Ha!Ha!Ha!

by Steve Beaulieu

  A Word from Aaron Hall and Steve Beaulieu

  Thank you so much for reading our story. We hope you’ll mention it when you review this book.

  We met at church and decided to team up when we realized that each of us had strengths to compliment the other’s weaknesses. You might say we complete each other! Please don’t say that.

  We love writing and we love Science Fiction. Really…we love anything that tells a good story. We are both huge movie buffs as well as complete nerds. Everything ranging from Aaron’s Steam account boasting over 700 games to Steve’s thousands of comic books, we just can’t get enough of everything you do while living in your mother’s basement. Unfortunate for both of us, Texas doesn’t have basements and neither of us live with mom.

  You might also like our full length novel Brother Dust: The Resurgence. We consider it a superhero story, even though Brother Dust wears a cloak instead of a cape. It started out as a comic book. You can see some pictures of that here.

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  REJECTED

  BY M.K. GIBSON

  REJECTED

  BY M.K. GIBSON

  Part 1: Farewells

  CATHERINE FLETCHER ACCEPTED her driver’s hand as she stepped out of the town car.

  “Thank you, Silas.”

  “Ma’am,” Silas said, holding the umbrella over the elderly woman as he assisted her to her feet.

  Catherine used her driver to steady herself until the dizziness abated. Looking skyward, Catherine noted the rain and dark clouds.

  “Somehow, this is fitting.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Silas agreed, removing the wheeled oxygen tank from the town car.

  Catherine gripped her cane with one hand and held Silas’s arm in the other. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The pair walked into the small, secluded West Haven medical facility.

  • • •

  “Can you identify the body?” the medical examiner asked.

  “Yes,” Catherine said, viewing the corpse on the stainless steel table. “Alexander Bonaparte—or as the world knew him, the Tactician.”

  “This is really an honor, Ms. Fletcher,” the reporter in the corner of the crematorium said.

  Catherine continued staring at the body of her old nemesis, not bothering to look at the young man. “Yes, I assume it would be.”

  “If I may, it’s an honor to be here. Thank you for the chance to do this interview. You were a legend in this city.”

  “I am aware of who I was,” Catherine said.

  “Wow, Bonaparte himself. the Tactician. Dead. Ironic.”

  “How do you mean?” Catherine asked.

  “Well, considering who he was, you’d think he’d go out in a giant battle against heroes. But he didn’t…he just…died. And a heart attack at that. And only his greatest rival present to say goodbye. It’s tragic. Like Mozart’s paupers grave.”

  “Mozart was buried as was fitting the Viennese custom of the late 1700’s,” Catherine corrected. “The pauper story was propaganda piece designed to sell more newspapers.”

  “If you say so, ma’am.”

  “What’s your name again, son?”

  “Phil Winters, ma’am.”

  “And what newspaper do you represent?”

  “Not a newspaper, ma’am; a website. HeroTimes.com.”

  Catherine turned to directly address the reporter. “Phillip, your presence is an insult.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The man before you was incredible.”

  “The Tactician? He was a villain.”

  “Yes, he was. One of the best.”

  “Respectfully ma’am, he terrorized the city and all of the West Coast.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight, ma’am.”

  “Then you have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “ Ma’am, I’ve read all the history sites. About you and the rest of the Dawn Guard. The greatest heroes ever. I mean, you were Songbird!”

  “Again, I know who I was.”

  “You fought this guy for years. Even before he…”

  “Killed them,” Catherine finished. “Yes. I know. I was there.”

  “Then how could you defend him?”

  Catherine ignored him and placed a hand on Alexander Bonaparte’s face. “Goodbye. Okay, let’s get this over with.

  “As you wish, Ms. Fletcher,” the examiner said, passing a pen and clipboard to the older woman.

  Catherine signed the form as the primary witness and passed the clipboard back. The medical examiner filled in the rest. Once completed, the stainless steel tray moved on the belt into the oven where the hatch was sealed and the fire lit.

  “Young man,” Catherine said to Phil, “what do you know about Nazi rocket scientists?”

  “Ma’am?”

  Catherine watched the Tactician burn, and with him the end of an era. “It is a simple question. What do you know about them?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” Phil said, pulling out his smartphone to look it up.

  “Do not bother” Catherine said. “They were great men, born with great minds but cursed to be in a place which chose to embrace evil. The Dawn Guard and I fought those evil men. But were they evil?”

  “They were Nazis ma’am.”

  “They were,” Catherine agreed. “But some of them, the scientists, defected to the U.S.. They rededicated themselves, helped to make NASA what it was. It is the same with many villains. That phone in your pocket only exists because of people like the Tactician, pushing technology forward. He was cruel. He was evil. But his mind blessed the world as a whole with technological advancements no one has ever been able to replicate.”

  “Don’t you see that as revisionist history?”

  Catherine leaned against a counter, turned off her oxygen tank, and removed the tube from under her nose. She lifted her purse and pulled out a silver cigarette case and a matching antique silver lighter. She lit the smoke and breathed in deep.

  “Ma’am, should you be doing that?”

  “I’ll die eventually from something.”

