CHAPTER 3
“When You’re Evil” —Aurelio Voltaire
“You never call me with good news, Dion,” Wesley Conn said. He was tall, handsome, and still remarkably fit for a fifty-year-old man. In the small video in the corner of his screen, he noticed there were a few new strands of gray in his otherwise thick black hair.
On the other side of the video call, Dion Bafundo was five foot nine and a chubby 220 pounds. He had denim-blue eyes, thinning blond hair, and a baby face that was entirely lacking in guile. As the corporate counsel for the Follett Trust, Conn knew he was fully aware of the depths of corruption associated with it and happily participated.
The office in Dion’s background was simpler, more modern, and more utilitarian than Conn’s. Wesley had a wealthier, more classic-looking office filled with pictures, memorabilia, and what were essentially trophies from his greater successes in business and “elsewhere.”
“Oh, this is about as bad as it gets, Wesley,” Bafundo said, smiling broadly. “Why’s it always Friday afternoon when I’m headed out the door when I get these emails?”
“Then why are you smiling?” Conn said.
“Because it’s that or jump out the window,” Dion said. “We have an heir!”
“Bullshit,” Conn said, shaking his head and smugly leaning back. “If you’re talking about Annabelle, she had an abortion. If you’re talking about Dela . . . unlikely. And if you’re talking about Lukessi, he knows better than to try.”
“The abortion apparently didn’t take,” Dion said. “I have the filing with the court right here in my hand. Just delivered, practically after working hours. One Michael Truesdale, formerly a resident of Schenectady. Raised in foster care. Mr. Truesdale recently reunited with his biological father—proven by DNA—one Counselor Derrick Sterrenhunt of Kalispell, Montana. All sorts of things about his father’s heroic military record included—”
“Heroic military record?” Conn said.
“I’m thinking this guy was Delta,” Dion said, shrugging. “Lots of fruit salad mentioned and he retired as command sergeant major of Joint Special Operations Command.”
“I know as little about the military as possible,” Conn said. There wasn’t much reason to know anything about the idiot pawns who went out to die on behalf of the Society’s global interests. “Go on. Why does that make the kid the heir?”
“This is a picture of the counselor,” Dion said, putting up the picture of Derrick from the event at Fort Myer. “Look familiar?”
“Vaguely?” Conn said.
Dion put up the picture including Annabelle.
“How about now?” Dion said. “The counselor has sworn, as an officer of the court, that the woman pictured who has previously been widely identified as Annabelle Follett was the only woman with whom he had relations during the time frame Michael Truesdale would have been conceived. Further, that he was in an ongoing relationship with her during the entire period in which such conception might have occurred. And he has other witnesses he can summon who were aware of the relationship.”
“Okay,” Conn said with a dismissive shrug. He looked out his windows to take in the city below. His wasn’t quite the highest office in Manhattan, but he was still able to look down on most of it. “So, some lawyer from Montana turns up with his brat claiming a billion dollars. You can beat, that I assume?”
“It gets worse,” Dion said. “They somehow found evidentiary DNA of Annabelle . . .”
“Impossible,” Conn snapped, locking his eyes back onto the screen. “We got rid of her autopsy sample, she was cremated, and we even had her room scrubbed.”
“You missed something,” Dion said. “I’m not from back when she was around, and I don’t know who was doing the full cleanup. But they missed that there was a blood sample from a juvie bust in Kennebunk. The Kennebunk police still had it. It’s already been tested by a lab in Washington State and it’s a positive match. And they put it on CODIS.”
“Oh, shit,” Conn said, his eyes blinking rapidly. His mind exploded with a million panicked thoughts.
“You thinking about all the stuff we have to cover up before he inherits?” Dion said. “Because I can hold this up for a while, but this is a done deal, Wesley. This would be closed in a week under normal circumstances. I don’t think we can get it dismissed.”
“Who’s the judge?” Conn asked.
“That’s the one bright spot,” Dion said. “Mickelson. Your friends have him, right?”
“Right,” Conn said. “You’ll need to meet with some people. Pass this on. We’ll try to buy him off. If that doesn’t work . . . I’ll need to meet with some people as well.”
“I’m advising you as corporate counsel and as someone who’s in this,” Dion said. “Don’t kill the kid. With what happened with Bear, questions are going to be asked. Do we know, yet, what happened with Bear?”
