S.U.
Something I worked on (then abandoned, but want to get back to) for a comic universe community my Internet buddies and I used to have. I'll explain more later.
Something Unique
Marcus Delavega looked down at his wrist. To be more precise, he glanced at the leather armlet he had just been given two weeks before by his grandfather. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time--it was simply a leather bracelet with a viridian gemstone stitched into it. At the time of his birthday, he had simply tucked it into his pocket, hugged his grandfather, and moved on to whatever suddenly unmemorable gift his aunt Kim had given him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked the gift, but he had just thought of it as some family heirloom from the Far East that he was being given now that he was an adult. It was just a trinket.
And so it had stayed--a trinket in the pocket of the pleated pair of 30-32 khakis his mother had bought him for his party--until he finally asked out Melissa Sowinski during the Physics class that week. His friends chided him for having waited until three weeks before their high school graduation to get up the nerve to ask her out, but Marcus thought he had it figured out; their colleges were just a 20 minute bus ride apart. They could get to know each other over the summer, and then, after a few dates, they’d help each other move in and get to explore downtown Chicago together. It was perfect timing, he had figured.
But as he was waiting at the bus stop to meet Melissa, he reached into his pocket and found the bracelet he had forgotten he stuffed there so recently. It was charming enough, and Marcus figured he could enrapture Melissa with a story about how the stone was passed down through his family line for centuries; back in the middle ages, they believed it had the power to charm dragons. It wasn’t a great story, he knew, but it was something to talk about in case he got flustered and couldn’t remember anything else.
This was all so much less relevant as he looked down at the armlet than it had been just 15 minutes before, however. As he had been waiting for her, he started tapping the stone without even realizing it. He was sweating at the thought of spending the day with Melissa, and as he fingered the stone, the damnedest thing happened.
Everything around him burst into crimson flames. As suddenly as they’d appeared, they vanished again, and Marcus assumed his brain was just on the fritz--misfiring as he nervously pondered whether or not the restaurant he had thought of was good enough for her--but reality quickly settled in. The covered bench of the bus stop was gone, black charcoal-like remnants scattered on the ground where it had once stood. Then a scream, quickly overlapped by another. Marcus shot his glance to his right and saw two older women on the other side of the road, their mouths and eyes both so wide, they forced an image of Wil E Coyote into his brain.
“Terrorist!” One of them shrieked, reaching into her purse. In the absurdity of the moment, Marcus was actually insulted. He knew they were just elderly white women, but he knew they had to know the difference between an Asian-American and a Middle Easterner.
“What? No! I’m Korean…”
“North Korean!” The other woman yelled back. She had already fetched her cell phone and was dialing it while holding her purse out in front of her, as if it had some kind of terrorist-deflecting ability.
Marcus inwardly swore and started running to his left. He imagined the emergency call in his head. “North Korean operative heading East on foot”--was this way East? He quickly pushed the idea of looking up for the sun out of his head, but as it left, several other thoughts rushed in to fill its place. What had caused the burst of flames? Why wasn’t he hurt? Why did he actually feel so chilly, almost as if he’d been standing in front of an air conditioner? What was Melissa going to say if he didn’t show up for their date?
He knew the women across the street had to have called the police by now, so Marcus took every turn he could find. He even double-back a few times to make sure he wasn’t going in any one direction for too long. When he had time to think of it, he realized he shouldn’t have pointed out that he was not Middle Eastern; it was just going to make identifying him that much easier. He tore off his polo shirt and threw it in someone’s garbage can, hoping that now he wouldn’t be as easy to identify as “the North Korean operative in the salmon colored polo shirt heading East”. The bracelet would have to go, too; it was too gaudy and distinctive not to have been noticed. But when he grabbed it, his hand pulled back as if he’d tried to grab a stovetop. It had burned him; yet, as he wore it, he felt nothing. He stopped at a corner to catch his breath and looked the leather of it over. It did not appear to be burnt or singed at all, so how could it have burned him right then?
He had been running so erratically, and for so long, that he only vaguely recognized the neighborhood he was in now. He had seen the area driving around town, and he was sure he could get home from where he was, but it was still upsetting that he had run so far as if he’d had something to hide. He also decided he really liked that polo and wished he hadn’t thrown it away. Shaking his head, he pulled out his Blackberry. Should he call home? They wouldn’t be expecting him back for hours, but he might need to let them know what’s going on. No, he thought, of course they were the ones to call. He could talk to Melissa and try to explain himself to her later. He dialed and held the phone to his hear, but all he heard was a high-pitched tone. He looked at the screen: not only were there no bars, but there was no display at all. His cell screen was bright red.
“We have you blocked, Mr. Delavega. No signal.”
Marcus screamed, then cursed himself for sounding like such a girl. He never noticed the tall, well-tanned brunette walk up next to him. He’d never seen her before in his life, but somehow she obviously knew who he was. “Who are you?”
He focused on her, and felt bad that he had shouted such a question. Her jacket was buttoned one button too low for her, revealing a hint of her chest, and her leather skirt clung tight to her thighs. She was hot, he realized.
“My name is Ms. Gardner, Mr. Delavega.”
That’s it? he thought to himself. He let her answer fill up space between the two of them, but nothing else came with it. “Your name is ‘Ms Gardner-Mister-Delavega’? That’s pretty silly.”
Ms. Gardner pulled off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that reminded him of the stone in his bracelet. “If you think I’m so funny, why don’t you try frying me where I stand?”
He cursed to himself yet again. Until she said that, he had hoped that she was just a coincidence. Some weird chick who showed up out of nowhere and just happened to know who he was. She could be someone whom had babysat him years ago for all he knew. But the legs of that hope had just been kicked out.
“I didn’t fry anything! What are you--”
“There’s a bus stop of Joseph Street that would beg to differ.”
“I didn’t…what? I don’t even… How do you know about…? I didn’t do that!”
Ms. Gardner held her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and motioned her pupils up-and-down Marcus’ body. Instinctively, he straightened his spine and pushed out his chest a bit. She smiled.
“Well, if you don’t know how you do it, then I guess I can shoot you right now so that you never do it to a single living thing.”
Marcus wanted to vocalize a protest, but the words she just said seemed to fill up the entirety of his brain. She’s going to shoot me she’s going to shoot me she’s going to shoot me. As he fought to clean that skip, she pulled a sidearm pistol out from inside her jacket. There was a sudden sharp pain in his knees, and that was when he realized he had fallen over forward onto the sidewalk and was wrapping his arms around his own head. He heard her murmur something above him, but no gunshot seemed to be coming.
“What was that?” He asked, his voice reminding him of a time in 3rd grade when he did not know the answer to a division problem in class.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Ms. Gardner signed, extending her hand down to him, “but I said ‘he’s not a malicious’, if you must know.” Marcus grabbed her hand with his own, and she pulled him up to his feet. “Congratulations, Mr. Delavega. You’re not a malicious.”
“Not yet, but I was planning on majoring in it next year.”
She ignored him, choosing instead to murmur some more into her jacket’s lapel.
“So does your suit get good reception? I left mine at home, because anywhere outside of my block and you can just forget it.” He tried to figure out where best to put his hands while standing beside her. Pockets? No, he thought, I look like The Fonz. Across my chest? No, I look pissed. This is really hard.
“Mr. Delavega. Conveniently for you, the United States government will be picking up the tab for your little bus stop misstep. Now, if you please, we need to get you back home so we can speak to your parents about your post-high school plans.”
“Well, yeah, but they already know. I was accepted to Roosevelt University…”
“Was I not clear? I apologize then. Your new post-high school plans, Mr. Delavega.”
“You mean, our Marcus isn’t going to get his Business degree?”
Ms. Gardner took a slow sip from her over-sugared coffee, but even then the slight smile she had worn since shaking Marcus’ parents hands did not leave her face. “Not at all, Mrs. Delavega. I’m sure we can work on that in time. We have several such facilities on-site.”
