On my way to find a cigarette, I witnessed everything RatKing did.
Collateral damage laid across the city, another gaping wound to add to the list. The financial district was littered with fallen debris and pieces of The Hero Bank of America, white marble crushing more geometric architecture that was more prevalent in this side of town.
Emergency services had been helping with the rescue efforts, although not many people were out on the streets during the heist there were still those who couldn’t leave their buildings or were stuck inside their cars. But by the time I had gotten there most of them were already looked after.
Until I came across Union Park.
The innocent pocket of greenery was covered with dark body bags from all sides. There were reporters being held back by various police officers as their morbid curiosity snuck in a couple of snapshots between the lines.
SNAP
SNAP
SNAP
They wanted to take a closer look at the victims of RatKing’s brutality. Dive bombing past the traffic barricade thingies almost breaking their cameras and camcorders as they ran over each other. The police responded with batons that cracked awful wet destruction of the cartilage of their noses. Unapologetically hungry for rotting meat. Violence always sells.
I flipped open one of the body bags and underneath was an elderly white man wearing an orange domino mask with his bottom jaw nowhere to be found. It was Mr. Hex, with sandy hair and usually sun kissed cheeks were now a ghoulish white, his eyes already shut. He could make other people unlucky with a “hex”, only being able to end it through his verbal command. I remembered seeing him as a girl on TV, cereal commercials, mostly advocating for a moral lifestyle and corny dad-jokes. It had been years since he fought any real crime, he didn’t bother anyone. For the sake of his dignity I close the body bag up with haste.
I expected regular people to die. Cops, security guards, innocent bystanders. It was unpleasant but that is just the rule of this city, this country, this world. People without power suffer more compared to those with power. But seeing one of my own be killed like that wasn’t right.
An airy voice drew my attention away from the field of plastic covered bodies, “It was only a matter of time for Hex. I just thought the kid would’ve gone out more peaceably.”
I turned to meet with Overlord. You couldn’t miss him, his overbearingly large helmet was magnetic for the sight. Curving upwards like some kind of jaw-bone were horns with molars protruding up, and the helm itself was like a dirty skull. His entire body was wrapped like an egyptian mummy, brownish linen that appeared older than he already was. And of course, a tattered black cloak swaying behind him.
“What’s dead is dead, it is better to attend to the living. Speaking of, who might you be?”
“Oh! Uuuh- Overlord, its-it's an honor! My name is Power-Jack.”, I was fortunate he couldn’t see my blush of embarrassment.
“Mmmm. I saw you rush head first into that flying ugly building… I couldn’t help but worry. If you aren’t careful, even the most experienced of us Heroes can fall.” he said while gesturing to poor Mr. Hex.
Saying that Mr. Hex was experienced was one thing for sure, but Overlord wasn’t just experienced he was part of entire chapters in the textbooks they made us study in the academy. In fact, I had to write an essay on how he was able to live peacefully while having the strength to move mountains. Generations of Heroes had used the same knowledge of his techniques to master their own skills in a world that could collapse at any moment.
I was taken aback a bit, not only because I couldn’t figure out where his eyes were inside the vortex of his Skullmet’s sockets but the fact that he saw me actually go into the bank. I tilt my head in thought as I simply stared back, unable to read his expression.
“I would have joined you but… there were external factors.”
I would have preferred more elaboration but I couldn’t bother to impose too much on him. Who was I to pester him about stuff he already understood?
“Well no hard feelings Sir! I’m no small fry when it comes to battle.”
He gave a very… hollow laugh. Like he had nothing inside of him. It was shrill yet not without real humor. He was a living echo I supposed, living for such a long time and doing Hero work on top of that would drain even the best of us.
In a quieter and more urgent tone, I got closer to the old man and asked, “Was he the only one or-”
“No, But he will be the last!”
The stench of rotting flesh only became stronger as tears began to swell on my eyes. I was smart to use a mask for my outfit. I prayed that he told the truth.
After a moment of silence between the two of us, I withdrew my eyes from Mr. Hex’s resting spot and looking eastwards I said, “Well I guess they left the meanest ones for last huh?”
Despite all the commotion around us, Overlord’s wispy voice always managed to avoid all of it and into your soul.
He said, “Perhaps they did.”
I crossed my arms and asked, “You don’t happen to have any cigarettes? All this funk is giving me a headache.”
He didn’t respond, instead a louder and much more feminine voice slammed itself into our conversation.
“Ah fellow connoisseur! I gotta ask what's your preferred brand: Puff-o Huffs, Tim Polstacks, or do you like it with a bit of that Glass, hmm? Oh don’t be so coy, we’re all adults here right? We can go a little hard every once and a while, we’re heroes!”
The woman who just walked up to us did not look like a “Hero” in the traditional sense or even professionally. She was wearing a white pinstripe suit and tie with a silver badge hanging on her breast pocket with a gun holster on her hip. Her hair was jet black, her skin was fair and eyes were an inquisitive violet. She looked a decade older than me at most. She did not smell like she smoked, instead she had a really nice perfume on though.
For her first question I said, “None of that, I like Despotine. It’s strong on the senses.”
The lady groped the inside of her jacket, murmuring about how I might as well huff on diesel. She pulled out my preferred brand and offered me the whole box. I graciously accepted and thanked her as she lit up my cig with her lighter.
I asked her, “You hate Despotine yet you carry one box?”
A smile creeped across her cheeks, “I’m a… collector of sorts. You know how sometimes there's little cards they put in them to get you to buy and smoke more, like a game. There's whole trading cards that have Superheroes on em’. Mostly big names: Gigantressa, Overlord, Godspeed… but every once in a while they let in one of the rookies as a limited time promotional thing. Hey, if you survive long enough maybe they’ll strike you a deal, God knows how much they’d kill for it!”
“Despotine doesn’t have trading cards.” I said frankly.
Her eyes open in surprise as if she nearly missed hitting a small family with her car, but then scrunches her face, confused as she snatched the box she just gave me.
“Huh, shit… this bank heist I tell you! It’s messing with my focus. You got a good eye on you sweetie, even after tussling with the Apostates singlehandedly.”
Apostates. I heard that name before, probably in the news, perhaps in school. That’s what I wanted to find out more. I asked her about these Villains: RatKing and the Wolfman, what was their deal. She gave a smirk as she pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to me,
“Stay in touch champ, can’t say much right now about those boys, see this profession is a bit like the animal kingdom: the biggest dog gets the first bite. Regardless, we’ll see each other soon enough.”
On the card it said, including a phone number:
Detective Nubia Smith,
Anti-Villain Intelligence Agency
California State
I bit my tongue, not wanting to say, “You showed up just in time.” right to her face.
But before I could continue talking to her she walked off as she saluted at me, slinking into the tussling crowd of rabid sorry-excuses for journalists.
“What a strange woman.” Overlord finally spoke.
“It's cause she's from Cali.”
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