“No,” Conn said. He looked out the window again, but this time his thoughts were racing too much for him to really see anything. “We’ll do what we have to do. Right now, it would be a really bad time to let go of the Trust. Extremely bad. We need to play this carefully. Narrative: While we, of course, need to ensure that everything is in order, we are very interested and would love to continue providing excellent financial services if the suit is successful. I’ve been with the Folletts since his great-grandfather’s time. Et cetera. Don’t start off banging the table.”
“Got it,” Dion said.
“In the meantime, we’ll do everything we can to get this to go away in the background,” Conn said, thoughtfully.
“But with Bear just being in the news, the kid is probably going to be big news,” Dion said. “He’s a foundling, foster care, just reunited with his bio dad, and suddenly he’s Oliver Twist. Right now, it’s a John Doe submission. The other stuff is in stuff that’s to be sealed by the court. But . . . probably a bad idea for the kid to disappear. His dad’s an attorney. For sure there’s a will.”
“Interesting that he shows up so soon after Bear,” Conn said. “Was he in the New York area?”
“Just says he was raised in Schenectady,” Dion said.
“We need to know more about this Michael Truesdale,” Conn said. “We’re going to be having meetings all weekend. Clear your schedule.”
He drew in a calming breath. He’d dealt with far worse than a snotty little kid. There was work to be done, but nothing to really worry about.
“One more piece of good news,” Dion said. “They put out a press release and are having a presser Monday morning. This is going to make the papers on Sunday.”
“I’ll take care of that . . .”
“Mi amigo!” said Jorge Carnejo, aka Hombre de Poder, as he came into the expansive and largely empty lobby. The diminutive but bulky Hispanic male threw out his arms to give Mike a hug. Considering he was an invulnerable Ground—“hulk” was the impolite term—his hugs were capable of crushing a regular human.
“Whoa there, Tonto,” Mike said, holding up three fingers in front of him.
“So triste,” Jorge said, putting out a finger and gently touching his friend’s. “Mi amigo!”
“How’s your mom’s restaurant doing?” Mike asked.
“It’s just getting started,” Jorge said. “But business is pretty good. She makes shrimp tacos . . .”
“I’m planning on heading up there as soon as I can,” Mike said, dramatically licking his lips.
“He’s back!” said Josh Ford, aka Metalstorm, as he walked in the front doors. The tall blond young man wearing a polo shirt was about as close as one could get to a caricature of a preppy white male. “How are you doing, back in the big city?”
As the doors were closing, Mike caught sight of a man in a T-shirt and sunglasses trying to get a peek inside. Tourists were known to loiter outside the Javits Building in the hopes of catching a glimpse of supers. Technically, their identities were classified, but it wasn’t all that hard for amateur internet sleuths to put the pieces together.
Since anonymity wasn’t guaranteed, security was quick to disperse crowds of more than a few people. However, something about this man’s demeanor told Mike this wasn’t a tourist. Mike made a mental note to track the man’s skeleton.
“Doing pretty well,” Mike said. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Josh. “Busy busy.”
“What crimes have you been committing?” Josh asked. The Junior Super Corps team leader seemed a little standoffish, but then Mike had run off without any warning.
“I’m totally legit these days!” Mike exclaimed.
Except for, you know, the whole international hacker thing and the assassinations . . .
“That’ll be the day.”
“Wheeee!” Laura said, running over and throwing her arms around him. “He’s back! He’s really back!”
“I thought you didn’t like me,” Mike said, leaning in happily. Laura, aka Fresh Breeze, was a bimbo, but she was a very squeezable bimbo. The seventeen-year-old was five foot two with brown hair and very nice . . . features.
“What made you think that?” Laura said.
“I dunno,” Mike said. “Maybe all the times you said you hated me?”
“I was just venting,” Laura said.
“Like a steam locomotive,” Mike said as Sasha came in. Laura was pretty hot, as all supers were very good-looking. Sasha Nikula, aka Ivory Wing, however, was an outright goddess, with emerald-green eyes, long, jet-black hair, and the type of face poets had struggled to describe for eons. Mike had only barely progressed to the point where he was capable of coherent speech in her presence.
“Hey, Stone,” Sasha said. He’d been desperately hoping for a Sasha hug, but she simply gave a casual wave as she walked up. She seemed muted, perhaps distracted. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Miss Ivory,” Mike said, nodding to her. “So, since we’re all here, I have information to impart . . .”