Ms. Gardner sat on the pea-green loveseat that Marcus had always hated, facing his parents on their leather sofa. His mother and father were holding hands, leaning forward every time she spoke. Marcus was stuck on the hard kitchen table chair at the border of the kitchen and the living room (he knew how his mother forbade those chairs onto the carpet). Their conversation so far had been civil, if muted.
“How long has Marcus been one of these…”
“Extrahumans.”
“Just like on the TV,” his father mused to himself after she answered his question.
Ms. Gardner turned her head towards the kitchen, still with the younger sister of a smile on her face. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Marcus?”
Marcus felt his cheeks go warm. “I didn’t even know I was! I just wanted to go on my date!” He felt like those words added to his lack of knowledge of his own situation, and instantly felt stupid when they bumbled out of his mouth to the benfit of nothing.
“To be fair, he may be right,” the guest started up again. “Our readings indicate that burst initiated in his little bangle there. Considering that it was his grandfather’s until recently, I doubt he has had any indication of his latent ability.”
“Initiated from…wait!” he cried. “Why’d you tell them to ask me then?”
She shrugged. “It was rhetorical.”
“You’re rhetorical!” Again, his cheeks went warm. He was not having the smoothest day. It was probably for the best that he was not with Melissa.
“How do you know this?” his mother asked. “That it was my father’s?”
Ms. Gardner nodded and took another sip of her coffee. “At the risk of sounding cliché, it’s my job to know.”
“All right,” Marcus’ father said, putting his hands palm-down on the glass table in front of the sofa. His wife winced. “Let’s put all of cards on the table then, Ms. Gardner. What is your job.”
Ms. Gardner placed her cup down on the floral-print saucer on the table Mr. Delavega had just abused. “I’m sorry, sir. I was not trying to be cryptic or intimidating or anything of the like. These are just times when you have no idea what kind of situation you could be walking into. We had no intel that your family could be a threat, so I had to remain on guard. But I do not want to come across as rude, either.” Marcus realized he was staring at her lips as she spoke, and quickly looked away. “My full name is Jean-Marie Gardner. I am the government liaison to extrahuman affairs, and I have been tasked with finding available extrahumans in our country and assessing their threat level. Marcus…,” she paused as she looked over to him. Again, he straightened his spine without initially realizing he was doing it, “is a very low threat level.
“But that doesn’t mean he’s not important. He’s a bright kid, and you’ve certainly raised him extremely well. He’s been involved in charity drives and volunteer work in the community…He’s exactly the kind of face we want to present to the country to show them that not all extrahumans are threats to their way of life.”
“I always wanted to be known as not-a-threat,” Marcus said. “I’m a chick magnet now.” The three grown-ups were suddenly staring holes through him. “I’ll just sit here quietly, sorry. Like a good non-threat. I am neither malicious, nor a threat.”
“He’s a funny kid, too, I guess. That helps.”
“So does his skin, I assume?”
“Point of fact, Mr. Delavega, it does. I’m not going to blow smoke at you: we could probably find a nice young man anywhere else in the country, but when we got a reading on his burst, we jumped at the chance to come here--hence our quick reaction time. We want Infinity to be well-rounded and representative of the make-up of our country. We aren‘t going to exploit Marcus or your race; we want him to be himself and not some token or stereotype. But at the same time, it does look good.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs Delavega said quietly, “what is an ‘Infinity’?”
The plane ride from Chicago O’Hare to Norfolk International in southern Virginia could have been so nice; Marcus had, after all, gotten to ride first class for the first time in his life. The girl that was seated next to him on her way to Old Dominion University was a cute, blonde sophomore that made him forget about wanting to apologize to Melissa, and she giggled at most of what he said while they were together. But there was a niggling in the back of his head that he couldn’t get rid of; he was on his way to some kind of compound in a state he’d never visited that was about to become his home. Roosevelt University was a two hour drive from his house, and that had previously seemed like it would be a huge change. Norfolk, Virginia was a two hour flight. And he was going to be living with people of all ages and backgrounds, who all happened to have some kind of extrahuman powers. Apparently, just like he had. His mind recalled the flash of red flames, and he still had a hard time imagining he had anything to do with it. Looking down at the heirloom on his wrist (he had wanted to fly without it, but it was still burning him every time he tried to remove it), he had only one thought. Please don’t set the plane on fire.
He de-boarded to find Ms. Gardner waiting for him right off the gate, and, again, she was wearing a women’s jacket that revealed the top of her cleavage. Marcus considered pointing this out to her, but it felt like an admission of where he’d been looking, so he decided against it.
“Agent Castfire, nice to meet you again.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Did you just called me ‘Asian Castfire’?”
Ms. Gardner pursed her lips, then let out a breath. “Agent. Agen-tuh,” she enunciated.
“Oh, right. Okay.”
“Now, did you--”
“Because if you were going to designate me as Asian Castfire, I was going to have to take back my acceptance.”
Ms. Gardner half-smiled, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Delavega. You’re committed now. There is absolutely no way back to the life you used to lead.”
“Wh-what?”
Her face tilted and the other side of her mouth curled up. “You’re not the only one with the jokes, you know.”
“Hey,” he said, her words already forgotten as he looked around the gate, “how did you get back here? Don’t you need a ticket to get past security?”
“I am a high-ranking official for a government project that the American people have never ever heard of. Airport security poses as little a challenge to me as child-proof pill bottles do to you.”
Marcus grunted a non-reply, and she continued on. “Did you bring any checked luggage?”
“You mean my entire worldly possessions? No, I had those all forwarded ahead to the motel address you gave me.”
“Great; we’ll have someone pick them up there.”
After that, neither of them spoke for a while. Marcus had no idea what Ms. Gardner was thinking as they two of them traveled through the airport and onto Interstate 64 West. Occasionally, she would start whistling along with the radio in her Grand Cherokee, but other than that, she remained indiscernible. His mind grinded away thinking of some kind of small-talk he could make so that the drive would be less awkward, but nothing seemed applicable. Did she care about the Cubs’ chances? Probably not. Did she watch NBC? She didn’t seem the type. Would she want to talk about things to do in Norfolk? Seemed unprofessional to ask that right now. So he remained silent, getting by smacked by her every time he started nervously fingering at the gemstone on his wrist.
The city of Norfolk expanded upon Marcus’ previous notion of the word ‘city’. It certainly did not compare to his trips to Chicago back home. The buildings were smaller and much fewer here. He wondered how they could get away with hiding such an important government program in such a nondescript town. The beaches he saw on the trip were quite nice, though. He couldn’t wait to ask--what was her name?--to a trip to the beach. He pulled the piece of paper with the plane girl’s name and number on it; Tamara, okay. He would call up Tamara at Old Dominion and invite her out to the beach.
“Throw that away.”
Marcus’ head turned so quickly, he pinched a nerve. After the world went black for a moment, he regained his bearings. “What are you talking about?”
“That number. Just throw it away. The last thing we need is you cavorting with civilian college girls. Not that you’ll have time.”
“Why, I am filled with mild offense. I have never cavorted in my life.”
“You sure got over Melissa fast enough.”
“Okay, I seriously have several questions here,” Marcus replied, holding up his hands as if to show her to slow down. “How did you know what I was looking at? How did you know that it was about a girl from the plane? How do you remember Melissa?”
“It’s my job to know.”
“No, you know…no. You know what? It’s not. It’s totally not. I am relieving you of your duties. You now have a new job. It’s called ‘go to that Wendy’s and let me get a Baconator’. You will be handsomely rewarded for your acceptance of this perilous new duty.”
“Do you really think that is how superheroes eat?”
Marcus’ left eye twitched. ‘Superhero’? What did that mean? The last he had heard Ms. Gardner say about Infinity was that it was a project for the education of extrahumans and helping them cope non-violently in the world.
