Project Northwoods (99 page)

The rooftop on the apartment building provided Aeschylus the view of the battle he needed. He arrived in time to see Zealot go slack, his daughter standing above his form before beating his corpse. It was a scene from his past, played out in reverse. The hero defeated, the villain triumphant. His shame over disappointing Ariana was enough to overwhelm his anger that she had chosen to stay in New York City to see this thing through.

Forgive my weakness, Ari
.

The power armor was hot, heavy, ugly, and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Aeschylus paced as he watched the riot continue to unfold below him. An occasional Bestowed attack would burst bright enough to illuminate his jury-rigged suit in all of its hastily assembled glory: layers of multicolored dingy metal soldered onto others; joints reinforced by scrap; jagged steel teeth biting into the air; a pair of too-large metallic gauntlets with delicate, articulate fingers to handle the finer aspects of the suit’s operation. Even when he would stop moving, the hum of bio-feedback was audible, the hastily assembled system thrumming with the hope for his redemption.

With a tremendous, guttural roar, Arbiter exploded out of the Heroes’ Guild and crashed into the midst of the combatants. They scattered from his form, Aeschylus feeling their fear as his heart thundered against the metal suit. He inhaled, his body shaking with natural adrenaline and fear, and held his breath as he fitted his head-covering helmet on. With a snap and a whir, it secured itself into place.

There’s no going back
. The thought hung fatalistically in his head as he took several steps back. He rolled his shoulders and pressed a button on the wrist of his suit. A burst of stimulant silently flooded his system. His fingers flexed, and he ran toward the edge of the roof, flinging himself off. His suit-enhanced muscles screamed at the exertion as he heard, not felt, the wind whip by.

Arbiter’s voice resolved in his in-helmet speakers. “Stand down!” he roared, his voice booming even above the continued clashing of distant fights. “This insolence may not be–”

Aeschylus’s fist slammed into Arbiter’s face, flinging the hero end-over-end as Aeschylus continued rocketing toward the ground, cratering the pavement. The impact worked over his shins something fierce, but the chemicals in his system dulled the pain as he rose to his feet. Arbiter was already up, sneering. “The time has come, Arbiter,” Aeschylus said, his voice crackling as it filtered through the helmet.

“Coward,” Arbiter hissed. “Once I rip you out of that suit, you’re a dead man, Inventor.”

“That’s the plan,” Aeschylus replied. The two launched at each other, Arbiter’s fist crunching into his head as his own punch rammed into the hero’s unarmored stomach.

Allison only realized no one was firing back at her anymore when the slide of her gun remained locked in its open position, the barrel smoking gently. She scanned the quiet auditorium in quick, darting motions. She swallowed. “If you’re not dead yet,” she began as she ejected the empty magazine, “let me know where you’re hiding so I can fix that.” Her right hand, slick with blood, pulled another mag of ammo from a pouch on her belt.

“Ah, ah, ah,” came the condescending voice of Catalina from the darkness. With a synchronized pop, the four faint red lights of the cameras faded out. The lights of the auditorium snapped on to full brightness, temporarily blinding Allison. Disoriented, she tried to finish reloading, but someone smashed a rifle butt across her face, sending her to the floor as her gun spun away from her grasp.

Get up… don’t die on the ground…
she thought, scrambling back up. She opened her eyes, the shadowy figures resolving into the familiar shapes of three of her former goons, Mat, and Catalina.

“Long time no see, sissy,” Catalina hissed. On her head, night vision goggles pointed toward the ceiling. No doubt that’s how she managed hit Allison’s arm in the darkness of the auditorium. Her rifle was strapped across her back, slung loosely for easier access.

“You… fucking bitch…” Allison snarled. “Why?” she croaked as a tear fell down her cheek. The sensation made her prickle with anger. “Why?” she screamed.

Catalina shrugged as Mat walked up behind her, checking the upper levels for movement. “Money, mostly. You see, someone was very keen on making sure you didn’t survive this.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling, as though remembering something. “Fun, too.” She took out her pistol. “Also, and this is probably the biggest reason, I hate your fucking guts.” Allison squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her face. “And that’s why I should have been the leader. You don’t see me crying.” She brought the gun up and alternated between aiming at Allison’s head and her gut. “The big question here is whether or not to make you suffer.”