“Can it wait?” the muscular, redheaded Bonfire said, as he walked over. The thermal super (because “pyro” was considered offensive) had taken over as Junior Corps mentor after the Electrobolt “incident.” He also happened to be the husband of the platinum-blonde beauty Summer Storm. “Briefing time.”
“I’d prefer right now, if that’s okay,” Mike said respectfully. “This is going to take some discussion, and I’d really like to get it out of the way.”
“Okay,” Bonfire said, furrowing his brow.
“Ahem,” Mike said. “Josh, let me say in preamble that I think your dad is great and that even though I went with another law firm, it has nothing to do with the representation we’ve received from his firm.”
“Okay?” Josh said, narrowing his eyes and frowning.
“My dad had a friend from law school at a firm here in Brooklyn, so we went with that firm,” Mike said. “My dad, his choice. Ahem. Without further preamble: I’m an heir.”
“An Air? Like a Tinkerbell?” Jorge said. “I’m pretty sure you’re an Earther, hermano. For one thing, Airs are always women, and I don’t care what anybody says, you can’t just say you’re a woman and become an Air. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Jorge, a person can choose their gender,” Laura said, primly. “Gender is an artificial construct of the patriarchy.”
While they argued, the man loitering outside received a phone call. It only lasted a few seconds and, as soon as he hung up, he walked away.
“You think so?” Jorge argued. “Then how come none of these so-called women ever become Airs or Waters, huh?”
“Not that kind of heir!” Mike said, cutting off the ongoing argument.
“What other kind of Air is there?” Jorge said. “Is there some new superpower? Or is this one of those weird English things? Your language makes no sense at all, you know that? Why doesn’t everyone just speak Spanish?”
“It’s one of those weird English things,” Mike said. “H-E-I-R. As in one who inherits.”
There was a collective sigh of sympathy and sorrowful expressions all around.
“Oh!” Jorge said, his eyes wide. “An heir! Why didn’t you just say so?”
“What kind of heir?” Laura asked.
“The kind that inherits from his deceased biological mother,” Mike said.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” Sasha said.
“She died years ago,” Mike said, shrugging. “About six months after I was born. But she made the news a little while ago. Her name was Annabelle Follett. Recognize it?”
“I remember hearing it . . .” Laura said, frowning in deep thought.
“The billionaire runaway?” Sasha said, her eyes wide. “The one that got killed by a serial killer? Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Mike said. He’d already pulled out his phone and pulled up the picture. “That’s the picture that the news showed about Annabelle Follett. They’d cropped out my biological dad. That’s him on the right.”
“Oh, my God!” Laura said, snatching the phone and looking at it. “Does that make you a billionaire?”
“Eventually,” Mike said. “And there’s already been a DNA test. It was confirmed.”
“Oh, my God!” Laura repeated, sidling up to him. “So, you got a girlfriend back in Montana?”
“No,” Mike said, laughing. “Buncha cousins.”
It didn’t seem the time to mention the Allen girls—three gorgeous, honey-blonde sisters who homeschooled with his cousins. Though he couldn’t suppress a vision of all three in red dresses and white bonnets.
“Does that cover it?” Bonfire asked.
“It does, sir, yes,” Mike said. “Thank you for allowing me the time.”
“Rest of it you can cover in the locker room and on patrol,” Bonfire said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Briefing time . . .”
“So, you went with your dad’s friend, huh?” Josh said. “My dad’s going to be very unhappy about that.”
They’d had a quick, mostly pointless brief with Bonfire that centered entirely on conflict avoidance. Bonfire was a good guy, but his marching orders were clearly to keep the Junior Super Corps out of the spotlight at all cost. Now the team was in their swank, NFL-level locker room. It was still a co-ed locker room with guys at one end and girls at the other, despite the fact that arrangement had been codified by Bonfire’s pedophiliac predecessor.
“Nothing against him or his law firm,” Mike lied. He pulled off his shirt and pants and tossed them in the locker. He was carefully trying not to use Sight to watch the girls get undressed. There really wasn’t a point. It was just a misty outline around skeletons—though there was the occasional hip wiggle or arched back to get his blood pumping. “My dad just had a friend. You know how that goes. And it’s a top firm. Quiet and smaller than your dad’s but still a top firm.”
“Are you going to stay with them past the suit?” Josh said. He set his gold-and-black full-face mask with winglike protrusions to the side and dug further into his locker.
“Probably,” Mike said as he pulled on his tactical pants. He’d soundly defeated Kevin in the fight between a fully tactical outfit versus the Village People’s rhinestone fantasy getup Kevin had designed.