“Yeah, I thought you’d get a kick out of the S-word. Peter’s the one who started using it, and now we all--” she seemed to catch herself. “Well, you’ll meet them. You’ll see.”
“Can you tell me--?”
“No. Because we are here.”
The Jeep pulled into the parking lot of a Comfort Inn and came to a stop. Marcus stared at it for a few seconds, then squinted and stared harder. “You’re really making me stay at a motel? I thought I was all Mr. Asian Castfire of Superhero Acclaim. I thought the motel address was, like, a clever ruse.”
“Apparently I am making you stay in a motel.” She said nothing else, but just grabbed his carry-on backpack out of the back and threw it in his lap.
As they made their way to the lobby of the Comfort Inn, Marcus looked constantly back-and-forth. Ms Gardner. Comfort Inn. Ms. Gardner. Comfort Inn. Did she still not trust him? Was she lying; did she still think he might be a threat? Why the motel?
The lobby was small, painted an awful shade of yellow and green that made Marcus imagine the 1960’s came to this lodge to die. There were simplistic paintings of children on the walls that someone must have hung up because he or she thought it represented playfulness and innocence, but looked like a few dozen angry cherubs to him.
“How might I help you? We are all filled up at the moment.”
Marcus saw a meek young man working the counter, a giant smile plastered on his face, and his hair all perfectly parted.
“I’m just here for the Continental breakfast. With three extra bagels.”
I suppose that is how a superhero eats, thought Marcus. Mr. Cheerful at the counter looked down for a second, then back up. “Absolutely Artisan. I’ll buzz you through the door to the pool.”
“Artisan?”
“It means a skilled manual worker.”
“Oh, okay,” Marcus said, even though her reply did not answer his question. “Why are we going to the pool?”
“We’re not.”
The glass door she was leading Marcus too was clearly the door to a pool, though he had no idea why anyone would ever want to use it. He could see through the glass panels of the door that it was empty of water, and the lining had shades of green mold sprouting up all over. Even the area around it were in disrepair; tiles were pulled up from the floor with only orange cones set up to stop guests from tripping over the exposed underside.
But then Ms Gardner--or Artisan, or whatever she was calling herself in this place--opened the door, and the image of the pool disappeared. Behind the glass door, Marcus saw an extensive hallway. Solid-looking doors lined the parallel walls that led to an open room that appeared to be a banquet hall of some sort with tables and chairs. Ms. Gardner strode through without any question, but Marcus stood frozen with the door in his hand. In front of him was clearly a hallway. But when he pushed the door back just a bit, he could still see the image of a decrepit swimming area through the glass.
“It’s an advanced computer screen,” a voice from behind Marcus said. He turned to see the desk attendant still smiling at him, nodding slowly. No matter how closely Marcus looked at the door, he never would have guess. Even with the door open and the hallway visible, his brain still wanted him to see a swimming pool when he pulled the door out of his line of sight.
“Agent Castfire!” Ms. Gardner called from several feet down the hallway, having already passed one door on either side. “We’re done with the lobby.”
And finally, his brain let him follow her in.
Far from Marcus’ experiences in Virginia was the city of American over-indulgence and sin. The flickering lights of Las Vegas drowned out every star in the sky, and the commotion and bustle of cars and overly-liquored tourists drowned out the serene night sounds of the desert around the city. It was a permanently illuminated mindless hum that drove some men crazy, but was the calm of home to others. Most of the residents of Las Vegas found the vacationers in their city to be a bittersweet pill; they were the economy, but they were also a nuisance. Young people who couldn’t hold their alcohol, middle-aged men looking to cure an itch in the dark spot of their hearts, and elderly tour groups who thought that they were entitled to everything the city had were all constantly on the prowl. Occasionally, they’d tell a resident that they were shocked anyone could call the city home; often, they’d tell the same tired joke about how they’d be broke in a week if they were the ones to call the city home. But in the middle of the nowhere, it was these gawkers and passers-through with their loose morals and looser wallets that made Las Vegas work.
Conaill O’Rhaudigan was one of the many residents who felt this way about his city’s guests. They were dirty, noisy, boisterous, and obnoxious. They came for the shows and the gambling but stayed for the prostitutes and drugs, and that was where Conaill had a place in his heart for them. Deep-down, he knew, the rest of society was just like him--they put on a façade of kindness and empathy because that was what society demanded, but when the curtains were drawn, and they were told whatever they did would stay behind them, they would most often find themselves in bed with a stranger they paid to be there or pushing the plunger on a syringe. The O’Rhaudigan clan had spent decades in Las Vegas buying up the seedier aspects of Sin City and making them seedier; controlling these peoples’ urges and appetites was in Conaill’s blood. It had made him the wealthy boss of a very powerful empire at the age of sixteen when his parents had died so…unfortunately…in that car accident. He knew at the time that the general feeling was that he was too young and too green to be able to run the family’s businesses, but in the past three decades, the profit margins had only trended upwards. Even now as the markets fell and millions lost their jobs, they crawled on their pathetic bellies to Vegas--to him--for something to take away the pain.
There could have been a fear that the current population of extrahumans would sweep into Vegas and take so much away from Conaill. It was happening in other cities: Detroit, Chicago, Atlanta--their underworld was being decimated overpowered apes who were either out to steal for themselves or to play at being a civil friggin’ hero. But Conaill, long before almost anyone else had such a concept, had problem solved this solution by filling his ranks with those apes. He kept their well-paid and well-entertained for the last decade, and they venerated him. Were there a few that dreamt of taking him out and running the city themselves? Undoubtedly. But no man would take from Conaill O’Rhaudigan what he worked so hard to control.
From his offices in the Watermark Executives Suites building, he paced back and forth across the expansive glass windows overlooking Vegas thinking about his next logistical moves--the control of the dark delights of Vegas had become nothing more to him than a hobby--until a pounding on his door disturbed him. “Come in!” he replied, cigar smoke pouring from his mouth as he opened it.
“Conaill…”
“Mr. O’Rhaudigan to you,” Conaill cut off the voice coming through the door, his becoming a terse whisper.
“Conaill.”
The man that came through the door, shutting it gently behind him, could not be more Conaill’s opposite if he tried. The boss was dressed for a board meeting or a funeral, impeccable in his black pinstriped Fioravanti suit and trench coat, but this new gentleman was dressed for a day on the beaches of Oahu--Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Conaill’s graying hair was cut military short, his was sandy brown and covering his ears. His Birkenstocks set off Conaill’s Armani shoes.
“Alabaster, damn it. You are to address me as Mr. O’Rhaudigan.”
“Gave it some thought,” Alabaster declared, stroking his chin with his forefinger and thumb. “Decided against it.”
“I am going to have you killed and stuffed if you don’t have something worthwhile to say in the next--”
“I happen to know you won’t.” Alabaster took a step forward. “Unless you want a world of pain.”
Conaill found being condescended to as disgusting as most men found the interior of a diaper. He stomach shot bile into his throat and his vision shook, but he refused to say anything back. If nothing else, Alabaster was unpredictable. For the moment, all he could do was not flinch, stand his ground, and remind Alabaster who was the boss.
“I’m not hearing anything relevant, Alabaster.”
The seemingly-misplaced surfer cleared his throat. “Fine. I took a call from our little mole. The government is making their play. That whole Infinity thing you’ve been talking to him about.”
“Do they know about us?”
Alabaster shrugged. “Look, I guess they know as much as you want them to know. I don’t get to be in on all of the secret howdy-doo’s that you and he--”
Conaill was on him in a flash. He slammed Alabaster off the door, pinning him against it with his own elbow in Alabaster’s throat. “What. Does. He. Know?”
Alabaster choked, then pointed a finger at his throat. Conaill loosened him hold on him. “Thanks, C,” Alabaster smirked. “He knows about the Vegas drug-running and that you’ve hired some super-powered muscle. Far as he told me, that’s it.”
The boss pulled back, releasing the younger man. Without any words, he pointed at the door.
