Miss Megajoule/Conversations in Dark Places
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Contents |
I.
A woman sits alone in a room.
The room is an office, smaller than one might expect for a person of such wealth and influence; if not for the Spartan austerity of the furnishings and the rather chilly setting of the thermostat, it could even be called "intimate." There is a large desk with two chairs before it and one behind it, high-backed and expensive, a queen's throne. Behind that is a window that looks out over the steel towers of the city; the glass is bulletproof, and a faint but constant vibration renders laser microphones ineffective. A single door, also armored, leads to a private elevator. Light comes from sconces set at regular intervals along the round walls, which are lined with shelves of rare books, trinkets, relics, and souvenirs. Some of these now lie in pieces upon the office's mirror-polished floor.
The woman is a noble by marriage and mistress of a Fortune 500 company by her own ruthless hand. Her youthful beauty has hardened into cold severity as she approaches the age of forty. Her oval glasses are non-prescription; like her designer dresses, her hairstyle, and her custom-made pheremone-enhanced vanilla perfume, they are part of a carefully cultivated image. Like her husband's company, the woman known to the world as Countess Clarissa Crey is almost entirely a deliberate creation of her will. She has had speech coaches, acting coaches, personal trainers, plastic surgery, even retroviral gene therapy, to eradicate every outward trace of who she once was.
Unfortunately for her, it seems that she might not have been quite thorough enough.
The cause of her recent fit of pique, a lapse in her normally calm and controlled demeanor (which in turn led to the destruction of a few of her more breakable trophies), is the file sitting on her desk. The file contains the most recent surveillance reports on one of the city's innumerable costumed vigilantes, or "heroes." What those who compiled these reports did not know is that this particular hero's investigation into a fifteen-year-old missing persons case now threatens to expose the Countess' deepest secret. More secret than the true nature of the Revenant Hero project. More secret than the hidden features of the company's soon-to-be-released software. Something no other living person knows.
Animal passions - rage, fear, hate - have had their moment, and now cool reason can assert itself once more. Swift and decisive action is called for. To neutralize the threat, the hero must be discredited, stripped of support, and finally silenced. A brilliant mind assesses the options and resources available to it.
"Hopkins. I need you."
<Ma'am.>
As the elevator doors open, his broad shoulders fill the space between them. He has to duck his smooth-pated head as he steps through. His eyes are hidden, as always, behind a pair of Gargoyles; his suit is Armani, tailored to his massive frame. He is her bodyguard and enforcer, unquestionably loyal, one of the few whom she trusts to run things in her stead. He is, by some measures, no longer entirely human.
"Have Legal prepare a case against this hero." She leans across the desk to hand him the file. "Felonies to misdemeanors, the works. Make sure it's presented to one of our judges. Coordinate with Media Archives - I want a highlights reel for the police and the media. Maximum brutality edit."
A thought occurs to her as she looks down at one of the other files on her desk, less urgent but still worrisome. She allows herself a brief, thin smile at the possibility of eliminating two problems at once. "Also, have Alvarez find me a Revenant who can double for her and send it down to Costuming. We're going to shoot a little extra footage. Tell him I'll have a script for him shortly."
"Yes, Ma'am." He does not move, waiting to be formally dismissed.
"Find out where she's living now and send a field team over there. Sharpshooter on the opposite roof, the usual protocol. If the police arrive first, have the team stay out of sight until she shows up." She seats herself again. "Get on it."
As the doors close on Hopkins' broad back, the Countess turns her attention to other business. But first she takes a moment to look once more at the face displayed on her laptop, a blown-up portrait from a hero license. It's the face of a younger woman, somewhere in her twenties, with a guileless smile and eyes wide with optimism behind a domino mask. It's a face that's uncovered things the Countess thought long buried, a face that she hates with a cold fury. With the click of a button, she makes it disappear.
Let's see how you like being a fugitive, "my dear."
II.
SUMMARY OF SECURITY CAMERA VIDEO
CREY INDUSTRIES
EMPLOYEE PARKING (LEVEL 2)
TIMECODE 20:52 TO 21:03 EDT 09/20/05
[Former employee Quincy Howard exits the elevators on this level, carrying a cardboard box. He begins to walk toward his car, parked in space 2-36.]
HOWARD: (inaudible)
[A Hero (Crey file #9725, "Miss Megajoule") steps out from behind a company van parked in space 2-30 and challenges Howard, who stops where he is.]
