by Matt Cowper
“Yes, he was very intelligent,” she said. “From what I've heard, anyway.”
“I just wish he woulda told us about this Metalhead thing,” Bob went on. “I guess he thought we'd try to stop him from doin' his superheroing. I suppose we would have, at first. It's a parent's natural instinct to want to keep their kids safe. But if he showed us what that suit of armor could do...I know for my part it would be difficult to tell him to stop, not after all he'd accomplished.”
“I don't know what I think,” Jean said. “I'm proud of him, like my husband, but...then I think about that damned video, of him bleeding to death! And that evil woman with the mask! From what I've heard, she's killed dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands! And she's still out there!”
“Now, Jean,” Bob said. “I agree that woman's a villain. But it did look like she was trying to help Frankie there at the end.”
“If she wanted to help him, she shouldn't have stabbed him in the neck in the first place!” Her voice had risen nearly to a scream, and she'd balled up her fists like she was about to slug someone.
But then she sighed deeply and settled back in her seat.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Everything's just so raw now. I know my husband's right: that woman did show my son a small kindness while he was dying. I don't forgive her, though. I can't.”
Valerie nodded, her face the picture of sympathy – but inside Deathrain was reeling.
“Again, I'm very sorry this happened,” she said. “But if it's some small comfort, the Fallen Superheroes Foundation is here to help.”
“Well, that's nice of ya,” Bob said. “If you're really sincere, that is. A lot of these politicians and superheroes, they want to turn Frankie's death into some self-righteous crusade or publicity stunt. We don't want to be dragged into a bunch of speeches and parades and interviews. We just want to heal from our loss, and for this Deathrain to be brought to justice.”
“I understand completely,” Deathrain said. “We're not that kind of organization. We don't intrude or try to use your son's death for our own purposes. We do offer counseling, and other, more...direct services.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. After looking inside to make sure the correct contents were still there, she handed it to Jean, who took it hesitantly.
“What's this?” she asked, looking at the envelope closely.
“Open it,” Deathrain said.
Slowly, Jean opened the envelope and pulled out a rectangular piece of paper – a check. She flipped it over a few times, as if unfamiliar with this strange object, then read what was written on its front. After she'd processed the information, her eyes grew wide.
“This is...this is...we can't accept this!” she said.
“Lemme see, hon,” Bob said. Once he'd read over the check, his eyes got a large as his wife's. “Damn. This is generous – very generous. But like my wife said, maybe too generous.”
“I understand your attitude,” Deathrain said, “but you have funeral expenses to cover, don't you? And while we at the FSF know that no amount of money can heal your heartache, knowing that you have a little extra on hand will make your life much less stressful during this trying time. If it helps you accept our contribution, think of it not as charity, but as an award for Frankie's exemplary service.”
Bob chuckled. “She sure does know how to push the right buttons, doesn't she, hon?”
“She is good at her job,” Jean said, smiling. “You're right, Valerie. The funeral was expensive. But still, a lot of people are keen on buying Frankie's inventions. The Metalhead armor alone even has the Elites interested! And that AI he developed named Ava – amazing! Still, we don't know if we want to sell his stuff or have it destroyed – we don't want it to fall into the wrong hands – but nonetheless, we should be all right financially.”
Valerie nodded, but Deathrain silently cursed. Why couldn't they just take the check and be done with it? Why'd they have to be so fucking decent? She'd gone to the trouble to set up a checking account for the Fallen Superheroes Foundation, spent dozens of hours making sure no one would trace it back to one of her other identities, and these people were refusing her money!
“Mrs. Rosello, I wish you would accept our contribution,” she said, trying to sound cordial. “We give it in good faith. We don't care what you use it for. In fact, if you never use it at all, that's just fine. But if you don't at least accept the check, my colleagues and I will feel like we've shirked our duty.”
Jean laughed. “Now she's really turning the screw, ain't she? Well, you're earnest, and your heart appears to be in the right place. I accept this gift. I actually just thought of a good use for it. We can set up a scholarship in Frankie's honor.”
“That's a great idea,” Bob said. “The Metalhead Memorial STEM Scholarship. What do you think?”
“I think he'd be very pleased with that,” Deathrain said.
“Oh, you're too nice,” Jean said. “Thank you, Valerie. It's nice to know someone cares. Really cares.”
“You're welcome,” Deathrain said, rising. The living room, previously so comfortable, was now stifling. She should've realized she couldn't perpetuate this fraud for more than a few minutes. “Well, I hate to run, but I've got a lot to do today. Thank you both for meeting with me, and for agreeing to let the Fallen Superheroes Foundation aid you.”
She pulled out a card she'd had made for the occasion. It read: Valerie Webb, Outreach Coordinator, and below that, Fallen Superheroes Foundation. It listed a phone number and an email address, both which she'd set up so that if the Rosellos tried to reach her, they'd get a response.
But what sort of response? If they called her and requested counseling, or some other service, what could she do? Hire some psychiatrist to come over here and let them unburden themselves? And then what? Suppose the calls and emails kept coming?
And suppose they pondered this meeting later, and their suspicions were raised? Anyone with half a brain who did any digging would soon realize the Fallen Superheroes Foundation was a myth.
