Gary, for those of you who don’t know the name, is perhaps the best of the old Superguy writers. His series were well done, with the appropriate blend of humor and pathos. And he managed to actually finish them. He finished Rad. He finished CalForce. He finished Radian and Shadebeam.

We all hated Gary.

Well, fourteen months ago, out of nowhere, Gary posted a new episode of Rad to Superguy. It was… well, all the years later that it’s actually been. Rad, a hero of the eighties — since that’s when Gary wrote Rad — returned to Earth to find things were different. He was older. Mighty Guy and Meltdown had had a kid.

At the time, I was tempted to do the same with my own series… though unlike Gary, I hadn’t finished my own series, Adjusted League Unimpeachable.

(It’s worth noting, at the time I wrote ALU, there hadn’t been any “Justice League” comic or cartoon that ended in ‘Unlimited.’ I don’t know if that ruins the already lame joke in the name, or if it actually makes it suck less. Either way, it hardly matters at this point.)

Now, I have a good writing life now. I have superhero stuff I can do. If I ever really, really have the urge to revisit the old Superguy stuff, I could post it in Mythic Heroes, right? I have Justice Wing beyond that. And plenty of non superhero things I really need to be writing.

And then, for the first time in fourteen months, Gary posted another Rad episode to Superguy.

God damn Gary Olson.

So now I had to write a Superguy post. Which I’ve done. And that ate into my time for writing something for today, so guess what you get?

This is a first episode post, so it’s possible you’ll be able to follow along. It’s also possible none of this will make any sense to you. That’s okay too.

Just understand. Superguy is, at its heart, a satire. As is this. A satire of superheroes, and of popular culture. And in this case, of a video game.

I’ll try to get a ‘notes’ comment in, though I drive to Ottawa tomorrow, so maybe not.

Regardless, please enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

PROLOGUE

June 19, 2000

It was a good dinner, all told. A good dinner that became a good party that went on all night. Old friends had visited. Dignitaries had sent their regards, and Kent gave a speech that knocked down the Prudential building. In the wee hours of the morning Trudy could already see Intercontinental Salvage putting it back up.

Dianna stepped up behind her. “Kind of crazy to think about, isn’t it?”

“Sorta, Dianetics.”

“I think you’ve used that one before.”

“After all this time? Me repeating a nickname’s the least of my troubles.” Trudy looked at the woman — one of her oldest friends. “Are you absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing?”

Dianna chuckled. “I’m sure. A chance to see the universe? To use the Power where it was meant to be used?”

“Seems to me by definition it was ‘meant’ to be used wherever you used it.”

Dianna shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure. Without the gang around, I don’t think I want to be hanging out here. This way, three of us will pal around.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to take orders from Mike. I mean, Jesus.”

Dianna half-smiled. “I got used to taking orders from you, didn’t I?”

“Well, sure. But I’m awesome.” Trudy looked back out the window. “Am I crazy–”

“Yes.”

“Shut up. Whore. Anyway, am I crazy or are they already done rebuilding the Pru?”

“They’re done. They knew Kent was coming to the dinner, so they had Boston reclassified as an Omega-3 level reconstruction zone.”

“So, we’re a fatty acid?”

“Pretty much.”

Trudy nodded. “I believe it.” She looked back at the table. Kent had stepped to the side, talking with Healer. Doctor Tirkoff, Trudy reminded herself. With the Chick-Mouse being renamed and getting out of the superhero business, Elizabeth had decided it was time to stop using the codename. Kirby was squirming in her arms as it was, but was weirdly unafraid of the Megapolis Moron. With the other guests mingling, that left the primary team sitting at the head table. Mike. Jane. Dani. Mandy. Laura. Maria.

The Masked Bruce. The Dash. Dangerousgirl. Mastermind. Frigid Girl. Reflection. And Unorthodoxy and Exemplar, of course. The Adjusted League Unimpeachable. For another few minutes anyway.

“So, how are you and Jane… I mean, how are you three going to–”

“I have no idea,” Dianna said, smiling slightly. I’m just going to get used to wearing a skimpy lame outfit and draping around one of Mike’s leg’s. Isn’t that what space opera heroines do?”

“Don’t look at me. I had enough trouble working out what super heroines were supposed to do.” Trudy smiled a bit. “We should join them. We’re coming up on the end.”

“Right.” Dianna paused. “Hey Trudy?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the trash can lid?”

Trudy paused.

A hair under seven hours before, Unorthodoxy had been her office wrapping up the last bits of paperwork. Her last few minutes on the clock. Her last few minutes of leading what had once been seen as the most professional force for justice on the planet.

He had come in. She hadn’t seen him coming.

“You know why I’m here,” he’d said.

Wordlessly, she’d handed the trash can lid to him. And then he was gone, and she wasn’t Unorthodoxy any more. She was just Trudy.

And he was gone.

“Where it should be.”

“Enigma is overrated.”

“So am I.” She slid in her seat. “Hey, Action teens. What’s the plan?”

“We were supposed to have a plan?” Mike asked. “God damn it. No one said there was homework.”

“Says the man who hasn’t even packed yet,” Jane said with a grin. She was pretty well focused, which was unusual but still.

Mandy snorted. “You people have a plan. Me? I’m getting up at the same time tomorrow, taking a shower, heading to B Tower and going to work. Retirement’s going to look exactly the same as fighting crime.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Rub it in, Harken. I had to get an apartment. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rig up a shower that will collect radioactives instead of washing them down the drain to poison the alligators?”

“I designed that shower, Dani. I think I know exactly how hard it is to rig up.”

“Oh, whatever.” She smirked.

“You’re going off and getting married,” Laura said. “I’ve got a service sector job. Mike, Dianna and Jane are flying off in a Xolchipalian ship. Mandy’s taking over the new Rogers Institute. Maria’s living an accidental heiress’s lifestyle.” Laura half-smiled. “No one’s said what you’re doing now, Trudy. Where do you from here.”

Trudy shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. She pointed. “That way.”

“Actually, you’re pointing towards the Atlantic Ocean,” Mandy said.

Trudy snorted. “So much for my sense of direction.” Or misdirection, she didn’t add.

Laura nodded. “Makes sense.” She looked around. “Anyone see my brother? Or Trans or Mem?”

“Not for a few,” Mike said. “I feel badly for Mem. He wanted to be in the A.L.U. so badly. He’s finally primed to graduate and there’s not going to be one any more.”

“He’ll land on his feet,” Trudy said. “It’s what he does.”

“Yeah,” Dianna said. She snickered. “Maybe he’ll end up teaching at the Acadely. Wouldn’t that be irony?”

“It won’t happen,” Maria said softly.

There was a ping. The all-call ping. Every person at the head table tensed –in the past, that ping meant the difference between life and death.

«Hey gang,» MIKE, the Xolchipalian artificial intelligence, said with his perfectly modulated, easygoing voice. «It’s time.»

“Right,” Trudy said. She took a deep breath. “Okay everyone. You know what to do.”

Mike nodded, taking his Xolchacomm off and setting it in the center of the table. “So long,” he murmured.

Jane took her Xolchacomm off. It seemed to appear next to Mike’s. “Thank you,” she said, simply.

Mandy took hers off, and put it next to Jane’s. It was the Xolchacomm Kid Solipsism had worn, once upon a time. “I’ll never forget,” she said softly.

Maria took her Xolchacomm off, putting it next to Mandy’s. “In Trashman’s name,” she said.

Dani took her Xolchacomm off, flicking it so it skidded next to Maria’s. “Dude,” she said. Everyone agreed.

Dianna took her Xolchacomm off, and gently put it down next to Dani’s. “You know, if you ever need us…” she trailed off. She realized she didn’t know who she was saying it to.

Laura took her Xolchacomm off, and dropped it next to Dani’s. “Unto the next generation,” she said.

Trudy paused. She thought about the day that Trashman gave her the emergency beacon. And then the later day, when Mike gave her the brand new Xolchacomm. They’d upgraded to the more powerful, more integrated communications system after Trudy had been kidnapped by the Mega Intelligence Bureau. In a way, the Xolchacomm had been a victory in her life.

She took it off, and set it down. “Good night, sleep tight, and pleasant dreeeeams to you,” she sang, softly.

MIKE’s voice echoed from all eight Xolchacomms, in a weird octophonic sound. «Thanks, guys. It’s been amazing.»

There were a series of pops, and the Xolchacomms deformed, the cases melting from the destruction charges within them, reducing the Xolchipalian technology that drove them into so much junk.

“That’s that,” Mandy said. “Final paychecks will be direct deposited, for those of you who care about Earth money.”

All eight paused, feeling that weird combination of uncomfortable, elated and depressed you get when the most important thing in your life has ended.

“Okay, I need another drink,” Dianna said. “None of us are role models any more. Who wants to get plowed?”

The party went on for a long time. There was word from Jenny and Joel, and all the heroes you’d expect to show up or send word did. There were tears of sadness and tears of joy, and at one point there was a cool dance number. No one attacked or threatened undying revenge.

And then Trudy slipped out of the room, and went away before anyone noticed. She didn’t do goodbyes. She got to where she’d cached her things, and took off the party dress. Instead she wore a tee shirt with a flannel over it and a worn pair of jeans. And she walked through the streets of Boston, pointed more or less East.

The sky was getting lighter when she reached the docks. She made her way to where the private boats were moored — far from the commercial shipping lanes or slips — and down to where she’d had the sloop tied off. She hadn’t told the others about this. She wanted just to fade away, see what happened next.

He was waiting on the dock, next to the boat. His face was scarred. His body clearly twisted even in the wheelchair.

Four times he had clearly died now. The last time by Trudy’s own hand. And yet there he was, wearing a trenchcoat and a small smile. And Trudy found herself smiling back.

They nodded to each other. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Trudy cast off as he watched. She motored out into the bay, knowing he was watching as the sloop putted out.

Trashgirl was written across the boat’s aft. Boston, MA.

Once clear of the harbormaster’s domain, Trudy hoisted the sail and set the jenny. She killed the diesel and let the weird quiet take over. She pointed due East, where golden light was meeting her. A girl once known as Trudy Galloway, then Trudy Unorthodox, then Trudy Galloway once more… Unorthodox Girl, Unorthodox Lass, Unorthodoxy… a woman given command of one of the most powerful teams ever known on this world, a girl who’d known love and loss, pain and pride, the best of man and the worst, sailed straight down the throat of a new day, and didn’t look behind her as she went.

THE LEAGUE
Episode 1
Aftermath
by
Eric A. Burns
Who swears to Christ this is all Gary’s fault.

October, 2007

The Scions of the Phoot owned Boston’s North End, at least if you asked them. Whether it was the presence of all the Italian restaurants and pizzarias or just because they didn’t want to fight the roving Crew Sculler gangs along the Charles River wasn’t easy to say.

Still, the Scions of the Phoot used their ancient techniques and powerful bad pizza magic to terrorize their neighborhoods and bend the people to their will. Or that was the plan. Sadly for the gang, it never quite worked out that way.

“Shiny!” Hazard shouted, wheeling and firing an explosive charge in between three Scions. The explosion threw them every which way. “Heads up!”

“I see them,” Reflects said, coolly, kicking off a wall and going down to a three point stance. Where her hand and feet touched the ground a small trail of silver glistened, as bright as the mirror force over her skin and hair, and she slid towards the knot of gangers almost frictionlessly, bowling them over as she slid past as if she were the world’s prettiest bowling ball. “Where’s the ringleader?”

“HELP!”

Reflects kicked up into a forward roll, catching her feet and skidding to a stop as she restored friction to her feet. She looked up and across the street, where she saw the Scion in Lieutenant’s color’s hanging from a flagpole, fifty feet off the ground and clearly terrified.

“I guess Trans got him first, Shiny,” Hazard said, landing next to the mirrored maiden.

“She does that, sometimes.” Reflects said, grinning. “What now, Boomer?”

“Not sure. I think the rest cleared off.” Hazard pulled her L-Phone out. She got online, scrolling through the information Ops sent, scanning for trouble spots… “crap. Pawn shop fifteen blocks over just got hit. The Scions are going for broke today.”

There was a siren. “Hazard!” one of the shopkeepers shouted. “The cops are coming!”

“Thanks, Mister Bertelli!” Hazard shouted back. “You make sure you give them a statement!”

“Will do! God bless you! You and your whole League!”

Hazard grinned. “You too! But we–”

“Yes yes! Go! Go!”

Four police cars skidded to a stop nearby, and police swarmed out. “Hazard!” one of them shouted. “On the ground with your hands over your head!”

“Why do they always address you,” Reflects asked. “I’m standing right here.”

“I guess I stand out in a crowd better.”

“I’m polished silver.”

“And yet, you manage to be so unnoticeable. I’m jealous, really.”

“I mean it!” the officer said, gun drawn. “You know I don’t want to hurt either of you–”

“You hurt my feelings,” Reflects said, pouting. “You should feel bad!”

The police officer blinked. “I… uh–”

There was a ripple, and the sound of imploding air, and the two heroines vanished in a ripple of Cerenkov radiation.

The officer and his partner blinked. They both half-smiled as they stood up and holstered their weapons. “I guess they got away again,” the first officer said.

“Yeah. Damn shame, huh. Start arresting the Scions?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The other side of the transgates opened on a rooftop overlooking the pawn shop in question. Ordinal was sitting lotus, floating in the air, purple and blue light playing over her skin. “You two need to stop teasing the police,” she said. “They work awfully hard.”

“Sorry, Trans,” Reflects said. “Did Ops give you the lowdown?”

“Ops is offline. The call triggered an automated alert. I sense fourteen distinct energy sources inside, all with the distortion qualities of the Scions of the Phoot.”

“Fourteen? Where do they come up with all these gang members,” Hazard asked. “I swear. We arrest hundreds a week, and they never seem to run out.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to call attention to the logical fallacies,” Reflects said.

“Do you two want more than support?” Ordinal asked. “I’ve got Iceweaver and Parvenu engaging the Scullers on the Charles, and there’s rumors of the Ensemble massing in force in the Back Bay and Capacitor isn’t answering his L-Phone.”

“What else is new. Nah, get out of here. You need backup with the Ensemble?”

Ordinal snickered. “They’re a criminal marching band. I think I can probably take them.”

“Cool beans,” Reflects said. “What’s Incandescence doing?”

“Fighting Lickmi in the Somerville War Commercial District.”

“Wait, that sounds like more fun than fighting Scions. Can’t I go join her instead?”

“Screw you, Boomer,” Reflects said. “We have an assignment.”

“Awwww. Sparky gets all the fun.” Hazard grinned. “Before you motor, can we get a dramatic entrance?”

Ordinal smiled a bit. “Got one cued up and everything. You ready?”

Hazard grinned. “Like canned ham.”

“What does that even mean?” Reflects asked. But by then the gates were encompassing them.

* * * * * *

Elizabeth Tirkoff stepped off the elevator. She wore a blood red coat and skirt and cream blouse. Another year, another crop of students. Another series of crushes. One of the downsides of telepathy was knowing exactly when a fourteen year old fell in love with you. While her shields were impeccable, it was hard to screen out ‘Doctor T looks amazing‘ when it was thought right at her.

Though more and more, that was followed by ‘for a woman her age.’
“Afternoon, Liz,” Mandy said, stepping out of her office and moving into step with her.”

“Don’t call me Liz,” Elizabeth said, almost by rote. “Do I really need to be at this meeting?”

“You’re on the Foundation’s Board of Trustees. Yeah, you have to be there.”

“It’s just — the sixth grade is going on a field trip to the Museum of Science, and–”

“You can play with the giant Van der Graff generator another time.”

“They make lightning with it,” Elizabeth said, grinning. “It’s so cool.”

“Elizabeth, you’ve been to the Ottsamattawidu homeworld. You remade the universe itself once. You’re good friends with sentient machinery.”

“Yeah, but do any of those things shoot homemade lightning?”

“Half the planet Hottentot shoots homemade lightning!”

The Board of Trustees, largely made up of wealthy people and appropriate financial and community leaders, paused at this outburst as the Chair and one of the Senior Trustees was walking in.

“Yes, they do,” Andy Awesome said, smiling slightly. “But I’m sure we have other business at hand. Unless the Rogers Memorial Academy for Preternaturally Gifted Students has a new Hottentot student I’m not aware of.”

“We don’t tend to get Ottsamattawidu aliens,” Elizabeth said, walking over to Andy and kissing his cheeks. “You look wonderful, Andy. But then you always do.”

“I try to keep trim,” he said, awesomely modestly.

“Trim or fat, there’s too much to be done to waste time,” Mandy said, settling in her seat. “Plenty of it’s important, most of it’s boring, and the opening’s gonna thrill everyone.”

“Let me guess,” Nouveaux Skunk said, thumbing through the most recent prospectus. “The League.”

“Sadly so,” Mandy said, taking some sheets out. “There’s significant State, Local and even Federal pressure to get some kind of control over them.”

“Forgive me for asking the obvious,” Elizabeth said, “but what business is it of ours? They’re not the Adjusted League. There hasn’t been an Adjusted League for more than seven years.”

“Everyone assumes they’re backed by the Rogers Institute,” Professor Burns said. The professor looked amused. And rumpled. “They know that most of the League went to school at the Academy. Parvenu, Reflects and Incandescence were all in the Mob together, and they were affiliated with the A.L.U. Hazard and Iceweaver were in the A.L.U. The only two A.L.U. heroes still known to be active, I would add.”

“We don’t have positive confirmation on any of their identities,” Elizabeth said. “They seem like our associates–”

Mandy snorted. “Come on, Tirkoff. A woman who’s constantly on fire, a woman who looks like a silver statue, a drop dead gorgeous Spandex Babe double who explodes–”

“All that could be handwaved away,” Nouveaux Skunk said. “The problem is Trashman. When he’s sighted fighting alongside them.–”

Elizabeth frowned. “Trashman’s dead,” she said. “Everyone in this room knows that.”

“Good for people inside this room.” Mandy closed the portfolio. “It doesn’t matter. So long as people look at this ‘League’ and think ‘Adjusted League,’ it’s going to reflect on us. And that makes it our problem. They’re not sanctioned, and this is still a war zone.”

“The Lickmi invasion is four years old,” Andy said. “And it’s been confined to a couple of neighborhoods in this one city. And this city’s been largely sealed off anyway. I don’t think anyone still considers this a ‘war zone.’ There’s just a… continuing active negotiation with the Lickmi.”

“One involving shotguns, missiles and the occasional dark spell of containment,” Professor Burns said, smirking.

“These days, that’s just considered life in Boston,” Andy said, leaning back. “But given the rampant crime, the potential destruction… why aren’t we simply lending our official, tangible support to the League? After all, we still train superheroes here.”

“We train paranormals here,” Mandy said. “We don’t need a superhero school any more. We’re out of that line of work.” She leaned forward. “I’m not asking for your permission to deal with this knockoff League. I’m telling you we’re going to deal with it. If you don’t like it, find someone else to run this popsicle stand.”

Nouveau Skunk arched an eyebrow. “One would think you take all this personally, Miss Harken.”

“That’s because I do. I was a member of the Adjusted League Unimpeachable. No one else here can claim that. They’re screwing with the A.L.U.’s legacy and its place in history. And I’m going to stop it.”

“Okay, let’s calm down,” Andy said. “Of course we’ll approve any actions you feel are appropriate. Now, shall we get on to more mundane matters?”

Elizabeth was frowning as they left the meeting, a couple of hours later.

“You seem pensive, Elizabeth.”

“I’m just thinking about the League,” she said. “Thinking about where we’ve gone.” She shook her head. “I keep thinking back to CalForce. Everything we talked about in there

“CalForce?”

“We were somewhere between a party and anarchy. And we just assumed the world would be behind us. And we were right.”

“You don’t think the League’s like that?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Elizabeth said. “I think they are. I don’t think they’re worried about what the Rogers Institute does, or the police does, or the Feds do or say. They just assume that the people will back them.”

“Yup. Coffee?”

“Love some. I’m dying here.”

They walked for the executive break room on the same level. Just another change in a building once organized more for defense than even not for profit business. “You understand that the League’s right,” Mandy said as they walked.

“Meaning?”

“The people will back them. The people do back them.” Mandy looked at Elizabeth. “The city and the state say to arrest them, but the police don’t exactly bend over backwards to do it. And if they managed to do it, the city’s populace would have a fit.” Mandy held the door for Elizabeth. “There are too many factions in too many parts of the city. The Scullers here in Kenmore. The Scions of the Phoot in Central. The Ensemble in Beacon Hill. The Trudis in Jamaica Plain–”

“They don’t back ‘the League,’” Elizabeth said, somewhat annoyed. “They back the Adjusted League. They think that’s who they are.”

Mandy shrugged. “Maybe they’re right about that, too. Dani, Maria, Laura — not to mention Kid-E, Trans–”

“They’re not the Adjusted League. And I don’t care who says it — we both know there’s no Trashman. Not any more.”

“So, you’re not advising me to leave the League alone?” Mandy’s voice was soft.

Elizabeth looked at her for a long moment. “No,” she said. “I want them taken out. However we have to do it. If they want to come in — make a case for the Board, we can discuss reopening that door. They don’t get to just declare it. And that’s assuming the city or the state goes for it. And that’s not even touching on the Federal government. We’re not Canada.”

Mandy half-smiled. “Too true,” she said. “But–”

There was a rush of wind and a green blur shot through, skidding to a perfect stop six feet from the pair, even as it seemed to grow a wriggling appendage. Alice, still in the green and yellow costume with the lightning bolts on it, was holding a young blond boy in a grey training outfit by the scruff of the neck. “There you are,” the speedster snapped.

The nine year old struggled, his arms and legs still hazy and indistinct. “Let me go!”

“Kirby,” Elizabeth snapped. “I’ve told you not to go snooping!”

“I’m not snooping,” the boy groused.

“You certainly weren’t invited to this meeting today. That’s snooping enough for my purposes. Alice–”

“Hey, sorry. He’s gotten better at this.”

“Not better enough. You found me.”

“That’s because I’m good. You’re just better than you were.” And that’s too good, the former Momentum sent telepathically to Mandy and Elizabeth. He goes psi-null when he goes stealthy. I’ve had to track him down by figuring out psychic dead spots.

Greeeeeat, Elizabeth sent back. My son the sponge. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you again, young man,” she was saying verbally. “If you’re going to be a student at this Academy you’re going to have to do things properly.”

“This isn’t fair,” the boy snapped. “This is the Rogers Institute. I’m the only person with the last name of Rogers here! By rights you all work for me!”

“Well, when you turn eighteen you can fire me,” Mandy said. “But right now, I’ve still got the job and you’ve got a trust fund and a bunch of stock your mother votes for you.”

“And you can’t fire me, eighteen or eighty,” Elizabeth said. “I’m always going to be your mother.”

“I don’t know why you care anyway,” Kirby said, kicking the ground now that Alice had set him down. “You just talked about money and boring things at your dumb meeting. That and the League.”

“The League?” Alice asked, eyebrow arched.

“They’re gonna throw them in jail.” Kirby said. “They’re all pissed off because Trashman sided with them instead–”

“Kirby!” Elizabeth had gotten good with the full Mom voice over the past nine years. She didn’t break it out more than she had to, but when she did….

Kirby flinched. “Sorry,” he said.

“We don’t use that language. We find better ways to express ourselves. And that’s not Trashman.”

“You just don’t want it to be Trashman,” Kirby said. “If it’s Trashman, then he didn’t die, he just left you!”

The silence was palpable.

Kirby looked down. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he half-whispered.