MEGAJOULE: Quincy Howard?
HOWARD: Uh, yes?
MEGAJOULE: You work for Crey Industries.
[Howard hefts the box he is carrying.]
HOWARD: Not as of half an hour ago. Fired without notice. They had a security guard watch me clean out my cubicle. I guess they found out that...
MEGAJOULE: Close enough. You work for Crey. And now you're going to get what's coming to you.
[Miss Megajoule raises both of her arms to a firing position, aiming her fists at Howard.]
HOWARD: What... no! You're crazy!
[Bright streams of energy lash out at a spot close to where Howard is standing, blowing a small crater in the pavement. He dives behind a parked car in space 2-18. The hero adjusts her aim.]
HOWARD: You can't do this!
MEGAJOULE: Sure I can. I'm a hero. I can do anything I want.
[The hero's next blast shatters the car's windows. Howard is not visible, but continues to beg for mercy.]
HOWARD: Please, I surrender! I was going to quit anyway. I found out--
[Howard's words are drowned out by the sound of another blast and the louder bang of a tire bursting. Miss Megajoule begins to walk slowly toward the car, apparently looking for a better firing angle.]
MEGAJOULE: Come out and get what you deserve, Crey scum.
[An object slides out from behind the car. Miss Megajoule whirls and blasts it. The cardboard box explodes, scattering loose papers and desk toys everywhere. At the same time, Howard bolts from cover and runs toward the ramp to the lower level. Miss Megajoule tracks him with one stiff arm, building up power and finally firing a long-range blast. Howard is clearly hit and is knocked over the edge of the parking level, falling to the street below.]
END
TIMECODE 20:59:04 EDT
REMAINING FOOTAGE NOT FOR PUBLIC RELEASE
[Miss Megajoule lowers her arm and remains standing where she is.]
MEGAJOULE: I think so. Okay.
[The doors of the Crey van in space 2-30 open and Security Chief Alvarez emerges, followed by two technical staff in Crey scrubs. Alvarez speaks into his radio and begins to jog toward the spot where Howard fell, leaving the techs and Miss Megajoule by the van.]
TECH 1 (PRATT): Pretty slick, huh?
MEGAJOULE: Pretty slick, huh?
TECH 2 (YOUNG): Stupid. 628, end mimic mode and stand by for new orders.
MEGAJOULE: Yes, sir.
[Tech Young reaches up and pulls off Revenant 628's wig, revealing her bald head and earpiece. Without the wig, she looks much less like the hero.]
YOUNG: Okay, let's get her on the cart and back upstairs.
[Tech Pratt catches Tech Young by the arm, nodding at the unresponsive Revenant.]
PRATT: Hey, maybe first we could... you know...?
YOUNG: Don't even joke. That's misuse of company property. You'd get fired... or worse.
[Techs Young and Pratt briefly turn to look at Security Chief Alvarez, who is standing at the edge of the parking level looking down; he has been joined by several Patrol Guards.]
YOUNG: 628, follow.
628: Yes, sir.
[Techs Young and Pratt lead Revenant 628 out of frame.]
END
TIMECODE 21:03:45 EDT
END FILE
III.
THE NIGHT FOX'S DEN
UNDER THE BLACKSTONE HILLS
FOUNDERS FALLS
"Where did you find a giant Bicentennial quarter, anyway?"
"I said you could stay here for a while, not criticize the decor."
"So I guess asking about the robot King Kong is out."
"Hnn."
"Sorry. Look, maybe you're used to this place, but I'm not. I haven't spent so much time underground since I raided all of those Fifth Column bases to help Bastion, or Citadel, or whatever he calls himself now."
"Not claustrophobic, are you?"
"No, I just... I should be out there, doing something. Clearing my name. Helping people."
"As soon as you got near one of those new police drones, you'd be zapped straight to the Ziggurat. And even if you found a way around them, what would you do when you met a regular cop, and he drew on you and told you to freeze?"
"I..."
"... hadn't thought about that. Of course not. You've never been on the wrong side of the law before."
"And you have?"
"A few times. If Artie was still Commissioner, this would be straightened out by now. We had an understanding."
"Where is he now?"
"Oh, he died. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"It happens. Almost everyone I used to know is dead now."
"Except the Statesman."
"Marcus. No, he never changes; he's the same pompous ass he always was. But for those of us who aren't immortal... if some villain doesn't get you, time will."
