Black Gazelle, Part 1

Finch had been dead for 33 years now.

Leaning his back against the brick wall, he took out his cigarette pack. Carefully tapping one of the cigarettes out of its case, he slipped the rest back into his pocket and took out a lighter. One simple click and it was on fire, every second racing towards oblivion. Soon, it would be ash. He envied it. Putting the lighter back into his pocket, he took a deep breath of smoke. Slowly exhaling, he watched the smoke dance around his face and then reach up towards the sky.

He wasn’t really dead, he tried to remind himself. Someone else was. But he’d felt dead for 33 years and hadn’t even gotten the dignity of a death scene.

“That stuff’s bad for your health,” some civilian said, looking at the cigarette as he walked up to Finch.

“So’s me breaking your neck.”

With that, the man put his hands in the air, in resignation, “Just trying to help, man.”

Finch chuckled, as he saw the man walk away. “Help,” he said, as if he was obsessed with the word, “Help.” He didn’t mean it. He didn’t really think anyone could help him. But it still fascinated him to think about the word.

33 years ago, Finch had been a member of a group of villains, called the Dastards. He and five other guys, who all shared the common antagonist in Black Gazelle, basically lived their lives with the express intent of fighting their archenemy.

Finch’s time with the Dastards marked some of the best years of his life. But then, in 1978, Panther, one of the six, killed Black Gazelle.

Finch took another deep breath from the cigarette, allowing the smoke to swirl around in his lungs, fill them, make them feel like something more than they were. He let go of the smoke, just like he’d let go of everything else.

One of his friends from the group, Sting, was supposed to meet him here. If he was being honest, he didn’t remember when they were supposed to meet. He didn’t really care, either. He could stand here, waiting, for hours. It’s not like he had anything else to do. And it gave him time to think.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this meeting was going to be good for him. Maybe what he really needed was to just let go of all this, move to a new city. Get a new job, a new life. After all, whenever super villains met, nothing seemed to go right. Finch took the cigarette in his hand, looked at it, and threw it onto the sidewalk. He felt satisfied as he ground it into the sidewalk with his shoe. He took one step forward, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey.” Finch turned around as he heard the voice. Just as he expected, it was Sting.

“Hey,” Finch replied, “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Sting said, “They just let met out of jail last week.”

Finch smirked, “They finally caught the infamous Sting, eh?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at the sidewalk, “Robbing a bank right after snorting crack wasn’t my greatest idea.”

Finch laughed, “It had to have been better than that time you gave Black Gazelle those hallucinogens.”

Sting laughed as well, “Yeah, the Sixties were crazy times. Y’know, for one guy with a stingray gun, I’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble, over the years.” Sting looked down at his gun. It was an interesting dart machine, that shot not just tranquilizers but a variety of darts: Plague Darts, Laughing Darts, etc. Finch remembered Sting saying once that he always kept one poison dart in there, at all times, in case things got ugly. When he was arrested, he was thankful he’d never needed to use it. A murder charge was the last thing he needed.

Finch said, “Look who you’re talking to. I don’t have powers and I can’t count the number of times I’ve fought supers.”

Sting pat Finch on the back, “It’s really good to see you. Want to head on over to Denny’s? Catch up on old times?”

“Sounds good,” Finch said, looking at his friend. The two walked and talked for a while, catching up on those glorious old times. By the time they’d sat down and gotten their food, Finch felt as good as the old days, again. He was laughing.

“So here the Hunter and I were trying to pull a simple bank job, when twelve guys with machine guns come popping out of the woodwork. It was a mob bank, and apparently they’d been expecting us. So I look at The Hunter, figuring the best thing we can do is surrender and hope for the best.”

Finch looked at Sting, “The Hunter isn’t really the giving up sort.”

“Yeah, I found that out,” Sting said, “Because by the time I’m looking at Hunter, he’s thrown his spear at one guy and pounced on another. Before I had the time to say, ‘Holy shit,’ he’d taken out his crossbow and really gotten the fight started. I’m looking for cover, but I can’t find any. So I plug a few of the guys with sleeping darts, leap over one guy, and manage to dive behind a counter. By the time I looked back up, the carnage was over.”

Finch smiled, “Did you guys take the money?”

“Yeah, The Hunter made sure we cleaned out the entire bank. He was so pissed off, he ended up torching the place.”