“We made a choice when we decided to tell you about your father,” Elizabeth said quietly. “We decided you were old enough to know the truth. That’s a trust, Kirby. You need to keep it. Now go on. Ms. Mercury will take you back to the Academy wing. We’ll talk about this later.”

Alice’s lips were pursed. “Sure thing, Lil. C’mon, kid.”

“Sure,” she said. “See you, Alice. Later, squirt.”

“See you. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Kirby.” Elizabeth watched Alice escort her son out of the room. She turned to Mandy. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m all for taking the League down.”

* * * * * *

Different packs of Ensemble wore different colors. This was one of the Chuffington High sets. Their uniforms were maroon, with white overlays and their dumbass hats were smooth and had visors. But they were all the same when you were facing them down. This group was drilling right in the middle of Charles street. The oboes were a hair out of tune. And the Cornet players were blowing up cars and bus stops, but what do you expect?

They were in formation when the burst of blue light released in the middle of them. A shockwave of pebbles, each going about thirty miles an hour spreading outward, dispersed that quickly enough.

“What the Hell?” one of the bandleaders shouted.

“It’s Ordinal!” a bassonist shouted, bringing his instrument up and firing a plume of fire at the woman in blue.

Ordinal threw herself backwards as the flame shot out, pushing through a transgate that opened on the other side of the group. She jumped into a tornado kick, still thirty feet from the dark band members. A burst of Cherenkov radiation flared from both her foot and the side of the bassonist’s head at the apex of the kick, slamming him down to the side.

The Ensemble caught on quickly. “Get the trombonists!” someone shouted!

“Rush her!” someone else shouted. “She’s just one girl — and I heard she needs to concentrate to use her powers!”

Ordinal smiled, leaning back on one leg, moving her hands into a smooth kata. “You could just surrender,” she said. “My brother taught me to fight, and he never much went for fighting fair.”

Six of the Ensemble screamed and charged. So predictable.

Ordinal fluidly moved into the second form of the Kata, arclights flaring around her. They snapped and twisted around the Ensemble in echo, and suddenly Ordinal seemed to almost blur, she was moving so fast. She began to blur into attacks, spin-kicking and slapping with her hand, each strike meeting a small burst gate that transferred her attacks across the ten foot distance to her enemies. A blur of strikes, turns and blows turned into concussions after concussions striking down her opposition.

Ordinal smiled, letting the continuum shift drop. She enjoyed shifting frames of reference to make it appear she moved faster or them slower, but it took a lot of concentration and strength. She turned to face the remainder–

Trombonists! Their trombones held like rocket launchers and they fired–

Ordinal threw all her strength and focus into the moment, the dizzying array of pure mathematics flowing through her exceptional mind as she worked her fingers and space/time. It was as though the whole world slowed, the fifty caliber shells slowing in the air, surrounded by the burning powder that fired them from the brass bells. Too many for anything too subtle — she worked a broad transgate in front of her, the entry point shielding her from the weapons, the exit point straight down at the macadam of the street fifteen feet behind her. She could feel the strain of the reference manipulation, and let it drop. She heard the shells tear the pavement behind her, throwing herself forward into a roll and focusing perceptions, opening a small entrypoint gate near the trombonists, the endpoint over twelve miles straight up–

The pressure differential cracked in the middle of them with a boom that rattled them to their boots and knocking some of their silly hats off. Having throw them off balance, Ordinal opened a gate underneath them, and they plunged down. The exit point was five feet behind them, pointed down, but with a shift in reference that caused them to smack into the pavement with a jarring impact. Ordinal grinned, rising–

“Kettle drums!” the bandleader cried from the heap of fallen Ensemble minions. “Get her!”

There was the sound of metal on metal, and a packet truck opened its back end, letting out two giant armored bodies. They were brass and canvas — heavily armed and armored, jets of steam releasing from their joints as they moved forward with ‘thrum’ sounds.

“Oh you have got to be kidding,” Ordinal said, taking a step back. They had to be several tons each–

Far from kidding, the pair began to shoot, rotating miniguns firing with plumes of steam. Ordinal vanished in an implosion of blue/purple light, reappearing on the far side, emptying a pouch she carried of ball bearings. As they began the slow turn to face her, she threw, the ball bearings vanishing with a dozen cracks of blue light, crackling around the two armored thugs and hitting with the speed of high powered rifle shots.

The two Kettle Drum warriors got scuffed and dented but not seriously hurt. “Let’s cut her down to size!” one shouted, a missile tube sliding out and positioning.

“Yeah — better pop away, little girl!” the other one shouted. “You don’t have the mass to hurt us!”

Ordinal frowned. “That’s your truck, huh?”

“What, why do you–”

There was a fwhump as a transgate opened over the pair. To their credit, they both managed dizzying profanities as the white packet truck slammed on them, falling from twenty feet above them.

Ordinal slowly smiled.

And lost that smile as the truck exploded, the two finding their feet. “You’re dead!” one shouted–

With a clang, a shining silver disk arced out, slamming into one’s helmet, reflecting off and striking the other’s before boucing off, hitting the first’s armored body and flying back into the hand of a man in grey coveralls, already in a twisting turn.

“Hol– it’s Trashman!” one of the Kettle Drum warriors shouted.

“That’s impossible — he’s dead!” the other said.

“He’s gonna be dead!” And the first began firing the minigun at the man. He rolled forward, swinging around to bring the trash can lid to bear, bullets reflecting harmlessly off even as he hurled a paint can at the second, a viscous fluid spreading over the criminal’s visor. The second began firing. Trashman ducked and rolled to the side, leading the gunman — getting him to follow and focus–

With a hideous screech, the second Kettle Drum’s minigun bullets tore into the armor of the first, having focused on Trashman to the point of losing track of his location. With a cry, he ceased fire even as the first armored villain went down, steam and hydraulic fluid spraying everywhere even as the first villain popped the rescue lever and cracked the armor to escape–

Trashman threw himself out, twisting in air to land next to Ordinal.

“You’re late,” she said

“You ever try quickly getting a garbage packer through traffic without attracting attention?” he said, pushing the girl down behind a car as the still-active Kettle drum began tracking them again.

“I can’t say I have. Did Ops send you?”

“I don’t work for Ops.” He judged. “Eighteen feet up.”

“What?”

“Gate him eighteen feet in the air. His joints aren’t solid enough to handle that fall but it shouldn’t materially hurt the man inside.”

Ordinal nodded curtly, moving forward and working hands and body in a fluid movement — almost a dance. The Kettle drum saw her, tracking with the minigun, only to fall through a gate at his feet, blue/violet light searing around him. It opened eighteen feet above, precise to the micron, and the armored man fell. There were hideous cracks and hisses as the armor landed, the impact deforming the metal.

Ordinal half-smiled. “You were right again,” she said, turning.

But he was gone. As always.

The teleporter heard cheering. She looked around to see a crowd had formed — far enough back not to be in great danger, but close enough to watch the heroine fight. In the distance, she heard sirens.

Ordinal waved, a small smile on her face. And with an implosion of air and a burst of particle energy, she was gone.

* * * * * *

It was late in the day. Mandy walked into the elevator. “MIKE, you awake?” she asked as she stepped inside. «As always,» the AI said, his voice perky as always. «What’s your pleasure?»

“It’s been a long day. I’m heading home. Load pan bay please, and don’t spare the horses.”

«All horse sparing protocols have been disabled!» The elevator dropped. «We’re going to need to have another conversation with the Xolchipalian embassy, you know.»

Mandy sighed. “I thought everything was fine so long as your core systems were in the embassy. Not counting the walls of the building and very minor pickups, this building’s terrestrial.”

«Yeah, well… I think we can hold them off. But you guys are going to have to pay me more.»

“What do you even spend money on?”

«Look, I happen to enjoy Audible.com.» The elevator stopped in the Load Pan Bay. «And here we are.»

“Thank you kindly,” she said, though instead of walking out, she took a small rod out of pocket and stuck it in the elevator. She removed it and a trap door opened under her, causing her to fall. MIKE, in the meantime, clearly showed her walking out into the Load Pan Bay, getting into her car, and driving out. The car actually went, a remote of Mandy’s own design letting the alien AI control the vehicle. There would even be a record of their continued conversation.

Mandy had to come up with new cover conversations, though. At the rate they were having ‘strained negotiations with the embassy,’ MIKE was going to end up making seven figures by the end of the fiscal year. For now, however, she slid down a long slide down into a subbasement. A subbasement that appeared on no plans — it was a fallback shelter and escape route Trashman had added after the building had been commandeered by the Unimaginable League Amoral and the Awe-Inspiring Force in 1996. She landed smoothly and stepped through the cramped hallways. MIKE had no pickups down here — while the A.I. gladly helped where he could, they couldn’t afford to have transmissions be picked up down here. Not when there were so many smart people in the building above.

She walked into the computer room.

Darrin Bates was asleep in one of the chairs.

Mandy rolled her eyes and pushed the chair over. He cried out, electricity sparking around him. “What–”

“You were sleeping.”

“Hey! I had a long day! Some of us need to have day jobs, you know! I don’t get paid for this.”

“None of us get paid for this, and I work longer hours than you do. Hang on, I need to double check the Psi shield.” She began working computer controls.

“The Psi shield? I thought you were going to recruit Doctor T.”

“No go. I sounded her out at the meeting. She’s completely against the idea of the League.”

Darrin frowned. “Damn,” he said. “That could be trouble.”

“Oh yeah.” She swore under her breath. “You know, there’s six messages on here for you. From when you were sleeping. Calling for backup. Hell, Trashman had to step in because you weren’t around for Trans.”

Darrin chuckled. “Against who?”

“Ensemble.”

He laughed full out. “I bet they crapped their fruity little pants.”

“We’ll discuss this later. When I can get my Unbreakable Brip out of storage and beat the snot out of you.” She punched a button. “Good evening,” she said on broadcast. “This is Ops, online. Nice work tonight, League. Come on in. Capacitor’s going out and picking up pizza.”

“I am?” Capacitor said. “Hey, I’m a little light in the wallet–”

Mandy killed the mic. “Well, if you’d rather I tell Trans, Maria and Dani you fell asleep while on backup–”

“Right. Everyone eats meat, right?”

“Last time I checked.” Mandy slowly smiled, and began tracking the movements in the city neighborhoods. It was going to be a good night.

IS IT GOING TO BE A GOOD NIGHT?
WHAT MAKES A GOOD NIGHT?
ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD NIGHT?
IS TRASHMAN SOME KIND OF UNDEAD ZOMBIE CREATURE?
DID TRUDY REALLY SAIL STRAIGHT INTO THE SUN?
WHO NAMES THEIR SON KIRBY?

All these questions and many more will be answered — here on “The League,” only on SUPERGUY!

Er, and the places I crosspost it.

Don’t judge me.

Someone asked me the difference between Leather and Lady Velvet. Well, there are a few. For one, Lady Velvet started out wanting to be a villain.

But the major difference between the pair is something close to twenty years. There are times age doesn’t matter at all. I have a lot of friends who weren’t even alive when I was their age. They’re fun and funny and sometimes a lot smarter than I am.

And sometimes, it matters. More than you might like to admit, it matters.

We haven’t had a chance to see any more of the good old days just yet, but that’s on the horizon. For now, though — please enjoy today’s chapter of Vilify 5.

*** *** *** ***

May 28, 2005.
Saturday – 9:06 am

Conventions ran on adrenalin and enthusiasm, but first thing in the morning on a Saturday they ran on caffeine. Elle was on her second latte. She wasn’t bone weary — that would come midday on Sunday and then hit hard Monday morning — but you still needed a pick-me-up first thing in the morning. She should have made some of her own coffee. Alchemy had its uses.

“A’course things are different than the old days,” the Hook was saying. “Back in the old days, why — a pirate with a hook hand? That was enough for villainy. A few henchmen to be me swabbies? Why, we took on the Centurian in Mountainview or the Ancient Mariner on the high seas for years!” He shook his head. “But then, it’s like an arms race — and me with only half an arm! Arrr!” There was a chuckle. Elle smiled a bit too. The Hook was great in these panels. “More and more of the money I got from me villainy went to weapons and defenses. Me hook began firing energy bolts. Me boat became a military fortress. I stopped recruiting deckhands and started hiring tech support!”

“For me,” Elle cut in. “It was more a question of tone. I mean, when I first began threatening Greystone City, instead of the Nightwatch we had ‘Nightstick’ being followed around by teenaged sidekicks. Remember Cudgel and Shillelagh?” There was another chuckle. Elle kept her cheerful face on. Nightstick and Cudgel had been her enemies. Now they were Eighties camp nostalgia. “There was danger and excitement, but there was also this sense of fun in it all.” She shook her head, artfully tossing her hair. “Then, the Jack O’Knaves got deadlier. One by one the dark lords of Greystone either changed to match or retired. It took three jailings by the Nightwatch before I realized this wasn’t what I had signed up for.”

Tim Gordon, the assigned moderator for the panel, cut in. “I think most authorities recognize the real shift in tone happened between ’93 or ’94 and ’97. The rise of the Overking. Scourge’s attack in Greystone City. The slaughterfields in the Midwest, Paragirl’s death, Shillelagh being maimed, and Freya– yes? You have a question?”

The person asking was a Latina woman in the second row. She was maybe thirty. Attractive. “Yeah — I have a question for Refraction.”

Refraction had been quiet most of the time. He wasn’t in his element at all. Ah well, he’d learn soon enough. “Yes?” he asked.

“You first appeared in 2001, right? That fight against the Beacon? You were robbing the First Paramount City Bank?”

Refraction blinked, and laughed. “I guess that’s right,” he said. “Well, that’s the first place I fought the Beacon. How did you know that?”

The girl blushed and shrugged. “I guess I’m a fangirl,” she said, and there was a knowing laugh from the crowd. Elle smirked again. She was always amazed at what her fans knew about her — what they remembered or researched or verified. More than once she had been corrected on her own life. “Anyway — you first started after the whole Overking thing. I mean, you’re the only guy up there who started his life of crime after everything went dark–”

“We need to get to your question,” Tim Gordon cut in. The tyranny of Panel Moderators.

“Sorry. My question is — why’d you do it? Why’d you get into crime? And then why’d you quit?”

Refraction sat back in his seat, brow furrowed. “Well, the why I got into crime was simple enough. I built these optical processors for a dot com startup, and then they shafted me, sold my patents off from under me, and crashed out. I had thousands of shares of worthless stock and a mortgage payment. And then I realized I could put my optics to making a little money the easy way.” He grinned. “You know, by taking it.”

There was a laugh. Refraction looked a little more at ease with that.

The woman in the audience leaned forward, intently. “Then why did you quit?” she asked.

“I was wondering that, too,” Elle said, grinning and facing Refraction. “Did the Beacon just wear you down?”

Refraction’s smile slipped a bit. “Well, not really. I mean… she was always tough. I started really reworking my arsenal to fight her, you know? I mean, here I was — an optics master, and here’s a girl who turns into light.” He shook his head. “That last time, I was ready for her, too. Black light lasers. Refraction chambers. I was ready to suck her into the power pack for my ultimate weapon.”

“So why didn’t you, laddie?” the Hook asked. “Teach that Light House Lass a thing or two?”

Refraction chuckled uncomfortably. “Well, I baited the trap for her. But she didn’t show up. Paragon did.”

That got a laugh. Paragon’s name always got a laugh in these cases. Even the odd Paragon villain who showed up to these things seemed to understand how inevitable his victories were.

The fangirl wasn’t laughing. “So, Paragon knocked you out of crime?”

Refraction sort of laughed. “The Beacon was the best foe I could have asked for. But — it was like the Hook just said. I spent a shitload of cash on this arsenal, and then there’s an invincible alien over my head, blowing it all up and knocking me over like a two year old. With the investments I sunk into the arsenal to beat her lost in fighting an invincible alien? I just packed it in. Served my time. Got out. And here I am.” He grinned. I guess you really shouldn’t tug on Paragon’s cape.”

“Getting back to the topic of the panel,” Tim Gordon said. “Do you think there’s a difference between old school villainy and modern day criminals, Refraction?”

Refraction glanced at Elle. “I dunno,” he said. “I guess.”

May 28, 2005.
Saturday – 10:22 am

“Mm. I’m surprised. The clove stuff’s selling, huh?”

Juliet shrugged. The seventeen year old was in a purple leotard and tights, with a demicape. ‘Working the evil.’ Elle remembered when she thought that was fun instead of a chore. “They like the stinky stuff this year.”

“It’s the villain aspect. You get a lot of goths and goth wannabes.”

“Can I put on some of the Enchantress?” she asked. “I like that one.”

Elle nodded. “Take it from the sample bottle. Don’t open a new one. Where’s Mary?”

“She’s on break. I think she’s hitting on that guy from Bookthuggery.”

“She’s been on break a lot today, hasn’t she?”

Juliet shrugged. “It’s not so bad. She comes back when we get a line.”

Elle glanced around. “Here’s hoping she has to come back, then,” she muttered.

“You know, I don’t want to know how many situps you must do to fit in that bathing suit, squishy.”

Elle smirked, turning. Fletcher Joan had come up along the other side. “At least I can still wear a bathing suit, dahling. That leather hides the cellulite so well, though.”

Joan snorted. “So, looks like you staked the fresh blood early.”

“Mm? Refraction? Do you want him, dear?”

“Hey, I’m not sleeping with Potipher this year.”

“Well then. You’ll have to fight for him, won’t you?” Elle smiled a predatory smile.

Joan arched an eyebrow, smiling one of her own. “Well, if I have to.” She looked around. “Oh — oh, Elle. Have you seen this one guy? He has the best costume I’ve ever seen at one of these.”

“Hm?” Elle looked around too. “I don’t see–”

“There.” The archer pointed. Elle followed her finger. Just some guys in civvies.

Elle blinked. One of the men was in a blue suit with red tie. Horn rimmed glasses. Hair slicked back. He looked intentionally awkward. He was blond instead of brunette, but otherwise….

“Oh my God,” Elle murmured. “Some fan came as a mild mannered reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper?”

“Isn’t it delicious?” Joan asked. “I might let you have Refraction. He looks fun. And well built, too.”

“The ice woman deigning to sleep with a fanboy?”

Joan snorted.

“I thought you and the Hook had something.”

“The operative word being ‘had.’ Besides, you know we shouldn’t mix business with desperation.”

“Which one of you were desperate?”

Joan laughed. “At my age? Who can tell? Mm. I’m going to try a little target practice on that fanboy. Do I smell all right?”

“A bit leathery. I’ve got a musk that will go well with it, though.”

“How much?”

“Nothing at all.” She looked around the stand. “Where’s the sample of Black Glove?” she asked Juliet.

“I think we’re out of the Black Glove,” she said.

“The sample?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it sold?”

“I think we sold two.”

Elle made a face, and grabbed the sample bottle of Elegant Dominion. “What do you think of this?” she asked, opening the bottle for Joan to smell.

Joan sniffed, and her eyebrows arched. “Oh, I like that,” she said.

“Good enough then. Let me do you up. I know a thing or two about lust potions.” She began to dab. Really, it’s not what she would have picked. There was musk, yes, and a hint of leather in the scent, but it had tannins and florals — more of a society dominatrix who wore leather as an accent.

But, then, Joan was lucky it wasn’t knockoff Charlie. “There, dahling,” she said. “You are enchanting.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I’m goin’ in. If you don’t see me, watch for my hostage demands.”

“Hold out for a million,” Elle said, nodding as Joan withdrew. She watched her go for a moment, walking like a hunter through the crowd. She remembered back — oh, ’89 perhaps? Yes. She and Joan had taken on Nightstick and Arrowhead as a team. She’d been so cold then….

“All right,” Elle said, turning back to Juliet. “How did we go through three quarters of a sample bottle of Black Glove but only sell two? Are you sure you’re watching them try it?”

Juliet shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t like it.”

Elle snorted. “This crowd? Well, maybe.” A woman leaned over the other side, looking at the massage oils. “Ah… welcome, dahling. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

She blinked, stepping back. Elle recognized her — the woman from the morning panel. The Refraction fangirl. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean–”

“Not at all,” Elle said with a smile. “Mm. Looking for massage? Sensual or therapeutic?”

“Therapeutic,” she said. “I… don’t get much of a chance for sensual.”

Elle chuckled. “A lovely woman such as yourself? I’m shocked and disheartened.” She ducked around. “Clearly, you need to accessorize, dahling. Have you ever had a makeover?”

She looked around, a little nervous. “Well, no,” she said. “These things don’t have mind control chemicals in them, do they?”

Juliet giggled. “Perhaps they do,” she said. “But you will never know….”

Elle rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I should be training her as my apprentice. The Viscountess Velvet, perhaps. Or Princess Satin. Lady Lycra.”

“I could be Spandex Babe!” Juliet said with a grin.

“I take it back. You’ll never be my apprentice.” She encouraged the fangirl — the customer — to sit. “So what’s your name, dahling?”

“I — Rita. I’m Rita.”

“Hello, Ihmrita. That’s a pretty name. Persian, is it?”

Rita smiled, a touch self consciously. “Sorry. I didn’t really expect to be talking to you.”

“Mm. And now you’re star struck? Or disappointed I’m not Refraction.”

Rita flushed. “It’s not like that. I…” she paused, looking back at Elle. “Do you know Refraction? Outside of here, I mean?”

“I just met the boy yesterday, dear. Or do you mean know him? I mean, I’ll admit I work fast, but….”

Rita blushed even more. “Sorry. I didn’t… I can’t seem to get the words right today. This is all so strange.”

“Strange?” Juliet asked. “I don’t see how. Oops. ‘Scuse.” She stepped to the other side of the table, where a somewhat heavyset girl was looking over the perfumes. Attractive girl, red hair out of a bottle. A little too much eye makeup and kind of a goth schoolgirl thing going. “Salutations, dahling,” Juliet said, leaning and giving the trademark smile. “The Mistress bids you welcome and wonders what you might be looking for.”

Elle smiled. “Maybe I will make her an apprentice,” she said. “She likes doing that.”

“I don’t understand something,” Rita said. “You’re… an alchemist, right? Not a perfume maker?”

“Six of one. I don’t use quite so many eyes of newt these days but it’s all taking base components and synthesizing gold, my dear.” She smiled a bit.

“So… was there any magic to it?”

“Of course. Alchemy isn’t chemistry. It’s also not sorcery. It’s the natural meeting place of the two. Alchemy was prized by the nobility, suppressed by the church — banned and yearned for throughout time.” She picked up a bottle of the Nocturne and drizzled in some of this and that. She started to stir with a cedar stick. It wasn’t unlike whisking eggs, really.

“So… how’d you end up doing it?”

“How else? My father. How did you imagine I ended up named ‘Elle Chemical,’ anyhow?”

Rita blinked. “That’s your real name?”

“Elle Chemical, only child of Albert Chemical, himself the only son of Allen Chemical, and I think there’s an Elton back there somewhere too.” She added a couple of dried flower petals, crushing them with the stick and working them into the froth. “A long line of alchemists, desperately seeking to unlock the secrets of the universe. For my father, it was all about immortality — the regeneration and rejuvenation of the flesh, the recapturing of lost youth.”

“Wow,” Rita said. “Did it work?”

Elle shrugged. “He’s dead. I assume that means he failed.”

Rita flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“No worries. It happened decades ago — before I ever became Lady Velvet.”

“So why’d you do it?”

Elle smirked. “I decided I wasn’t interested in immortality. I didn’t want to live forever. I wanted to live well. And I had the means to do just that.” She threw in the last bit of spice, and there was a burst of purple fire and light. “Hah HAH!”

