That’s not too surprising at this point. When you’re a writer, sometimes the stories take unexpected turns. Which is what happened to me this time. You see, I finished the Prosperina myth, and figured I was going back into normal production. Prosperina was long for a story, so I had a certain amount of ‘flex’ before I had to get into the regular schedule, but I was pretty sure I’d write a Justice Wing story, then write or post something for Storytelling, then do a myth for the following week.

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to do the next part of Vilify 5 next. I wanted to write something self contained. I thought about writing the very old school story of the time Lady Velvet used Paragon as a weapon against Nightstick and Cudgel, but that story wasn’t quite ready.

And then I thought “hey — why don’t I tell an origin story! That’s nicely comic bookish!” And for whatever reason, the Lieutenant was the character that sprung to mind. I even came up with a good framing device for it — a book Barbara Babcock (Lois Lane to Paragon’s Superman) would write about what Champions would call the Dependent Non Player Characters in a superhero’s life.

In other words, a book about Lois, Jimmy Olson, Perry White, Alfred Pennyworth, Aunt May, Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Steve Trevor, and all the rest of the happy people who were turned into monkeys or killed and stuffed into refrigerators. That would do it!

Yeah.

Over twelve thousand words later, here we are. I thought about breaking it up into parts, but I don’t think this story would support it. So here’s a whole chapter of Barbara’s book for you. And this is why I didn’t get anything else done since then.

One thing I like is neither Barbara nor her interviewee sound like Todd Chapman, from “Interviewing Leather.” At least, within the bounds of me actually writing everyone involved.

The picture isn’t fan art, per se. That’s actually mine. Sort of. See, I started with a posted City of Heroes character based on the Lieutenant, and then I did the photoshop shuffle. The result was meant to look like a comic book panel from 1938 or so, and damn if it didn’t come out right (right down to suspect registration errors and slightly heavy blacks on the lines).

I hope you like “Legacies of the Past.”

(Excerpted from Supporting Cast, by Barbara Babcock-Ellerbee, published by Crown City Chronicle Publishers, Crown City, Illinois., 2004. Used by permission.)

Legacies of the Past

It surprises some people just how friendly the Supporting Casts can get with each other.

A lot of them hate that tag, of course. There are days I’m one of them. I know I’m ‘Paragon’s Girlfriend,’ even two marriages later, but there are days it can drive me insane. I don’t define my life by the Diamond Hard Man, as hard as it is for some Parafans to believe it. These days, I live in Los Bendiciones where we never get snow and though I’ve seen the Centurion a few times, I go out of my way not to talk to her.

But deep down, I know the truth. Teddy Jonson, Ronald Porter, Cindy Calloway — all of us. We’re just a part of his story, at least in the eyes of the world. Supporting Cast works as well as any, at least from the public’s perspective.

It’s natural that we get to know the others like us, I suppose. If nothing else, we get a chance to meet when we’re all captured by some consortium of enemies — or when our respective heroes meet up. And there are ways we understand each other better than anyone else could. We’re not really normal. We’re like celebrities, only most of us don’t have any good reason to be celebrities. We’re halfway between the heroes and the bystanders. Sometimes, it’s nice to just talk with people who understand why it’s better to be tied up with hemp than nylon cord.

I guess it’s natural I went to Victoria Delgato first. In a way, she’s my closest peer; as defined by the Lieutenant as I am by Paragon. At the same time, the Lieutenant is more public than almost any other first tier hero. Everyone knows he’s Jason McCallister. So in a way, Victoria Delgato’s story can be told more completely than most of ours.

On the other hand, there’s no one quite like her.

Victoria Delgato is a striking figure. Slender — almost elfin, with angular features and black hair. She moves carefully and deliberately, like she is studying the world around herself. She wore a pale blue dress with only simple accents, but somehow its simplicity becomes elegant on her body. She seems… fragile, almost. Though it’s a false impression. As of this writing, she’s forty-one years old, but she looks the same as she did at thirty. At twenty-five, even. While I think I’ve aged what a man would call ‘gracefully,’ she hasn’t aged so much as matured. Like a fine wine, maybe. Maybe she’s as timeless as the hero she’s so closely associated with.

Her Monument City home is open and airy — a condominium high up in a building of them, near to Harborplace towards Little Italy. And despite her surname, Victoria is more Italian than not. Her father, the infamous Boss Delgato, was half Spanish, half Italian. Her mother was a Rossi. And her apartment has an Italian feel, down to tan stucco and light accents. It is restrained, but elegant. Expensive. Victoria Delgato has always had money, and she wears it like a cloak.

But as much as her condo reflects her heritage, it’s hardly staid. The artwork is new and fresh — on one wall, a white canvas sits, black Japanese calligraphy hand brushed into place. On another a woven tapestry — a pattern instead of anything representational. The effect is organic, but everything feels intentional. The room almost energizes you just being in it. In a place like this, you understand Feng Shui, even if you don’t believe in it.

“Here you go,” she said to me, that enigmatic smile on her face. I had often seen that smile, even in grave danger, but I’d never heard her laugh until this interview. It’s an airy thing, as musical as one of her compositions. She handed me a china cup of coffee, cream already in. I’d watched her make it herself, grinding the beans in an expensive burr grinder, then pouring the ground coffee into a gold cone she proceeded to pour nearly boiling water over out of an expensive kettle. She then ground more beans, extra fine, and made herself a tiny cup of espresso, pulling it with a manual lever machine. This is what Victoria does. She makes things, and she does it by hand.

“Thanks,” I said, sipping. The flavor was rich but not overwhelming. I watched her sip her espresso — straight, no cream, water or sugar for her. I got the feeling she’d never had a Starbucks latte in her life.

She slid into a black wrought iron wire chair, in front of a black, white and red tiled table. It would have been at home in any upscale cafe. I sat opposite her, wondering if the iron wires would leave impressions in my back. “So, you’re here to talk about the Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I said. “Really, I wanted to talk about you. About us.”

“Ah. Of course. Our sorority. Well, sorority plus the occasional man. Do you remember — oh, you must. That time Doctor Nebula captured the two of us and Major Storm?” She smiled softly, shaking her head. “Poor, poor Kyle. He never did quite acclimate to being one of the damsels in distress. And he hated when I called him one.”

“I can’t say I like it much either.”

“Really?” Victoria raised both her eyebrows. “Whatever do you object to? The damsel, or the distress?”

“I think we brought more than chronic endangerment to the table.”

Victoria looked amused. “Some of us had pluck, dear. You certainly did. Some had other qualities.” She looked off in the distance. “As for me, I rather think I was a good damsel in distress. I wasn’t given to tears or shrieking. Really, it was embarrassing when some of our compatriots were. Do you remember… what was her name? Mm. The bottle redhead. Spent time with Arrowhead for about six months.”

“Gail Donaldson,” I said.

“Yes. Yes of course. I remember there was a gathering.” She furrowed her brow, considering. “What was it now… a recital, perhaps? One of my…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The Lieutenant and Arrowhead matched gauntlet and bow with Colonel Darque and Fletcher Joan. I couldn’t tell you any of the particulars.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she remembered it. “They didn’t really threaten us. I think Fletcher Joan might have pointed an arrow at us, but if so it was at the whole crowd, not Gail or I. But that woman shrieked like she had been thrown into a volcano. No poise. No bearing. No staying power.”

“Well, not everyone faces danger stoically,” I said.

Victoria shrugged a tiny shrug. “Then she shouldn’t have dated a super hero. If you had been there, you’d have fought to turn the tables on our captors.” She smiled a bit. “That was always your style. You were more like Major Storm than someone might think. You both wanted to win the day before Freya or Paragon even crashed through the wall. And though I was never so… active….” she pursed her lips as she said it, almost distastefully. “…well, I still knew the value of watching for opportunity. And the value of minimizing the value of my capture. Knowing I was in danger inspired Jason’s best efforts, but it’s a thin line between inspiring a hero and distracting him from his work. Not Gail. Gail had to be the center of attention. Save her, no matter who else was in peril.” She fluttered her hand dismissively. “Unworthy, really. I’m glad they didn’t last as a couple.”

“Is that really how you see your role?” I asked. “You’re passive? A victim? Someone to be captured and threatened, but to sink into the background and not interfere?”

Victoria laughed that airy laugh again. “How horrified you sound. Always the feminist, aren’t you? How dare a woman in the twenty-first century embrace a passive role? A victim’s role. As if you were the one saving lives, instead of Paragon.”

“It’s better than waiting for him to rescue me.”

“Is it?” She smiled a bit more. “You sound like Jason.”

That surprised me. It must have shown, because she was even more amused. “Oh yes,” she said. “The Lieutenant believes that every man, woman or child can seize their own destiny. He’s yelled at me before — tried to get me trained in self-defense, or carry pepper spray, or…” she shrugged. “He’s tried to make me someone I’m not.”

“Sooner or later, that attitude will get you killed, Victoria.”

“Oh, certainly. I just hope my death is a beautiful one.”

“Beautiful?”

She finished her espresso, then darted her tongue out to catch the last drops from the bottom of the tiny cup. She smiled impishly, as if I’d caught her being naughty. “I work in art and music and composition, Barbara. Beauty and meaning intertwine. If my death has impact, then it will be a beautiful death. I dread dying alone in some rest home.”

“So you’re passive? That–”

“No… I’m just not an active hostage. Really, I think I’m just as curious as you are. It’s what led to all this happening in the first place, really.”

“Your curiosity?”

“And my propensity for distress.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard this story.”

She smiled a bit more. “Then it’s high time you do.”

And so she started talking, and I recorded it on my minidisc recorder, and with only light editing for clarity I pass her story on to you:

#

Victoria Delgato: This all began, in one sense, in 1982 on July the first. That has become somewhat famous as the last official encounter between Salvatore Delgato, called Boss Delgato, and Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister, called Jayce by his friends. But in another sense, it began decades before that. You see, July the first was three days before Jason’s birthday. His sixty-fifth birthday. Which means that my dear Lieutenant was both born on the Fourth of July and precisely three days from retirement the day this happened. A double cliché.

You seem surprised. Many people are, even if they intellectually know Jason McCallister’s advanced age. Yes, in 1982 Jason was sixty-four years old — primed to become sixty five. He had been born in 1917, during the first World War. By the time he volunteered for the United States Army, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, he had already graduated from college and the police academy. Indeed, he had been an officer for… hm. I want to say three years. At sixty-four, he was still in good shape, but time had taken its toll on his muscle tone and his waistline. His hair was more white than brown. He had been a police officer for more than forty years.

And during that time, he had been my father’s most implacable foe. My father was about twelve years older than Jason McCallister. When Officer McCallister had first walked a Monument City beat, my father had already been an enforcer for the Kowalski Syndicate for some time. Father had gotten into the game during the twenties and Prohibition, and was really coming into his own. I know my father told me that Officer McCallister was the only man to ever arrest him, and that was before he had taken the syndicate over.

Which sets the stage. While Jason fought in World War II in the South Pacific — ironically reaching the rank of First Lieutenant — my father had been rated 4F by the draft board. I never asked him about it, but I know he told one curious person he’d had a perforated eardrum, and another he’d had fallen arches, so I suspect the medical reason for his disqualification involved an engorged bank account and a malignant case of examiner’s corruption. I know a lot of Kowalski’s men did go overseas, which meant my father was in a position to take the syndicate away from him. By the time Lieutenant McCallister came home and returned to Officer McCallister, the Kowalski Syndicate had become the Delgato Syndicate, and my father was simply known as ‘Boss.’

Monument City was as corrupt a city as you’ll ever see. If it wasn’t as dangerous as, say, Greystone City, that’s purely because Boss Delgato wanted the city to be safe. The syndicate and the local political machine were essentially one large organization. My father’s interests included the street pavers and the trash collectors. Our schools were nice because my father wanted them nice. It appealed to his sense of pride. The city council was made up of his cronies. The mayor was little more than his puppet. And the chief of police and the police commissioner weren’t about to interfere. Not when Delgato money ran richer than civic money.

I make my father out to be quite the civil servant, but that’s not true at all, of course. The Delgato Syndicate ran gambling and prostitution — from the numbers racket and streetwalkers up through floating craps and underground casinos staffed by the highest quality call girls. They ran drugs and branched into new ones whenever they became popular. Remember, my father ‘inherited’ the old Kowalski machine, and that had been built during Prohibition. Puritanical laws become profitable crimes. And of course, there was good old fashioned protection — every shopkeeper and craftsman in Monument City paid Delgato’s men when they came around on the first Tuesday. Those who didn’t didn’t last long, and of course the police did nothing to help them.

In all of this, there was Officer Jason McCallister — an honest policeman.

He was popular with the press — and why wouldn’t he be? Handsome, tireless, scrupulous and clean. And for forty long years, he was the most implacable enemy my father had. It was safe to say the only reason my father’s control over Monument City wasn’t absolute was because of Jason McCallister.

They tried to buy him but he wouldn’t be bought. They tried to break him but he wouldn’t be broken. They tried to smear him and ruin him but he beat it every time. So they had to settle for holding him back. Forty years of exemplary service should have led to a Captaincy, if not higher. But McCallister’s superiors held him back as much as they possibly could.

How that man kept straight and clean, I’ll never know. But he did. He believed, you see. He believed in the law and he believed in justice. And if he could never find the evidence to convict my father, he certainly tore down any number of my father’s operations. Slowly, he put together his own team of honest police officers — men and later women who were inspired by his example and strove for the dream of a clean Monument City. And despite the best efforts of my father and all the dirty men he controlled, when July of 1982 rolled around Jason McCallister had risen to Detective Lieutenant.

But Detective Lieutenant McCallister knew he was running out of time. Retirement loomed. Retirement was mandatory, and there was no chance the corrupt men over McCallister would make an exception for him. So he was doing his damndest to take my father down before it was too late.

My father, in the meantime, had never been content to rest on his laurels. He didn’t just take over Kowalski’s territory. He improved it. He innovated. In his own way, my father was a visionary, and his organization reflected that vision. He kept abreast of new technologies and techniques, and he studied and adapted to them all. Unlike most crime bosses, he maintained a staff of scientists and engineers, always working to refine the technology of crime. He had seen old Boss Kowalski eschew innovation and had vowed never to make that mistake. By the time the eighties had come around and superhumans were known to exist, my father had delved into those sciences and even into the occult.

By 1982, my father’s research goals had changed, but neither Lieutenant McCallister nor I knew it.

On July 1, McCallister had his team — the honest one — staking out an old industrial building where a lot of anomalous chemicals and equipment had been going. The police suspected this was a major drug manufacturing laboratory, which was against type for my father. Father owned and ran plenty of processing facilities like that, of course, but he typically ran them far outside of town, where deniability was easier. He had never been arrested since he took over the Syndicate — and before then only once, by Jason McCallister — because he was cautious.