“No hug?”
Conaill, again, did not flinch or move. Finally, with a look of disgust, Alabaster turned and left.
There was a part of Conaill O’Rhaudigan that hated Alabaster more than he had ever hated another living thing. Despite having spent the last several years in Conaill’s employ, he refused to display any professionalism. Alabaster was loud, sloppy, boisterous, violent, and would not stop trying to one-up his boss’ authority. Sometimes at night--before falling asleep--Conaill thought of simply walking into Al’s room and shooting him. No more mistakes; no more apathy; no more backtalk and disrespect. Despite it all, though, Alabaster was unflinchingly loyal. He owed everything to Conaill, and he took that seriously.
The boss, along again in his office, let out a small laugh as he had a thought.
It didn’t hurt that Alabaster was the single most powerful weapon in his arsenal.
To say that Infinity was not quite what Marcus had in mind would be an understatement. Back at home, Ms. Gardner had described as a kind of government sponsored classroom-setting for extrahumans, so he had naturally pictured several other youngsters his age all new to the project and nervous about what was to come. Maybe there would be twenty or thirty in all; they’d all get to know each other, pose for PSA’s, and rescue kittens from trees while he earned his degree.
The sum total of Infinity in reality seemed to be himself, Ms. Gardner, and 3 other men.
The first to enter the boardroom she had brought him to was a black man who looked to be six or seven years older than himself. He was actually a full two inches shorter than Marcus, and--oh yeah--he was covered head-to-toe in weapons. A bo staff was strapped to his back, gun holsters were wrapped around both thighs, knives were sheathed at his hips, and the pockets lining his vest were filled with who-knows-what. His name was Peter Brown--”Expert” to Marcus’ “Castfire”, he was told--and if he wanted to take down a small government, Marcus would have bet on him to do it just based on his armaments.
“This kid? Really?” He laughed, his eyes moving up-and-down Marcus. “You flew out to Chicago to get Yellow Fever here? What’s he do? Piss himself like a spaniel?”
“Hey!” Marcus said.
“Ah, don’t worry, kid. The ‘Yellow Fever’ thing was because you look like a coward.”
“Peter, enough,” Ms. Gardner said without ever opening her teeth.
A hand slapped Marcus on the back so hard, he almost tumbled forward, having to flail his arms about just to keep his balance. This caused a mini-riot from Peter, and another frustrated glance from Ms. Gardner. “Peter, if it were up to you, none of us would be here but yourself. There’s a line between self-assurance and egotism. I’m sure this young man is quite capable, or Jean-Marie would not have sought him out.”
The hand belonged to a towering man clad in khakis and a Washington Redskins sweater whose sleeves strained with the movements of his arms; he was at least a foot taller than Peter and had muddy hair to his shoulders. Marcus had been told his name is Colin Smythe.
“So, Marcus, don’t worry too much about Peter,” Colin continued, now turning his gaze from Expert, “he’s a big-game talker, but he and I have been in the thick of it many times, and there’s a short list of people I’d rather have at my side.”
Marcus nodded, then glanced at Peter. “God,” the well-armed man sighed. “I can’t even razz the new guy ‘round here.”
Ms. Gardner started up with him again--something about how he was not here to razz people--but Marcus’ attention shot over to the third man in the room. Even when he entered and was introduced with the others, he had not said a word. He had nodded in Marcus’ direction, but since then remained silently pressed against the wall. He was unassuming--black, like Peter, but wearing just a button-down shirt and slacks--but there was something about him. Whereas Peter’s ensemble inspired fear and Colin’s demeanor was comforting, this man, who was introduced only as Angel, filled Marcus with awe. Every time he looked away and came back to him, there was something… almost like a flash in Marcus’ brain, but nothing about Angel himself seemed to change; his arms were loosely crossed, his expression was blank, the average-ness of his height and stature continued to be nondescript. Even as Marcus felt impolite in his staring, the man did not react, but continued staring forward to soak in the other four people in the room. Marcus felt like he knew this man, knew him all of his life.
“Hey, Wings. Cool it with the glow. I think you put the kid on the fritz or something.”
Marcus was shocked out of whatever trance it was that had gripped him at Peter’s words. How long had the room been silent, watching him watch Angel?
“I’m not doing anything,” Angel replied. His facial expression did not change.
“Akkadian, do you have anything to say to young Mr. Delavega?”
Akkadian. Marcus was caught off-guard by how Ms. Gardner had just referred to Angel. With a name like that, who needs a codename? Angel was suddenly upon him, just a few inches away, but Marcus had no recollection of his moving. He was just suddenly there. He smiled. “Marcus, to me, Angel is as effective of an alter ego as ‘Human’ would be to you. I am not merely known as Angel here in Infinity; I am one.”
Marcus’ heard car brakes squeal inside his head. “Wait, what? I don’t…yeah. What? You’re…”
“I am of the ha-qodeshim. Nowadays you refer to us as ‘angels’.” Marcus waited for a further explanation, but none seemed to be coming.
“Kid,” Peter said, “he thinks words cost money or something.”
Ms. Gardner spoke next. “Marcus, there is a lot here that you’re going to have to wrap your head around. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, because I don’t like telling any more lies than I have to.” She patted Akkadian on the chest. “This guy is an honest-to-God…,” she glanced up and saw Akkadian’s face sour, “sorry. He’s an honest-to-goodness angel whose been cast out of heaven. Colin,” she swung her arm over the towering man, “is an immortal. He’s…jeez. What is it again, Colin?”
“Over three-hundred years old.”
“He’s over three-hundred years old,” she repeated, “and everyone he’s ever loved has been dead for years.” Colin’s lips curled at the plainness of her statement. “Expert was experimented on by rogue government agents using spliced extrahuman genes. They said it was to cure a brain disorder; it was actually to make him a living weapon.” She pulled her sunglasses down with one finger, revealing eyes that matched the gem in Marcus’ armband. “You, on the other hand, got handed a bracelet from your family. I know this feels really hard for you, but try giving all that some thought.”
“Wow, Jean-Marie. That really wasn’t very polite.”
“I’m sorry, Colin. They keep forgetting to add in the portion of my paycheck that’s for being the Unicorn of Happiness. Kid’s freaking out a bit; he needs to know the world ain’t revolving around his adjustment period here.”
“I got it, yeah.”
All right then, Mr. Delavega. Moment of truth here; show these guys what you can do.”
“What I can--”
Ms. Gardner twirled her hand in the air, imploring him to catch up to her. “Do. Yes. With the fire. You wanted to go to college; first class is show-and-tell.”
“I don’t think that is a real--”
“Now, Mr. Delavega.”
Marcus looked down at the emerald stone in his armband. He thought of his grandfather, placing it gently into his hands on his birthday. He thought of Melissa back home, and how he’d never get to take her on a date now that he was apparently bunking with angels and immortals. He thought of the bus stop that erupted into flames that first time he put this thing on. He saw the stone catch the fluorescent light of the boardroom and reflect it back at him, and said exactly what he needed to say.
“Oh, yeah. I actually have no idea how.”
In a land of over 300 million people, as many 299 million dream of someday living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Even if briefly in their childhood, 299 million Americans at some point decide they want to be the President of the United States of America and, by extension, the free world.
The other one million Americans have common sense.
That was the way Emanuel Hightower started seeing things within his first two months in the highest office in the land. At some point, he figured, everyone who preceded him had to have thought that their time in office had to be the worst time to be there. Depressions or recession. Wars or terrorist attacks. Scandals and impeachments. Emanuel Sanders glanced around the press room at the barrage of cameras and recorders aimed at his heart and thought that all those Presidents were morons. This was clearly the worst time to be in office. The boom in extrahuman activity in the last decade had been taking a massive toll on the American economy--the airline industry was cutting corners everywhere as Americans began balking at the idea of flying with others who could take down an aircraft without any kind of detectable foreign substance; banks were shutting their doors out of fear that their industry was indefensible; police officers were being overrun.
