Origins of a D-List Supervillain (6 page)

The armored bus went through four checkpoints on the way in. Each one was a twenty minute inspection. At the third one, a small truck dragged up a small rubber coated platform with two conductive poles. They ushered Pulsive up to the platform and made him discharge his energy. It was actually pretty cool.

“Doesn’t that get old?” I asked him when they brought him back onto the bus.

“I’m not worried,” he said, ignoring the US Marshals around him. “They’ll screw up at some point. They always do. I just have to be patient. I’m Eddie. What are you in for?”

“Cal Stringel,” I answered. “Bank robbery.”

“First timer, huh?”

“Yeah, what’s it like?” I’d seen the documentary the Hero Channel had made about The Pit, but that only told the sanitized version for the public.

“Well, since you don’t look like you have any powers, you’ll probably end up as someone’s bitch.”

That didn’t sound fun.

He paused to see my reaction before laughing and saying, “Hah, you totally fell for that! It’s not so bad. They’ll try a bunch of that therapy bullshit on you to see if you can be rehabilitated. Me? I’m still serving my three hundred year sentence, so every time I get caught, they just bring me right on back and we play this little cat and mouse game all over again.”

Eddie was an unrepentant criminal, and I just wasn’t there yet. He would have no qualms pulling daylight bank robberies or even killing someone who got in his way. Also, he seemed like a colossal ass.

“So, any advice for the newbie?”

“Find someone to teach you the ropes; it’s better to make friends inside than it is to make enemies. Most won’t do anything when we’re being watched twenty-four seven by the man, but they’ll remember you when you get on the outside and settle the score then. I hear that no one ever makes parole the first time around, wouldn’t know myself, of course, but that’s what they say.”

I wouldn’t be eligible until after two years, so I’d have some time to think about it. “Thanks for the info.”

“No problem. Inside, we villains try to stick together. Outside, is a whole ‘nother story.”

• • •

After passing through the fourth and final checkpoint, I got my first close up look at The Pit. The walls didn’t look as high as they did in that documentary, and I’d be willing to bet that they used some clever camera angles and touched up the images using editing software.

As they took me to “In Processing,” Eddie went straight to the main building where the sole access to the lower levels resided. Everything else up top had a very mundane appearance—admin buildings and the like. I thought it looked mostly harmless.

Ninety minutes later, after being deloused, subjected to a strip search as well as a cavity probe, I had a new definition for the term mostly harmless.

“Prisoner number eight four seven two six ready for transport below.” The ever-present marshal said to the female platform operator.

They ran me through another whole body imager before the operator was satisfied.

“Proceed to the center of the platform, and make no other actions or you will be fired upon.”

That was about the time I noticed the gun emplacements ringing the room. It was a hodgepodge of weaponry covering the gamut of the imagination. They had two turrets with fifty caliber machine guns, a pair of twenty millimeter cannons, lasers, masers, plasma cannons, pulse cannons, sonics, gas grenade launchers, and at least three things that I couldn’t immediately identify. The engineering nerd in me could have spent hours up here inspecting their defenses. The criminal in me didn’t like the way the weapons tracked my every movement.

Guess which one won?

In the center of this giant circle was something that resembled an over-sized port-a-potty. It was the elevator down. The documentary showed they had rooms where they simulated the outdoors, but odds were that I’d seen my last bit of sunlight for the foreseeable future. Two armed guards in Pummeler Exosuits rode down with me. They were militarized Waldos using Promethia’s synthetic muscles to enhance their strength. They’re presence wasn’t as intimidating to me. I’d even used the commercial versions before, at Promethia, but I knew that either of those two ‘roid ragers piloting those Pummelers would have no problem ripping my arm from its socket, if he chose to.

Unlike regular elevators, there was no control panel inside, only an indicator of what floor we were on.