As it turns out, this was one of many labs my father had commissioned since 1980, and drug manufacture was the least of his interests.

As it also turns out, both my father and I were in the building when an explosion went off. My father was inspecting the work, and I? I was curious. I didn’t know what he was up to, and I wanted to know.

I am sometimes referred to as a Crime Princess, but honestly that was never true. My father was thrilled when I was born, and resolved early that I would have nothing to do with his criminal affairs. He had me educated in private schools, had my talents encouraged, gave me affection but also taught me the value of doing for myself, not letting others do for me. Today I’ll admit to a cleaning staff but they only come in once a week. I cook my own meals, wash my own clothes and drive my own automobile on those rare occasions I wish to drive. I was home from Julliard when father left to go on his inspection, and I had my curiosity piqued by some of the things he had said to Paul, his lieutenant. Paul was like a son to him — I think my father intended Paul to be his heir in crime. I overheard him speak of white cell counts and concerns, and that he wanted to be on hand for the ‘test.’

I was curious, and I was concerned. I wasn’t a fool back then. I could tell something was wrong. So I managed to conceal myself and go along with them, and I managed to follow them. I’m quite good at not being seen, when I need to be.

They went into an inner room, where there were vats and machines, and men in white coats and eyes best described as insane were combining chemicals and electricity in ways I couldn’t easily describe. A tesla coil or jacob’s ladder wouldn’t have been out of place.

“Ah, Mister Delgato,” the leader said. He was a small man, with a head charitably described as lumpy and thick glasses. His name, I learned later, was Doctor Abraham Giles — later to be known as the rather infamous Doctor Guile, father to Beatrice Guile — the malevolent Beguile. But at the time, he worked for my father. “We believe the compounds are ready to be synthesized. You shall find that their regenerative and restorative properties are…. remarkable, to say the least.”

“You’ve been telling me that for two years, Giles,” my father snapped. “I’m running out of time and out of patience. Perniciti tells me the Osiris Effect will be ready by the weekend — what makes you think I need you?”

“Perniciti. Madness. A charlatan soothsayer no better than that Allen Chemical you sent to me. Playing on superstitions and card tricks. You will find cold science far more effective than any chunk of rock, you mark my words.”

“Besides, Boss,” Paul said. “If this works, we can reproduce it. We can sell it. Perniciti’s a good plan B but it’ll only save you.”

My father snorted. “Only, Paul?”

Paul shrugged. “That’s job one, but next week there’s gotta be job two, too.”

My father smiled, and clapped Paul on the back. “I like how you think. Especially since it means I’ll be around for it. Okay, Giles. You got something to show us?”

“Of course. I would not have summoned you unless I were completely prepared.” The little man turned, walking to the vat in the middle. He reached controls and began to work levers. Electricity began to crackle through the room. White hot heavy metals began to pour down chutes into a crucible. “Behold!” he cried out. “Behold the Panacea Elixir’s genesis!”

I could tell at this point that my father had something seriously wrong with him. Some illness — and I could suspect what one. Perhaps that drives a man to desperation. Still, I wish to this day he had confided in me before then — told me his of illness. If nothing else, I could have warned him to never employ a scientist who shouts ‘behold’ before an experiment.

The chemicals and metals combined. Later, I learned that this was meant to create a new curative. No, more that than — a cure all. And I suppose there was some method to this madness, as the infamous Doctor Guile is known to be nigh immortal, his body’s cells impregnated with a substance that reconstitutes him after any injury. Well, I can say that I saw it happen, because something in the vat failed — perhaps it was too hot, or the crucible was malformed. But it exploded, and seemed to consume the madman in white magma and fire.

The force of the explosion warped the catwalks and structures and threw molten metal in all directions. It was sheer luck that only Doctor Guile was consumed in the explosion. My father, Paul and several other scientists were far luckier. And not being fools they fled. The building, as it turns out, was largely flammable — while there were some metal supports and brickwork here and there, it had been made early in the century, meant as a mill, and had never been meant for such heat. The explosion had the entire building ablaze frighteningly quickly.

I ran, but not knowing the building, I made wrong turns. By the time I had figured out where I was and ran to escape, the way was cut off by burning timbers and thick smoke. Choking, I went another way — finding a room with a window which I threw a chair through. Too high up to jump but I could scream down. “Father!” I shouted.

They were down below, along with most of the plant workers. The fire department hadn’t gotten there yet — we were far out, remember — but because the police had been staking out the building, they were on hand. And because it was Detective Lieutenant McCallister’s crew, they had moved in to rescue as many people as they possibly could. I could see them down below, the sound of fire engine sirens in the distance. My father had a blanket on — he might have taken some fire. He was having an angry conversation with the Detective Lieutenant himself.

The two men whirled. They saw me up above. Even from several stories up, I believe my eyes locked with Jason McCallister’s.

And then I saw no more. A burning timber collapsed over me, striking me a nasty blow. If I move the dress off my shoulder and you look you can see — there, on my shoulderblade? That is a burn scar. Minor, compared with what might have happened. But it means I don’t have a conscious memory of what happened next. The next thing I remember is waking up with paramedics working on my burn, and my father crying next to me, holding my hand.

So I did not see Jason McCallister run. Run into a burning building, with just three days to his retirement. I did not hear him coughing as he took smoke and sought some means up to my floor. Did not see him run in with fire behind him, scooping me into what they call a fireman’s carry. Did not feel him jostle me as he desperately tried to escape the building.

I am told that as he ran through the inferno of the lobby, he heard the supports cracking. Cracking like the gunshots he once heard on Pacific atolls as he fought the Japanese in a war that had ended decades before my birth. Exhausted, his body failing, he got close when he heard a horrible wrenching sound.

They told me he threw me. Threw me with all his might and momentum, getting me clear of the building. I remember being scraped up when I came to — abraded from my roll on the macadam.

And they told me that the effort made McCallister fall. And then the building collapsed over him.

It is a miracle he didn’t die instantly, of course. He should have been crushed. Failing that, he should have been burned to death. But though he survived, it was not for lack of trying. Most of his bones were broken. His lung was punctured. Most of his body was hideously burned. I have seen pictures and there are nights they still haunt me. It took them hours to dig him out, and then of course he was bundled off to the hospital.

Not that he stayed there.

Father’s most advanced facility was out in Chesapeake Bay, past Whetstone Point, on an island far enough out that it was debatable if it was in international waters or not. He got us out there as soon as he could arrange it — there were inquiries into the explosion, of course, and questions being raised, but with the most prominent honest policeman on death’s door, no one was going to push. He wanted us out there in case one of his rivals — say, Carter from up North, or Giordano — decided to take advantage of the explosion to make a move.

“You’re sick,” I said quietly, after we got inside the island compound.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You’re dying.” I remember my voice feeling so hollow as I said it.

“Not if I can help it,” he told me. He then looked at me. “What were you doing there? If… I never wanted you to get hurt, baby.”

“I overheard you talking to Paul,” I said. “You should have told me.”

He looked at me a long moment, then looked down and nodded. “Yeah.” He looked back up. “I’m sending you down to the doctors — let them take a look at that shoulder. I don’t trust those meat wagon drivers they got driving ambulances.”

“All right,” I said. I followed one of his enforcers down into the building. I wasn’t surprised to discover a state of the art medical facility down there.

I was, however, surprised to see they had a patient. One wrapped in bandages, and on heavy life support. He had no chart — I’m sure they weren’t going to allow a paper trail — but despite not being able to clearly see him I knew who it had to be.

“That’s Lieutenant McCallister,” I said to the doctor as he worked on my back, across the room from the dying man.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” the Doctor said, working a salve over the burn on my shoulder.

“What… how did he get here?”

“That was me,” said one of Father’s other lieutenants — Morton, not Paul. “The Boss told me to pick him up from Franklin Square Hospital.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you — it was a bitch getting him over here without him dyin’. I was tempted to let him, too.”

“He saved my life,” I said softly. “He ran into an inferno to save me.”

There was an awkward pause. “Yeah, well, anyways. The Boss wanted him here.”

“Thank you,” I said, and turned to look at what was left of Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister.

The compound was comfortable enough, but there really wasn’t much to do. Not if you weren’t a fan of television, anyhow. So I spent most of my time sitting near to Detective Lieutenant McCallister. Sometimes I would read to him, from the paper or from one of the books I managed to find. I felt it was important that someone be nice to him, even if he were unconscious. It was safe to say none of my father’s men were so inclined, even if my father insisted he be kept alive.

For as long as possible, anyhow.

I sat by him on the fourth of July. I softly sang happy birthday to him and everything. And it was on the fourth that my father first came down to see him.

“There’s been no change,” I said as father came in. He was wearing a bathrobe. Clearly, he had been undergoing various treatments for his cancer out here. Possibly for some time.

“That’s good,” he said. “The way he is? The only change’ll be bad.”

“Why is he here, Father?”

My father didn’t answer, looking at the man who had bedeviled him for four decades. The helpless man. It wouldn’t have taken much. Just unhook a tube or unplug a machine, and wait for him to stop breathing.

“Father?”

“Y’know, I never understood why you call me that.” He looked at me. “I called my father Poppa. I always tried to get you to call me Daddy. Must have been your mother, baby. She must have gotten in your head. Made you all formal.” He smiled, a little sadly.

“Do you want me to change?”

“Nah.” He looked down at McCallister. “You know what?”

“What?”

“He just retired. He’s not a police officer any more. As of today, he’s off the force.”

I didn’t say anything.

“For forty years, I’ve been trying to force him out. I did everything I could think of. And today? Today a man in an office hit his file with a rubber stamp and it’s done. McCallister ain’t a cop. He’s got no badge. He’s got no authority. He’s just another schmuck.”

“Are they looking for him?”

Father snorted. “Oh yeah,” he said. “But they won’t find him. Not out here.”

I nodded.

“Did he wake up? Ever?”

“I don’t think so.”

Father looked at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Let me know if he does, okay?”

“How are you feeling?”

Father smiled at me. “You know me. I could kill an ox.”

“Does that skill come up often?” I smiled back at him, though it wasn’t the happiest of smiles.

“More than you’d think.” He straightened up, and adjusted his robe. “I’ve got to go get stuck with needles, and talk with Paul and Perniciti. You meet Perniciti yet?”

I shook my head.

“Good.” He shuffled out of the room, and I went back to reading.

As it worked out, it was another eight days — the twelfth of July — before much changed. I remember I was sitting with McCallister, who was still unconscious, when I saw my father and Paul come in. They were at the far end of the room, but I have good hearing.

“It has to be today,” Paul was saying. “There’s no reason to wait any longer.”

“It might not work,” Father said. “It might be lethal.”

“You won’t be any more dead than if you do nothing. It’s not like this is plan B any more. Perniciti says–”

“I know what he says.”

Paul took my father’s arm. “Boss… we need you. We need your strength. Giordano’s making a push. We have to push back. The rumor is you’re dead — that could lead to chaos in the streets. It has to be today.”

Father looked at Paul, and patted his hand. He looked so old, right then. He was seventy seven years old, born in December of 1904. He’d had me late in life, but he loved me. As he’d loved my mother before she died. “Okay. Let’s talk to the Doctor. If it has to be today, we need to see about McCallister.”

Paul didn’t argue. They walked over to where I was sitting. Paul waved the doctor over.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Old and cancerous,” Father said. “How’s the cop?”

The doctor shrugged. “He’s getting worse.”

“Can you wake him up?”

The doctor sighed, looking down at the police officer. I had to wonder about a doctor who’d sell his soul to a crime boss. Even if that crime boss was my father. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I don’t remember asking you to recommend anything. Can you wake him?”

The doctor took a long moment to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah. But when he goes back under, he’s never coming out of it.”

“Is he gonna die anyway?” Paul asked.

“Yes.”

“Then today’s as good as any other day, right?”

“I’ll get the–”

“Wait,” Father said. “Move him upstairs. We don’t want to do this here.”

“He’s… pretty fragile.”

“Move him carefully.”

“Upstairs?” I asked.

Father nodded. “He and I — we have business.”

I nodded. “I’m coming too.”

Father frowned. “This isn’t anything you need to hear,” he said softly.

“Father, this man saved my life. You’re my father.” I took a deep breath. “And I know who you are. I’m coming with you both.”

Father smiled, just a little bit. He wasn’t happy, but he could respect that. “Let’s get him up there.”

They managed to get him up the lift, into a sunny room. This was one of Father’s R&D facilities. There were prototypes of new guns and tazers along one wall. There was a lightweight suit of bulletproof armor hanging from the ceiling, and a pair of prototype ‘enforcer gauntlets’ on a nearby table.

And across from where they positioned McCallister and all his life support equipment, there was a bronze sarcophagus. It looked vaguely Egyptian. A reed thin man in a black cloak, pale skinned with a shock of black hair stood next to it, watching.

“Do it,” my father said to the doctor.

The doctor injected chemicals into McCallister’s IV. After a few moments, he shifted, and his eye fluttered.

“Lieutenant?” my father said, louder than he’d spoken since we got there. “You there, Lieutenant?”

McCallister grunted.

“How you feeling, huh?”

McCallister’s eye opened the rest of the way. The other one was bandaged over. “Hurt,” he said, very softly. His voice was full of gravel, with oxygen still flowing into his nose through a clip of some sort. “Throat feels scratchy.”

“Yeah, well, you had a tube down it. Do you know where you are?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant?”

“In trouble,” he said.

Father smiled. “Damn right. It’s just us here, Lieutenant. No one else. Oh, and for the record? It’s July twelve. You slept through your own retirement party. I’m sure someone picked your watch up for you, though.”

McCallister stared at my father.

“No speech? Well, okay. I guess that makes sense. Do you know why you’re here?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Lieutenant? Still with us? Do you know why you’re here?”

McCallister’s voice was rough, but a little stronger. “I’m pretty sure it’s because you dropped a building on me.”

My father grinned. “You see? This is why I like this guy. He’s badly injured, trapped and surrounded by his enemies, and he’s still making jokes.” He leaned over McCallister. “You’re dying, Lieutenant. You won’t live through the day. Do you hear me?”

McCallister took as deep a breath as he could. “I’ve… proven you wrong before, you know.”

Father rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And that right there? That’s why I hate you, McCallister. You never know when to just quit.” He stood back up. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re dying. You’re dying because you saved my daughter’s life. And that means we have business before you kick off.”

“I don’t… take deals from you, Delgato.”

“This isn’t a deal. Don’t you get it? I’d won. You were going to retire. Without you, your little friends would dry up and blow away. And you knew it.”

McCallister didn’t answer this one.

“And then? Three days before your retirement… three days before I was going to beat you once and for all… you had a chance to destroy me. To get your revenge. You could have broken me, McCallister. You could have taken away my legacy. My future. My daughter–” his voice broke, and I realized how emotional about this he really was. “My daughter was going to die, and all you had to do was turn away. I’m an old man — I couldn’t have saved her. I’d probably have died trying.”