  “I mean in here,” Phil said. “I think it’s illegal.”

  “I’m eighty-nine, I do not care,” Catherine declared. “Phillip, you are young and therefore stupid. You still see things in black and white. I know I did. When they brought those Nazi bastards into America, I was livid. But over time, I saw the good they could do. One day, you will look back on the past and see things from a unique point of view.”

  “If I may ma’am; the world will rest easier now he’s gone.”

  “So they will.”

  “What’s the next move for the Fletcher Foundation?”

  “My foundation continues to help those who need it. I will do as I’ve always done, guiding the world by empowering those who can affect change.”

  “I want to thank you for the interview,” Phil said, then looked at the furnace. “I—I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Catherine said. “He was an asshole and I’m glad he’s dead. Silas, we are done here. It is time to go.”

  Part 2: Resurrection

  “Hey, weren’t you that guy?”

  “No,” Andre said as he tapped his cane past the man and continued walking down the sidewalk.

  “Naw, you were that guy. I hope you die.”

  Andre ignored the man as he did everyone else. Tapping his cane, he felt the cement stairs which let up to his building. He adjusted his small bag of groceries as he walked up, into the lobby.

  Moving to his right, he tapped his cane forward. When he felt the wall, he moved to the left, finding the elevator’s frame. His fingers found the two buttons and he pressed “up”. He smelled a familiar scent behind him.

  “Evening, Ms. Kelly.”

  Mrs. Kelly said nothing.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Andre stepped on, felt for his floor and pressed the 8 button. “Should I g
et yours, Mrs. Kelly? Eleven, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got it,” Andre said, moving his hand up to the 11 button.

  They rode the elevator in silence.

  “Floor 8,” the electronic voice said.

  Andre stepped off. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “I hope you burn in hell.”

  Andre sighed as the doors closed behind. Reaching his apartment, he fumbled for his keys. Once inside, he set his groceries down on the counter and carefully set each item in their designated spot.

  It was then Andre sensed something. He was not alone. He smelled cigarettes, perfume, and…oil?

  “Who’s there?”

  “Please, do not be alarmed Mr. Bowers,” an elderly female voice said from Andre’s living room. “My name is Catherine Fletcher. And I am here to offer you my assistance.”

  Andre made his way into his living room. He could sense the woman sitting in his recliner. But there was someone else in the room.

  “Who else is here?”

  “My assistant,” Catherine said. “Silas.”

  “Silas smells of lubricant and electricity.”

  “That is because he is an android. One of the top-of-the-line models the Fletcher Foundation produces for assisted living.”

  “Whoa, you’re that Catherine Fletcher.”

  “I was unaware there was more than one.”

  “Songbird?”

  Andre heard her sigh. “Yes, I was she as well. A long time ago. And a little over three years ago, you were Pulse the Living Laser, were you not?”

  Andre frowned. “What do you want, Ms. Fletcher?”

  “To help you.”

  “So you broke into my home?”

  “Do you expect a woman of my age to stand and wait?”

  Everyone in West Haven knew Catherine Fletcher and her foundation. Her philanthropy and advancements in medicine were legendary. She’d easily become more famous after she retired from crime fighting.

  “Please sit, Mr. Bowers,” Catherine said. “It is your home after all. I have a proposition for you.”

  Andre felt for the couch, looking for the edge of the cheap upholstery. Feeling the seam of the cushion, he positioned himself to sit.

  “Ma’am, I don’t know what you want, but I don’t think I can help.”

  “I want to give you your life back, Mr. Bowers. I want to make you a hero again.”

  Andre said nothing. The frankness of her words and the conviction in which she spoke made him believe she was sincere.

  A hero again?

  To fly again.

  To matter again.

  To…not be hated.

  As quickly as the feeling of possibility came, the reality of his situation dashed his momentary hope.

  “I don’t know if you know about me Ms. Fletcher, but…”

  “You were responsible for the Overman Bridge accident three years ago,” she started, sounding bored. “You fought one of the Tactician’s team, the Caustic Crew. The Crew held civilians for ransom on the bridge. During the confrontation, your laser form accidentally ignited Methane Man. The resulting explosion wounded one hundred and forty-six people and killed thirty-three more. Of which, there were—”

  “Seventeen children,” Andre finished.

  “Seventeen children,” Cathrine repeated. “The explosion destroyed your eyesight. Since then, you have retired. Why?”

  The question stunned Andre. “No disrespect, Ms. Fletcher, but what do you mean, why? I accidentally killed people—kids.”

  “Your presence was requested by the mayor of West Haven himself. Your actions were city council sanctioned. You stopped the Caustic Crew and saved people. And the way my people tell me, you can still shift into your laser form if you wished. Yet, you do not.”

  “I can’t see!” Andre said, his temper getting the best of him. “If I turn into a laser, I have to see where I’m going! If I did, who knows how much damage I’d cause, or who I’d hurt!”

  “So, all you require to return to being a hero is your eyesight?”

  “Yes…no.”

  “Which is it?”

  Andre rubbed at his face. “People hate me. Every day someone recognizes me and I relive the whole thing over.”