There was a gasp, and light applause. A crowd had gathered — it usually did, when Elle was actually mixing something up at the table. “Thank you, dahlings. But don’t just watch. Buy.” That got a laugh, of course, even though Elle meant it.

Rita cocked her head. “Is that for me?” she asked.

“Not exclusively, dahling. But here.” She began to work on Rita — using what she made, along with her makeover board’s samples. She gave a few of these away per trip, because it meant people would pay later. It was a scam, really — but no one got hurt. And she had to steal something. Scent on the neck and a touch behind the ears. Creams in the skin. Slight color in the cheeks and on the eyes. A little bit of tingle to refresh the skin and open the pores.

“The MAC counter was never like this,” Rita murmured.

“Hacks, the lot of them. One step off from greasepaint. Cosmetics should be mysterious and personal, don’t you think.” She smiled a bit, and held up a mirror. “Well?”

Rita blinked. A casual observer would never think she was wearing anything, but her natural beauty was accentuated and drawn out. “That’s me?” she asked. Then flushed. “Wow, that’s the dumbest thing I ever said.”

“Then you’re an uncommonly wise speaker.” Elle smirked. “A perfectly baited hook for a rogue, perhaps?”

Rita opened her mouth. “Uh, you… you mean Refraction?”

“But of course. You are his biggest fan, aren’t you?”

Rita sort of shivered, folding her arms in front of herself. “I didn’t say that,” she said. “And… no. No, I’m not… it’s not like that.”

Elle smiled a bit more. “Good. I won’t feel so bad for stealing him away from you then.” She set the supplies down. “Now, let me select a few things. If you’re not buying right now, we’ll write them down for you. But you’re far too pretty to hide behind graduate student chic.”

“I — thank you,” Rita said. She looked a little overwhelmed.

“–think my girlfriend would like this?” Elle heard nearby. She looked. Juliet was talking to a man — a boy, really. He was holding one of the men’s scents. ‘Dominion,’ it looked like.

“Hm,” Juliet said, biting her lip and touching her chin with one gloved hand. A pose. “I’m not sure. Here.” She leaned forward, slightly arched, and opened the bottle. Elle frowned — she should have used the sample — but watched her take the top and dab it on either side of his face. The man was trying very hard to look anywhere but down the girl’s top.

Elle watched Juliet lean forward and sniffed, letting the scent from her shampoo hit his nose. “Oh yes,” Juliet said. “Your girlfriend will love that.”

The man didn’t quite faint or explode, but it was a near thing. “I’ll take it,” he said, not quite squeaking.

“Wow,” Rita said. “Are you sure she isn’t your apprentice?”

“I just hope her father doesn’t show up while she’s doing that. He’ll kill me.” But Elle was frowning. Juliet lacked a certain polish, and of course she wasn’t any kind of alchemist, but beyond that…

“What are you thinking?” Rita asked, very quietly.

Elle had asked her father why he cared so much about immortality, once. She couldn’t have been any older than Juliet was now. “It just seems silly,” she’d said.

“Elle, my belle, you have no idea,” he’d answered. “You don’t know what it’s like to look at some young buck — nineteen years old and convinced he can’t die, no pains in his knees, no gout in his toe, no sense that it’s almost all over.” He shook his head. “You don’t know what that’s like. You don’t know how badly you’ll want to just go back.”

“Nothing,” Elle said. “Here. Let’s start with fragrance.”

Todd Chapman, in the story, is writing an article called ‘Interviewing Leather.’ The subject of that article is the so-named supervillain Leather, who he has been hired to interview. But the novella/serial “Interviewing Leather,” by E. A. Burns, is about Todd Chapman, who finds himself stuck in a situation and learns a few things along the way.

In one sense, this is the end of that story. Todd Chapman isn’t the same person who drove up to Meridian City in part one. In another sense, this is the beginning of Chapman’s story, and I suspect somewhere along the line he’s going to show up again.

I like this ending. I like this story. I’m glad it came out the way it did. And I hope you like it too.

I have no idea what I’m going to do next week.

*** *** *** ***

Meridian City is seven hours north, driving along the coast. About halfway there you hit Bay City. I was driving there, northbound. My car was new to me — a Prius, bought used for about fifteen grand. They wanted seventeen but I paid cash and that made all the difference. My old Hyundai had been totaled out, and I had gotten a check for eight hundred and thirty four dollars from my insurance company for my troubles.

The Prius was a good ride. Better A/C. As good or better milage since it was a hybrid. Roomier on the inside. And I had GPS navigation and a CD player in it. My cup runneth over. Not that I used the CD player. I owned an iPod, after all. Who brought their CD collection in their car these days?

I had loaded up a custom playlist. I wasn’t heading to an interview this time. This was a pilgrimage. But it was the same basic theory — music to get my head in the game. Music to get me thinking about my subject and what I’d be doing.

The mix was okay, I thought. Good for the purpose. Some Bad Religion. Some Dropkick Murphys. A little dance techno and trancer music. Liz Phair.

And some other things. Things I figured she’d get a kick out of, even if she hated the music. And I was sure she’d hate some of the songs, even if she loved the sentiment behind choosing them. As I drove north and noticed a storm out over the ocean, one of those songs came on. Bonnie Tyler. Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?

My lips quirked into a smile. Despite myself and what little cool image I had left, I sang along. “Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need!”

Don’t we all need a hero? I let Bonnie take the Chorus solo, and I sped up a little bit. I was driving north, to Bay City, where once a fourth rate super in red lycra fought low level crime under the improbable name Dynamo Girl.

Oh yeah. I have that playlist all right.

#

I was more than a little surprised when they actually gave me the cashier’s check, back up in Meridian City. I’d crashed in a hotel for a couple of nights at the City’s expense while they checked it out and followed up on leads. They wanted me in the area in case they had questions. It wasn’t a great hotel, but the rooms were clean and it was down the block from a Denny’s, and really what more do you need?

“You can’t seriously tell me I can have that check,” I said to Inspector Harris. “That’s stolen money.”

“We can’t prove that,” he said, shrugging. “This check was drawn two weeks ago, paid for by cash by this man.” He set a photograph down on the table of a man in glasses. It was black and white — a photo taken from security camera footage. “Was he one of the people you knew worked with Leather?”

I shook my head. “Never seen him before.”

“Us either.”

“Wait. Two weeks ago? How’s that possible?”"

“As a guess? Leather got a bunch of these cashier’s checks made up. Probably using one of their support services. They’re all squeaky clean. No money trail to speak of, legal tender. And probably endorsed by the purchaser before they gave it to her. All she’d need to do is fill in the name on the check and boom — perfectly legal money for expenses.”

“But you know she gave it to me.”

“No I don’t.”

I blinked at that. “Huh?”

“We suspect she wrote the note on your car seat. That looks like it could have been her handwriting, if we make allowances for the sharpie and the weird angle. But we don’t know she left the check. Her fingerprints aren’t on it. The signature isn’t hers. And we reached the man whose signature it was. He worked for a financial service, and part of his job is getting cashier’s checks made up. We spoke to his supervisors, and each one could refer us up the chain. It’s a chain without end, Mister Chapman. And one we can’t legally tie back to Leather in evidence, even if it seems obvious.” He shrugged. “Since we can’t prove this money is stolen — especially since it was drawn before Leather committed any crimes in the city — we don’t have any right to impound it.”

I shook my head. “That seems insane. Maybe the F.B.I.–”

“We tried to get the Feds interested. They weren’t. Which makes me think supervillains have worked out a method that’s pretty warrant proof right now. Until the laws change or the loopholes get closed, anyway. So legally? That’s your money.”

I looked at it. “I don’t know that I can accept it,” I said.

“Conscience?” he asked.

“Maybe. But it could also be payola, you know? I take fifty G’s from the subject of my interview, and that compromises the interview’s integrity, you know?”

He half-smiles. “An honest man. Well, I’m not keeping the check either way. What you do with it is up to you.”

So I took the check. And I walked out the door, feeling really weird.

“You look puzzled, Mister Chapman.”

I froze, and turned.

Darkhood was leaning against a police car.

“Do you just hang out in front of police stations?” I asked him.

“Only if I figure I’m going to see something interesting.”

“Since when am I interesting?”

“Well for one thing, you’re fifty thousand dollars richer than you were twenty minutes ago. That’s interesting.”

I chuckled. “And you think it means I was working with Leather?”

He quirked a smile. “Actually, no. I overheard your talk with Inspector Harris. I think you’re a little soft in the head, but you’re basically honest.”

I started walking. He followed. “Is eavesdropping on police business legal?”

“Just as legal as vigilante justice.”

“Vigilante justice isn’t legal.”

“Well there you go. So what are you going to do with the check?”

I sighed. “I have no idea,” I said. “I can’t keep it. You know I can’t keep it.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you can.”

“I’m a journalist. Accepting money from my interviewee is the fine line between writing up an article on a subject and a subject writing an article ‘as told to Todd Chapman.’” I shrugged. “That’s not kosher.”

“Undoubtedly. At least from one point of view.”

I stopped, turning and looking at him. “Hey what is with you?” I asked. “This is some of that money plucked from little childrens’ Christmas presents and shutting down small business, remember? It’s dirty!”

“Yes it is.” He smiled. It was an insufferable smile.

“Why do you want me to take it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really care if you do or you don’t. But I want you to consider all the possibilities, Mister Chapman. For example — you lost your car. Are you going to write that off as a learning experience?”

“I figured I was.”

“I submit that it would not be damaging to your article’s integrity to replace the car you had trashed.”

“Even if I buy a Lexus?”

“Are you going to buy a Lexus?”

I paused. “No.”

“Then I’d say it’s not germane.”

“So I get another second hand car. Fine. That still leaves most of the money.”

He shrugged. “Donate it to a children’s fund. Or to Habitat for Humanity. Or….”

“Or?”

He looked sidelong at me. “Where do you go from here, Mister Chapman?”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Back home. I file my report, and I get my next assignment.”

“So, from a week as Leather’s prisoner to a week with Kanye West?”

I opened my mouth, paused, and closed it, looking away.

“Not so appealing?”

“That’s the job,” I said. “I write slightly sycophantic articles about entertainers. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

“Is that the article you’re going to write about Leather? Slightly sycophantic?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I pursed my lips. “Because this article’s important.”

“Why?”

“Because….” I looked off, down the street. “Because we live with you. Your kind. The heroes and the villains. We live with you and we thrill with you and sometimes we’re entertained by you and sometimes we’re terrified by you, but we don’t understand you. Not always.” I put my hands in my pockets. “Barbara Babcock’s a better reporter than I’ll ever be, but that’s just it. She reports on what Paragon and the rest of you do. Not on who you are. This… this is a chance to write about who you are.” I shrugged. “That’s too important to blow on a puff piece drooling over Leather in a PVC leotard.”

He nodded. “So that’s it? You understand us now? One week with one supervillain and you’re done?”

I snorted. “I haven’t even started. Even Leather told me that. She wanted me to go talk to rogues.”

“Rogues?”

“You know. The villains who make a career out of one superhero?”

“Oh.” He smiled a bit. “Rogues. I kind of like that.”

“Do you have one?”

“I have a few who seem a little fixated on me, yeah. There’s this one girl with a sword and a whip? Calls herself O Gato Cinzento. The first couple of times I thought it was coincidence, but after nine fights, all against me….”

“Why does she do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He smiled a bit. “So are you going to dig deeper. Unearth more of the secrets and the motivations? Uncover the villainous heart? And maybe find a few things about people like me while you’re at it?”

I shrugged. “It’s not that simple. I’m doing this on assignment. My editor wanted a supervillain who looked like a fetish model on the cover. Once is a novelty, but we’re a music magazine.”

“Yeah. Damn shame, but you need to pay the bills, right?” He started walking away. “It’s not like you have the money to take six or eight months off and really research the question.”

I blinked. “Wait — are you saying–”

He looked over his shoulder. “Me? What makes you think I’m saying anything, Mister Chapman.” He spun, cloak flaring, his bow snapping out in his hand, and he fired a line arrow. It struck somewhere above, the line staying connected to the bow, and a mechanical ascender kicked in, hauling him up into a swing out above the street.

I watched him go, and then turned and kept walking. Breakfast at Denny’s sounded like a better idea all the time.

#

Loose ends. That’s what it’s all about. I took the second Bay City exit, just like my new GPS told me I should. I knew where I was going. I’d done some research before taking the drive. The web barely knew ‘Dynamo Girl,’ but it confirmed she’d been a Bay City heroine during her brief career, and that led me to articles in the Bay City Chronicle, and that in turn led me to put together some idea of her old stomping grounds. She’d had some good fights, it looked like. But she also first appeared within a couple of years of the battle with the Overking, when Paragirl and the first Freya were killed and Shillelagh was maimed and the whole world got turned upside down. With new heroes popping up every week, some of them with old names, and the world still caught in the sense that the entire planet might be threatened again….

I don’t know. Was it really ‘sidekick physique’ and apathy that had kept Dynamo Girl from getting attention? Or was it a shellshocked nation and giant stories hitting bang bang bang on the public consciousness?

It didn’t matter. It happened, and now I knew where it happened.

So I was on my way up. There were loose ends to tie up.

#

The Amplifier offices looked… smaller, somehow. Maybe a little more cluttered. It was the same place as always, with pictures of stars on the walls and people running ragged.

I don’t know. Maybe I just saw them differently. I walked through to Kyle’s desk.

He was on the phone. “–her that of course we’ll make all the arrangements,” he was saying. “Yes, of course we’ll take extra care. I know you’re not in the… I know. Yes, I know. The cover? Well, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Heh. Of course. You too.” He hung up. “Publicists. Hey, Todd. Looking good.”

“Hey, Kyle. You’re a son of a bitch.”

He blinked, and then he laughed. “Look, I didn’t think there was any chance in Hell you’d agree to go up there for a week. At the same time, this was a chance to really connect with her, you know? So is it–”

“They beat the shit out of me, Kyle. They had a superhero almost spoil one of their heists, and they thought I was responsible, so I got curb stomped. I still ache from it.”

Kyle trailed off, and looked uncomfortable. “Well, you know… that’s a risk, right? I mean, you cover rap–”

“The police interrogated me for a good long time, Kyle. They weren’t sure I didn’t work with her. If the wind had blown a little differently, I’d be in jail right now.”

He laughed, nervously, and spread his hands. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. So… did you write it?”

“Mostly. I have some loose ends to tie up.”

“Pictures?”

“Oh yeah. Good ones. She’ll melt the newsstands.”

Kyle grinned. “That’s my boy.”

“I want two-thirty a word.”

Kyle blinked. “What?”

“Two-thirty a word, Kyle.”

“You’re nuts. We’ve never paid a rate that high.”

“I’m happy to be the first then.”

“We have a contract.” He shrugged. “You agreed to it.”

“That was for an afternoon’s work. Not a week’s.”

“You’ll find the contract doesn’t specify time periods.”

I paused, and smiled. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

“Okay then. Look, if the pictures are as good as you say, we’ll talk bonus, but I–”

“But you should know two things.” I grinned a little more.

“I should?”

“Yeah. First off? The cops wanted to arrest you.”

Kyle blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Conspiracy to kidnap. Aiding and abetting kidnapping. Failure to report a felony kidnapping. Reckless endangerment. Really, you pays your money and you takes your choice.” My smile was broader still.

Kyle had gone pale. “I….”

“Oh, don’t worry. I refused to sign a complaint or press charges. They considered charging you anyway, but I talked them out of it.”

Kyle breathed out sharply. “You’re a friend, Todd,” he said simply. “And… you know, she told me you wouldn’t get hurt–”

“But that leads me to the other thing. The other little factoid you should know.” I looked smug. “See, just because I didn’t press criminal charges doesn’t mean I can’t pursue civil charges.”

“…excuse me?”

“Oh yeah. There’s a ton of civil complaints I could have. I’m told by reputable sources they’d be pretty open and shut, too. So it seems to me we have a choice here, Kyle. I can turn in my story to you, as we contracted, at a buck fifty a word… and I follow that submission with a lawsuit against you, the publisher, the company that owns the publisher, the distributor and anyone else I can make a tenuous connection to all this. A lawsuit that’ll get massive press and that will almost certainly result in a six or seven figure settlement from the company to shut me up and a chance for you to see an unemployment line up close and personal….”

Kyle was silent now.

“…or, I can give you my story and you, out of the goodness of your heart and your recognition of my superior writing and the personal risks I accepted, can pay me two dollars and fifty cents a word instead, and no one involved will ever see a courtroom.”

“You said two-thirty,” he murmured, slightly in shock.

“That was before you said ‘no.’”

He frowned… and then laughed, relaxing. “Shit, Kyle. Let’s call it two sixty a word. No reason to be stingy. This story’s going to be huge.”

I grinning. “You know it, Kyle. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Yeah yeah.” He shook his head. “You had me going there. So what was she like?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes scary as Hell. Sometimes cute as a button. She’s enthusiastic and friendly and fun. And I think she’s really lonely.”

Kyle grinned. “Perfect. We can sell that six ways from Sunday.”

I smiled, a bit weakly. “Yeah, we can.”

Kyle leaned back. “So, going to take some time off, or are you looking for work? I might have something — don’t think for a minute it’ll pay more than a buck thirty a word. I mean, Tom Waits is cool, but he’s not going to bring in–”

“Pass.”

Kyle arched an eyebrow. “So, you are going to take some time off, then?”

“Something like that. It’s been a wild few days.”

Kyle chuckled. “I bet. Anything else?”

“Mm. Oh. Yeah. One other thing. I met Darkhood.”

“Who? Oh — right. Meridian’s other superhero. How was that?”

“Pretty cool, actually. And he wanted me to give you a message.”

“Me?”

“Oh yeah.”

A window exploded behind the two of us, prompting a shriek from some guy at the photocopier. The broadhead arrow that had shattered it sailed through the room, over my head, and embedded itself in the bricks behind Elias, right in the middle of that picture of Kyle meeting Phil Spector. Given the trial and all, I felt that picture was in poor taste anyway.

Kyle, of course, freaked, spilling his coffee and falling out of his chair.

“He says that if you ever, ever hear about where a Supervillain’s lair is again, and send a freelancer to get himself kidnapped instead of calling the police? You’re going to find out just how bad an idea it is to get on a superhero’s bad side.” I grinned, putting my hands in my pockets. “See you around, Kyle.” I nodded to Don at the reviews desk — he looked like he’d just seen a snake — and I turned and walked out of the office.

#

I had found her old haunts by inference and legwork. The streets she used to patrol. The diner she almost certainly had worked at. I parked the Prius and did a walking tour. They were somewhat rough neighborhoods, but it was during the day and besides, I’d slept in the same room with worse than these punks. I was wearing the same outfit I wore when I rode with Dynamo Girl — the turtleneck was cool, the leather coat was nice and durable, and I was glad I got to keep it. And the sunglasses? Hey, vision enhancing glasses were the closest I was ever going to come to superpowers.

I saw the street where she took down the Seventh Avenue City Strikers. I found the building that had replaced the one that had burned down. She’d saved seven people from the fire, including one four year old girl. I bought twinkies from the corner store where she’d saved the guy from three armed robbers. I saw, at a distance, the city councilman she’d rescued from an assassination attempt. She’d dived in front of a bullet. She’d taken it in her side. No big deal with her healing as it worked out. Certainly there were no long term effects. But she couldn’t have known that when she threw herself between the gunman and the councilman. She had to know she could die, right there.

Is there an expiration date on good deeds? Does saving lives in one year excuse stealing Christmas from a kid two years later? I don’t know. I’m not a philosopher. I think Darkhood’s right. But I think maybe Leather’s right too. I certainly think she made a difference to this neighborhood. I certainly think that when a crime’s committed here now, they miss her, and they wish she’d come back.

I found one piece of evidence. Direct evidence, that once a brave young woman called Dynamo Girl had run laughing through these streets. It was on a brick wall down on Seventeenth. A mural — graffiti, really. Amid a pile of tags and Obey stencils, covered over in part by some later artist’s work.

It was a girl in a red leotard, painted cartoony, like anime. Wide eyes with a blue mask, doing a cartwheel. In dynamic motion, the biggest grin in the world on her face.

I took a picture of that piece of street art, and I looked at it for a long moment, and then I went back to the Prius and I got out the briefcase I’d bought two hours before I closed on the car.

Most of the money was going to go to living expenses. Keeping the rent up on my apartment. Keeping me in hotel rooms, at least until I had enough of the book written to get an advance for it. And keeping me in travel and cheap food while I met people. Fifteen had gone to the car. It was nice and safe — and as I’d been directed in her note to me, it was better than my Hyundai had been.

But eight thousand, one hundred and nineteen dollars had to go to loose ends.

I walked onto the liquor store on nineteenth. RIDER LIQUORS the neon sign said. I’d found it by pouring over crime sections of the Bay City Chronicle. They’d never caught the guy. It was a big store, with six cashiers. I could believe that on a Friday night they’d have a lot of money in here. In this section of town? Better believe it.

“Excuse me,” I asked one of the cashiers. “Is the owner in?”

“Yeah.” she said. “Back there.” She nodded to a black man, about fifty two years old. He was putting Scotch on a shelf.

“Thanks.” I walked over to him. “James Rider?”

“Yeah?” he asked, looking me up and down. “What?”

“You owned this store a few years back?”

“I owned this store from the day it opened. Why?” He stood, looking me up and down.

“So you were the owner for the big robbery? You lost eight thousand, one hundred and nineteen dollars on a Friday?”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Make any changes since then?”

He snorted. “If you’re here to sell me a new security system, don’t bother. We put in drop safes after that. No cashier can get access to more than two hundred dollars at any time, and we have better cameras and–”

“I’m not here to sell you anything, Mister Rider. I’m here to make a delivery.”

He frowned. “A delivery?”

I set the briefcase down on a clear area of shelf, and opened it up. Hundred dollar bills stared back at him.

His eyes widened. Then narrowed. “What is this?”

“I’m just the messenger,” I said. “This is the eight thousand, one hundred and nineteen dollars you lost that night. It’s being returned, no strings attached.”

He stared at the money, and then at me. “You working with the guy who stole it?” he asked.

“Nope. Do you remember Dynamo Girl?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Do you remember Dynamo Girl?”

He laughed. “Of course I do. I saw her fight Red Beast! She was amazing. I thought she was dead or something.”

“Not quite. This is from her.”

He blinked again. “From Dynamo Girl?”

“Yup.” I stepped back, leaving the briefcase. “She got delayed, is all. But it’s all there.”

“You know Dynamo Girl?”

I nodded.

“Where is she?”

“I dunno,” I said.

He looked at me, then at the money. “Dynamo Girl got my money back?”

“She did.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t that a kick in the head,” he said.

“Yeah.” I grinned. We shook hands. “You have a nice day, Mister Rider.”

“You too. And if you see Dynamo Girl again, you tell her thank you. And tell her we miss her.”

“I hope I get the chance,” I said.

That night, I pulled out of Bay City. They don’t have a hero of their own right now. I was going to head west. I’d thought about going to Crown City and try to chase down Paragon or Washington D.C. to find the Lieutenant, or even Greystone City and track down the Nightwatch, even if his rogues were psychotic. But I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of press out there on those guys. But there’s not so much being written about some of the others. Guys like Rubicon, up in Republic City. Or Santa Domingo’s Silver Horseman. Or the Beacon herself, in Paramount. There was a real cheerleader type up in the Puget Sound area — a girl with real ‘sidekick physique,’ that what stories were written were speculating she would be teaming up with some other hero really soon, if she wasn’t already.