"Is that why you..."
"Retired? Quit? No, not because I got old. I quit so I wouldn't get anyone else killed."
"The Vixen."
"..."
"I saw the costume. You patched it up?"
"There wasn't much to patch. A couple of holes... You should go."
"Where? Wait, don't, please, just... tell me something about her? Please?"
"..."
"I really want to know. I want... to help someone. Please."
"... She was amazingly smart. Much too smart to be hopping around rooftops with a crazy man, black belt or not. She had this trick memory, anything she saw or heard, she could memorize things instantly..."
"Photographic."
"Yeah. Used to bug the hell out of people when she'd quote their own words back at them. Kept me on my toes. And I always knew when she was thinking hard about something, because she'd play with her hair. Right, like that. Not even aware she was doing it. Heh. She was the brains of the outfit, really. I was just the muscle. She could have been so... she should have let ME go in first, she should have--!"
"it's okay, it's okay."
"I'm sorry again."
"No, no... not your fault. I haven't thought, haven't let myself think about it for a long time. Not since that girl you were looking for, Julianne, came to me. But... I think she would have liked you."
"Thank you."
"Good night, Miss."
"Good night, Fox."
IV.
<beep>
<beep>
<beep>
A heart monitor's steady chirps, measuring out a man's life. The quieter hum of an IV pump. The smell of clean sheets and disinfectant. Light from the corridor seeping in under the door. There's a police guard out there, in case the suspect decides to come back and finish the job.
<beep>
<beep>
A flicker of arc-bright light behind the drawn blinds. The quiet creak of the window opening. Rustling of the blinds as a lithe figure slips inside the darkened room.
<beep>
<beep>
Cold stab of panic as peaceful rest is ended by a smothering hand. The brief *pssht* and pinching sensation of a spray hypo. A husky whisper: "Don't be afraid."
<beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep beep beep>
<beep>
<beep>
Fear is covered, swaddled, rocked back to sleep. The patient is dreaming. He is dreaming that he is awake.
<beep>
Who did this to you? the darkness asks.
"Miss Megajoule... tried t' kill me."
<beep>
<beep>
<beep>
Why?
"I work f'r Crey... used t' work for. Fired me cuz I wuz about to... to..."
What?
<beep>
"Tell people. 'bout their plan. Their secret plan."
Tell me about their plan, the darkness suggests.
So he does.
<beep>
<beep>
<beep>
<beep>
V.
Another night shift. Another eight hours guarding boxes for Crey. You like your job. It's easy work most of the time, pays well, gives good benefits; that's important with a wife, a kid and another one on the way. Crey takes care of its own. You're proud to put on the uniform. A guy like you could do a lot worse.
For the last couple of weeks you've been working at a warehouse in Venice, or what used to be Venice. (You're not even supposed to think the other name for it.) You're the closest thing to the rule of law in this part of town. Every evening you and the rest of your shift ride out here in a convoy of Hummers. Nobody's messed with you so far. And you know that if something does go down that you can't handle, all you have to do is hit the alarm and a dozen guys in power armor will be here inside of three minutes. You look out for Crey and Crey looks out for you.
The worst part of the job, really, is some of your co-workers. Most of the real losers, the guys who don't get the corporate culture, wash out pretty fast. Then you have the guys like Joey. One of the reasons you asked for the night shift is that it's quiet. You like it quiet. But Joey's a talker. Won't stay off his radio.
"... so then Lee, our Cryo Tank, he says... he says, 'Sir, I'm afraid this ID's expired. I'm gonna have to take you into custody.' And I swear the guy's about to pee his pants. He can't believe it. He grabs for the card, right, but Lee's not letting go. The rest of us, we're trying not to bust up laughing, cause we don't wanna blow it. And Lee's playin' him like a fish on a line, waiting for him to wise up and offer us a bribe..."
You turn the volume down - you can't turn it off while you're on the job, that's against regs - and do another sweep of the room. There's even more crates in here than yesterday, all of them stenciled with the big blue C. The forklift guys have been busy. Something major's going on. That's good. What's good for the company is good for you.
The radio's stopped murmuring. You twist the dial back up and key the mike. "Yeah, that's great Joey. You see anything at your end?"
"Nah, it's dead here. One a' them Vigilant guys is up in the office watching TV. Hey, listen, how about you and me go out for some beers later? I know this bar in Bricks, it's great. Anyone in a Crey uniform gets a cold one on the house. They're open mornings, too."
