Mark snagged the circular rubber studs on the bottom of his special red sneakers — one under each heel, one under each ball — and peeled them off.
“See? So I just shoot my shockwaves through those holes — which took a little practice, sure — and I get to fly around without goin’ all barefoot! I still get a little wobbly at times, but I been workin’ on stablizin’ that with shockwaves from my hands.”
Park offered a slow nod. “Yes. I see. That’s, um ... that’s very interesting.”
Mark spread his arms wide in appreciation, as though Park had given him literal applause. “Yeah, we try to live-and-learn at the PCA.” He then began the process of tucking the rubber studs back into the bottoms of his shoes. “Anyway, sorry I got off-topic on you there. My point is, ‘til now, I’ve been thinkin’ of this here scar as a kind of memento, you know? A little trophy that says, ‘I lived through this, and I kicked some ass doin’ it.’ As for Mike here ...”
Michael sat up a little straighter, moving his tongue around his dry mouth as he prepared to speak.
“... I think Mike’s had the same kind of attitude about the burns on his hands. A memento, isn’t that right, Mike?”
Michael managed a vague nod.
Mark clapped his hands together and stood up from the edge of Park’s desk. “So, yeah. Maybe we’ll think over your kind offer and get back to you about it. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Michael took that cue to stand as well, leaving Park to follow suit.
“Well, then,” Park said with a forced smile, “I suppose I’ll wait for your answer. In the meantime, I’ll get you our office footage pronto, and anything building security has to offer.”
“We appreciate that, Doc,” Mark said as he gently nudged Michael toward the door. “No need to see us out — we know you got people waitin’ for you. We’ll just tell your secretary that we’re all done here. For the time bein’, at least.”
Park, a perplexed smile having replaced the forced one, lowered himself back into his desk chair and offered a halfhearted wave as they exited his office.
“Thanks,” Michael whispered under his breath.
“Sure,” Mark assured him, speaking just as low, before belting off one last, “See you, Doc!” over his shoulder as the office door closed.
PCA
Once the PCA field agents were gone, Park’s face dropped all emotion save exhaustion and dilapidating fear. He barely noticed when his office grew darker.
He flinched when the hand touched his thigh, but nothing more — norm or paranormal, a human being can only maintain a state of heightened terror for so long before adrenal fatigue takes over.
As his chair was pushed back, he asked, “I did well, didn’t I?”
“Adequate,” the creature said as it uncoiled from the kneehole of his desk. “The yellow-skinned one suspects something, but he knows not what. They never do.”
The office grew darker still, so that he could not quite see the thing that had been terrorizing him for the past few weeks. It never let him get a good look at it, and he was fine with that.
“Why did you offer your services to them?”
The question surprised Park. Most of the time, the creature seemed to know what he was thinking before he did.
“You ... I ... I thought, I thought maybe it would give him something else to consider while—”
A claw lashed out in so casual a motion that Park barely noticed the slice that drew blood from his nose. Why always the nose? It didn’t matter; he could use his gifts to fix it, again, which the creature never seemed to mind.
“Remember that,” it said, pointing at his bleeding face. Then its focus shifted elsewhere, and Park could just make out the smile on its misshapen face. “If they manage to come back here — if — things might get more interesting.”
A chime sounded as Carolyn rang him, and he knew his “normal” life was about to resume. But first, against his better judgment, Park asked, “Why wait for them to come back? They had no idea you were in here. You could have killed them both before they knew what was happening.”
The creature regarded him as though he were a dullard. “Where’s the fun in that?”
POWERHOUSE, SHOCKWAVE, AND TAKAYASU
Lincoln could swear that he still tasted that God-awful acid in his mouth. He knew, intellectually, that this wasn’t the case; between his thankfully-invulnerable mouth and the gallon or more of water that he had swished since yesterday, all of the acid must have been long since washed out. But still, the next time such a melodramatic move popped into his head, he needed to remember to keep it a little less disgusting.
