Subject 12

by S. W. Douglas

  I came across a road a short distance outside of the village and followed it for a little while. I tried not to think about anything except making sure I wasn't being followed. Nobody on the road seemed to be heading in the same direction I was, so I allowed myself to relax a tiny bit. Traffic started to pick up after a while, but not once did I see any flashers. Not conclusive, to be sure, but it did make me feel even better.

  I needed a drink. It's not that I was thirsty. I needed something that'd burn as it went down; burn away some of my throat, burn away some of the doubt, burn away some of the anger I was feeling. After I'd had a couple under my belt I'd be able to think.

  If I didn't force myself to think of other things I wound quickly flash back to the last of the bodies I'd seen. There was no doubt he'd been poisoned, though whoever had done it certainly had taken their time before they had. Not only was the red foam clinging to his lips still fresh-looking, it was apparent from the cuts in his clothing that he'd had some kind of regenerative ability. The poison had been sufficient, in the end, though from the blackening of his sclera his body had put up quite a fight. That's why one of those pills was such a potent cocktail. If one poison doesn't get you, another might.

  But that wasn't enough for whoever had killed him. Oh no. The stabbing had gone on for a long time after the body had stopped thrashing. Skin had been peeled off and thrown aside; small gobbets sticking to the wall where they'd hit. His throat had been cut, though it was obviously post-mortem since there were no blood fans anywhere that matched up with arterial spraying of that magnitude.

  It was sick.

  I needed a drink.

  I followed the road till I hit civilization of a size big enough to have a bar. Along the way I hit a fair-sized cluster of buildings but since I didn't think I was far enough away from Canton to risk taking the time to see if they even had a bar, I pushed on. I hit another one, but it was just off the main drag, to the left and I didn't feel like checking. A couple minutes later I came across a much bigger village and swooped down into what probably passed for a park. I avoided the big white gazebo and came to a gentle landing next to an eagle-topped arch. Nobody was out at this hour, for which I was thankful. I could see a fast food restaurant behind me but, since I didn't want to have a heart attack, I headed in the opposite direction. My curiosity was aroused by whatever the hell it was in front of me that was being lit by a couple of floodlights anyway. It was off the ground by a good amount on two metal posts. It was too small to be a billboard and too big to be a welcome sign. Besides, the village looked like it stretched in front of me for quite some distance anyway. The lights when I'd been flying seemed to back that idea up, too.

  It was big, it was round, it was blue, and it apparently was flavored with Pep-O-Mint.

  It was a giant goddamn Life Saver candy sign. What the hell was that about?

  I was a little confused. I was also too damn frustrated to think too much about it, so I picked a direction and started walking. Since a diner with a well-lit front window was in one direction and what looked like four lanes of highway extended in the other (and there was no way I was walking towards the grease palace), the direction I picked was defined by the roadway. I followed the crosswalk, got on the sidewalk, and turned the corner.

  Lucky me, there was a garishly-lit building across the road from what looked like a liquor store.

  Decisions, decisions. Liquor store would be cheaper, most likely, but the bar would afford me a chance to sit down and think, possibly without drawing the ire of someone with a gun while I drank whatever I could get.

  The bar would also be loud, crowded (if the number of trucks, SUVs, and the occasional car parked around the outside were anything to judge by), and at risk of a fight breaking out.

  The bar won by a single vote.

  Mine.

  My arrival inside was somewhat anticlimactic. Nobody seemed to notice except a server who gestured me toward the bar. I took the hint. A quick look around showed my outfit wasn't outlandish, thankfully, and I blended in by the simple act of stepping into the crowd and letting it take me away.

  Actually, it wasn't quite so easy. Most of the crowd --- which was loud and drinking heavily --- was stationary in their booths and at their tables, though a fair number were at the bar. I spied an empty stool and made my move, ducking around a server who apparently got the majority of her tips by showing off her... assets. I sat on the stool and waited for the bartender to notice me. It didn't take long, fortunately. It looked like the majority of the patrons already had their drink of choice for the moment.

