Project Northwoods (75 page)

EMPRESS

ARTHUR, AGENT MAST, AND STAIR TRAVELED
through the subway in order to bypass what they assumed would be regular patrols on the surface. Once within a more comfortable distance of Ariana’s childhood home, they made their way topside. Instead of the heretofore typical sight of escorted real estate agents or patrolling heroes, the streets were surprisingly still. Off in the distance, a wary dog made its way across the street, seemingly oblivious to the trio as they darted from alley to alley. Despite the oddness of it all, Arthur was grateful for the reprieve, mostly due to the weight of Mollie on his back and Stair’s ankle slowing them down.

It was nearly noon, judging by the height of the sun. The heat was beginning to grow almost unbearable in direct light, which would have been alright had they not had to abandon shadow to cross the street. After agonizing minutes of crossing the streets while looking out for errant heroes, they were staring at the house, nestled amongst others of similar sizes.

“I don’t know,” Stair muttered. “I’m starting to think this is a bad idea.”

“You may be right,” Arthur grunted in agreement. “It doesn’t make sense that she’d still be there.”

“Yes, it does,” Mast countered, her eyes squarely fixed on the house. “It’s the first place the heroes would look during a sweep, and they won’t get back to it for a while.”

Arthur decided not to respond; he’d had enough talking back at the apartment and just wanted to do something, anything. Now, he felt sick to his stomach, if not for the fact that getting caught would prove disastrous, then for the fact that facing Ariana for the first time since… well… since she slapped him, didn’t fill him with joy.

Before he could say anything to modify the plan to exclude Ariana, Mast was crossing the street in a jog. Arthur and Stair exchanged glances before trying to catch up. What passed as a lawn in New York City was surprisingly kempt for well over a week of neglect. The under-manicured grass, however, was the least victimized part of the property. Graffiti covered the walls and one of the windows, several others of which were broken.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Arthur muttered.

Agent Mast was at the door, hand on the latch and ear pressed against the wood. She tried it, but stopped when it resisted. Without a word, she passed to the closest broken window at the front of the house. She leaned down, looking through the curtains wafting in the wind. Carefully, she stuck her head through the window and looked down at the floor. “Huh.”

Arthur took a step forward as Mast turned and scanned the ground. “What?” he asked.

Mast found a suitably heavy chunk of rock, grabbed it, turned, and stuck it through the window. She released the stone and, with a loud rusty clack, something shut loudly. “Bear trap.” She turned and smiled at Arthur. “Still think no one’s home?” She clambered into the house through the broken window, Arthur sneering. Stair looked at him for a moment before following the woman inside.

Arthur almost stumbled over the disarmed trap, but managed to make it look intentional. Not that it mattered: Stair was immediately drawn to the family pictures hanging on the walls. Mast had her sidearm out, checking the adjacent room carefully. He found himself in a sparse living room, devoid of much save for the photos and a television stand lacking a television. A long-unused fireplace squatted dustily in the opposite corner, a chilly draft emanating from within. To its side was a rack holding a tiny broom but missing its poker.

It didn’t take long for Arthur to ascertain where the furniture had gone, for he could see it wedged into the entry hallway in order to blockade the front door. Whoever was staying here was determined to continue to do so.

“All the other windows have traps in front of them, too,” Mast said quietly. “Broken glass… nail boards.” She looked around another corner and disappeared from sight. “Someone’s been here!” she shouted. “There’s a warm tea kettle on the burner.”

Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes. “The plot thickens.”

“Can you believe this?” Stair said. She took a picture off the wall and moved to Arthur. He looked down at it. Ariana and a man he now recognized as Purgatory’s Inventor were smiling at each other, a baby situated between them. No… it wasn’t Ariana at all. “They look practically identical.”

“That must be her…” Arthur mused, taking the picture from Stair. “Who knew she’d grow up to be such a bit…” he trailed off. A month ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about joking about her like that. Now he felt terrible for even daring to impugn her name. “Carbon copy.”

