‘So, how’re you getting on with them?’ He pointed. We were outside the Cape Hill building on an outdoors track. I was wearing shorts and had just come off a quick 5k (literally, it only took me 15 minutes).
‘They’re pretty good. Still need some work turning corners at speed, though.’ I shrugged, feeling surprisingly light. Then again, since my legs didn’t pump as much blood or need as much oxygen to run, I didn’t get anywhere near as tired as I would have done previously.
‘And have you...?’ He trailed off, seeming purposefully vague.
‘Have I what, Sammy?’
‘You know!’ He made a snaking motion with his hand, rising it up into the air.
‘Have I... done a drunken Nazi salute?’ I shrugged. ‘I really don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, come on!’ He snapped. ‘Haven’t you figured out what the A stood for?’
‘What A?’
‘Milnet/A legs.’ He looked at me expectantly. ‘There’s only one A in that whole name.’
‘Right? I dunno.’ I thought about it. ‘They’re the A model? Like the model T Ford, or the-’
‘Airborne!’ Sammy jumped up and down in undisguised glee. ‘Milnet Airborne legs.’
‘So...’
‘You can fly!’
I stared at him. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘You can fly!’
‘Sammy...’
‘You can fly!’ he hissed.
‘Would you stop that? I’m not Peter Pan.’
‘Well, no.’ Emily’s voice sounded amused as she joined us. ‘Clearly not. Not with those legs. They’d look rubbish in tights.’
I glared at Sammy, trying to signal him to shut up. ‘Sammy here was just...’
‘I was laughing at his tight shorts.’
‘Hey!’ I looked down. ‘These aren’t tight.’
‘Uh huh.’ He smirked at me and winked to show he got the message. ‘Whatever you say, Jay.’
‘If you two would stop ogling Jason’s new legs...’ Emily looked me up and down and smiled. ‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’
‘I’m all ears!’
Emily and I turned to face Sammy, who was beaming. ‘Not you, Sammy.’ Emily scolded gently. ‘I meant Jason.’
‘Oh, sure.’ He pretended to be sad, throwing the back of his hand across his face. ‘Woe unto Sammy Edwards, for he is never wanted.’ He kept up his protestations as he walked away, looking back mournfully every few, slow steps, as he headed towards a small group of PIs that were stretching.
‘What’s up?’
Emily, for the first time since we had reconnected, seemed nervous. ‘Well, it’s just that it’s Christmas very soon.’
‘Ten days.’ I nodded.
‘And I was wondering if you had any plans for Christmas day. That is, assuming you’re out of here and don’t want to eat hotel food.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Why, Miss Roarke. Are you asking me out on a date?’
‘No, Idiot Boy.’ She jammed her elbow into my ribs gently. ‘I’m asking if you wanted to come over to my place and have Christmas Day with me.’ She waved off in the direction Sammy had gone. ‘Him too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t say yes right away. Think about it.’
‘Okay. Yes.’
She smiled coyly. ‘Really?’
‘Of course, really. As long we keep Sammy out of the kitchen. Remember that time he...?’
‘Oh, the roast dinner stew thing?’ She completed.
‘With the peas and-’
‘He couldn’t stop being sick!’ We finished together, laughing.
‘Ohhh, God.’ She sighed. ‘Yeah. Let’s not let him cook.’ She brightened. ‘I’ll do it.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Got to run, this was just a flying visit. I’ll see you later?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’ I smiled and waved as she walked off, and Sammy re-joined me.
‘Sammy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Tell me more about these legs.’
‘First thing’s first: why didn’t you want Emily to know about them?’
‘Because things may get ugly if and when Nemesis finds out I’m okay, and I don’t want this’ I waved at my legs, ‘to be public knowledge. Any surprise is a good surprise, right?’
‘And you think Emily isn’t safe to be told because...’
‘Because I don’t want anyone coming after her, or her revealing information about me which could tip anyone off.’
‘So you’re going to, what? Go after this guy?’
I looked at Sammy and smiled. He took a step away from me. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, Sammy.’