  "Yeah, what'll it be?" he shouted over the country singer faking a southern drawl as he belted out a lament over his girlfriend with a Chevrolet fetish.

  "I'll take a beer. Whatever you have on tap that's not light will be fine."

  "Coming up as soon as I see some ID."

  I was surprised by the request. "ID? Come on, I'm not some frigging teenager trying to get some booze."

  "Sorry, buddy, but too many people started breathing down my neck. Way too many kids coming in here to score a beer."

  I pulled the ID from my pocket and handed it to him. He regarded it, looked at me, then passed it back. He turned around and grabbed a pilsner glass. He drew a beer and waited patiently while I dug one of the bills out of my pocket. I slapped it down on the bar and he shot me a weird look.

  "Sorry, but it's all I got."

  He nodded, took the bill, put the beer down, and walked over to the cash register. It was a computerized affair and after hitting a few buttons he seemed to be satisfied. He exchanged the bill for several smaller denomination ones and brought them back to me.

  I took a pull and winced internally. It was, indeed, light beer. Cheap light beer that, despite the fact it came out of a keg, tasted like someone had put a can of it in the sun for a week before serving it to me. To hell with it. Once this was down I'd get some whiskey. Probably the best choice, all things considered. All things being a look around at the top shelf. A lot of high-end vodka and some name brand whiskey I recognized but no good brandy or anything else of interest.

  I was almost done when I felt a hand land on my shoulder and the faintest indication of claws sinking into my skin through the shirt.

  "I understand you just showed the bartender a Guild ID." The voice that accompanied the hand was almost as sharp as the talons threatening to draw blood.

  "Yeah. What's it to you?" My reply was a little warmer than I intended it to be, anger coloring the words rather sharply.

  "If you're a member of the Guild then you'll be able to tell me." His response was icy cold. The talons tightened.

  I turned my head and regarded the hand on my shoulder. The skin was dark and, yes, there were small claws extending from the fingertips. A dark blue fingerless glove covered the back of the hand, but I couldn't see any more than that.

  "Do you want to see the ID yourself?"

  "I doubt that would do any good as I have no way to check it here." I noticed the slightest hint of an accent tinging this voice. "I think we should step outside."

  "That," I said truthfully before draining the glass and putting it on the bar, "sounds like a very good idea."

  The few people moving around hurried to get out of our way. The hand remained on my shoulder, though he didn't squeeze any harder than he had already. He kept out of my peripheral vision as I turned around, so I didn't learn anything new on our march outside. As soon as we were outside, however, he shoved me rather violently. I was caught off-guard and nearly tumbled to the ground before I could catch myself. I rolled aside, thrust my arms forward, and with a quick flip I was facing the hand's owner.

  The lights weren't the best, so his blue glove looked black. In fact, so did the rest of his outfit. His face was bare, though hard to see clearly with all the glare from the bar's neon lights and the streetlight. There was some kind of symbol on his chest but, again, the light made it hard to see even for my enhanced vision. He wore open-toed shoes wi
th a thick sole which seemed rather odd, as far as I was concerned, but what really got me was the cape.

  Capes are, on the modern super, a near-total affectation. In hand-to-hand combat they could be useful, but few took the time to learn the skills associated with using one. Usually they just got in the way... but some insisted they looked good. I wasn't one of them.

  Few supers wore capes, then. Even the normally-fashion-conscious Confederation shunned them, and Confederation members rarely engaged in direct combat. True, there were a number who could use them effectively --- and the results were spectacular when they could --- as both an offensive and defensive tool, but most supers had much more potent options at their disposal.

  Why use a tack hammer to take down a wall when a sledge would work faster?

  Net result? Capes on supers were like spoilers or shiny alloy wheels on cars. Usually pointless, ugly, and entirely there for the looks of the thing, they spoke more to the character of the owner than to their abilities, skill, aesthetic sensibilities, or common sense.