Stair looked at him, an unknowable tight-lipped smile on her face. “Smooth, Art.”

Agent Mast appeared in the hallway, looked around the room to the far side, and cast a glance at the others. “All clear, save for the traps.” She moved to the hall, peering up the thin staircase before focusing on a door next to her. “We check the basement first, then work our way upstairs.” She pulled a small flashlight from inside her trench coat and brought it up, bracing her gun hand while shining the light forward at the door. “Follow.”

The door creaked quietly, but noticeably, as Mast entered the darkened cellar. The wooden steps squeaked under her weight, then Arthur’s, then Stair’s. It was slow going, Mast carefully checking each platform before putting her foot down. She stopped at the tenth one down, motioned for the others to be wary, and skipped the step. Arthur and Stair followed suit, Stair’s hand working into Arthur’s shirt for leverage.

The basement itself was suitably large, though cluttered. Lengths of wood, insulation, filing cabinets, an old refrigerator, a washer, a dryer, and a freezer all competed for space. A pungent smell had only recently been ousted, and the faintest remnant of it still clung to the air and bit at the assembled’s nostrils. The few windows which were visible were also covered from the inside with trash bags, sealing out daylight.

“Miss Brown? This is Agent Mast. Do you remember me?” Agent Mast called out after a few moments of silently scanning the room with her flashlight. “I’m not here to arrest you. I just want to talk.”

A few more seconds of silence passed. Arthur grunted. “She’s not here…”

“You have a lot of balls showing your face, Arthur Lovelass,” Ariana said in the darkness, startling everyone. Mast snapped the light toward the sound of her voice. Ariana stepped out from behind a water heater, eyes focused intently forward at the flashlight, unseeing but fierce. Her face was dirty, her hair wild, but she still maintained a dignity belying her situation. “You can turn off the light,” she said with a great deal of animosity as she walked toward a small generator. In two pulls, the machine roared to life, and Mast flicked off her flashlight while Ariana flicked a switch, illuminating a work lamp above her. She turned to her guests, her arms folded as she nudged a nearby lawn chair with her foot. “Make this quick. Fuel isn’t a luxury I prefer to waste.”

No one spoke for what seemed like ages. Ariana rolled her eyes and went to cut the generator when Arthur finally stepped forward. “Wait.”

“You’re the one who chooses to talk?” Ariana’s eyes went up to him, penetrating in their anger. “Hitler would have made a better spokesman,” she muttered as she rose from her stoop.

Arthur ignored the comment. “There’s something bigger than you and me going on right now, Ari.”

She squinted at him. “Really, shit for brains?” She put her hands on her hips. “I had no idea.”

“I’m serious, Ariana.” His voice had an edge to it. “All the villains in the Fortress are under a death sentence, and they don’t even know it.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And is this new peril your fault, too?” Arthur didn’t say anything, instead breaking eye contact in favor of the floor. Ariana couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculousness of it. “No way.” A laugh, bitter and cold, left her lips. She turned toward the lawn chair. “You are the worst fucking wannabe villain in history,” she said, falling into the seat.

“It’s the death ray, Ari.”

“Your unstoppable kill gun?” She scoffed. “Well, fuck me. Who’d have thought that was a bad idea, eh?”

“Ariana, I don’t think you’re seeing the gravity of the situation,” Arthur said, voice straining with anger.

“Oh, that is rich, coming from you.” She leaned forward, her face dangerous and unreadable. “If you had just let this bullshit dream go when it made sense to, we would all be running free. Tim would be alive.” With a curt nod toward Stair, she continued, “So would that girl’s father.” Her eyes flashed to Stair. “I’m sorry, by the way.” The girl nodded, then looked away.

Agent Mast took a step forward. “But we have a chance to save the lives of those who are left. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Ariana cocked her head toward the other woman. “Should it?”

