Yesterday's Heroes (Consortium of Chaos Book 1) (31 page)

Where the hell were Dauntless or
Redline or Architect or one of the other heavy hitters capable of super-speed
and outrageous displays of power?  If THEY had been here, this chase would have
been over before it begun.  Hell, even
Varmit
would have been better able
to keep up with this guy.  But those guys rarely bothered to actually go out
and do their own jobs, anymore.  Most of them were too busy dealing with their
legal problems to help out, and the rest of them were lazy selfish bastards who
didn’t do anything even under the BEST of circumstances.  No one on the Squad
was communicating anymore, and things were seriously falling apart.  Events
weren’t helped by the fact that so many alarms had gone off at once that it
caused a mad scramble to respond, and no one thought about who should go
where.  The command structure was breaking down.

Sloppy.  And OCD
HATED
sloppy things.  This villain was making them look like fools, and SLOW fools at
that.  He vaulted over the hood of a car, careful not to touch its greasy hood
and caught sight of an aviator’s scarf disappearing into a department store a
block away.

Gotcha.

OCD was as obsessive about fitness
as he was about everything else, and he was among the fastest of the Freedom
Squad heroes.  He arrived at the store within moments.  He wrapped a tissue
around his hand and gingerly opened the door by its toxic handle.  Dammit. 
He
should have brought gloves.
  There was simply no telling how many
thousands
of people touched this door handle on a daily basis.  Their fecal matter was probably
coating it like icing on a cake.

He walked into the Department store
searching for his quarry.  Within a few feet however, he found a stack of
aviator’s clothes strewn along the floor as the villain made his escape.  At
the end of the trail was an open opaque faceplate with Kilroy etched on it.

Damn.  The target had gone dark. 

This was NOT how a super-villain
usually behaved, and something told Oz that it was part of a larger strategy. 
The Consortium had somehow gotten its act together; this was just the
beginning, he could FEEL it.  Honey Badger had apparently been right, and under
Fabricator’s leadership, the Consortium was learning to excel at crime. 
Dammit.  The board was going to blame him for this, he could just feel it.

Oz KNEW this store, though.  It was
only a few blocks from where he lived, and on the days he felt brave enough to actually
leave his apartment, he came here to straighten their selection of men’s ties. 
It was kind of his only real hobby.  The stock people here were
completely
incapable of keeping the neutrals away from the plaids, and it took him
hours
each week to keep the clothes in order.  He knew every square inch of this
store; every person, piece of clothes and fleck of paint.  He knew every face
that shopped here, and made a point of knowing where they lived and what they
bought.  He HAD to know, or he couldn’t sleep at night.  As such, he KNEW that
this section of the store had no outlet.  It was a cul-de-sac, and his quarry
was now effectively cornered

He saw no one unusual though.  He
recognized every face as belonging here, and no one was acting suspicious.  He
reached the end of the aisle and walked into the giftwrap and customer service
department.  This was the ONLY other place the suspect could be.  They HAD to
be here somewhere.

He turned to examine the half dozen
people sitting in chairs waiting to be served.  He didn’t recognize any of
them.  A well groomed man in his thirties wearing an expensive business suit. 
An elderly woman reading a magazine on men’s health.  A bored looking athletic
man in his late teens, wearing a basketball jersey and casually playing a
videogame.  A dark-haired man with a nasty scar, talking on the phone.  An
Asian woman wearing a jumpsuit and nonchalantly examining the large bag of
clothes she carried.  A man in a wheelchair wearing dark sunglasses.

He squinted at them.  ONE of these
people was this Multifarious/Barnburner person.  But WHICH one?

Behind him, the clerk returned to
his post and started to call out the next number.  OCD turned around at the sound
of the familiar voice.  Chad Stanley Beck.  Brown hair.  Bright green eyes. 
Thirty-five.  Muscular build.  Lives ten blocks away from the store with his
sister Francis.  Struggling Broadway actor.  Has worked here for six years,
after leaving the military following the death of his wife and unborn child. 
Works the customer service desk every Tuesday from 1:00 to 8:00.  Voted employee
of the month twice last year; fast track to management.  Mole on side of face. 
Considered handsome by women, although his delicate features made him just
short of pretty.  Does not date.