“That’s not how I do things,” McCallister said, in that ruined voice. He was having trouble breathing, but I could see him fighting to stay awake — to stay in the room.

“Why not? Why not tear me apart the one way you know you could? Why not take the only really beautiful thing I ever had a hand in making?”

McCallister closed his uncovered eye. For a moment, I thought he might be going back to sleep — to his final sleep — but he opened it back up. “She didn’t do anything wrong. ‘S… my job to save people, not let them die… for petty… for rev…” he swallowed.

“So because she was innocent. you were honor bound to save her.” Delgato shook his head. “What if it had been me?”

“Wh… what do you–”

“What if it was me up there? What if you saw me in that window? Saw the timber hit me. Saw me go down?”

“If… if it was you?”

“That’s right, tough guy. What if it was me?”

McCallister’s eye closed again Even under the bandages, he looked… ashamed, almost. “If… if was you?”

“Yeah?”

“…the same.”

There was a long pause in the room.

“Oh, Jesus, why are we even doing this?” Morton asked. “Of course he’s gonna say that, Boss! He doesn’t want you to kill him! He’d–”

“I believe him,” my father said, softly.

“Oh come–”

“I said I believe him!” Father was annoyed now. “I’ve known this guy forty-four years, Morty. Forty four years. You think he hasn’t had a chance to put a bullet in me before? You think he hasn’t been tempted to arrange an accident? Don’t you get it?” He looked at McCallister. “It kills him to even admit it, but he believes. He believes in the law and justice and trials by jury and all the rest of it. He always has. He’d save my life and let the law arrest me all at once. And without a conviction — without evidence, he wouldn’t do anything to punish me.”

McCallister swallowed. “Th-throat… dry…”

There was ice water to hand. I think one of the medical staff brought it, flexible straw and all, so I shifted to put the straw in his mouth. I saw him looking at me with that one eye as he drank.

“Hurry, baby,” Father said. “We don’t have a lot of time to talk.”

Silently I stepped back.

“You… you screwed up this time,” he said softly. “You kidnapped me. They’re… they’re looking and my testimony….”

Morton chuckled. “Testimony, the man says.”

Father shrugged. “Lieutenant, you’re not going to live out the day, the way things stand. You’re sure as Hell not testifying against me like this.” He looked away. “Don’t you get it? Even now I’ve won. Except… except I haven’t. Because now we have business.”

McCallister looked at him. Today I wonder how he held on that long. He was in tremendous pain, even with painkillers, and he was so fragile. I suppose that famous will saw him through, though only barely, perhaps.

“You know — I haven’t shown you around the room yet,” Father said. “This is a lab, Lieutenant. This is where the next generation of criminal will be born. Look — see here.” He walked over to the hanging armor. “This is a light, flexible body armor. Bullets that go through fifteen layers of kevlar bounce off this suit, but it breathes like cotton. Age of miracles, my friend.”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“Oh, and look — I love these things.” He picked up one of the gauntlets. “It’s a prototype — these are all prototypes. But this glove? It can give an electric charge. Or trigger it and–” the side tubes snapped up into the suddenly clenched fist, for the small combat stick. “Instant billy club. You can even snap the two clubs together into like a fighting staff, and that can give an electric charge too. Think about it. Enforcers walkin’ the streets — not needing guns to shake people down. I always hated that, y’know. Guns are for enemies, not everyday schmucks. In the old days we did shakedowns with baseball bats. They’re scarier, you know.”

McCallister worked his lips.

“I didn’t even show you. See these plates?” Father turned the gauntlet, triggering it, so it fanned out into half the riot shield. “Bulletproof, even more than the suit. You put the gauntlets together, and you can stand up to machine gun fire. Huh? Huh? Pretty neat, huh?”

“You must be proud.” McCallister’s voice was weaker.

“Proud.” Father snorted. “I was.” He tossed the gauntlet onto the table. “Over there, we have better guns than the military. High tech stuff. Communications stuff. I remember Kowalski, Lieutenant. He refused to adapt to the times. Well, we live in a world where cops fly and shoot lightning out their eyes. Guys like me either become chum for the super criminals who fight them — or we become super criminals ourselves. And I’m not Kowalski, you hear me? Do you hear–” Father broke down, coughing, bending at the middle. Paul moved to support him.

Father stood, wiping something dark off his lips. “Want to hear something funny, Lieutenant? I’m dying too.”

McCallister didn’t react. He just watched.

“Cancer. All those years of cigarettes and cigars. Heh — do you remember when I was on that game show with my new wife? ‘Two for the Money?’ The one with Herb Shriner?”

“I remember.” A raspy voice. The voice of the grave.

“We won — Jesus, must have been three hundred bucks. Nothing more than that. Though that was a lot of money then, you know. You remember.” He shook his head. “They gave us each a carton of Old Gold cigarettes when we sat down at the table. Old Gold cigarettes, Lieutenant. Twenty five years later, I’m dyin’ a’cancer. I’m tempted to sue Mark Goodson and Bill Todman.”

“You smoked them,” McCallister whispered.

“Yeah, I did. And I was ready to die. I really was.” He leaned closer to McCallister. “And then miracles started to happen.”

He stood back up, gesturing. “Suddenly, Paragon was flying through the air, beams of light coming out of his eyes. Suddenly the goddess Freya was real, and all her power and magic with her. Miracles were happening. And I had the machine to make miracles of my own, Copper! I had the people, I had the money, and I didn’t have to hold back for anything!”

He looked McCallister right in the eye. “So why not get myself a miracle? Why not get myself out of this? Why does super have to mean flying men and punching and ray beams? Why can’t it mean Salvatore Delgato doesn’t die from cancer?”

McCallister sort of hissed. “Everyone dies,” he said softly.

“So far,” my father said, standing back up. “And we found it. In the Valley of the Pharaohs in Egypt, we found the Osiris Stone. The legend was it could heal the sick.” He shook his head. “And it works. I saw it clear up colds. I saw it heal cuts and scrapes in seconds. We brought in scientists and magicians to study it. It really works, McCallister.”

McCallister’s lips worked. I offered him more water, and he accepted.

“The thing is… it’s too slow. It might slow down the spread — keep me alive a little longer, but it won’t stop something like this. There’s too much damage. Too much disease. I needed something more.” He smiled. “But I’m rich and willing to take chances. I found alchemists and occultists and scientists, Lieutenant. Mister Perniciti over here figured it out.”

“Figured… what… figured what out?” He sounded weaker. I realized he was dying.

Father looked at the sarcophagus. “How to harness the Osiris Stone into the Osiris Effect. Turn the chamber on, and it’ll release all the Stone’s power — everything — into one concentrated burst. It’ll flood my body with whatever it does. It’ll do more than cure my cancer, it’ll remake me from the cells up. Do you understand, Lieutenant? That chamber is gonna make me a young man again — put me back at the start. The peak of health.” His smile turned nasty. “I’ll probably live another seventy seven years.”

McCallister worked his mouth. I could tell he didn’t want to show weakness, even when he was as weak as any human could be. But I knew that struck home.

Father’s smile slowly slipped. “It was a good plan. Come out, one way or another, and be young again, just in time for you to retire. I’d have told the boys that you were to be left alone — Hell, we’d put you on the V.I.P. list. Let you get older and older, perfectly safe, perfectly healthy for an old man… watch my organization grow and flourish.” He shook his head. “And then you saved Victoria. My legacy to the world. Maybe… maybe the only good thing I ever was a part of. And you sacrificed your own future — whatever you had left — to do it.” He looked away, and slammed his hand down on the brass. “I pay my debts, Lieutenant, and you’ve racked up a doozy.”

“What…” he shivered. “…what do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we had to talk. How do I repay someone’s legacy? How do I live up to a debt like that, especially to a dead man? Especially when the man is you? How do I use my new life to replay something like that?” He leaned over the Detective Lieutenant. “What will it take, Jason McCallister?”

“…you… m…” He shivered again. “…must be joking.”

“I pay my debts. I always have. I always will. This is your one chance.”

McCallister closed his eye. “…turn yourself in… go st…state’s evidence.”

Father turned away, snorting in disgust. “I’m not gonna spend my new life serving a double-life sentence. I don’t care what I owe you.” He shook his head. “What. Do I switch sides? Move out west? Build a new organization to clean up the streets?”

McCallister didn’t answer.

“God damn it–”

There was a noise at the end of the room. One of Father’s flunkies. Paul went over to find out what he wanted. Father glanced over, but then turned back. “Look. You need to be reasonable, McCallister. For once in your damn life — for the last time you do anything in this life — you have to meet me halfway. Give me something. A project. A rule. Something.”

McCallister opened his eyes. His voice was still soft, but steadier than a moment before. “I don’t make deals, Delgato. You want to honor me? Turn yourself in. Otherwise… better let me get on with dying.”

Father stared at him. “Jesus Christ. You never know when to quit. Fine. I wash–”

“Boss.” Paul had come back over at a run. “Giordano’s got three boatloads coming straight for here!”

“What? How did he know– doesn’t matter. Have the checkpoints stop them!”

“The checkpoints let them through, Boss. They joined them.”

Father’s jaw set. “The helicopter?”

“It’s gone. And so are the boats.”

I felt my heart hammering. “What… what does this mean?”

McCallister croaked. It almost sounded like a laugh. “…means he got sold out, miss. Ins… inside job.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” Father said. “Someone here cut a deal with Giordano.” He turned to face Morton. “Didn’t he?”

Morton looked around. Paul took out a pistol, as did a couple of the others. “Hey — you… you can’t think–”

“You were in charge of this place,” Father said. “For months. You staffed it. You set up the checkpoints. Of course it was you, Mort. Why’d you do it? Huh? Are you one’a those who thought I was insane? That this whole project to cure me was a waste? Huh?”

Morton’s fear shifted. His face set, and looked hard. “Insane? I wish you were insane, ‘Boss.’” He stood up, and straightened his coat. “I know you’re not crazy. I’ve seen what that rock can do. Jesus, it cured my damn eczema.”

“Then why–”

“What did you expect, old man?! Huh? You expect us to be happy for you? I have served you loyally for twenty years. And you know what? I knew I wouldn’t be in charge after you kicked off. I knew Paul was your favorite. And I was okay with that, because I’d still move up. We’d all move up, Delgato! Only that wasn’t good enough for you!” He stabbed a finger in Father’s direction. “You had to cheat! You had to decide to do it over again! And when it looked like you were gonna come up with some science thing — fine! You could have shared. But that box is only good for one trip! So what? I’m gonna stand here and watch you become a twenty year old? And then what — spend the back nine of my life toadying for you and Paul? No way, Boss! No way!”

Father stared at him. “You… you could have come to me, Morty. You could have talked this over with me.”

“And said what?” He shook his head. “I’ve always been loyal, Boss. But this? This is just business. Look. They get here. You make this easy. You make this smooth. Surrender, agree to retire. Spend your last few weeks in luxury. Spend them with your daughter. We’ll tear this thing apart and you can settle your affairs in peace.”

“Just business, huh?”

“Yeah. Like you and Kowalski, all those years ago. Nothing personal. I got to think about my future, is all.”

Father looked at Morton… and pulled a small pistol out of his robe pocket, shooting Morton once in the stomach, and once in the head. “Yeah? How’s that future look now, Morty?”

I stared. I stared at the gun in Father’s hand. I stared at the quivering mess on the floor that had been a living human being. The only death I’d ever seen before had been Mother, some years before. I’d never seen violent death. I’d never seen my father kill.

Father stared… until he heard McCallister cough. “You got something to say, Lieutenant?” he asked, quietly.

“You… y’r… you’re under arrest,” McCallister said, his voice soft. “…for the murder of Jack Morton.”

Father didn’t laugh. He just handed Paul the pistol, turning. “You’re not a cop any more,” he said, quietly.

“…doesn’t matter,” McCallister said. “…you talk and you talk about what you’re gonna do… talk while I’m dying here and you talk about honoring my life…” he shivered, clearly in pain. “…and not five minutes later you murder a man.”

Father stared at him, and then turned to look at Morton’s body.

“Boss,” Paul said. “We’re out of time. Get in the chamber. I’ll get the men — the ones I can trust. We’ll set a barricade. We’ll keep them out while you get this done. Then you and Victoria can–”

“I killed him,” Father said, softly. “I talked about honoring McCallister. I talked about Victoria — my one good, pure child, and then I killed him right in front of them both.”

“Boss. We have less than fifteen minutes! We have to–”

“I never wanted you part of this,” Father said, turning to me. “I never wanted you to see this side of me, baby.”

“Father,” I whispered. “I love you. And I know who you are.”

His chin rose with that. “You know who I am,” he said, softly. “I never wanted that.”

“Boss.”

“Paul — is my suit laid out?”

“Yeah, but–”

“Go and set the barricade. Take the prototype weapons — they might turn the tide. I’m gonna go change and I’ll join you. Maybe they’ll listen to me. If not, maybe I can help hold them off.”

“Boss, get into the chamber!”

Father turned to Paul. “Go!”

Paul looked at him for a long moment.

“It’s all right, Paul. I’ll be with you.”

Paul choked, and ran. The others went with him.

“Father…”

“Victoria…” he turned to look at me. “Detective Lieutenant McCallister saved your life.” He reached out, and touched my face in his hand. I remembered him touching my face, just like that, any number of times as he tucked me into bed. “And you are my legacy. My real one. I don’t want you part of this life. Not ever. Make your music. Give something beautiful to the world.”

“Father…” I choked back my own tears, and hugged him.

After too short a time, he let me go. “Mister Perniciti? You and my daughter have to move the Detective Lieutenant into the chamber. Hurry. The moment you take him off support he’ll start to die. And moving him won’t help, for that matter. But don’t worry about being gentle. If he lives long enough for this damn thing to be turned on, it won’t matter any more. He’ll be reborn.”

“Mister Delgato,” Perniciti said, his voice thick with an accent I didn’t recognize. “You do understand this chamber will only work once. It is designed to consume the Osiris Stone completely. There will not be anything left to cure you.”

Father looked at him. And then he turned to look at McCallister. “I can’t adapt enough,” he said. “Just like Kowalski couldn’t. And I pay my debts, Mister Perniciti.” He leaned close to his old enemy. “You win after all,” he said softly.

“…Delgato… there must… must be another…”

Father stood. He looked at me. I whispered that I loved him, and he said a few things to me I don’t think you need to know for your book. And then he left, leaving only me, Perniciti, and Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister.

“Come,” Perniciti said. “We have little time.” He moved to the right side of the bed. I moved to the left. And we started pulling tubes out.