I watched with interest as we descended all the way down to level fourteen, only two levels from the very bottom. One of the surprising things about The Pit was that they housed the more threatening prisoners on the higher levels. At first even I couldn’t understand it, until I realized that the more powerful villains, like Eddie, wouldn’t bother going down to free all the lightweights. Instead, they’d try to head for the surface and not try to start a prison riot. From that perspective, it made plenty of sense.

As the armored door opened, one of the men in the Pummelers addressed me. “Welcome to your new home Eight Four Seven Two Six. There’s an orientation film in the room directly ahead of you. Watch it, or don’t. It doesn’t really matter. Your cell number is contained in your welcome packet. All prisoners are to be in their cells at nine p.m. If you’re not, a squad of Pummelers comes down and either gets you to your cell, or the infirmary.”

With that, I was shoved out, hard, by one and the other kicked the plastic tub containing my prison uniforms, daily essentials, and processing paperwork at me like a soccer ball. It missed, but just barely and emptied the contents onto the ground. The two shared a laugh while the door slid shut and left me there.

• • •

“You get the top bunk, new meat,” the man inside the cell said. He took up most of the cell. The guy was built like an offensive lineman and had long, dirty blond hair and a bushy beard.

“Hey, I’m Cal Stringel,” I tried to be nice to “Grizzly Adams.”

“Bobby Walton, but everybody calls me Hillbilly Bobby.”

I searched my mind for anything ATAI might have mentioned about this guy, but absolutely
nada
was there.

“So, what’re you in for?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t rightly know,” he said. “There was all them bank robberies, the destruction of public property, and a whole bunch of things.”

“I’m sort of a bank robber myself,” I admitted. “Got caught on my first job, though.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

He asked what I could do, and I answered that I invented stuff. On the other hand, Bobby could lift five or six tons. He ran afoul of the Gulf Coast Guardians when he was working with another villain and I was forced to confess that the Biloxi Bugler took me down.

“I’ve fought him before,” Bobby said. “He don’t look like much, but he’s real tricky like. Slipperier than a greased pig.”

Bobby took me on a tour and showed me where the cafeteria, gym, recreation room, and the automated dispensary were. The prisoners were actually in charge down here. He knew where the library was, but had never gone in. The only time the guards and staff came down was after lights out and lockdown. They refilled the automated dispensers and left before the cells opened again. Our therapy sessions took place via video teleconferencing; there was little or no chance of taking someone hostage.

“What happens if the prisoners break the rules?”

Bobby looked at me and said, “Last time we did that, they didn’t refill the dispensers for two days. Things got a little tense down here when the food started running out. They also shut off the shitter pumps and that got everyone’s attention real quick-like.”

For the first few days, I kept my head down. There were forty-six prisoners on this level. Most had minor powers, but some were just average schmucks like me. Bobby could probably take on three or four of those guys in the Pummeler suits.

On the third day, I was asking Bobby what he thought I could have done differently and he laughed, before saying, “You’re a smart guy, Cal, but you’re stupid. You didn’t have a hideout. They got all the cash and stolen goods back, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said, not enjoying the feeling of a guy who didn’t finish seventh grade tell me what a rube I was.

“Shit! Always, and I mean always, have a hidden stash. You should’ve hooked up with someone real to be a driver.”

“I didn’t have any connections!” I protested.

“Well, that’s what you need to do while you’re here, build up a bunch of contacts. The big boys a few levels up are always hiring us little guys to steal them something or get revenge on someone who did them dirty. A guy like you could make a pretty penny just building stuff for people. Probably a lot less risk and a lot more reward doing that. I’m up for my second parole board in six months, but I’ll do my best to get you in the know before I get my sweet ass outta here.”

Damned if he didn’t have a point. I could learn a lot from a bumpkin like him. My Mr. Miyagi was more likely to swill moonshine than drink hot tea, but it was a start.

• • •

“Mr. Stringel,” Doctor Ingalls said on the other side of the screen. “You seem to have considerable unresolved tension with the Promethia Corporation. Before you can make any real progress, you have to confront and overcome this.”

