Origins of a D-List Supervillain (15 page)

“First, Mr. Patterson, and the company as a whole, extends our thoughts and prayers to the families and friends of those who lost their lives on this terrible day. Even while being treated for his injuries, he wanted to let the world know that Promethia looks out for their own. Today, and the ones that follow, are a time of mourning for our extended family.”

I had my own opinions of how that company really looked out for their employees, but the words I could use probably wouldn’t be aired.

“Is it true that Ultraweapon triggered the detonation to save himself?” One obviously angry reporter interrupted. I recognized the woman who’d been
involved
with the serial womanizer a long time ago and hadn’t particularly taken the breakup very well. Still, this was pretty brazen even for Ms. Bostic. Someone had reached the same conclusion that I did and sent it to a woman who had an emotional ax to grind.

It occurred to me that I needed to get her contact information at some point.

The spokespuppet cleared her throat before saying, “At this time, the authorities have not finished their investigation and it would be unfair, and even hurtful, to those who have lost loved ones to engage in dangerous speculation at this time. Rest assured as the facts become available they will be released to the public.”

Ms. Bostic looked anything but assured and tried to ask another question, but the speaker had moved on to a friendlier question about Mr. Patterson’s injuries. I smelled a plant.

“All I am permitted to say is that his injuries are significant, but not life threatening and he is being treated at an undisclosed location.”

“How long will he be out of action? Is First Aid attending to him?” The same man followed up over Ms. Bostic’s question concerning whether Lazarus would be prepared to shoulder the responsibility for even more blood on his hands. Security was already moving to escort her out of the room. She went willingly, cognizant that being dragged out while frothing at the mouth would undercut her credibility.

Despite the fact that she was clearly out of my league, I now wanted to proclaim my eternal devotion to her.

“I am not at liberty to discuss Ultraweapon’s treatment and whether or not his teammate is with him at this time. Speaking on my own personal behalf I, and probably all of you watching, am wishing Lazarus a swift recovery and look forward to seeing the armored titan patrolling our skies once more. Thank you for coming this morning.”

It was theater, pure and simple. There was a dash of caring mixed with compassion, wrapped in the drama of an implied catfight between two women who’d never give me the time of day. Hell, I even expected that the angry journalist had been allowed to attend in the hopes that her verbal barbs could be spun for sympathy. First Aid was a metahuman who could absorb other people’s injuries and regenerate fairly quickly. Other than his ridiculous pain threshold, he wasn’t worth a piss in a fight, but there was an undeniable reason Lazarus kept him on the West Coast Guardian’s payroll.

The hosts of the Superhero News Channel came back on and did a quick recap of the presser before moving on to the implications of Maxine’s death and how General Devious might respond. For my part, I was still somewhat numb over her loss. Luckily, I’d been too busy constructing the Chilly Pimple and servicing her pistols to make her Boomrings. Whatever unfortunate soul was behind those, he or she probably suffered a great deal before being killed. I was moderately concerned that someone would try and finger me as the reason for her failure and subsequent demise, but I would handle that if and when it became a problem.

Self-preservation—it should be first and foremost when dealing with the big leaguers! Hopefully, I’ll never forget that.

With the death of Maxine, I was now free to pursue other clients. The feeling of freedom from the deceased speedster’s possessiveness was all too bittersweet, but I couldn’t let that get me down. Villains don’t always get away to fight another day. If things were different, the two of us would still be in the bowels of North Dakota. They weren’t and now the industrial park where she died would be another stop on the Battles of Los Angeles tour. There’d be a memorial and a cheesy gift shop.

If I’m the one to finish off Lazarus Patterson, I’d stop by there afterward and pay my respects to Maxine Velocity. She’d come about as close as anyone could get to doing it.

“C’mon, Bobby,” I said, putting my feelings aside, deciding my next move and putting the events in perspective.

“Where’re we going?”

“Her guy should’ve filled the storage unit in Huntsville two days ago. I reckon we should go clear it out before someone else beats us to it.”

The big man scratched his chin. “Now you’re learning, Cal. If you wanna take a trip down to Miami, I might know the address to her penthouse.”