“Was that place--”

Sting knew what Finch was going to say before he said it, “Yeah, the bank was owned by that mob boss who got his legs broken by The Hunter. I wasn’t involved in that one, though. What he did is, he got The Owl to fly him over the guy’s house. The Owl dropped him into the boss’s bedroom, The Hunter broke the guy’s legs, then The Owl flew him out. They said they were in and out in under three minutes.”

Finch shook his head, “How those two manage to stay alive is beyond me.”

“What’s even scarier to think about is that Hunter’s now the head of a major corporation.”

Finch took a bite of his food and said, “Yeah, it’s amazing the way a guy’s life can change like that.”

“I always wondered what would happen if we revealed his identity. What if we told the world that businessman Alex Gryzlov is in fact The Hunter?”

Finch put his fork down, “Why would you do that? He’s our friend.”

“Yeah,” Sting said, “It was just a thought.” The two sat there, eating there food in silence, until Sting asked, “Why’d you kill Panther?”

Finch continued eating his food, thinking about the question. Finally, he said, “I thought that would be obvious. Panther broke the code. He killed our archenemy. The Dastards were ruined. My life was over.”

“The Hunter’s still got a life. It’s probably better now than ever before.”

“The Hunter’s a madman.”

Sting shook his head, “What did Panther say, while you were killing him?”

“I stabbed him through his chest with a sword and then used his own claw to slit his throat. By the time he realized what was happening, he wasn’t in any condition to speak.”

Sting moved his food around with a fork, finally asking, “What should we do now?”

Weighing his options, Finch smiled, “Let’s go rob a bank.”

Next

Liberty's Cry, Part 4

“We’re the founders of America,” one of the voices said, though Nathan couldn’t see him, because the entire room was shrouded in pitch black, “Our America.”
Nathan looked around, “Where am I? This place... The wormhole--”
“We are America,” the voice said, “My six friends and I. We come from your world, Nathan. A world where corruption runs rampant, the economy is always volatile, and people seemed to have forgotten what it means to be an American.”

“But if you’re from my world, how did you--

“It was simpler than you’d expect,” the voice said, “Six of us are psychics, but one of my friends here has the ability to open wormholes. Well, we’d hoped we could go back in time and fix our own reality. But we found something better. Don’t you see? Here we found a primitive reality and we built it up to be just like America, at the peek of its success!”

“And what of the other countries? Where do they fit into your plan?”
“They don’t,” the voice admitted, “America is the only country in this reality.”

“Then where did the Tories come from? Rousseau? Gil?”
“I’ve had enough of these questions,” a darker, grimmer voice declared, “Gimme the go-ahead and I can kill him, real quick.”
Nathan felt the tension run through his body, until the calmer voice prevailed, “Now, now, Tom. That wouldn’t be democratic of us, would it? What we have on our hands is a national hero, here. Sure, he was disgraced, but don’t we still owe him--”
“A bullet, like he was gonna give to--”
“Tom, if you want to create a barbaric America, you can go off to your own reality and do that, but that’s not what we agreed to for this reality, is it, fellows? Now, Nathan asked about the rebels and the French. You see, we brought in ideas from other countries, but implanted them into America. And unfortunately, some of the primitive inhabitants of this country have resisted our mind control and are therefore rebelling against us. Most of them live in the West, where Rousseau has actually fermented a bit of a resistance himself.”
Nathan, afraid to ask any more questions, sat there, shivering, “Mind control. That’s not democracy. That’s not America. That’s madness!”
“More mad than puttin’ a bullet in the president?” the darker voice, Nathan felt pretty confident the voice belong to Tom, said.

“I did what I had to. The man was ruining--”
“You’re right, Nathan,” the voice said, “Nixon was ruining our country. Just like our leaders today are. Just like they’ve been ruining the country for the past century. But don’t you see? We’ve saved our America by transplanting it. And isn’t it a beautiful place? Isn’t everyone happy here?”

“But at the cost of truth!” Nathan yelled, “You are all living a lie. You can’t force people to be American. That’s not what America’s about!”
“And you would know, you has-been piece of--”
“Now, now, Tom. Is that any way to treat our guest?”

Tom sighed.

“We’re giving you two options, Nathan,” the voice said, “Because we respect your views on America and your experience with it, we’re going to allow you to become one of our group. The eight of us will lead this reality to the beauteous glory it was meant for.”
“Or?” Nathan asked, with tense excitement.

“Or, we can send you home. We’ll implant you with fake memories, and you’ll tell your superiors this was actually Philadelphia, during the time of the Philadelphia Convention. The wormhole will be closed up and our realities will never again have contact.”

