Night wanted to vomit all over their identical expensive shoes.
The whole thing was ludicrous. Vixen and Luster, having a baby. And now Blackout and Angelica, doing the same. The world had gone mad when he hadn’t been looking. They didn’t have the time, the luxury, to have babies. Heroes, raising children? Were they going to be changing nappies instead of fighting crime? Cleaning up spit-up instead of the streets of New Chicago?
It made him want to scream. Babies, for Jehovah’s sake. He smiled blandly as a reporter made an inane comment about superhero true love. Silently, Night raged. It no longer mattered that Luster was the official Hero of New Chicago. No, now Luster was the official Expecting Daddy of New Chicago.
And Luster clearly loved it.
Obviously, Night was the only one of Team Alpha who still gave a rat’s ass about actually heroing. Hadn’t he been going above and beyond, not only following procedure down to the letter but also pulling extra patrol shifts, to make up for Vixen’s bed rest and Angelica’s morning sickness? Yes—because Night didn’t just care. Night was a hero. It was in his blood, his bones, his thoughts. Duty first, they’d been taught at the Academy, and over this past year, Night had made that his personal mantra. Duty first. Always.
Night lifted his chin proudly. Even with all his voluntary extra patrols, he hadn’t overlooked his Corp requirements. In fact, he’d been extremely accessible to the New Chicago Metro and Transit Authority, standing for photo op after photo op, all to get his serious face plastered on the sides of all city buses, hovers, and trains, just like his corporate sponsor had insisted. It didn’t matter that he was barely catching five hours of sleep every other night.
He was the picture-perfect superhero.
And yet, here Night stood in a rented room at a museum, wearing a ridiculous pink paper hat, forced to pretend he wanted to be here, celebrating and wasting time.
Smile for the cameras; there’s a good extrahuman.
It was so … fucking … humiliating. Him in his stupid pink paper cap, standing near the table with the buttercream cake and thermoses of coffee. Colorful streamers and balloons littered the walls, as did an obscenely large banner declaring that GLAMIQUE CELEBRATES VIXEN’S BABY!!! Complete with three exclamation points, to show they were really really celebrating, even though they sponsored Vixen’s partner and not the lady herself.
He hated them all.
He hated wasting his time here, wearing this stupid pink cap. He hated Vixen for spreading her legs, hated Luster for knocking her up. He loathed Blackout and Angelica for doing the same. It wasn’t any rabid or even any normal human criminal that would be the end of Team Alpha. It was his own teammates and their primal urges to have fucking babies.
“Vixen!” one of the newsies screeched. “Have you picked out names?”
Sitting on a plush chair, acting like a Junoesque queen on her throne, Vixen laughed. “We have, but my husband would kill me if we shared them.”
“It’s bad luck, you know,” Luster said, grinning easily as the cameras ate him up. “Don’t want to go naming babies before they’re born. Besides, we have to have some secrets. You already know our identities.”
Of course, everyone broke up over the stereotypical joke. Secret identities, how very droll. Their canned laughter thundered through the large room. The more they showed how much they loved Vixen and Luster, the more likely one of them would grant an exclusive—if not today, then another day. Reporters lived for the possibility of the story. Any story.
Night’s head throbbed, and his eyeballs felt like they were bleeding. In the back of his mind, in the darkest corners, he heard the whispers, the giggles, taunting him, telling him he was a good doggie, that he knew how to roll over and beg.
Telling him how easy it would be to show everyone in this miserable room what power really was.
By his sides, his fists trembled. All he had to do was listen to the Shadow and let it free. Let it embrace the guest of honor and crush the life out of her. That would give the reporters a story, all right.
No.
Fighting back a snarl, Night turned up the volume of his earpiece. The background noise of running water calmed him, and he let out a breath through his clenched teeth. See what events like this did? They forced him to daydream of the Dark, just to give him something to fight. It was that, or die from sheer tedium.
Really. Babies. Night shook his head. The things he did for Team Alpha …
“Well,” Blackout said glumly, “maybe we’ll get lucky and a supervillain will attack the museum.”
Night’s eyes widened as Blackout’s words registered.
Yes. Yes. By all that was holy, yes.
The problem with Team Alpha wasn’t the need to procreate. It was how easy victory came to them. They were New Chicago’s living legends, the celebrities of celebrities. They always won.
They needed a villain worthy of their skills—one that would force them to drop all other commitments and once again work together to defeat.
And Night knew the perfect candidate for the job.
“Hey,” Blackout said. “What’s with the smile?”
“It’s nothing,” Night replied. “Just thinking of the future.”
CHAPTER 25
LUSTER
The treatment is proven to work, now. Miranda, if only you could see. All you went through was worth something, finally. Now hundreds of children will never be sick or weak. They’ll never be you.
—Matthew Icarus, diary entry dated 1989
Lester thought the old cliché of men sitting in a waiting room, smoking, while they waited on a baby to be born was a fiction, but he would have strobed someone’s eyes out for a fag at that moment.
George was reading an age-old vidmag and Night was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Will you cut that out, mate?” Lester finally snapped. Medical wouldn’t allow him to be in the room when the baby was born. Vixen might lash out with her powers, and the Hero of New Chicago couldn’t afford a crushed rib cage because his wife forgot her Lamaze breathing.