Something Unique
Marcus Delavega looked down at his wrist. To be more precise, he glanced at the leather armlet he had just been given two weeks before by his grandfather. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time--it was simply a leather bracelet with a viridian gemstone stitched into it. At the time of his birthday, he had simply tucked it into his pocket, hugged his grandfather, and moved on to whatever suddenly unmemorable gift his aunt Kim had given him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked the gift, but he had just thought of it as some family heirloom from the Far East that he was being given now that he was an adult. It was just a trinket.
And so it had stayed--a trinket in the pocket of the pleated pair of 30-32 khakis his mother had bought him for his party--until he finally asked out Melissa Sowinski during the Physics class that week. His friends chided him for having waited until three weeks before their high school graduation to get up the nerve to ask her out, but Marcus thought he had it figured out; their colleges were just a 20 minute bus ride apart. They could get to know each other over the summer, and then, after a few dates, they’d help each other move in and get to explore downtown Chicago together. It was perfect timing, he had figured.
But as he was waiting at the bus stop to meet Melissa, he reached into his pocket and found the bracelet he had forgotten he stuffed there so recently. It was charming enough, and Marcus figured he could enrapture Melissa with a story about how the stone was passed down through his family line for centuries; back in the middle ages, they believed it had the power to charm dragons. It wasn’t a great story, he knew, but it was something to talk about in case he got flustered and couldn’t remember anything else.
This was all so much less relevant as he looked down at the armlet than it had been just 15 minutes before, however. As he had been waiting for her, he started tapping the stone without even realizing it. He was sweating at the thought of spending the day with Melissa, and as he fingered the stone, the damnedest thing happened.
Everything around him burst into crimson flames. As suddenly as they’d appeared, they vanished again, and Marcus assumed his brain was just on the fritz--misfiring as he nervously pondered whether or not the restaurant he had thought of was good enough for her--but reality quickly settled in. The covered bench of the bus stop was gone, black charcoal-like remnants scattered on the ground where it had once stood. Then a scream, quickly overlapped by another. Marcus shot his glance to his right and saw two older women on the other side of the road, their mouths and eyes both so wide, they forced an image of Wil E Coyote into his brain.
“Terrorist!” One of them shrieked, reaching into her purse. In the absurdity of the moment, Marcus was actually insulted. He knew they were just elderly white women, but he knew they had to know the difference between an Asian-American and a Middle Easterner.
“What? No! I’m Korean…”
“North Korean!” The other woman yelled back. She had already fetched her cell phone and was dialing it while holding her purse out in front of her, as if it had some kind of terrorist-deflecting ability.
Marcus inwardly swore and started running to his left. He imagined the emergency call in his head. “North Korean operative heading East on foot”--was this way East? He quickly pushed the idea of looking up for the sun out of his head, but as it left, several other thoughts rushed in to fill its place. What had caused the burst of flames? Why wasn’t he hurt? Why did he actually feel so chilly, almost as if he’d been standing in front of an air conditioner? What was Melissa going to say if he didn’t show up for their date?
He knew the women across the street had to have called the police by now, so Marcus took every turn he could find. He even double-back a few times to make sure he wasn’t going in any one direction for too long. When he had time to think of it, he realized he shouldn’t have pointed out that he was not Middle Eastern; it was just going to make identifying him that much easier. He tore off his polo shirt and threw it in someone’s garbage can, hoping that now he wouldn’t be as easy to identify as “the North Korean operative in the salmon colored polo shirt heading East”. The bracelet would have to go, too; it was too gaudy and distinctive not to have been noticed. But when he grabbed it, his hand pulled back as if he’d tried to grab a stovetop. It had burned him; yet, as he wore it, he felt nothing. He stopped at a corner to catch his breath and looked the leather of it over. It did not appear to be burnt or singed at all, so how could it have burned him right then?
He had been running so erratically, and for so long, that he only vaguely recognized the neighborhood he was in now. He had seen the area driving around town, and he was sure he could get home from where he was, but it was still upsetting that he had run so far as if he’d had something to hide. He also decided he really liked that polo and wished he hadn’t thrown it away. Shaking his head, he pulled out his Blackberry. Should he call home? They wouldn’t be expecting him back for hours, but he might need to let them know what’s going on. No, he thought, of course they were the ones to call. He could talk to Melissa and try to explain himself to her later. He dialed and held the phone to his hear, but all he heard was a high-pitched tone. He looked at the screen: not only were there no bars, but there was no display at all. His cell screen was bright red.
“We have you blocked, Mr. Delavega. No signal.”
Marcus screamed, then cursed himself for sounding like such a girl. He never noticed the tall, well-tanned brunette walk up next to him. He’d never seen her before in his life, but somehow she obviously knew who he was. “Who are you?”
He focused on her, and felt bad that he had shouted such a question. Her jacket was buttoned one button too low for her, revealing a hint of her chest, and her leather skirt clung tight to her thighs. She was hot, he realized.
“My name is Ms. Gardner, Mr. Delavega.”
That’s it? he thought to himself. He let her answer fill up space between the two of them, but nothing else came with it. “Your name is ‘Ms Gardner-Mister-Delavega’? That’s pretty silly.”
Ms. Gardner pulled off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that reminded him of the stone in his bracelet. “If you think I’m so funny, why don’t you try frying me where I stand?”
He cursed to himself yet again. Until she said that, he had hoped that she was just a coincidence. Some weird chick who showed up out of nowhere and just happened to know who he was. She could be someone whom had babysat him years ago for all he knew. But the legs of that hope had just been kicked out.
“I didn’t fry anything! What are you--”
“There’s a bus stop of Joseph Street that would beg to differ.”
“I didn’t…what? I don’t even… How do you know about…? I didn’t do that!”
Ms. Gardner held her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and motioned her pupils up-and-down Marcus’ body. Instinctively, he straightened his spine and pushed out his chest a bit. She smiled.
“Well, if you don’t know how you do it, then I guess I can shoot you right now so that you never do it to a single living thing.”
Marcus wanted to vocalize a protest, but the words she just said seemed to fill up the entirety of his brain. She’s going to shoot me she’s going to shoot me she’s going to shoot me. As he fought to clean that skip, she pulled a sidearm pistol out from inside her jacket. There was a sudden sharp pain in his knees, and that was when he realized he had fallen over forward onto the sidewalk and was wrapping his arms around his own head. He heard her murmur something above him, but no gunshot seemed to be coming.
“What was that?” He asked, his voice reminding him of a time in 3rd grade when he did not know the answer to a division problem in class.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Ms. Gardner signed, extending her hand down to him, “but I said ‘he’s not a malicious’, if you must know.” Marcus grabbed her hand with his own, and she pulled him up to his feet. “Congratulations, Mr. Delavega. You’re not a malicious.”
“Not yet, but I was planning on majoring in it next year.”
She ignored him, choosing instead to murmur some more into her jacket’s lapel.
“So does your suit get good reception? I left mine at home, because anywhere outside of my block and you can just forget it.” He tried to figure out where best to put his hands while standing beside her. Pockets? No, he thought, I look like The Fonz. Across my chest? No, I look pissed. This is really hard.
“Mr. Delavega. Conveniently for you, the United States government will be picking up the tab for your little bus stop misstep. Now, if you please, we need to get you back home so we can speak to your parents about your post-high school plans.”
“Well, yeah, but they already know. I was accepted to Roosevelt University…”
“Was I not clear? I apologize then. Your new post-high school plans, Mr. Delavega.”
“You mean, our Marcus isn’t going to get his Business degree?”
Ms. Gardner took a slow sip from her over-sugared coffee, but even then the slight smile she had worn since shaking Marcus’ parents hands did not leave her face. “Not at all, Mrs. Delavega. I’m sure we can work on that in time. We have several such facilities on-site.”