"Sorry, Joey. You know I gotta get home and see Marlene before she goes off to work." Not to mention you'd rather gnaw off a limb than sit on a barstool next to him for an hour.
"Sure, that's okay, I understand. You're a family guy. Me, I never..."
Was that a door slamming?
"Joey, shut up a second. I have to check something out."
You unsling your weapon - no 9-mil or pepper spray for you, this is a secure facility in hostile territory, and you're authorized to carry SMGs and assault rifles - and move quickly but quietly down the hall toward the front lobby. (All the freight comes in by truck, through the loading dock in back.) Taking a deep breath, you step around the corner...
Nothing. The lobby's empty.
Feeling a little silly, but determined to do your job right, you sweep the small room thoroughly. You even push on the doors to confirm they're locked up for the night. They are.
With a sigh, you safety your weapon and start walking back to your post. "Checkpoint One, all clear. False alarm." You expect Joey to razz you, but he's mercifully silent for once. It's not until you get back to the big room that you realize you haven't heard him say anything.
"Joey, you there?"
Nothing.
"Checkpoint One to Checkpoint Three, acknowledge."
Damnit! Probably switched off and went to the can. He'd better not have gone out for a smoke; there's stuff out there that will eat him.
"Checkpoint Two - Mark, did Joey say he was taking a break? Over."
No answer. The hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle. You turn...
And there's someone right there, in a costume that's two shades of dark red, with a utility belt and a cape and cowl and... fox ears?
"Are they paying you enough for this?" she asks with a smile.
Then there's a bright blue flash, a wallop to your chest like you've just been sacked by a linebacker, and that's the last thing you hear for a while.
Interlude (by Kusanagi)
112 Union Ave, Kings Row
Shaughnessy hated overwatch jobs like these.
Spending long hours in some cramped unmarked van, pointing a whole bunch of sensor gear at some goodie-two-shoes hero's front door in the hopes that he - or she, in this case - would be stupid enough to try to use it while there was an APB out on her. They rarely did, but Hopkins wanted all angles covered, and one did not argue with Hopkins, more than once, ever.
Worse yet, their current target, a "Miss Megajoule", was deemed sufficiently dangerous that the usual sniper-on-the-roof would possibly not suffice, therefore a Revenant unit had been assigned to the mission as well -- meaning, in effect, that neither he nor any of his other normal colleagues could indulge in an occasional catnap as they normally did on watches like these. Not much chance of that with a tireless hulking zombie watching silently from the back.
The comm beeped, as it did every bloody fifteen minutes to remind him of his duties. "Perch, this is Lurker. Check in."
"Perch here. All clear. No sign of the target."
Just like the past fifty hours and counting. Shaughnessy repressed a bored yawn before responding. "Roger, Perch. Streets are clear as well. Maintain watch."
"Roger. Perch out."
He sighed again as the channel closed. Agent Ritter, callsign "Perch" for the duration of the mission, was definitely one of the more attractive agents he'd been assigned to work with, and during past assignments they'd occasionally engaged in some light verbal flirtation to fend off boredom. Elite agents tended to get a bit more leeway with regards to fraternization rules, after all; on the other hand, the taciturn frankenstein reject behind him served as a constant reminder that there was to be Absolutely No Screwing Up on this mission - and anything it saw and heard would be reported verbatim in the debriefing.
Just as he was shifting in his seat in an effort to get at least a little more comfortable the comm crackled again.
"Perch here. I think I s--" and then static as the signal cut off abruptly.
"What the- Perch? Ritter, come in!" Nothing. He swore, then turned to the Revenant behind him. "Something's up. Get read-"
He was cut off by a dull thud on the roof of the van, followed by a clattering noise and a softer thump against the windshield. He turned to look just in time to see Ritter slide face first down onto the hood.
Well, most of her, anyway - her right arm below the elbow was missing, and the stump had left a dark red smear down the windshield. Judging by the gash that appeared to have gone through her exquisitely tailored jacket as well as the tastefully subtle layer of armor underneath it before cutting through skin and flesh, however, the arm was the least of her worries.
You don't get promoted to special agent if you're not quick on your feet. Shaughnessy wasted less than two seconds swearing, then quickly clambered out of his seat and into the back where the weapons - and the zombie, which was now standing upright and alert rather than slouched and morose - were while his mind raced through the available clues.