“…insane…” McCallister rasped. “…you can’t really thAHHHHHGH!” The pain hit as we started to move him, broken bones and burned skin under his clothing being compressed and shifted. We heard him begin to gurgle, his lungs and chest not strong enough to breath without the clips.

“You must hold on to life,” I whispered. “You must want to live, Lieutenant. Or this will be for nothing.”

He made some kind of wet, coughing noise — perhaps he was trying to answer me. We got him into the sarcophagus. Perniciti tore some of the clothes and bandages off, and pulled the lid down.

In the distance, we heard cracks. Shots. It was beginning.

Perniciti murmured words in some language I didn’t understand, and he threw a large brass switch. The chamber hummed, and then began to glow, energy flowing through it like blood through a heart.

“What — how long will–”

“Not long,” he said, looking at me. “When the noise stops, you must release the locks on the side. They lift and unlatch, Miss Delgato. Then lift up.”

“But — you–”

“My part in this is done. All has happened as has been foretold.” He nodded to me. “Until our next meeting.” And he strode for the door.

I sat back, listening to the sound of the chamber — a roar of life, and the scream of a man being reborn. I stared at the dead man on the floor, and I listened to gunfire from down below.

And then, when the machine was quiet, I unlocked the chamber and lifted the lid.

Jason McCallister blinked his eyes open. His hair was dark, his eyes blue-grey. His body was nude, and looked sculpted, as if he had modeled for some classical statue of the gods. He was not simply younger. He was at the peak of human condition.

“We do not have much time, Lieutenant,” I said, softly.

“Miss Delgato,” he said, before stopping, surprised at his own voice. So strong — so young. He lifted his hand, seeing the muscles play along his arm. “…I… I don’t believe it….”

“We must be amazed later,” I said. “My father has left behind the body suit and the gauntlets. They may not be much against Giordano’s weapons, but if we are to have any chance to survive–”

He took my hand, sitting up. “Miss,” he said softly. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

I looked in his eyes, and though I knew that my father would die — either down below, right at that moment, or soon enough from the cancer, I smiled, just slightly. “My father has chosen me as his legacy, and given you back your own. Let us be worthy of those gifts now, Lieutenant.”

I helped him put the suit on. He didn’t have much time to figure out the gauntlets. When he heard them in the stairwell, he went out to meet them, moving with such speed, such strength. And of course he beat them. He had his army training, plus he had studied some martial arts. Judo and Jiu Jitsu in the fifties, I later found out. And then some Karate. After all this, he studied more, of course.

In the end, we nearly died, but two heroes — the armored Centurion and the goddess Freya — arrived to clean up the mess, having gotten reports from the Coast Guard of automatic weapons fire on that little island. I still remember Freya demanding to know who he was, even as Giordano’s remaining men cowered from the Centurion’s energy weapons.

“Detective Lieutenant Jason McCallister,” he shouted back up to her. “Monument City Police Department!”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she called back, and flew down to help her comrade.

And so he was the Lieutenant.

#

Back in Victoria Delgato’s dining room, I was a little amazed. “I knew that Jason McCallister became the Lieutenant in your father’s compound. But — I had no idea–”

“You didn’t realize my father sacrificed his own miracle for Jason’s.” She smiled that spooky little smile. “And his life with it. I found him in the foyer of our building. He had been shot many times.”

I bit my lip. I know it had been twenty-two years, but what do you say to someone when they talk about finding their father’s bullet ridden corpse.

She stood. “We’ve passed beyond noon. I have some light fare I can offer, and I think perhaps we should open a bottle of wine, don’t you?”

“I… sure. Of course. Can I give you a hand?”

“If you would like.” She considered the Japanese lithograph for a moment. “His was a beautiful death.”

“Sounds pretty gruesome to me.”

“Not at all. Jason McCallister had sacrificed his life to save mine. Father sacrificed his own to give McCallister his life back.”

“Do you think it redeemed him?”

“Hm? Of course not. My father was a monster. It wasn’t about redemption.”

That stopped me short. “It wasn’t?”

“Of course not.” She looked at me. “If Father were to seek absolution, he would have had to turn himself in, just as the Lieutenant said. It would have been miserable and long, a full life spent in prison, or worse. He couldn’t do that. In death, he repaid his debt to Jason McCallister, but avoided his debt to society.”

“Then what made his death so… beautiful?”

She smiled a bit more as she walked into the kitchen. “He was true to himself. His death had meaning, but it was a meaning that validated his life and views, rather than repudiated them.”

“So what happened then?”

“You know most of that story. McCallister became the Lieutenant — and eventually he was empowered as a law enforcement officer… hm. Almost everywhere, it seems. I know that in 1992 state legislatures passed bills giving him police powers in their states, as if he were an officer of their State Police, and the–”

“I know all that. I mean what happened with the two of you. Last I knew you two weren’t… um….”

“We have never been in any kind of relationship. Nor will we ever. We are friends, after our fashion. He travels with me sometimes. I travel with him sometimes. In a way, he’s like a brother to me. Which is odd, considering he will be eighty seven years old this July.” She looked distant, even as she got cheese out of her refrigerator. “He doesn’t look any older than thirty. The last twenty-two years have barely touched him. Perhaps the Osiris Effect has given him everlasting youth.”

I hehed. Having been associated with Paragon — who stopped aging around thirty, for all intents and purposes — I knew that feeling all too well.

“But I suppose the tenor of our relationship started early. It was saving my life that led, ultimately, to his rebirth. And as we’ve established, I have something of a knack at becoming endangered.”

“And not doing anything to get out of it?”

She laughed that airy laugh. “I should think you would understand that now. But we were speaking of my relationship with the Lieutenant.” She considered. “Really, that was settled between us about a week after my father’s death and Jason McCallister’s rebirth.”

#

I knocked on the door of his apartment. It was a second floor walkup, which meant I had some difficulty with the cases, but I managed. I have always been quite good at managing when I need to.

He opened the door, and was surprised to see me. “Miss Delgato,” he said.

“Please, call me Victoria. May I come in?”

He stepped back. “Sure. Please. Come on in.” He was wearing blue jeans that looked a bit stiff. New. And he wore a dark sweat shirt, with the sleeves pushed up.

His apartment was clearly usually well kept, but he had packages and parcels in his living room, with clothing — about half of it folded — strewn about. “You’ve been shopping,” I said, smiling a bit.

“Yeah, well — as it turns out, I don’t fit in any of my old clothes now. Not even stuff from twenty years ago.” He shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I have more muscle mass than I used to.”

“Indeed.” I looked at him. “We have some loose ends to tie up, Lieutenant.”

He nodded. “I imagined we would. Want a cup of coffee?”

“Please.” As a side note, I do not recommend Jason McCallister’s coffee. But I did not know that at the time. “Lieutenant, I thought you should know–”

“Jayce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Jayce.”

“I think not.”

He laughed. “Suit yourself. So you were saying?”

“I’ve liquidated my father’s assets.”

He looked at me. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve sold the legitimate holdings. The businesses and the properties.”

He frowned. “What about the illegitimate ones?”

“There was a bidding process. Some of those businesses went to Mister Carter. For the most part, Mister Giordano has taken them over.”

He stared at me. “You let Giordano take over?”

I shrugged. “Largely. There was some money involved though mostly I got firm understandings that I would not be involved in these businesses in any way.”

“He killed your father!”

“I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant. There is hardly a need to shout.”

He was still staring at me. “I don’t think you are aware of it. You’ve rewarded the man who had your father killed with the lion’s share of his criminal empire! I don’t…” he turned away, stunned. “Why didn’t you do something?”

“Like what?”

“You were in a position to shut all this down — to dismantle the syndicate and the machine. And you gave it all up to Giordano?”

“That’s correct.”

He turned back to me, still incredulous. “For God’s sake — why?”

“Because my father wanted me to stay out of that life, Lieutenant.”

He stared, and shook his head. “You had a responsibility–”

“No, I really didn’t.” I smiled a bit more. He’s learned to be infuriated at my smile. “I will not be involved with his businesses, either legal or illegal in nature. If I attempted to dismantle his organization, it would define my life as much as if I took up the mantle of leadership in it. I do not choose to define my life by my father’s, Lieutenant.” I cocked my head, still looking at him. “Or didn’t you mean what you told him, back on the twelfth?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said I was an innocent. That I didn’t do anything wrong. That’s why you couldn’t let me die even though I was the daughter of your worst enemy. Did you mean that? Or do you think the sins of my father do stain me?”

He opened his mouth, somewhat slack jawed. It would not be the last time I caused that reaction in him. “Well, no, but–”

“Well. So I have chosen to rid myself of his sins. Are you saying I had the responsibility to bear them, instead? Are you saying that is fair?”

“No. No of course not, but… Giordano?”

“Had Paul survived, I would have given him all of it. But he died with my father. And Giordano was in the right position to guarantee I would not be involved ever again. It was the best choice.”

“Miss Delgato–”

“Please. Call me Victoria.”

“But you won’t call me Jayce?”

“Correct.”

He shook his head. “Fine. Victoria… how can you… he was your father.”

“Yes he was. And I will respect his wishes. In at least two ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I will stay out of it, and be the legacy he wanted.” I stepped back to the door, opening it and lifting the portfolio off the top of the cases. Turning back, I walked over to hand it to him. “And I will help you to achieve the legacy you want. The one my father gave back to you.”

He accepted the portfolio, opening it. “What is–”

“Records, Lieutenant. All the transfers and businesses I’ve sold, and to whom. Including manifests and–”

He stared. “You’re… Victoria, they’ll kill you.”

I shrugged, still smiling. “Hopefully not. Besides, they won’t know it’s me, and until they have proof they won’t hurt me. They made an arrangement to leave me out of it.”

“These aren’t honorable men, Victoria.”

“No, they’re not. But you are.”

He looked at me. “Victoria… I’ll call my old friends… but… I’m retired.”

“Really?”

He laughed, uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to be. But no matter how young I feel, or how long I’ll live, the regulation says that retirement is mandatory at sixty-five. And even though your father is gone, his machine’s in place. They’re not about to give me a badge or any kind of authority.”

“Mm. I’m hardly surprised.”

“Then what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Come here and give me a hand, and I’ll show you.”

He helped me get the cases inside. The ones with the prototype armor and the gauntlets. He was surprised again. “Didn’t you sell these?”

“I didn’t sell any of my father’s advanced weapons or gear. I oversaw the destruction of the prototypes and their schematics. I can’t imagine I got all of it, but a lot is gone now. All but these. The plans to them are in the bottom of the case as well — if you can find a good engineer–”

“Wait… these are yours?”

“No, Lieutenant. These are yours.” I took his hand in both of mine, cupping it. “My father said we live in an era of miracles. A miracle has healed your injuries and given you back your youth, in time to be a part of this new age. This will help you do it.”

“What would your father think?”

“This isn’t his decision. This is mine. Call it my thank you for saving my life, not once but twice.”

He looked at the gauntlets in the case. “You know, I have no authority to go out and fight crime. I have no badge and no–”

I laughed, which surprised him. “I’m serious,” he said.

“I know you are. You’re always serious, Lieutenant. But that’s what made me laugh.” I touched his face, and then started to walk back to the door. “My father was right about one thing — this new world needs to be adapted to. In the end, he couldn’t adapt to it.” I paused in the open doorway. “You have the tools, and you have the cause. Can you adapt yourself to use them, Jason McCallister?”

I left before he could answer. But with the perspective of time, it’s clear he was up to that challenge.

#

“So how often do you see him,” I asked. We were both approaching tipsy off of a Shiraz/Cab Sav blend — I wouldn’t have thought it would pair well with cheese, but then my knowledge of wine comes from old Odd Couple reruns, and I should have known Felix was blowing smoke.

“Mmm. It goes in waves. I haven’t seen him for six weeks now. But then we’ll see each other every day for a month. When I’m between projects, I might follow him around and do whatever domestic chores he needs done, or he might follow me as part of my entourage. It really depends.”

“All that and you don’t love him?” I laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You follow him around and clean up after him, and you say you don’t–”

“No. Why do you say I do not love him.”

I blinked. The wine made me a little foggy, but I felt sure I wasn’t remembering wrong. “You said you weren’t in a romantic relationship, and that–”

“We’re not. We never will be. But of course I love him.”

I blinked again. “I’m confused.”

“My mother was from Italy. She taught me many things about love. One of them is that love is not one thing or another. It is infinite and varied. I love Jason McCallister deeply, but I would never kiss him, much less marry him. I would gladly die for him–”

“But not fight for him?”

“I do not fight for anyone — even myself. Don’t you see? I do not promote crime and I do not fight crime. I stay out of it.”

“Until they capture you.”

“Just because they capture me does not mean I have to participate.”

“Wait — is this about your father and what he…” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “So you love the Lieutenant but… okay, I admit it. I don’t understand you at all.”

Victoria smiled. “That’s all right. I understand you, Barbara.”

And maybe she does.

In the twenty two years since Boss Delgato died and Jason McCallister was reborn, a lot has changed in Monument City. The Giordano and Carter mobs have both collapsed. The corrupt political machine’s been broken wide open and a moderately honest civic government’s gone into place. There’s still crime in Monument City, but on the whole it’s a safe place to live.

In the twenty two years since the crucible exploded and the Osiris Effect gave its one beneficiary a new life, Doctor Abraham Giles — or Doctor Guile — has plagued the heroic community and the mysterious Mister Perniciti — also called Enigma — has sometimes worked with the heroes and sometimes opposed them.

In the twenty two years since Victoria Delgato was saved by Jason McCallister for the first time, she has composed two symphonies, three requiems, thirty-eight concertos, nineteen sonatas and two operas. She is considered one of America’s top working composers and pianists.

And, whether or not I understand Victoria Delgato, I’m jealous of her. Whatever Paragon and I have been to each other, if I had never met him he would still have pulled on tights and fought for honesty, decency and integrity. He would still be a hero. He would still be Paragon. But without Victoria Delgato, Jason McCallister would have retired in 1982, then probably gone on to watch Boss Delgato reincarnated into a new, young body. At eighty-seven, he might still be alive but the smart money wouldn’t have been on it.

Which means Victoria Delgato — whether in distress or not — is integral to the Lieutenant’s creation. That’s something almost none of the rest of us Supporting Cast can claim.

A bit too tipsy to drive, I got a cab back to my hotel. I figured I could get the rental out of the garage later. She saw me off, as gracious and pleasant as always. “Good luck with the book,” she said as I left, that same damnable smile on her face.

“Thank you for all your help,” I answered, and we did that weird double air kiss thing I do when I have to, but I’ve never understood.

“Barbara?” she called from her condominium door, as I was getting onto the elevator.

“Yes?”

“If you’re not his damsel in distress… what are you?”

I looked at her for a long moment. Then, the doors closed, sparing me from having to answer her.

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.”

And, in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not any of those people. Nor do I have much hope of ever becoming any of them.