“What about you father?” Arthur asked.

She bolted out of the chair so fast that Arthur had no time to move out of the way. Without warning, she was in his face, close enough that he felt her anger bleeding off of her. “Do. Not. Bring him into this.” Somehow, she found a way to get closer to him. “You already did once, which put him in danger to begin with.” Her voice had dropped to a low growl. “He doesn’t need anyone’s help. Least of all yours.” She took a step backward before turning away. “Or mine.”

“This is the kind of crisis when we need to stick together, Ariana,” Stair said softly. Ariana turned toward her, slowly. “Whatever villains remain in this city can’t afford to let personal conflicts divide us.”

Ariana snorted in disgust. “What is it that you propose?” She shook her head and brought up her hand, ticking off a finger. “The League of Ineffective Villainy?” Another one. “The Worthless Bestowed Brigade?” She made a too-joyous face and clapped her hands, once, keeping them together in front of her. “I know! Team Everyone We Love Dies.” She gestured to her shirt. “It’ll look great on a t-shirt.”

“If you want to stay here and wallow in self-pity, I will be more than happy about that,” Agent Mast snarled. “But your father will be a prime target for the heroes and an ally we will need. Where is he?”

Her eyes rolled over toward Mast and blinked, slowly, ponderously. “I don’t know. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” She swallowed and turned toward Arthur. “People have fucked up his life more than enough already.”

Arthur shook his head. “What happened to you?”

Ariana’s attention focused on him as she gave a weak smile. “My reason for living was taken from me.” Her breathing was raspy, almost forced. “The only person I have to thank for that is you. You can go off and get killed if you want.” She turned back toward the chair. “I’m already dead.” With a despondent plop, she collapsed in the seat.

He stared at her, and something inside him shuddered in despair. Ariana, for better or worse, was one of the strongest people he knew. And to see her, slouched in a chair, eyes full of something he couldn’t quite place, was depressing and frightening all at once. His heart ached, yearned for her to return to the woman he knew, but she was steadfast in her transformation, staring at him, loathing everything including herself.

Arthur turned toward the stairs. “We’re done here.”

Agent Mast turned back to him. “What? We need to…”

“There’s nothing to say.” He took a plodding, defeated step toward the exit. Stair’s eyes darted between him and Ariana before she chose to follow him.

Mast turned to Ariana confrontationally. “You’re nothing like your father.” The Agent grabbed the railing and pulled herself toward it.

The creak of wood spurred Ariana. “Wait,” she muttered before she could catch herself. Everyone stopped and looked at her, prompting her to drop her eyes to the floor. “The last I saw of the Italian Mob, they were holed up in the Super Villains’ Guild. If there’s anyone who knows anything… they’d be there.”

The pause was heavy and unrelenting. Finally, Agent Mast nodded before moving back up. “Thanks.”

“And you’re wrong.” A barely measureable pause followed. “My father and I both failed to save the one we love.” It was devoid of emotion, a simple explanation of the way things were. “I am exactly like him.” Her hand went to the generator and, with a click, the light was extinguished.

Ariana didn’t wait long once she knew the others were out of the house. She quickly made her way up the booby-trapped steps and went back into the kitchen where she had been when she first heard someone fiddling with the front door’s latch. Instincts had kicked in and she bolted toward the basement, hoping that it was just a looter about to have his foot snapped off. At worst, it would have been another Enforcer sweep team. Once they had seen or fallen victim to one of the traps, it would have been all over. But she’d at least take out a few of the more careless ones.

The pale green tea kettle was still sitting on the stove’s burner, exactly where she had left it. She had been grateful for the fact that it was a gas stove, making power outages slightly less obnoxious than what they would have been otherwise. Ariana opened a drawer and pulled out the box of matches, grunting at the sight of the rapidly dwindling supply. Tea, in lieu of all the liquor that had mysteriously vanished from stores, had been a constant habit since she made her way back to the house.