Ms. Gardner sat on the pea-green loveseat that Marcus had always hated, facing his parents on their leather sofa. His mother and father were holding hands, leaning forward every time she spoke. Marcus was stuck on the hard kitchen table chair at the border of the kitchen and the living room (he knew how his mother forbade those chairs onto the carpet). Their conversation so far had been civil, if muted.
“How long has Marcus been one of these…”
“Extrahumans.”
“Just like on the TV,” his father mused to himself after she answered his question.
Ms. Gardner turned her head towards the kitchen, still with the younger sister of a smile on her face. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Marcus?”
Marcus felt his cheeks go warm. “I didn’t even know I was! I just wanted to go on my date!” He felt like those words added to his lack of knowledge of his own situation, and instantly felt stupid when they bumbled out of his mouth to the benfit of nothing.
“To be fair, he may be right,” the guest started up again. “Our readings indicate that burst initiated in his little bangle there. Considering that it was his grandfather’s until recently, I doubt he has had any indication of his latent ability.”
“Initiated from…wait!” he cried. “Why’d you tell them to ask me then?”
She shrugged. “It was rhetorical.”
“You’re rhetorical!” Again, his cheeks went warm. He was not having the smoothest day. It was probably for the best that he was not with Melissa.
“How do you know this?” his mother asked. “That it was my father’s?”
Ms. Gardner nodded and took another sip of her coffee. “At the risk of sounding cliché, it’s my job to know.”
“All right,” Marcus’ father said, putting his hands palm-down on the glass table in front of the sofa. His wife winced. “Let’s put all of cards on the table then, Ms. Gardner. What is your job.”
Ms. Gardner placed her cup down on the floral-print saucer on the table Mr. Delavega had just abused. “I’m sorry, sir. I was not trying to be cryptic or intimidating or anything of the like. These are just times when you have no idea what kind of situation you could be walking into. We had no intel that your family could be a threat, so I had to remain on guard. But I do not want to come across as rude, either.” Marcus realized he was staring at her lips as she spoke, and quickly looked away. “My full name is Jean-Marie Gardner. I am the government liaison to extrahuman affairs, and I have been tasked with finding available extrahumans in our country and assessing their threat level. Marcus…,” she paused as she looked over to him. Again, he straightened his spine without initially realizing he was doing it, “is a very low threat level.
“But that doesn’t mean he’s not important. He’s a bright kid, and you’ve certainly raised him extremely well. He’s been involved in charity drives and volunteer work in the community…He’s exactly the kind of face we want to present to the country to show them that not all extrahumans are threats to their way of life.”
“I always wanted to be known as not-a-threat,” Marcus said. “I’m a chick magnet now.” The three grown-ups were suddenly staring holes through him. “I’ll just sit here quietly, sorry. Like a good non-threat. I am neither malicious, nor a threat.”
“He’s a funny kid, too, I guess. That helps.”
“So does his skin, I assume?”
“Point of fact, Mr. Delavega, it does. I’m not going to blow smoke at you: we could probably find a nice young man anywhere else in the country, but when we got a reading on his burst, we jumped at the chance to come here--hence our quick reaction time. We want Infinity to be well-rounded and representative of the make-up of our country. We aren‘t going to exploit Marcus or your race; we want him to be himself and not some token or stereotype. But at the same time, it does look good.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs Delavega said quietly, “what is an ‘Infinity’?”
The plane ride from Chicago O’Hare to Norfolk International in southern Virginia could have been so nice; Marcus had, after all, gotten to ride first class for the first time in his life. The girl that was seated next to him on her way to Old Dominion University was a cute, blonde sophomore that made him forget about wanting to apologize to Melissa, and she giggled at most of what he said while they were together. But there was a niggling in the back of his head that he couldn’t get rid of; he was on his way to some kind of compound in a state he’d never visited that was about to become his home. Roosevelt University was a two hour drive from his house, and that had previously seemed like it would be a huge change. Norfolk, Virginia was a two hour flight. And he was going to be living with people of all ages and backgrounds, who all happened to have some kind of extrahuman powers. Apparently, just like he had. His mind recalled the flash of red flames, and he still had a hard time imagining he had anything to do with it. Looking down at the heirloom on his wrist (he had wanted to fly without it, but it was still burning him every time he tried to remove it), he had only one thought. Please don’t set the plane on fire.
He de-boarded to find Ms. Gardner waiting for him right off the gate, and, again, she was wearing a women’s jacket that revealed the top of her cleavage. Marcus considered pointing this out to her, but it felt like an admission of where he’d been looking, so he decided against it.
“Agent Castfire, nice to meet you again.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Did you just called me ‘Asian Castfire’?”
Ms. Gardner pursed her lips, then let out a breath. “Agent. Agen-tuh,” she enunciated.
“Oh, right. Okay.”
“Now, did you--”
“Because if you were going to designate me as Asian Castfire, I was going to have to take back my acceptance.”
Ms. Gardner half-smiled, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Delavega. You’re committed now. There is absolutely no way back to the life you used to lead.”
“Wh-what?”
Her face tilted and the other side of her mouth curled up. “You’re not the only one with the jokes, you know.”
“Hey,” he said, her words already forgotten as he looked around the gate, “how did you get back here? Don’t you need a ticket to get past security?”
“I am a high-ranking official for a government project that the American people have never ever heard of. Airport security poses as little a challenge to me as child-proof pill bottles do to you.”
Marcus grunted a non-reply, and she continued on. “Did you bring any checked luggage?”
“You mean my entire worldly possessions? No, I had those all forwarded ahead to the motel address you gave me.”
“Great; we’ll have someone pick them up there.”
After that, neither of them spoke for a while. Marcus had no idea what Ms. Gardner was thinking as they two of them traveled through the airport and onto Interstate 64 West. Occasionally, she would start whistling along with the radio in her Grand Cherokee, but other than that, she remained indiscernible. His mind grinded away thinking of some kind of small-talk he could make so that the drive would be less awkward, but nothing seemed applicable. Did she care about the Cubs’ chances? Probably not. Did she watch NBC? She didn’t seem the type. Would she want to talk about things to do in Norfolk? Seemed unprofessional to ask that right now. So he remained silent, getting by smacked by her every time he started nervously fingering at the gemstone on his wrist.
The city of Norfolk expanded upon Marcus’ previous notion of the word ‘city’. It certainly did not compare to his trips to Chicago back home. The buildings were smaller and much fewer here. He wondered how they could get away with hiding such an important government program in such a nondescript town. The beaches he saw on the trip were quite nice, though. He couldn’t wait to ask--what was her name?--to a trip to the beach. He pulled the piece of paper with the plane girl’s name and number on it; Tamara, okay. He would call up Tamara at Old Dominion and invite her out to the beach.
“Throw that away.”
Marcus’ head turned so quickly, he pinched a nerve. After the world went black for a moment, he regained his bearings. “What are you talking about?”
“That number. Just throw it away. The last thing we need is you cavorting with civilian college girls. Not that you’ll have time.”
“Why, I am filled with mild offense. I have never cavorted in my life.”
“You sure got over Melissa fast enough.”
“Okay, I seriously have several questions here,” Marcus replied, holding up his hands as if to show her to slow down. “How did you know what I was looking at? How did you know that it was about a girl from the plane? How do you remember Melissa?”
“It’s my job to know.”
“No, you know…no. You know what? It’s not. It’s totally not. I am relieving you of your duties. You now have a new job. It’s called ‘go to that Wendy’s and let me get a Baconator’. You will be handsomely rewarded for your acceptance of this perilous new duty.”
“Do you really think that is how superheroes eat?”
Marcus’ left eye twitched. ‘Superhero’? What did that mean? The last he had heard Ms. Gardner say about Infinity was that it was a project for the education of extrahumans and helping them cope non-violently in the world.
“Yeah, I thought you’d get a kick out of the S-word. Peter’s the one who started using it, and now we all--” she seemed to catch herself. “Well, you’ll meet them. You’ll see.”