Spandex-clad morons taking potshots at you while you were minding your own business was something of an occupational hazard for Crey Special Agents, but most of them preferred non-lethal force when possible, or call out something pithy like "halt, evildoer!" before they attacked. Of course, "most" still meant that "some" weren't as kindhearted and considerate. And it looked like they'd just caught the attention of one of the "some". Boredom suddenly sounded very nice.
He grabbed one of the submachineguns off the rack and turned to the Revenant. "Full combat alert. Get outside and find whoever just killed Perch." Fortunately, it was one of the melee combat models; it should hopefully be tough enough to keep whoever it was occupied while he put a few dozen bullets through their head and torso.
It didn't respond, merely nodded silently and turned around and reached for the side door latch, then pulled the door open and stepped out of the van, ready for combat.
It didn't manage to get five steps before three feet of folded steel with a razor's edge went in through the back of its neck and came out just under its solar plexus. It attempted to turn around and face its killer, but all it accomplished was to tear the wound further open even as the dark-clad, hooded figure pulled the blade down and out.
Shaughnessy wasted no time gaping; by the time the figure had turned her - judging by what he could see of the build beneath the cloak and hood, it was either a slight woman or a very, VERY scrawny teenaged boy - had turned away from the crumpling form of the Revenant he had already lined up his SMG and fired off a long burst, aimed at her center of mass.
His shot was perfectly on target and she didn't even bother dodging as half a dozen holes sprouted in her torso, which would have greatly boosted his confidence in his own survival if the first wound hadn't stopped bleeding by the time the sixth bullet hit.
No sense wasting more bullets - judging by her healing rate he'd need at least a dozen gunners or several rocket launchers to do any significant damage. Instead, he slammed the side door shut and climbed into the driver's seat. He reached for the radio even as he keyed the ignition, but a single glance at the red diagnostic lights showed that there would be no calling for help.
There was a loud shriek of tearing metal from the side door as he reversed out of the parking spot, but he was already moving too fast and a second later he was clear. An idea sparked in between surges of adrenalin, and he switched on the headlights.
There she stood, right in the middle of the road, sword - a katana, judging by the curve - still extended where it had carved a scar across his van when he pulled away, and he bared his teeth in a feral grin.
Let's see you shrug THIS one off, you murdering bitch.
He switched gears and floored the accelerator, holding on to the steering wheel with a death grip as 1.5 metric tons of metal charging on a collision course with sixty-five kilos of flesh and bone.
At that close distance he couldn't get much speed, but it also meant she wasn't able to dodge. He could hear the bone-crunching thud as his bumper smashed into her at just over thirty miles per hour, and the impact flung her body away almost contemptuously to land in a crumpled, broken heap in front of his wheels, followed by a satisfying double thump as he ran over her.
There was no time to savor his victory or admire his handiwork in the rear view mirror, however -- regardless of how ineffectual they were, the cops would at least attempt to respond to a double killing and vehicular manslaughter, and even if he tried to claim self defense he'd still have to explain just what he'd been doing with an armed sniper, a cloned ghoul and a van full of observation equipment and weaponry.
But that was all right. He'd be through the tunnel to Independence Port in a minute, and from there to Brickstown in ten more, at which point all he'd need to get backup would be to stick his head out of a window and yell. No problem.
He'd just exited the tunnel and started to breathe easily again when a relatively small limpet explosive attached to his undercarriage detonated, destroying his steering gear and sending shrapnel slicing through his brake lines.
There was barely enough time for a scream before the out-of-control van, underside ablaze from a leak in the gas tank, jumped the road and caromed off a storage silo before crashing through the guardrail at the harbor's edge.
The van hit the water almost head on, tossing its luckless driver out through the windshield before landing on him and sinking straight down. Within seconds, the lapping waves had closed and the port was quiet once more.
Meanwhile, back in Kings Row, the broken, smashed figure stirred with a heartfelt groan as shattered bones reknit themselves and damaged organs started to regenerate. Experience told her that she'd be completely functional again in less than a minute, but judging from the sound of sirens that was time she did not have if she didn't want to be discovered. With another groan as not-yet-healed ribs shifted dangerously, she dragged herself up into a mostly-sitting position, looked around to get her bearings, and vanished in a subdued flash of light. An instant later, there was another flash visible on the rooftop, and another, and then the street was abandoned save for two bodies and the sirens approaching in the distance.
VI.