‘Just tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.’
I knew, then and there, that I had to lie to Sammy, to protect him as I was protecting Emily.
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
I knew he didn’t believe me.
It started with a red balaclava.
Michelle’s words continuously echoed through my mind - about how PIs and Augmented people who fought crime protected their loved ones through anonymity. Certainly, the biggest celebrity names were just that: celebrities. Nobody could do anything to the loved ones of a celebrity and get away with it...doubly so if the celebrity could bench-press a tank and run faster than a train. I was rich, definitely, but I was by no means a “big” name. If I were going to track down Nemesis and the person who hired him, I would have to stay anonymous. I suppose my upbringing made me think of balaclavas as being part of anonymity. It’s what the bank robbers always wore on TV shows and movies when I was growing up.
That red balaclava from my ski trip had definitely made an impression on me and was the first part of the “costume” I was digitally creating for myself. Over it, I decided on reflective yellow ski goggles - if people get identified by their eyes, I didn’t want mine to be seen. A black helmet and metallic chinstrap that covered the bottom section of my lower jaw finished off the head.
I lay on my bed at the Centre (no, I’m still not calling it by the acronym), with the belt on my lap. Sammy had left and come back with a smartphone which I had been told was now mine. He had a matching one, and I’d discovered he’d programmed in his number, Michael’s, as well as another one which was only identified by a kissy-face emoji. I assumed it to be Emily’s number. I currently had the phone out and paired via Bluetooth to the belt, using a hologram app similar to the one Elijah Noch had used to change the default look of the costume stored in the belt. The red disc throbbed a slow, fractious red, the only light in my room other than the cool blue tinge of the 3D model representing me, which swayed gently from side to side as I armoured it.
Rotating the virtual model around with my finger, I examined the head again, and nodded in satisfaction. It looked mysterious, heroic and dangerous; in other words, totally unlike me.
The upper body was more difficult.
In all these movies where the hero (or anti-hero) designs their costume, they’re usually based on a comic that’s been around for decades. In all the big montage sequences where they make, draw, or order parts for something that becomes their costume it’s all a load of crap; their costume was made in the middle of the last century. For me, with no real basis to draw on other than vague ideas and half-remembered dreams, it was painful and time consuming. And worse, since I couldn’t even talk to Sammy about it, I had nobody to bounce ideas off...
‘This is ridiculous.’ I told my helmet-wearing avatar. It tilted its head at me, unable to process what it had assumed was a verbal command and went back to swaying slowly. ‘Never mind.’ I sighed, then had an idea. ‘What outfits best match the helmet I’ve selected?’
A scrolling selection of tops, armour and camo vests appeared, one of them superimposed on the avatar. I began to roll my finger across left to right, picking and choosing colour, cut, and design. It was a long and arduous process, but eventually I settled on a metallic breastplate that
was a bit reminiscent of 80s cyborg movies, in black, with a grey detailing the abdomen and joints. The arms and legs matched, although they had a raked back design on the calf and tricep. It was almost complete! Almost.
‘Something’s missing...’ I frowned, tapping at the figure before me. It started to try to bat my finger away, without success. ‘I wish I could...’ I trailed off, thinking back to what started this all off. ‘Wish...’ I tapped at the side of the avatar. ‘Bring up decals and logos, please? Specifically stars and comets.’
I scrolled through selections, appearing underneath the avatar. ‘Too satanic. Too Jewish. Too cartoony.’ I frowned and got one labelled “fire_ball”. With a curved bottom and flames on top, it looked like a stylistic representation of a fire. I dragged it to the chest of my avatar, and dropped it in. It looked good!
‘Add flames to the arms and legs.’ I said, wondering how it would look.
It looked bad.
‘Change the flames to red at the cuffs of the arms and legs and fade them into a black outline at the end of the pattern.’ The design did so, and it looked... I dunno. Less bad?
‘Change the body colour from black to a dark grey... lighter... lighter.’
Perfect.
‘Upload this design to the belt.’