Nathan sat there, panting. He hadn’t realized it before, but he was quite tired. He’d fought a lot and fallen quite a distance, even if the fall was cushioned by telekinesis. His lungs and throat were burning. His insides felt like they’d been mixed up.

He stopped himself. He had to think about his decision, the decision that would impact him for the rest of his life. Before entering the wormhole, Nathan knew for a fact that it was the lies that had ruined his beautiful America. But had it been the lies? Or had it just been their exposure to the public? Was it lies that killed his America, or was it the truth?

His mind was a pendulum, swinging back between the two options. Were the lies okay, if they comforted the people? Was the truth so important, it needed to be revealed?
Finally, though he didn’t have an answer, he at least had something to say, “What happened to Firecracker?”
The pause reverberated throughout the room, until the voice finally spoke up again, “He’s dead. Patriot Star killed him.”
Allowing Nathan time to process the young lad’s death, no one spoke. Nathan backed up until he found a wooden table to lean on. It comforted him, to have something physical to hold onto, something physical to let him know that all of this was real.

“So what will it be, Nathan? Our America, or yours?”
Nathan wiped the sweat off his brow. He realized this was the most difficult decision he’d ever made in his entire life. But he knew it was one that would make him smile.
“I choose freedom.” With that, he flung the table across the room and heard Tom’s pain as it whacked the menacing man in the face. Nathan leaped towards the other voice he had heard. His head was telekinetically twisted 180 degrees.
It was the snap heard ‘round the world.

“Close the wormhole,” was all the once-friendly voice had to say.

Julia sighed as she looked through all her assorted paperwork. The mission had failed miserably. They’d lost Nathan, one of her most famous prisoners, and the wormhole had been closed. The media would be in an uproar.

If she revealed that the prisoner was still running around, out of the reach of the American government, funding for Project Redemption would be in peril, along with her job. However, if he was killed in action, as the program had made allowances for, she might be able to salvage the situation. Rubbing her temples, she wondered what would be the right thing to do.

Then she decided what she would do. Though Julia would never know what happened to Nathan, she put him on record as having died during his mission.

Liberty's Cry, Part 3

Stepping outside, Patriot Star was shocked by what he saw. There might have been a hundred super heroes duking it out in street. In a way, Nathan felt like he was at a carnival, with all of the flashing lights and insane sounds flashing and reverberating through his very soul. In a short time, this man who had become resigned to stoicism suddenly found himself more comfortable with the smile he was wearing.

Realizing he didn’t want to miss out on any of the action, but still not understanding what this battle was about, he cried out, “By the star-spangles of that most illustrious banner, what foul fighting is this!?!”
“The damned Tories must be trying to stop the Convention!” Gil cried out.
“Little did they expect to meet the might of JUSTICE!” Nathan cried out, realizing he might even be louder than Gil.

Finding the most nefarious-looking fellow he could, who seemed oddly out of place as he had chains clad all across his body, Patriot Star pounced. Wishing to make an anachronistic joke about this fellow being a bit early for the punk rock convention, Patriot contented himself by merely socking the man in the face.

He was of course rather surprised when the man’s chains began moving, by themselves. In fact, Nathan felt them quickly making their way around his neck. Tugging on the chains and giving the fellow a quick boot in the chest, Nathan dislodged the chains from his neck and cried out, “A Magnetic Master of Momentous Magnitude! You may have surprised me once, fellow, but you won’t get me twice!”

Jumping on top of his adversary, Patriot Star gave him a boot to the face, laughing. The adversary spat out, “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”

Patriot Star laughed, saying, “‘One man thinks himself the master of others, but remains more of a slave than they.’ You’re not the only one who’s read the words of Rousseau, chump!” Getting in close, he then proceeded to use the man’s face as a punching bag.

“And clearly, you’re not the only American who’s fond of excessive force. The chained fool is out cold. Get up, Patriot, and face me.” Realizing the voice behind him was correct, and this chained individual was quite certainly down for the count, Patriot Star warily got up and looked at the man behind him.

There was nothing there. “Invisibility’s your game then, eh?” Patriot Star asked, swiping his fist. His hand was greeted by nothing.

“Actually, I’m a ghost,” Patriot Star’s new adversary explained, “Oliver Cromwell’s ghost, since you’re curious.” Nathan saw the ghost float up through the floor. The thing turned corporeal, and proceeded to hit Nathan in the face.