“So, you said you might not be coming back to New York full time?” Laura said.
“My dad and aunts and uncles and grandparents are all dead set on me going to college,” Mike said. “Most of my cousins graduated high school early and the majority are going to college or planning on it. So, yeah, I’m headed off to college next September, probably. If I can get into the college of my choice.”
“Which one?” Sasha asked.
Mike hesitated at that.
“Can’t decide?” Josh asked. “I think going in when you’re fourteen you’ll have your pick.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I mean, as Mike Truesdale I haven’t pissed off anyone. Yet. But . . . don’t judge me, okay? There’s reasons. Osseo.”
“What?” Laura asked. He could tell she was squeezing into her skintight green-and-yellow bodysuit that Mike had internally nicknamed the “Instant Cameltoe Device.” It really could use at least a skirt or something. “Why would I judge you for that? Never heard of it.”
“Because you’ve never heard of it,” Josh said. “You’re serious. Osseo?”
“Josh, I got canceled when I was eleven by the progressive left,” Mike said. “I’m not any of the things that they say I am. But they canceled an eleven-year-old and had a riot and burned down half of Baltimore, just because an eleven-year-old kid didn’t want to be a statistic. That’s every kind of wrong, unless it’s not obvious. Then when the Electrobolt thing came down, who did they blame? Did they blame the thirtysomething pedophile or the thirteen-year-old victim?
“I’m not the things people say I am,” Mike said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m nuanced on all those subjects except the pedophile part. But you’re not allowed to have nuance. You’re required to march in lockstep.”
“That’s not really true, Mike,” Josh said.
“You haven’t even taken college courses, Josh,” Mike said. “And you’re a fish that swims in water. In a lot of ways, my rural cousins are more educated than you are, private schools or no. They’re more broadly educated, that’s for sure. And more trained in actual history.”
“I bet they aren’t,” Laura said. As her costume was the skimpiest by far, she was already done dressing and was now touching up her makeup in her locker mirror. Even though she’d cover her face with an opera-style mask, she still spent a whole lot of time getting her eyes just right. “It’s probably all a whitewash! Do they even cover slavery or the slaughter of the Native Americans in your homeschool?!”
“Laura,” Mike said, shaking his head and just gave up. “Never mind.”
“Laura,” Sasha said as she secured her heavy chest piece. Counter to Laura’s tight little next-to-nothing, Ivory Wing’s outfit was built for the extreme pressures of supersonic travel. “Mike is literally Native American? Or did you forget?”
“Sure, but what about those homeschoolers?” Laura asked, angrily. “They never cover slavery or the repression of the Native Peoples!”
“Oh, my God,” Mike groaned as he put on his armor. “Let it stoppp.”
“Laura?” Sasha said, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“What?” Laura said. Mike had never really thought about it, but she and Sasha never really helped each other with hair and makeup like cheerleaders or dancers might. Then again, Sasha never spent too much time on either.
“I got to choose my Native American name while I was there,” Mike said. “I chose the Cat Who Walks the Mountains of the Star Hunter sept. Or, in other words, my Native American name is Mountain Lion Star Hunter. My cousins already had their Native American names.”
“So, you just get to choose a native American name?” Laura said. “Can I have one? I’m thinking Wind of the Early Spring.”
“You do if you’re, you know, Native American,” Sasha said, putting on her helmet gently.
“You forget he’s Sioux, chica?” Jorge asked. “And I would guess so are his cousins.”
Jorge had finished dressing shortly after Laura, as Hombre de Poder wore a simple blue muscle shirt with red accents, red wrestling shorts with blue accents, and a red-and-blue Mexican wrestler-style mask.
“My dad was Mr. Sioux Nation,” Mike said. “One of my cousins was third runner-up. Mr. Sioux Nation isn’t a beauty contest. Neither is Miss Sioux Nation. It’s about traditional skills including stuff like how to make your way through a wilderness. How Rob could have been third runner-up I have no idea. The guy knows approximately everything about the outdoors. And, yes, all my cousins are more legally Sioux than I am. They’re all registered with the Nation.”
“Are you?” Sasha asked.
“I haven’t yet,” Mike said. “Noodling it. There are issues with being registered. The law is complicated and not worth discussing. But for one thing the Nation considers that it sort of owns your kids. And I’m not entirely comfortable with that.”
“Homeschooling is just indoctrination,” Laura said, stoutly.
“Said the indoctrinated,” Sasha replied.