“Doc,” I said. “You’ve obviously never had someone both figuratively and literally ruin your life, take your work, and lie about it just so they could make a buck.”

The older black man with white hair shook his head and said, “Mr. Stringel, I was just a young child during the Civil Rights movement, but I saw enough of ignorant people trying to ruin my life and my whole family’s life, so I’ll give you something you probably need to hear. The world does not revolve around you. The sun does not rise and set just for you. You tried to take the easy way out and gave in to your ego. Lazarus Patterson and his employees did not put you in prison; you did that all by yourself. If you don’t own your past, you can never hope to own your future.”

“I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on that one for now,” I replied to the sanctimonious prick on the other end.

“This is a journey, Calvin. You’re not going to get there in a week, or even a year. I can’t change the way you think. I don’t have any kind of superpowers, but I can work with you until you are ready to change the way you think. We’ve got a few minutes left, so let’s change the topic; have you written your parents yet, as we discussed in our last session?”

If he didn’t have the answer already, he probably wasn’t a very good head doctor.

“No, they don’t want any contact with me. Dad made that clear when he visited me in jail.”

“Once again, your actions have wider ramifications. If you want to heal that breach with your parents, you’re the one who’s going to have to make the first moves. They may not even respond at first, but that’s another thing you’ve got to work on.”

It sounded like good advice, but my parents were capable of holding major league grudges. Shrugging, I knew the prison would be reading everything I wrote or I received. The Semi-transparent man gave me some solid advice, resist for the first six months and then gradually give in to let them think they’re breaking you. They can spot someone who is a phony and a suck up.

“Let’s finish up with talking about your time at the prison,” he said. “What are you keeping yourself busy with?”

Considering my movements were followed around the clock, I wondered why he kept asking questions that he already knew the answer to. “I spend a good deal of time in the library. Kind of odd using so many real books when you’re not allowed access to a computer. During the day, I’m working in the prison laundry. It helps to pass the time.”

“Have you considered taking any courses?”

“I was already unemployable with a bachelor’s in electrical engineering with a minor in mechanical. I don’t really see how more education is going to be the answer.”

He gave a deep baritone laugh and said, “I’ll have to write that one down. Calvin Stringel says more education isn’t the answer. That’s priceless!”

• • •

Dear Dad,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but it’s one of those things where I’m at a loss for what to say. Sometimes, I look around and it’s hard to believe I’m where I’m at today.

Okay, my opening lines gave me the “Little Lost Lamb” theme. I guess I need to show that ownership crapola the Doc is always shoveling.

Still, I know it was my actions that put me here and I’m sorry for how it has affected you and Mom. How is she? I figured I’d write you instead of her, because I’m guessing she’d just ball my letter up and toss it in the trash.

This part is an attempt to show I’m contrite and acknowledge the problems between me and Mom.

So, anyway, four months down. This place isn’t so bad. There’s a bit of a pecking order, but that’s mainly between the folks who have powers. Next week, I start teaching a course in Engineering Fundamentals. I’d wanted to teach a computer language, or some basic Electrical Theory, but we’re not allowed to have access to any kind of equipment like that—probably for good reasons.

There was a rumor that Eddie used a computer, even with all the networking gear removed, to escape once. I figured the whole teaching thing would look good at my parole board hearing.

Maybe I can work on getting a teaching certificate, since it’s not like I have a whole bunch of other options. One of the Mexican Villains, El Conquistador, teaches Spanish. I thought about taking his class, but after seven years in Los Angeles, I still have no desire to learn another language.

It was true. I hated languages, other than the computer ones, with a passion. I’d tried one year of Italian that almost cost me Valedictorian at my High School. As for Spanish, the few words I knew were profanity, and that’s the way I wanted it to stay. Teaching? I had no illusions about ever holding a teaching position, but I needed to sound like I had some goals for when I finally did get out.

How are things at the bowling alley? Is Mom’s hip still giving her problems? I understand if you don’t want to write back anytime soon, but I hope to hear from you, and wouldn’t mind some news from the outside world.