“Can you tell me--?”
“No. Because we are here.”
The Jeep pulled into the parking lot of a Comfort Inn and came to a stop. Marcus stared at it for a few seconds, then squinted and stared harder. “You’re really making me stay at a motel? I thought I was all Mr. Asian Castfire of Superhero Acclaim. I thought the motel address was, like, a clever ruse.”
“Apparently I am making you stay in a motel.” She said nothing else, but just grabbed his carry-on backpack out of the back and threw it in his lap.
As they made their way to the lobby of the Comfort Inn, Marcus looked constantly back-and-forth. Ms Gardner. Comfort Inn. Ms. Gardner. Comfort Inn. Did she still not trust him? Was she lying; did she still think he might be a threat? Why the motel?
The lobby was small, painted an awful shade of yellow and green that made Marcus imagine the 1960’s came to this lodge to die. There were simplistic paintings of children on the walls that someone must have hung up because he or she thought it represented playfulness and innocence, but looked like a few dozen angry cherubs to him.
“How might I help you? We are all filled up at the moment.”
Marcus saw a meek young man working the counter, a giant smile plastered on his face, and his hair all perfectly parted.
“I’m just here for the Continental breakfast. With three extra bagels.”
I suppose that is how a superhero eats, thought Marcus. Mr. Cheerful at the counter looked down for a second, then back up. “Absolutely Artisan. I’ll buzz you through the door to the pool.”
“Artisan?”
“It means a skilled manual worker.”
“Oh, okay,” Marcus said, even though her reply did not answer his question. “Why are we going to the pool?”
“We’re not.”
The glass door she was leading Marcus too was clearly the door to a pool, though he had no idea why anyone would ever want to use it. He could see through the glass panels of the door that it was empty of water, and the lining had shades of green mold sprouting up all over. Even the area around it were in disrepair; tiles were pulled up from the floor with only orange cones set up to stop guests from tripping over the exposed underside.
But then Ms Gardner--or Artisan, or whatever she was calling herself in this place--opened the door, and the image of the pool disappeared. Behind the glass door, Marcus saw an extensive hallway. Solid-looking doors lined the parallel walls that led to an open room that appeared to be a banquet hall of some sort with tables and chairs. Ms. Gardner strode through without any question, but Marcus stood frozen with the door in his hand. In front of him was clearly a hallway. But when he pushed the door back just a bit, he could still see the image of a decrepit swimming area through the glass.
“It’s an advanced computer screen,” a voice from behind Marcus said. He turned to see the desk attendant still smiling at him, nodding slowly. No matter how closely Marcus looked at the door, he never would have guess. Even with the door open and the hallway visible, his brain still wanted him to see a swimming pool when he pulled the door out of his line of sight.
“Agent Castfire!” Ms. Gardner called from several feet down the hallway, having already passed one door on either side. “We’re done with the lobby.”
And finally, his brain let him follow her in.
Far from Marcus’ experiences in Virginia was the city of American over-indulgence and sin. The flickering lights of Las Vegas drowned out every star in the sky, and the commotion and bustle of cars and overly-liquored tourists drowned out the serene night sounds of the desert around the city. It was a permanently illuminated mindless hum that drove some men crazy, but was the calm of home to others. Most of the residents of Las Vegas found the vacationers in their city to be a bittersweet pill; they were the economy, but they were also a nuisance. Young people who couldn’t hold their alcohol, middle-aged men looking to cure an itch in the dark spot of their hearts, and elderly tour groups who thought that they were entitled to everything the city had were all constantly on the prowl. Occasionally, they’d tell a resident that they were shocked anyone could call the city home; often, they’d tell the same tired joke about how they’d be broke in a week if they were the ones to call the city home. But in the middle of the nowhere, it was these gawkers and passers-through with their loose morals and looser wallets that made Las Vegas work.
Conaill O’Rhaudigan was one of the many residents who felt this way about his city’s guests. They were dirty, noisy, boisterous, and obnoxious. They came for the shows and the gambling but stayed for the prostitutes and drugs, and that was where Conaill had a place in his heart for them. Deep-down, he knew, the rest of society was just like him--they put on a façade of kindness and empathy because that was what society demanded, but when the curtains were drawn, and they were told whatever they did would stay behind them, they would most often find themselves in bed with a stranger they paid to be there or pushing the plunger on a syringe. The O’Rhaudigan clan had spent decades in Las Vegas buying up the seedier aspects of Sin City and making them seedier; controlling these peoples’ urges and appetites was in Conaill’s blood. It had made him the wealthy boss of a very powerful empire at the age of sixteen when his parents had died so…unfortunately…in that car accident. He knew at the time that the general feeling was that he was too young and too green to be able to run the family’s businesses, but in the past three decades, the profit margins had only trended upwards. Even now as the markets fell and millions lost their jobs, they crawled on their pathetic bellies to Vegas--to him--for something to take away the pain.
There could have been a fear that the current population of extrahumans would sweep into Vegas and take so much away from Conaill. It was happening in other cities: Detroit, Chicago, Atlanta--their underworld was being decimated overpowered apes who were either out to steal for themselves or to play at being a civil friggin’ hero. But Conaill, long before almost anyone else had such a concept, had problem solved this solution by filling his ranks with those apes. He kept their well-paid and well-entertained for the last decade, and they venerated him. Were there a few that dreamt of taking him out and running the city themselves? Undoubtedly. But no man would take from Conaill O’Rhaudigan what he worked so hard to control.
From his offices in the Watermark Executives Suites building, he paced back and forth across the expansive glass windows overlooking Vegas thinking about his next logistical moves--the control of the dark delights of Vegas had become nothing more to him than a hobby--until a pounding on his door disturbed him. “Come in!” he replied, cigar smoke pouring from his mouth as he opened it.
“Conaill…”
“Mr. O’Rhaudigan to you,” Conaill cut off the voice coming through the door, his becoming a terse whisper.
“Conaill.”
The man that came through the door, shutting it gently behind him, could not be more Conaill’s opposite if he tried. The boss was dressed for a board meeting or a funeral, impeccable in his black pinstriped Fioravanti suit and trench coat, but this new gentleman was dressed for a day on the beaches of Oahu--Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Conaill’s graying hair was cut military short, his was sandy brown and covering his ears. His Birkenstocks set off Conaill’s Armani shoes.
“Alabaster, damn it. You are to address me as Mr. O’Rhaudigan.”
“Gave it some thought,” Alabaster declared, stroking his chin with his forefinger and thumb. “Decided against it.”
“I am going to have you killed and stuffed if you don’t have something worthwhile to say in the next--”
“I happen to know you won’t.” Alabaster took a step forward. “Unless you want a world of pain.”
Conaill found being condescended to as disgusting as most men found the interior of a diaper. He stomach shot bile into his throat and his vision shook, but he refused to say anything back. If nothing else, Alabaster was unpredictable. For the moment, all he could do was not flinch, stand his ground, and remind Alabaster who was the boss.
“I’m not hearing anything relevant, Alabaster.”
The seemingly-misplaced surfer cleared his throat. “Fine. I took a call from our little mole. The government is making their play. That whole Infinity thing you’ve been talking to him about.”
“Do they know about us?”
Alabaster shrugged. “Look, I guess they know as much as you want them to know. I don’t get to be in on all of the secret howdy-doo’s that you and he--”
Conaill was on him in a flash. He slammed Alabaster off the door, pinning him against it with his own elbow in Alabaster’s throat. “What. Does. He. Know?”
Alabaster choked, then pointed a finger at his throat. Conaill loosened him hold on him. “Thanks, C,” Alabaster smirked. “He knows about the Vegas drug-running and that you’ve hired some super-powered muscle. Far as he told me, that’s it.”
The boss pulled back, releasing the younger man. Without any words, he pointed at the door.
“No hug?”