And there were the bad guys. Oh, I could probably interview Leonardo Lucas in prison — if he were still in prison — but he’d been interviewed lots of times. I was more interested in Bandolier, or the Red Claw. Maybe track down Lady Velvet, wherever she had retired to, or O Gato Cinzento back in Meridian City.

I didn’t know just then. I had enough money to go for a while, though. And a lot of ground to cover. And I knew I wanted it to be new ground. We all know something about the first and second tier, heroes and villains alike. It was the third and fourth tier that interested me.

I wondered, absently, if I was going to get killed along the way. Well, maybe I was.

I pulled out of Bay City and onto the Interstate. Heading for the middle of the country — the crossroads of America. And from there, we’d see what I could turn up. Who I could talk to. I had the gear, and a new phone, a computer and a camera and a good recorder. And I had quite a few months before hunger might drive me back to writing about Eminem or the latest Lindsey Lohan trainwreck.

I hit play on the iPod. No playlist this time. I wasn’t psyching myself up to see Leather or Dynamo Girl. This was my story now.

The random die was thrown. The opening strains of “Consequence Free” by Great Big Sea came on the speakers. I sped up to seventy as they sang. Wouldn’t it be great if no one ever got offended? Wouldn’t it be great to say what’s really on your mind? I have always said all the rules were made for bending — and if I let my hair down, would that be such a crime?

I grinned. “Time to save the world,” I murmured, and headed down the highway to whatever showed up next.

Of course, it occurs to me that Greg Fishbone, my former editor, children’s author, and man about town, might well have a copy of the file sitting on a zip disk somewhere. On the other hand, I think he has better ways to spend his time than coming up with my old crap for these purposes.

Anyway, here then is the third chapter in our story. I hope you like it. And yeah, I know full well there’ll be theories on what the All American Lad could have done differently. Just keep it to 1946 technology, if you will. ;)

I sat on the ground, staring at Victoria Esterhaus, who was lying next to me. I’d gotten the helmet off her face – it was her all right. The same black curly hair. The same delicate features. She looked like she should be playing the Queen of the May in a Junior College play. Not wearing a ton of metal and flying around the city, burning criminals.

I was good at first aid – you kind of have to be, in that line of work. I got her bandaged, and I got a blanket from my motorcycle – sneaking around. I didn’t want to talk to the police right now. There was too much I had to figure out.

She probably had some cracked ribs, but none of them seemed broken through. That armor shell might have been shattered by Browbeat, but it also cut the blow enough to keep her alive, if unconscious. I wrapped her up, and I started for Topaz City Mercy Hospital…

And I coasted to a stop.

I couldn’t take her in the front door. Oh, sure, she’d had her name published. But no one knew what “V. Esterhaus” looked like, and pretty much everyone assumed Lieutenant Blockbuster was male. If I blew her identity….

I couldn’t do that. No matter how much I resented Lieutenant Blockbuster, you didn’t mess with a Mystery Man’s secret identity. You just didn’t.

Besides… it was easy to hate the iron soldier rocketing over the city so smugly. It was harder to hate a girl who’d saved your life and nearly gotten herself killed doing it.

I sped off again, heading for home. I didn’t know what else I could do. I had to talk to Sam… I had to get Blockbuster under cover.

I had to figure out what to do about Browbeat — a man who flung cars like baseballs. A man I shot in the eyes eight times and didn’t even scratch.

I got her up the fire escape and through the back window. My mother was shocked. “Lad,” she half-shouted — she was great when it came to keeping my identity, just in case — “who–”

“Lieutenant Blockbuster,” I snapped. “She’s hurt. Get Sam up here — and we need to get her a change of clothes before we can take her to the hospital.”

My father blinked and ran for the door, to go and get Sam. I brought Blockbuster into my room, and laid her on the bed. I started examining her to work out just how badly her ribs were cracked — which made me glad my mask covered my face, I was blushing so much.

“You’re good at that,” she said weakly.

“Huh? Oh. Thanks.” I kept working. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since… since the motorcycle.” She closed her eyes. “I finally… got to ride with the All-American Lad.”

My mouth dropped open… just then the door burst open and Sam came in with Dad, carrying his first aid kit. “So, this is the famous Blockbuster,” he asked?

I nodded. “She took a hit — some guy who bounced bullets like raindrops. I’ve never seen anything like it–”

Sam frowned. “So not all the Gods are good ones,” he murmured.

“We’re not Gods,” Blockbuster half-moaned. “Have to… get home….”

“Nuh-uh,” I said. “You need to get changed, so we can get you to a hospital. You’ve got some banged up ribs, and you’re lucky you don’t have a punctured lung. You have to get checked out.”

She opened her eyes and mouth to argue, then closed them and nodded.

Sam and Dad took her. They were going to claim she got smacked by a door in Sam’s shop. I watched her go, then sat at the kitchen table.

“Was it bad,” Mom asked.

“It wasn’t good,” I said. “He shattered that metal shell she wore with one punch.”

Mom nodded. “And you’re going after him?”

“It’s my job.”

She nodded again. “Lenny?”

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about fighting fair. Just stop him.”

I looked down. “I already shot him eight times in the eyes. It made him run, but it didn’t hurt him. I don’t know how much dirtier I can fight.”

Mom frowned. “Well then. I guess you’ll have to find something better than shooting him in the eyes.”

#

The Ninth Precinct wardroom was somber when I walked in. They knew me there — no one questioned me walking in.

“Hey Sarge,” I said to Desk Sergeant Carlotti. “Any word on Browbeat?”

He snorted. “No. And I hope it stays that way.”

“Good. We can start planning how to take him down, then.”

He gave me a long look.

I frowned, and looked around. Six or seven cops were all staring at me. “Come on, boys,” I said. “The city’s counting on us.”

“Then the city made a mistake,” Officer Gerber said sullenly, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey!” I looked around again. “I know how it looks–”

“C’mon, Lad,” Carlotti said. “These are good cops, but you saw that monster. We can’t stop him.”

“He barely noticed us,” Officer Rossi said. “I emptied two clips into him, and I was just an annoyance.”

“Yeah, you shot him in the eyes!” Gerber said.

“And that drove him off! He’s not invulnerable, guys!”

“Drove him off but didn’t really hurt him. It just stung him,” Carlotti said. “Besides….”

I looked at him. “Besides what?” I asked quietly.

He shuffled, hands in his pockets. He looked like a little kid instead of a veteran cop. “You saw what he did to Lieutenant Blockbuster,” he said. “He killed him with one punch!”

“Blockbuster isn’t dead,” I snapped. “I took care of he-him. Got him to medical attention.”

“He might as well be dead,” Gerber said. “We have what’s left of that metal shell he wore? It looks like a couple guys took it apart with jackhammers! I’m just a cop! What do I do–”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Stop it, all of you!”

That got their attention. And not in a good way. But I stuck to my guns. “Look, Lieutenant Blockbuster’s tough. We all know it! And Browbeat scares you. Well he scares me too. But he’s not all powerful. We don’t need superpowers to stop him. We need each other and we need our brains and we need to have a plan! We know he’ll be back. And we have to be ready for him, once and for all!”

“Geez, Lad — how are we supposed to do that?” Rossi asked. “Blockbuster–”

“Blockbuster had firepower. God or science gave Blockbuster abilities we don’t have. But that doesn’t mean we can’t level that playing field. Gerber — is your brother still stationed up at the National Guard base?”

“Well, sure — but we can’t call out the Guard! That would take the Governor, and if we call the Governor’s mansion and tell them we can’t protect Topaz City from–”

“We’re not gonna call out the Guard, but can your brother get his hands on some ordinance for us?”

“They don’t just hand out machine guns, Lad,” Carlotti said. “Gerber’s brother could get in a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe — but I know the Colonel.” He was one of the few who knew why Second Lieutenant Len Davis was awarded a Silver Star. “I don’t think I could get him to authorize some heavy firepower — that’d call attention to himself — but I bet I can arrange some unofficial blind spots for Gerber’s brother to get us the gear.”

Rossi frowned. “You really think it’ll work, Lad? Against Browbeat?”

“I think we need to try. He’s still human, no matter how thick his skin is. And if he’s human, he can be hurt.” I looked around. “I know. It’s scary. It was a little awe inspiring to think about heroes with these weird powers, and now it’s frightening to think of criminals with them. But no matter what they can do, they’re still people. The law still applies to them. And when they break the law, we go in and stop them. Right?”

There wasn’t any response.

“Right?”

This time there was a half-hearted ‘right’ from a half-dozen or so of them.

“Okay. Then let’s get to work. We’ll take this bruiser yet!”

The organization and setup were surprisingly easy. The Colonel was more than happy to help, and even loaned us a couple of Guard soldiers to actually use the equipment. Which looking back I’m pretty sure was illegal about six different ways, but this was a new world for him, too. When we actually began organizing, enthusiasm built up. I mean, I get it — it’s hard not to feel helpless, sometimes. But when you actually knuckle down and start doing, it shakes you out of it.

We set up a loose network, beat cops staying close to their callboxes. If they saw someone matching the description — or, you know, throwing a bus or something — they’d call it in. Dispatch would get our new “Anti-Browbeat” squad dispatched. The plan was I’d go in ahead. I’d stung him — a little — in our last encounter, and so we hoped I’d be good bait. We’d tangle a bit, while giving the squad a chance to set up, and then?

Then the Colonel’s help would kick in. That help was a couple of privates and what was officially called the Rocket Launcher M9, but what most people just called a bazooka. These things took out German tanks — I had to believe they’d take out Browbeat.

Of course, Lieutenant Blockbuster was known for being able to take out German tanks too. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was pretty actively not thinking about Blockbuster in any way, really. Which probably makes sense. On the one hand, I felt guilty. I’d had such a hate on for her. On the other hand, I still resented her for all the same reasons. And on a third hand, she’d saved my life. Sure, I was grateful, but I’m given to understand some Japanese words for ‘gratitude’ can also translate as ‘resentment,’ and that’s what I was feeling. I resented Victoria Esterhaus for saving my life — for being able to save my life when there was little or nothing I could have done to save myself. It took me out of the role of hero and into the role of victim, and I didn’t like that.

Irrational? Sure. I mean, if you think about it I also saved her life. But I was feeling better now that I had a plan to stop that behemoth with normal men and a normal, if powerful, weapon.

It was a day and a half before the call went out. He was seen on Forty-third, heading for the bank. Me and the boys rolled out almost immediately.

I swear, he looked bigger. His hair was wild, almost like an animal’s, and his eyes were wide. He looked like he was on uppers, staring every which way, his back almost vibrating as he walked.

“Browbeat!” I shouted. I know. I’d had a day and a half to come up with witty repartee and all I could say was ‘Browbeat.’ Sue me.

He turned to face me. His face contorted and he hunched down. “You!” he spat. “You shot me in the eyes!”

“You should thank me — you look better with your hands covering your face.”

“Funny man,” he said. “So funny.” And he scooped up a ’42 Packard and threw it at me. Just like that. He reached out, grabbed the back of the car — I think it was a 160 Family Sedan? You know the ones, with the long body in two tone? Sort of wagonish?

I guess you don’t really care. It was a big car, and his fingers gripped into the metal like it was butter, and he heaved it up and at me in one fluid motion, like he was scooping up a baseball. If I sound amazed, it’s because I was then and I still am now. The ease of it. I kept forgetting this guy wasn’t like me.

I dove to one side and the car smashed behind me, skidding, I fired four quick shots, two from each revolver, bouncing them off his skull. He was being cagy enough that getting another eye shot would be hard, but I didn’t care. I was trying to keep his attention while the privates got the artillery ready. He charged at me, growling like some kind of animal. I dove to the left and rolled — waiting until the last second so he wouldn’t have a chance to wheel around, and I tossed a gas grenade at him. I didn’t normally carry these, but I knew where to get ahold of them and I wanted to hurt him.

My luck, he didn’t seem to care about the gas. He didn’t cough, his eyes didn’t sting — he just whirled and leaned down and tore a chunk of pavement out and threw it at me. This time he caught a piece of me, too — I was doing another leap to dodge but a chunk of the pavement separated on his throw and tagged me in the leg. Even through the thick leather it felt like I’d been clubbed, but I ignored it and did a forward roll, coming up with guns hot and firing another couple of shots. I swear they almost sparked as they bounced off his skin, it was so hard.

“You’re just trying to get me mad,” he growled at me. “Don’t you get it? You’re nothing but a bug to me, ‘All American Lad!’ This is my town now, and no one’s takin’ it away from me!”

“You never had it to begin with!” I snapped. “If you keep this up, you’re going to get hurt — is that what you want?”

He stared at me for a moment. And then he chuckled. “I’m going to get hurt?” he asked. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Better believe I am.” And the boys fired from the roof of a brownstone.

It was a beautiful shot — nailed him in the back, halfway down, the shell exploding on impact. He screamed something as the explosion threw him forward, rolling, the remnants of his shirt burning before he hit the Western Auto storefront, shattering the window and sliding to the ground.

I grinned. “Yes!” I shouted, running to the side, covering him with my guns and keeping out of the way of the bazooka fire–

Browbeat pushed up onto his feet. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he asked.

I blinked. “That was a bazooka,” I said. “That’s not possible. I was a little worried it would kill you!”

“Yeah, I’d stop worrying about that,” he said, and rushed me.

The boys fired a second shot, but he was running now, so they just managed to take out that Western Auto — fortunately, everyone in it had run when he threw the car. I dove to the side, but this time he swung an arm like a hook, snagging my left leg and hurling me across the street like a ragdoll. I felt blind panic for a half-second, and then I felt the bricks I smashed into. Bullets began bouncing off Browbeat as the cops began shooting. Some of the bullets sounded high powered. Rifles of some sort. They might as well have used spitballs.

I didn’t make it back to my feet before he got hold of me. The guns went silent as he lifted me up. He pulled me close and looked me in the eyes. “You talk and you talk and you talk,” he said, very quietly. Almost like he was hissing. “But you don’t listen. Your little toys can’t hurt me. I don’t care if they go pop or they go boom. They can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt me. I didn’t want to cause trouble during the war — that was big. It was a war. But it’s over now, and this town is mine now, and you need to remember that.”

I didn’t answer. I was scared, and in a lot of pain, and there was nothing to say. Tough talk would have just sounded stupid.

He leaned close, and almost crooned. “I want you to think about this, All American Lad. I want you to go home and think all this over. I want your policemen friends to think about this. I want everyone down here to think about this.” His nose almost touched mine, we were so close. “You can’t. Hurt. Me. All you can do is get hurt yourself. And to be honest, I’m sick of you trying. So I’m going to go away for one week. One week, ‘Lad.’ And then I’m going to come back and make a day of it. And anyone who gets in my way or tries to stop me is going to die. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth, boy?!” he roared.

“Yes!” I snapped. “But you better be ready to kill us, then.”

He laughed. “Kid, I’m ready to kill you right now.” And he threw me halfway down the block, into a pack of cops.

The throw hurt. My shoulders hurt from where he squeezed them. My whole body hurt from slamming into the brick wall. I felt nauseous. I felt humiliated.

I felt small.

But I pushed up. The cops around me were getting up, too. “Jeez, Lad,” Gerber said. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Plan B,” I said.

The privates were running across the street. “We couldn’t get another shot,” the P.F.C. in charge of the detail said. “I didn’t want another miss and then he was holding you and then he jumped off–”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Next time, we just have to be smart. I’ll try to get him in position and then you need to shoot for his eyes. I know they can at least sting him when I shoot them, so–”

“Aim for the eyes?” the Private said. “Jeez Louise, Lad — this is a bazooka. At even short ranges it’s hard to aim at a tank and hit it. You think I can do rifle sharpshooting with it?”

“There’s not going to be the next time,” Carlotti said. “I was talking to the Captain before this came down. He said if it failed, he was going to call the Governor. This is the National Guard’s problem.”

“Hey, we weren’t even supposed to be here today,” the second private complained. “What, you’re going to have the Governor declare Topaz City a state of emergency for one guy?”

“This one guy threw a car like it was made’a balsa wood!” Rossi shouted. “This ain’t a normal situation!”

“It’s going to be,” the P.F.C. shouted. “Don’t you get it? It’s one guy today, and then another tomorrow, and another after that — are you gonna put the city under Martial Law every time one of these freaks show up?”

“If we got more gear, and better training,” Carlotti said.

“Oh no way,” Gerber said. “When the War ended, I got outta the army. I’m not gonna stick around for a new one.”

I rubbed my brow, tuning out the fight. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was Sam. He must have heard about the fight on the radio and come down to see it. “Hey,” I said.

“You did good,” he said quietly. “Very brave. I was very proud.”

“I got my butt kicked,” I said. “I couldn’t hurt him.”

We walked to where I had my bike parked. I was limping. I know he wanted to offer me a hand — some support, to let me lean on him — but he didn’t. He knew the All American Lad had to walk on his own, without a civilian’s help. “You didn’t give up. Next time, you’ll find a way.”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand,” I said. “The gas didn’t stop him. The bazooka didn’t stop him. What, next time I’ll carry a grenade and try to get it on his eyes? Or acid or something? Sooner or later, I’m not being a hero. I’m just finding more and more brutal things to shoot at him. And who knows if any of them will work.”

“I liked your plan,” he said. “The one about shooting him in the eyes with the bazooka?”

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “I liked it too, but the soldiers are right. Bazookas aren’t designed for precision aiming, but nothing we have that can be aimed that precisely would hurt Browbeat. I mean, maybe if we got a high enough powered sniper rifle, but I’m not sure even a fifty cal to his eye would stop him.”

“There must be a way to have a sniper’s precision with a shell’s power, Lad. You just need to figure it out.”

And then it hit me.

“Lad?”

“Excuse me, Sam,” I said softly. “I have to go.”

I got into civvie clothes before going into the hospital. I managed to get her room number, and headed up to see her. We needed to talk before visiting hours were over.

As it turned out, my timing was about perfect. She had put on a pair of slacks and a blouse, and was clearly waiting to be picked up. I knocked on the door frame.

She turned. “Yes?” she asked.

“Victoria, we need to talk,” I said.

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Do I know you?” She seemed so petite, standing there.

I took out the silver star badge I wore. We’d always worn badges — the whole western thing, after all. Mine was silver now because I was the sheriff, and because I’d been awarded a Silver Star, and even though I couldn’t officially make the connection, it meant something to me.

She looked at it, and comprehension flashed in her eyes. She blushed and turned away. “I meant to thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“You saved mine first,” I said softly.

She shrugged. “I should have stayed out of it. Let you handle him. I’m sor–”

“I couldn’t have handled him. I can’t handle him, Victoria. He nearly killed me today.”

She stopped, and turned to look at me.

I looked down. “He’s not my enemy, Victoria. My enemies were guys like Desperado Dan or Dapper Boy Thompkins or Doctor Hans Konrad. Normal guys. Maybe a little smarter or a lot more evil than their neighbors, but normal guys. This is your enemy. And we need Lieutenant Blockbuster.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “You’re out of uniform,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“Len,” I said, softly. “Len Davis.”

“Well, Len Davis… you have a problem.” She looked down. “Lieutenant Blockbuster is dead.”

In the end, if there’s one thing that I think has come clear in this series, it’s that Leather isn’t quite as simple as she appears on the surface.

Regardless, when it’s over I’m going to miss Todd, Leather, Marco and the gang. We’ll have to see what comes next.

Enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

Inspector Harris sat down, dropping the collar on the table. “Yeah, it’s safe,” he said. “There’s a couple of wires looping through it, but they just lead from a watch battery to a little capacitor. As near as we can tell, it’s designed to give the wearer a tiny jolt when it’s first put on. So they think it’s… I dunno, active.”

I noticed the cap that had what Leather and Marco called the ‘blow jelly’ under it was off. “You found the gel?” I asked. “The one I told you about?”

Harris smiled slightly. “Oh yeah. We found it.”

“So… it wasn’t anything… dangerous?”

“Well, it could certainly have been turned to illegal purpose.”

“It could?”

“Sure.” He grinned more. “See, if you spread it over your favorite newspaper comics, it would capture the image and lift it off. That’s copyright infringement. There’s laws against copyright infringement, Mister Chapman.”

I closed my eyes. “Silly Putty. They put a collar with a watch battery and Silly Putty around my neck. I must look like the biggest idiot you’ve ever seen in here.”

Harris chuckled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If it were me, I’d have done the same thing. I mean, how are you going to test a bomb around your neck? Set it off?”

“Yeah, okay.” I took a deep breath. It had been a long afternoon. The police had debriefed me, to make sure I wasn’t working with Leather. It didn’t help my case that apparently Kyle hadn’t told them I had been kidnapped — and why should he? He knew I’d be gone a week. He just didn’t tell me.

But they established that yes indeed, I had been a prisoner of a supervillain for several days. And I spilled my guts on everything I saw there.

And maybe that seems weird to you. I mean, there’s a way in which Leather, Marco, the bagmen — even the Steve had been almost friends. And yeah, there would be things I missed. Not counting the beating, of course. But at the same time, I wasn’t a henchman or a villain. I’m a reporter, and it’s not like I was protecting my sources here. I was interviewing them, and there was nothing from that week off the record. Hell, they knew I was going to write it all down and publish it in a magazine anyway.

So, there was no reason not to spill everything. It would be dumb not to.

They had me checked out at a hospital before the debriefing started. The beating I’d taken had left some marks and some pains, but there was no sign of lasting trauma. Otherwise, I talked to some very nice policemen and I was as forthright as I knew how to be — up to handing my notes over. To be copied, mind. I wasn’t about to lose the story I spent a week being held prisoner to get.

And then we took a ride out to the lair. And it wasn’t just me and several police cars. In fact, I rode in a van, and across from me rode Darkhood himself.

Darkhood is generally serious. He’s a solid looking man with kind of remarkable physical conditioning, and you get the feeling he’s always keeping his eyes open and staring right through you. Having seen the man execute some of his trick shots, I can believe it.

I suppose they left me alone with him so he could glean any information off me I had neglected to tell the cops. But, you know. I’m a journalist, doing a story on a supervillain called Leather. And here I had someone on the other side, who’d just had a knock down drag out fight with her. Like I was going to miss a chance like this.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Hm?” That piercing gaze flicked to me.

“I saw the fight. That was a pretty brutal kick.”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Body armor took the brunt, and I ragdolled to absorb some of the rest. I’ll be sore for a while, and I thought I’d pull my arms out of their sockets when the line went taut.”

“I was wondering. You know, if it was a bungie thing or–”

“Composite cord,” he said. “Some give but not much. I made the anchor shot and tried my best to turn it into a swing. Which managed to jolt my arms and then hook me under the overpass, smacking me into the underside.” He shrugged. “Not the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“So she won?”

“How do you figure?”

“She got away.”

He shrugged again. “Her men were carrying close to seven million dollars in those bags. This is one of BankOne’s central distribution hubs, and they had access to the vault and a lot of packaged hundred dollar bills. They left that money behind. They left the Mountbatten Urn behind. No civilians were hurt, the bank guards were just shaken up, and even the cops didn’t have more than bruises and one broken nose. I’d rather have captured her, but that’s still a good day’s work.”

“But you have to know… I mean, this was the blow-off.”

Darkhood looked at me. How I knew a man in a hood and domino mask had arched his eyebrow was beyond me, but that was clearly the case.

“She was there for publicity. She didn’t really expect to get the money. She was there–”

“To fight me,” Darkhood finished.

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

I looked away, slightly uncomfortable. “She says that you guys… you heroes need villains.”