Men and women in black suits lay strewn about the rocky floor of the cave like discarded toys. Miss Megajoule moved among the fallen, attaching arrest tags to them and watching them vanish in small clouds of teleporter sparkle. At last she returned to the only other person in the chamber who was still conscious.
The Countess half-sat, half-sprawled against the base of a stalagmite. Her elegantly-coiffed hair was in disarray, matted with sweat and blood. Her glasses had come off at some point in the fight, making her face just a touch softer-looking. Her midnight blue sheath dress was torn. She would have bruises tomorrow. But as the hero who had defeated her approached, she pulled herself up into a proper sitting position, glaring defiantly at her captor.
"And now you read me my rights and send me off to jail, like a good little Girl Scout."
"Not just yet." Miss Megajoule looked down at her prisoner, seeming oddly sad for someone who'd just cleared her name and brought low the mighty Countess Crey.
"What, then? Kill me? You don't have the stomach for it," the Countess spat.
"Julianne..."
"DON'T call me that," she hissed. "I am Countess Crey."
"Your husband's name. You've had two, and tainted both of them." The woman in blue and white hunkered down, knees bent, to look her foe in the eye. "What happened to you?"
The Countess laughed. "What happened? I grew up. I figured out that the world wasn't going to change unless I made it change. And for that I needed power. I went to the heroes and none of them would help me. So I found another way. And I found out that I liked having power. I liked being important. Just like you do."
Miss Megajoule shook her head. "No. To you, power is a means to more power for yourself. I use my power to help people."
"By hurting other people. Enemies of the status quo. Street gangs. The Council. Nemesis. My employees." The Countess laughed again, echoes ringing mockingly through the cave. "The funny thing about the charges against you, my dear? Most of them were true. You have stolen, and trespassed, and assaulted people - some whose only crime was to work for me. Ah, but you're a hero, and I'm a villain, and that makes it all right. The ends justify the means."
"No," Megajoule repeated through gritted teeth. "You're twisting it, like you twist everything."
"Stop lying to yourself. Accept responsibility for your actions."
"I do!"
The angry shout bounced around the large chamber a few times before fading.
"No." The Countess smirked. "You submit yourself to the approval and authority of self-serving bureaucrats who tell you who is good and who is bad, rather than deciding for yourself. You're an errand girl for people who can't be bothered to solve their own problems. You color neatly within the lines, and you help keep things just the way they are. Because you're afraid of your own power."
"But what really scares you, Julie" - and the Countess took great pleasure in seeing the shock in the younger woman's eyes - "is the thought that we're so much alike. You've read that old diary, and now you've seen the person that foolish, naive girl became. You wonder if the same thing could happen to you. You've spent a week as a wanted criminal, seeing how the other half lives. Not able to rely on anyone but yourself, on the run, hiding... just like her."
The Countess pushed off from the stalagmite and rose to her feet. "I stopped being afraid years ago, Julie." She extended her manicured hand to help the other woman stand.
Miss Megajoule looked at the hand for a moment, then stood (a little more awkwardly) from her squat without taking it. If the Countess was disappointed, she didn't let it show.
"You're under arrest." The hero's face was a stoic mask. "On charges of corruption and conspiracy."
"Yes, of course." The Countess smiled. "And I'll be out by this time tomorrow. And the whole thing will start all over again."
Miss Megajoule held out an arrest tag. The Countess calmly took it, pinned it to her dress, and inclined her head graciously to the one who had defeated her.
This time.
"Be seeing you."
The words continued to echo after the speaker vanished.
VII.
I wrap the cape carefully around the neck of the mannequin, clasping it in front with the gold and red "V" brooch, adjusting it on the shoulders so that it drapes properly in back. My fingers trace down the front of the costume, lingering on the frayed edges of megamesh crudely stitched closed. Three puckered spots in the tough fabric, a nice tight group over the left ribs.
That might be me someday. Unless...
I turn to my audience of one - he's still pretty silent when he wants to be, but I sensed his approach. "I'm done pretending to be someone I'm not. I hope you'll both forgive me for taking her clothes, her name." My cheeks are hot with the shame of my crime.
"She wouldn't have minded," he answers with quiet certainty.
"It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have, I had no right." I can't look at him any more. My voice drops to a whisper. "The Countess was right. We are just the same, under the masks."
"No." There's a footstep and I feel hands on my shoulders, old hands but strong ones. "Listen. The first time we spoke, after you rescued me... what I told you then was true, but it wasn't the whole truth."