“You may have drawn first blood, but how about this, chump?” Patriot Star swung his foot, in an attempt to knock the ghost down, but to no avail.

“Your physical blows will not curb me, pathetic American. Your only choice is to die.”

Clenching his fist, Nathan felt frozen. Even now, when he felt at his peak, when he was adapting the identity of the world’s greatest American hero, he couldn’t manage to defeat this ghost. All he could do, was die.

“Not so fast, ghostie!” Before Nathan could see who was behind him, his eyes burned with a bright flash. Someone leaped over Nathan’s head and kicked Oliver Cromwell’s ghost in the face. Nathan heard the sound of flesh meeting fist, before his eyes reverted back to the point where he could see again. His sight regained, he saw a young teenaged kid standing on top of the defeated ghost.

“You’ve gotta surprise ‘im, Patriot!” the youth said, “I thought you knew that!”
“Firecracker?” Nathan muttered, shaking his head.

“The one and only!” he said, “Are you alright, Patriot?”
“Fine,” Patriot said, “Fine.”

As Firecracker helped him up, Nathan looked around. He realized the fight was over.

“Boy, Patriot. I sure am glad all you super guys came when you did. I don’t think I could have taken all those guys on!”
“Merely here to help, lad,” Patriot felt even more sore than before. Maybe he wasn’t quite at the prime he thought he was. But then he looked at Firecracker. He looked at the boy’s soft blue eyes, his youthful enthusiasm, and he was saddened. He thought back to the history books, the things they’d said. Why would the Patriot Star of this era kill the teenager? Did he really betray the Revolution?
“Patriot, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, lad. I have but to ask,” Patriot considered the ramifications of what he was doing and came to the realization that he didn’t care, “a question.”
“I’m all ears,” Firecracker said, “Shoot.”

“Have you ever considered betraying America?”
“Why would you ask a danged strange question like that, Patriot?” Firecracker said, laughing, “I’d never think of betraying the country like that.”
“Good,” Patriot said, “Just know, if you ever did think about it, that it wouldn’t end well for you. It would probably end in your--” he paused on the word, but finally mustered the courage to say it, “death.”
“Good to know I’d never think about betraying anybody!” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Nathan said, “Because America is a beautiful place. It’s a place where people have freedom. They can have their own opinions, their own ideas. That’s its beauty. But sometimes, that freedom can be taken too far. We can muster up our own ideas so much that we hurt other people. When we take our ideas and force them on others, betraying them, that’s when we’ve crossed the line.”

“You should have listened to your own words,” a figure behind Patriot Star said, “They might have saved your life, impostor.”
Nathan turned around and saw that the original Patriot Star, the man who he had been imitating this whole time, was before him. Next to him was Voir. Next to Voir was a man Nathan didn’t recognize.

“I’d been wondering how you knew the Torie anthem, you scum,” Voir said, “People are born free and they always will be, no matter what Rousseau or anyone else says to the contrary.”
Quickly assessing the situation, Nathan saw there were only four people directly confronting him. The rest had already gone back to the bar or seemed too busy with the casualties. Firecracker and Voir shouldn’t prove too much of a problem. The real Revolutionary-era Patriot Star would prove tricky, but it was probably possible to beat him. However, Nathan wondered about the other one standing next to Voir. Who was he? What were his powers?

Nathan took what he thought was his best option: he ran. Turning around and sprinting with as much swiftness as he could muster, he heard one of Firecracker’s bombs go off. For the briefest of moments, he smiled. Had the boy decided for himself what America was? Had he decided correctly?
Was this why the real Revolutionary Patriot Star would kill him? Nathan refused to think about it. He could see the building where the Constitutional Convention was being held right up ahead. Maybe if he could just run around it--

He saw the man he was afraid of: the man standing next to Voir had the ability to fly. Nathan continued running, as the flying man swooped over him and then turned around. The two were set for a collision course.

At the last second, Nathan leaped into the air. Grabbing onto the flying man’s head, he flipped onto the man’s back and held on tight. The flying man flew higher and higher, speeding towards the Constitutional Convention. His flight path seemed out of control, whizzing around, doing barrel rolls. Essentially, he would kill Nathan if he had to. Thus, Nathan did what he had to do.

