Black Power- The Superhero Anthology
Page 13
“And life’ll stay wholesome with every piece of media judged before release, and if it glorifies what’s wrong with humanity then it’s garbage unfit for consumption!” Jen sighed wistfully. “It’ll be so wonderful! Media free from rape, bullying, abuse, drugs, misandry, radical feminism, and other poisons. And if I have to lock you up too, then so be it!”
Even through her pain, Blue rolled her eyes. Misandry and feminism, truly the world’s foremost ills. Yeah, right. Blue found it telling that racism apparently wasn’t on Jen’s radar. Plus, she loved the word “wholesome” more than anyone had a right to. Well, what do you expect from someone play acting a vigilante cop?
She planted her hands and feet on the ground and pushed down as hard as she could, forcing her body up and throwing Jen’s leg off. Unbalanced, Jen stumbled backwards as Blue got to her feet.
“Blue Knuckle!” Going on the offensive, she tore into Jen with her sparking fists, her electrified blows strong enough to shatter the bones of an ordinary human, yet Jen was merely bruised. The stunned supremum could only accept punch after punch to her head; arms raised uselessly, her eyes wide in shock as blood streamed from her nose and lips. Blue’s anger bled away. All she could feel was pity.
One more left hook and then Blue delivered a blow with all her strength behind it to Jen’s left cheek, launching the Gentle Giantess’ head rightward, her mouth twisted into an almost comical lopsided oval. Currents of electricity sizzled and sparkled through her hair, strands standing on end. She staggered back, trembling, her head stuck in that position but her astonished eyes stayed on Blue.
Blue stood in place, waiting for Jen’s next move.
“Jen,” Blue breathed, “please, just stop. I don’t like hurting people, but you’re not giving me much alternative.”
Slowly, painfully, Jen moved her head back into place, sucking in air through her bleeding mouth, her nose broken. She raised her shaking fists and gurgled something unintelligible but furious.
Blue thrust her palm into Jen’s face. “Blue Buster,” she muttered, and unloaded a shocking blast point blank.
Jen shrieked wetly, all her hair shooting straight up, spasms jerking her muscles. She might have withstood multiple Blue Buster bolts to her body from a distance, but one up close to the head was another matter.
Smoke curled from Jen’s hair.
Blue withdrew her hand.
Jen stood trembling, and for a moment, Blue was ready to give her another shot, but Jen’s eyes rolled up and at last, her knees buckled. She landed heavily on them. The rest of her followed, her face planting itself in the sand. Her vast body shuddered violently and then her muscles and uniform melted away, the Giantess going back to ordinary Jen Zander.
Blue checked the woman for signs of life, and, aside from superficial wounds and shock, she was all right. She let out a deep breath, glad Jen didn’t die from her injuries.
SCAR troops came scrambling over soon after, securing Jen with handcuffs, although no one was sure if they would hold if she broke out of her daze. Blue would have to escort the big lug to containment.
Wood came running up, a thin smile on her lips. “Cracked the case before anyone was hurt. Splendid effort, Blue.”
Blue grimaced. “Yeah, I did, but have you read the information on Zander? Her life’s been one disaster after another for the longest time. Bullied as a child; worked as a programmer for a small software company that laid her off after a corruption charge. After that, the only work she could get was at the pier warehouse and she lost her job again when the pier closed down. She tried to get into the police numerous times but was rejected for psychological issues. She made art of herself buffed up to feel strong, but entering female muscle art circles introduced her to the BDSM stuff and it reminded her of being bullied. She was about to lose her apartment when she became a supremum. No wonder she lashed out at the world. I wish I could’ve talked her into getting help.”
“A pity she blamed all the wrong people,” Wood mentioned. “Still, she really was a Gentle Giantess. She could’ve killed David and Loew so easily, yet didn’t harm a hair on their heads. Perhaps there’s hope for her.”
Blue watched as soldiers and investigators loaded Jen onto a stretcher. “Yeah, maybe.”
