Blink's First Adventure (1/4) (#FridayFlash)

After we met Blink last week, he wanted to let you know about his first adventure…

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“Hey, Stevie! Did you watch HNN last night?”

“Yeah.” Stevie Winkler scooted over a little on his stool, giving his friend Chris some room to set his cafeteria tray.

“Man,” Chris enthused, “wouldn’t it be awesome, to have superpowers like that? Ultra Woman said he was a kid.” He swept a dramatic arm across the cafeteria. “That means it could be someone in here, even!”

Stevie put on what he hoped didn’t look like a fake grin. “Yeah. Kinda like Robin, huh?”

“Except he’s not a sidekick.” Chris looked around the cafeteria, and waved at Lashaun, carrying his tray.

“I guess you heard, huh?” Lashaun took a stool across from them. “Any ideas who it is?”

“Could be anyone,” said Stevie. “Probably goes to a private school or something.”

“Yeah, those rich kids have all the luck,” said Chris.

They ate, talking about their classes and teachers, pausing to watch as girls walked by. As they took their trays to the dropoff window, Marla Davis came up behind them. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” Chris asked.

“Frank Crain is Blink!”

“No way,” said Stevie. He knew exactly who Blink was, and it wasn’t Frank Crain. Frank should have been in ninth grade, but got held back last year.

“He’s telling everyone,” Marla insisted, pointing across the cafeteria to a gathering crowd.

The boys followed Marla over to where Frank was holding court. “How do you know it isn’t him?” Lashaun asked Stevie.

“A real super wouldn’t give away his secret identity,” Stevie whispered.

“Yeah, but who’s gonna call him on it?” Chris shook his head.

“…so DeVine was trying to wrap me up in his plants,” Frank was telling the growing crowd of admirers, “and I just kept popping in and out and all about.” He grinned at the unintentional rhyme. “Then I got an idea, and started going around him. He kept chasing me with his plants, and I got him wrapped up in his own tangle!”

That’s not how it went down, Stevie thought, although Frank’s story was a lot more exciting than what really happened. He and DeVine had just talked until Ultra Woman showed up, then DeVine escaped through the ceiling.

“Yeah, and Ultra Woman said I was awesome,” Frank concluded.

“If you’re really Blink,” Stevie called over the other kids’ heads, “give us a little demonstration.”

All heads turned to Stevie, and those closest to him edged away. “I don’t have to show you nothin’,” Frank sneered.

“Whatever.” Stevie snorted softly and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, guys,” he told Chris and Lashaun. “Mr. Eng don’t like us being late for Geometry.”

A rough hand grabbed his arm and jerked him back, and Stevie found himself nose to nose with a much larger Frank. “You callin’ me a liar?”

“Is that how a superhero rolls?” Stevie asked, loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Bullying kids a head shorter than him?”

Frank glanced around at the skeptical faces, then quickly let Stevie go. “I just don’t like bein’ called a liar, is all,” he grumbled. “You got class. Don’t be late.”

“That wasn’t too bright,” said Lashaun. “He coulda punched your lights out.”

“Yeah, but then everybody woulda known he’s talkin’ crap,” said Stevie. “He can’t go pushin’ everyone around, now, or he proves he’s no hero. It was worth the risk.”

“That reminds me,” said Chris, “whatever happened with that dork from high school who was gonna kick your butt?”

“Oh, that.” Stevie had his cover story ready; that was when he’d discovered his ability to teleport. “He put me up against a tree. I ducked, and he hit the tree. I think he broke his hand, but I took off while he was yelling about it.”


Stevie was doing homework a week later, surrounded by the crumbs of a freezer pizza, when Mom came in from work around nine. “Hi, hon,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, eyeing the bulging envelope on the table. “The PTA sent a flyer home about the bake sale, and some lady came by and dropped off an envelope.”

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to help with the bake sale, hon,” said Mom, over the flushing toilet. “If your father pays the child support this month, maybe. Same with the religious thing, whatever that was.”

“Uh, I don’t think it was a religious thing,” said Stevie, as Mom came in to look over the mail. “She said something about a single mothers foundation.”