But, when you’re writing full on fiction, without pictures… you can write human stories about superhumans. For example, this one.

This story actually predates “Interviewing Leather” in short story form. This is an expansion of said short story, to better fit the mosaic novel style thing I seem to be building. And it follows out of last week’s prologue in ways that should be obvious.

This is a story about supervillains and superculture, sure. But it’s also a story about fans, cons, con culture, and whatever else seemed to fit. It tells a story (I hope) and sets up a few other stories (I hope), and I hope you like it.

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

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 1:32 pm

Elle was leaning against the hotel’s outside wall. She’d pulled a chair out with her, but hadn’t sat down. It was sunny, and too hot, but the only place you could smoke on this floor of the hotel was in the bar, and that was too far away from the dealer’s room. This was just a five minute break from setup.

Out here, Elle had a cloak on over the ‘show off the goods’ suit. Back in the day, the first few suits had been modified swimsuits. Then, she went with lycra leotards. And after she made a name for herself she’d gotten her costume supplies from Undercrime Mail Support, like everyone else. She was still on their mailing list, though she’d dropped down from VIP to ‘valued customer.’ The price of legitimacy.

Besides, they were being killed by the internet. But then, that was Elle’s bread and butter.

“Excuse me?”

Elle slipped the cigarette out of her mouth, putting on her Convention smile. It was even odds that a congoer would track her down out here — this door was used by vendors to get their goods into the dealer’s room, but there was a parking lot. She turned, and was slightly surprised to recognize the young man who’d seen her. He wore a silver and black bodysuit, festooned with mirrors and lenses along his belt. Early twenties, with short brown hair. His face was pretty, not rugged — really, too pretty to be Bar Sinister. “Yes,” she said, smiling winningly.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to interrupt. But… aren’t you Elle Chemical? Lady Velvet?”

“Charmed… Refraction, isn’t it?” She held her hand, poised to be kissed instead of shaken.

The young man didn’t pick up on it, sliding his hand underneath it and pumping firmly. Children, she thought to herself. This is what they called a super villain these days. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. I mostly worked out of Paramount City. I thought I was more of a regional thing.”

“It pays to keep abreast of one’s peers,” Elle said. She didn’t want to admit to this twenty two year old that the great Lady Velvet spent her days watching the Superwatch channel like some fangirl. “You were one of the Beacon’s rogues, weren’t you? I hadn’t heard you retired.”

Refraction laughed, somewhat uncomfortably. “Yeah, well — I had a change of heart. But still — I mean, you’re Lady Velvet. You’re one of the greats!”

“Maybe, once,” Elle said, sitting in her chair. “But I was never better than second tier. Sometimes lower. I’m sure Nightstick — or, I suppose, the Nightwatch — rued my name a few times. But, by the time I packed it in he considered me a light week. A relief after one of Jack O’Knaves’s rampages.”

“Have you actually met the Jack O’Knaves?”

“Well, of course, dear. I actually worked with him once or twice. Come, surely you’ve met Darklord or Bandolier, fighting the Beacon and all.”

“Well, sure — but the Beacon… I mean, she’s a tough fight, and all, but her rogues are… well, we’re all a little lame. The Nightwatch’s rogues–”

“Are psychotic mass-murderers in greasepaint and top hats?” Elle finished for him, her painted lips quirking in a smile. “Yes. And that’s why I packed it in. Twelve or thirteen years ago, you could be slightly ridiculous and still give Nightstick a run for his money. Today? I’m more comfortable knowing the Nightwatch is stopping some of those twisted freaks.” She smiled, seeing a heavyset older man in the parking lot, wheeling a hand truck with plastic tubs on it. “Clinton!” she shouted. “Daaaaahling!”

The man smiled, waving back. “Please, Mistress Chemical. Not that name. We are on the field, and ’tis appropriate to adopt our sobriquets!”

“Who is that,” Refraction whispered.

“Clinton Potipher. The Cipher. He’s guest of honor this year.”

“Oh,” Refraction said, shaking his head. “Why him and not you? I mean, I remember him and all, but–”

“I was guest of honor at Villify 3. Then last year it was one of Paragon’s lot — Walabyne. You know, the alien with the Australian accent?”

“Yeah, sure. But–”

Elle shrugged. “They treat us the same. They pay us the same — which is to say barely, except for room and board. There’s a few perks for getting your name on the masthead, but for the big fan run cons you wait your turn and smile when your number doesn’t come up.” She stood as the Cipher approached. “Daaaahhhling,” she said again, in the trademarked purr of Lady Velvet. “You look faaaabulous. But you’re incognito.”

“I had no desire to soil mine attire with the sweat of manual labor. While I haul things in to my table, I elected to remain dressed for utilitarian purpose. I’ll be prepared for the opening ceremonies.” He took Elle’s hands, leaning close to kiss both her cheeks.

“You have a table here?” Refraction asked. “In the dealer’s room?’

“Of course, dear,” Elle said. “Cons like this are business. They don’t really pay us, but they give us room and board and sometimes travel expenses, and they let us sell our wares in the dealer’s room. I have a whole line of perfumes and remedies, as well as autographed photos and my CD.”

“A lovely disc, I would add,” the Cipher said. “She brings the standards to new life. I have books of puzzles, and my poetry and short stories, and of course tee shirts and photographs — dear Lady Velvet, are you working your own table this year?”

“On and off — I have a neighbor’s two daughters helping out. They love dressing up in the garb and walking the walk, so they’re willing to do it for food money and Con dealer passes. You?”

“My friend — Thomas? You remember. He sells the science fiction books and toys and the like? He has added my table to his and is handling sales. Mine schedule is too full with guesty activities for me to really stay too long at the table.”

“I can’t believe you two are selling things in the dealer’s room,” Refraction said again. “I mean… you’re… you guys fought the Nightwatch.”

“Once upon a time,” the Cipher said. “Once upon a time. But tales of terror and the warm memories of crossing swords with the the Greystone Guardian do not keep me in sandwiches and cable television. We all must make a living. Elle — I’ll see you at Opening Ceremonies?”

“Of course, dahling. I wouldn’t miss it.” She kissed his cheeks again, and watched him fondly as he pushed his tubs into the dealer’s room.

“He’s… not what I expected,” Refraction said. “I mean, he’s not… well, you. But still….”

“We were peers, really,” Elle said, sitting back down. “I hated him for a while. So pretentious, and he hits on anything in panties. About the ninth time you shoot a man down, you want to use real bullets.” She half-smiled, shaking her head. “But he grows on you. He loves these things so much.”

“Really? I’d think…” Refraction paused, trying to find the right words. “I’d think they’d be… embarrassing for him. Beneath him. Really, beneath both of you.”

Elle chuckled. “Are you kidding? He lives for these weekends. Do you know what he does the rest of the year?” Elle watched Refraction shake his head. “He works at a bookstore. Not even a mystery bookstore — he works for Barnes and Noble. Just another store worker — a fifty year old man and a pack of twenty-two year olds fresh out of college with an English degree they barely stayed awake to get.”

Elle closed her eyes. “But for the next three days, he’s the Cipher, all over again. A brilliant man who decrypted the most sophisticated defenses to commit the most daring crimes, leaving encoded clues that Nightstick and Cudgel themselves were hard pressed to decipher before his master plan went off. He was one of the dark gods of Greystone City, set in inexorable opposition to their greatest champion.” She opened her eyes. “Honestly, how do you begrudge a man his last few seconds of infamy?”

“Huh,” Refraction said. “I guess I never thought about it.” He looked at Elle. “Is that your story, too?”

Elle chuckled again. “Please, dahhhling. This is just business.”

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 4:14 pm

Bill Wallace had been Con Chair of Vilify as long as there had been a Vilify. A true fan of supervillainry, he had published papers on the sociological impact of super powered criminals and on the psychological necessity of the villain in a society that had superhuman heroes. Elle knew all of that, but seeing him in his tuxedo shirt and pants, and the vest with all the buttons (“Villains Do It Any Way They Want,” “Mad Science Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry,” “I Told Those Fools At The Institute They Would Pay,” and a number of Star Trek based ones) he just screamed fan to Elle. Bill and guys like him were the reason she could make a living selling glamour shots taken when she was eight years younger and perfumes that were overpriced but ‘brewed by the diabolical hands of Lady Velvet.’ They’d show up to these things even if no retired supervillains were on hand.

But they were so happy they were.

“We have over two thousand preregistered guests,” Wallace was saying at the podium. “So, just in preregistrations alone we’ve matched last year’s attendance.” He paused for the applause from the audience. “Thank you. It’s all thanks to you. And we’re looking at the biggest and best Vilify ever. Vilify 5′s theme is “Married to the Mob,” and you’ll see any number of gangster themed panels and events. We’re also pleased that Chattergun Calhoon has been able to be a special guest. He’s not at the opening ceremonies, but you can see him at a special event in the Cedar meeting room on the second floor mezzinine at four-thirty. So you can leave from here and head right up to see a man who took a shot at the Shroud.”

Bill paused for a sip of water, then grinned. “But you’ve probably not come to hear me talk.” He paused again for laughter — Elle had seen it at every fan con. The Con chair made a joke like that and half the audience played along with pantomimed ‘no, reallys?’ There was nothing like it anywhere else. “You’re here to see our very special guests. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to the masters of perfidy… the lords of larceny… the men and women who stand up to gods and do tug on Paragon’s cape… the supervillains!

There were cheers and applause then. Leathertooth, at the end of the head table, pumped his fist in the air. Elle gave her best diabolical smile. It was like performing. She had always put on a good ‘Lady Velvet,’ even when the Nightwatch scared the piss out of her.

Refraction had sat next to her — he clearly didn’t know much about these things, and he looked a little uncomfortable. She leaned close. “Smile,” she whispered. “Or glower. They’ll love you either way.”

There was a hum in her brain, and she heard the mental voice of Madame Hypnos — another old Con vet — whispering to her. “Who’s the preschooler, Elle? He looks good in tights, but still….”

Refraction, she thought back. Years of seeing Medea at cons had lent Elle good practice in projecting her thoughts to the telepath. One of Beacon’s. It’s his first con.

“And staked him out already? Aren’t we robbing the cradle?”

I’m a supervillain, dahling. I have to steal something.

“Why are they cheering?” Refraction whispered. “We’re criminals.”

“To them? We’re celebrities. Just enjoy yourself.”

“On the end,” Bill was saying, “the winged raptor from another age… eternal nemesis of the Azurewing… it’s Leathertooth!”

Leathertooth stood, flaring his wings out, and crouching to give a toothy growl. He couldn’t keep from grinning though. He was good with kids, even giving some supervised swoops around the ballroom when their parents let him. The crowd loved him.

“On his right… you know her as the woman who brought Paragon to his knees…” there was a chuckle at that thought. “The mistress of the mind… Madame Hypnos!”

Elle smiled, watching Medea rise crosslegged into the air, reaching out to life two of the younger audience members telekinetically. There were the appropriate oohs and aws.

“We’re supposed to have a trick?” Refraction hissed to Elle. “No one told me to have a trick.”

“Then just stand and wave, dear. Do you have any of your equipment with you?”

“I… I don’t… well, yes….”

“I’ll swap places. Give you a moment to think.” Medea, she thought towards the mentalist, who was just getting her seat. Tell Bill to introduce me before Refraction.

“You’ve got it,” Medea thought back. “He didn’t come with a trick, did he?”

Ahh, the follies of youth.

“Next… the one archer able to go arrow to arrow with Arrowhead himself… the dead eye deadshot. The ice woman… it’s Fletcher Joan!”

Joan was wearing the good leather outfit — the bondage outfit. Elle was jealous — Elle had made her name by showing skin, and that meant she couldn’t easily cover it up now that she was pushing forty. Joan covered head to toe in imperfection-concealing leather still made the fanboys pant. She fluidly drew and fired four target arrows into the ballroom’s rafters, where she’d strung up the targets before. The targets exploded harmlessly into sound and light, thrilling the crowd as always.

Elle took her own deep breaths while Titan James and the Hook did their routines. She should have been the last one called before the Cipher — she was certainly one of the star attractions — but this would work out too. After all, either he’d pull through and dazzle the crowd with something new, or he’d fall on his face and make her look better.

“And now… the First Lady of Felony… the Seductive Siren of Scams… the bane of Nightwatch himself… Miss Elle Chemical, the Sensual Lady Velvet!”

The crowd fairly exploded — especially the men. Elle gave her famous red lipped smile, rising and posing, squeezing her hands tight and cracking the vials she held in her protective gloves. Columns of multicolored smoke swept into the air, with glistening motes of light flaring, the scent of jasmine filling the room, forming a frame while Elle tried to project pure sex in her bearing.

It worked, of course. The applause turned to hoots and whistles. “Daaaaaahlings,” she crooned, loud enough to need no PA. “Prepare yourselves for a sinfully good weekend.”

Elle slid back down as the smoke cleared. She glanced at Refraction, who had two of his small prisms in his hands. He glanced up, and hissed “when you see the flash of bright light, get up and pose again!” to her.

Elle blinked, about to ask what he intended, when Bill’s voice came back over the PA. “And finally, a newcomer to Vilify this year. A talented and dangerous villain who has contended with the Beacon on her own terms and even faced Paragon himself down. The Lord of Light… give a warm Vilify welcome to Refraction!”

Refraction stood, clearly nervous, and lifted his hands. He brought them down, slapping the prisms together, and a burst of white light filled the room to startled shouts and gasps. Elle, having expected it, pushed to her feet and struck her pose, even though her own vision needed to clear….

As it did, she realized there was a hologram over the audience — a hologram of her in the pose she was holding. She threw her best wicked smile back on her face, and held it. I’ve finally finished my transition, she thought. From super villain seeking to rule Greystone City to scantily clad magician’s assistant.

The crowd, their own eyes recovering, began to applaud anew. The same guys who’d hooted and whistled for Elle did so again, and the people who’d seen Lady Velvet’s act before applauded for this new, larger than life wrinkle.

“Nice,” she murmured as she and Refraction sat back down.

“They already love you,” he whispered back. “Seemed ridiculous to try and compete with that.”

“And we couldn’t have you being ridiculous, now could we?” Elle smiled more, sliding a hand along Refraction’s arm. The young man blushed slightly. She still had it.

“And now,” Bill said, as the applause died out. “Vilify 5 is proud to present… the connoisseur of conundrums. The exemplar of enigmas. A man who on no less than nine occasions stopped the Greystone City Police Department dead citywide. The Grand Master of Greed… our Guest of Honor, and one of the few men to truly challenge the Nightwatch on his own terms and at his own level… he is… the Cipher.”