He snorted. “I’m sure she did.”

“Seriously. I think she’s a fan more than anything. She says that without villains you guys would look silly. You’d be a joke. She says–”

“Paragon and the Nightwatch both started their careers before there were any costumed villains. The Lieutenant fought commandos and mercenaries long before Blackmask showed up. And you honestly think I’d stop doing what I do just because supervillains stopped showing up?” He shook his head. “Six nights out of seven — no, twenty five days out of thirty I don’t see anyone in a costume. Sometimes more. I see thieves and toughs and gangs and drug pushers.” He half-smiled. “You interview celebrities, right?”

I shrugged. “I work in entertainment journalism.”

“You ever interview a comedian?”

“Sure.”

“What did they think of hecklers?”

“Generally? They hate their guts.”

“Why?”

“Because they spent weeks or months or even years refining and fine tuning an act, and some drunk in the back of the room is screwing with it.”

“That’s right.” He leaned back against the van, looking at me. “You talk to a good number of those hecklers, and they think they’re helping. They really do. And because the comedian’s good at what he does, he makes their ‘help’ funny. But that doesn’t mean he likes them, and that doesn’t mean his act depends on them. In the end the hecklers are just deluded. They want to be the center of attention, and they justify crappy, selfish behavior by claiming it helps.”

“Huh.” We rode quietly for about thirty seconds. “So it wouldn’t bother you if all the villains disappeared tomorrow?”

“Bother me? I’d throw a party.”

“Really?”

“Really. I mean, think about it, Mister Chapman. Let’s say that she was right, and that I’d feel… what was it? Silly? Silly showing up in costume if there were no costumed villains.” He looked at me. “So we reduce crime. We protect lives and civilians, and we get metahuman and paranormal criminals out of the equation, and the only price is my embarrassment? You think I wouldn’t take that deal in a second?”

I chuckled. “I guess you would. So, she’s just wrong?”

“Mm.” He leaned back. “She’s wrong headed. In a number of ways, but there’s a specific case in this one. We don’t need villains to be heroes… but some villains — like her? They need us to need them.”

“Huh?”

“It’s how she sleeps at night. She wants to go out and steal whatever she likes. But she pretends she has a conscience, and it’s bothered. But if she decides that she’s enabling heroes to be heroic and inspirational, she can put her conscience to rest and steal whatever she likes.”

“So it’s safe to say you don’t like her?”

“What do you think?”

“She likes you.”

He shrugs. “For some value of like that includes aggravated assault and attempted murder.”

I frowned. “I don’t think she meant to kill you with that kick. She got–”

Darkhood laughed. “I don’t care what she meant to do, Mister Chapman. She used lethal force in our fight, and it came damn close to either killing me or crippling me.” He looked at me. “Let me guess. You’ve tagged her as one of the safe ones.”

I looked away. “I got my ass kicked while I was there. And sometimes she scared the Hell out of me.”

“Yeah, but you figure she’s not really hurting anyone, right?”

I paused. “Well, she isn’t, is she? She doesn’t kill anyone. She just steals things.”

“Heh. Just.” He looked away. “She stole nearly a million dollars in jewelry at the beginning of the week. That means the corporation that owned that jewelers has to make a major insurance claim. Someone has to pay for what she took, Mister Chapman. And that means their rates go up and they have to fix their building, and that’s assuming the company doesn’t just close that branch and fire all the workers. You saying that doesn’t hurt?”

I flushed. “Yeah, but–”

“Or even better. She robbed Fry’s Electronics out on 40th. It was a good target, because their warehouse is built into the same building as their sales floor. And she stole over five hundred video game consoles, six days before they actually are scheduled to be released.”

“So?”

“So?” Darkhood laughed, slightly bitterly. “Mister Chapman, all those consoles were preordered. And sure, some of them were preordered by speculators, and they don’t get to have one now — but even if they get their money refunded they no doubt were counting on the markup they could do on eBay. And some of them weren’t preordered by speculators. They were preordered by people who want those games. Hardcore gamers maybe. Or kids, Mister Chapman. Kids who begged their parents and were so excited because they actually got one of the preorders before they were closed, and now they were guaranteed the newest and greatest game.” He snorted. “Doesn’t hurt anybody. Leather stole an eleven year old’s birthday present — something he’s been excited over for months. You think his father getting their money back will make up for that?”

I didn’t answer. I felt two inches tall.

“In the end, Leather doesn’t care what her crimes do to other people, Mister Chapman. She wants her lifestyle and she’s more than happy to let other people pay for it. No, I don’t like her. I’m glad she tries not to kill people. She’s not brutal like some I’ve faced. But that doesn’t make her nice and that doesn’t mean her line of work doesn’t hurt innocent people.”

“So you fight her,” I said quietly. “And you drive her off. Or you put her in jail. But you know she’s going to get away or break out. You know that. How do you keep doing it?”

He looked at me. “Someone has to,” he said.

It was my turn to snort.

“What?”

“That’s not an answer. It’s an aphorism. It’s what you say to shut people up. But you don’t have to. Especially not in Meridian City.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this is Transit’s town. She’s a high powered heroine. You’re always going to be in her shadow. Second fiddle.” I thought back to my conversation with Leather on the subject.”No matter how good you get, you’re going to be high school varsity and she’s going to be the major leagues.”

“And?”

I shrugged. “How do you put up with it? Put up with getting page fourteen instead of page one? Put up with her getting the glory? Put up with–”

“Good Lord, you make it sound so petty,” he said. “I don’t put up with Transit. I thank the Good Lord Jesus she’s here every day, and when she has to be away I bust my ass trying to cover for her. When she’s here, she generally handles the high powered threats, the city-wide dangers, and for that matter I can call her when I get in over my head.” He stared at me. “Do you think just because Transit can teleport a street gang into Meridian Bay, I feel worse about taking them down with stunners and net-arrows?”

I looked at him. “No,” I said. “I guess I don’t think that.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” He looked to the front of the van. “We’re almost there?”

“Looks like.”

We rode for a few moments.

“I wish she’d been around today,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because alone I stopped the bank heist. With Transit, we’d have taken them all in.” He chuckled. “Hell, Transit could have taken Leather all by herself, with one hand behind her back. I could have concentrated on taking her henchmen down and safeguarding the cops and civilians.”

“You feel guilty for letting her get away?”

“Not really.” He continued watching the road ahead. “I did what I could. If I hadn’t been there, she’d have gotten seven times the payday than all the rest of her crimes put together, and I got the Mountbatten Urn back. I’m not going to beat myself up because she got away this time.” He looked at me. “But I wish Transit had been here, because then she wouldn’t have gotten away. And next time, Transit or not? She won’t.”

And looking in his eyes, I believed him.

Seeing what was left of Leather’s lair was almost shocking. The Service wasn’t content to strip it clean. They wanted to be sure it wouldn’t contain clues, so they burned it to the ground.

“This whole area is still smoking,” Inspector Harris said. “Do we have the MCFD on their way?”

“Yeah!” One of the crime scene investigators called back. “But we need to tag the place before we spray it down!”

“Good luck with that,” Darkhood murmured.

“You don’t think they’ll find something?”

Darkhood shook his head. “Villains have these support services they spend an incredible amount of money with. They’re very good at eliminating evidence. They won’t find anything.”

I looked at the chunks of smoldering brick. “What could do this? A bomb?”

“More likely they lined the roof of this place with thermite and set it off. Let it burn down through all the floors and scour everything clean.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“So you know about the Service?”

Darkhood nodded.

“Why don’t you shut it down? Or the Henchmens’ Guild. Or Transport Service?”

“Not that easy,” he said. “They work cell style. Every link in the chain at most knows two or three other links. Everyone gets paid really well, so they don’t have a good reason to rat out what they do know. Plus, the penalties for squealing are horrific. It’s as hard or harder than cracking the Mafia, because at least the Mafia’s actively committing crimes. Running drugs or numbers or protection rackets. Yeah, their teamsters service is aiding and abetting, but they look like any other truckers or moving companies, and if you search their trucks, almost all their stuff looks normal at first glance.”

“I suppose.”

“Sometimes we get lucky. I know the Lieutenant did serious harm to the Mid-Atlantic organization a couple years back. But they always close ranks and get things back running. And sometimes it makes it harder to fight the real criminals when we hurt the businesses.”

“What? Really?”

“I know one or two heroes who’ve infiltrated their local branch of one of the support services,” Darkhood said. “They get to keep their ear to the ground. Hear when a villain’s touring into their city. Be proactive instead of reactive.” He shrugged.

“Do heroes have anything like them?”

“Not really. There’s a few covert organizations that gather intel and pass it on to us, though it’s hard to be sure they’re really on our side. Justice Wing’s arranged a few things, too. Medical assistance options. I know of one hero who had his identity made, and Justice Wing got him and his wife into something like the witness protection program. Things like that.”

“Seems unfair.”

“Not really. They’re for-profit. Of course they need infrastructure. We’re volunteer.”

“Right.” I looked to the side. “Looks like they left my car.”

“Yup. Want to go check it out with me?”

“Shouldn’t we avoid touching it?”

“Probably.” Darkhood walked over to my Hyundai. After a moment, I followed.

It was still in bad shape, of course. The hood was still crushed. The windshield was was still just so much broken glass, and the truck wheel well was still sitting in my front seat area.

“Leather did this?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Heh. Yeah. No victims, right?”

I flushed. “I didn’t count myself.”

“I’d think you’d be the first one counted.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have a letter,” he said.

I blinked, and walked over, next to him.

He was right. Sitting on the driver’s seat, amid glass and mold from the rain that had soaked into the upholstery over the past week, there sat an envelope. My name was on a laser printed label on the front.

“That’s new,” I said. “Should we get the cops over here? Forensics and all that?”

“This isn’t a murder case,” Darkhood said. “They’re investigating, but no one expects to find some hint of where Leather and the others went.”

“Unless that’s a hint?”

“Unless indeed.” He opened the door — at some point it had been unlocked. I suppose it hardly mattered at that point — and picked the envelope up. It wasn’t sealed on the back so he lifted the flap and looked inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

He chuckled. “You don’t know?”

“I have no clue.”

“Interesting. It’s a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars. Made out to you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” He glanced at the seat. “There seems to be a message for you, too.

I looked. He was right. It was written in sharpie, and had been covered by the envelope.

“PROMISE ME YOU’LL GET A BETTER CAR NEXT TIME!” it read, with a little heart after it.

“We… need to tell the cops,” I said. “That’s stolen money.”

“Yes we do,” Darkhood agreed. He was smirking.

“…it’s not like that. She probably felt guilty about wrecking my car at the beginning of the week.”

“I’m sure she did, Casanova.” Darkhood said, walking back towards the police. “Come on, let’s get this turned in.”

I hope folks like it.

We also (finally) have some fan art to put up. The first comes from Brian Stinson, based on Katie Tandler’s art, and is called Leather the Series. Click on it to see it in full size — and you want to see it in full size:

The second is from old friend of the writing Tephlon, who — like quite a few of the readers — really enjoyed Leather’s Dynamo Girl turn. So here she is in all her lycra glory!

Beyond that, please enjoy! With luck we’ll be back on Tuesday next week, and things will be cheerfully normal.

And yes. That means this is not the last part.

*** *** *** ***

In a way, this was going to be the blowoff to my story just as much as it was the blowoff to the week’s criminal undertakings. This was the crime scene I was going to be at ground zero for. I’d like to say I was feeling a surge of adrenalin and a cool sense of adventure, but to be perfectly blunt I felt carsick.

For the record, I was in the ‘third row’ of the Leathermobile, which was just as big on the inside as the outside. I was sitting on a bench style seat that could be folded into the floor for convenience. I sat next to a brown cardboard box which had been carefully strapped into a seat. This was the Mountbatten Urn, I knew. I’d seen it the night before — it had been snagged without a hitch.

Priceless or not, it looked like an old pot. And while she was psyched — Leather was always psyched after a job worked — she wasn’t nearly as into the Urn as she had been the commercial jewelry they still made fun of. This one wasn’t about money. It could have been any macguffin. And it was being hauled to a new crime scene on the off-chance Leather needed to distract or bargain down Darkhood or the cops.

Which is of course why I was strapped in next to it. The collar was strapped around my throat again. I’d submitted without a struggle, but I didn’t put it on myself this time. Nor did they ask me. This time, I was a prisoner, and the threat of blowing my stupid head off wasn’t to guarantee my good behavior while Leather played at superhero.

Carsick barely describes it.

Leather was drumming her fingers on the car door. “Is the MickDee’s still serving breakfast?” she asked.

“Until ten thirty,” Marco said. He was driving. Wheelman, like they said. The Bagmen were behind the two of them, with me and the urn in the back.

“We should totally get MickDee’s,” Leather said. “Who wants a McMuffin?”

“I could go for a sausage biscuit,” one of the bagmen said.

“The Steve’s halfway to the bank,” Marco said. “You sure you want to take the time?”

“Yeah. Get three egg mcmuffins, three sausage mcmuffins, three sausage biscuits and whatever people want to drink. Chapman! You want anything?”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to think about sausage. Of all the ways to prolong my lifespan, throwing up on a bagman seemed at the bottom of the list.

“Okay then,” she said. She was bouncing in her seat, all nervous energy. I remembered what she was like on the Dynamo Girl run — all smooth and professional. Excited but not frenetic. It must make a difference to know how it’s all going to play out in advance. Or at least know how you intend for it to play out.

The plan was, if anything, even more basic than the jewel heist. It was literally “drive up to the bank, double park, get the hostage and the urn out, hit the bank and start grabbing all the cash they could.” There was no finesse, no careful planning. This was an overt shout, taunting Darkhood and the Meridian City Metropolitan Police to try and catch Leather. And in a weird way, it was no-lose for Leather herself.

Seriously. The worst case scenario involved her successfully stealing maybe millions of dollars. If the cops showed up but Darkhood didn’t, Leather would tangle with them, probably win and escape scot free. Her legend would increase and she’d be ready to move on to her new lair and her new touring city. If Darkhood showed, then it was fifty/fifty she’d get away, they’d probably take no money, but there’d be a superhero fight to add to her resume. If she got caught but the henches got away, it would be a phone call to one service. If she got away and the henches didn’t, it would be another phone call. If they were all captured, then the Steve would do his thing. Even as we rode, the Service was pulling everything out of her old Lair, so there was no chance the cops could raid it and get anywhere. The money from her earlier jobs was all laundered and banked. Prison would practically be a vacation for them.

Really, it’s hard not to be cynical. No matter how you slice it, crime did pay for Leather and the gang. All that could happen was jail time, and it was clear Leather and the Henches weren’t scared of jail.

We pulled into a McDonalds. There were three cars ahead of us. “Oh, bullshit,” Leather said. “Someone want to go inside?”

“We could send Chapman,” one of the Bagmen said.

Leather giggled. “Tempting.”

“He’ll tip the cops,” Marco said. “I would.”

“Yeah, point. And we’re in costume.” She made a face. “Hang on.” She pushed out, flipping onto the roof and leaping from the Leathermobile. Curling into a ball, she smashed through the front window like it was tissue paper and landed inside. With the windows rolled down, I could just barely hear the screams and Leather’s demands for Sausage McMuffins. To go.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I muttered.

“What? No. Don’t. Don’t be sick,” the bagman in front of me said, turning. “Do you hear me, Chapman? You are not going to be sick. You are not going to be sick.”

They had spare cloth moneybags. The other bagman got me one in time. They threw it in one of the brown trashcans before Leather got back with a pile of meat and egg swag in paper sacks, and we headed for the real job. To her credit she looked concerned or at least sympathetic when she’d learned I threw up. The smell of cooked egg really didn’t help.

“So I don’t get it,” one of the bagmen was saying. “You didn’t want one of us going in because we’d be recognized and they’d call the police, but you were okay with breaking through the front window and stealing a couple sacks of breakfast?”

“It’s a time thing,” Leather said. “Those guys calling the cops after we’re gone means at least some of the cops will be distracted from the bank heist. If we went in and waited, they might show up before we leave.”

“You just wanted a chance to steal Sausage McMuffins and call it work related,” Marco said with a chuckle.

“I didn’t steal them. I left a fifty.”

“That window would have cost more than fifty bucks.”

“I didn’t say my actions were legal. I just didn’t steal breakfast.” She took a bite of hash browns. “Aren’t we there yet?”

Within a couple of minutes, we were. This bank was at the top of a long sloping hill in the West Highlands. One of the hilltop neighborhoods where tourists and marketplaces were thick, overlooking the Underlands Dynamo Girl had patrolled two nights before. This was an old bank, back when they made them into temples of finance, all granite columns and elaborate architecture, and “THE FIRST MERIDIAN NATIONAL BANK AND TRUST” carved into the top. Of course, all the glass down closer to the doors declared it ‘BankOne,’ the subject of one and probably more than one buyout over the past ten years or so.

Regardless, it was a bank, and a big one. The Leathermobile careened up the fifteen cement steps in the front, coming up on a top landing and skidding around. It felt like we’d driven through a potato field, and if I hadn’t thrown up five minutes before, I’d have done so right then. As it was there were dry heaves, just in time for me to be hauled unceremoniously out of the back seat by one of the bagmen.

“Remember, stay close,” the bagman hissed to me as he dragged me to the bank’s front doors. “You don’t want the collar going off.” The other bagman was setting the box with the urn in it next to the door. Leather skipped back down the steps, turned and got a full running start for the doors. She took the stairs five at a time and leapt at the top of them, curling into a ball going at least fifty miles an hour, and smashed through the doorways, shattering the glass overhead and to the sides of both the doors and blowing the doors — designed to open out — into the room.

There was immediate chaos and the sound of an alarm as she rolled seemingly chaotically through the lobby. The lie was put to her seeming lack of control when she turned it into backflips, ending with a handspring that landed her on top of one of the islands where deposit slips and chained pens lived. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she shouted. “Welcome to your very own bank robbery! Everyone down on the floor right now! We don’t want anyone to get hurt!”

There were screams, of course. Men and women alike panicked and fled. There were three security guards, but they had to recover from their own surprise before they could react. That gave Leather a chance to dive, twisting in the air and landing in front of the first. She kissed him, deftly unbuckling the belt that held his gun, mace and radio, and threw it into the corner with a twisting motion. “Be good now,” she said to him as she rolled to one side, just in time to not be maced by the second guard, who’d reacted a little bit faster.

Rather than take the risk that he might actually hit her with the spray, Leather did a backflip, landing behind a panicking businessman. “Hi!” she said, deftly lifting him up and darting to the side, keeping him between her and the guard.

“Put him down!” the guard shouted, voice shaking. “I swear to God I’ll shoot!”

Leather dropped the buisnessman to the floor, feet first, then used his shoulders to spring up and over, hooking her legs around the guard’s neck and rolling over his head, hooking and flinging him fifteen feet into the third guard, who had managed to get out his radio. Why his radio I have no idea — the alarm was already going off. But then, what would a security guard normally do when an acrobatic twentysomething began smashing things and doing handsprings in the lobby. I mean, it doesn’t come up in the training manuals, does it?

The two guards hit and went down. Leather’s lips curled into a smile as she regained her feet, sweeping up a pumppot of complimentary coffee the bank had at the front of their velvet rope line and spinning, throwing it towards the third guard’s legs. He had been running for the gunbelt she’d tossed, and she hit perfectly, making him go sprawling and rolling.

It looked like it hurt. My heart was pounding. This wasn’t like watching Dynamo Girl. These were the good guys, and Leather was humiliating and hurting them.

At the same time, I have to admit she looked fantastic. Her movements were freer than Dynamo Girl’s had been. She did riskier moves, and spent more time setting up elaborate strikes. Now, satisfied that the security guards were down, she did cartwheels to the front of the line. “Don’t you just hate a linecutter?” she asked the woman who was crouched on the floor at the front of the line. “How’s it goin’, boys?”

“Not so bad,” one of the bagmen shouted back. They were handing cloth bags to tellers, and getting money dumped into them. The tellers looked freaked but did what they were told. And no doubt were dropping dye bombs or setting off more alarms as they did it. Clearly Leather and the others didn’t care about that, though.

“Good! We need to hit the vault?”

“Can’t hurt!”

There were sirens outside.

“Hold that thought! Got to make the donuts!” she shouted, running for the door. She blew me a kiss on the way and dove through the shattered facade.

Me?

I followed.

I know. I’m an idiot. But I’d come all this way, I had a bomb on my throat, there was bad shit going down all around me and all I knew was the lead of my story was diving towards police. I wasn’t going to miss this. I had my camera out and everything.

By the time I’d gotten out, Leather had dove down the steps for the cops. Which is smart, if you think about it. She didn’t want them to set up perimeters behind their cars, shooting bullets and tear gas at her. She wanted to be close at hand so they’d have to engage her — especially since there wasn’t any chance they could beat her in a fight.

She made a show of it. Spinning around, pushing off one officer’s bulletproof vest, grabbing the arm of the next and whirling him around, forcing that officer’s own taser onto another while she kicked her legs out and nailed two more as they got close. Movie moves. The kinds of things you never see in real fights because they’re dumb, but when you’re so much faster, stronger and more durable than the people you’re fighting you can do dumb things if you want.

I snapped pictures. My heart was racing. I have to admit, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to root for. This was Leather. I’d been living with her for a week. I’d seen her go out and save a woman’s money and maybe her life. We’d made jokes together and she’d opened up to me. I knew her, at least a little.

But she was a criminal, and these police officers were trying to stop her. And watching her beat and even humiliate them, I felt a little ill. Is this how villains see us? As opportunities to show off?

“Boss!”

It was one of the bagmen. They were coming out, sacks laden. I couldn’t imagine how much money was in those things. Leather turned to look at him, which is when I realized there weren’t any more cops. She’d taken them all down. And what’s more — and perhaps more incredibly and more frighteningly, all at once — I could tell she hadn’t really hurt any of them. She’d bloodied their noses and encouraged them to lie down and be in pain or unconscious, but I doubted any of them would miss a day’s work over this.

I felt small, and tired. Oh, and there was a bomb around my neck. But by now that was old news.

“You ready?”

“Oh yeah! We’re rolling in it!”

“Right! Then let’s hit the Leathermobile and get the Hell–”

It looked like a missile, and when it hit her back it exploded into sparks powerful enough that one arced out to a metal garbage can nearby. Leather convulsed and went down on the steps, her body spasming.

I turned, back against the wall. Somehow I managed to take a picture.

Darkhood was across the way, up on top of a bus that had been stopped by the onrush of police cars. His clothing was rough cut brown and black — it looked medieval, but his gauntlets were modern archery gloves and his bow was pristine. He had turned to cover the bagmen, standing tall, his hood back enough so we could see the domino mask that covered his eyes. “Put the bags down, boys!” he called. “You made a good run of it, but it’s over now!”

I looked back at the bagmen. They looked at each other and dropped the bags.

“Now that’s a good pair of thugs,” he said, dropping to the ground fluidly. He managed to land in a crouch, never changing his aim. “Now, you understand I’ll need to bag you up, of course. It’s nothing personal, but I need to bind up your boss before she comes to, and I can’t have you two sneaking off.”

“Hey man, just don’t hurt us,” one of the bagmen said. “This’s just a job, you know?”

“You might want to rethink career counseling,” he said shifting his grip–

Leather rolled forward, grabbing the nightstick off one of the downed cop’s belts, and threw it at Darkhood. We’re talking a seriously mighty throw — the kind of thing the Big Unit would sell two children and a controlling interest in Roger Clemens’s memorabilia to be able to throw.