Lester thought that was bollocks, and he’d said so, but Valerie had ordered him out before he got suspended.
“I should be there,” Lester muttered, cracking his knuckles like rifle shots, pop-pop-pop.
“There are procedures,” Night said, standing stock-still now. Well, looming was better than pacing.
“I’m glad it’s in place,” George said. “I don’t think I could handle it. All of that screaming.”
“I’m so glad I got shoved out here with the Nancy Brigade,” Lester muttered, putting his head in his hands. Honestly, between Night’s line-by-line reading of procedure and George practically taking up pom-poms for Corp at every opportunity, it was a wonder he hadn’t gone rabid.
“Childbirth isn’t something you need taking your head out of the game,” Night quoted at him. “It’s for the women to worry about.”
“Keeps one-half of the couple sharp while the other’s indisposed,” George agreed.
Just as Lester was about to either scream or strobe the living daylights out of something, a nurse in a Corp-branded white uniform came into the waiting room.
“Luster?”
He snapped up, faster than Speed Demon. “Is it … is she … is Valerie …”
“Vixen is resting, sir.” The nurse took in his haggard countenance and her face softened. “Why don’t you come with me? The nursery is just down here.”
She led Lester past a series of delivery rooms, doors all shut and locked. The nursery was a sterile place, cots with blue or pink blankets holding the only life. Only three babies were in residence. Only one blanket was pink.
“Congratulations, Luster,” said the nurse, leading him to the cot. “This is your baby girl.”
Lester reached out, more carefully than he’d done anything in his life, and took the small body into his hands. The baby opened her eyes. They were bright ocean blue, paler around the edges, hinting they’d fade to so
mething closer to his own gray.
“She’s … mine,” he said.
The nurse touched his arm. “I’m only supposed to give you five minutes, but you stay as long as you like. You’re the Hero of New Chicago, after all.”
For the first time in nearly a year, Lester was grateful to the damned sponsorship. He curled his daughter in the crook of his elbow, like he’d seen his mother do to his younger brothers. Before she’d passed, of course. After, the only touch in the Bradford flat was fist to face and boot to gut.
“Hello, Calista,” he said.
The baby stared at him. She blinked, once.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I had a shite father, and I’ve no experience myself, but I’ll do my best for you.” He walked, because his mother’d told him babies liked to move, slow careful steps around the near-empty nursery. “I’d do anything for you, girl. You’re mine.”
Straighten up, fly right, wear the bloody earpiece. He’d do it all with a song for his family. For the first time in … well, ever, if he were being honest, Lester didn’t chafe at the thought of Corp and sponsorships. He had something else now, something that was only his. A wife and a daughter.
A family.
Lester felt a small ragged hole inside him close. For once in his life, he was something near to complete.
CHAPTER 26
NIGHT
Hypnotic no longer salvageable. Extremely disappointed. Will begin decommission paperwork. Once approved, he’ll go to Therapy.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #120
Night’s footfalls echoed as he walked down the hallway of the Mental wing, sequestered deep within the Academy. He pointedly ignored the sounds from behind the tilithium-reinforced doors of individual cells. It was easy; here, the extrahumans’ Mental powers had been all but negated thanks to drugs, and Night had survived his entire life by shutting out the voices he didn’t want to hear.
He approached room 6002 and tapped in the code he’d been given by the Containment captain outside the wing. The door slid open, and he marched inside, his black cape billowing almost regally as he entered.
Doctor Hypnotic sat in the corner, his legs crossed and his arms bound mercilessly in a straitjacket. His dark hair hung in greasy strands over his eyes, and his jaw was covered by an uneven beard. He didn’t look up as Night walked inside the cell—he’d just been medicated, Containment had told Night, which was the only reason that he’d been allowed to come here without an escort.
Apparently, Hypnotic had been causing some problems. Night had always appreciated the man’s sheer willpower.
Night squatted in front of the former hero. “Doctor Hypnotic,” he said mildly. “Anyone home?”
Dark eyes rolled to peer at him—dulled, yes, but that didn’t dilute the intensity of that gaze.
Well and good. If the man had been too doped up, it would have wasted Night’s time. He cast a Shadownet: an invisible, soundproof bubble of Shadow. No one would overhear what he had to say to his former colleague. “I only have three minutes, so I’ll keep this brief. It’s not a social call. Actually, it’s an offer.”
Hypnotic stared at him.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life tucked away in Mental? You’d be safe from the world if you stay. And the world, I suppose, would be safe from you. And from what I hear, every Tuesday, Angelica comes to visit. Very loving of her, no?”
Hypnotic’s eyes narrowed.
“Or,” Night said, “you could go out into the world. No more drugs to dull your wits and steal your power. No more Dr. Moore and his Therapists telling you what you should be thinking and why you’re safer in your padded room and jacket without arm movement. And,” he added, his voice like velvet, “I’m sure that Angelica would love to see you free.”
Hypnotic frowned.