“Yeah. Maybe this is stuffed with cash, then,” Mom said sarcastically, ripping the envelope open. She gasped. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She sat down, and Stevie thought it was just luck that she landed in a chair. She fished the cash out of the envelope. “Oh my God,” she said again.

“Wow, it was cash!” Stevie tried hard to sound surprised. “How much?”

“Oh, I…” Mom started counting, but her hands were shaking too hard. “Can you count it, Stevie?”

“Sure.” Stevie counted out the twenties and fifties. “Fifteen hundred,” he said at last.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s the house payment, right there. Talk about a big help. If your dad gets off his ass and sends your support check, I’ll be able to put something back for your college for a change. I’m surprised they’d hand out cash, though.”

“I dunno, ma. They just dropped off the envelope. I didn’t know what was in it.”

“I know.” Mom slid a twenty to Stevie. “This will make up at least some of your missed allowance.” The phone rang. “If you’re done with the pizza, Stevie, why don’t you get that? I thought I wasn’t hungry, but now…” she shrugged.

Stevie recognized Lashaun’s number on the caller ID. “Hey.”

“Stevie!” Lashaun sounded almost frantic. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Frank Crain disappeared!”

continued…

Blink (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

While Skyscraper City has a vibrant nightlife, most of that is concentrated in the entertainment district. A few blocks away, in the financial district, solitude reigns after dark. There is the occasional light, of course: someone in the IT department working a late shift, or security guards making their rounds.

And not all lights find their way to a window.

A light came on, above the hung ceiling in the offices of Grimes Financial Services, illuminating the unsightly tangle of cables, ductwork, and support beams that are the bones and sinews of any office building. The beam sparkled and shone as it played across the dark expanse. DeVine had planned this caper for months, and tonight was the night.

Twisting his arms and ankles into the ivy he’d sown, DeVine willed it to grow. Grow it did, carrying him with its advance as it stretched across the dark, empty space, lashing itself to any protrusion it could find. It would be a dead giveaway, but DeVine would be long gone before anyone found it.

A dark object with sharp corners finally came into view: the top of the vault. This was DeVine’s target, of course. The noise of cutting through it would attract attention… but who needs to break in when you got the keys? he thought, patting his pocket. Still wrapped in the ivy that partly gave him his name, DeVine willed it to lower him to the hung ceiling. Hanging over the security camera watching the vault doors, he waited.

The red light came on, and DeVine got ready. As it winked out, he unscrewed the coax and pulled it away. That would trigger a fault, but the camera was made by Republic and they failed all the time. If the guard was napping or distracted, he might not even notice before DeVine re-attached the cable on the way out.

With the camera disabled, he lifted the adjacent ceiling tile and slid it over. The ivy lowered him to the floor, and he set his own motion detector alarm before striding to the vault door. Sliding his ID card (a copy of the Chief Security Officer’s) through the reader, he entered the passcode 4569. A green light flashed, the bolts retracted with a loud thump, and DeVine slipped inside—

“What the…” he muttered, looking at the black-clad figure already inside the vault, watching the door.

“Hey,” the figure said. The voice sounded local—not one of the Devis or Masked Warriors, then—and youthful.

“What are you doing in here?” DeVine demanded.

“I dunno. What about you?”

DeVine had planned for the possibility of company, but not when it was waiting for him in the vault. “None a’ya business,” he grated. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Uh… Blink, I guess. Hey, you’re DeVine, right? Can I get your autograph? Some of my friends have most of the heroes, but nobody’s got a supervillain’s John Hancock.” Blink fumbled a notebook and a pen out of his pocket. “You don’t have to say ‘to whatever,’ just your name. That would be awesome.”

“What? What?” DeVine sputtered. “Of all the… who are you working with, kid?”

“Who? Oh. Nobody. I’m just here.”

“Yeah, well—” The motion detector started beeping. “Aaah!” DeVine shot the kid a final glare, and dashed out the vault door.

Blink ambled over, watching the villain clamber up the ivy, pull it up behind him, and push the ceiling tile back into place.

“Whatever,” he said, walking back into the vault.

“Freeze!” a woman’s voice barked.

“Hey,” he said, turning. “Hey, Ultra Woman!” Blink was still holding his notebook. “Oh yeah, I got your autograph already.”