Glad I didn’t have to say it. Wait. That sounds like Sasha isn’t indoctrinated. What the hell?
Mike had been trying to get a read on Sasha since they first met and never really could. He knew it was in part due to her extreme beauty just shutting down his brain. Also, since she was a flyer, she rarely patrolled with them. But he’d gotten hints that she wasn’t quite as far to the left as most of the rest of the junior supers and he knew she had a dry sense of humor.
“We sort of got off of Osseo,” Josh said. “You sure?”
“They’re not into cancel culture,” Mike said. “That’s reason one. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to be able to just say some things and not have to worry about backlash.”
“Like what?” Laura asked.
“Like nothing I’m going to discuss here,” Mike said. “People don’t realize how much they self-censor until they get out of a censorship regime. And you are, trust me, in a censorship regime. And the average age is younger. Osseo caters to homeschoolers. It’s the top destination for them. The question is, can I get in? It’s late to apply. If I can’t, I’ll just remote study. See if I can get in next year.”
“It’s not a highly regarded school, Mike,” Josh said, trying to explain to the younger super. “You could get into Harvard. They don’t have to know your other name, right?”
“If I chose a school like that, I’d choose Stanford over Harvard,” Mike said. “Among other things, I’ll be applying as a Montana resident. That trends you west coast. But I’m not applying to Stanford, either. I already got an automated letter of interest from them when I passed the GED at thirteen.”
“You got a GED?” Laura said.
“That’s what you get when you matriculate in home school,” Mike said. “Some states there’s a state test that’s a High School Equivalency but most you just take the GED. And smart schools see the early GED and don’t care about an HSE. Took the SAT and ACT in Montana as well. We’re still waiting on those scores. Nice thing about Osseo: though it likes things like an essay on ‘Why Osseo’ and things like volunteering, it mostly chooses on academic merit instead of, you know, ‘holistic.’”
They were dropped off at Fifth Avenue and East Ninety-seventh. The throngs of fans and reporters were waiting in the East Meadow. It still greatly disturbed Mike that absolutely everyone knew exactly where they’d start their patrols. The number of fans was slightly above the norm, but the reporters were out in force. It wasn’t quite the reception they’d gotten after the Electrobolt incident, but close. On that occasion, the media had been militantly displeased with a belligerent white kid who’d assaulted a poor, helpless adult trans . . . super. The flaws in their logic had been legion, and Mike had done his part to point that out with limited success, but adapting a narrative to fit new data wasn’t exactly a media virtue.
“Stone Tactical, is it true that you recently went rogue and risked violating the terms of your service to the Junior Corps?”
“Excuse me, Rogue—sorry, I mean Stone Tactical, care to comment on the appalling incarceration conditions of the defendant in your ongoing suit? Were you aware that, by all accounts, their access to gender-affirming care has been limited in their current situation?”
“Can you confirm reports that your rogue operation to capture El Cannibale—which was rumored to have been largely your plan—greatly endangered countless lives in the surrounding neighborhood? Has there been any action on behalf of the Super Department to restrict your ability to lead such rogue operations in the future?”
“You’ve been described in many circles as a rogue agent or a loose cannon, care to comment?”
Mike begrudgingly stepped forward, but Josh grabbed his arm to hold Mike back.
“I got this, Stone,” Josh said before he stepped forward.
“As has been said before, no member of the Junior Super Corps will make any comments, official or otherwise, regarding ongoing litigation or criminal cases to which we may be parties. Please direct any queries or official correspondence to the Secretary of Super Affairs.”
More questions erupted before he’d finished, and Josh waved dismissively and continued with noncommittal, pre-canned official statements that basically repeated what he’d already said.
“Hey, Stone, over here,” Jorge said. “Metalstorm’s supposed to be the leader, right, so let’s let him lead this time.”
Mike nodded and followed Jorge away, more than happy to give someone else the spotlight.
“So you say you got a big family now, huh?” Jorge asked. “How’s that feel?”
“Don’t you have a big family?” Mike retorted.
“Well, yeah, but I’ve always had one, you know what I mean?”
Mike shrugged and then reluctantly nodded. “I get you. I mean, before I went to Montana, believe it or not, you guys were the closest thing I ever really had to some kind of tribe. But to your point, it’s both amazing and freaky as hell to have a real-life—just like I’ve only seen on TV—kind of family. And it’s an actual tribe to boot. Wonderful and weird, all at once.”