“One day,” Wood said wistfully as they walked to a waiting ambulance. “One day, SCAR will be filled with superheroes following your example. There’s bound to be suprema who want to use their powers to help society, not harm it. It’s our job to help them adjust to their new lives and use their powers in a responsible manner.”
“Yes ma’am.” Blue gazed into her palms and willed tiny arcs of electricity to dance across her skin, tingling pleasantly. Placing her hands close together, the arcs bounced between them. Even though she wasn’t a supremum herself, her nanomachines made her supernormal and from the moment she was able to weaponize them, she had no doubts about using them to protect her community and offer an alternative to the police.
Blue focused on the SCAR logo on Wood’s uniform. Supernormal Containment and Regulation. That meant dealing with suprema, paranormal phenomena, even extraterrestrial contact. It all sounded so bizarre when she had signed up, but now more than ever, SCAR was needed, and Susan Wright was proud to be a part of it.
GOTTA GO!
Aurelius Raines II
Although he hated ironing, Steph was calmed by the sight of the wrinkles disappearing under the hot weight of the iron. Although he found the fractal elegance of a wrinkled, white shirt fascinating, the uniformed plane of order had its own satisfaction. His father had taught him to be patient with ironing.
“Order on the outside makes order on the inside.”
His father would say this while Steph watched his sinewed hands patiently smooth and press the laundry. Now, Steph said it aloud to himself because he wanted to hear some sound besides what he heard on the television.
… four alarm fire on the 14th block of Springfield Avenue. Fortunately, no one was killed in the blaze although a 52-year-old man was rushed to the hospital because of smoke inhalation. The Chicago Fire Department is credited with a speedy response to the fire.
As his anger began to take like a fungus on bread, Steph repeated the mantra to himself.
“Order on the outside makes order on the inside.”
What really happened?
The fire was consuming the building and the firefighters, their station only five blocks away, had not arrived. It had been 15 minutes. Steph knew because he had heard the call go out on his police scanner. Within 3 minutes, Steph put on his gear, grabbed his fire kit, and was racing toward the fire on his Ninja.
When he arrived, there were no cops or fire trucks, just people outside in various states of dress looking at the flames and looking for each other.
“Did anyone see Mr. Boykin?” a 40-ish woman in pajamas kept asking people. When she saw Steph pull up, she ran to him, the flopping of her slippers a humorous contrast to the tragedy on her mind.
“Ninjaman! Ninjaman!” Steph would have preferred another name but when people saw him in his black outfit and mask fighting four armed robbers outside of a restaurant, he reminded them of a ninja. The bike didn’t help. It could have been worse. He heard one astounded onlooker yell “Bruce Leroy” after an uppercut that had lifted a two-hundred pound man off his feet.
“Ninjaman! I think somebody still inside.”
“Where?” Steph asked as he reached for his modified gas mask. It was air-tight and had two small canisters of compressed oxygen.
“Third floor. He stay in the back apartment”
Steph saw that most of the windows on the third floor had smoke and a distant glow. The first story seemed smoke and fire free. He assessed the situation and secured the mask on his face as he walked and then ran toward the house. He charged up the stairs. The smoke felt like running into a wall. Steph was instantly blinded. He withdrew a tomahawk from his thigh and stretched it in front of him so he wouldn’t really run into a wall.
Steph thought he heard a cough. He ran the tomahawk along the wall and felt it slide against a doorway. He heard the coughing on the other side. The door was not hot but it was locked. Steph stood back and focused. His densely muscled leg became a battering ram. The doorframe splintered as it gave way to Steph’s unusual strength.
Mr. Boykin lay on the kitchen floor next to the wheelchair. In his haste to escape, he’d tipped over and now he was trying to crawl to the back door. If he made it, he would have found the wooden porch stairs already in full flame.
Boykin could not breathe. Steph made the decision to take him out of the side window in the kitchen. He took a huge breath and held it. His body instantly balanced his cellular respiration so he would not need as much oxygen, but he had to move fast. He put the mask on Mr. Boykin’s face.