"You... you said you didn't trust her, because she'd been in prison."
"And because I'd spent most of the last decade alone in this cave, curled up around my pain. I wasn't ready yet... but that's not my point. I've seen a lot of criminals in my time. And in my experience, there are two kinds: offenders and felons. Offenders, they get in a bad spot once or twice, they do something stupid, but they put it behind them and they go on with their lives. Felons don't. They're always looking for the angles, for someone else they can use, the next score. It's habitual with them, the only way they know how to live."
One of those hands lifts my chin to look at his face. His hair's mostly gone and there are wrinkles around his deep blue eyes, but those eyes hold mine and don't let me turn away. They're the eyes of a hero.
"You, my dear, are not a felon. You never were. Julianne... she talked a good game, said all the right things, but I could tell. She wanted me to help her get to the top. She didn't want to help the world, she wanted to run it.
"That's the difference. You don't do this for glory, or money, or because you want to be in charge. You don't do it for yourself. You do it for everyone else. You do it because someone has to."
I blink at him through tears. I want to believe him. I want to believe in myself again. But...
"I'm afraid."
That part, at least, was true. I'd looked into the abyss and I blinked first.
He smiles, a sad and understanding smile. "If you weren't, just a little, you wouldn't be fit to wield it responsibly. That's what keeps us, most of us, from going too far. It doesn't mean you're weak. It means you have a conscience, a line you won't cross. Some of the most dangerous people in this world are the ones who never doubt."
I don't care that he's a legend. I want to hug him, just for a moment. He lets me. His breath tickles my ear.
"You've been down in this place long enough. It's time for you to go back into the light."
I draw back from the tight embrace and nod solemnly, wiping at my cheeks.
"Own your power. Use it to help people, not control them. Follow your gut. Do good.
"Be a hero."
VIII.
THREE WEEKS LATER
I can't believe I'm doing this.
When I got the call from Tina Macintyre, I almost dropped my phone. The first thing I did was ask her to repeat what she'd just told me. The second thing was to say I'd be right there.
Now I'm following another Tina Macintyre down a dark and winding tunnel under another Perez Park. I've done my share of spelunking since I came to Paragon City, but this time is different. This time I'm not chasing Thorns or Council. This particular cave happens to be one of the few hiding places of liberty on this parallel Earth.
This Tina's filled me in on the local history, both what's taught in the schools and what's been passed on by the resistance - how Nemesis defeated the Freedom Phalanx on the steps of the Capitol back in '45, and let twenty cities die to make his point. He's ruled since then as Emperor of the Americas, under a twisted version of the Monroe Doctrine; so long as no one challenges his dominion over the entire Western Hemisphere, he leaves them alone. The rest of the world has its own problems - Europe and Japan finally getting back on their feet after years of post-war devastation, the Soviet Union and China staring each other down in their own version of the Cold War.
It's weird, after spending a year in Paragon City, to see it without the War Walls. There's less wholesale destruction, but the streets are quieter. People are less friendly, more suspicious. Nemesis soldiers are everywhere. As we made our way here, I felt like they could see right through the old clothes I was given to the costume underneath. That fear helps me resist the impulse to visit a pristine Venice, untouched by Crey's folly, or take a photo of an Atlas Park where Nemesis' lion flag flies over City Hall. Or look for the mass graves from sixty years ago.
This world's Perez Park is positively tranquil, with no gangs roaming the green hills nor monsters in the lake. We're deep under the forest now; Tina's taking me to see the leader of this resistance cell, who wants to thank me personally for helping me get some of her people out of a neighborhood the Nemesis Army had locked down. We pass small groups of refugees, people with no homes to return to, huddled together against the subterranean cold. They look hungry, tired, miserable. I wish I had a couple of trucks full of food and supplies to give them, but I didn't bring anything but myself when I stepped through the portal to answer the plea for help.
I'm still trying not to think too much about where that plea came from. It's just too weird. And yet, it makes an odd sort of sense that in a place like this...
We turn down a side passage and stop in front of a guarded door, and I let the dogs sniff me to confirm that I'm not one of Nemesis' automatons. It's just like the Terminator movies. Which would make the woman I'm about to see Sarah Connor.
The guards clear us and the man on the other side of the door unlocks it, allowing us to enter a small room or kettle lit by kerosene lamps. It's full of dirty but dangerous-looking people, some of them carrying steam rifles and even wearing bits and pieces of Nemesis Army uniforms. And in the center of it all, bent over a table that's covered with papers and maps and plans...