Darkhood rolled to the side, firing his arrow at the club and nailing it in midair. His net deployed even as it was knocked up into the air, and Darkhood rolled forward. As he came out of the roll he had another arrow nocked and he fired it, forcing Leather to dive and roll over it — she’d been running for him. As she came up from a roll he shot another arrow at her feet. This one exploded — a concussive charge that threw her back towards the police cars. She twisted in midair and tried to land on her feet, but she misjudged the landing and rolled back over the vehicle. I saw her head hit pavement and winced.

And because I was there, I took another picture.

Leather managed to roll to the side. I could see her looking under the car, watching Darkhood run — he was circling behind, keeping a wide arc. He wanted a clear shot, and he wanted to keep his distance away from her. It hit me that’s what this fight would come down to — Darkhood wanted distance so he could nail her with arrows. Leather wanted to close so she could kick his teeth in. And so far he was ahead on points.

“I got a lot of woozy cops here!” Leather shouted. “So if you intend to shoot a tear gas arrow or a flash arrow or another bomb, don’t let me stop you! I’m sure they’ll feel lots better without eyes or spleens or whatever!”

“Worry not, fair lady,” Darkhood answered. His voice was calm. Measured. He made the ‘fair lady’ thing sound normal too — like this was how people talked. “I’ve got plenty of arrows for all occasions.”

“Yeah? Let’s find out, mumbletypants!” And Leather threw herself backwards, landing on her hands at the base of the stairs and handspringing with enough strength to clear her to the landing at the top. Not ten feet from me.

Right next to the box.

As she flipped, she also had twisted, avoiding a fired arrow by inches. It impacted above us with an electrical discharge. Darkhood ran to the side, another arrow nocked as he jockeyed for position.

“Hey spiky!” Leather shouted, tearing the box and lifting the Mountbatten Urn where it could be clearly seen. “Is this what you’re looking for? Huh?”

Darkhood skidded to a stop. “Leather! Put that down — gently! We can talk about this!”

“Yeah, about that? So not my style!” She giggled. “Think fast!”

I stared, my hands working my camera almost mechanically, as Leather did a forward in air roll and flung the priceless urn out and away from herself, far over Darkhood’s head.

Now, I’ve looked at the pictures, and I know intellectually what happened. I know that somehow — somehow Darkhood threw himself backwards, managing to drop the arrow he was holding, nock twoarrows at once, fire them while the Urn was almost exactly over his head, draw, nock and fire a third arrow, and hit the ground at a horrid angle, stretched out and back-to his enemy. I know that somehow, the two arrows he fired first had a cable connecting them, and embedded themselves both in telephone poles, the cable retracting taut. And I know the third arrow deployed a net that snagged the urn at the precise instant the net would also hit the cable and wrap around it.

I know that. I’ve gone through it. And I have a horribly blurry photo of the net arrow being launched with the other two arrows still in the air. I also know Darkhood doesn’t have superhuman powers. He’s just that. Damn. Good.

But at the time, all I know is he threw himself backward, arrows going flying, and then the urn was tangled up in a net sixteen feet in the air, swinging in the breeze in the middle of the street.

Leather didn’t stop to stare or be agog. She just ran forward, with all that superhuman speed, straight at Darkhood. And that’s why she did it. The urn wasn’t a ransom item, it was a distraction. So long as she was at a distance, Darkhood could take her. But get him focused elsewhere, not moving, back-to her and sprawled on the ground, and she could close the gap. By the time he’d started to turn over, she was in the air, over him, and dropping an elbow hard into him.

I thought it was over, but he twisted and kicked, and she rolled off and they squared off. He snapped something on his bow and it segmented into two halves, the string retracting until he had — mm. Not really nunchucks. Call it a flail. And he laid about with it. She twisted underneath it, sweeping his legs. His footing went out, but he went down into a handspring, kicking up. She rolled under it and got her footing. They closed, striking and punching. Her inhuman grace. His staggering training. He went in with a taser. She ducked and twisted and struck at his ribs. She hit but he seemed to absorb it — body armor of some kind maybe. They turned and struck, and he went around and tagged her with the taser. She went rubbery, and he went over her–

I don’t know if it was panic or what, but as she fell backwards she curled up and thrust out with those powerful legs, and he flew.She got her feet–

And froze. I froze. We all froze, watching. She had kicked too hard. He was a good fifty feet in the air, and he was going over the edge — the long clifflike edge of the ramp. We were at the peak of the West Highlands neighborhood. Leather had kicked Darkhood out to where he would fall to the underlands.

She was staring, her hand clenched. Her body tense. She didn’t move, watching him twist around as he fell. It looked like he was doing something with his flail — maybe trying to get it back into the bow. Get some kind of line arrow….

He fell below the edge of where we could see. We stared. My heart was pounding.

It felt like forever, but with a thunk we heard and saw an arrow slam into the retaining fence at the edge. An arrow with a line on it.

Leather pumped her fist. “Yeah!” she said, and looked around. The cops were beginning to get to their feet. “Okay, book,” she shouted to the bagmen. “Leave the bags, hit the Leathermobile! We’re gone!”

The bagmen didn’t complain. They ran. Leather ran after them.

“Wait!” I shouted. “The collar! You can’t leave me or–” I stared. The dumb bitch had forgotten the bomb around my neck!

Leather skidded to a stop, right at the door of the Leathermobile. She stared at me for a second, then burst into laughter. “Jesus, Chapman,” she shouted back. “There isn’t really a bomb! Who do you think we are?”

I stared as she ducked in, and the car tore out. Stared as the recovering cops opened fire as it escaped. I sunk to my knees, staring, and watched the Leathermobile leave. They got no money from the bank, but they got away. And Leather and Darkhood crossed swords in the light of day. And people would talk about this for weeks. And I wasn’t wearing a bomb.

After I could no longer see the Leathermobile, I did the only thing I could think of. I leaned forward, so I was on my hands and knees, and I threw up again. And then I waited for a policeman to come rescue me or arrest me, depending on how he saw things.

I like “Homecoming.” I like it in part because it examines heroism, and in part because it examines transition, and in part because it shows a very heroic person having very unheroic thoughts. In a way, if a lot of Justice Wing is informed by DC Comics, then “Homecoming” is informed by Marvel. Human beings with human frailties doing the best they can to overcome their flaws and do the right thing.

This part also makes the ‘historical record’ nature explicit, which I think fits The Home Front, as I’ve mentioned before.

I hope you enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

-hope these interviews help you with your movie. I’m just not sure anyone will much care about me and how my vigilante career ended. There must be more important stories to-

No, no. I don’t mean to tell you your business. I’m sure you’ve got everything taken care of. Well, let’s go back to 1946, shall we? I told you about that first night I went solo – that first night I met Lieutenant Blockbuster, the new kid in town. The super hero.

I looked up the good Lieutenant’s career when I went home. The papers had covered him, all right. He was in Life’s “America Powers in Europe” article, on the fourth page. Just a short caption about “America’s One-Man Exploding Shell,” and references to the war in Italy. The newspaper listed him as Lt. V. Esterhaus, and he was indeed from Topaz City. Which frankly made me angrier.

Mom and Dad were really understanding. They listened to me rant about “that nut in the metal shell” for a good hour, and never said a word about how unreasonable I was being.

Sam finally came upstairs and calmed me down. He asked me what was wrong, and I started to go off again – but he interrupted me.

“So,” he said. “One of the gods lives in Topaz City, and you’re feeling very human?”

I blinked. “Lieutenant Blockbuster’s no god-”

“Really? I don’t know how else to describe him. Destroyed a car with a gesture from two hundred feet in the air? Set fire from the heavens at his will, and flew off without a care in the world? I think maybe we need a better word for him than – what did your mother say you said? A ‘nut in a metal shell?’”

I looked out the window, still fuming. “So he’s got powers. So what. That doesn’t make him a god, or anything else. He-”

“Oh Len… Lenny Lenny Lenny. What will we do with you, hm?

“This isn’t about me” I snapped back. “I mean – who knows what that guy is capable of. What if he starts lording it over us? What if he starts-”

“He served well in the War, didn’t he?”

I didn’t answer.

“Len… I understand. Really, I do. We all want to make a difference, but even more, we want our differences to stand out. To be recognized. You’re a very special man. You serve this city and you served this country. You’re good at it, and you worked very hard to become so. The idea of this man appearing and doing the same thing so effortlessly… well, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I guess…” I said.

“You’re a proud boy. But don’t let your pride color your feelings. Don’t let it turn to jealousy. You do your best. You help people. That’s why you’re doing this, right? To help people?”

“Right,” I said.

“Not for headlines or to be the number one guy in Topaz City?”

“I said you were right.”

“All right, Len. Now then. Did this Lieutenant Blockbuster stop the criminals from escaping.”

I snorted. “Yeah. He stopped them.”

“But after you got them out of the liquor store, and protected Mister Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Well then. It sounds like you both did good work tonight. You should be proud of that – not angry because you’re not the only man in Topaz City with a secret identity.”

I nodded.

“Good. I think maybe you should get some rest. Go out again tomorrow night. See how things change.”

“All right,” I answered, and let him pat me on the back and head out of the apartment. Mom got me some hot cocoa, and I went to bed.

And got to thinking. ‘Not the only man in Topaz City with a secret identity,’ Sam had said. He was right. This Lieutenant had to be from around here – otherwise, why come here? I mean, I might have been kind of irrational about having heroic competition, but I didn’t honestly believe he’d shown up in Topaz City just to ruin my solo career. He was probably young – just from his attitude, he had to be close to my age, in one direction or another. In his twenties at the latest.

It was time to track down any V. Esterhauses.

The next few weeks I really busted myself. I wanted to prove I was every bit as capable as Lieutenant Blockbuster. From sundown to the deep morning I roared around the city on my motorcycle, stopping crimes and muggings and what have you.

And, to be honest, Lieutenant Blockbuster was out and about too. He stopped a bank robbery, and got the cover of the Topaz City Courier. I was in that edition too – I was on page fourteen, under “Public Crime.” I’d stopped a holdup of a restaurant.

Yes that stuck in my craw. Yes it made me mad. Look, I’m not sitting here claiming I was rational or justified. In my day, a guy with a marksman’s eye and a good right cross could dent crime. Now? The city’s hero flew. How do you compete with that?

In James Buchanan High’s graduating class of 1943, there were two V. Esterhauses. A twin brother and sister. Vincent Esterhaus’s picture wasn’t in the yearbook – it had the service stars of an enlisted soldier. His sister Victoria was pretty, with curly black hair.

Lieutenant Blockbuster first went active in Europe in 1943. I had a match. I checked the phone books and learned that Vincent Esterhaus lived on North Conroy. I took a ride up there one day, in my dad’s Coupe. I just sort of rode around, not really knowing what I was looking for.

And then I saw them. Brother and sister in the Coffee Pot Cafe. Two years hadn’t changed Victoria Esterhaus very much. And Vincent? He was her twin, all right. Not identical, obviously, but very similar. The same delicate features. The same curly hair. He looked like a Zoot Suiter except he was wearing a grey-blue business suit. He looked very young cocky businessmanish.

I got out of the car and went into the cafe. I… hm… what did I have? Seems like it was pretty good coffee, and I had a egg sandwich and a piece of toast. Not sure, but it sounds like what I’d have.

I watched them out of the corner of my eye, careful not to get caught looking. They were laughing a lot, and not paying much attention to what was around them.

He was too good looking, I thought at last. Not rugged enough. I could deck him and he’d thump with the best of them. He wouldn’t be so handsome then, not with a shiner on his eye and his coat all torn.

And you could tell, in the way he fought, too. He wore that metal carapace, and flew out of reach of everyone and everything. Of course, he didn’t have to mix it up, hand to hand. Nuh-uh. He could stay all nice and clean, floating above it all. He was probably scared someone’d hurt him if he got too close.

Heh… this tape won’t get me reelected, I don’t think. But it’s how I felt. You wanted honesty, right? Not lies to cover things up?

I left there feeling pretty good. I’d found him out! I knew his dirty little secret – that under the metal and fire he was some momma’s boy in a suit. No matter how much the crowd ooooed and ahhhhed at him, I knew he wasn’t anyone special.

And maybe that would have been enough for me. Maybe I could have gone on my petty little way, feeling like the real hero of Topaz City, if it weren’t for the message waiting for me at Sam’s when I got in. It was from the Mayor, via good old Sergeant Thomas at the Eighth Precinct. The Mayor wanted to see me.

I suited up, and took a ride to City Hall. The letter got me in the front door. I walked the four flights of stairs to his office – it didn’t seem right that I’d take the elevator. Maybe Blockbuster flew, but I walked and I was proud.

The secretary stood as I came in, and smiled. She looked at me like I was some kind of movie star. Well, to her maybe I was. I introduced myself with a smile.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’ve read about you for what seems like my whole life! It’s an honor!” I smiled and nodded, and took a good look. Yeah, eighteen or so, so she’d have been twelve or thirteen when I’d started. That was about right.

And it puffed my chest up a little more, I admit it. She let me into the Mayor’s office.

Mayor Leamer grinned broadly when he saw me, walking around his desk to shake my hand. “Lad, this is truly an honor,” he said, pumping my hand firmly and smiling a politician’s smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, shaking his hand back. “I’m just proud to serve.”

“I know you are, I know you are. Proud service indeed, too. Years of it. You should have a medal, do you know that? A medal!”

“Thank you, Sir. I don’t need a medal. I’m just proud-”

“Yes yes, I know. Commendable attitude, Son. And I’m sure you’ve been wondering why we called you out here, hm?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well… have you heard about our new Financial Exchange?”

“I’ve seen the construction of it, Sir. It looks like it’s going to be pretty impressive.”

“Oh, it is, it is… they’re already calling it ‘little Wall Street,’ you know. Heh. Little Wall Street. That means something, Son.”

I kind of bit my lip, wondering if he’d ever get to the point. My time was better spent on the streets, not listening to him ramble. Still, he did call me in. A threat to the new Financial Exchange?

“…anyway, we’re going to be opening our doors on the twenty-third of this month. Which is where you come in.”

I frowned. “There’s been a problem?” I asked. “Some kind of threat? Some attack-”

“What? Oh, no no. There’s been-”

“Then you just want someone there – someone to guard the door, just in case?”

The Mayor looked perplexed. “No, Son… nothing like that! What do you expect? Racketeers storming in with machine guns? What would the point be? No, it seemed to me that nothing would liven the affair up nearly as much as getting Topaz City’s own Mystery Man to officially open the Topaz City Financial Exchange’s doors! Think of it! The All American Lad – veteran of Franklyn Delano Roosevelt’s own Liberty Brigade, cutting the ribbon on the brightest star in Topaz City’s financial crown!”

I stared at Mayor Leamer, stunned. “You… want me… for a ribbon cutting ceremony?”

Mayor Leamer blinked. “Er, yes,” he said. “Doesn’t that-”

“There are crimes going on out there right now,” I snapped. “Honest to Christ crimes where people are scared and in trouble, and you want me to open a glorified bank for the newspapers to take pictures of it?”

“You watch your language, young man,” Leamer snapped. “If you’re going to be like that, I don’t think you’re exactly who we want representing our city anyhow!”

I shook my head, spinning on my heel and storming for the door. “The next time you call me, there better be a damned good reason,” I snapped.

“Look – you’re upset,” the Mayor said, switching faces. I think it hit him that he didn’t want the All-American Lad to be seen storming angrily out of his office. Not good for the old re-election campaign. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned why I wanted to see you. But honestly, Lad – what’s wrong with it? We’ll pay you, of course, and you’ll be seen lending your own personal seal-”

“Why not call Lieutenant Blockbuster,” I snapped, spinning to face him again. “This sounds like the sort of thing he’d eat up with a spoon.”

The Mayor blinked again, truly startled. “Don’t you think the Lieutenant has better things he could be doing?” he asked. “Honestly, Lad – have some perspective.”

Needless to say, Mayor Leamer lost my vote. I was furious. I hit my cycle and took to the street – not to patrol. Right then the Nazis could have attacked Topaz City and I’d probably drive right by them. I just wanted to ride… get out. Get away. I buzzed up Pine, heading for the suburbs….

And I heard it. I heard him. Over me, rumbling like a rocket. I looked up and he was pacing me. My first thought was to draw and shoot – Leamer’d called him after me!

But of course I didn’t. I wasn’t insane.

The jerk waved. I brought the cycle up short, waiting. See what he wanted, then get the Hell away from Mister “Doesn’t He Have Better Things To Do?”

“Hi,” he called down over his loudspeaker. “Is this a good time to have that talk?”

“What do we have to talk about,” I shouted back, not bothering to control my anger. Little wimp in a big shell…

That seemed to take him aback, though it was hard to tell. “I… just thought it would be a good idea,” he called down. “If this isn’t-”

“No, let’s get it over with,” I snapped. “The water tower on Ridgemont, overlooking the City.”

“Right!” he called back, and with a plume of red-orange fire, he sped into the dark night. I spun out and accelerated to the North, not bothering to watch him go.

He got there first, of course. He was looming next to the Water Tower. Eight feet of reinforced metal with arms sticking out. I pulled up, killed the engine, and got off next to him, checking my whip, lasso and guns.

“Hi,” he said.

“What is it,” I answered. “I’ve had a lot of my time wasted tonight-”

“Oh,” he said. “Are you on a case? I didn’t think I was interrupting anything – can I help? Or can we do this-”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not on a case,” I said. “Is this a social call?”

“Well… yes, it is,” he said. “You’ve done so much good in Topaz City, I just always wanted to meet you, and since we’re in the same business now, it would make sense we knew each other, right?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I’m sure you’re worried about needing backup.”

He paused again. “Excuse me?” he asked finally.

“Look, you’ve made it abundantly clear that this is your city now. I happen to disagree. But you don’t have to dress it all up with a pep talk. No one can hear us here-”

“What have I ever done to you?“ he asked. “Look, I wanted to meet you – you did so much to guard Topaz City during the war-”

“That’s right,” I snapped. “I did. I was here, trying my damndest. Where were you, huh?”

“Where was I?” Blockbuster answered, getting angry for the first time. “I was in Europe! I was on the front lines of the war! I was blowing up tank columns and getting shot at! What is wrong with you? I volunteered because of you and Six Gun Sam!”

“Oh, well thank you,” I snapped back. “Look, if you want to come into Topaz City, I can’t-”

“I live here,” Blockbuster answered. “I’ve lived here my entire life. Who are you to sneer at me because I want to protect it, huh?”

“Tough talk for a man in a ton of metal, looking down on us.”

Blockbuster stared at me. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to fight stupid. I thought the object was to stop crime, not ‘fight fair.’ You don’t want to be my friend? Fine. I don’t need you, ‘All-American Lad.’ Just keep out of my way, and I’ll keep out of yours.”

“Fine.” I threw a leg over my cycle-

“All units, all units,” the Police Band radio crackled up. “Robbery in progress at First National Bank. All… oh my… it’s… one man. He smashed through the wall of the vault! He-”

I blinked, and started the bike. I roared down the hill – it was a hard ride to the First National, but I could make it in five minutes if traffic was clear.

There was an explosion behind me, and Lieutenant Blockbuster roared towards the city, taking the direct route.

Fine. Let him get there first. What did I care? I could go places he couldn’t. Sometimes, you couldn’t blow something up and win. Especially if there was one man down there, and he had enough explosives with him to smash through a wall into a vault. Fire bursts wouldn’t scare him.

I pushed it to the edge, coming close to going over three or four times, banking to either side. Adrenalin flooded me. I was racing, I realized. During the war, Sam and I would race against the Germans, or against sympathizers, or against criminals… now I was racing Blockbuster. I had to get there. I had to.

I swung into the city, and hit the sirens. People dove out of my way. I leaned forward on the bike, the wind snapping through my hair and tearing my eyes. I had to help. I had to stop-

I swung onto Fourteenth in time to see an automobile thrown through the air and smash into a cop’s car. I skidded to the side and threw myself off the bike, running. What was going on – what was Blockbuster doing? What-

And then I saw. It wasn’t Lieutenant Blockbuster. He was sweeping around, firing down and blowing chunks of macadam out of Fourteenth street. Straight at a man in a dockworker’s outfit. The man had to be seven and a half feet tall. The police were shooting at him.

He was ignoring it. He was ignoring their guns.

I froze, for just a second, and I knew what he was. Just like the costumed Nazis and nuts Sam and I put away… we had our opposite numbers.

This one was Blockbuster’s. A villain, with super powers as tough as the Lieutenant’s.

He grabbed a streetlight and ripped it up, swinging overhand so fast I could hear the whoosh of it all the way across the street. He slammed it into Blockbuster’s armor shell, spinning him end over end, and making him lose control of his flight, slamming him into the ground, hard.

And I ran forward, guns out and throwing myself over a police car. “Geez Lad,” someone shouted. “Get back! He ain’t human!!”

I fired four fast ones, bouncing the bullets off and distracting the thing. He spun, facing me. “You wanna fight Browbeat?” he howled. “I’ll crush you!”

I took another shot at him, and threw myself to one side, lasso out. He jumped – one jump took him forty feet right at me, but he missed and I got back and threw my lasso and got him! “Give it up,” I shouted.

He spun around – so fast – and snapped the rope of my lasso like it was paper. He grabbed the rope and yanked, throwing me forward and burning through my gloves in a second, giving me rope burns right through the leather. I stumbled at his feet, and tried to push up – he was over me with a rock-

An explosion of fire and light blasted him back away from me. “Get away from him,” Blockbuster shouted, having gotten to his feet. His P.A. was out, and his voice sounded shrill with the shriek over his blast.

Browbeat threw himself up and straight at Blockbuster. Blockbuster fired, but Browbeat kept pushing forward and swung.

The fist slammed into the center of Blockbuster’s shell like a cannonball, the impact’s noise smashing through the streets like a thunderclap. Blockbuster was thrown back onto the pitted scars of the street, the remains of his shattered armor shell crumpling around him. Maybe dead – how to tell….

Browbeat started for Blockbuster slowly, and I realized the thug was going for the death blow.

I hated Blockbuster. I really did. I don’t know why I ran forward. But I did. “Hey,” I shouted, grabbing my six-shooters with raw hands.

Browbeat turned. “Get outta here,” he snarled. “I ain’t got time for you!”

“Make time for this!” I howled, and fired eight more times. I was an expert marksman taking a risk. And I hit the mark – eight shots, one after another, right… in… his… god… damn… eyes!

That rocked him. He staggered back, and I ran past and dove, grabbing Blockbuster out of the remnants of his armor shell and running with him. I knew I couldn’t stop Browbeat. I could only save Blockbuster’s life.

I ran with everything I had into an alleyway, skidding to a stop behind garbage cans. I crouched there, panting and setting Blockbuster down behind me. I had a whip and two empty six-shooters. Browbeat could bounce bullets and throw cars. I couldn’t stop him.

But he wasn’t following. I heard shouting – I must have rattled him, because he was jumping off.

I turned to Lieutenant Blockbuster – I had to figure out if he was still alive. He was the only one with the sheer power-

And I stared at the body lying next to me. At the pressure-suited chest that slowly, painfully rose and fell with breath.

Lieutenant Blockbuster wasn’t Vincent Esterhaus at all.

It was Victoria.

So, we move on to the last of the Home Front stories instead — but not the last Home Front post.

This was actually the only serial in The Home Front. And it was also the only one of these that was written entirely for Mythic Heroes, with no Superguy antecedent. It had been tentatively picked up by Greg, though the magazine had suspended production even before it was scheduled, if I recall correctly.

