by Matt Cowper
“To each their own,” Deathrain said. Such a banality – uttering it almost made her wince. But it didn't seem to bother Vera.
“So, what're you watching?” she said, moving to the TV. “Ah, this movie. It's pretty good – though the plot is predictable.”
Now it was Deathrain's turn to arch an eyebrow. Vera caught her doing it, and smirked.
“What's that for?” she asked.
“Well...I was just sitting here thinking that very thing about this movie,” Deathrain replied. “The plot is indeed predictable.”
“Hah! You see? We're different in some ways, similar in others.”
She plopped down onto the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table with a familiarity that, for a brief moment, unnerved Deathrain. It was like she'd somehow been in here before....
No, there was a simpler explanation: Vera could make herself at home anywhere.
“You want something to drink? Or eat?” Deathrain said. She'd almost forgotten to ask.
“Nah, I'm good.”
“OK.” Deathrain sat down next to her neighbor, who seemed to be happy to just sit there and watch the movie, for a few minutes at least.
But Deathrain's curiosity was now aroused, so she twisted around on the couch until she was facing Vera.
“So.”
“So,” Vera echoed, grinning.
“Why are you here, Vera?” Deathrain asked.
It came out harsher than she'd intended. It was the sort of tone she'd use when interrogating someone. Vera recoiled, and her smile dimmed.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean...sorry if I was curt, but...you seem friendly enough, but I'm just wondering what your...interest in me is.”
Vera nodded, her sunny mood bubbling back to the surface. “Well, I'm just friendly. I know everyone in the building, from the old folks to the youngsters. But I really don't know you. You keep to yourself, I get it – nothing wrong with that. But sometimes when we come across each other in the halls, you look...well, like you'd want to talk to someone. Like you'd want a friend, or just an acquaintance.”
Deathrain suppressed a groan. Just what she needed – some do-gooder wringing their hands over her.
But Emily Bell thought Vera was being sweet, and smiled.
“You're...astute, Vera,” she said. “And forthright. No, don't worry, I'm not offended. Yes, I am a loner, but it is nice to...hang out with someone once in a while.”
“Good,” Vera said. “My door's always open.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “And I can introduce you to plenty of people. Ones in the building, ones living elsewhere around Bootheel. I know some studly guys....”
“Already trying to set me up, huh?” Deathrain waved her arms, like she was trying to ward off an army of suitors. “Sorry, but I'll pass. Got out of a bad relationship recently. Not eager to jump back into another one.”
It was an excuse used by millions, and Vera nodded sympathetically. “I hear ya. I don't like being tied down myself. More fun to have a few guys to play with.”
Deathrain tried to appear mildly shocked, though she of course knew about Vera's multiple sexual partners. Vera laughed at her companion's response. “I don't play with them at the same time! That would be too...convoluted, I guess is the right word. But being free is what I'm about. Go where I want to, when I want to, no boyfriend texting me five hundred times wondering when I'll be home.”
“I thought it was usually the female who texted their man hundreds of times.”
“Usually it is! Not me, though. I barely use my smartphone! Hard to believe, huh?”
“No, it's not,” Deathrain said – though not in the way Vera suspected.
Emily Bell had a smartphone, and was sometimes seen poking at it as she headed to work, but Deathrain kept her cell phone use to a minimum, and always used burner phones. As sophisticated as the NSA and the Department of Superhuman Affairs were getting at tracking cell signals, she'd been contemplating stopping cell phone use entirely, and only communicating with her contacts via encrypted email.
“So, where are you from?” Vera asked. “Not from around here, I don't think. You have a...I don't know, a well-traveled vibe about you. Like you were raised in a military family.”
Deathrain looked at the TV for a few moments to hide her frown. This woman was really perceptive – she'd have to tread carefully. Still, Vera's observation dovetailed with the fiction Deathrain had concocted for Emily Bell. She turned back to Vera and nodded.