A quick snap was all it took for the flying man to plummet towards the ground. Hopping off, Nathan had many thoughts whizzing through his head at a trillion miles a second, as thoughts are prone to do, when one is in a situation involving almost certain death. Most of these thoughts involved said imminent death, but there was one tiny, nagging thought which managed to take up a small section of Nathan’s thoughts: how could Rousseau, one of the largest proponents of political revolution, be turned into an inspiration for the Tories? Why was Gil surprised when Nathan mentioned France? How could--

Nathan found that his fall had reached a much slower clip. He felt like he was falling through mud: he was still falling, but not at anything near a fatal rate. He saw the building before him. It was where the Constitutional Convention was being held. A window at the top of the building opened up and let Nathan in. The window closed behind him and he gently landed on the ground.
He looked around, finding himself surrounded in complete darkness.

“Hello, Nathan. We’ve been expecting you.”
Nathan reached out, but found that he had nothing to hold onto. He asked, “Who-- who are you?”

Next

Previous

Liberty's Cry, Part 2

Nathan moved his shoulder around. Falling out of the wormhole into a cobblestone alleyway had led to a harder impact than he had been expecting. But it didn’t matter much. He smiled, as he looked around. He was in Philadelphia, 1787. In the 1970’s, he had lost his America. Now, by travelling back in time, he’d found it.

He looked down at his costume. It was strange to realize that he was wearing the costume of Patriot Star, but it wasn’t a costume he’d ever worn. It was strange to look back and remember those seventy years ago--or a century and a half in the future, depending on your perspective--when he’d put on his costume for the first time.
Yes, it had been 1941 when the American government had completed their experiments, creating their American super hero. It had been a dark time, a scary time, and the government wanted to inspire the soldiers. So they gave Nathan super powers and allowed him to adopt the moniker, “Patriot Star,” the same name used by a super hero back during the Revolutionary War, along with several other super-powered American heroes. Yes, Nathan had been Patriot Star back in the Forties, but now he was more than that. Bigger than that. For now, he was adopting the identity of the original Patriot Star, the Patriot Star of the American Revolution. And that made the time-travel worth it.

Walking out into the cobblestone street, he basked in the atmosphere of a real America. His America. Everyone here seemed so happy to be alive, so happy to live in a country that valued freedom. He could only wonder, where had it all gone wrong?

Then he wondered if he was where America had gone wrong. America had already dealt with presidential assassinations, incompetent presidents, corrupt presidents, but they’d never dealt with the very symbol of their patriotism going rogue.

But then he looked around at the city, again. This was his America. This was what Nixon had been betraying. Had he gone rogue, by guarding his values? Or was it Nixon who had gone rogue? Nathan was merely defending--

His stream of consciousness was cut off as he came across a bar, The Blue Eagle. He hadn’t thought about it for a long time, now, but he suddenly came to the realization that he hadn’t had a drink in decades. Seeing as how alcohol was so popular during the Colonial era, he figured, why not? This was a reconnaissance mission, after all. It was best to talk to the people in an environment where they were comfortable.

Opening the door to The Blue Eagle, Nathan was surprised by what he saw. It was more super powered beings than he’d ever remembered being in Philadelphia. Before he’d fully acclimated himself to the surprise, he heard a voice cry out, “‘Ey, Patriot Star! What a surprise! Have a sit with us.”

Looking to see where the sound came from, Nathan saw a rather tan man with a long beard. He was sitting next to a much smaller man, with a thin moustache and brown, beady eyes that seemed to be examining the place. If Nathan was correct, he’d stumbled upon Gil and Voir, two of France’s protectors, at the time.

“Gil!” he yelled, taking a shot at normalcy, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He sat down at the bar stool next to Gil and looked at the bartender, “Gimme a pint o’ beer.”

Voir spoke up, but it was more of a whisper than anything, “We didn’t expect to see you here, either, Patriot. I’d heard you were off in Massachusetts, dealing with the dissidents.”
“Yeah, well. For a guy with super senses, Voir sure does hear a lot of things wrong, don’t he, Patriot?” Gil then broke into a hearty laugh, patting Voir on the back, “Oh, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. Simply pointing out something interesting, is all.”
“Yeah, well, uh,” Nathan began, not quite forming a confident sentence, “We’ve mostly wiped the floor with Shay’s rebels, and all. They weren’t much of a match against liberty’s lovers.”
“Here’s a guy who can speak my language!” Gil bellowed, “Hanging out with twit over here for so long, I started to feel like I was the only one who could talk right.”
Voir cringed, “Just because I don’t talk at your obnoxious volume and with your cliched absurdities, doesn’t mean--”
Taking his beer, Patriot Star tried to alleviate the tension, “Well, let’s make a toast to this beautiful country of ours. What say you all?”
Gil and Voir picked up their beers--Gil’s almost empty and Voir’s almost full--and the three clicked their glasses together. Then, Gil and Nathan yelled, “For Justice!” Voir, not happy with the rowdiness, took a tiny sip and put the beer back down. Gil splashed the rest of his beer into his mouth, while Nathan took a good hearty swig.
Wiping the beer off his lips, Nathan thought of how simple this mission had been. Just as he had been assigned to do, he’d gone back in time, confirmed that this was Philadelphia during the Philadelphia Convention, and he’d even met some people to corroborate what he already knew. Truly, it was a perfect mission and he wondered how quickly he could get another, once he was finished here.