He had to admit, though ... it had been pretty gratifying to spit and throw acid onto those sick bastards.
Today was supposed to have been his day off, but Lieutenant Gant had called this morning and — apologizing, as always, profusely and with much vigor — asked for help filling out their report on the raid. That was one area where Gant’s constant kowtowing didn’t bother him all that much: Like poor Pendler before him, Gant made up for his less-than-dazzling performance in the field by shouldering most of the paperwork. But this time, the very maneuver Lincoln had just been contemplating made this particular report require a little more finesse, and direct feedback from Powerhouse himself. Lincoln didn’t anticipate much trouble over it, since the current anti-rogue laws, and his own position as a top asset of the PCA, gave them a lot of leeway in the field (though, nasty taste aside, the acid-spit really wasn’t something that he should make a habit of, if he wanted to avoid burning through his brownie points with the upper brass).
Fortunately, Lincoln had no plans for the day, and both Tommy and Sarah were gone for the morning with their private tutors. Since he had nothing better to do ...
That, or you just don’t want to hang around alone for too long? Is that it?
Drop it.
Don’t want too much time to think about how you haven’t changed in two years? No haircuts, no fingernails clipped, barely need to eat unless it strikes your fancy, hardly need to sleep anymore ...
Okay, drop it.
Not a new wrinkle, not a scar, not even where that walrus-alien spat acid on you? Hell, you’re taking showers in acid these days, gargling it even! I’ll bet you were hoping that acid shower would at least burn your hair off, something to prove you’re still—
Drop it! I’m done with this. I’m done with you.
Heh. You do realize that you’re talking to yourself, right?
So, with nothing better to do — and for no other reason — he came in to PCA headquarters without complaint, typed up the required report (or rather, dictated it to Gant, who fell over himself to perform this function for him), then headed upstairs to give a verbal disposition to Lieutenant Hart, Captain Brunn’s personal assistant.
With all that out of the way, he headed down to the bullpen, where all the ensigns and newer assets worked who weren’t lucky enough to score their own private offices. He had another couple of hours before his siblings would be dropped off at their apartment, so he figured he would see who was around and say hello.
Most heads were down and working when he walked in; all the shady stuff that had been going on lately meant that much more, grittier work for the PCA — in some ways, it was a nice change of pace, as Lincoln was never comfortable with the fawning he got from the newer ensigns when “Powerhouse entered the building.” But the atypical lack of reaction made him wonder if maybe he should clear out before he disturbed the collective workflow.
“Powerhouse!” sounded a male voice from his left, with its familiar fading-but-evident British accent. “How the hell are you?”
So much for clearing out.
Lincoln turned to greet fellow paranormal asset Joseph York — codename Crafter — as the short, middle-aged, always-smiling, English-expatriate hustled over to shake his hand. “Hi, Joey,” he said. “I’m good. How’ve you been? It’s been a while.”
Crafter nodded. “Captain Brun
n’s keeping me in the woodshop as much as the field. We had a mission go balls-up early last week — nasty business involving an S-and-M dungeon taking things way too far — and I lost a lot of my little minions to a fungi rogue. The captain wants me to start stockpiling whenever possible. I’m only here to finish a report.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what brought me in, too.”
“I hear you, mate. Say, Lincoln, when you have some free time, you should swing by the shop and check out some of my latest work.” He chuckled. “You know, before they get splintered in the field ...”
Crafter had the ability to bring his wood-carved figures to semi-sentient life, so long as they did not deviate too far from basic humanoid form (he could not carve, say, a dragon or a giant spider and animate it). When he first joined the PCA after going paranormal several months ago, the higher-ups had hoped that he might replace — and prove more cooperative than — the elusive former-PCA paranormal asset, Asimov, and his robots; wood figures might not stand up in a fight as well as ones made of steel, but if they were equally functional yet easier to make, that seemed an equitable trade. In fact, for a very short window, it looked like Crafter might have supplanted Powerhouse as “the PCA’s Golden Boy,” as Shockwave loved to put it, and Lincoln would have been okay with that.