“You’ll be collecting autographs from prison guards,” she said, reaching to grab him.

“It was DeVine. You just missed him. He went up into the ceiling, through that tile right there.” He pointed.

“I’ll check it out, but don’t move.” Ultra Woman rose up on her boot jets, knocked the ceiling tile out of the way, then poked her head inside. “I’ll be damned,” she grumbled. “That’s DeVine, all right.” She dropped back down to face Blink. “You’re still coming with me,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You got a lot of—huh!”

The kid had got away somehow, and was now standing in the vault. “You’re not my mom,” he said sullenly. “I don’t have to take orders from you.”

“What the…” Ultra Woman found herself at a rare loss for words. “Who are you, kid?”

“Blink. Oh. You can take the credit for stopping DeVine. You don’t even have to mention me. I gotta go, now.” And he disappeared.

On the sidewalk outside, Stevie pulled his hoodie up and started walking. He’d popped into the vault to think, maybe grab a little loot. Maybe. Instead, he met a villain and a hero, one right after the other. This whole superpower thing was cool at first, but now he had to wonder. Neither side seemed too happy to have him around—which he was used to, but still.

Being Stevie Winkler sucked, but maybe it wasn’t as dangerous as being Blink. Besides, he still had to figure out which way he wanted to go. “A hero gets the girls,” he muttered, “but the bad guys are rollin’ in the green.” A cop car sped by, flashing like a Christmas tree on crack, and he made sure it kept going before resuming his homeward plod. He had all of Sunday tomorrow before facing another week of the personal Hell that some called middle school. Five more years of this crap seemed like forever, but it gave him time.

Most of all, to decide what he wanted to be when he grew up.

---

If you like Blink, check out his first adventure, and check out some of the other heroes and villains of Skyscraper City — here on TFM!

Warmonger's Way (2/2) (#FridayFlash)

Last week: Warmonger and Jaguar broke into Bea’s Jewelers, grabbing raw gold and loose stones. But as they slipped outside, they were accosted! Who’s behind that alluring voice? …


Warmonger, who prided himself on self-control, snapped his head to a halt halfway around. Not the worst-case, he thought, but close enough. Only the Masked Warriors, the coolest customers of all, would be worse than Miss Siles. Warmonger was a meticulous planner (DeVine just called him “anal”), and he had contingencies for all the known quantities. He hoped Jaguar had followed orders, which for this case were run like hell. But that voice… that was something HNN didn’t mention. His lizard brain screamed Look! It was taking all his concentration and self-discipline to not just turn around and stare. If he couldn’t run, Jag was toast.

“Cute, babe,” he said, pulling the balaclava over his eyes to obscure his vision further. “Now make me a sandwich.”

He felt only a twinge of anger, not enough to use. That line always worked on Ultra Woman; but she was in Hollywood, filming a documentary. Warmonger thought quickly, and realized that this was likely Miss Siles’s first encounter with a supervillain. The only intel on her was what they’d shown on HNN, and he didn’t like being the one to acquire more. She’s a rookie, he thought, I can’t go down to a rookie. He thought quickly, doing his best to ignore the lizard brain. The slap rounds in his .45 were meant to take out any alarm sirens without making a lot of noise themselves. They wouldn’t kill, even if the target had no body armor, but they could bruise…

He gave in to the lizard brain, and turned to face Miss Siles, but drew his weapon. All he could focus on was that gigantic chest, but that was his target anyway, and he squeezed off three shots.

He had just enough time to think Damn, she’s fast. Miss Siles twisted, not enough to dodge the slap rounds, but enough to deflect them, then those huge knockers came around and slammed him across the side of the head. Taking that blow used up all his remaining energy, and he staggered backwards. His gun had gone flying, but there was nothing to do about that.

His vision was blurry, but he could see how Miss Siles stood gaping. He grinned. “That’s all you got?” he taunted. “You thought you could take the Warmonger out with one shot? Kid, you’re up way past your bedtime. You’re good, but this is the big leagues.”

This shot went home; he felt that surge of red anger. Ahhhh. It wasn’t enough to fill the tank, but it was enough. He averted his eyes just as his vision cleared.

“I’ll make you a sandwich!” she growled, and charged in.