“No, I'm not from Bootheel, or even Z City,” she said. “My family did move around, but that was because my parents were restless. Ex-hippies, always searching for nirvana.”
“I think I'd like them,” Vera said.
“You would have. They're dead now, though. Car crash.”
“Oh.” Vera's face fell, and her compassion seemed so authentic Deathrain herself felt a tear come to her eye. “I'm sorry.”
“Thanks,” Deathrain said, trying to convey a mixture of gratitude, sorrow, and perseverance. “Luckily, I was grown by the time they passed. I...well, we had our battles, for sure, but I do miss them.”
“Yeah, those fights seem to fade away over time, don't they? The good stuff stays.”
“I don't know about all that, but...anyway, what about you? If I had to guess, I'd say you're Bootheel born and raised.”
“You got it!” Vera said. “Mom's a schoolteacher, dad's a mechanic. I'm an only child – they said as soon as I popped outta the womb they knew I'd be enough for any two people to handle.”
Deathrain chuckled. “I'd say they're right.”
“Oh, you talk about your fights with your folks, but you shoulda seen ours...it was like World War Three, fought five times a week. They're solid, ya know? Work hard, keep your head down, all that stuff. I'm me. I don't take kindly to people trying to clip my wings. I know they grew up with a lot of racism, and that makes them cautious, but....”
She paused and studied Deathrain for a few moments. Deathrain didn't know how she was expected to respond, so she kept her face neutral.
“Well, at least you didn't start lecturing me,” Vera said, shifting in her seat. “As soon as I mention racism, some people tense up, and either run from me as fast as they can, or start telling me how things really are, like they live in the real world and I don't.”
“Yeah, it's a controversial topic,” Deathrain said, as blandly as possible. “Don't worry, I'm not offended, and I'm not going to lecture you. In fact, I've seen the effects of racism, what it does to people. It can be...brutal.”
Emily Bell had normal American anecdotes about racism. Deathrain had shocking, gore-filled stories about man's inhumanity to man. Everywhere on the planet you could find people who split themselves up into groups based on race, religion, political beliefs, or some other criteria, and then proceeded to slaughter each other.
Deathrain had been on the wrong side of some of those conflicts. It hadn't bothered her until recently; the money was good, it wasn't her fault people couldn't get along. But lately...and after what happened to Metalhead...and now talking to Vera....
“Brutal is a fitting word for it,” Vera said. “But anyway, let's not darken a good conversation too much. This is our first hang out session; I want it to be a good memory.”
“It already is,” Deathrain replied, “but sorry, I'd like to...to talk about something that's not exactly sunshine and puppy dogs. Get your opinion on a topic that I've...been thinking about a lot.”
“Sure thing,” Vera said. “Hit me.”
“Suppose a supervillain...no, more like an anti-hero...was fighting an actual superhero. This anti-hero accidentally kills the superhero, then escapes. But this anti-hero feels remorse for what he's done – according to him, that is. What do you think should happen?”
Vera scrunched up her nose. “That's really vague. Why were these two fighting? How exactly did the superhero die? And what do you mean, what do I think should happen? Are you asking if the a
nti-hero should be tracked down, or....?”
“Well...the superhero was trying to bring in the anti-hero, of course. As for the specifics of his death, I...can't remember. I saw this on the news a few weeks ago. I caught the tail end of the story, anyway, didn't get all the details. But still, it's stuck with me.”
“Then how do you know it was accidental?” Vera said. “I'm sorry, I can't really answer this question properly. Superhuman ethics are complicated enough as it is.”
“I...understand. Sorry for bringing it up. I should've realized how...ludicrous my concern over this is.”
“It's not ludicrous at all! At least you stopped to think about it. Most people don't. But, I will say this: most everyone has a family. If this anti-hero really does feel remorse, he should've helped ease the family's pain.”
“How?”
“By turning himself in. Letting the courts give the victim's family some closure. He can try to get a manslaughter conviction, right?”