Unfortunately, as Crafter explored his ability further, they discovered that the larger the wooden figures, the less independence they possessed — if he carved them the size of an average adult, they could barely function at all, even with his direct supervision. So the best Crafter could offer were three-feet-tall, wooden humanoids with passable autonomy (if he went below three feet, the same effect began to occur, and they again became too simple-minded to provide any useful aid in the field). Plus, Joey could only animate about fifteen, maybe twenty at a time.
After all that, some of the more cynical agents grumbled that Crafter should have been reclassified down to Class Two, and maybe even given a Thanks-but-no-thanks from the PCA. But Crafter’s little wooden fellows had proven useful more than once, and in the end, the PCA was always reluctant to turn away any paranormal enlistees.
“I’m really chuffed over how this one is turning out,” Crafter was saying with obvious enthusiasm. “You know those garden gnomes that used to be so popular, at least back home?”
“Yeah, we had those here, too.”
“Brilliant! Now, see, I got to thinking about some of the aesthetics of the gnomes ...”
As Crafter described some of his latest creations, Lincoln recalled how the addition of Crafter had resparked some interesting questions posed within his friendly circle of cohorts:
Ever since Shining Star had commented on how Earth labeled those changed by the Paranormal Effect — and that the term “paranormal” almost implied supernatural rather than superhuman — their little team had debated, from time to time, the inherent nature of the paranormals. Vortex had shared how his late brother John used to argue that the paranormals were magical in nature. Lincoln had not been prepared to accept that, and had been surprised when Lieutenant Takayasu — who was usually so grounded — had allowed for the possibility, using Shockwave as an example: Where did his kinetic shockwaves come from? When Mark had tried to argue that they came from his own body, Michael further pointed out that this didn’t track. Did Mark eat more food than normal? Did he lose weight when he created the shockwaves? What, exactly, from within “his own body” was being used to generate the energy necessary for such feats?
Before these philosophical discussions started, Lincoln hadn’t really thought about stuff like that. For him, his invulnerability was ... well, it just was. But his paranormal strength had always felt as though he were delving into some hidden reservoir, hitting his normal limits and being able to push past them. So where did that reservoir come from? And, ninety-nine percent of the time, it only came out when he reached for it. Back when he first went paranormal, he had been afraid to hug his sister or pat his brother on the back, because he thought he might hurt them with his new, ever-growing strength. But with very rare exceptions — such as crushing a cooking pot when he was upset, or crunching a doorknob when he was angry — he only tapped that superhuman (supernatural?) might when he wanted to bend or break or punch a rogue through the wall. Did that make it “magic”? He didn’t know.
Their last huddle on the subject came at the synod where Crafter had shared some of what he could do. As his wooden minions came to life and performed some simple tasks, Shockwave had leaned over to him and whispered, “Okay, I think Vortex’s brother might’ve been onto something, you know what I’m sayin’?” He had pointed at the nearest wooden fellow, one shaped much like a traditional nutcracker without the chomping mouth, and said, “Seriously, tell me that ain’t magic.”
“Hoy!” Crafter suddenly blurted, interrupting his own flow (which Lincoln hadn’t really been following, anyway). He grinned ear to ear as he pointed past Lincoln. “All the heavy hitters are stopping in for a chat.”
Lincoln turned. Speak of the devil ...
Shockwave and Lieutenant Takayasu had entered the bullpen and were coming this way. Lincoln wondered why they were down here, since they shared an office upstairs, just down the hall from his own office with Lieutenant Gant. Then he noticed that the lieutenant looked distracted, and a little downcast.
Before they were close enough for Lincoln to offer a greeting, the lieutenant cut a hard left, stepping into a cubicle to speak to one of the staff. Shockwave stood there for a moment, looking a little lost, until he realized that Lincoln and Crafter were watching, so he closed the distance to join them.
“Linc, Joey,” he nodded to each.
“How’re you, Mark?” Crafter returned as he offered his hand.