It’s not as downbeat as the last one. And it has actual story and conflict. So, you know. We’ll see what you think.

And now, I pass out and, with luck, die. But before I do, I thought you might like to see one other thing. See, to get the serial sold to Greg, I had to send him a pitch document. And this is the first paragraph from that pitch document. And it may be as good a statement about The Home Front that I could make.

At the end of any play is a cast party. Generally, the set is struck by the cast and crew working together, symbolically returning the stage to a neutral state. There is a liberal amount of alcohol consumed. Someone has ill-advised sex with someone else. Two good friends will get into a loud fight that might involve actually hitting each other. A videotape of the performance will be watched, to the great embarrassment of all who are involved.

And, inevitably, there is the last person at the party. He listens to the music by himself. He seizes upon any passer-by, regardless of any connection to the play, and talks incessantly about it. He walks the stage by himself, listening to the hollow echo of the naked boards, staring out into the auditorium, and swearing he can still see the audience, accept their accolades, hear their laughter and feel their tears. He goes through “post-theatric depression” for weeks, the connection he feels to the play refusing to die along with that play. And, if he’s not involved with the next production, he inevitably resents it and compares it unfavorably to “his” play, regardless of its merits.

The year is 1946. The age of the Mystery Man — for better or worse — is over. The Age of the Super Hero has begun.

This is the story of the last person at the party.

*** *** *** ***

Do I just talk into this? Really? That’s really neat.

Okay… you want to talk about Nineteen Forty-Six, right? After the Liberty Brigade broke up and we all went back home? To our cities?

Great… no, that’s no problem. I can talk about that. This isn’t about me though, is it? I mean, I didn’t do anything that incredible in the war. I mean, if this is going to be a money-maker, you need some of the big names on the marquee, don’t you? The Quick, or Excalibur, or Spycracker or–

No, I really don’t have a problem talking about it. I know it wasn’t the most heroic event to come out of double you-double you double eye, but it’s who I was and who I am, so why not talk about it, huh?

All right — the quick and easy backstory. I first started as–

What? My name? Oh, for the tape. Gotcha. Sorry. I suppose you have to be careful, especially given my political career. You don’t want to get sued later, right? Anyway, my name’s still Len Davis, originally from Fall Creek, West Virginia, but my parents and I moved to Topaz City when I was about two years old. Dad was a radio engineer for R.K.O., and they opened up that huge broadcast center–

But you don’t really care about that, do you? I mean, what does it have to do with fighting spies or busting up gangs or anything? Nothing. And you can look up the Smithsonian archives and get a better description of most of those, right? The quick and dirty was this — I was the All American Lad. I worked with Six Gun Sam — Sam Bochioni, who was a greengrocer and the son of Sicilian immigrants. He had a real Western Thing going, wore a kerchief over his face and trickshot his way through crime and spies and stuff like that.

Here’s the thing, though. His cousin Alberto was still in Sicily, which means he was still Italian, which means he was in the Axis. He was kind of Six Gun Sam’s opposite number — an assassin.

Sam lived his career terrified that his family connection to the Black Stroke would be revealed. Alberto apparently felt the same way about Sam, according to letters and stuff we found later. Neither one told on the other, though, and Sam died without kids in ’52, so it’s all pretty safe to say now. Sam had a heart attack — that’s why he wasn’t in the army. He had a bum ticker. Strange, isn’t it? A man with a bad heart being a Mystery Man?

Anyway, in ’41 I was fourteen. Sam needed a real All-American with him, in case the connection to the Black Stroke came out — something to insulate him. Pretty naive, huh? Well, that was Sam. And me? I was a football hero and an ace student — math specialist. So what the heck, huh? Sam saw me every day because I lived in an apartment six floors over his store on East Forty-Fifth.

It was a good thing he did. Sam was all heart and western accent, but frankly he couldn’t figure out a clue if it shot back at him — which it sometimes did. Heck, the Autorepeating Rifle Robot of Doctor Hans Konrad would have aced Sam if I hadn’t shot the power cord leading to the wall. Sam just kept shooting it, “looking for a weak point.” But I always worked to make Sam think he’d figured out the mysteries and stopped the crimes. Why not? Sam deserved it, and I was having a ton of fun.

Anyway, in ’44 President Roosevelt called the Mystery Men to the capital, and formed us into the Liberty Brigade. That was a blast! Travelling around the country on train, hanging out with other people in the cape and mask business… it was like being in a Carnival, and what seventeen year old deep down doesn’t want to join the circus? And the crowd loved us. I mean, maybe we weren’t super human, like the Quick or Lieutenant Blockbuster or any of them, but we were heroes and we stood for something. Besides, there were some pretty girl ‘Mystery Men’ too, and the crowd loved that. Not that I ever did much more with the girls than neck one night with Solitaire — she was a lot older, but she loved to play the field, especially when her kid partner left the tour halfway through it.

But anyway, that’s still not what you’re here to listen to, is it?

In 1945, I volunteered and was made a Second Lieutenant in the army and kept right where I was in the Liberty Brigade. For right then, I was popular — a golden boy blond in a patriotic costume — wait a sec. I still have the costume. And the guns. Let me go get them.

–we are. I’ve put on some weight, so it doesn’t really fit any more, but I keep it anyway. Hey, it’s more fun than a varsity jacket. The wife understands, but she would, wouldn’t she?

Yeah, those are ivory handled. Yeah, I guess it is a little like General Patton — not intentional, but there you go. Sam gave ‘em to me. Which is where the story you want to hear starts, I think.

Anyway. I volunteered at 18, was commissioned, kept in the tour, and then the war ended and I was discharged. The only soldier in the history of warfare that shot at more of the enemy as a civilian than as an Army man. So Sam and I climbed on a train after long tearful goodbyes and a dinner and things, and rode back home.

Sam stared out the window the whole way, of course. He cried a few times, he was so happy. You’d think he stopped Hitler himself. And heck, why not? No one tried harder than he did.

“Gonna be nice to be home, huh?” I asked him.

“Shore is, pardner,” he said with a laugh. He never talked like that out of uniform before then — it was part of his disguise.

“Careful,” I said, “that voice got kind of famous in the War Bond movies.”

Sam shrugged. “Let someone recognize me,” he said with a grin. “Why not? The Germans have surrendered. The Japanese have surrendered. The war is over and there won’t be another one. So why not be recognized?”

Won’t be another one, he said. I nodded and agreed with him, even though I knew better. Human beings like to fight. They believe in it. They believe in war. It’s why our peacetime military budget’s so overinflated. I could get some numbers for you–

No, I guess you’re not hear to talk politics. Sorry. Guess it’s hard to get out of the patter, at least in an election year. Heh heh — yeah. Anyway, back to the story.

“Sam, you still need a secret identity,” I said to him. “I mean, come on — you don’t think the racketeers’ll be just as happy to figure out what store to shoot up?”

Sam stared at me, and started laughing. “Racketeers? What — we’re back in the twenties, are we?”

“You know what I mean–”

“I don’t think I do, quite. Len, what do you expect to do when we get back to Topaz City?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to College at T.C.U. in the fall, I’m–”

“That’s not what I mean and I think you know that.” He leaned back. “Shoot straight, pardner, whut do yuh think about Six Gun Sam and the All-American Lad?”

I sort of blinked at Sam. “I… think it’s going to be a lot easier to keep the streets safe without Bunds and spy rings blowing things up.”

“Easier, yes… very easy indeed. Len, the war’s over. The soldiers get to go home now, and get married and have lots of kids.”

I guess I looked shocked then. “Sam… you can’t be saying we’re giving up now?”

“What giving up? We won. We beat them. We did it, Len. I’m so proud of you, too–”

“Sam, I’ve been a vigilante since I was fourteen years old. You’re not telling me my career’s over now. You can’t do that!”

Sam looked a little startled, and a little saddened. “Len… I’m not as young as you. When the Nazis were threatening our very way of life… well sure. We all had to pull together and kick them right back to the Bosch. But they’re done now. The war is over.”

I stared at Sam, and I turned and sat back in my seat. I felt… wounded. Like I’d taken a bullet right in my heart. Not be the All-American Lad? That wasn’t what I wanted!

We rode together in silence for a while, the American heartland whizzing past us. I was thinking about all of it — running the streets in the night, the time we actually had to grab police horses and lasso the Cold Street Gang while they fled with the gold from a Brinks delivery… trying to keep my girl Holly from figuring out just who I was… the whole nine yards. Over?

“Len?” Sam said finally.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you have to retire just because I do?”

I turned and looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“I mean it — oh sure, I won’t be there to bail you out any more — but you’re not fourteen any more, either. You’ve seen me all these years, how I fight, how I figure out mysteries and all of it. So why not strike out on your own? Lots of mystery men don’t have sidekicks, you know.”

So that’s when the All-American Lad went solo. It seemed awfully weird to think about — sure, Sam wasn’t half the crimefighter he thought he was, but he was always dependable. And besides, he bought the bullets. Fortunately, he agreed to keep me stocked up. In fact, he said that if I were going to be on my own, as an adult, I’d need a new costume — that’s the one I brought out. It’s a beaut, huh? Leather coat with the shoulder buttons, the pants are tough, like bush-pants. And the coat has all the armor of a bullet proof vest — here, hold it. Heavy, huh? It was load bearing though, so it didn’t bother me.

Homecoming was weird, in the meantime. Mom and Dad were thrilled, and proud — they showed off my Silver Star to every one — that kind of embarrassed me. I mean, sure, I thought I earned it. Heck, we took out dozens of fifth columnists. But I wasn’t in the Army at that point. I’d never even seen combat. Besides, the honors weren’t the point. But it made them happy. Holly had, in the meantime, gotten engaged to Brett Wallace — kind of a smarmy kid who didn’t bother volunteering — he figured when the draft took him, he’d go. And heck, if the war ended before then, that wasn’t his fault.

That hurt. Holly going with that coward, when I was fighting for our country. I didn’t go overseas, sure – but there’s a huge difference between volunteering and letting someone else volunteer.

Yeah, I know my voting record’s pretty anti-war. I didn’t say I liked war. I sure don’t like the one we’re getting sucked into now, though I’m hoping maybe we can talk our way out of it privately. One Korea’s enough. Would War Two was different — we were sneak attacked, and then Germany declared war on us. We had to do something.

Anyway, it was still strange. I was eighteen. I graduated high school on the road with the Liberty Brigade. My girl was marrying someone else. My friends were spreading out, getting jobs — some few like me were getting ready for college. But most of the people I was close to had gotten into better schools than Topaz City University and were moving away or had moved away. I hadn’t had much of a chance to apply to college.

So, I went away a high school kid and came back to a city that seemed completely different to me. Even the places we loved to hang out had been taken over by… well, children. You’re laughing, but it’s true. The underclassmen were coming into age, taking over the spaces that had been ours for all those years.

But, finally, my costume came in.

Dad knocked on my door the evening the package arrived, and I asked him to come in.

“Son,” he said, setting a cup of coffee on the end table. “Can I bend your ear a minute?”

“Sure, Dad,” I said. “Seven to two you’ve been talking to Sam.”

“No bet,” he laughed. “He says you’re just about ready to start your solo career.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be odd, but I don’t think there’ll be–”

“Oh, you’re going to do just fine, Len. We both know Sam wasn’t exactly the senior member of that team.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t have done it at all without him.”

“I know, I know. No, I just… wanted to have a few words with you.”

“Sure.”

He put an arm around me while we sat there, and didn’t speak for a little while. After a bit, he struck a cigarette and smoked it. “I guess I want to be sure you’ve thought this all through, Len.”

“Thought… what through, Dad?”

“Well… Sam’s attitude is the War’s over… the fighting’s done. And now he’s moving on with his life. Are you sure this is the direction you want to move into in your life?”

“Dad… I know it sounds weird–”

“Yes, it does. It’s a rare sort who elects Vigilante Justice as a job, you know.”

That made me laugh. “But Dad, I’m still going to go to College. I’m still going to prepare for a career. It’s just….”

“Just what?”

I looked at the wall for a while. “I lost most of high school to fighting crime and fighting Nazis, Dad. It was the most significant part of my life during the most significant part of my life. And… I can’t get back my school, or my friends, or Holly… I can’t go to my Senior Prom half a year too late. I… can’t lose the All-American Lad too. I have to have something left. And… I do good work at it. It comes so naturally to me. And I’m proud to protect Topaz City.”

“Does Topaz City need protecting?” he asked quietly.

“The Golden Swashbuckler and the Sleuth started years before the war,” I answered. “And they do good there. I can do good here.”

“All right… I suppose a world that can have someone like the Quick or Phalanx can have the odd Mystery Man or two.” He grinned.

“How does Mom feel about this?”

“Proud. She always understood, Len. More than I did at first, strange as that sounds.”

I nodded.

“I think Sam wants to talk to you now,” Dad said. “He’s been waiting in the living room since before I came in here.” He grinned.

I reflected it. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s see him.”

Dad nodded, and crushed his cigarette in my ash tray before walking out. I got up, and paced a bit before Sam knocked on the open door.

He was wearing his hat and his guns which seemed strange. But, if you haven’t guessed, Sam was something of a strange man. I still miss him sometimes, when I need someone to talk to who I know won’t tell anyone my secrets.

“You’re not wearing it,” he said.

“Haven’t had a chance to change,” I replied. “Want me to–”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d like to see how you look in it.”

I nodded and got the box and went into the bathroom. I took off my clothes and pulled the new costume on. I remember, weirdly, how it smelled. New leather, dyed. The pants felt a bit rough inside. They had that new clothes shape to them too, like they were related to cardboard. The boots fit, and were comfortable. The mask kept my hair exposed, but covered the back of my head and the lower half of my face. I had thin metal disks over my ears — didn’t block sound much, but they helped protect them. Besides, your ears are a key to who you are. Their shape could identify you.

I walked into my room, feeling the clop-clop of the boots on the wooden floor. Sam turned, and looked at me for a long moment. His eyes glistened.

“You’re all grown up,” he said quietly, shaking his head with a smile. “I didn’t really believe that until now.”

“Sam… I–”

“No, Lad. Just listen for a moment. You hear a call. You’ve told me that. If this is what you want… I’m proud to have been a part of it.”

He drew his pearl-handled pistols, and handed them over to me. “And you’re going to need some straight shooters on your side. Your .25′s were nice, and you were good with them… but….”

He started crying for real now, with pride. And I felt a lump too, taking the pistols with a kind of reverence. Six Gun Sam was never the brightest mystery man… but he was the best shot I’ve ever known.

He gave me the belt, and I took mine off. The holsters that fit a gun like mine wouldn’t fit his. He also gave me the speedloaders he’d built for them — six-guns had a built in disadvantage in reloading.

I belted them on. I checked my gear. I made sure I had spare ammo. I checked the whip, and the lasso. I checked the small, compact camera the Minuteman gave me on tour.

I looked at Sam, and he gave me the thumbs up. I stepped into the hallway, and saw my parents in the living room, watching. I nodded to them, and I made my way to the window at the end of the hall. It was open to the sweet night air.

And then I was down the fire escape, and running into the night. The motorcycle I’d stashed earlier. It roared into life beneath me. The wind rushed through my hair, and I took to the streets, police band radio tuned.

As I swung down East Forty Fifth, there were shouts, and waves. Holly was one of them, and I saw something in her eyes for a half-second I knew Brett Wallace had never seen. Cars got out of my way. There was a catch in my throat as I rode into my city.

It was Mister Miller’s liquor store, and he was cashing out. There were six of them, with shotguns. They’d forgotten that Topaz City had a protector. They’d learn better.

“You know,” I said from the door, “temperance is a virtue.”

They spun, and I fast-drew and shot three shotguns out of their hands. “Against the wall,” I snapped, and they moved.

“You didn’t count on that, did you,” Mister Miller cackled, slapping his knees. “You didn’t count on the All-American Lad, did you? You didn’t — look out Lad!”

I threw myself down, spinning and firing even as the shotgun blast ripped over me and into the far wall, shattering bourbon bottles. There was a seventh. I’d missed of course — you shoot to distract them, but you weren’t trying to kill them. I put a bullet in the shotgun’s stock but took a club to the back — must have been a broom. I rolled, kicking, and got to my feet first, though my guns were down. They rushed me.

I was a football player. I could take a crunch. Besides, I was well armored. I took a shot to the chin that hurt , though. I punched one square, and kicked a second.

That was enough — they started to run. I snapped the whip out and cracked it, getting one around the ankles halfway out the door. He cracked his chin on the sidewalk and was out. I hopped over him, scooping up my nearer gun and running after them as they went for their car.

I grabbed the lasso — shoot the tires out and tie them up, I figured.

But I didn’t get the chance. I was beaten to that punch.

It was a whistling sound… and it looked like a burning comet that seared into the top of that car and exploded with the force of a rocket, throwing the gang back even at the distance they were at. They ducked and covered, yelling. In the air, we could hear a dull roar.

As one, we looked up.

He wore an olive drab solid metal piece over his shoulders and torso, with a pressure suit under it and armor pieces on joints and knees. The helmet covered his whole face. Burning fire rippled from his back, holding him high in the air as he panned over us.

“Give it up now, boys,” he said in a voice that was wired to some sort of megaphone.

“Who… are you?” Mister Miller asked in awe from his door.

He turned in the air and gave Mister Miller a thumbs up. “Lieutenant Blockbuster!” he called down. “Just here to do my duty, sir!”

There were others on the street… and the cheering started, and shouts of joy. Lieutenant Blockbuster turned his attention back to the crooks, and fired a ripple explosion from his hand, which impacted with a burst five feet from one who’d been trying to inch away.

I just stood there, staring at this… thing in the Topaz City sky. He slowly turned, and looked at me through thick lenses. He somehow managed to look amused, and gave me one of those thumb’s ups as well. “We ought to talk,” he said, and roared into the night.

“Did you see that,” Mister Miller asked, grabbing my arm. “One’a those Super types like in the war, right in our city!”

“I saw it,” I answered. “I saw it.”

Can we take a break? I’m kind of tired. Thanks.

This is quieter than the last part, but then you probably figured that. We need to set the stage, after all.

Enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

It was a particularly busy day. Henchmen — including the Steve and that day player girl he worked with before — were tearing all over the building. Things were being put into cardboard boxes and double taped. Notes were being scrawled on the outside, identifying the contents.

It didn’t take an evil genius to figure out they were packing up.

I caught up with the Steve as he was wrapping dishes in newspaper and putting them in boxes. “I thought a service was going to do all this,” I asked, salvaging a mug to grab coffee before it was too late.

He plucked the mug out of my hand, and nodded towards a package of Dixie brand ‘to go’ cups, just like you’d get in a convenience store. “In an emergency bug-out? Sure. But that costs more. And do you have any idea how hard it is to find shit that the emergency service has packed?”

“Is there a lot of breakage?”

“No, nothing’s ever broken. Think about it. You going to break a supervillain’s favorite coffee mug? Some of these guys destroy whole towns because they’re pissed off that their bacon was undercooked. But they don’t have time to organize. They never know how quickly the F.B.I. and Justice Wing will come over the hill, seeing vengeance, evidence and the occasional chance to catch a hot supervillain taking a shower.”

“So you’re packing? When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. We hit the blow-off, and within five minutes of us leaving the lot to do that, the service will come, haul all our shit out, and do the necessary.”

“The necessary?”

He didn’t answer. He just went to work on the next cabinet of dishes.

I caught up with Marco next. “So the blow-off’s tomorrow? What about tonight?”

“Tonight we’re workin’ quiet,” he said. “Ultra quiet, in fact. I think Big L doesn’t want a repeat of Darkhood butting in.”

“She needs to make the rest of her money?”

“Nah, the electronics heist did that, more or less. This is the prestige job.”

“Prestige job?”

“Sure.” He set down the tool box he had been filling. “Lemme grab coffee.”

“Sure.” I followed him, my own Dixie cup needing refilling from the holy Keurig model.

“See, there’s predictable crimes, if you’re going to really work the media angle. There’s some loud crimes like the jewelry store. That way, they know you’re in town and you make the news. And there’s quiet crimes like the Circuit City. They pay the rent and usually don’t attract cowls. There’s major loud crimes where you’re baiting cops and cowls to show up. But you also need a prestige crime.”

“You said that. I still don’t know what it means.”

“It means something that’ll catch attention more than just straight money. Think about it. The jewel heist was all commercial shit. No antiques, nothing rare, nothing with a name. That means right now the highest ticket crime we’ve pulled was the electronics heist, and honestly — what kind of story is that? ‘Evil mastermind steals calculators that will sell well on the black market?’”

“It made the news.”

“Sure. It was a lot of money. But think a few moves ahead in the game. Most big money heists get forgotten, unless they’re ridiculously large or somehow novel. We remember the Great Train Robbery ’cause of the train thing. We remember D.B. Cooper because of how he left the scene. You need something for people to fixate on. I mean, why do you think supervillains steal shit like the Mona Lisa or the Hope DIamond? It’s not like those are easy to fence.”

“You mean they do it….”

“For the publicity factor. Yeah.”

“And that’s tonight?”

“Damn straight. Museum job. Mostly solo. Me, her and the Steve. She’s going in and grabbing the Mountbatten Urn. You know about it?”

“No?”

“Some archeologist named Mountbatten — not the dead Royal guy, but a cousin or something — found it in the thirties in a dig over in Greece. I guess it’s one of the best preserved Grecian urns they’ve found, and it got a lot of newsplay. Which means it’s worth more than it would be because it’s an old pot — it has a name and a backstory, and it’s on display at the Meridian City Museum of Antiquities as part of their Twentieth Century Archeology exhibit.”

“And Leather’s going to steal it?”

“Damn straight. Get it quietly, liberate it without triggering alarms, back out without breaking it, over to where I’m waiting and we beat feet out of there.”

“And then what do you do with it?”

Marco shrugged, sipping his coffee as he walked back to the shop. “Shit man, I dunno. If we still have it when we get to the new place we’ll fence it. Or use it as an ashtray or something.”

“Still have it?”

“Sure. She’ll bring it with her to the blowoff. That way, bad shit goes down with Darkhood or Transit shows up, we have insurance. Well, more insurance.”

“What other insurance do you have?”

Marco grinned, and clapped me on the shoulder. “You crack me up, man, I’m really gonna miss havin’ you around.”

It still took me a second, but then it fell into place.

#

“Look, it’s very simple. Just show up at five after ten tomorrow morning. No don’t be here early. No, I don’t mean ‘don’t knock yourself out getting here.’ I mean do not, under any circumstances, be here early.” Leather paced. “Because we’ve got a hostage with us. Jesus, is this your first day on dispatch or something? Look, do you want your men getting identified in a police lineup? No– answer me! Do you want your men getting identified in a police lineup? Yes or fucking no? Then you need to be here at five minutes after ten and no sooner. And if you’re late, you might not have time to do the necessary before the– no I’m not going to fucking kill my hostage to make your fucking schedule easier! Look, do I need to talk to your supervisor? Oh, he ain’t in? Gosh, what a shock. I guess I’ll just have to punch the emergency call tonight then, and make it clear to the contact team that you couldn’t settle on a schedule so no I won’t be paying the surcharges but I know someone who will.” There was a louder squak. “Friend… do you honestly think that’s the worst I can do to you? I mean, seriously? Oh, I don’t know who you are?” Leather giggled. “This is your first week, isn’t it. Right. I’ll be seeing you really soon, friend.” She hung up. “God damn I hate teamsters.”

“You’re going to track down a dispatcher?”

“Hm? No need. Give it two minutes.”

“What? Why?”