Warmonger shouted down the lizard brain again, forced himself to move, and used his augmented strength to leap straight up, a good fifteen feet, to the roof of Bea’s Jewelers. He landed within reach of Jaguar, whose eyes were locked on Miss Siles. His hands strangled a piece of conduit. He looked toward Miss Siles, who glared up at them. “Catch ya in the funnies, kid!” he said, tasting another generous draught of anger, and dragged Jaguar out of sight.

It took a little shaking and a few ungentle slaps to snap Jag out of it, but he finally held up a hand. “I’m… I’m all right,” he said. “How did you stay… jeez.”

“I’m the Warmonger. I ain’t gonna let some artillery take me down. C’mon.” They leaped from building to building, Jaguar’s favorite way to cover ground, until Warmonger’s energy ran low. Having lost Miss Siles at last, they climbed down and went their ways.


“Jeez, boss!” Nick gasped, looking at the bruise covering half of Ward’s face. “You okay?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Or would like to handle, his lizard brain chittered. “Where’s the Jack?”

Nick slid him a glass and a bottle, and Ward poured a generous helping of whisky. That was too close, he thought. A rookie, and she almost took me out. We’re gonna be hurtin’ in a year, if we can’t come up with a counter. He tried to think, but the damned lizard brain kept going on about those… humongous…

“Hey boss,” Nick sipped at a mug of beer he’d poured for himself. Employees got free beer, off the clock. It kept them loyal. “You up to hear a pitch?”

Ward downed his glass, and poured another. “Fire away.”

“I was thinkin’. Maybe once a month, maybe the Saturday before a full moon, we could have a Ladies Fight Night. Get the baddest babes in town goin’ at it. I think it would pack the place.”

“Hmmm.” Ward usually dismissed suggestions right away, then came up with a justification, but this one… ah. “We could try it, maybe next month. Give us a little time to, you know, put the word out.” He discussed details with his employee with half his brain. The other half thought, and maybe I can recruit some of the winners. I bet Miss Siles don’t have that effect on other women. Meanwhile, the lizard brain kept up the running commentary. It would take a long time to shut it up, nearly as long as it took for the bruise to fade.

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If you liked this story, there’s more of the Skyscraper City universe, including the supervillain Pulse and the arrival of Miss Siles on the scene. Or if you like superhero stories, but aren’t thrilled with mine, you can always give Tony Noland’s novel Verbosity’s Vengeance a shot!

Warmonger's Way (1/2) (#FridayFlash)

If it was under 1200 words, I’d just post the whole thing. But this one runs over 1400 words, and there's a convenient break right at the halfway point…

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Warmonger’s Way

“General” Lee Ward dabbed a little iodine on a cut over the customer’s left eye. The customer flinched and hissed, and released a little anger, a final taste from the weekly feast.

“God, it reeks in here,” the customer said. He was right; the little closet where Ward gave first aid held the commingled funk that two dozen brawlers had left behind. Ward, the secret identity of the supervillain Warmonger, believed in taking care of business. Especially when the business took good care of him.

“Yeah, I know,” said Ward. “Hold still. If you want one more, there’s still five minutes to last call.” The customer huffed, but tried not to move, and Ward pinched the cut closed with one hand and slipped a butterfly bandage across it with the other. Just another night at Warmonger’s Tavern.

“Last beer’s on the house,” he told the brawler as they emerged into the bar. “You want a shooter or a shot, that’s your dime.” The customer nodded, gave him a small lopsided smile, and picked up a bar stool to sit on. It hung together, which was good.

“That was the last one, boss,” Nick told him, sliding a mug to Ward and another to the customer. “Quite a night, huh?”

“Always is, on Saturday night.” Ward glanced across the last few customers and toward the small ring off to the side. Saturday was Fight Night. Most of the fights were drawn from a hat, but there was always room on the card for a grudge match. Patrons placed bets on the outcome, and often got angry when their guy lost. Often, as it did tonight, that anger could fuel a full-scale brawl. Warmonger fed on anger, giving him superhuman strength. He usually waded into the brawl himself, both to blow off excess energy and to break it up. Ambulance companies had learned to keep a unit nearby on Saturdays for the worst injuries; Warmonger himself patched up the others and kept a van to carry those needing more than first aid to the nearest doc-in-a-box.

