Powerless Against You Page 2

  “Why have you brought me here, Sanat? What do you want?” he asks. I’ve removed his mask, and I see his skin is crossed with scars. As I run my fingers along them, he pulls away sharply.

  “All I want is to have a chance to talk to you, without playing these silly roles of hero and villain.”

  “This isn’t a game, Sanat. You murdered those people tonight.”

  “I had to get your attention somehow. Murder seems to be the best way. Can you blame me?”

  “I do blame you, you freak. You’ve done nothing but cause my city pain.”

  “You’ve done nothing but cause me heartache, Flashy. I see the way you look at me. We have a connection. All I want is one night. One night where you can allow yourself to feel something aside from anger.”

  “There is nothing but anger,” he replies, but his words aren’t as certain as they have been.

  “We’ve been doing this a little while, you and me. If there was only anger inside, you would have killed one of us by now.”

  “I–I have to protect my city. They need me.”

  “Your city doesn’t love you like I do. I’ve watched you on the television. Each night you go out, and you stop a crime or save a hapless citizen. Every evening you search for somebody to save because nobody can save you. You’re just a symbol to them. A blue bolt of lightning means the city can breathe easy. But what about the man under the mask? Nobody cares how he feels. I’m giving you the chance to tell someone what he wants.”

  “I–I don’t know what I want.”

  “Take a moment and think, lover. I’ll wait.”

  Deathflash sits and stares off into the distance for a few moments. I watch him, absorbing every minute we share. Finally he looks at me.

  “When night falls, I go out into this city. Sometimes I save a life. Sometimes I stop a robbery. At first, they rejoiced. The crime rate plummeted. I inspired real change in the city. Do you know how it feels to legitimately make a difference?”

  “Everything I touch ends up a little different, Flashy.” I reach out and stroke his chest. “You know that.”

  “You change things. I didn’t just change things. I inspired other people to stand up and better their lives. It’s different.” He looks down at my hand and I draw back.

  “Sure, sure. But the city I see doesn’t look so different.”

  “It was at first. But eventually, as with all things, people began to expect me to save them. It wasn’t an act of heroism anymore. It was a job. And like all jobs, you just want someone to appreciate your efforts.”

  “I appreciate you. You make my nights far more interesting.”

  He turns and looks at me. “Since you arrived on the scene, my nights have felt different. For the first time in a long while, I’ve been excited to put on the suit. I’ve been glad to go out and defend my city. Knowing you were out there somewhere gave me the drive I needed to keep going. The fire in my heart for justice was rekindled.”

  “From the moment we met, it’s been impossible to stay away from you. You’re the only thing in this city worth staying for.”

  “There’s something about you, Sanat. Something I’ve felt since that first night. You’re unparalleled. You embody everything I’ve sworn to fight against, but I feel… connected to you. Ever since I became Deathflash, I’ve been losing myself. The costume has been taking over, and the man inside has been fading. I feel like I’ve been looking for somebody to define me. After so long, I feel like you finally have.”

  I can see the anger in his eyes is fading. I reach out and stroke his cheek. This time he doesn’t draw away. I can feel the lifetime of pain in his scars. I move forward and gently kiss him. His lips are soft and warm. I pull back and cut one of his arms free. I take his rubber-clad hand in mine.

  “Just one night,” I say, “I want you to know me like I know you.”

  We sit there all night, talking and discovering each other. I cut him free a few hours later knowing he wouldn’t hurt me. I invite him to stay with me tonight. He does.

  ***

  Before he stirs, I’m gone. My one night is over and I don’t think he can afford to give me anymore time. When he awakes, he’ll have to resume the persona of Deathflash. I’ll be the enemy once more. Personally, I don’t feel like being electrified first thing this morning. I gather my essentials and leave. On the way out, I arm the bomb under the bed and set the timer for sixty minutes. He needs a bit more beauty sleep this morning.