There was a tremble as bass heavy music began to play. A thick black smoke began to swarm and weave — Elle couldn’t see how the trick was done. The lights seemed to dim, and then as the black clouds parted the Cipher stood where Bill had been. He wore his grey three piece suit and bowler hat, like he was an evil butler, and held his trick cane. Numbers and letters covered his suit, of course, a panorama of codes and symbols, and he laughed that spooky laugh of his. Most years the Cipher didn’t get to go all out with his entrance, but Elle had to admit he understood the theatrics involved.

“Greetings, fellow scions of the dark society. Greetings, brothers of the fraternity most sinister. Welcome once again to the lodge where justice holds no sway and darkness rules the night. Welcome to Vilify… may you survive to leave!” And he laughed once more, lifting his arms and causing another cloud of smoke to wend around him.

The audience went nuts. They ate the Cipher’s act up with a spoon.

Refraction watched the Cipher gesture, drinking in the crowd’s applause. And Elle watched Refraction. She saw him frown, ever so slightly.

Smiling a touch, she squeezed his arm. He blinked and looked back at her. “Don’t worry about him,” she murmured. “There must be better things to talk about.”

Which is, in the end, what a prologue is supposed to do.

I hope you like it.

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

December 24, 1985

“–throwing these… I don’t know. Sharpened metal letters and numbers at us? Attacking us with typography?” Nightstick chuckled. “It was bizarre.“

“They were like throwing stars,” Cudgel cut in. The teenager was excited. “Like Cipher was a ninja or something? He starts chucking them and he’s making some joke about us getting the point–”

“You’re kidding,” the Lieutenant asked. He had the SWAT team helmet he always wore off, and was drinking a ginger ale. “He actually did a pun about sharp things?”

“Oh yes,” Nightstick said. “And what’s worse, he overemphasized it. ‘Let me send you a letter, Nightstick! I trust air mail will suffice? I’m sure you get my point!‘” He shook his head. “It was like being locked in a room with Adam West.

Freya laughed. “Spoken like a man who’s never been locked in a room with Adam West.”

“Wait — you were locked in a room with Adam West?” Cudgel asked, staring. “Really?“

“It was an auto show a couple of years back. He had that car from the television show.” She considered. “Nice guy. Worked hard to talk to my face instead of my chest.”

The Ancient Mariner snorted.

Freya arched an eyebrow. “Comment, Mare?”

“You can’t tell me you’re that worried about people staring at you. You’re essentially wearing a bathing suit and feathers.”

“You’re wearing a bathing suit and no shirt.”

“I swim for a living. A bathing suit makes a certain amount of sense on my patrol.”

Freya smiled. The smile fairly smoldered. “And I’m a fertility goddess. Honestly, you mortals should be glad I wear clothes in the first place.”

“That’s okay,” Cudgel said. “Don’t feel like you have to on our account.”

“Clean thoughts, chum,” Nightstick said with a grin.

The Centurion walked back in with a tray of drinks. “I think I’ve got everything,” he said. “If I didn’t say before, thanks for coming over tonight. I just thought would be nice… you know.” He was a little flushed, his helmet’s visor up so the others could see his face.

Freya giggled, accepting an Arnold Palmer from the tray. “As sad as it is to say, it’s not like I had anywhere else to be. Astrid Bixby was just going to sit at home and watch the Yule Log on channel 38.”

“What about that Air Force Major of yours? He couldn’t be convinced to make it a Merry Christmas” Nightstick asked, smirking slightly. Off to the side, the Centurion turned magenta.

“Oh, I’m sure if the Goddess Freya swept onto his doorstep wearing something slinky and fur trimmed, he’d make most merry,” Freya said with a laugh. “But the Goddess Freya doesn’t observe your heathen rituals, now does she? And Major Storm had little interest in taking Astrid Bixby out for a Christmas Eve dinner.”

“You know, I noticed you do that,” the Lieutenant said, cocking his head at Freya.

“Do ‘that?’” She asked. “Giggle? Make innuendoes that have Cudgel’s heartrate up and threatens to make our host burst a blood vessel? Give me something to work with, my dear Lieutenant.”

“You speak of ‘Astrid Bixby’ and ‘the Goddess Freya’ as two different people,” the Lieutenant said. “I mean, I sometimes refer to one or the other of my identities in the third person. I think we all do. But you do it every time, as near as I can tell.”

Freya opened her mouth to answer, when there was a thump on the terrace. They were on the eighty-fifth floor of Baldwin Towers, which meant the new arrival had flown in.

“Hm. It’s about time,” the Ancient Mariner said. “I was beginning to think Centurion’s last invited guest would be a no-show.”

“No chance of that,” Nightstick said, smirking once more.

Paragon swept into the room like a gale force wind, his grin threatening to split his face. He scooped up Freya and hugged her, far more firmly than he could dare hug any normal mortal woman. “You look wonderful tonight,” he half-shouted, eyes darting from hero to hero. “You all do! Merry Christmas, everyone!”

“Look at him,” Cudgel “Something tells me Paragon’s been hitting Christmas cheer a little early.”

“Not likely,” Nightstick said, smiling slightly. “A tanker truck full of Christmas cheer couldn’t affect him. What is it, Paragon? Had a good fight?”

“The best fight,” the Crown City Champion said, clapping his hands together. “It was… it was glorious! Leo Lucas had teamed up with Doctor Nebula, and this time they weren’t kidding around. Nebula had synthesized a kind of concentrated nerve gas — a single canister would have taken out half of Crown City. Naturally, Barbara Babcock had gotten herself tied to the gas bomb–”

“Oh, naturally,” the Centurion said. “You want something to drink?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Tea. Or whatever everyone else is having. Anyway — there were all these robots, and I’m really pushing to my limits, and there’s a chunk of Xenonite somewhere in the room to boot. Barbara’s shouting about how they won’t ever get away with it, and Doctor Nebula’s gloating while Lucas is trying to get a bead on me with one of those blasters of his — why does he always go back to the blasters? They’ve never hurt me, even when I’m weakened by–”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Freya said, putting a hand on Paragon’s back. And leaning forward slightly as she did it. Always on display, or so it seemed. “Don’t lose the trail when we’re so close to base camp.”

Paragon laughed. “Right, right. Anyway. I managed to breach one of the force fields protecting the bomb. See, I cracked open one of the robots and discovered their power was focused through an artificial ruby…” Paragon chuckled, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, it was a great fight, and of course I won, but that’s not the point.”

Nightstick grinned a bit more. “Then what is the point,” he asked.

“Look at us,” Paragon said, gesturing around the room. “In the — what, four years since we started our careers–”

“Just shy. You were the first, and your fourth anniversary is January the third of next year,” the Ancient Mariner said. He was always a cool customer, taking a pull off his pipe but standing just slightly off from the rest of the group.

“Close enough, close enough,” Paragon said, waving the correction off. He was still recovering from the adrenalin of the fight, the exhilaration of the win. Cudgel was more or less right. If the Diamond Hard Man wasn’t drunk, he was the next best thing. “That’s not the point. I understand now.”

“He ‘understands’ now,” Centurion said, shaking his head. “I thought I left late night conversations like this one back at Crescent Bay University.”

“What do you understand?” Freya asked, quietly.

Paragon looked around. “Look at us. Me. You, Freya. Nightstick and Cudgel. The Centurion. The Lieutenant. The Ancient Mariner. A new breed of hero. No one’s ever had the battles we’ve had, with the stakes as high. I saved an entire city tonight. Freya saved half the Eastern Seaboard last week. Nightstick, you and Cudgel saved the nation last month. Centurion — didn’t you save the world earlier this year?”

“Who keeps track,” Centurion asked, shifting slightly. A little uncomfortable, perhaps.

“Don’t you all see?” Paragon asked, looking around. “Given the stakes we and the other heroes have had to endure, shouldn’t we have lost some of these fights?”

Cudgel blinked. “What?”

“You heard me, son,” Paragon said, leaning closer to the teenaged hero. “What are the odds that we’d win every fight, every time?”

“Not good enough,” the Ancient Mariner said. “There’s always a price to be paid–”

“Yes yes yes,” Paragon said, shaking his head. “I know that, Mare. That’s not my point.“

“Then what is your point?” Freya asked, grinning full out. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to hear it.”

Paragon’s smile grew. “We’re never going to lose.”

Nightstick blinked. “Excuse me?”

“We’re never going to lose, Nightstick. Don’t you see? Oh, our line of work is dangerous — there’s no doubt of that. We might die or be injured or something… but we’re never going to fail. We’re always going to keep the bomb from going off, or at least hurl it out to sea so it can’t hurt anyone. We’re always going to foil the nefarious plans set against us. We’re always going to win.“

“Well, sure,” Cudgel said. “That’s what being a hero is all about.”

“That’s an expression of faith, not statistics,” Nightstick said. “And statistically–”

“Statistically, Paragon has a point,” Centurion said, gesturing with his gauntlets. A blue holographic computer terminal appeared in front of him, and he began to type. “By the law of averages, we should have lost some of these fights. Only we really haven’t.”

“Are you saying we’re unbeatable?” Freya asked, frowning. “That smacks of hubris. The Gods–”

“No no,” Paragon said. “Any one of us can be beaten. But so long as we stick to the straight and narrow, none of us will fail. Don’t you see that? The bad guys won’t win. They can’t win.”

The Ancient Mariner leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said after a moment. “It’d be a comfort if it were true.”

“It is true,” Paragon said, practically bouncing. “It feels true, Mare.”

“Well, good enough,” Nightstick said with a grin. “That makes this a Merry Christmas indeed.

July 25, 2003

The Paramount City Monarchs were up three runs to two, taking on the Crown City Uniques at home. Paramount City hadn’t been selling out the Garrick County Coliseum as a matter of habit that season, but the rivalry betwween the Monarchs and the Uniques was old and bitter, so even the bleachers were full that Friday.

Darren was sitting in those bleachers. He was in sweats and a baseball cap. That was the easy way to cover up the bodysuit until he was ready. Sweats, a ball cap, a pair of black sunglasses. It was the top of the fifth.

He had to admit, it was hard to kick the plan into high when the Monarchs were up by a run. After all, there was home town pride involved. He considered holding off — let them get into the late innings, so they’d count this as a Monarchs win instead of a ‘rain out’ or the like.

But if he held off, people would start to leave, and he wanted as many people here as possible. The biggest splash. The biggest impact. And the best bait for the Beacon.

He pushed up his sleeve. The crystal bracer on his left arm functioned as his watch as well as one of his control units. He checked the time. With a tap, he checked system status on the remote units. Green lights. He tapped again, going into the blacklight laser controls — the blacklight lasers took time to charge up, and they were the most effective weapons he had against the Beacon, so he needed to charge several capacitors at once for them.

It looked like everything was running. It was just moving into sundown, so they’d turned the giant arclights on, which meant the systems he’d painstakingly installed in the towers were online and ready.

Showtime.

Darren pushed up out of his seat. He made his way up the steep stairs to the top ring of the stadium, and started to circle around for the stairwell. Down on the field there was action going. Smits had hit a sweet one between left and center — a double that had two runs batted in — the Uniques went on top, four to three, with Smits on second and only one out.

Darren shook his head, taking off his cap and replacing his sunglasses with his control visor. Looks like he was going to do the Monarchs a favor after all.

Darren got his ID and money clip out and slipped it into his uniform’s belt pocket. His sneakers and socks he slipped off and dropped into a concrete wastebasket along the walkway. They were WalMart specials anyway. The sweats joined them quickly enough. There weren’t that many people in the cheap seats even today, so he went unnoticed.

Darren grinned. That was about to change. He keyed in the activation code.

Hidden concussion charges went off in the light towers even as they burst into polychromatic light. These were unnecessary, of course, but it was good theater. There were shrieks of surprise, even as lances of deadly light arced onto the field, burning large furrows. The exit tunnels had golden bars form in front of them — solid light tricks. You couldn’t take hostages without sealing the exits. The storage batteries kicked in, so that if someone killed the power to the Stadium all his tricks would keep going.

Darren laughed a solid villainous laugh, his voice feeding into the PA automatically. He jumped up, the magnetic repulsors on his boots letting him skate along the metal superstructure of the stadium down each tier to the field. Seeing a group of Stadium Security guards running for him, Darren sent a pulse of light in front of them, setting the turf on fire. The Monarchs and the Uniques were fleeing for the dugouts — let them flee. The solid light grid cut off those exits too.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Darren shouted, his voice echoing all around him. He brought his hands together, bringing the holographic projectors online, and creating a seven hundred foot tall duplicate of himself in the middle of the field. “There is no cause for alarm! Cooperate, and no one has to get hurt!”

“Oh my God!” he heard one of the bat girls shriek. “It’s Refraction!”

Bullets began to spark off his defensive field. The hologram was sparking too — some of the guards were dumb enough to waste bullets on it, so he needed to waste power on solid light for it — the last thing Refraction wanted was for rent-a-cops to shoot through his hologram and hit bystanders. That kind of heat he didn’t need.

Refraction spun, letting his visor tag the guards with guns. The system locked on them and he lifted an arm. His wrist unit burned with light, attracting peoples’ eyes while the tower projectors locked and fired, slagging the guns in their hands. Some guards would get burns, but nothing too serious. “You threaten the Lord of Light with those toys?” he shouted over the PA. “Not too bright, boys!” To be honest, Refraction was a little tired of the light puns. Still, you had to work the crowd.

That got the guards scrambling. Refraction laughed, gesturing again and incinerating second base. He’d start making demands in a couple of moments, when the crowd was sufficiently lathered up. Then, it was just a question of waiting for the Beacon to arrive. His grid was in place, so even at lightspeed she’d be intercepted and driven into human form. From there, he would finally end this little feud once and for all.

She just needed to take the bait.

#

The Beacon shuddered, throwing up into the wastebasket for the third time. Arrowhead knelt next to her, holding her hair to keep it out of the line of fire.

“God,” she muttered. “Justice Wing’s finest moment.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Arrowhead said. “We all get sick sometimes.” He glanced over to where Paragon was looking out one of the huge windows. “Well, almost all of us. Anyway, you should be home. After you have crackers and some weak soup.”

Paragon didn’t answer. He just kept looking out the window, down to the city far below.

“I’m on duty,” the Beacon said, miserably. “With Flight Control taking the night off, I have a responsibility–”

The system monitor chose that moment to ping.

“Speak of the devil,” Arrowhead said. “C’mon, sit up. I need to go check that.”

The Beacon managed to sit up. Even though she was the current leader of the team, she was still one of the younger members. Her costume reflected that — very twenty-first century chic: cargo pants and a bustier in burnt orange, and a black leather coat over them. A matching orange mask set off her black hair. It was a good look when she wasn’t this pale. “Where’s the call,” she asked.

Arrowhead made sure the Beacon wouldn’t throw up again. He then walked around the couch to the system monitor. It was a huge computer, largely glass and metal, with a holographic display. He was sometimes embarrassed to play video games on it. He glanced at Paragon. “You know, you could have checked this for me,” he said.