It had been a mistake to come here. She was trying to alleviate her guilt by giving a paper check to two good, trusting people. Not to mention the money was dirty. She was paying for Frankie's death with the money earned from killing other people's sons.
Deathrain considered coming up with some excuse and taking the check back. But they were all moving towards the door, chatting like old friends, and then she was standing outside their apartment.
“Thank you again, Valerie,” Jean said.
“Yeah, we really do appreciate you stopping by, and for caring so much,” Bob said.
“No, thank you,” Deathrain said. “It was a pleasure.” She gave a small wave. “Goodbye. Take care.”
“We will. You do the same,” Jean said.
Then the door was shut, and it was like a lid had slid over Deathrain's coffin. She stared at the dented wood, at the dull doorknob. Finally she turned and walked back down the steps, out into the bustling streets of Bootheel.
She'd felt better for a second while talking to Frankie's parents, but that feeling had burnt away like fog before a fierce sun.
Maybe she should go to the bank, put a hold on the check, prevent them from getting the money....
No. That would only lead to more complications, and disappoint and confuse the Rosellos.
It was done. She'd just have to live with the consequences.
And she had another problem: transferring that money to the fictional bank account for the Fallen Superheroes Foundation had used up most of her funds. She'd have to take on another contract soon, or find a real job as Emily Bell – though she had no work history she was willing to share, no formal education, and no “proper” references.
“Dammit, Deathrain,” she muttered. “What the hell's wrong with you? You've screwed up everything there is to screw up....”
Chapter Four
The audience chuckled and sighed at the film playing on the big screen. A hand
some-yet-incurably-goofy man was skiing beside an attractive-yet-incurably-goofy woman. Of course, this being a rom-com, they couldn't just ski down the slope uneventfully. They had to crash into snowbanks adorably, dodge their well-meaning but still hopelessly dense friends, and be stalked by the nefarious investment banker who wanted the woman for his own. The banker crouched in the forest surrounding the slope, watching through binoculars, verbally outlining his grievances and his plans to rectify said grievances in minute detail.
It was, Deathrain knew, an objectively terrible movie, something Hollywood churned out to lure couples into the theaters.
Nonetheless, Deathrain watched it with a sort of reverence. It was the movie that had been playing when Metalhead perished.
She hadn't tempted fate by returning to the very theater where they'd fought, instead opting for the theater closest to her – Emily Bell's – apartment.
But what was her ultimate goal? Did she expect viewing the film to jar some important memory loose? To make her guilt and confusion go away? For a portal to appear so she could travel back in time and undo her misdeed?
Sighing, she shoved another handful of popcorn in her mouth. Emily Bell liked the buttery tastiness of popcorn. She'd purchased a giant tub of the stuff, as well as a pack of peanut butter bars and a soda as large as a water tower, and planned to eat and drink all of it.
Some nag might lecture her about proper dieting and the risk factors associated with eating sugary foods, but Deathrain's healing factor took care of any damage her diet did to her body.
On the big screen, the nefarious banker fell off a ski lift after seeing the horrible sight of the two protagonists kissing. He crashed down into a pine tree, hitting five large branches on the way down, before landing on a pile of snow. This being a rom-com, he not only survived, but only suffered a few bruises and scratches – and the ignominy of being peed on by a passing deer, which caused the audience to laugh uproariously.
Deathrain laughed along with them, and ate more butter-drenched popcorn.
What was happening to her?
This had all started before Metalhead, long before. Metalhead was just the last straw, the event that crashed into her weakened psyche like an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler.
If she had to trace her odd behavior back to something specific, then the incident with Captain Neptune and Waverush was really where it all began. And then there was Johnny Wagner, and his God Arm, an entity known as Dakroth'gannith'formaz....
Her phone buzzed. At first, she thought it was Emily Bell's phone, but that was in her left pocket. The buzzing was coming from her right: Deathrain's phone. She quickly wiped her greasy hands with a napkin and answered.
“Yeah?” she said, in what she thought an impatient assassin should sound like.
“Hello, Deathrain.” The male voice was suave – too suave. Deathrain had heard many men who sounded similar to this mystery caller. They were invariably psychopaths. “Have you killed any more teenage superheroes lately?”
“Fuck off,” she hissed. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“I became aware of this number through various contacts. I am a very well-connected individual.”
“Who is this?” she repeated.
“Someone who wants to hire you for a job.”
“No thanks. Busy. Oh, and in case you didn't get it the first time: fuck off.”
“Busy, are we? Busy perhaps lacerating yourself because you killed a seventeen year old boy?”
“Listen, jackass, I don't have time for––”
“Everyone's seen the footage of Metalhead's death, you know. You were so tender with him at the end. There is much speculation that you've lost your legendary edge. Others are more kind to you, and say you were simply surprised that your knife-strike killed the boy, and thus acted oddly.”
“I don't give a shit what anyone thinks.”
“Ah, while that might be true, your answer avoids the question implicit in my comments.”
“I repeat: I'm not gonna listen to your mind games. What do you want?”