Looking for something to say, he asked, “So how’s France, then?”
“What are you--” before Gil could finish, the three of them heard a loud boom come from outside.

“Sounds like one of Firecracker’s bombs,” Voir whispered. That stopped Patriot Star in his tracks, for a moment. He had read of Firecracker in the history books: the youthful, energetic darling boy of the Revolution. The real Revolutionary Patriot Star had killed him for being a traitor.
“The boy might be in trouble, so it looks like we’ve got a job to do,” Gil said, “Let’s go!”

It seemed that half the bar got up to address whatever situation was occurring outside, and it was then Nathan realized how much he loved it here.

Next

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Liberty's Cry, Part 1

The four foot soldiers kept complete radio silence, as they sneaked through the cobble-stoned streets. Though warned not to engage in any violence unless absolutely necessary, three of them were equipped with an assault-rifle, powerful enough to rip through the skin of all but the most powerful of supers. The fourth had a flame-thrower, just in case things got thoroughly out of hand.

They stopped in front of the window of what looked to be a cobbler. Team leader Alpha beckoned them to stop for a moment. They hit the floor. Crawling past the window, they missed the falcon eyes of the nocturnal cobbler. Once past the window, they reached the door to the printing press.
Breaking radio silence, the field leader whispered, “Delta, turn on your invisibility matrix. Charlie, take care of the window. Beta, stand prepared to engage any hostiles.”
Once again, the hush of night fell onto the four. If anyone had been looking at Delta, they would have noticed his disappearing act. Charlie’s hand turned into Kimberlite, a rock well-known for containing crystals. His hand consisting of the rock and each nail consisting of diamond, he put the nails against the printing press’s window, turned his hand, and caused a hole barely large enough for a human to fit through.

With a particularly deft bit of acrobatics, Delta leaped through the hole and landed in the printing press. He scanned the room and observed no hostiles. Making his way towards a newspaper, The Philadelphia Independent Gazetter, he observed it carefully. Staring at the date, he whispered into his communications console, “Theory confirmed. We are currently located in Philadelphia, 1787, circa the Philadelphia Convention and the formation of the U.S. Constitution.”

---

Harry sighed, as the bailiff took him to his cell. Without the sky, life seemed limited. And it was all because some damn suit had an inferiority complex. So maybe Harry shouldn’t have stolen from the bank. Maybe he shouldn’t have done a lot of things. But in retrospect, all that mattered was that he was here now. It could be worse: he could be dead. Then again, it could be better: he could be free. But for now he just had to make the best of his situation, plot some future crimes. And when the time came, as he knew it would, he’d break out of this joint.

The bailiff opened the cell door and Harry walked through. It was moments like these Harry wished he had more power. The really powerful ones--the ones with the nuclear blasts, the strength of a steamroller, or just high-level telepathy--got their own cells. Little old Harry, two-bit crook with an aptitude for flight? He got a cellmate. Make the best of it, Harry told himself. The best of it.

The bailiff closed the door and left, while for the first time Harry truly looked at his cellmate. The guy wasn’t anything special. He had muscles enough to lift a dumbbell, but not enough to lift a car. He had clean brown hair and was well-shaven. Harry couldn’t help but notice he was reading a book.
“So,” Harry began, “Whatcha reading?”

“A biography of Nixon.”
“Nixon, eh?” Harry said, amused, “You pro’lly don’t remember Nixon, young kid that you are, but I wasn’t all that young when he was in power. Scary times, I tell ya. So why ya interested in him?”
“I majored in American History in college.”
“Hmph,” Harry said, “American History major? You don’t see too many of those around here.”
“No, no you don’t.”