Steph knocked out the window with a few powerful blows from his tomahawk and then tied a length of nylon around the refrigerator. He then picked up Mr. Boykin and threw him over one shoulder. The old man had wasted away in his late years, so he was easy to carry. Holding Mr. Boykin in one arm and the rope wrapped around his other, Steph lowered them from the window. The refrigerator acted as a counter weight as it tipped over and slid across the floor to the window and they glided to the bottom floor.
Steph stayed with Mr. Boykin until the EMS arrived. 20 minutes after the call. 20 minutes to answer a call 5 blocks away.
“Order on the outside makes order on the inside.” Steph remembered his father’s voice – as soft and insistent as pouring water.
Let it go, Steph. Let it go.
***
The next night, after work, Steph wanted to stay in. Construction work was hard and loud. He thought it would be nice to sit and paint for a bit. He liked to paint. But it was late spring time and the streets were warm. His mind could not forget the people who would be injured or killed tonight. On the way home from work, he’d seen Rhonda walking from the store, bag in one hand and baby in the other. Steph made small talk. He was wearing shades so Rhonda did not see him notice the bruise peeking from under the sleeve of her peach baby-tee. Steph made small talk, played with the baby a little and went on like nothing was wrong. Steph made a note to go talk to Duran.
And since he obviously wasn’t going to paint tonight, there was no time like the present.
***
The tavern had a large tinted window so Steph could see Duran drinking at the bar. Bearded and well-muscled, his marine tattoo became more restless the more he drank. His tattoo was a knife through the globe and a swooping eagle with a banner that read Death Before Dishonor. Two tours in Afghanistan and Duran drank too much.
When he emerged from the tavern, he was unsteady on his feet and clumsy in reaching for his keys. Steph’s gate was easy and his voice lacked all authority.
“Duran, let’s talk.”
Despite Steph’s attempt to be disarming, Duran tensed up. His twisted hair almost stood on end.
Duran cursed. “What you want?”
“To talk.” But Steph was under no illusions. Duran was bad at talking and as Steph closed the distance, he’d already resigned himself to what was coming next.
Duran was emotional and drunk. But he was also well-trained and combat tested. So Steph was not taken off guard.
***
Steph’s father explained everything to him after he’d been suspended from school for an unusually bloody fight when he was ten. In his calm voice, Saul told Steph about the history of violence in his family. It turned out that the men and women in his family had come from a long line of people who liked to fight and were naturally good at it. The story that came down through the generations was that a long time ago, Sundiata Keita, a wealthy king of the Mali empire, had the idea that men, like dogs, could be bred to have special qualities. It was his ambition to have an army of elite and loyal sofa – warriors – that would serve to expand his territory, so he bred men to have the highest levels of strength, speed, agility, affinity for reasoning, tactics, and reflexes.
Generations later, by the time of the reign of Mansa Musa Keita, the Mali Empire was home to a race of genetically superior warriors. But their natural ability and training was not enough to save the empire. Many of them managed to escape capture by enslavers but a few of them found themselves in chains, their robust and hearty nature a curse that made them sought-after merchandise and incapable of dying during the dark horror that was the journey to the Americas.
After generations of escapees, rebels, soldiers, street brawlers, boxers, and imprisoned men, Steph’s father, Saul, had sought to put an end to the violence. A godly man, he did everything that he could to live a life of peace. He even left Steph’s mother – who liked to see Saul fight and would create opportunities to see him break a man with the same soft hands that caressed her skin. It broke Saul’s heart anew every morning that he woke alone.
But Steph felt that times like these needed a man of his skill set. He went to his grandfather, who owned a bar and a two-flat. Tall, lean, and missing teeth, Steph’s grandfather was jovial and a bit mean. But he was eager to teach Stephen what he wanted to know so that the old ways would not be forgotten. So, at 14, Steph learned the secrets of warfare and combat that every sofa had learned since The People Of The Book lived peacefully in Al-Andalus.
***
So, when Duran’s massive fist snaked out in an attempt to remove Steph’s head, Steph had already moved slightly out his reach.