  "What the hell was that about?" I growled. "I'm of age and I paid for the beer."

  "Forging a Guild ID is serious business, as if you didn't already know. I think we'd better settle this right here and now." If he was impressed by my little gymnastics display he didn't show it.

  "If you'll just look at the blasted ID..." I started, fighting down the urge to knock him to the ground and step on his throat.

  "Why?" He stepped closer and his face split into a smile. Bastard was enjoying this. "If someone from the Guild was coming I'd have been notified. I may only have a small office but it still qualifies as a Guildhall."

  I had to make a choice. Did I dance with this idiot or did I try to run. He oozed confidence and power, so much so I knew a fight with him would potentially last long enough, and draw enough attention, that I'd be in trouble.

  I chose to run. If I could get far enough away to call in without him breathing down my neck I could get Venom to call him and get him to back off.

  It also meant the DVD was safer. All it'd take is one sloppy dodge and those claws would destroy the disc as surely as throwing it in a fire.

  "There's nothing I can say that's going to stop you from starting something, is there?"

  His smile grew broader. "Nothing comes to mind, no."

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" I tensed myself and prepared to run. "I'm all for not, if my vote counts."

  "It doesn't and I am." He tilted his head and regarded me with a very bird-like manner. "I haven't had a good fight in months."

  "Then get ready for one." I flashed a quick smile and charged at him, preparing to duck around him and use my momentum to blast down the road to the right. I saw what looked like elevated railroad tracks a short distance down the road and I thought a quick jump and run would put me a good distance down them before he'd had much time to react.

  I closed the distance in a heartbeat, ducking under his left arm as he moved to grapple me. I twisted my torso to the right, shifted my point of balance as radically as I dared just to get the slick soles to get any purchase on the blacktop, pushed hard to change directions, when something flew up and caught my side. Hard. I was thrown off balance and knocked to the ground. I rolled away before he could pounce, which he did, his claws throwing sparks from the blacktop. At least the open-toed shoes made sense. His toenails were every bit as sharp as his finger claws.

  "Tricky little bugger, aren't you?" The accent was even more pronounced now. It did nothing to hide the obvious blood lust in his voice.

  I heard something rustle as he straightened. I scrambled to my feet and turned to face him.

  Well, well, well, what do we have here? That was no cape. Bastard had wings.

  That made identifying him a lot easier, though it didn't do a damn thing to make my predicament any less troublesome. In fact, if asked, I'd have to say it made things a lot worse.

  There were only four known living winged supers. Bloodraven, the oldest and strongest, had been a member of the Guild since shortly after it was founded, but soon lost control of his violent urges and was forced to leave. Quickly turning to cannibalism, he joined up with the Confederation shortly after leaving the Guild and had been a thorn in society's side ever since.

  Before totally succumbing to the predatory instinct that marked all winged supers throughout history, he fathered three children. Talon, his oldest and his only daughter, took a vow of celibacy and joined a convent in eastern Greece on her eighteenth birthday. She swore that if she ever found a way to dominate the beast within she'd share it with the world. No word of her had come from the convent in many years.

  Dark Angel, who joined the Guild on his sixteenth birthday (making him the youngest super ever to sign up), had insisted on the most remote stationing possible and had spent ten years in an African country that changed names and dictators every two weeks. He survived his trial by fire and when he emerged he took a job as a Guild Instructor, teaching new and potential members how to use their powers and control them. Supposedly he was on a year-long sabbatical to the Holy See and he abhorred violence --- though he was exquisitely good at it. His twenty-seventh birthday was coming up soon, if my memory served.

  That left Sablewing, the middle child. When he was twenty he spent three years in prison for assault. While inside he narrowly escaped over a dozen further charges, including three counts of murder --- two inmates and a guard. As part of his parole agreement he had to join the Guild, where he found a niche as an enforcer and fit in moderately well for a while.