Chapter Eight

The Kansas City Caper

One of the problems I discovered with Maxine’s death was that it was still difficult getting development work. Even though the items I designed performed as advertised, there was still something of a stigma attached to the fact that the speedster perished.

Put simply, her death wasn’t doing my business a lot of good. Feelings aside, being a supervillain was a tough business and your situation could change at a moment’s notice.

It was yet another item to blame on Ultraweapon.

Still, my remaining stock of pulse pistols was selling nicely and I was now free to price them at what I felt they were truly worth, without the fear of Maxine deciding that I didn’t really need all ten fingers. Jetpacks were a commodity, even though they required considerable practice, which allowed me to sell jetpack lessons as an extra source of income.

With my gadget-making career somewhat at a standstill, I had little choice other than putting my powersuit to use.

“Bout damned time you up and decided to start pulling some jobs in that thing!” Bobby exclaimed as he racked up the balls for another game of pool.

It was my turn to break, and I was counting on my brilliant mind and mastery of the principles of engineering to crush my opponent. Also, I was counting on the fact that Bobby had already downed a six pack.

“I’d still rather wait for two additional shield generators so I can use a quadrant-based protection scheme instead of the hemisphere arrangement I currently have,” I said and swiftly realized that I was wasting my time.

Bobby shook his head at either my words or my pathetic opening shot and asked, “Well, are you planning on fighting someone?”

“Uh, no,” I eloquently responded.

“Then let me tell you something—the secret to staying out of prison is simple—try not to get in fights with superheroes. Yeah, sure, every now and then you have to throw down with one, but generally speaking, it’s not a great idea.”

“You’re right,” I conceded and twisted the cap off another beer.
If I can’t beat him, I guess I’ll join him!

“‘Course, I am,” he replied and laughed.

“I guess I’m just nervous. The only other bank job I ever attempted wound up with me being a rather sad looking notch on the Biloxi Bugler’s belt. That’s one experience I don’t plan on repeating.”

“That’s why you gotta man up and start with one! You know; get that monkey off your back first, before you start thinking about revenge on the Bugler, Ultraweapon, and that lawyer fella you’re always going on about.”

Whenever Bobby started making too much sense it was a sure sign that I was already drinking too much and needed to slow down.

Back to the task at hand, I offered, “Maybe I should just start small and rip an ATM right out of the wall.”

With the strength the armor provided it would be a cinch; my own version of the grab and go.

My partner in crime barely gave my compromise any consideration. “Chump change,” he declared and broke his pool stick. “If that’s all you’re after why even waste your time building your fancy suit? You crack open the ATM if you still have a free hand on your way out! Otherwise, you’re just pissing in the wind.”

Shrugging, I quelled my lingering doubts and knew that I should quit while I was ahead, or at least before he started to call me a wussy boy. Instead of my force blasters, I’d built a plasma breeching charge out of some of the miscellaneous parts left over from my weapon building. It was crude, but wouldn’t make the world immediately think that there was someone running around using the same weapons as Lazarus Patterson did. There was no sense in revealing my suit until it was necessary. Bobby asked me if there was a way we could pin it on Seawall, but that sounded a little too complex for my taste, and I told him as much.

I don’t even know what I’m getting all worked up over,
I thought.
It’s not like my target is even in a city. I’m just going to hit a small branch bank in a sleepy little town on the Florida Panhandle about twenty-five minutes away from Pensacola. I’ve even done my homework and made damned sure the chances of me running into a superhero are about as low as possible. Andydroid is in Washington DC playing bodyguard to his creator and most of the Gulf Coast Guardians will be at the Superdome as special guests of the football team there. The only two superheroes in a one hundred and fifty mile radius that I know of are the Bugler or a Manglermal who calls himself The Pelican. The first I wouldn’t mind seeing and the second never really goes after supervillains. He’s more of a DEA agent with wings and a funky helmet that has a taser ray in it. Besides, Pelican never travels farther north than Tampa.

Whether Bobby was right remained to be seen, but I was going to do another bank job.