She straightens when she hears us come in, fixing me with the same cool appraising stare. The feeling of deja vu is overpowering. Her hair's lighter, natural brown instead of black, and it's cut in a short and practical bob. There's an old scar along her left cheek that looks like the work of a knife or bayonet. No glasses or fancy dresses, just a man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and khaki trousers.
"Ah, our hero has arrived." Her accent's different too, the native Rhode Island twang I've almost stopped noticing. She steps around her lieutenants to offer me her hand. "Welcome. I'm..."
"Julianne Thompson," we say in unison. She quirks an eyebrow, then a half-smile. I take her hand and shake it, grinning like a fool. "Pleased to meet you."
We talked for almost an hour. She thanked me for getting her people out safely and asked if we could provide any more assistance. I explained that my own world was still recovering from the Rikti invasion, but that I'd pass the request along and see if anything could be done.
I found out that their Nemesis not only killed mutants and people with magical abilities whenever he found them, he also forbade any scientific research except his own. That explained the lack of any new heroes. (I wondered if there was another Julie Vernon out there somewhere, or if sixty years of altered history and millions of deaths had swept her away on butterfly wings.) Foreign heroes who tried to intervene were given show trials and public executions; after London was gassed in '64, other governments had disavowed any of their heroes caught on American soil.
Even without heroes to inspire them, people continued to hope and fight and work patiently for freedom. Julianne revealed to me that there were resistance groups all over what used to be the United States, and Canada and Mexico and other countries also. They included not only guerillas and saboteurs, but also mechanics, farmers, government workers, smugglers, historians, teachers, black marketeers, printers, and even some who wore the uniform.
"How have you managed to hold out so long?" I asked at one point. "I mean, obviously Nemesis isn't unbeatable - we did it on my world - but he is a genius, and here he has all those men and robots and superweapons..."
I stopped talking then, not wanting to sound too defeatist, but she merely nodded. "But he still relies on people to run things for him and carry out his orders, just like any other government. People have weaknesses that we can exploit." She began to count some off on her fingers: "Greed, fear, lust..."
"That cuts both ways," I murmured, trying to hide my discomfort at how much that sounded like the woman I met before.
"True," she conceded again, "but we're well-organized, we're committed to a cause, and we don't have as much to lose. Every person you see here lives for the day that we can call this the Land of the Free again. I don't know when it will come, but it has to, or two hundred and thirty years of sacrifices will have been for nothing."
"I can see why the people here look up to and follow you," I said. "You're quite the inspirational speaker."
She smiled at the compliment but waved it away. "Every revolution needs its firebrands. But if I'm caught or killed, someone else will pick up the torch. This is much bigger than any of us. Even I'm expendable."
"You really mean that, don't you?" I asked, staring at her in amazement. She certainly seemed genuine, but...
"Of course." Julianne cocked her head. "You keep looking at me, as if you're not sure I'm real. Do I... do you know me, in your dimension?"
"No. I... I'm sorry." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "In my world, Julianne Thompson is dead."
It wasn't really a lie. The Countess had said so herself. Right?
The Julianne in front of me lowered her eyes. "I see," she murmured. "Well, I hope she died for something she believed in." After a few moments went by with no answer, she continued. "Yes, I'm sure that day is coming. Even an immortal king can't keep a people in chains forever."
I managed a smile of my own. "I think you're right."
We talked a little longer, and then she had one of her people escort me back out of Perez (I was already thinking of the local version as "Sherwood Forest") to an empty alley where I could signal for retrieval.
As the portal opened, I turned to my guide. His face had gone slack as he stared at the shimmering, humming special effect that pulsed in mid-air where moments before there had only been a brick wall. I had some idea of what he was seeing: a door to the Promised Land. I wanted to grab him by the arm and pull him through with me, but I knew he still had things to do here. Just like I still had things to do back in my Paragon City.
So I did take his hand, but just to hold it for a moment, as I looked him in the eye and told him something I knew he'd repeat to her:
"I'll come back. I promise."
Maybe it's hopeless to think of someday freeing half a planet from mechanized tyranny.
Maybe it's foolish to try to balance the cosmic scales by helping one woman do as much good as her counterpart has done evil.
But damnit, I'm going to try.
Because doing the impossible is what heroes are for.