Chad smiled at him.  “Good morning,
Mr. Damico!  I told Mr. Martinez about your concerns with our sock department,
and he says that any time you want to come in and reorganize it for us, you are
more than welcome.  We’re only too happy to have a member of the Freedom Squad
around our store; it’s good for business if people see that a
hero
shops
here.”

OCD ignored him, eyes still on his
suspects.  “I’m on the job today, Mr. Beck.”  He leaned over the counter,
careful not to be overheard by the suspects.  “Let me ask you a question; you
see any of these people come in?”

Chad’s eyebrows soared and he
lowered his voice to a conspiritual whisper.  “I…I don’t know…I just got back
from lunch.”  He looked over his shoulder.  “Natalie might know though.  Hold
on.”  The man whispered loudly to his colleague trying to get her attention.  “
NAT. 
Hey, Nat…”

Behind him, his co-worker turned
around and hurried over to them, leaving behind a large package only half
giftwrapped.  Natalie Quentin.  26.  Red hair.  Blue eyes.  Lives alone in an
apartment in the Bronx.  Worked in the store since she was 16.  Pleasant girl; physically
attractive.  Prescribed an anti-depressant which she fills every other week at
the Johnson’s Pharmacy on Twenty-Second and Market.  No known distinguishing
marks or scars.

She smiled at them warmly.  “What’s
up?  Oh, hey Oz!  Problems with the ties again?  Because if you’re here to
lodge
another
compliant, I’ve already told those stockboys that...”

He put up a hand and cut her off.  “Sorry
to interrupt, Miss Quentin, but I only need to know if you saw any of these
people come in?”

She looked at John for a long
moment and then nodded.  “Yeah.  Why?”

He leaned closer.  “Just tell me
what happened, please?”

She shrugged.  “The fella on the
phone came running in a couple minutes ago and asked me for change to use the
phone.  Weird guy.  The dude in the suit, is named Mr. Omeega; he used to come
in here every now and then, but I haven’t seen him in a while now.  I thought
he died or something.  That old woman wants me to giftwrap a big box for her,
but she didn’t buy it here so I’m not really supposed to.  The others were already
here when I got back from break a minute ago, and I don’t know what they want. 
I don’t think they have numbers.”  She squinted in confusion suddenly looking
wary.  “Why?  Something up?  This hero stuff?”

He nodded.  “You could say that. 
One of these…”

He turned back to look at the
suspects only to find that the man in the suit was missing.  His eyes darted
around searching for him, but could find no trace of where the mysterious “Omeega”
individual had gone.  The old woman discarded her magazine and walked into the
ladies room.  The man on the phone hung it up, and started to stroll out of the
office.  The Asian woman stormed up to the desk, and pushed OCD out of the
way.  “I need this done NOW!  I have to be at a birthday party in
twenty
minutes!”

He squinted at her suspiciously and
then turned his attention to the last suspects.  The athletic man kept playing
his video game and disregarded the goings on.  The man in the wheelchair stared
blankly ahead, his jaw slack…

Damn.  DAMN.  He’d have to make a
choice here.  Which one?  Which one?

The dark haired man on the phone with
the scar kept walking away…and then turned to look over his shoulder at OCD
again…which was…
odd
…  Very odd.

Gotcha.

OCD took off after him and the mysterious
man started to run.  He rounded a corner and leapt over the counter in the shoe
department to duck into the stock room.  OCD was seconds behind him, and caught
the door before it even swung shut completely.  He tore into the room,
preparing for a fight…but instead found only racks of shoes.  The person was
nowhere to be seen.  He cautiously made his way down the shelves trying NOT to
notice that some careless fool had placed the size seven pumps BELOW the size
eight pumps. 
Below!
  Size seven pumps NEEDED to be
ABOVE
the
size eight pumps, or it was wrong!  WRONG!  MESSY!  He really didn’t have time
to focus on that right now though…he needed to focus…FOCUS!

He glanced at the shelf again.