“I know, you’re probably thinking that she went and married Blackout and is now carrying his whelp inside of her. But you should see her eyes whenever she speaks of you.” He smiled. “Blackout might own her body, but there’s no question who owns her heart.”
Now Hypnotic’s frown deepened, as if he were considering Night’s well-rehearsed words.
Night pitched his voice as low as the shadows. “You do know it was Corp that insisted she leave you for Blackout, don’t you?”
Hypnotic closed his eyes. Night saw a fine tremble work its way over the man’s massive shoulders. Good. It had been a calculated lie—but it had struck home. He had no idea why the vapid woman had left Hypnotic for Blackout, nor did he care.
“So you can stay here,” Night said, “safe from the world. Or you can go out there and use your power. Make the world the way it should be.” He stood, taking care to flare his cloak enough to mask the sudden movement of his hand. He dropped the tiny square, which landed on Hypnotic’s bent knee.
“Put it on your tongue. It’ll dissolve quickly. And within twenty-four hours, it’ll scrub your system of the drugs they’ve pumped inside of you. And then …” Night smiled. “Well, I leave that to your imagination.”
Before he turned his back, he saw Hypnotic bend over double. When he straightened, the square had disappeared.
“Be seeing you,” Night called over his shoulder as he dropped the Shadownet. And then he marched out of Hypnotic’s cell and locked up behind him.
If the Shadow whispered to him that day, he didn’t notice. Night was too busy thinking of what tomorrow would bring.
Interlude
Garth holds Julie’s hand as he sings to her. He knows she can’t hear him; she’s lost somewhere his voice can’t reach her. But he sings anyway, and he squeezes her hand, and he pretends that everything is going to be right as rain.
He knows he’s lucky Julie got a hospital bed. The place is overflowing with victims of this so-called zombie plague. Seven other people share the room with Julie, and they each have at least one person holding vigil. Garth doesn’t care about the tight quarters. Truth be told, he doesn’t even notice.
Garth holds his wife’s hand, and he sings softly in Gaelic. And he prays to a god he’s sure isn’t listening that Julie will wake up again.
CHAPTER 27
JET
Wurtham cut off all funding today, claiming ‘questionable background.’ Thinks he’s untouchable. Hired a freelancer to show my displeasure. City Hall too; good distraction. Phase 3 of Project Sunstroke delayed indefinitely.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, final entry
She knows she’s dreaming because Sam is with her, one hand sliding around her waist.
“Nothing is going to happen today,” he murmurs in her ear. “It’s a good day.”
“You’re lying.” She says it like a sigh. Her heart is heavy, and her eyes sting with tears. “You’re going to get killed, and all I’ll have left is the Shadow.”
“Jet,” he says, “I promise you, I’m still here.” He embraces her, and looks her in the eye, promising, “I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, Joannie. I’m not. I have to go away for a little bit. But I swear to you, I’m coming back.”
“I want to believe you,” she whispers. “But Sam, you’re going to break my heart again.”
“I promise you, Joannie Greene, I’m coming back. I love you.”
She throws her arms around him and he bends down to kiss her. Their lips meet, and Jet allows herself to believe Samson’s promise. And for that little piece of forever, everything is perfect.
The kiss lasts a long, long time.
Jet’s eyelids fluttered as she swam up to consciousness. Three things hit her immediately: one, she was wearing only her bra and panties. Two, she had no idea where she was. And three, if she didn’t get to a bathroom right now, she was going to burst.
She sat up, blinking as she looked around. After a moment, it clicked: She was in one of the headquarters’ back rooms they’d been using as sleeping quarters. Pennants and jerseys littered the walls, brushed with
the dust of glories past. Okay, that meant the bathroom was down the hall, headed toward the main barroom. Progress.
Grabbing the blanket that had covered her, she pushed off the cot and tested the strength of her legs. She was a little dizzy, but that could be from low blood sugar. She wrapped the starchy blanket around her, making an impromptu toga, and padded out of the small room. In the hallway, she got her bearings and soon found the women’s room and did her business.
She eyed the shower longingly, but instead she headed out to the main room, modesty be damned.
A glance showed her Meteorite hovering by the main console, absently polishing the bar top with a rag as she watched a multiscreen vid of what looked like rioting and newsies commenting and police holding back protesters and—
“Light,” Jet breathed, “is that City Hall on fire?”
Meteorite squawked as she jumped, her rag balled in her fist. Blushing furiously, she let out a shaky breath. “Christo, don’t sneak up on a person like that! How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Jet answered. It was true: She was feeling clearheaded and, unbelievably, well rested. “Hungry.”
Meteorite chuckled. “I bet.”
“What’s happening at City Hall?”
“More protesters. Some got creative. Firebug’s already on her way to help the city’s Bravest and to try to do some PR damage control.”
“Good.” Jet stared at the screens for a moment, thinking about how the mayor would take his office getting crisped. Probably about as well as Everyman had taken it when their HQ had been bombed. At least this time, Kai was doing her duty.
… save the world …
Something nagged at Jet, something about … Everyman? No, that wasn’t quite right. But she had more important things to think about. Gripping her blanket tightly, she said, “How’d I get here? Where are the others? Are they all right?” A pause. “And why am I naked?”
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