“I know what you mean, mi amigo, but I gotta say, I’m happy for you, man.” He clapped Mike on the shoulder with a warm, genuine smile.
“Muchas gracias, Jorge. That means a lot.”
Of course, Mike considered Gondola tribe, though he couldn’t say that to Jorge. Even so, everything was always so clinical and mission-focused with Gondola. Plus, he’d never met any of them in person, which meant it was possible, however unlikely, that they were all the same person, or AIs like AutokId or . . . anything or anyone, really. At the very least, his only knowledge of who anyone actually was had come from rumors circulating amongst themselves.
“There he is!” Laura practically screeched and knocked Mike out of his reverie. “Get over here, you!”
She rushed up, gently but firmly took Mike’s hand, and led him toward the horde of fans.
“Come on, Stone, let’s give them some pictures of Earth and Air, side by side.”
She dragged Mike to the front, wrapped an arm around his waist, and smiled and waved at the crowd.
You mean let them start generating rumors about the two of us and a possible relationship? You do realize you’re almost four years older, right? In less than a year you’re legally an adult and I’ll still be a minor . . .
But Mike kept his mouth shut and did his level best to pose. While holding her own smile and poses, Laura gave him a flurry of instructions: “Chin up, don’t look so menacing, relax your arms/don’t cross them, turn to the side a little, a slight profile is almost always better than straight on, here let’s do a back-to-back pic,” et cetera. Mike acquiesced without any pushback as it was still in his best interests to stay on the team’s good side.
He briefly wondered what Sasha was up to. She and Patrick “Iron Eagle” Thesz usually went on an aerial patrol when the weather allowed. The range of Mike’s Sight had increased considerably since the last time he’d been on patrol with them, but it still wasn’t far enough to track flyers more than a few hundred feet up.
The reporters quickly dispersed under the counter onslaught of Josh’s official jargon, and the photo shoot transitioned to autograph signing. Mike started to back away at that part, but then he caught a familiar face.
“Hey, Davon, how’s things?” Mike said to a nine-year-old black kid with a book full of super autographs.
“I’ll tell you how he’s doing,” his small but powerful mother said as she edged her way next to Davon. “He’s doing great in school, and he tells me it’s all because he ‘can’t let Stone Tactical down.’ My little baby boy is doing great and he says it’s all because of you. So I had to come up within him today to say thank you, Mr. Stone Tactical. Thank you for helping my baby boy do what I know he can do.”
It was a good thing Mike had a helmet covering his eyes, so he didn’t have to hide the water buildup.
“I’m sure I didn’t tell him anything you haven’t said,” Mike said and turned to face the boy. “Did I, Davon? So listen to her, okay? But it’s great to hear you’re doing well, Davon, it really is. Especially hearing that you’re doing it for me. But from here on out, don’t do it for me, do it for yourself and do it for your mom here, okay? But I still want updates, cool? Can you do that?”
“Yeah, man, that’s cool.”
Mom gushed some more, and Mike graciously smiled and nodded. As they were moving away, his ghetto-ingrained paranoia picked up on a trio of kids glowering under a tree about fifty yards away. Mike had spotted more than a few miscreants who were watching him and the other junior supers, but these were clearly fixated on Davon for some reason.
One kid elbowed another and pointed when Davon and his mom moved away. All three shot to their feet and shuffled after the pair. They half-heartedly tried to look casual but miserably failed as they were nervously looking every which way to see if they were noticed. Mike had zero doubt they had ill intent for Stone Tactical’s biggest fan. The how or why was wholly unimportant.
While continuing to shake hands and sign autographs, Mike reached out and grabbed one of the kid’s ankles with Earth Move. It only took a gentle tug to make Wannabe Thug Two sweep a foot out and trip Wannabe Thug One. As WT1 fell, Mike had WT3 elbow WT2 in the ribs. That’s all it took to get all three into a full-on bloody, bare-knuckle brawl.
It wasn’t long before they’d gained the attention of the cops who were there to monitor the Junior Super fan and press crowd. Mike recognized two approaching cops as Officers Gill and Clevenstine—with whom he’d spoken on previous patrols. WT1 was surprised to find his fist flying at Gill’s nose. WT3 threw a lazy kick, and Mike didn’t even have to encourage WT2 as he joined in on the assumption that was just what they were doing now. All three quickly found their faces in the dirt and their hands cuffed behind their backs.
“Alright, team, crowds are dying down,” Josh said with an admirable level of authority Mike hadn’t heard before. It seemed he’d gained a little confidence since taking down El Cannibale. “Let’s head out and grab some food.”