Conaill, again, did not flinch or move. Finally, with a look of disgust, Alabaster turned and left.
There was a part of Conaill O’Rhaudigan that hated Alabaster more than he had ever hated another living thing. Despite having spent the last several years in Conaill’s employ, he refused to display any professionalism. Alabaster was loud, sloppy, boisterous, violent, and would not stop trying to one-up his boss’ authority. Sometimes at night--before falling asleep--Conaill thought of simply walking into Al’s room and shooting him. No more mistakes; no more apathy; no more backtalk and disrespect. Despite it all, though, Alabaster was unflinchingly loyal. He owed everything to Conaill, and he took that seriously.
The boss, along again in his office, let out a small laugh as he had a thought.
It didn’t hurt that Alabaster was the single most powerful weapon in his arsenal.
To say that Infinity was not quite what Marcus had in mind would be an understatement. Back at home, Ms. Gardner had described as a kind of government sponsored classroom-setting for extrahumans, so he had naturally pictured several other youngsters his age all new to the project and nervous about what was to come. Maybe there would be twenty or thirty in all; they’d all get to know each other, pose for PSA’s, and rescue kittens from trees while he earned his degree.
The sum total of Infinity in reality seemed to be himself, Ms. Gardner, and 3 other men.
The first to enter the boardroom she had brought him to was a black man who looked to be six or seven years older than himself. He was actually a full two inches shorter than Marcus, and--oh yeah--he was covered head-to-toe in weapons. A bo staff was strapped to his back, gun holsters were wrapped around both thighs, knives were sheathed at his hips, and the pockets lining his vest were filled with who-knows-what. His name was Peter Brown--”Expert” to Marcus’ “Castfire”, he was told--and if he wanted to take down a small government, Marcus would have bet on him to do it just based on his armaments.
“This kid? Really?” He laughed, his eyes moving up-and-down Marcus. “You flew out to Chicago to get Yellow Fever here? What’s he do? Piss himself like a spaniel?”
“Hey!” Marcus said.
“Ah, don’t worry, kid. The ‘Yellow Fever’ thing was because you look like a coward.”
“Peter, enough,” Ms. Gardner said without ever opening her teeth.
A hand slapped Marcus on the back so hard, he almost tumbled forward, having to flail his arms about just to keep his balance. This caused a mini-riot from Peter, and another frustrated glance from Ms. Gardner. “Peter, if it were up to you, none of us would be here but yourself. There’s a line between self-assurance and egotism. I’m sure this young man is quite capable, or Jean-Marie would not have sought him out.”
The hand belonged to a towering man clad in khakis and a Washington Redskins sweater whose sleeves strained with the movements of his arms; he was at least a foot taller than Peter and had muddy hair to his shoulders. Marcus had been told his name is Colin Smythe.
“So, Marcus, don’t worry too much about Peter,” Colin continued, now turning his gaze from Expert, “he’s a big-game talker, but he and I have been in the thick of it many times, and there’s a short list of people I’d rather have at my side.”
Marcus nodded, then glanced at Peter. “God,” the well-armed man sighed. “I can’t even razz the new guy ‘round here.”
Ms. Gardner started up with him again--something about how he was not here to razz people--but Marcus’ attention shot over to the third man in the room. Even when he entered and was introduced with the others, he had not said a word. He had nodded in Marcus’ direction, but since then remained silently pressed against the wall. He was unassuming--black, like Peter, but wearing just a button-down shirt and slacks--but there was something about him. Whereas Peter’s ensemble inspired fear and Colin’s demeanor was comforting, this man, who was introduced only as Angel, filled Marcus with awe. Every time he looked away and came back to him, there was something… almost like a flash in Marcus’ brain, but nothing about Angel himself seemed to change; his arms were loosely crossed, his expression was blank, the average-ness of his height and stature continued to be nondescript. Even as Marcus felt impolite in his staring, the man did not react, but continued staring forward to soak in the other four people in the room. Marcus felt like he knew this man, knew him all of his life.
“Hey, Wings. Cool it with the glow. I think you put the kid on the fritz or something.”
Marcus was shocked out of whatever trance it was that had gripped him at Peter’s words. How long had the room been silent, watching him watch Angel?
“I’m not doing anything,” Angel replied. His facial expression did not change.
“Akkadian, do you have anything to say to young Mr. Delavega?”
Akkadian. Marcus was caught off-guard by how Ms. Gardner had just referred to Angel. With a name like that, who needs a codename? Angel was suddenly upon him, just a few inches away, but Marcus had no recollection of his moving. He was just suddenly there. He smiled. “Marcus, to me, Angel is as effective of an alter ego as ‘Human’ would be to you. I am not merely known as Angel here in Infinity; I am one.”
Marcus’ heard car brakes squeal inside his head. “Wait, what? I don’t…yeah. What? You’re…”
“I am of the ha-qodeshim. Nowadays you refer to us as ‘angels’.” Marcus waited for a further explanation, but none seemed to be coming.
“Kid,” Peter said, “he thinks words cost money or something.”
Ms. Gardner spoke next. “Marcus, there is a lot here that you’re going to have to wrap your head around. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, because I don’t like telling any more lies than I have to.” She patted Akkadian on the chest. “This guy is an honest-to-God…,” she glanced up and saw Akkadian’s face sour, “sorry. He’s an honest-to-goodness angel whose been cast out of heaven. Colin,” she swung her arm over the towering man, “is an immortal. He’s…jeez. What is it again, Colin?”
“Over three-hundred years old.”
“He’s over three-hundred years old,” she repeated, “and everyone he’s ever loved has been dead for years.” Colin’s lips curled at the plainness of her statement. “Expert was experimented on by rogue government agents using spliced extrahuman genes. They said it was to cure a brain disorder; it was actually to make him a living weapon.” She pulled her sunglasses down with one finger, revealing eyes that matched the gem in Marcus’ armband. “You, on the other hand, got handed a bracelet from your family. I know this feels really hard for you, but try giving all that some thought.”
“Wow, Jean-Marie. That really wasn’t very polite.”
“I’m sorry, Colin. They keep forgetting to add in the portion of my paycheck that’s for being the Unicorn of Happiness. Kid’s freaking out a bit; he needs to know the world ain’t revolving around his adjustment period here.”
“I got it, yeah.”
All right then, Mr. Delavega. Moment of truth here; show these guys what you can do.”
“What I can--”
Ms. Gardner twirled her hand in the air, imploring him to catch up to her. “Do. Yes. With the fire. You wanted to go to college; first class is show-and-tell.”
“I don’t think that is a real--”
“Now, Mr. Delavega.”
Marcus looked down at the emerald stone in his armband. He thought of his grandfather, placing it gently into his hands on his birthday. He thought of Melissa back home, and how he’d never get to take her on a date now that he was apparently bunking with angels and immortals. He thought of the bus stop that erupted into flames that first time he put this thing on. He saw the stone catch the fluorescent light of the boardroom and reflect it back at him, and said exactly what he needed to say.
“Oh, yeah. I actually have no idea how.”
In a land of over 300 million people, as many 299 million dream of someday living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Even if briefly in their childhood, 299 million Americans at some point decide they want to be the President of the United States of America and, by extension, the free world.
The other one million Americans have common sense.
That was the way Emanuel Hightower started seeing things within his first two months in the highest office in the land. At some point, he figured, everyone who preceded him had to have thought that their time in office had to be the worst time to be there. Depressions or recession. Wars or terrorist attacks. Scandals and impeachments. Emanuel Sanders glanced around the press room at the barrage of cameras and recorders aimed at his heart and thought that all those Presidents were morons. This was clearly the worst time to be in office. The boom in extrahuman activity in the last decade had been taking a massive toll on the American economy--the airline industry was cutting corners everywhere as Americans began balking at the idea of flying with others who could take down an aircraft without any kind of detectable foreign substance; banks were shutting their doors out of fear that their industry was indefensible; police officers were being overrun.