“I will myself repeat what I said: I want to hire you.”
“And I said no.”
“Ten times your normal fee.”
Deathrain gripped the phone tighter. Ten times? The way she was living now as Emily Bell, that would cover her expenses for years.
“You know what they say: if it's too good to be true, it probably is,” she finally replied.
“I assure you, I'm dead serious,” the man said. “Emphasis on dead. The person I want killed is a nuisance to my associates and I, and is becoming more so every day. We've tried other assassins. None have succeeded. I expect you to succeed where they have failed, and the price I'm offering should ensure that this matter has your undivided attention.”
“You just mocked my actions during the fight with Metalhead, and now you want to shower me with cash?”
“You have me, my dear.” He chuckled, though there was no mirth in it – only barbed wire and bleak torture rooms. “I will be honest: I'm one of the ones who suspect you're about to hang up your sniper rifle. I don't want that. You're far too lethal – and intriguing – to disappear into retirement. Besides the issue of the hero I want killed, this exorbitant fee I'm offering is meant to drag you out of whatever malaise you're sunk in. So – there it is. My motivations unveiled.”
Deathrain ground her teeth. He was playing her – and even worse, he'd admitted he was playing her.
She should hang up now....
“Ten times, huh?” she said. “You must be a man with deep pockets.”
“I am.”
“Well, then you won't mind paying a...call it a consulting fee. Some money up front, so I know you have as many resources as you claim. Note that this doesn't guarantee I'll take the job, only consider it.”
“Fine. How much?”
“Twenty percent. That is, twenty percent of this generous fee you're offering, not twenty percent of my normal fee.”
“Done. Give me your account details, and I'll send the money immediately.”
She'd expected him to haggle, but he'd agreed without hesitation. Who the hell was this guy? She'd never dealt with someone so profligate, so...manipulative. “Good. I'll send you the account number, you send the money, then send the details about the guy you want taken out. I'll contact you if I decide to––”
“Ah, not so fast. I want to meet with you personally to discuss this.”
“Not happening. I don't meet with anyone – period.”
“I'm offering you quite a bit of money,” the man said. “I hope it will induce you to break your rule, just this once.”
“And if I refuse to meet?” Dammit, she'd just said she wouldn't meet!
“Then the deal is off. I will meet with you if you want the contract – period.”
Deathrain glanced around the theater, half-expecting one of the man's flunkies to be watching her. She knew she was being paranoid, that there was little chance anyone had connected Deathrain to Emily Bell – but shit, this mystery man was damned good. Confident, intelligent, apparently wealthy – and, Deathrain knew, utterly without compunction.
He was someone she'd like to meet, if for no other reason than to put a bullet in his skull.
“Fine. I'll meet with you,” Deathrain said. “Two AM tonight. The docks by the fish-processing plant. You know the place?”
“I do, but that's a very general location.”
“Doesn't matter. You show up, I'll find you. Oh, and come alone. If we're being frank, I'm not going to walk into a trap. You better be by yourself, or have an entire army waiting to take me down.”
“I agree to your conditions. Anything else?”
Again, she'd expected the guy to haggle. His agreement caused her to grope for words for a few seconds. “No. That's it.”
“Good. See you later tonight, Deathrain.”
He hung up – but the way he'd said Deathrain, like he was savoring it....
Y
up, probably a trap.
Well, she needed to kill some truly bad guys after what had happened with Metalhead. She imagined driving a knife into this mystery man's skull, and immediately perked up.
She rose, tossed her snacks and drinks into the waste bin, and left the theater. Time to get geared up.
Chapter Five
She'd been watching the man in the black suit for half an hour, expecting him to mutter into a hidden microphone or glance around carefully to make sure his backup was in place. Anything that would reveal he hadn't come alone, that he'd broken their agreement.
But the man stood there calmly, hands clasped in front of him, sometimes slowly rocking on his heels. He didn't appear concerned that he was alone in a sordid part of Z City, nor did be appear bored because there was no one to interact with. Occasionally, he'd look out across the calm, black waters of Jameson Bay, but mostly he just stared straight ahead, a slight smile on his face.
This composure worried Deathrain more than if the man had been sweating and nervous. Either he had people watching over him that she hadn't detected (unlikely), he was a well-trained and dangerous fighter, or he was a superhuman – or all of the above.
The superhuman possibility was the most troubling: without knowing what powers he possessed, Deathrain had no idea what she was getting into.
Using her binoculars, she zoomed in again on the man's face. It was somehow both rugged and effete, like he'd once been a soldier but had switched to a life of corporate boardrooms and pampering from masseuses and hair stylists. His black suit and tie attested to his elite status: Deathrain had killed many barons of industry, and knew which suits were truly high-class and which were cheaper imitations. This man had on one of the best, tailored to the millimeter.
And that smile...like he'd solved all the world's puzzles, but wasn't going to tell anyone the answers....
Deathrain put down the binoculars and again scanned the area with her bare eyes. She'd already stalked through the docks, peering down every dark alleyway. She'd seen nothing besides a few stray cats picking at fish carcasses. The empty boats rocked gently in their moorings, and the old fish processing plant was silent.