“Last call!” Ward bellowed. “Taps shut off in three minutes, closing in thirty! Tell the barkeep if you need a cab!” The last dozen patrons, seated at wobbly tables or standing along the gut-high shelf around the wall, either nodded or ambled up to the bar. Two of the employees were fixing broken tables; Ward himself had designed a cheap breakaway system out of PVC plumbing parts that saved tons of money on nights like this.

“Nick, go ahead and close the place down,” said Ward. “I need a little air.” Nick nodded—good employee, that one, he never asked questions—and Ward slipped into the back room. He changed quickly, all black from balaclava to boots, and Warmonger stepped into the alley.

“You ready?” he asked the air.

Jaguar dropped down, a safe distance away. “Ready.”

Warmonger said nothing, but jogged away. Jaguar followed, fast and silent.

Bea’s Jewelry was well-lit, even the sidewalks outside were bright. They had reconnoitered the two blocks surrounding—nobody on standby, cops or heroes—and Pulse had located the alarm points a week ago.

Warmonger focused. Instead of breaking a window and setting off all the alarms for sure, he punched a hole in the wall. The force of that blow used a lot of stored energy, but he had plenty in reserve. He widened the hole, enough for Jaguar and him to slip inside. They wanted the back room; Bea’s specialized in custom work, and raw materials were much harder to trace. They filled several small bags with gold and rocks, a few hundred grand each if they fenced it a little at a time, and slipped outside—

“Hello boys,” an alluring voice said behind them. “Are you buying me a ring?”

continued…

Crossfire (#FridayFlash)

Meanwhile, in Skyscraper City…

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Image source: images.all-free-download.com

“What would really help,” Bijay said, “is if we could just feed it a spreadsheet, and the app pulls the parts list from the database and gives us a per-unit cost.” He paused, as the waitress came by with their beers and a big basket of chili cheese fries.

Jesse took a generous drink. Still holding his mug, he picked up a sloppy fry with the other hand. “If everything’s in the same place, every time—”

Hannigan’s Bar and Grill jolted, and a sharp whoomp followed hot on its heels. The table jumped, nearly upending Bijay’s mug. Jesse’s reflexive jerk sloshed some of his own beer. “Damn!” he snapped, over the growing babble. “What the hell was that?”

“An earthquake?” Bijay’s eyes were wide. “I thought we didn’t get earthquakes here!” He looked across the restaurant, at the people gathering to look out the big window out front. “Must have been a big wreck outside.”

“Put it on Channel Fourteen!” several people yelled from the window, and the bartender complied.

“—on the Scene, live from downtown Skyscraper City.” Montana Rack took up one half of the screen. Behind her, the other half—

“Shit!” Bijay gasped. “That’s the office!” He pointed at a plume of smoke rising from the top floor.

“—daring raid on Republic Industries. All of Skyscraper City’s active superheroes are cooperating in the attack. We should have more information shortly, but the operation has just begun.”

“Oh, crap,” said Jesse, and got out his phone. Everyone at the window had their own phones out as well, taking video and adding their own commentary. “Hey, Ted. I took a late lunch with one of the engineers, to discuss the integration project, and it looks like all hell broke loose over there! What do I do? … Yeah, okay. I don’t think I could get back inside anyway, with all the supers running loose. … Sure, no problem. Thanks.” He pocketed his phone and turned back to Bijay. “Looks like I got the afternoon off,” he said. “Ted isn’t sure we’ll even be open tomorrow.”

Bijay was riveted to the TV. “The League of Devis!” he grinned, pumping a fist. “Go, you guys… uh.” He looked at Jesse, who only smirked. “Man. Talk about getting caught in the crossfire.”

“At least we’re in a comfy bar, and not really in the crossfire,” said Jesse, waving at the waitress. “What’s got them… hey, isn’t the executive conference center on the top floor?”

“Yeah,” said Bijay. “One for me, too,” he told the waitress, then turned back to his co-worker and lowered his voice. “They finally got something on Palmer, I’ll bet.”

Jesse looked around, and leaned across the table, nearly whispering. “Hell, I’m not surprised. He’s the biggest crook—oh, crap.”