Archetype shoved Claymore upright against the wall as the younger man struggled against him. The slender man rose to his feet and regarded Claymore. “Since I can’t puppeteer any Enforcers to do my dirty work, I’ll have to kill you myself.” His voice was almost musically malevolent. “Unbelievably tedious.”

“You tried to have me killed, didn’t you?” Claymore said, a tear rolling down his cheek as he pulled the stiletto out of his gut. All he had to do was wait until his nerve endings healed… and it would be quite some time.

“Most certainly. But your spastic flailing resulting in the murder of Officer Johnson was… unforeseen.” He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, reveling in the sound of his own voice. “Despite your idiocy, it appears to have all worked out in the end,” he mused, kneeling by Claymore’s unnecessarily large sword. He grabbed the handle and rose to his feet. “I had hoped you would have had some degree of self-preservation and go along with the official report.” He pivoted and leveled the sword menacingly at the hero. “But I’m sure we’ll find another way to keep you quiet, eh?”

“No one will believe you, fuckwit,” Claymore spat.
I need time… just keep him talking.

Allison’s eyes opened, glittering with tears. “I’ll always love you, Catalina.”

Catalina snorted. “Suffer it is.” She closed the distance and shoved her gun underneath the bottom of the bulletproof vest. She squeezed the trigger and Allison collapsed, clutching her gut. She wailed in agony as she writhed on the floor, blood pooling underneath her. Catalina knelt by her side. Their eyes met. “There.” The younger sister pointed at her. “That’s what you stole from me.”

“We should move,” Mat said, gesturing with his head toward the door Arthur had escaped through.

Catalina got to her feet. “Spoilsport.” She took several long strides to the front of the group when gunfire erupted from the auditorium. Catalina wheeled around and opened fire without aiming at anything in particular. With a puff of blood, one goon fell to the stage. His partner tried to assist him only to have his jaw explode. He collapsed near his fallen comrade.

Mat moved in front of the last goon as she turned to run. He tried to get a bead on their attacker, but the gunman had disappeared behind cover. “I know that’s you, Steven!” he screamed, firing his rifle into the air. “Fight me like a man!”

“We have work to do, Maty!” shouted Catalina. Mat growled and ran back to Catalina, past his cohort. Another bark of gunfire, and the goon fell to the ground screaming, a chunk of her leg pulsing blood onto the floor. He turned to the woman and offered his hand, even as his brother pelted bullets at them. The goon reached for his hand before a gunshot near Mat’s ear made her go lax. Catalina yanked Mat back, smoking gun in hand. “Leave the fucking red shirt, dipshit.”

“I think you’ll find that your ill-explained confession to Gunslinger makes my version of events more credible,” Archetype said with a chuckle. “With you out of the picture, the narrative is simplified. Poor Claymore, racked with survivor’s guilt, falls on his own sword when confronted with the trials of heroism.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It will at least make a fascinating human interest piece.”

Something stuck out to Claymore, distracting him. “Simplify the…” The idea clicked. “You’ve been killing the members of the unit that you controlled… so the real memories wouldn’t surface.”

Archetype’s teeth shone menacingly between his lips. “Your thesis isn’t perfect, but it’s mostly correct.”

“I’m going to go ahead and assume then,” Zombress’s voice interjected, startling the two men, “that you were the one who convinced the consuls that I was going to attack them that night.” Zombress was somehow seated on the ceiling, nudging a camera idly toward them with one hand while she scanned the cuticles of the other. Her head slowly turned toward Archetype.

The psychomancer’s smile grew darker. “I couldn’t have you dangling there doing nothing. Not when Arbiter needed a show of force to secure his High Consulship. And making people believe you attempted mass murder…”

She laughed haughtily. “I do not attempt anything.” Zombress pushed herself off the ceiling and landed on the floor in a crouch. “If I wanted anyone dead, they would be.”

“Your arrival is quite fortuitous, Queen of the Dead,” Archetype said, tossing the sword to the floor. “I won’t have to stage this suicide at all, now.” He held his hands outward, projecting himself mentally toward Zombress.