“This one’s on me, Stone,” Jorge said with a clap on his back. “And it’s not to butter you up ’cause you’re about to be super rich. It’s mostly to apologize for not realizing you were strapped on those first couple patrols.”
Mike shook his head and frowned. “Thanks, but not necessary. No way you could’ve known that.”
“We all should’ve known,” Josh cut in as he walked up. “We’re teammates, but we weren’t acting like it back then, before, you know . . . But I more than anyone should’ve paid attention to what’s going on. So this one’s on me, and you’re not saying no, got it? Hombre de Poder, you can get the next one.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike and Jorge said almost simultaneously, and only a little bit sarcastically.
“They can get your lunches,” Laura said with a smile and a gentle, friendly elbow. “I’ll get you dinner sometime.”
“Oh, good!” Mike said. “There’s a good steakhouse I’ve been dying to try.”
Laura’s face screwed into an angry frown, and she shifted away a sharply. “Deal’s off. Meat is still murder.”
“Tasty, tasty murder,” Mike said.
Since there were no shrimp tacos to be found, the tasty lunch murder came in the form of gyros from a food truck named It’s All Greek to Me. Vasilios, the guy running it, did look authentically Greek, bone structure and all, but had a heavy Staten Island accent. Josh, Jorge, and Mike all got thick pita stuffed with deliciousness, while Laura got a vegan power bowl from another truck.
Using Sight, Mike picked up on a few lookouts who were clearly keeping tabs on the junior patrol, but none struck him as particularly malevolent. They were probably just there to alert others if the juniors decided to go drug dealer or rapist hunting as they had on Mike’s first patrol with the group.
“So, Mike,” Jorge said between bites, “first time we met, you were talking about the Storm. Said you hoped it was like A Quiet Place.”
“Which I still don’t get, that movie was freaky,” Laura said with a sad face. “And so depressing, with the toddler and the dad . . .”
“Well, yeah, but my point was that just plain old monsters—whether they’re keyed in on sound or whatever—would be a breeze as far as attempted apocalypses are concerned. Especially here in the good ol’ US of A where there’s a gun behind every blade of grass.”
“Which we really need to do something about!” Laura scoffed. “They’re so dangerous.”
“I’m letting that one go,” Mike said, wiping tzatziki off the corner of his mouth. “But the point is, lots of guns to shoot at those what need shooting. In so-called gun-free zones, cities, and what have you, maybe everyone but the gangs and the cops would be getting eaten, sure. But in most of this country, it’d be open season with no limits and ‘how do they taste on a po’ boy?’ They’d hardly need us supers if that’s what the Storm is.”
He took another big bite and rolled his eyes in satisfaction.
Josh took a slurp of soda, suppressed a small burp, and then cleared his throat. “Okay, well, what about zombies? Movies and TV show it spreading like a pandemic faster than the government can react.”
Mike swallowed and took a sip to wash it down. “First off, I’m going to say just about everything happens faster than the government can react. They’re usually too busy figuring out what’s politically viable in terms of reelection to actually get around to anything resembling a proper response, but that’s beside the point. You asked about zombies.” He took another drink to better wet his whistle.
“Slow-moving zombies, piece of cake. Easier than just about every monster, even if it’s all part of a pandemic. I mean, even in the original black-and-white Night of the Living Dead, zombies are only a serious problem for a small group of trapped people for a single night before good ol’ boy Sheriff Chubby Redneck and his posse sweep through with hunting rifles and clear the area. Worst-case, slow-moving zombie pandemic kills more than any pandemic that came before, but it’d settle down and I think civilization would more or less survive just fine—and that’s with or without us.”
“Okay, but fast running zombies, like 28 Days Later?” Jorge asked. Then he stuffed in his last bite and crumpled up the paper it was served in.
“Those’d be a much bigger problem, sure, assuming they were engineered in a way to keep them from simply dying off on their own within a few weeks. That’s a whole discussion that largely boils down to they’re better off naked. But fast zombies would be a civilization killer whether or not they’d die off. Especially since people are stupid, would ignore all the signs for weeks and, hell, would probably still be having huge concerts here in Central Park right up until the moment the shit truly hit the fan. In such a scenario, we’d be useful, but not necessarily any more useful than lots of seventeen-year-olds with lots of machine guns. Other than our far superior immune systems, that is.”