“Uh...this anti-hero isn't a fan of the justice system. He is, after all, an anti-hero.” She hastily added: “At least, that's how I remember it.”
“Hm. I see. Well, then he can do something to help the family. Give them money, or send a note apologizing. Something. They probably won't take kindly to it at first, but gestures like that have a way of sinking in over time.”
“I suppose they do,” Deathrain muttered.
“Wow, you're really a Gloomy Gus about this,” Vera said. “Is this something that's actually connected to you?”
“No, it's not.” Fuck. This woman was like a damned detective. Had Deathrain missed something? Was she really a superhero, or some government spook after her?
Or was Deathrain just being really fucking transparent?
“Anyway, you're right,” Deathrain said quickly. “Enough doom and gloom for now. Tell me about this lame club you went to.”
Rolling her eyes, Vera launched into a detailed description of the terrible Midtown club, throwing in verbal imitations of the pretentious or just plain uncool people she'd encountered, along with plenty of excited hand gestures. Deathrain smiled – a real smile – as her newfound acquaintance told the story.
But she was also thinking about what Vera had said regarding the anti-hero and superhero.
Ease the family's grief? Yeah, she could do that.
She hoped....
Chapter Three
The Bootheel apartment building was much like her own: old and worn, but not yet in a state of irredeemable decay. The elevator, of course, didn't work, so Deathrain trudged up the well-tread stairs slowly.
She moved slowly because she dreaded knocking on the door to apartment 405, the home of Bob and Jean Rosello, the parents of Frankie Rosello, the kid the world now knew as the slain superhero Metalhead.
Deathrain had watched the news footage of Metalhead's demise dozens of times in the days since his death. The news anchors were appropriately sorrowful, their words almost poetic: here was a mere child, cut down in the bud of youth by a cold-hearted international assassin, and so on.
Their words were delivered sincerely, but to Deathrain they rang hollow. She'd been there. She knew what it was like. She knew what Frankie had said, what he'd done, how he'd looked, as blood gushed from his neck.
Words seemed powerless to describe that scene and her maelstrom of emotions.
Deathrain knew she should've been concerned about the cell phone footage that several of the bystanders had taken as Metalhead died. Video of her crouching over Metalhead, and then threatening the crowd with a loaded gun, was splashed all over the Net. Everyone in the country knew that Deathrain was in Z City and had killed a kid who hadn't even reached his eighteenth birthday.
The hunt had begun. Damien Woodruff, the preening chief prosecutor – more like supreme overlord – of the city's Division of Superhuman Crime, unleashed a torrent of florid words as he denounced Deathrain and swore to bring her to justice.
Other law enforcement officials, less florid but no less earnest, gave similar vows. Several superheroes stated that finding the “villainess” known as Deathrain was their top priority.
It was time to get out of town. Fly to Rome, Dublin, Moscow – anywhere but Z City. Things would blow over eventually; memories faded, and even a kid's death got shuffled aside if his killer's trail was cold and there were more pressing matters to attend to.
But she hadn't left town. Instead, she was visiting the parents of the boy she'd killed, for reasons that felt more and more ridiculous.
She glanced down at her outfit one last time. This wasn't Emily Bell's indifferent attire, nor was it Deathrain's intimidating mercenary outfit: it was the professional outfit of Valerie Webb. Valerie was wearing a black skirt that ended just above the knee, fashionable leather boots, and a wrinkle-free white blouse.
She'd smoothed back her unruly hair until it was glossy and neat, and applied enough makeup so that her naturally sharp features appeared smoother. Under her arm swung a designer handbag, its brown leather shining smartly.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door to apartment 405. A large part of her hoped that no one was home. But she heard shuffling on the other side, and a middle-aged woman with puffy eyes opened the door a crack.
“Yes?” she said suspiciously.
“Hello,” Deathrain said, in a perky-yet-professional voice. “Are you Mrs. Rosello?”
“I am. And you are?”