“You know that whole ‘calls recorded to ensure quality’ thing you hear on most customer service lines?”

“Yeah?”

“This service handles supervillain affairs. You think there’s a chance in Hell they let the dispatcher be the final word in customer care relations? Jesus, the Jack O’Knaves uses this service, and he once killed a waitress for bringing him half and half instead of cream.”

“So what’s our schedule?” I asked.

“Simple. We pile into the Leathermobile tomorrow. That includes you. We pull out at ten on the dot. Five minutes later the service hits and they do the necessary.”

“You guys keep saying that. What’s ‘the necessary?’ Move all your stuff out?”

“To begin with. They want to be absolutely sure there’s no clues left behind to them or to me. That’s kind of a tall order.”

“I’ll bet. What are we going to be doing.”

“Morning bank robbery. Right through their front door. Lots of shouting. Lots of taking down cops. Lots of lovely cash in cloth bags with dollar signs on them.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised. What, you didn’t think Supervillains robbed banks?”

“Well, sure. But it seems so… unplanned.”

Leather giggled. “It’s planned. But what do you think the intention is.”

“Money?”

Leather gave me a sidelong look. Like she might look at a particularly unintelligent child.

“It’s not about the money.”

“Any money we do get is a bonus.”

“This is about Darkhood, isn’t it?”

“Of course. And the cops, but they’re secondary. We need to have a nice, public slugfest right in the open where everyone can see. The city demands it. The form demands it. He needs a shot at me fair and square, just like I need to have a chance to be dirty and sneaky and beat him in front of everyone.”

“And I’m going to be there?”

“Of course. You’re my hostage. If worse comes to worse I’ll threaten to blow your head off.”

“Blow my — I’m wearing the collar again?”

“Of course.” She giggled. “Why do you think we had it on hand in the first place. But that’s a last resort. The first threat will be to the Urn I’m stealing tonight.”

“So… what’s your intention for all of this?”

Leather grinning. “Simple–” her cell phone rang. “–hang on.” She flipped it open. “Talk to me. Hm. Well hello, sir. Yes, I do wish to register a complaint. I’ve come to expect a certain level of service from your people–”

I tuned it out, looking around. I was in her room. She was more comfortable about letting me hang out up there these days, though I’d slept on the cot down below the night before. She’d dropped books into boxes and had suitcases out with clothing shoved into them. It felt weird. Like the end of an era.

I found myself wondering if I should go with them.

Now, there’s no reason they would want me. I’m not a professional henchman or anything, and they’d hardly need a live in freelance reporter. But I’ll admit there was something about this dysfunctional gang I was going to miss. And there were so many things I didn’t understand yet. What happened on holidays? Did they get time and a half? Marco had alluded to a wife. When did he see her? He seemed to live with Leather, and they sure as Hell weren’t married. Was there a pension plan? And what did happen when they all went to jail.

I shook my head. It was weird. I’d spent time around stars before. Singers, dancers, actors — days with their entourages. I’d eaten with them, had their wine and their liquor, declined their cocaine and their women — yeah, I know. I’m not Hunter S. Thompson. But at the end of the gig, I never wanted to go with them. I preferred my mundane life of small apartments and shitty cars and take out Chinese food.

But I’ll admit I would miss Leather and the henchmen.

But then, prisoners got that way sometimes. Patty Hearst sprang to mind. And there were stories of Supervillain captives who turned, who became molls or villains themselves afterward. I guess I could see that.

Leather hung up. “It is a pleasure doing business with people scared for their paychecks and their lives,” she said. “Where were we.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Right! The blowoff. Did you figure it out?”

“Yeah.” I looked at her. “This is the climax. The eleven o’clock number. The finale. Either you go to jail, or you barely get away but he stops the bank heist and maybe gets the urn back, or he goes down and you have a huge payday and he’s humiliated.” I shook my head. “All the rest of this was just business. This one’s the real supervillain action.”

“Yup.”

“What if he wins?”

“Then I go to jail, the Steve makes the call, maybe the henches get away and maybe they don’t, and we move on. They won’t get the money for the stuff I already fenced, so I’m not really out anything except some time and I’m stuck on prison food and overly public toilets for a while.”

“But you could leave tonight and not risk it.”

She considered. “Yeah. Yeah, I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“Of course not.”

“And if you beat him? I mean, take him fully down, stop him entirely, and humiliate him?”

Leather shrugs. “Then he’ll have to rethink his line of work. And if he can’t hack it, he’ll do something else with his nights and the world will be better off without him.”

“And if he can hack it?”

“Then he’s the real deal, and he’ll be stronger next time, and when our paths next cross it’ll be glorious.” She grinned. “C’mon, man. By now you understand how this works.”

“I don’t know that I do,” I said. “There’s so much I don’t still understand about supervillains.”

She grinned. “M0re than you know.” She went back to packing her stereo. “For example, you’ve just been hanging out with me. Maybe from here you should spend a week with some Rogues.”

“Rogues?”

“You repeat me a lot, you know?”

“Sorry. What are Rogues.”

“Supervillains — but not like me.” She lifted components down into the styrofoam packing molds. “They’re the ones who stick to one city and one superhero. The way Leonardo Lucas always fights Paragon, or the Jack O’Knaves takes on the Nightwatch, or Bandolier fights the Beacon?”

“Oh — sure. They’re different?”

“In some ways, absolutely. Think about it.” She glanced up, grinning. “I tour to other cities so my lair won’t get compromised. Their lairs get compromised six times a year, and every time they need to move to a new one. Everything they do is more expensive. Higher rates from the guild because their henches go to jail more than mine do. Higher rates from the service because they go to jail more than I do. It’s like insurance — the more you use it, the more you pay for it. And they don’t take in nearly as much money as I do, in part because their fences get a bigger cut because it’s way more likely the fences will be outed.”

“Then why do they do it?”

“Good question.” Leather stood, stretching. Despite a week with her, I stared. She was just so fluid. “For some it’s revenge. Jack O’Knaves really wants to kill the Nightwatch. Most of the Nightwatch’s rogues are psycho that way. For others it’s ego. That’s the Leo Lucas thing. He doesn’t just want to rule the world, he wants Paragon to bow before him and then die, first. For others, it’s probably some stalker thing. Or it just feels right to them. I mentioned Bandolier? He clearly likes the Beacon and likes Paramount City. There’s a whole hometown feel to it, no matter what they end up doing.” She shrugged. “I spent time with the Bandolier once. He was doing contract work, same’s me. For me, it was a break from touring. I wanted a salary and some camaraderie. For him? He needed cash something fierce, because he wasn’t making a living back home.”

I shook my head. “Why would he possibly do that if he wasn’t making a living at it?”

Leather half-smiled. “See, this is why you need to spend some time with Rogues. If you can figure that out, I’ll be glad to read it in your book.”

“What makes you think I’m going to write a book?”

Leather snorted, and went back to packing.

I looked around. “So where do I go. Greystone City?”

She snorted. “No fucking way. Avoid the psychos like the plague.”

“How do I tell the difference.”

“Read a newspaper. If there’s a body count? Stay away. And no one but no one in Greystone City’s sane. They used to be, back when it was ‘Nightstick and Cudgel’ instead of ‘the Nightwatch.’ These days, the sane ones have retired or gotten the Hell out or been killed by psychos who want their names.”

“Gotcha.” I looked off to one side. “Man. Just when I think I’m beginning to understand this lifestyle….”

Leather chuckled.

“What?”

“‘Understand this lifestyle.’ Don’t you get it?”

“Clearly not.” I was a little tired of the whole ‘don’t you get it,’ thing, but I’d learned not to express such things lest Leather’s mood change.

“You don’t understand lifestyles. You live them. And if parts of them don’t make sense to outsiders, well — that’s because they’re outsiders.”

“You make it sound like being gay.”

Leather considered. “Not quite. People can be gay without being in the gay lifestyle. And the whole metrosexual thing sort of means people can be straight and still live in the gay lifestyle. So maybe.” She shrugged. “Look. In the end, we’re supervillains. I don’t have anything more I can say that’ll explain it. Maybe the next person you interview can tell you more.”

I realized she meant it. “You know,” I said, “I interview celebrities. Musicians. This was unusual for me.”

Leather snorted. “Yeah.”

“What does that mean.”

“Nothing.”

“No, it means something. What?”

Leather shrugged. “Maybe in a year I’ll look you up, Chapman. And we can see if you spent that year interviewing rappers and teen idols or not.”

“You made it clear I’m not a superhero or a supervillain before Dynamo Girl went on the town.”

“Yup.”

“So what makes you think I’m going to risk my life for more stories.”

She smirked. “You got out of the car.”

I paused. “Well, yes.”

“Kurt Loder would have stayed in the car. He would have watched, and reported, and written a damn good story. But he would have stayed in the car.” She half-smiled. “Face it, Chapman. You crossed the threshold. You don’t go back from that.”

“So what does that make me? Barbara Babcock?”

“Don’t get airs. She’s first tier.” She grinned. “You’re still fourth. Welcome to the lifestyle.”

There’s not much more I can say, other than ‘enjoy!’

*** *** *** ***

Ten eighteen. If someone had come up to me say a week ago and asked me what patrolling Meridian City with an Honest to Christ superhero — admittedly one who was actually a supervillain heroing as a lark — would be like, I think the answer ‘boring’ wouldn’t occur to me. After a couple of hours of driving around run down sections of Meridian, though? I was beginning to wish I’d brought along a book.

Mostly we cruised, listening to the police band — Deegee had it built into her stereo — if someone didn’t know the key combinations, you’d never know it was in there. And it tracked calls and plotted them on a GPS screen that seemed to do a Hell of a lot more than be a GPS screen. “Why do you have all this?” I asked, finally.

Deegee grinned. “Well, in my usual line of work it would give us a sense of where the police were, and how we could route around them. I have trip planning software that’ll do that automatically. But really, it’s more useful for what we’re doing.”

“What are we doing?”

“Waiting for something I could be useful in,” she said. “Simple holdups or car thefts or smash and grabs won’t work unless we’re damn close — close enough that I can get there in time to ID the bad guy and take him down. If it’ll take me ten minutes to get to a crime scene without a sense of where the criminals went? I’m a pretty face in a mask with no one to punch.”

“Wow.” I shook my head. “Pretty frustrating, I’d imagine.”

She shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Most of these things are minor anyhow. A guy picking a pocket or taking a purse at knifepoint usually won’t actually hurt their victim. If I’m there and I can help I do, but in the end it’s not a first priority. Gang violence, on the other hand? Or real armed robbery? Or worse? That’s where someone like me can really help.”

“But if you saw a simple mugging?”

“I’d stop it. I mean, duh. That’s what the lycra’s all about.”

I looked out the window, down a long street with yellowing streetlamps and neon signs. They had metal cages they pulled down over the shops in this neighborhood, and even the convenience stores looked like an armed encampment. People were leaning against buildings. Talking. Hanging out.

“Are those drug dealers?”

“Mm? Probably.”

“Then… why aren’t you….”

Deegee rolled her eyes. “Look, I know it’s vigilante justice, but there’s a right way and a wrong way, you know? I can’t just go crack skulls because they might be selling drugs. I have to have more than that. If I don’t, then there’s too much of a chance of screwing up — of hurting someone who doesn’t deserve to be hurt. Nuh-uh. No thank you.”

There was a light tone. “Weather advisory,” the voice of the GPS said. It sounded like every other female electronic voice. I have to assume the phone company pimps that voice out for pennies. I glanced at the screen. It had shifted to a weather map, showing clouds coming in in green and yellow and red, with “THUNDER STORMS” across the bottom and a barometric pressure reading.

“Do we call patrols on account of rain?” I asked.

“Shut up,” Deegee murmured, looking out at the next block. We were stopped at a stop sign, but there was no one behind us, so she was waiting.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to–”

“Shut up.” I realized then she was focused.

I looked across the street to what she was looking at. This block was nearly empty. There was a tall woman, wearing jeans, a white tee shirt and a flannel shirt over it. She was heavily made up and wearing heels, and half-stomping down the road.

“A prostitute?” I asked.

Deegee snorted. “In blue jeans and flannel? She’s a dancer.”

“A stripper?”

“Mm-hm.”

I looked back at her. “Um… so? That’s not against the law.”

She pointed down the block to our left, not taking her eyes off the girl. I looked where she was pointing. Six guys, wearing colors. Orange and red, whatever that meant. A gang. Or something like one, anyway. They were walking the same way. Two of them were laughing.

“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked, my heart beginning to pound.

“Dancers get most of their money in tips and private dances,” Deegee said. “That’s cash. They trade it in for twenties and fifties at the end of the night.” Deegee was watching intently. “The girl’s angry. Dollars to doughnuts she got stood up for a ride home, so she’s walking. Probably carrying a few hundred untraceable bucks, too. So, either this is coincidence that those guys are following her, or they’re thinking she’s an ATM.”

“What are you going to do?”

Deegee’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “I’m going to wait and see what they do. They haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

I watched the girl walk. Then I looked at the pack following her. And I realized right then the difference between Leather going to work and Dynamo Girl going to work. Leather planned everything in advance. She tried to work everything out — all contingencies. But after the planning, she went out and made things happen. She acted. Dynamo Girl… couldn’t do that. She didn’t know what the bad guys would do. She didn’t know what pack of toughs was just walking home, versus being vicious predators. She couldn’t act. She had to react.

The dancer turned the corner, going down a side street. Deegee bit her lip, looking at the toughs–

The moment the dancer went out of their sight, the six began to run.

“Crap,” Deegee snapped, pulling out. To my amazement, she turned right instead of left — the opposite of where the toughs were.

“Where are you going?” I asked as she opened up the throttle, shooting down the road and skidding through a red light, drifting into a left hand turn with a long skid that terrified me.

“Circling the block,” she snapped. “Got to meet them on the other side! Hang on and let the car stop itself!”

“Let the car what?”

But she was ignoring me. She had hit a switch and the car had gone onto an autopilot, driving down the road while she slid down to the floor, her unnaturally flexible body fitting near the pedals.

“What are you doing?!” I shouted as the car swerved around two other cars and squealed. Above us, the moon roof was sliding open.

“Going to work!” she shouted with an almost savage glee, coming up and tossing the dress into my lap, her mask on her face, her leg warmers pulled up. She hooked her hands onto the moon roof’s edge, swung up, curling her body around and through the hole even as the car skidded to the side once more, facing the other end of the side street we’d seen the dancer and the gang go down.

Ahead of us, I saw the dancer. She’d just been shoved down by one of the gang members. They’d surrounded her. In the sudden flash of the car’s headlights I could see the almost animal like glee on their faces.

The car surged forward twenty feet — halfway to the gang — and then slammed on its own brakes. Dynamo Girl threw herself forward at that exact moment — clearly she had some sort of remote — giving her momentum to let her fly forward, twisting in the air like the best gymnast on the planet and bowling into one of the toughs feet first, her body curled. She kicked off him into a backflip, the combination of her momentum and her leg strength throwing him fifteen feet as she landed in a crouch.

As for me? I did the one thing you’re not supposed to do in a situation like this: I got out of the car.

Look. I’m not a superhero. Leather had made that abundantly clear before we left. But she also compared me to Barbara Babcock, chasing after a scoop for the Crown City Chronicle. She had been trying to smack me with a sense of perspective, but Babcock was famous for more than being Paragon’s girlfriend. She didn’t hang back when a story broke. She ran forward. She got in trouble. She made things happen.

If I’m gonna be Barbara Babcock, then by God I’m gonna be Barbara Babcock. If that meant Dynamo Girl had to rescue me from a mad scientist tying me to a chair, then so be it. Anyway, I couldn’t hear what was going on.

“–the Hell are you?” one of the gangers shouted, swinging a chain that Dynamo Girl easily ducked under. He let the momentum swing the chain around his body for another pass. Dynamo Girl sprang up, leaping four feet over the chain as smoothly as a nine year old jumping double dutch.

“Such language,” she said, as she twisted in the air, swinging one long leg in a circle kick into the chain wielder’s shoulder, knocking him to the side. His foot hit the curb and he went down. “You know, there’s no chance you’re getting my phone number without a little more sophistication in your approach!” She giggled as she landed between two others, ducking below one’s clumsy swing and rolling into a handspring split, her legs driving into both of their stomachs. The pair doubled over and went down even as she rolled to her feet, arms akimbo. “Though you do know how to dance,” she said, laughing again.

“We know a lot more than that, bitch!” a fifth shouted, pulling a gun and firing four shots. The dancer shrieked.

Dynamo Girl twisted and whirled, looking for all the world like a ballerina on a stage instead of on a firing line, the bullets clearly missing her despite the point blank range. She landed in a three point stance and rolled forward, turning her roll into a handspring and hooking her legs around the gunman’s shoulders. She pulled her legs back, pulling the gunman off the ground and rolling him over her body, slamming him face first into the pavement and sliding on top of his twitching body. I swear to God she reclined there, crossing her legs and putting her hands behind her head as she looked at the sixth ganger. “Go ahead,” she said with a grin. “Show me what you’ve got.”

The dancer, in the meantime, had gotten to her feet. She was shaky, backing away — precariously in her heels.

“Over here!” I shouted to her. “Come on!”

Her head snapped around to face me, and she began to run. Unfortunately, the sixth tough had been distracted too, and he whirled to face me, pulling a piece of his own.

Of course, that put him back to Dynamo Girl, who swept his legs before he could get off a shot.

I’m not sure what happened next in the fight, because the dancer had reached me. “Do you have a cell phone?” I shouted.

“What?”

“A cell phone? Do you have a cell phone!”

“Y-yes! Yes I do!”

“Then call 911 and tell them you were just attacked! And stay over here near the car!” I pulled her closer to the car — which I realized looked more like a sportscar right now than a Tercel. The license plates had been covered over by metal shutters too. Clearly, at some point when we tore ass around the block it had changed out of its secret identity the same way Dynamo Girl had.

Dynamo Girl herself was facing down three of them in the meantime. Somewhere in there the guy with the chain and one of the two she’d taken down with the split-kick had joined up with the sixth guy and all three were trying to take her out. One had a two by four, chain boy had his chain, and the other had a knife.

Dynamo Girl was clearly playing with them — sliding to one side to avoid one attack while almost casually throwing back an arm that knocked a second back. Rolling back and kicking off the wall to let her do a somersault over their heads and land in time to push the third into the other two. She wasn’t in any danger here — this was all about style. About making an impression.

And then it hit me. She was right — this was theater. But I wasn’t the audience and neither was the near-victim who was staying close to me, still half panicked. She was playing to the criminals. It was a street performance of a one woman play called Crime Gets You Beat Down By A Girl In Tights. It wasn’t just about knocking them out and saving the woman and her purse. It was about delivering a message to the criminals that even trying to commit a crime would lead to the worst day of their lives.

It was working. The three toughs were angry and scared and frustrated all at once. They got sloppier — the guy with the two-by-four nailed the knife guy, for example. And Dynamo Girl rubbed their noses in it. Just like a dog who made a mess on the carpet.

But one of the dogs hadn’t been spanked enough. The first guy she hit — the one she’d used the car’s momentum on — had made it back to his feet. He was still clutching the dancer’s purse, and he tore out of there, running back the way they came as fast as he could.

“Dynamo Girl!” I shouted. “That one’s getting away! He’s got her money!” Barbara Babcock couldn’t have done it better, I figure.

Dynamo Girl’s grin slipped. She ducked under the chain guy’s punch — he’d wrapped the chain around his hand now — and came up punching, taking him down surgically. She spun-kick the guy with the board, bouncing him off the alley wall, and she dropped an elbow into the back of the knife guy, who was still on the ground after being clocked by his friend. None of them were going to get up now.

Rain had begun to fall now. Big droplets, with thunder in the background. The last guy was still running — a good hundred feet away. Dynamo Girl dove forward, leaping over garbage cans sitting outside an alley door — the alley was too narrow for a dumpster, I guess. She curled and came up with one of the trash can lids, and she spun around like a top, or an ice skater in full pirouette. She spun so fast she blurred, and then she released with all the form of a discus thrower.

The trash can lid gleamed in the car’s headlights, arcing out, the last ganger almost around the corner….

It crashed into his legs, hitting with enough force to take his legs out from under him. He slammed into the pavement hard, the purse sliding even as a police car pulled up, lights flashing, on the far end of the alleyway.

“Yes!” Dynamo Girl shouted, pumping her arm. “That’s how we do it Dynamo Girl style!”

“I… I don’t believe it,” the dancer said.

“Believe it,” Dynamo Girl laughed, cartwheeling back. “The police can take it from here, miss! You’re–”

A second police car pulled up on the other side. Dynamo Girl blinked. “Todd!” she shouted. “We got to book!” She started running for me, the rain coming a little faster now.

I turned for the car, in time to see it settle back into a Toyota, locked tight, and shift over to the side — a nice illegal park job. I blinked, figuring we were going in it, only to have Dynamo Girl grab me, slinging me up and over her shoulder as she leapt and grabbed the ladder of an overhanging fire escape.

“What are — what are you doing?” I shouted.

“Vigilante!” she shouted back, and I realized what she meant. Some heroes have sanction — they work with the police, they follow procedures, they file reports. Freelancers were vigilantes. Depending on the city, the cops might turn a blind eye to them, but technically they were breaking the law. Dynamo Girl couldn’t get the car past the blocked alley, so she had disguised it and grabbed me. And now she was swinging up, grabbing a bar on one fire escape landing and swinging up to the next, flipping the two of us in midair so she could do the trick again — but doing it all one handed because she was holding me with the other.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Less like a dangerous stunt and more like a roller coaster. I realized I knew she wouldn’t drop me. She couldn’t drop me. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she always would. And we hit the rooftop and she ran and ran and threw herself into a twenty foot leap to the next roof, and then the roof after that, and then halfway up a steep inclined rooftop. The storm broke then, with sheets of water and rain and wind all around us, and lying there on the roof I saw her throw her arms to the air and laugh with the purest joy I’ve ever seen, spinning like a schoolgirl with complete and total abandon.

#

I was eating a bagel at ten thirty the next morning, when Leather walked in and dropped a newspaper on the table in front of me. I looked up. Her hair was wet, and was also black again, the front streaks bleached almost white in preparation for whatever color she would add to them. Her labriet piercing was back in, and red — her fast healing meant it had largely sealed up by the time we got home, so she’d repierced it herself. Fortunately for her, she was largely immune to infection and the redness and swelling wouldn’t last an hour.

“Read,” she said, drumming her fingers on the open paper.

I looked down. It was an article on page three of the City section — the Police beat. I read.

It detailed an encounter that a Tanya Marks, a local adult dancer, had had with a group of thugs who had attempted assault and robbery. She had been saved by the timely appearance of a new super heroine — the ‘Dynamite Girl.’ It speculated that the new heroine was the partner of some experienced hero in the city, and mentioned that Darkhood had not been available for comment.

I bit my lip, and looked up at Leather.

Leather closed the paper, and tapped it again.

I looked back down, this time at the front page.

“LEATHER STILL AT LARGE: ELECTRONICS HEIST NOW ESTIMATED AT SEVEN FIGURES IN VALUE.” Underneath it, Darkhood — apparently available for this interview — made it clear he would bring the criminal in. Over twenty four hours after Leather’s last appearance in the city, and she still made the front page. There was even two pictures — a file photo of Leather fighting the Silver Horseman, and a stat of Leather’s face, about to kiss the lens of the security camera from the jewelry heist from a few days before.

Leather tapped the paper once more. I looked up at her.

“That’s why I’m a supervillain,” she said, and walked out of the room.