With that, Mike scarfed down the last bite of his gyro and washed it down with the last of his soda. The three boys were done, and they all looked at Laura, who was still picking lightly at her bowl of rabbit food. She caught them all staring and shrugged her shoulders in mild embarrassment.
“Please, don’t rush on our account,” Josh said.
“I’m not really hungry, but I don’t want it to go to waste. Anyone want some? Lots of good nutrition in here. They don’t call it a power bowl for nothing.”
All three stared at the bowl for a second without answering.
A few minutes later, she tossed the rest of her bowl, and they resumed their “patrol.” Josh had suggested they go looking for more drugs or scare more would-be rapists out of bushes like they had the first time they’d been on patrol with Mike. Mike humored them and they went exploring, but he knew they weren’t going to find anything.
By now it was abundantly clear the local criminals had organized an informal network to track them and pass around word of the junior supers’ route. The problem was, Mike knew this because he could See the skeletons of the watchers—the more nefarious types—scattering as he and the others approached, but he couldn’t tell the others on the team. It wouldn’t be a big deal for them to learn he had Sight, but it would be a big deal for them to learn just how far and how well he could See. He was becoming powerful, and the Corps considered that a major problem for a very specific reason.
“What about aliens?” Josh asked, leading the way more than he had on previous patrols. “Storm could just as well be aliens, right?”
“And what, we’re going to assume any aliens are bad?” Laura said. Her arms were crossed for warmth as it was just a little chilly that afternoon and her outfit was barely more than tissue paper.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Mike said, “but we all have the impression the Storm is bad, right? Like Apocalypse-Ragnarok-Armageddon bad?”
Everyone nodded in agreement, even Laura though with some reluctance.
“So if the Storm is aliens, it follows they’re bad—for humans, at the very least. But that possibility carries with it something we haven’t discussed yet.”
“Who gave us these powers,” Jorge said, a statement rather than a question.
Mike smiled and nodded emphatically. “Exactly. If it’s monsters or zombies or something supernatural, demons even, maybe it’s something supernatural giving us these powers. I don’t know, and those possibilities are endless. Angels, a coven of hot witches—”
“Why do they have to be hot?” Laura asked with narrowing eyes.
“Because this is my conjecturing, I’m a thirteen-year-old boy, and in a thirteen-year-old boy’s conjecturing, the witches are hot. Hulké, can I get some backup?” Mike looked at Jorge.
Hombre de Poder made an “oh yeah” expression. “The witches are definitely hot, busty, and wearing lacy, mostly see-through dresses.”
Laura groaned.
“Guys,” Josh said as a half-hearted warning.
“Anyway, like I said, those possibilities are endless,” Mike continued. “On the other hand, if it’s aliens, it is extremely likely these powers come from other aliens. Maybe a splinter faction, a competitor race, rebels, but other aliens no matter how you slice it. If the Storm is aliens and these powers didn’t come from other aliens, then we’re mixing genres and that just gets super confusing and, to be honest, it’d be horrible fiction if you saw it in a movie.”
“Can we move on from aliens already?” Laura asked. “And hot witches, and Bible-thumping stuff like angels and demons? What else could the Storm be?”
“It’s probably not robots, right?” Josh asked. “Like Terminators or anything?”
“That is fairly unlikely,” Mike said, “and comes out on the same level as aliens. If the Storm is an AI, the powers probably come from a counter AI. But considering how long ago Colonel King got his powers, I seriously doubt it’s that—unless it’s alien AI, which brings us back to aliens.”
Silence. Laura shivered, and Jorge gave Mike a nervous, almost frightened glance. Mike had broken Supers Rule One: Though Shalt Not Mention the True Name of the Nebraska Killer.
But Mike had done it on purpose.
“Mike . . .” Josh started to say.
“I know,” Mike said. “We don’t talk about Colonel James King, or Major Freedom as he was called. But we need to remember that he started out just like us, and he was given his powers for the same reason we were. The fact that we don’t know that reason doesn’t change anything. Whatever the Storm is, something wants us ready for it. Odds are the powers we’ve been given are very specifically meant to counter whatever the Storm is. We don’t train our powers because of what happened to Colonel King, to the Nebraska Killer, but if the Storm really is coming, training our powers is precisely what we need to be doing.”
Laura shuddered again, and all three studiously avoided looking at Mike. They spent the rest of the patrol in silence, alone with their thoughts.
Sunday headlines:
New York Post: missing heir found?
Gotham Herald: early daffodils mean global warming