“My name's Valerie Webb.” She held out a hand she'd carefully manicured for the occasion. “I'm with the Fallen Superheroes Foundation.”
“The...what?” Though Mrs. Rosello shook the proffered hand, she still eyed her visitor skeptically.
“The Fallen Superheroes Foundation,” Deathrain repeated. “We provide assistance and support to the families of those brave men and women – or artificial intelligences, or non-gendered beings – who fall in the line of duty.”
Mrs. Rosello considered this for a long moment. “I've never heard of this...foundation.”
“We operate out of the limelight. Our existence is...shall we say, disliked by a large number of supervillains. When they crush their enemies, they don't want someone coming in trying to alleviate grief or trying to help people get back on their feet.”
Mrs. Rosello nodded. “Yes, those vile people, they'll stop at nothing to ruin other's lives. My Frankie....”
“Who's at the door, Jean?” a voice said from inside.
Jean Rosello opened the door wider, and Deathrain saw a balding, paunchy man walking down the hall. He brought to mind the earnest gym teacher: someone no longer thin and bursting with energy, but still up for a few games of basketball or ping-pong.
“It's someone from the Fallen Superheroes Foundation,” Jean said. “A missus...what was your name again?”
“Valerie Webb.” She held out her hand to Bob Rosello, who shook it, though he was as confused as his wife had been a few moments prior. “And you must be Mr. Rosello. As I was telling your wife, the Fallen Superheroes Foundation – just call it the FSF, it'll be easier – aids the families of superheroes who were killed while performing their heroic deeds.”
“Aids families, huh?” Bob said. “That's a good cause, damn good cause...though I've never heard of your outfit, and we've done a lot of research into superheroing and...all that stuff after Frankie passed.”
“She said they operate sort of secretively, because supervillains don't like what they do,” his wife said. “Those bastards want people to suffer, they don't want them to...to....”
Jean pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, and Bob wrapped an arm around his wife, kissing her tenderly on the forehead.
“Look, I'm sorry if I've come at a bad time,” Deathrain said. “I know you're still grieving. But we at the FSF do have resources that can help you. Again, I don't mean to be pushy, but if I could come in and chat about what we do, exactly?”
The couple glanced at each other, and Deathrain thought she'd be denied entry, but then
Bob nodded and motioned inside. “Come on in.”
As they walked down the narrow hallway, Jean looked back at her. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thank you,” Deathrain said, smiling at the hospitality.
She followed the couple into a dim, slightly musty living room. Though it would never grace the pages of one of those swank home-and-garden style magazines, Deathrain immediately liked it. It was far different from the hovels, caves, and bombed-out buildings she'd camped in over the years.
This room had been lived in, not kept perfect to please visitors; its flaws were more gratifying than its virtues. From the yellowed, dog-eared books on the custom-made bookcase, to the frayed rug, to the coffee table that was obviously a family heirloom, everything seemed to fit.
Deathrain felt her apprehension lessen as she sat on the lumpy couch and smiled at her hosts, who sat across from her on another small couch that was likely just as lumpy. Perhaps she could get through this without blundering after all.
“First off, I'd like to offer my condolences for the death of your son,” she said. “Superheroing is a dangerous business, but to see someone attacked like that, to see them die so young....”
“Thank you,” Jean said, again dabbing her eyes. “It's been...been a lot to take in. We didn't even realize Frankie was this Metalhead person until....”
The news reports had mentioned something about that, but didn't go into much detail, as the Rosellos weren't giving many interviews. Deathrain decided to gently probe this point: “You didn't know? He hid his armor? His other life?”
“Yeah, he did,” Bob said. “Turns out he rented a storage shed down by the abandoned hot dog factory. Stashed all his stuff there. Got the money for the storage and for the components of his suit by selling some program or what have you to one of the tech startups. I knew my kid was smart – if a bit silly – but to build all those gizmos of his...that was something else.”
Deathrain saw Frankie's father swell with pride. She found herself beaming as well.