  He’ll wake up thinking I’ve betrayed him, but he’ll be wrong as usual. He won’t realize I’ve given him everything. Deathflash is my everything. He became my world the first night we met, the night when sparks flew and debris fell around us like fresh snow. By leaving, I’ve allowed him to continue being who he is. When I’m gone, the anger will return, and he’ll hunt for me. He’ll have a purpose.

  The first time we touched, sparks flew. The next time we touch, who knows?

  About the Author

  Agustin Guerrero was born and raised in Florida. He lives with his best friend, writes, and frequents used bookstores. He thinks that flying is the most pointless super power. Recently, he self-published a military science fiction novel called “The Amalgam”. If you wish to contact him, he can be reached at agustinguerrero3.wordpress.com, where there are links to all the other social medias.

  Flying Fast, Falling Hard

  Kim Strattford

  Tom Sullivan was a pretender. That was clear from the moment Marta Livacek met him. His shiny smile, his oh-so-normal background. He’d proven squeaky clean when she’d had the archivist of the Alliance of Superheroes check him out—a necessary prelude before inviting him to join.

  He came from Missouri. He’d majored in physics at Washington University and become a pilot for the Air Force. And when he’d flown through some odd smoke after a strafing run on a terrorist camp in Slobovia, he’d been changed.

  He didn’t need a plane to fly anymore.

  His power was real—that wasn’t the problem with him—but he was cocky and impulsive, and she’d seen a hundred other metas like him. He was in this for the ego, not to help people. “Marta,” Sullivan said, appearing out of nowhere. Flying meant no footsteps, but she was usually good at hearing the change of wind that meant a flyer was coming up on her. It annoyed her beyond words that he’d gotten by her.

  “You’re early.”

  “I figured it was a less egregious crime than being late.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the big chair—bigger than the other chairs ringing the table because she was in charge of the alliance. “How about being on time? No crime there.”

  “What did I do to piss you off?” He sat down in the chair next to her without being asked: that also annoyed her.

  “I don’t get pissed off, Sullivan. I don’t allow myself to. Self-control is key when we’ve got the powers we have.”

  “And what powers do you have, exactly?” His smile was a snotty one, and she could hear the unsaid, “Other than being an uber bitch?” “Here you are the leader, and you don’t appear to be meta in any way.”

  “Someday, you and I will have a go in the gym, and I can show you just how little use meta really is compared to a well-trained body and a disciplined mind.” She leaned forward. “But that pleasure will have to wait. The members have voted you in.”

  “And you had to deliver the news yourself?”

  She let one side of her mouth slip up—it was a creepy smile, and she knew that because she practiced it in the mirror. Everything about her was creepy—the black uniform and mask she wore when working, the way she moved, her silence as she fought. She’d never taken on a name, let people call her whatever they wanted: she didn’t need some fancy title to strike fear in bad guys’ hearts. She’d just be herself, and she wouldn’t go away until someone got lucky and took her out.

  The way they’d taken out her husband Peter, a cop, on his way home from a long shift when he’d seen a car run a red, nearly hit
ting an old man in the crosswalk. He’d given chase. He’d caught up.

  They’d gunned him down.

  She hated guns. She hated criminals more.

  She’d found a sensei—took her a while; most wouldn’t deal with a desire to train coupled with the anger and grief she’d carried. The man she’d found had molded her into something hard, something lethal.

  Something that was nothing like this grinning boy-man who could fly but so far showed little else in the way of skills. That said, flying was useful—and he could go damn fast—and muscles could be developed.

  “I’m telling you myself because there are conditions. You can fly, sure. Very fast—but you can’t fight any better than my dead aunt.”

  “Then your dead aunt must have been pretty good.” He wasn’t grinning any longer; Marta had hit the poor boy’s ego.

  “You’ll need to work at it before you become anything more than a prospective member. I have a list of training and who’s offered to teach you what.” She handed him the tablet.

  He read it, then looked back up at her. “Not you?”

  “You’re not ready to be trained by me.”