  “That can be fixed. As can your eyes.”

  “You don’t think I’ve tried? I’ve been to every specialist. I’ve wasted all my money on chances to see again. All I want is a chance to make it up to people. To help people. I was a good hero, damn it!”

  “I know,” Catherine agreed. “Mr. Bowers, I am here to not only give you your eyes back—but purpose. I am organizing a very special team. And I want you to lead them. All you have to do is say, ‘yes.’”

  Andre was at a loss for words. If this woman was right, then…could he? Could he actually do it?

  “What is your answer, Mr. Bowers? Are you truly committed to redemption? Or are your words something you say to yourself because you believed this day would never come.”

  “I—I…”

  “I could force you, you know,” Ms. Fletcher said. “When I was Songbird, I had the ability to influence people’s thoughts and emotions through harmonics. But that kind of ability corrupts. I want a leader who, forgive me, sees the bigger picture. I can see you are not that man. Have a pleasant life, Mr. Bowers.”

  “I’ll do it!” Andre said, the words escaping his lips before he realized he’d said them.

  “Excellent. Now, this may feel…weird. Silas?”

  “Weird? What do you mean?”

  Silas stepped to Andre and placed a visor over the blind man’s face. The device settled around Andre’s eyes as servos engaged, creating a complete circle around his head.

  Andre gasped as his mind was flooded with imagery.

  “The visor is powered by your own internal energy and is made of quantum state material. When you shift into laser form, this shall shift with you. Your mind is now “seeing” the world through EM fields your laser-self naturally absorbs. In time, and with the proper programming of the visor, your brain will interpret those signals as ‘sight.’”

  Andre breathed deeply and then he saw Catherine sitting in his chair.

  Andre openly wept.

  “Welcome back, Pulse.”

  Part 3: Purpose

  Pulse the Living Laser, felt reborn.

  The hero streaked across the night sky of West Haven in his laser form—just because he could.

  He soared all along the West Coast, from his home in Washington State all the way down to southern California.

  If he moved at full speed, the trip would be near instantaneous. But instead, Pulse simple enjoyed flying once again. He felt…whole.

  In the last month of re-training his body, Ms. Fletcher assured him that once he returned to his hero work, if he remained earnest in his desire to make amends, then the populace would accept him.

  But for the moment, he just enjoyed feeling free.

  Below him, the world spoke in a beautiful array of EM fields in colors, Thanks to the visor, colors no human eyes could see danced before him.

  Pulse returned to his human form, standing atop the giant “H” in the Hollywood sign. Below, the valley twinkled in lights. Pulse simply watched and smiled, soaking in the beauty of the world.

  “Pulse, are you there?”

  “Here, Mrs. Fletcher,” Pulse said, tapping the comm piece in his ear.

  “Where are you?”

  “Hollywood, ma’am. Is it time?”

  “Yes, son, it is. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think I am.”

  “Then get back here and meet your team.”

  Pulse smiled. “How much time do I have?”

  “Five seconds.”

  “See you in one.”

  • • •

  “You have to be kidding me. The kid-killer?”

  Catherine Fletcher slammed her cane down hard on the helipad. “That is enough, Ms. Martinez. Conduct yourself respect
fully or you may return the power-prosthetic equipment and leave.”

  “It’s okay,” Pulse said. “It’s a perfect way to start.”

  Pulse stepped up to the taller woman wearing power armor. “Three years ago, I made a horrible mistake. I live with that day. But Ms. Fletcher’s given me another shot.”

  Pulse held up a manila folder, “It appears she gave you one too. Rosa Martinez, AKA: “Hotshot.” Former U.S. Army Warrant Office chopper pilot. Shot down in Afghanistan, and the resulting wounds left you a quadruple amputee. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thank you for your service.”

  Pulse extended an open hand.

  The woman flexed her mechanical limbs. She looked at Catherine who nodded. Hotshot gripped Pulse’s hand too tightly. “Don’t screw this up.”

  “It isn’t on my to-do list,” Pulse said with a smile, looking at the woman’s hot pink hair.

  “Is that in Army regulation?”

  “Don’t push it, little man.”

  Pulse chuckled, then addressed the next person in line. She was shorter than he was, dressed in midnight blue tactical gear, and had twin short swords strapped to her back. She wore a balaclava face mask cut so her brownish blonde hair hung free. Her costume seemed to be augmented with a form-fitting exo-frame.

  “Gabrielle Foster, AKA: Reflex. Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Reflex said.

  Pulse quickly scanned her file. Foster was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy when she was a child. But during a routine scan, it was revealed her body had an empowerment.

  “It says here you perceive the world at an incredible rate?”

  Reflex nodded. “That’s a clinical way of looking at it, yes.”

  “What’s another way?”

  “Hell,” she said simply. “Trapped in my body while the world passed by me incredibly slowly.”

  “Because of your condition?”

  “Yes, my mind see’s every probable angle and outcome.”

  “Remind me not to play you in billiards then.”

  Reflex shrugged. “I’ve never played. I just started walking a few weeks ago. Thanks to Fletcher and this motor control suit, I can do so much more.”

  “Like what?”