After only the slightest pause, Mark shook with him; it hadn’t lasted long, but Lincoln noticed. Once upon a time, being gruff had been Mark’s regular M.O., but between Michael’s influence and his getting over his beef with Lincoln himself, Mark had warmed up a little over the past year.
Guess the lieutenant isn’t the only one distracted.
“What’re you and Lieutenant Takayasu doing down here?” Crafter was asking. He nodded his head toward Lincoln. “Lincoln’s here for paperwork. Same for you two, mate?”
“Uh, sorta, yeah. Mike’s talkin’ to Lieutenant Swanson about receivin’ some security footage from Bendis Tower. Or gettin’ a subpoena if it turns out we need it.”
Lincoln perked up. “This about that plastic surgeon? The one who did the, uh ...” He made a vague double-handed gesture in front of his chest, trying not to be too crass.
Mark nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“How’d it go?”
Mark clucked his tongue a few times, then said, “Not sure yet, really. The guy’s setup is legit, and the doc seemed, ya know, ‘forthcoming’ and all that, I guess. It’s just ...”
Mark glanced back toward the lieutenant; Michael was still talking to Lieutenant Swanson, his arms folded across his chest and his face serious.
“Everything all right?” Joey asked, his natural exuberance toning down as he finally picked up on Mark’s reticence.
Mark tried to shrug it off. “Sure, sure, it’s just ... just a thing, ya know?”
Joey replied, “Ah.” A moment later, he seemed to find the big clock on the south wall interesting, and took several steps toward it — and away from them — to compare it to his own watch. Lincoln couldn’t help but smile at the ex-Englishman’s endearing tact.
Now that they had a bit more privacy, Lincoln leaned toward Mark and asked, “Something unexpected?”
Still keeping his eye on the lieutenant, Mark lowered his voice and said, “Kinda ...”
“About the case?”
“Not really, no. I mean ... not directly. You, uh ... you know the scars on Mike’s hands ...?”
Lincoln could not imagine where this could be going, or what it could have to do with the abduction case. But he was going to have to wait
longer to find out, because before Mark could explain, Crafter echoed his earlier sentiments. “Hoy! The gang really is all here.”
“Hi, Crafter!” came a feminine voice Lincoln could not help but recognize.
Turning around, he saw the dark, petite beauty known as Density striding toward them. Like with Takayasu and Shockwave, Density’s norm partner — a Lieutenant Rodriguez, as Lincoln recalled — stopped by one of the cubicles, and Density continued forward to join them.
Density offered a warm nod to Mark and greeted, “Shockwave.” But for Lincoln, she had an even warmer smile and a twinkle in her eye. “Hey there, Lincoln. Been busy?” She then opened her arms, clearly expecting a hug from the big guy.
Lincoln nodded and indulged her. “Hey there, Amara. Yeah, they’ve been keeping us pretty busy the last couple of weeks. You?”
Density held the hug a second or two longer than was strictly necessary, but Lincoln did not mind. Last year, when they had all fought the alien Noctoponm together and he managed to break both of his supposedly-invulnerable forearms, Amara had helped with his recovery: She used her paranormal ability to lower the density of his bones so that they could be properly set; then, over the next few weeks, had alternated between softening and hardening the bones as they healed, depending on whether they needed followup adjustments. All told, he had recovered from the injuries in record time, thanks to Density’s help.
During all that, the two had gotten to know each other a little more, and it was pretty obvious that she had a crush on him ... and truthfully, he felt the same. He had considered acting on that crush once or twice, but the timing just never felt right.
That, or you’re just worried what might happen to her if you two tried to—
Shut up.
When they finally parted, she answered, “We needed to file a requisition for more of those little throwing discs a lot of the agents use. Antonio and I have been experimenting with my making them denser after he throws them. The challenge is, I usually have to physically touch something to alter its density, but ...” She pumped a Go-get’em! fist in the air. “... we’re working on that. What brings you down to the bullpen? Weren’t you supposed to be off today?”
Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns Page 16