  For a short while.

  It didn't take him long him to start acting out. After a string of well-publicized "unfortunate" incidents, the finale of which was caught on national TV (he roughed up a prostitute on the streets of Las Vegas in front of a crowd numbering somewhere between two and five thousand), he was basically swept under the rug and forgotten about.

  Forgotten, but not gone.

  A crowd of bar patrons had begun to gather near the door. Either this wasn't the first time this had happened and they wanted to see the show or this was the first time and they didn't want to miss the excitement.

  I was willing to bet on the former.

  "Tricky? Oh, buddy, you ain't seen nothing yet." I grinned and winked at him. I didn't really feel that jovial, but why not make the best of a rotten situation? Besides, a good fight might shake things up and make me feel better. At least it'd be a good distraction.

  The wink seemed to incense him. He growled something unintelligible and rushed me, his wings flying back to reduce drag as he ran. I ducked his swinging claws and stepped forward, hitting his gut twice with hard, flat punches that stung my fists. I danced backwards even as he stumbled and caught the side of his face with an open-palm strike that snapped his head over. His momentum was great enough he kept moving forward, exposing his back to me. I caught the point of his backside with the toe of my shoe and lifted. His feet came off the ground just long enough to make him totally lose his balance and he spilled, his wings flapping as if to stabilize him. They failed. He face-planted reasonably hard even as I shielded my face against the grit flying away from the still-flapping wings.

  The voices of the crowd behind me penetrated my adrenaline haze. Some were cheering, some jeering, but the majority merely talked amongst themselves. I distinctly heard one of them place a bet on the outcome. I would have been flattered to hear it was me if I'd had enough presence of mind to realize exactly what was said.

  The seed of a wicked thought drifted through my mind and landed on some fertile ground. It sprouted and took root in a hurry.

  Alright, if it's a show they want, it's a show they'll get.

  Sablewing did a partial pushup and spit a glob of something that was probably blood onto the pavement. The look he shot me could only charitably be called venomous. My guess was he wasn't used to tasting blacktop.

  "You'll pay for that," he hissed, predictably.

  "I think you'll find my wallet's
a little thin tonight. Maybe a raincheck? Of course, if you'd prefer, I can pay with lessons in good manners." Banter, though good in a movie, usually either didn't happen or was a waste of time. Usually. His reaction made it worthwhile and I felt myself grin.

  "Fucker!" he screamed, and with a powerful thrust of his wings and arms he launched himself at me.

  I neatly sidestepped and drove my right fist into his ear with as much force as I dared put into it, grounding him again. It felt a lot like I'd just punched a rock on a spring.

  Sidestepping might have gotten me away from his claws but I didn't get out of the way of his wing. It caught me across the back and drove me forward a couple of steps. It felt like someone had hit me with a tree limb thoroughly covered in bubble wrap. All those feathers made for good padding, but the thrust was still there. Hurt like hell, to be honest.

  I had to catch my balance, and by the time I'd turned around he'd regained his feet. His face was a mask of concentration and hate. He bowed and thrust his arms into the air and, before I could react, his wings snapped forward, smashing me with a blast of air that knocked me off my feet and sent me flying.

  If I hadn't kept my sensibility I would have slammed into the front of the bar and that probably would have knocked me out, assuming I didn't go through one of the two windows and get cut to shreds. That would have taken me out of the fight just as successfully, though probably a little less messily than whatever Sablewing had in mind for me.

  What happened instead was a little less spectacular.

  I brought myself to a stop quickly, straightened, and came down feet-first. I made it slow so everyone could see. I wanted there to be no mistakes about what I was about to do.

  "Neat trick," I said as loud as I could without shouting. "If you have any more you might want to pull them out of your ass before I get over there, though. If you don't, I'm going to shove my foot so far up it you'll be licking the remains of your last meal off my shoe."