“Y’know when America took a turn for the worse? It was the Nixon assassination attempt. Oh, that was a doozy. Sure, that guy was messin’ things up, what, with Watergate and all. But it was when that so-called ‘Patriot,’ think they called him Patriot Star, actually. It was when that guy tried killing Nixon that everything went to Hell. I mean, people’d believed in him, y’know? He was a symbol. Then he went and tried to kill a President. How’d he think the people were gonna react?”
“That’s interesting. Well, at least he didn’t succeed.”
“Yeah, but the fact that he even attempted it was--” Harry found himself at a loss for words, so he started a new sentence, “I tell ya, it’s when people get overly-patriotic that this country starts havin’ problems. The people who fight for their vision of America, no matter what everyone else thinks, they’re the problems. Y’know what I mean?”
“Yes, after all of this reading, I think I’ve begun to understand that.”
“Son, my name’s Harry, or the Owl, depending on how much I like ya. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Nathan.”
“Nathan?”
“I’m better known as Patriot Star, you patronizing bastard. I’m at least a decade older than you are and I clearly don’t mind killing. Therefore, the less you speak, the better our experience will be together.” For three days, their cell was silent. Patriot Star read, while Harry cursed his luck and prayed for his life.

Eventually, the bailiff came and broke the silence, “Nathan,” he said, “You’re going to come with me.”

Nathan walked in silence with the bailiff, aloof to his surroundings. In the beginning, he’d been shocked by his inmates. He had seen the depravities super villains could sink to, and once, it horrified him. But that was almost forty years ago. With the Youth Serum still coursing his veins, and the life sentence still hanging over his head, Nathan would have a lot more time to get used to it. Somehow, that didn’t bother him anymore.

Occasionally, he’d wonder if he’d ever get out. When would the American people stop caring? Fifty years? Eighty? A century? But he tried not to wonder about it too much. It was the hope that killed him, the hope that was too much to bare. Therefore, his heart sank when he saw the door to Julia’s office. Hope was the last thing he needed.

As the bailiff sat him down, Nathan said, “Don’t waste your time, Julia. I know you can’t shorten my sentence, so why even bother?”

He was surprised to see her smile, “You’re right. You tried killing a President. I can’t shorten your sentence. I probably can’t even make your stay here any more comfortable. This mission will provide you with no benefits.”
“So can I go, now?”
“If you want to,” Julia said, “As you’re well aware, this is a free country.”
“I don’t like being toyed with.”
“Then give me the chance to speak,” she said, “I assure you you’ll be satisfied.”
“Alright, what’s your idea?”
“One of our Ultra Metahuman units accidentally opened up a wormhole that we believe leads to Philadelphia, circa 1787. You’re an American History major with combat experience. We want you to go in there and figure out if this wormhole actually does travel through time. You’ll get nothing in return.”

His response was immediate, “I’m in.”

Next

Fear and Loathing, Part 4

Crusty took both of the aliens by their heads and smashed them into each other.

“Stop!” Fenrir yelled, “Crusty. You don’t have to fight anything. There’s nothing there! Just stop.”

“She can’t hear you, Fen,” was all Merc could say.

Seven aliens encircled her. She took one of them and spun it in circles. Its squeal was high-pitched, and she could swear her ears were bleeding. But that was no matter, as she was knocking all the other aliens away from her. As long as they were away from her.

“You’ve got telepathy,” Fenrir said, “Do something.”

“I can’t,” she yelled, “I don’t know how to use it.”

Fenrir leaped off the staircase and near Crusty, changing into his half-wolf form. He came up from behind her and grabbed her arms, trying to prevent her from moving.

“Crusty. Get a hold of yourself.”

The aliens had grabbed her arms. She was impressed. They weren’t even bipedal. They must be telekinetic. But it wouldn’t work. Not this time. She threw herself forwards, thrusting the alien in front of her. When she saw it, she beat it into the ground. Punch. Punch. Punch. She threw in a headbutt to make sure.

Finally, seeing it would stay there for a second, she took the sofa she had and threw it onto that disgusting freak of nature.

“I’m in control!” Crusty yelled, “You can’t do shit against me, you got that, you damn aliens? I can kill all of you!”

That’s when she felt it. She grabbed on tightly to her stomach. The alien was inside of her.

On the verge of tears, Merc looked at her crazed friend. She couldn’t even tell if Fenrir was alive or not. She grabbed onto the stone as hard as she could. She concentrated, trying to channel all of her energies into it. There was so much fear in this place. There was so much terror. Why weren’t her powers working?

Back in the kitchen, Phantom heard the scream, “What was that?”

“Sounds bad,” was all Allure said.