“I’m not actually on duty tonight,” Paragon said mildly.

“You’re here, aren’t you? If you’re not on duty, why show up?”

Paragon didn’t change his expression. He kept looking out over the world, his eyes picking out microscopic details from hundreds of miles away. The color of her dress — blue. Last time she wore white. The sharp angles of her man’s black bow tie. The candles along the walls. “What else do I have to do on a Friday night?”

Arrowhead shook his head. “That is weirdly pathetic, ‘Goner.” He pushed the right keys on the unit, and frowned. “Arena taken hostage.”

“What one?” the Beacon asked, rubbing her brow through her mask.

Arrowhead paused. He considered lying, but decided that wouldn’t work. “Garrick County Coliseum,” he said. “Paramount City. Refraction terrorizing the crowd.” He opened up a window to the ESPN broadcast.

The Beacon shuddered. “Great. Of course. My villain, my city. Okay, I’m gonna need something. Dramamine maybe–”

“No way,” Arrowhead said. “No way. You can’t walk twenty feet without throwing up.”

“Don’t need to walk, remember?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll take Refraction down.”

“He’s out of your weight class,” the Beacon said, pushing up to her feet.

“I been fighting guys out of my weight class for twenty years!” Arrowhead snapped.

“Sixteen,” Paragon said, quietly. “Next month.”

“Oh, sorry — I didn’t think I was being graded.” Arrowhead moved to block Beacon from the launch tubes. “You’re not going out there. You know this is a trap. It’s too public to be anything else.”

“We do this,” the Beacon said, trying to stand without trembling. “He tries to trap or kill me, and I send him back to pri… puh… ohGod….” she half-dashed back for the wastebasket, before her muscles locked and she went down. The vomit hit the floor, a good six feet from the basket.

“Jesus. Why didn’t you light-shift there instead of running?”

“Shut up. Gotta get going…”

“Forget it.” Arrowhead looked up, over to where Paragon was standing. “You could always go instead.”

Paragon didn’t turn to face Arrowhead. Far away, she was smiling. Her hand still had a slight scar from her old wedding band. The new ring covered it over. “I’m not on duty tonight,” he said, quietly.

“Yeah? You’re the one who asked if there was something better to do on a Friday night.”

“S’okay,” the Beacon said, pushing back up to sitting. “I’ll go. Refraction’s my villain.”

“Not an option,” Arrowhead said. “If big Blue doesn’t feel up to it, I’m heading for the launch bay.”

“I’ll go,” Paragon said, quietly.

The Beacon looked at the Diamond Hard Man. “That’s… that’s okay,” she said. “I just need–”

“No,” Paragon said. “Arrowhead’s right. Get some rest. I’ll take care of it.”

The Beacon watched Paragon slowly turn, and walk back towards the launch tubes.

“There,” Arrowhead said. “Three cheers for the blue and gold, right?”

The Beacon shivered, then crawled closer to the wastebasket to throw up again.

“Hey, Kid?” Arrowhead asked. The Beacon hated it when he called her ‘kid.’ Which is why he did it of course.

“Yeah?” she croaked.

“You sounded like you didn’t want Paragon going. I know why you didn’t want me to go — I’m just some guy with a bow. Why not mister Last Prince of a Dead Civilization?”

The Beacon looked away. “No reason,” she said. “We’re playing Crown City today, and we really hate the Uniques, so–”

“So you didn’t want the Crown City Champion to save the stadium?” Arrowhead half-smiled.

The Beacon looked down. It sounded like he was buying it. “Something like that,” she muttered.

#

Refraction had activated the drone program, which caused a series of holographic projections of himself to buzz the crowd, keeping things stirred up. They were collecting the box office receipts and bringing them to him now. He resisted the urge to check his watch. He’d been worried she’d show up too fast — if she’d been in the crowd he’d have been screwed. But late? The woman turned into light — she was never late.

Maybe she was on another call or something. Damn it, he’d probably make a profit off the box office receipts even with all the money he sunk into the emitters and prepwork, but when was he supposed to get another shot at–

His visor pinged. Incursion from above! By the time he turned, his blacklight lasers were already firing–

There were explosions from all twelve tower arrays. Refraction staggered back, slapping at his controls as his visor became a chaotic mess of conflicting information. Power supplies and solid light emitters reported sudden failures, then cut out entirely. Refraction bit his lip, clearing his vision and looking up–

And freezing, shocked into silence along with the entire crowd.

Paragon was two hundred feet up in the air, his arms folded. Clearly standing on air. His golden cape fluttered like a flag in a breeze. The golden starburst logo on his chest gleamed in the stadium’s lights. His blond hair seemed to shine like a halo over his head.

The crowd went apeshit. Cheers and shouts from all sides echoed all around Refraction as the Diamond Hard Man stared down at him.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Refraction finally managed to sputter, over the PA.

“Are we done here?” Paragon asked, curtly. Even at two hundred feet in the air, the hero’s voice could clearly be heard. He did not sound happy.

Refraction bit his lip. “Not even close!” he shouted, triggering his primary laser lances. They burned into Paragon from all sides, from emplacements Refraction had carefully installed over the weeks he had prepared for this.

Paragon didn’t move. He let the lances fire, but didn’t acknowledge them even as they seared into him. “Are we done here?” he asked again.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” Refraction spat, bringing his arms up. His wrist units pulsed as he brought his personal arsenal online–

Paragon swept up another hundred feet, curving in the air. His eyes glowed for a half-second before golden light — his ‘beacon-vision,’ ironically enough — seared out, burning the laser lance emitters out. Before Refraction could adjust his aim to compensate, Paragon shot down to ground level, closing his hands around Refraction’s wrists. He squeezed just hard enough to turn the crystal lattice of his control units into cracked junk, though Refraction barely felt the pressure of it. Refraction’s visor flared and lost power. Refraction found himself staring in Paragon’s glowing eyes, even as he felt heat on his side — Paragon was burning out the leads to Refraction’s suit power pack.

“Are we done here?” Paragon asked softly, still holding on to Refraction’s wrists. His eyes stopped glowing, and seemed all the colder as a result.

“Yeah,” Refraction said, swallowing. The PA link had cut out when the suit had lost power. “Yeah, we’re done here.

Paragon looked at him, his brown eyes burrowing into Refraction’s for a long moment. He then pushed gently, and Refraction fell over onto his butt, looking up. “Good,” Paragon said, and shot straight up into the air. Far above the city, Refraction heard a sonic boom.

The crowd was still going crazy, cheering and chanting Paragon’s name. On the sides, Police and SWAT were now streaming in the now-opened exit tunnels.

Refraction knew he’d get dogpiled any moment, but he didn’t move. He just stared up into the now empty night sky.

#

“Hah hah,” Arrowhead was saying. “Punked out. I thought you said that guy was big leagues.”

The Beacon was sitting, a blanket around her, watching the ESPN coverage with Arrowhead. “No,” she half-whispered. “I said he was out of your league.”

Arrowhead laughed harder at that. “Yeah — okay. Point. Ain’t no one out of Paragon’s league. Hell, who’s even in Paragon’s league, boss?”

The Beacon chewed her lip. On the screen, one of the announcers was talking. “Well, we’ve received word that Major League Baseball is officially postponing tonight’s slugfest between the Monarchs and the Crown City Uniques. They are not saying when the game will be picked up at this time, until Monarchs officials have a chance to thoroughly examine the stadium and discover the extent of Refraction’s modifications and any damage. Dick, the crowd seemed pretty excited to see Paragon come to the rescue.”

“Well, that was unexpected for sure. I guess Paragon must have been at home in Crown City watching his home town team play the Monarchs. You’d think — who is it who’s in Paramount City?”

“The Beacon,” the first announcer said. “I guess maybe she’s not a baseball fan.”

“I guess not,” the second announcer said, laughing.

“No one,” the Beacon said quietly. “No one’s in Paragon’s league.”

#

“Was that supposed to be cute?”

Chad Keillor reclined back on the deck chair. He pressed the beer bottle to his head. “Don’t you start, Gus.”

Augustus Fitch didn’t answer. He cradled a beer of his own, his white hair contrasting with his dark skin. Just another old sailor living on the coast. An old sailor who’d looked the same age as long as Chad had known him. “I’m serious. Was that supposed to be cute, Chad? You’re pissed off, so you clocked in a ten second collar on that kid?”

“That kid had taken a sports stadium hostage. I wasn’t going to endanger their lives to make a good show.”

“That’s the game,” Gus said. “You know that. You invented it. You do that kind of thing, and people’ll get scared of you. Maybe Paragon’s too powerful. Maybe we need to do something. They haven’t forgotten Freya, you know.”

“Jesus, Gus, what’s the point?”

“Things aren’t always good for us,” Gus said. “Everybody loves you, and that helps, but they don’t always love us. So if you–”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” Gus sat down on the deck chair next to Chad. “Or is this about Barbara remarrying?”

Chad lay back onto the chair. “Of course. But it’s not just about that, Gus.”

“So what is it?”

Chad looked out over the ocean, before tipping more of the beer back. “When I first started out, I had a route.”

“A route?”

“Yeah. I split the city up into two halves, and split the two halves into a grid, and every night I’d fly out over the city and check every square of the grid out, using beacon vision and my hearing. I wanted to make sure I was there if I was needed.”

Gus nodded. “Most capes do that, starting out. I found there wasn’t much need, but then the Seven Seas aren’t really ‘grid-like.’”

Chad didn’t acknowledge Gus’s interruption. “After four or five years, I found myself skimming over bits. A few years after that, I’d just cover chunks of each city half. And then I just started flying wherever I felt like it.”

“Sounds healthy. Or at least less anal.”

“These days, I don’t even bother, most nights,” Chad said, finishing off the beer. “I just listen really hard from my apartment.”

Gus frowned. “That seems a touch cavalier.”

“Yeah, well — you’d think.” Chad looked at the empty bottle for a long moment, then flung it out. The glass arced a few hundred feet in the air, down towards the bay.”

“Jesus. Don’t litter, okay?”

“You know the difference between my old anal grid days and now, Gus?”

“I know I’m going to have to clean broken glass out of the bay. Things live down there, you know.”

“I’m serious. Do you know the difference between my active patrolling days and today? In the grand scheme of things?”

Gus sighed. “No. Tell me, Chad. What’s the big difference between then and now.”

Chad looked at Gus. “Nothing.”

Gus frowned. “You can’t tell me Paragon doesn’t make a difference to the world.”

“Of course Paragon makes a difference. But I don’t make any more or less of a difference now than I did then.” Chad leaned back in his chair. “Crime statistics are exactly the same. The number of crimes I foil in a year hasn’t changed. The number of threats or monsters or Leo Lucas plots I stop hasn’t changed. I’m always there. I’m always on time. I always win.” Chad shook his head. “So tell me. Why should I bother to fly around at night? Why not sit at home and actually get some television time in before something happens and I need to suit up?”

Gus shook his head. “We don’t always win, Chad.”

“Of course we do.”

“Yeah? Tell Paragirl that. Or Shillelagh. Hell, tell Freya that.”

“I didn’t say we always survived. I didn’t say we never got hurt. I didn’t say we don’t pay a price, Gus. But Scourge was stopped. The Overking was defeated. And Freya redeemed herself in the end, didn’t she?”

Gus took a deep breath. “Maybe so.”

Chad sat back up. “Besides. Have you checked the crime statistics in Evergreen City?”

Gus frowned. “Now why would I possibly do that?”

“Paragirl used to live in Evergreen City.”

Gus looked down. “I suppose I knew that, once upon a time. What’s your point?”

“My point is… things aren’t demonstrably worse in Evergreen City now that she’s gone.” Chad looked down at his hands. “Threats come up, of course. But other heroes show up to deal with them. I’ve dealt with one or two myself.”

“So you think she didn’t matter?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let me guess. You’re thinking that if you disappeared tomorrow, there’d be no change at all. Someone else would beat Doctor Nebula or Madam Hypnos.”

“Madam Hypnos retired.”

“Don’t be that guy, okay Chad?” Gus pushed himself back up to his feet. “So what do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing. Everything. I’m going to retire too.”

Gus snorted.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No. I don’t believe you. You’re Paragon.“

“So let someone else be Paragon.”

“No one else can be Paragon, Chad. It’s a singular position.”

“Centurion retired. He passed the name on to a successor.”

“Mason wore power armor, Chad. He gave his power armor to someone else, so they could become Centurion. You’re the ‘Last Prince of a Dead Civilization,’ remember? You have any idea where we’re going to find another ‘last’ prince?”

Chad looked down. “I gave Paragirl her powers. She got a blood and marrow transplant from me while we were on Interplanet Station Seven. I could find someone–”

“Didn’t they say Paragirl was a one in a million fluke? Didn’t they say your bone marrow would have killed almost any other human? Are you going to take that kind of risk with someone’s life, so you can retire? And are you honestly saying the retirement would even take, after that?”

“‘Take?’”

Gus leaned down, gesturing at Chad with the stem of his pipe. “Even if someone else wore your cape and had the beacon vision and everything, the next time some planetkiller showed up you’d be the first phone call. Once a year — maybe once a month you’d have to suit up all over again. What would the point be?”

“So — what. You’re saying I can’t retire? I’m not allowed?“

Gus shook his head. “You’re talking to the wrong man here. I have an eternal curse, remember? I’m going to be the Ancient Mariner until such time as my sins are absolved.”

“I wasn’t aware I had sinned.”

Gus shrugged. “Either way. You’re Paragon, Chad. You have to live with that. There’s no rest for either of us, this side of the grave.”

Chad frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I’m gonna grab another beer. You want one?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Chad watched Gus head into the beachhouse. He looked back out over the water.

And slowly he smiled.

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.

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.

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.

This is a story, as I’ve mentioned before, that I’ve been working on for just over a year. That includes some of my notes, and also includes the character of Darkhood, mentioned in the last couple of episodes as a C-list superhero.

Well, it only hit me last week, with a reference made in a rather poignant strip, that Brad Guigar had included a Dark Hood in his brilliant Evil, Inc. comic strip. No confusion or infringement was intended, which I figure you all know but it’s worth saying. And you should read Evil, Inc. regardless.

Otherwise — last week’s episode inspired more fan art! One comes from Dave Van Domelen, a cohort from the Superguy days (as well as lots of other things) and features Dynamo Girl shouting the catchphrase I stole from Scott Kurtz. The other come from Gossamer Commons co-conspirator Peter Venables who renders a post-car wrecking moment from earlier in the series. Yay! I get fan art! You should click on the thumbnails for full sized, of course!

Beyond that, please enjoy the story!

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

“We call this the collar,” Leather said, setting down what was indeed a leather collar in front of me. It had a silver disk on it, and it looked like the buckle could be locked. “It’s chock full of electronics. It has a transmitter and wiring all the way through it. Buckling it into place completes a circuit. It cost more than you’d expect.”