  A little more of his boyish charm slipped away. “Okay, lady. Let’s go to the gym now. I’ll show you how not ready I am.”

  She gave him a full smile, the one that meant she was actually amused. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “It’s your funeral.” She got up and walked to the gym, not checking to see if he was following.

  He flew, of course. Big show off. He passed her, was in the gym warming up on the punching bag when she walked in. His moves weren’t bad. He had potential. She might not trust his motives—or that he’d be in this for the long haul—but she could see he wasn’t a lost cause.

  And sparring with her would help him understand that he needed work.

  She stood with her arms crossed and watched him.

  “Not going to warm up? Big mistake, Marta.”

  She shrugged. He didn’t need to know every move she made was a warm-up. Sitting didn’t have to be resting. Walking could be an exercise in discipline. Reaching for something, extending the arm, rising on tiptoes, could be more than just grabbing a mug someone had left too high.

  Her sensei had wanted her to always be ready. Always being ready meant never relaxing. It took her forever to fall asleep at night, and she usually woke up many times—the sound of anything unusual was enough to pull her violently from sleep.

  Sullivan left the punching bag, did a few stretches, and then walked over. “Whenever you’re ready. Ladies first… do your worst.”

  She didn’t move. “You’re the guest here. You start this.”

  He telegraphed his first punch so clearly she barely had to move to slide out of the way, easing her body and head back, her feet never leaving the mat. His next two punches were equally amateurish.

  She waited until he frowned and seemed ready to fight with a bit more strategy before she whipped around in a tight, fast turn and knocked him halfway across the mats with a sharp kick to his side.

  His grunt as he hit the floor was extremely satisfying. He got up, rubbing his side, clearly having no idea how carefully she’d pulled the kick, how his ribs would now be cracked if she’d wanted to really hurt him.

  He came at her more slowly this time. She’d give him that: he learned from his mistakes.

  It didn’t help him. She blocked his punch, twisted his arm—but not enough to break his wrist—and sent him crashing to the mat again. She danced out of the way, making the “come on, come get me” gesture with her fingers that had infuriated her when her sensei had done it to her when she’d been learning to fight.

  It clearly got to Sullivan, too. He charged her, this time feinting left, then going in for the real hit. She caught his fist with her open hand, twisted and let his momentum carry him around her. A chop on his back face-planted him into the mat.

  His back would hurt like hell, but she’d held the hit—it could have been much worse, the kind someone wouldn’t die from but also wouldn’t ever get up from.

  He was breathing hard and didn’t try to stand. She sat next to him and touched him on the temple. “This is half your problem. You’re cocky—you think you’ll always win. We don’t. We just fight until that moment comes when it’s over for us.”

  “Bleak outlook,” he managed to say between huffs of what sounded like pain.

  “Realistic outlook.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Do you need help?”

  If she thought he did, she wouldn’t have asked. She’d have just gotten him down to the infirmary and treated him.

  “Nope. Nope. I’m good. Probably do a set of weights before I go.”

  She laughed, a spontaneous sound she was shocked to have made.

  “Wow, you do have a sense of humor after all.” He rolled to his back and looked up at her. “Thought maybe you’d forgotten to get in line for one, overachieving in the fighting as you are.”

  “Humor is useless.” Peter had been funny. He’d made her laugh a lot. Where had it gotten him?

  “Sometimes, humor is the only weapon we have.” He sat up with a groan. “Like now. Holy crap, lady. Don’t pull your punches or anything.”

  She let an eyebrow go up and gave him the one-sided creepy smile again. “Oh, Sullivan, I was going easy on you.”

  His look of dismay gave her way too much satisfaction, but she enjoyed it anyway as she left him to get up on his own.

  ***

  Marta Livacek was an enigma and not just because Tom was getting nowhere in his charm campaign. It seemed like no one charmed her; she stayed at the edges of group functions, her smile a half one. He’d only seen her laugh once, and it’d been after she kicked the crap out of him in the training room.