• • •

Descending, I used my armored foot to kick the camera covering the back of the bank from the wall and landed right at the employee entrance. The breeching charge made me look oddly like a kid carrying a trombone case on his way to band practice—except that my instrument was designed to burn through a steel locking mechanism in less than a minute.

Using one of those ridiculous force clubs I’d made for Bobby, I smashed the door until it gave way under the third blow.

This thing would look so much better on a sledgehammer or a maul,
I thought while ripping the door from the remaining hinge and tossing it aside like it was made of cardboard.

The pressure sprayer mounted on my left arm came to life as I smothered the inside camera with a layer of glossy black, limiting the footage they’d be able to recover of Mechani-CAL in action. Stopping only to knock the warbling alarm out of the wall with the club, I trudged straight to the vault and jammed the flat face of my breeching charge against the area where the locking mechanism went into the frame. When I activated it, hot flames and smoke billowed from the back which would take care of any other cameras trying to see me and also set off the fire alarms.

“Switch to enhanced night vision,” I said and watched my field of vision turn green, loving the voice activated commands. The glow from my breeching charge provided a strange cascade of colors washing over my heads up display as I counted the seconds.

Like clockwork, I was through in one minute. I set the charge down and used both hands to yank the vault open. One of the things that still took some getting used to was, the strength amplification of the suit. It didn’t matter in this instance, but just doing things around our base had caused considerable havoc and kept both Dee and Dum repairing chairs, countertops, and many, many other items as I was still learning how to deal with my newfound strength.

The locker where the stacks of cash were located offered less resistance than your average kitchen pantry door and I began shoving everything inside a flame proof bag. Triggering my sensor array, I looked for any type of transmitters hidden within the loot. Banks, in general, aren’t stupid. They know supervillains are out there and that their vaults aren’t impregnable. To counter us, they rely on technology, although there were rumors that some of the banks on the west coast have a deal with the Grand Vizier and Mystigal to use magical tracking spells on their money, but I was certain that kind of protection didn’t come cheap and a little “Podunk” branch wouldn’t have something like that.

A magnetic field generator,
I thought and located the device on the inside of the cash locker.
That means a transmitter will be active when I pull it out—probably on a timer. No worries, I’ll run it through an industrial magnet in the back of my van while Bobby drives.

Bobby was an upgrade over Tracy, the inflatable getaway driver, and he’d even offered to come to the bank, but I impressed him and insisted that I conquer my fears alone. One might think that was some epic moment where two men came to a powerful and deep understanding...not really.

The truth was, Bobby said, “You want me to tag along in case something goes wrong?”

My reply, “Nah, I got this! Probably better if you stayed with the van parked about twenty miles away.”

“Okay,” he replied and the profound moment was over. We were guys and not even particularly complex ones at that. My partner was a good old boy with more strength than sense and I...well, I guess I’d be classified as a disgruntled genius with a chip on my shoulder about the size of Ultraweapon.

But I now had a full bag of cash that would fill the coffers quite nicely, a bigger haul than one of Bobby’s muscle jobs. Sealing the flap of the bag, I pushed my way out into the burning lobby and scooped up my plasma cutter. A check of the timer showed I was at the four minute mark and needed to hurry. I lumbered back down the hallway and back out the way I came. The moment I reached the back of the building, I triggered my jetpack and got airborne. I’d faced my inner demon and come out of it not a better man, but a wealthier one.

• • •

The arson, combined with the lack of useable video footage, didn’t give the authorities much to go on. I was labeled a mystery criminal who is strong and probably able to fly. I was okay with that. The less seen of me, the better. In fact, I was already trying to work on a better way to take out security cameras. The paint sprayer was good, but when I got back to our base—it was a base now, because hideouts were for chumps—I thought it over and realized that the paint could have easily caught fire from the plasma cutter. Quite frankly, I’d already made the countdown on the
Annual Dumbest Criminals Captured
for my time as ManaCALes, and didn’t want to be remembered as the guy running down the street in a burning power armor suit; with people captioning pictures of me with phrases like EPIC FAIL, STOP, DROP, and TROLL, or WONDER IF MY WIENER IS ROASTING.