Steph’s counterpunch to Duran’s ribcage was almost enough to break a rib, but certainly enough to make it hard for Duran to lift his right arm. Steph did not know why he knew that Duran would rather charge him than punch with his left hand; he just took it for granted that he would. So when Duran let out an animal grunt and charged Steph’s midsection, Steph was already out of the way. He grabbed Duran’s shirt collar and redirected Duran’s momentum while sticking his leg across Duran’s shins to send him sprawling. Steph caught the muscled arm and locked every joint in Duran’s arm from the wrist to the clavicle.
“Now can we just talk for a minute?” Steph asked, again, holding Duran’s arm perpendicular to his prone body with his foot between Duran’s shoulder blades.
***
First, Duran admitted that he’d stopped going to his support group because of his new job’s hours.
“So how is the new job, man?”
“Lost it. “
“Drunk?”
“All the time,”
And they talked like that for hours. People did stare at the teary-eyed ex-marine sitting on the high curb next to Ninjaman, just talking. Only Steph noticed the other people. Duran spent much of his time back on a rocky mountain, taking cover from Taliban fire, holding a dying twenty-year-old while he bled out from his missing leg. The boy screamed like an animal until he couldn’t. Duran was never rescued from that mountain, but here he was, getting drunk and using the internet and laying next to his wife while the rest of the world burned without him.
The ink of the sky began to dilute. The birds began to awake. The conversation had migrated from the curb to Steph’s bike.
“You know you can’t go back home, right?” Steph said abruptly.
“But I…”
“Don’t go home, Duran,” Steph handed Duran a wad of bills.
“This should give you a few nights at the Holiday Inn on Cicero. The address is in there. There is a meeting tonight at 6:30. Be there.”
Duran looked at the money in his hand. Steph did not bother with threats. This man had seen death and, he was sure there was a part of Duran that would welcome an end to everything.
“Don’t say ‘thank you’ just fight for your family. Don’t fight your family. You know Rhonda is not going to leave you. She can’t stand the thought of raising the baby without you. Just do right by yourself…”
Steph turned on the bike. The roar was loud and abrupt in the morning quiet,
“…and you will do right by her”
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br /> ***
Steph sort of understood why the news never talked about him. The city was full of heroes. Many of them wore costumes. Some of them even seemed “special.” None of them seemed to spend much time in his neighborhood. So Steph understood that someone like him, doing things for people and not asking for anything, did not fit the story that they were used to telling. And the emergency services wouldn’t talk about a black man in black that saved people from burning buildings or stopped drug dealers with conversation and relationships as well as his fists.
So when Steph started seeing stories on the news that Crusader was waging “a one-man war on drugs” on the South Side, he instinctively knew that the Crusader was white and was busting heads.
The point was made more dynamic from the calls he was getting from mothers. He had a number of informants all over the neighborhood. A tweet would tell him where he had to be or when someone needed him.
Sylvia, a security guard who lived in an apartment building on an “active” block had a front row seat to a lot. When she came home late, she would see all kinds of things. She had two boys, 14 and 8, and her husband was stationed overseas. She was invested in a safe place for her family. Tonight’s tweet was as short as it was urgent:
@helpthishome: tariq is hurt. need you now.
Ten minutes later he was in Sylvia’s living room.
Her 14-year-old, Tariq, a boy with close-cut hair, and a chubby body, lay on the couch, curled and holding his arm. Sylvia held a plastic bag full of ice on it. She did not look at Steph when the 8-year-old, Jayvyn, let him in.
“He won’t tell me who did this to him.” Sylvia prided herself on being calm in bad situations but her voice was salted with worry.
As Steph walked toward Tariq, the boy flinched.
Steph stopped moving. His voice was calm. “Tariq, I know you’re scared, but we are here. I can help you. You have to tell me who did this to you and I will make it so they can’t do it again.”
Tariq sobbed. He had always put on a macho front. He thought it his responsibility to be the man of the house when his father was deployed – being a man, to Tariq, meant never smiling and always putting on an air of stone resolution. But something had broken that façade, and that broke Steph’s heart.