The avatar saluted, and a Power Belt (I hate Sammy for making that stick) appeared on his body. He tapped the red disc, and the one on the desk next to me started to pulse in tandem. A red icon appeared next to the avatar, and he pointed to it. I tapped it. Baton design incomplete. Continue anyway?
Baton?
I grabbed the instruction tablet and opened up the index. Finding the entry I wanted, I jumped to the relevant section.
Extendable Heat-Baton
For defensive purposes, a baton is included within the left hand which, once extended, can be heated almost instantly to a nonadjustable temperature of 250 °F. This baton cannot leave the artificial hand, although it can be positioned at any angle within the grip of the hand. To protect any artificial skin a user may wish to use, the baton comes with a heat-shielded grip which extends for 10”. The heated portion of the baton will cover the remaining 37” of the length of the baton...
37 inches? That’s not a baton, that’s a damned sword! I thought back to when I had attempted Kendo lessons with Emily, years ago. I enjoyed them immensely, although she hated them. The war put a stop to the classes, but my love for the sport never really died.
‘Open a new avatar for the Heat Baton.’ A facsimile of my left hand appeared, gloved in the costume I had designed. A plain rod sat in it, and I zoomed out. ‘That’s definitely a sword.’
Interpreting my comments as a command, a ceremonial dress sabre appeared in my hologram hand.
‘No, it’s too flashy. How about...’ I thought hard. ‘Make the grip steel.’ It did, almost instantly, on my voice commands. I continued. ‘Darker. Like burnt metal. Add a brown leather wrap around the area designated for my hand. Round off the rear end... no, not that way.’ I shook my head. ‘Sideways. No, sideways. No, not that... sideways!’ Eventually, I had to zoom in, tracing and shaping the curved end the way I wanted it. ‘Now, on the other side, taper a small section of neck and rib it, then go back to the standard shape.’ I scratched my head. ‘Add venting holes near the top of the handle. Three of them, elongated lozenge shaped. One main one, two smaller either side.’ I nodded as it did so. ‘Now have them inset into the main body, like a window. And... have smoke come out of them.’ I added as an afterthought. As smoke gently wafted out of the venting holes, another idea hit me. I thought about the flames that I had added on a whim to the arms and legs of my costume. ‘Make the heated section of the baton out of fire and shape it like a scimitar. Match the colour of the flames and colour the inside of the venting holes the same way.’
The baton became a sword of flame, and I nodded, staring at it intently. ‘Perfect. Upload that to the file for the belt too.’
30 seconds later, the belt stopped pulsating. Lifting it off my lap, I walked into my room’s bathroom; fixing the belt around me I held my breath, and staring into the wall-length mirror, tapped the red disc. I watched as the armour materialised around me, coming into projected being from the belt and radiating outwards and upwards from my waist, one rapid pixel at a time. I held my breath as the armour coalesced around me, as my reflection looked like I was being submerged in a rapidly growing metal body.
When it was finished, I stared at myself in the mirror, flexing my fingers in the short sequence to release the baton. As it did so, the holographic flames erupted from the “blade”, and yellowy orange light seeped out of the venting holes. I was lit up, in the low-light bathroom, by a sword of fire, picking out details from my suit. I grinned at my reflection.
A superhero stared back at me.
Chapter Nine
Jingle Bells
Emily opened up her apartment door, wearing a red sweater with a printed flying squirrel on the front which had a stitched-on Santa hat.
‘Seriously?’ I pointed at her sweater.
‘Go Assapan.’ She shrugged and laughed, stepping back so Sammy and I could enter. We stepped in and looked around, taking in the view of her apartment’s living room. It was very...
‘White.’ Sammy supplied.
‘Monochrome.’ I re-joined.
‘Oh, hush you two.’ Emily held her arm out for our coats. ‘It’s retro minimalism.’
‘It’s black and white.’
It really was, too. As we stepped across the black wooden floor, the only colour in the room was from the Christmas tree; it seemed positively garish in comparison to the rest of the room, with plain white walls and ceiling... not to mention the clumps of snow and ice that had clung to myself and Sammy as we’d made our way over to Emily’s apartment.