“Okay…” I said, looking at it. Black leather with silver accents. It looked like a Leather special supervillain gadget already. “I’m supposed to wear this?”

“You can choose to wear it,” Leather said. “If you do, you can come with me tonight.”

“That’s it? I put on a collar, and you let me come with you?”

“That’s it.”

I considered. It seemed way too easy. “This has a tracker in it?” I asked.

Marco snorted.

Leather sat across from me. She was in a tan microfiber bathrobe, her hair wrapped in brown stained towels. “Sort of,” she said. “Certainly it’s got tracking equipment in it.”

I frowned. “What am I missing?”

Leather smiled a bit more. “Marco? Show the gentleman what he’s missing.”

Marco smiled too, picking up the collar. He unscrewed one of the accents, sliding it off like a silver button and turning it over. There was a gleaming pink putty inside it, packed in carefully. “You see this?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“It’s explosive. Not strong enough to blow a safe or a door, but you don’t want to know what that shaped charge will do to your neck.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“So long as you stay near me, the bomb won’t go off,” Leather said cheerfully. “Or, if you can’t stay near me, you can stay near the car you’ll be in, and the bomb won’t go off. Or, you can tell Marco you’re in trouble and he’ll help you.”

“I thought Marco wasn’t coming,” I said.

“I’m not,” Marco said. “But there’s a radio transmitter in that thing. I’ll hear everything you say.”

“So, let’s say we get separated, and you’re not close to the car. Tell Marco and he’ll make sure you don’t die a grisly death!” Leather’s grin grew.

“But — but wait a second. If I can ask Marco to keep the bomb from going off, why put a bomb on me in the first place?”

“Oh, silly rabbit,” Leather said. “You missed the most important part. Marco will hear everything you say!”

“So if you call the cops, I’ll hear it,” Marco said. “If you ask for help or tell someone about the bomb collar, I’ll hear it. If you say anything to step out of line, I’ll know it.”

“And he can just as easily set the bomb off as disable it,” Leather said.

“It’s better than that,” Marco said, grinning. “If you don’t get my help, you’ll be in deep. If someone tries to cut the strap, it’ll sever a wire and break the circuit and the bomb will go off before they can get it away from you.”

“Oh, and it locks on,” Leather said. “Unlock or unhook it without Marco sending the disable code first–”

“And it’ll go off,” I answered. “It seems like a lot of these end with my head being blown off.”

“Not off,” Marco said. “There’s not that much explosion. It’ll just tear the soft tissue out.”

“Oh, and tear apart the windpipe,” Leather said.

“Well, maybe. It depends on how it sits.”

“Oh, it does not. That much blow-jelly? That’ll take out his windpipe.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Fine. We can agree that the spine’ll be fine, right?”

“Define ‘fine.’”

“Wait wait wait,” I said. “You have to be kidding me. You’re going to put a bomb around my neck, put Marco — a guy who beat me into pudding last night — on a trigger, and I’m supposed to keep quiet about it?”

Leather snorted. “Not at all,” she said.

I breathed out. “Okay,” I said. “Because that’s what it sounded like.”

“You’re going to put a bomb around your neck,” Leather said with a grin. “All the rest was accurate.”

I stared. “And what if I refuse?”

Marco chuckled. “Then you can join me and the boys in playing with the new video game. We kept one out when we fenced the others.”

“You are not playing that without me,” Leather said.

Marco shrugged. “You don’t have to go play at cowl,” he said.

“It’s not playing. Fine. You sleazes can play with it. But don’t you screw it up! And don’t go online!”

“We’re not stupid,” Marco said.

I looked at the collar while they argued. I felt a little sick to my stomach just looking at it. I knew full well putting that thing on was idiotic. Hell, there was lots easier ways to commit suicide.

But I was still feeling… I dunno. Ego bruised by what Leather had said earlier. That stuff about Hunter S. Thompson.

My story — maybe the biggest part of it — was going out on the town. And I could either watch it and document it, or let my story tell me about it later.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. You’d think I’d be in too much pain to be that stupid, but we all know I was.

As it worked out, preparations were a lot simpler than preparing for a heist. After she’d finished dying her hair — it was kind of a chestnut brown as it dried, and she’d done something so it had a little less flair and a little more wave — Leather was putting her time into research. Maps of the city, newspaper articles — that kind of thing. “So what’s the plan?” I asked.

“We patrol,” she said. “I’m figuring out a good route right now.”

“Patrol?”

“Oh yeah.” She grinned. “That was actually one of the fun parts of doing the superhero shuffle. Planning your routes through the city, I mean. You wanted to make sure it was an area you could cover, and you wanted it to cross through high crime areas. At the same time, if you did it right the city could be really pretty.”

“This was Meridian City?”

Leather shook her head. “Nah. I never even visited Meridian City until I took this lair. That’s why I’m trying to soak things up. We’re not going to have a really good route tonight. Those take time to develop. But we should be able to find some trouble down in the Underlands.”

“Underlands?”

Leather nodded. “Yeah, you know the West Highlands neighborhood? Upscale. Has marketplaces, theaters, banks and stuff, all up on hillsides?”

“Sure?”

“Well, you have a lot of elevated bridges and onramps up to it. And people live along the bottom of them too. Stretches into low income neighborhoods, and then out to more industrial areas.” She half-smiles. “Tourists above, townies below. You know how it goes.”

No, I really didn’t.

What got me was how… mellow things were. The henches pretty much had the night off, of course, so they were just hanging around. That seemed strange to me — normally, there was discussion and rediscussion going on. Contingencies discussed. What-ifs for everything from ‘the police show up too soon’ to ‘Transit, Paragon and the Nightwatch happen to be having coffee across the street.’

Not this time. One of the bagmen spent his time doodling in a sketchbook. The Steve watched television. Marco worked on the Leathermobile.

And then there was Leather herself.

I told you how she builds up to a job. How frenetic and nervous she gets. She goes hyperactive, she does the prayer, there are the kisses — the whole thing. The ritual. Performance prep. I’d seen singers and actors do the same shit time and again. There’s stuff you do before a show. And there was stuff Leather did before a heist.

Not now.

Oh, she was clearly excited. She bounced around from the upstairs down to the bottom level (including dropping two stories into a crouch. The girl showed off all the time). But she wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t trying to plan out every detail. She was just psyched up.

And me? Well, that was simple. I was scared shitless.

Look, up until that moment I’d interviewed and profiled musicians. Yeah, sometimes the world of rock or rap gets violent, but not all that often. I sure as Hell never cruised the streets with someone looking for a fight. And let’s not kid ourselves. Leather — or Dynamo Girl — was going to be looking for a fight.

“So what am I doing on this trip?” I asked.

Leather shrugged. She was in her exercise gear now — a white tank top and blue stretch pants — practicing katas. “Does your camera work well at night?”

“With the flash.”

“Leave it at home, then.” She smirked. “A camera flash might distract some criminal lowlife. Make him notice you. Maybe shoot you. I’m not doing this to get you killed.”

“So what is my role? Am I your sidekick?”

Leather stopped, staring at me. Now, she’d been sort of flickering between ‘Leather’ and ‘Dynamo Girl’ all afternoon, and the chestnut hair just reinforced that. But that laugh was all Leather. That laugh cut me down to size. “Don’t flatter yourself, Chapman,” she said, still chuckling. “You’ve got no powers, you’ve got no training. You’ve got nothing but an annoying habit of asking questions when a sane person would shut up.”

My face felt hot. “Darkhood doesn’t have powers,” I said. I knew it sounded lame even as I said it.

“Darkhood can neuter a fly at two hundred yards with his eyes closed. You got some hidden talent you haven’t mentioned, Chapman? Some ancient combat technique you neglected to bust out when the henches were pounding you into hamburger?”

I looked down. She didn’t say anything. I realized she was actually waiting for me to answer. “Not really,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “Don’t you get it? You’re not Paragon or even Paragirl here. You’re Barbara Babcock, looking for a scoop and maybe needing the hero to rescue you.” She leaned forward. “But I don’t want to have to rescue you. I’m going to be trying to fight crime out there, and believe it or not, that’s not easy and that’s not safe. If you go waltzing in playing out your Nightwatch fantasies, you might get hurt. You might get killed. Or you might get some innocent bystander hurt or killed.” Her eyes were on me, intense as lasers. “We’re. Not. Getting. Anyone. Killed. Right?”

“Right,” I said softly. I thought about the collar I’d be wearing. The bomb I was strapping to my throat. Was she really unable to see the difference? Could she really be Leather enough to make me a mobile hostage and still be Dynamo Girl enough to care this much about theoretical victims?

“Good,” she said. And she grinned. “You should probably wait in the car anyway. Watch from there. Oh man, you’re going to love this car.”

“You’re not taking the Leathermobile?”

Leather snorted. “Of course we’re not taking the Leathermobile. It’s all wrong for this and besides, the cops have it on tape. Nah, I got something special for tonight.”

Tonight was about ten after eight, as it worked out. She came out, wearing a red dress with an overcoat over it. She had on pumps, but her legs were pale. The togs on under her civilian clothes, obviously. She looked like a fresh faced nineteen year old, perky and cheerful. There were no signs of her piercings — not even the holes — and her tattoos had clearly been covered. “Are you ready, Todd?” she asked.

I took a deep breath. The collar was sitting on the table I was sitting at. I was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket — more GQ than biker gang, though. Marco had given me a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “After dark, they make things easier to make out if there’s any light at all,” he said. “Simple enhancement.” And it was a mask, but he didn’t say that.

“Yeah,” I said. I picked up the collar, and slid it around my neck. It clicked shut, and I felt a tingle. Marco was sitting near some of his gear, and I saw it flare into life as I locked the collar on. “I’m ready.”

“Good,” she said. “Roll up your turtleneck and come on.”

I got up, sliding the fabric up. Covering the deadly explosive I had willingly put on. And I followed her.

And came to a stop as she walked around the Leathermobile. She opened up a door beyond, where the next bay was. I hadn’t been in there.

I stopped when I walked through the door. I stopped and I stared.

I swear to God, she was unlocking the door on a dark blue Toyota Tercel. She looked back over her shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, walking in. “It… it’s just….”

“Yeah?” She grinned. God help me, she looked adorable when she grinned. Which was so not Leather.

“You sounded so proud of your car earlier,” I said. “This isn’t that much better than my Hyundai?”

“Sure it is,” she said, giggling. “For one thing, my car has an engine and a windshield. Coming?” She slid into the driver’s seat.

I shook my head and climbed in. “I’m just saying–”

I frowned, then. I frowned because there was something… off about the interior. Something about the controls, the dashboard. Looking in, I wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But sitting there….

She grinned more broadly. “Judge me by my size, Skywalker?” she asked. “Judge my car by its make and model do you?”

“This… is this some kind of… I dunno, supercar?”

“Something like that,” she said, grinning. She slipped a hand under the dashboard. I heard a click, and the metal garage door began opening.

I glanced back behind us. I saw Marco standing in the door. His expression was unreadable.

I looked forward then, just in time for the car to pull out. The lights came on and we rode down to the road, swinging towards Meridian City and into the night.

“It’s… smooth,” I said.

“It’s been rebuilt from the inside out,” she said, shifting gears. “I’m keeping it down right now, but we could easily do one-sixty if we had to. It’s a Q-car.”

“Q-car?”

She grinned. “It comes from Q-Ship. Old naval term. See, back in the War days, there would be U-Boat attacks on civilian ships. Raids, to disrupt shipping and hamper the war effort. So the Allies would mock up a ship to look civilian, but when things got rough it would pop out cannons and start shooting.” She ran a hand along the wheel, the other hand holding it steady. “This car looks normal, but in a pinch you’d be surprised what it can do.”

“You use this in your… night job?” It somehow seemed wrong to bring up crime right now.

Her grin softened a touch, but didn’t go away. “Not really,” she said. “It’s pretty silly. I spend a lot of money on this car. Make it better, make it cooler. But it’s not really in style for my usual line of work. Besides, I have a driver and a couple of associates. This would be a bit cramped.”

“So why do you do it?”

She shrugged. “Same reason some guy with an SUV, a pickup and a compact car buys a broken down muscle car and restores it. It’s fun.” She grinned. “And it’s perfect for tonight. Hey, I’m gonna pull over at a convenience store — grab a soda. You want? I’m buying.”

I blinked. “A… soda?”

“I always get a soda when I patrol. Start the night off right.” She grinned, then paused. “Got. Got a soda.” She giggled. “I keep forgetting I haven’t done this for a while. Which is weird. It’s not like I ever drove on patrol before.”

“Why are you driving on patrol this time?”

“Because you can’t get to the top of a brownstone in three seconds and you can’t run forty-five miles an hour.” She winked. “Besides, I didn’t have this car back then.”

She slid into a Cumberland Farms and we got out. “Hey,” I said. “What do I call you? I assume the normal name’s off limits, and since you’re not wearing the mask….”

She paused, frowning.

I paused too. I wondered if I’d just made a mistake. She wasn’t enamored of her legal name, I remembered.

She grinned. “Call me Deegee,” she said. “It sounds like a sorority girl nickname, don’t you think?”

I half-smiled. “It does at that. All right, Deegee.”

We went inside. It was a little weird. I’d been a prisoner for days, and I was still at least sore from the night before. And now here I was, dressed like a metrosexual and wearing sunglasses at night, and we were in a convenience store like normal people. Deegee made her way back to the soda cases. I looked around, surprised that the sunglasses seemed to adjust when I walked indoors. I could see myself in a security mirror, and I knew they were still black — which I realized also covered up my two black eyes, which was a good thing. But I could more or less see normally wearing them.

There was a bored looking cashier behind the counter. A couple of teenaged boys were hanging around the magazines whispering about the copy of Maxim they hadn’t gotten around to picking up. I noticed them glance over at Deegee, and one nudged another. Which surprised me a little. Glancing over, I realized that she looked so different now — so mundane, really — that I hadn’t noticed how pretty she was. The intense, smoldering sensuality that Leather brought to almost everything she did made the pretty, normal girl Deegee was pretending to be seem almost small in comparison.

“Todd!” she called across the store. “They actually have A&W Cream Soda! Score! You want?”

“Sure!” I called back. I looked around, trying to decide if I wanted a Snickers bar.

And that felt so weird to me. I was wearing a bomb, hanging out with a sociopath who wanted to play dressup one last night — and don’t tell me it was my idea. Right then, that didn’t matter — and I was vaguely considering buying a candy bar before we went out and let ‘Deegee’ punch criminals for justice.

“Hey Todd — you coming?” she asked, having reached the cashier.

I decided against the Snickers bar. “Yeah,” I said, walking behind her. I accepted the cream soda, and I followed her out. We got into the car, and both put on our seatbelts.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s go save the world.”