  Hell, he might be the only person who’d ever seen her amused in the alliance’s polar headquarters. Her husband probably had seen her laugh—Tom knew her history, and it was grim. But it had been ten years ago. Grieving was one thing, but she’d made this into a vendetta, even though the first thing she’d done was to catch the lowlifes who’d shot her husband to death.

  She never let go of her hate, her anger. She might think she was under control, but he’d seen guys like her when he was a pilot. They cracked up eventually—no one could keep so much emotion in all the time.

  “Big thoughts?” Felix, the gargantuan half-man, half—something else, but Tom wasn’t sure what—loaded more weight on the barbell Tom was hoisting. Felix had taken a shine to Tom, reminded him of some of his pilot buddies back in the day, only a lot bigger than any of them.

  “A little spotting would be nice.” He tried to remember the right way to breathe when hefting weights—he’d done all this in flight school. You had to be stronger than people thought when you were pulling aerial miracles out of your ass in high-G. But he’d never tried to get as strong as Marta wanted him to be.

  After a few fights for the alliance, he knew why she wanted him strong. He was starting to think his best use was as transport—he’d lost every fight he’d been in.

  “Impressive.” It was her voice. It wasn’t a particularly sexy voice—why did it give him chills? And not just the creepy, “must you sneak up on me all the time?” kind.

  “Thanks,” he managed to get out as he pressed the barbell up a little more.

  “Tom’s doing great.” Felix was the only one who never sounded like she scared him. “I keep adding weight, and he keeps lifting it.”

  “Don’t break him.”

  “Would… you… care?” Tom set the bar on the rest and tried not to look like he wanted nothing more than a cold beer, a hot shower, and a corner to collapse in, and not necessarily in that order.

  Marta shot Felix a look Tom couldn’t read, and the big guy skedaddled.

  “Wow. You have them all trained, don’t you? So are you kicking me out of the tree fort? Did you bring a pink slip?”

  She laughed again. It was a startl
ingly engaging sound. “Amazingly, no. You’ve been working hard, and that’s not gone unnoticed.”

  A sneaky way to not say she’d noticed. He let his mouth turn up into a smirk to show her he was wise to her ways.

  She rolled her eyes and walked to the window overlooking the ice. “I like how you’ve gelled with the teams you’ve worked with.”

  “Thanks.” He sat up and grabbed his towel. “But what do you really want?”

  She turned to look at him, and he was caught by the sharpness of her features. On anyone else, they’d be too severe, but somehow she made them work. Maybe it was because they went so well with her nearly omnipresent scowl.

  “I didn’t think you’d work out.”

  “Not a newsflash, toots.”

  This time her laugh was more a puff of air—a sound of disbelief. He’d noticed no one else teased her, gave her guff right back to her. Did she like it when he did?

  “Well, I guess I just wanted to say I’m changing my mind.” She headed for the door.

  “Thanks.” He waited until she was almost out to say, “Had to come by personally and tell me? Right this minute? It couldn’t wait till later?” He gave her his best cocky, “I’m a pilot, ask me how” grin.

  She glanced back at him, her own smile a smirk now. “I know how needy you flyboys are.”

  Then she was gone, and a moment later Felix wandered back in.

  “We’re done for the day, buddy. I can’t take any more.”

  “I know. I just wanted to say… she likes you.”

  “Uh huh. And pigs will fly with me next mission.”

  “No, really. I can tell.”

  Tom snapped his towel at Felix’s massive thigh. “Got a new superpower? Matchmaking?”

  Felix shook his head and started his own workout, leaving Tom to cool down, Felix’s words having way more impact than they should.

  There was no way Marta liked him.

  Was there?

  ***

  Marta made her way carefully down the track of the hill, trying to ignore how much every muscle in her body seemed to hurt after the blow the alliance had just struck at the latest group of super-powered—if also super-stupid—villains. She winced as she stepped wrong—they might not have been loaded in the brains department, but these guys had packed a lot into their punches. And she’d been in the thick of it, of course.