Think about that one for a second. Snow. In Florida. Christmas-time or not, we’d been reliably informed by the doorman outside that it had only snowed a couple of times in the Sunshine State before the war, but now that Lemniscate had cracked the Danti-forming technology that we could expect hurricane protection, and white Christmases from now on. He’d shaken his head at that and slipped the red cap off his head to look at the sky. ‘Lord, these are some great days.’ He had muttered. Personally, I didn’t think the Lord, if He were still up there, had any real say in the weather anymore. Not if companies controlled it.
The ice and snow, whilst irritating, seemed to match the rest of Emily’s apartment. There was a white leather sofa facing away from a beautiful view of the cityscape, with floor-to-ceiling windows holding back the winter air and tumultuous snowstorm, giving the impression that we were somehow inside a giant snow globe. The balcony just beyond the windows had a couple of chairs and a table facing outwards, and the setting sun was visible, kissing the tops the buildings and the faintly visible docks at Port Capehill in the distance, as the dull orange light touched the sea and scattered into shards. Emily joined me and nodded out to the sight. ‘You know, if the lights were out, the room would be orange.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Sometimes I just sit out on the balcony and watch the sun go down. It’s like...I don’t know how to describe it. It’s more than the end of the day. It’s like...’ She paused, struggling to put her words together.
‘Like the whole sky is on fire? Like that time we went to Switzerland, and watched the sun go down. It looked like the snow was orange… like your walls.’ I offered. She looked at me, her features soft and inscrutable, and she slowly nodded. ‘Exactly.’ She moved closer and leaned against me. For one beautiful, brief moment, everything was right with the world.
‘When do we eat?’
We slowly turned, and Sammy was there, ignoring the amazing view. ‘Seriously. I haven’t eaten in hours!’ He rubbed his stomach like a cartoon character, even sticking his tongue out as he “mmmm’ed”, as if he were a child trying to express basic hunger. Eventually he stopped and looked at us. ‘What?’
The kitchen mainta
ined the black flooring but was more tiled. The furnishings, again, were white. A black electric hob sat inlaid in a white marble countertop, with stainless steel pots releasing wafts of steam throughout the room, and some plates with some food already laid out, next to a large lump covered in foil. Emily pointed to the white kitchen table. ‘Sit.’ Sammy and I grinned and sat down at opposite ends of the table. Emily moved around quickly and efficiently dished up, laying the plates in front of us, before pulling away the foil.
‘Oh, damn Em. That’s a huge bird!’
‘A goose, just like we used to have. Only the best for my friends from home.’ I pondered over her words as she pulled out a large carving knife and fork. Something she had said...
Sammy caught my eye and mouthed the word “friends” at me. I shrugged, distracted. ‘Who’d like to do the honours?’ Emily beamed at me.
‘I will!’ Sammy interjected, holding out his hands for the carving tools. Emily and I shared a look, before she handed the knife and fork to him. Oblivious, Sammy cackled and stood, leaning over the goose. ‘Who wants leg?’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is!’
‘It’s totally not.’
‘It totally is.’
Emily sighed. ‘Would you two please just get over yourselves?’
‘But Em...’
She fixed me with a piercing stare, and I silenced myself.
‘Both of you need to understand one thing: it doesn’t matter if you think Die Hard is a Christmas movie or not, we’re not watching it.’
‘Aww.’ Sammy and I complained in unison and slumped back down on the sofa. She looked at us both fondly. ‘You know, I’ve missed this.’
Sammy caught my gaze, and we smiled at each other, and then at her. ‘Me too,’ Sammy replied. ‘Even if you don’t want to watch Hans Gruber get pitched off a building.’
‘Best scene in all of cinema.’ I nodded, crossing my arms.
It had been a wonderful Christmas day. After dinner we’d played some games, and watched Emily get all worked up at Trivial Pursuit (I’d forgotten how competitive she could be) and had then given each other trinkets for presents. We had just settled in for a movie when the discussion over what to watch had got heated.
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