treated accordingly.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are? The Transporter? Drive!”

  I sighed. “I'm just a chimeric like you, pal, trying to make a living. My abilities are just a bit less…obvious.”

  Fifteen seconds.

  Two Motor Hills police cars pulled around the end of the street with their windows rolled down. Another pair pulled behind me, blocking my exit. They, too, had their windows down. I saw inside and knew they weren't actual policemen. These were Thompson's private security contractors. The guys he paid the actual police to ignore as they made problems disappear. Problems like me and my lizardy buddy here. It certainly explained the things I'd seen in my vision when I'd agreed to take this dumb job. I thought I'd been playing too much Grand Theft Auto.

  Five seconds.

  Leaning out the passenger sides of all four vehicles, these security dudes brandished Uzis and started firing at my windows. This time, my car's enhancements held and a series of sparks danced across the vehicle's front and back.

  “Shit!” Thrax panicked, dropping his gun and covering his ears. I moved my foot from the brake to the gas.

  “Now it's time to drive, bitch,” I said, swerving the car to the right. We bounced onto the sidewalk as the security cars behind me were in a poor position to follow. Moving back onto the street, my car handled like a dream, maneuvering around the wall-to-wall traffic and giving me an ample head start.

  If I only had to deal with crooked mercenaries I would have been able to get through this without difficulty. Unfortunately, big shots like Argyle Thompson weren't inclined to rely on rent-a-soldiers when protecting their treasures. My vision had indicated I would be dealing with worse here in a few minutes. Unfortunately, it hadn't been exact. That was the problem with my psychic abilities, they were never as precise as I wanted them to be, usually just cluing me in on the immediate future. Maybe it had something to do with split infinitives, or infinities…whatever.

  Unlike the majority of the assholes I dealt with in my day-to-day business, I was a native to Motor Hills. I was there before the city had been rebuilt by megacorps like Ross Industries and DNAdvanced Ltd. and a half-dozen other government-funded (hush-hush) corporations that treated (read: experimented on) the ‘medical condition’ I'd manifested in my early teens, that condition being what is called a chimeric.

  My father used to talk about Motor Hills being the City of Hard Rock; I'd grown up with it being more like the old B-movie Cybercop’s urban hell dystopia. The only thing we'd lacked was cyborgs and megalomaniac super-corporations. Well, we had the latter now, and, if we didn't have Cybercop, we certainly had superhumans. I just never thought I'd be one of the assholes the cops shot at first and asked questions about later.

  The funny part? Chimerics kept coming to the city, despite the fact we had a higher murder rate than Baghdad when I'd served. They believed the song and dance that Motor Hills was a place they could create a new life surrounded by people like them. They usually left off the part about finding a cure these days; that was a jingle most heard, anyway.

  If it wasn't the mammoth medical debt, ten-year-exclusive power contracts, or psycho pro-human vigilantes screwing them over, then it was designed drugs, racist cops, and chimeric gangs out to prey on the weak of their kind. If I hadn't been making so much money off the ou
t-of-towners, I would have hung a giant sign made of fire outside the city saying: Keep Away, Fools!

  “Are we away?” Thrax asked, looking out the side of the window he'd busted.

  “Not by a longshot,” I muttered.

  Adjusting my mirror, I saw a trio of black Ferrari 458 Spiders. There were other black cars behind them: four-door sedans and more I couldn't quite make out, all possessed of blacked-out windows; the Ferraris, though, were the only ones that had a chance of catching us. They were extremely modified, souped-up, light-armored chase vehicles created for the Headhunters.

  Oh, yes, the Headhunters. A completely illegal, mostly wanted, and completely ignored-by-the-police group of ‘supers’ who killed ‘abusive’ chimerics. The fact they had access to such wonderful toys was not because they were funded by DNAdvanced and other patrons who made sure their ‘Motor Hills Experiment’ didn't get out of control. They weren’t exactly the Night’s King; still, they were pains in the asses of every supervillain and gang around town. Their sudden appearance could only mean they'd started taking bribes from Thompson, too.

  Or they'd gotten lucky.

  Either way, I was prepared. Kind of.

  “Drive faster!” Thrax shouted, staring out the rear-view window.

  I bit my tongue, not wanting to distract myself by explaining to an idiot there was a time and a place for speed versus control.

  One of the Ferraris caught up as I had to brake to avoid pedestrians. The vehicle slammed into my bumper and started to move to my side, preparing to smash me into one of the crowded city streets. So much for superheroism. They'd end up blaming it on me. After all, looks aside, I was one of the freaks. Biting my lip, I did the modified vehicle one better and knocked it back, sending it bashing into its fellows. The three cars recovered fast, but it was too late.

  Three seconds.

  This part I'd timed to the moment. Too bad I was a second and a half behind.

  Hitting the accelerator, I pulled forward, the three Ferraris were almost aligned, which made it perfect for when the dump truck slammed into the side of the leftmost one, bashed it into the one to its right, and then again. The Ferraris skidded to a complete halt.