Really…it would only take a second
or two to fix…His eyes darted around again in search of his target and upon not
immediately seeing him, he started to quickly rearrange the boxes.  He was
almost done when he heard the door to the stockroom open and something hit him
from behind.   He toppled over, as the shelves on the opposite side of the
aisle were pushed down on top of him.  The boxes covered him and he fell into
unconsciousness as the steel rack crashed into him.

So many shoes were now out or
order…so messy…….

***

Five minutes later, Multifarious
had retrieved the discarded costume and strolled leisurely out of the store,
the bags of stolen money in hand.  Escaping from the bank had been child’s play,
and the loot had now even been giftwrapped courtesy of the store.  Once that
shoplifter had provided the needed distraction, it had been so EASY to take the
hero out of the equation and escape.  But then again, everything was easy for…
THE
BARNBURNER!

*********

Tyrant wondered not for the first
time what he had ever done to deserve this kind of punishment.  Why was he
HERE?  What was he DOING wasting his time and embarrassing himself like this? 
And what, pray tell, did it have to do with his larger destiny?

He put one gauntleted finger up to
his temple and offered up a silent prayer to himself for patience.

Oh, mighty Kasos.  Grant me the
strength to…

On his belt, Princess Rayn
interrupted him with her running tirade of criticisms, and he was showing an
INCREDIBLE amount of self-restraint by not killing her outright.  He mentally
counted to ten and with
HERCULEAN
effort, somehow kept himself from drop
kicking his captive into the Hudson.

He prepared to launch into yet ANOTHER
reasonable explanation of the nature of their relationship; that HE was in
charge, and that as property, she should merely shut up, look decorative, and OBEY. 
He stopped himself though as the armored car pulled up.  Personally, Tyrant has
no idea WHY he had to do this.  The entire plan was idiotic.  But then again,
ALL plans which did not originate from his own head were idiotic and doomed to
fail, so he was used to it by now.

The two inferior looking specimens which
the bank paid to transport their money for them, walked into the bank, and
emerged a few moments later with a two-wheeler carrying bags of cash.  The
worms began loading the cargo into their truck.  Tyrant left his place at the
gourmet coffee bar and strode purposefully across the street, ignoring the cars. 
They were no threat to him.  Not that ANYTHING in this city actually
was
a threat to him, but
especially
not something as flimsy as a
car.

It had always seemed to him to be
the height of stupidity to actually go INTO a bank to rob it.  Then you would simply
be stuck with the difficulty of carrying a dozen heavy bags filled with the
slips of paper the savages of this dimension used as currency…which was ANOTHER
oddity of this dimension that Tyrant would never understand.  Paper?  Really? 
Whatever happened to
GOLD?
 

Forgetting about that lunacy for
the moment though, Tyrant had no intention of going through the tremendous
bother of threatening the employees into giving him the money, or the effort of
actually killing them, and then struggling with the unwieldy bags, and THEN arranging
for some sort of transportation from the scene.  It was simply insane.  He was
a busy man, and didn’t have time to waste on something as trivial as
this
endeavor.  Why would he do all that when these creatures would do all of it FOR
him?  At this very moment, they were helpfully shuttling his new money from the
bank, and were over there, placing it into a waiting vehicle!  They had even
left the motor running for him.  They were truly
cooperative
beings…for
the brainless larvae which inhabited this dimension, anyway.

The men finished their work, and
one walked towards the driver’s door as Tyrant strolled past.  He absently
slammed the guard’s head into the side of the truck and knocked him unconscious. 
The other man looked on in panic and went for his gun.  Tyrant rolled his eyes
and casually blasted him with a bolt of green energy from one of his hands, and
sent him flying backwards through the windshield of a parked car.  He yanked
the door handle off of the vehicle to disengage the crude locking mechanism and
hopped up into the driver’s seat.

The entire process had taken less
than ten seconds and the Consortium was now several million dollars richer. 
Tyrant planned to drive this vehicle around and continue to make the scheduled
rounds at other banks in the area and collect more bags of paper…maybe even
stop off at the Federal Reserve while he was at it, and pick up some
REAL
currency.  Civilized people used GOLD, not
paper.   Troglodytes.
This
was
such
a
ridiculous
backwater dimension…