“That wasn’t the television. We’ve got to go outside and--” Phantom felt something sharp rip through one of her lungs. On instinct, she turned intangible, but it was too late. She gasped for air. Turning around, she saw Allure grasping the knife. She attempted to say, “Why?” but she was out of breath. Only her lips could form the word, as her vocal cords stayed silent.

“Why?” Allure mimicked, “Why else? Money. Power. Survival.”

Phantom stumbled out of the kitchen, into the living room, only to see the carnage of Fenrir under a sofa, Crusty flailing around like a maniac, and Merc crying into her necklace.

“Traitor,” Phantom tried saying but failed, “Traitor.”

Nobody could hear her. Everyone was too busy to even notice her enter the room. Except Allure. Allure swung open the kitchen door and giggled, “Deary, you’re almost making this fun for me.”

Running out of energy, running out of the will to live, Phantom turned into her corporeal form. Allure reciprocated by stabbing her in the chest. Once. Twice. Three times. It was a back and forth motion that had become so natural, by the time Allure was done, she’d noticed seventeen stab wounds on Phantom. She wiped the sweat off her brow. Now her scent was at its most natural, and her pheromones were being given full reign. That made her all the more alluring.

Crusty felt the alien clawing inside her, trying to make her one of them. She knew how parasites lived and how they treated their hosts. She wasn’t going to be a part of it. She took the table her soda rested on. Throwing the soda out the window (she was surprised to hear the window break), she grabbed one of the table’s legs and ripped it off.

Looking at it, she simply said, “You aliens could use some fiber.” She jammed it into her stomach and felt the alien die. A smile spread across her face and she sighed. Finally, the aliens were gone.

Allure looked up in time to see the sixth room mate walk in through the broken window. For an alien, she looked surprisingly human, “I can’t kill Mercury Stone,” the alien said, “She’s weakening my power. Allure, finish the job.” Merc, looking up and seeing her efforts were getting her nowhere, fled up the staircase. Allure’s knife ripped through the air and into Merc’s back.

“You’ve done good work, Allure,” the alien said, “I placed the artifacts from my home world under your bed.” Allure nodded her head, smiling. They would sell for a high price, on the black market. The alien walked towards Merc, “Now, I can get back my stone that damned Phantom stole from me. With that--”

“You’ll augment your powers, rule the world,” Allure said, “You’ve been waiting so long for this moment. If that damned Phantom hadn’t taken your stone you could’ve called your leaders and taken over the planet sooner. Etc. Etc. You really can be predictable sometimes.”

The alien walked towards Merc, ignoring Allure. Her smile grew wider every second. Finally, she would have the power. She leaned in to rip the stone off of Merc. Merc’s eyes snapped open. Using her last bout of telekinesis she took the lighter from her pocket and put it in front of the alien’s face. She lit it. “Fire,” Merc mumbled, “You’re afraid of fire.”

The alien shrieked as it fell to the floor. It fell down a couple of steps and writhed in agony. Then, there was silence.

Allure looked around in all the chaos of nothing. She looked at all of the cadavers, many of which she had caused. Seeing few other options, she moved to the phone to call the police.

In the hospital, Fenrir woke up. He looked around the room and saw Julia, sitting on a chair beside his bed.

“Where--”

“You’re in a hospital, Mr. Fenrir. For two days after the incident in the dorms, you were knocked out. It looks like it was Crusty who did it to you. So I have a question for you. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Fenrir muttered, “Fine. But what happened?”

“One of the girls was a member of the Skarilians, a group of parapsychologic aliens whose power comes from the fear of others. That girl, Merc. Her stone was stolen from the Skarilian, who was attempting to collect information on the human race. When Phantom found out, she stole the alien’s stone and kicked her out of the dorm. The alien hired Allure to kill her room-mates. She did so.”

“Kill? You mean--”

“Yes, Mr. Fenrir. Only you and Allure survived the fiasco. I’m sorry.”

“Does this mean--”

“You have a reduced sentence? I’m sorry, but your task was to protect the girls. Clearly you failed.”

“I s’pose that’s fair. But how did you figure all this--”

“We’ve had xenologists working on this for two days and we found Allure’s DNA all over one of the murder weapons. I’m not incompetent, Mr. Fenrir. In fact, the only thing I’m not sure about, is how you survived. Those were some pretty nasty blows you took.”

“Do you believe in fate, Julia?”

“No.”

Fenrir smiled, as he drifted back to sleep.

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