“What is it?”

“Today’s the annual shareholder’s meeting. The whole executive team is up there, along with the biggest bigwigs who own the stock. And they’re all hiding under the tables, yelling sell sell sell into their phones.”

Bijay winced. “How bad do you think it’ll get?” On the screen, a helicopter lifted off from the roof of their office, but lost power and sank toward the parking lot.

“Well, that order I’ve got in to sell at forty-three isn’t gonna happen,” Jesse sighed. “Actually, things might get back to normal in a few days. Seems like everything runs better when those guys are out of the office. A little jail time might put the stock right back up!”

“Hey, look.” Bijay pointed at the TV. A familiar face stood next to Montana, wearing a satisfied smile.

“Here with us now is Skyscraper City’s most iconic figure, Captain Heroic,” Montana was saying. “Captain, have you come out of retirement for this raid?”

“No, Montana,” said the Captain. “It was a temptation, though. I’ve always considered Republic to be unfinished business, you know. But I helped plan the assault, and I’ve been authorized to speak for the team, today.”

“So what happened to trigger this action today?”

“In the last few weeks, we’ve had an anonymous tipster feeding us inside information—”

“Oh, crap,” Jesse moaned. “A mole? Security is going to be up our asses the rest of the year!”

“—to the City Court, and they issued warrants—”

“How? Who?” Bijay asked.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe Miss Siles flashed someone.” Jesse grinned. “I’d spill a few beans to get my hands on those.”

“Ha! Who wouldn’t?” They turned back to the TV, just in time to see a grey-suited figure plunge from a window. A brightly-colored Devi swooped in and caught the falling man, depositing him amidst a ring of awaiting police.

“Great catch!” Bijay exulted.

“This is certainly the largest superhero action in several years,” said Montana. “Captain Heroic, has there been anything to match this recently?”

“Not in the last few years.” Captain Heroic divided his attention between Montana and the camera. “Four years ago, Count Boris and I teamed up with the League of Devis in Operation Hockey Rink.” He laughed. “You know, the Samboni mob.”

“That’s right!” Montana gushed. “That was before the Masked Warriors relocated.” The camera zoomed in on a score of black-clad figures, climbing the glass walls of the Republic Industries headquarters.

“Man, the PR department is gonna have their hands full,” said Jesse.

“Everyone will have their hands full,” Bijay replied. “Hey. Maybe we can make this work for us, too.”

“Huh? Oh… you know what? You might be right. Beats getting caught in the middle.”

The two schemed and planned, as the supers lopped off the dragon’s head.

Method to the Madness (#FridayFlash)

Hiding in plain sight might be a cliché, but it was often a valid strategy. The supervillain Warmonger owned a bar in a rough part of town, one named for himself. The bar had a private room in the back, accessible only to those who had a key to enter the alcove, and the right palmprint to proceed.

When Pulse entered the private room, several others were already seated. Some nodded, some stared or glared. Not all supervillains are unsociable, of course, but neither is it a completely invalid assumption. So Pulse returned the nods, ignored the others, and crossed the room to the keg and mugs. Those who were allowed in the private room were not charged for their beer, but it was strictly self-service.

Jaguar waved Pulse to an empty seat, and let him settle before speaking. "Warmonger should be here any second now," he whispered.

Pulse nodded. "Perhaps he is bringing a keg of better beer. Are things improving for you?"

Jaguar snickered, then nodded. "Yeah. The title to my house came in the mail a few weeks ago, not long after you pulled that bank caper. Bank says I'm paid in full. Was that you?"

"Let us say, I watch my friends as well as my enemies."

"Good. Pulse is here," said Warmonger, coming through the door. "We can get started, then." Ever since a series of schisms a generation ago and more, supervillains did not have a formal organization. Still, they found it useful to meet on occasion, to cooperate on larger capers or resolve disputes. Warmonger, a third-generation villain, had a firm grasp of the history and motivations of his fellows. Thus, he was more coordinator than ringleader. The heroes might see it differently, but who cared what they thought?

So Warmonger poured himself a mug, and leaned across the end of one table. "Pulse," he said, "some of our associates are a little worried. There's talk about you possibly switching sides. Personally, I don't think there's nothin' to it, but you oughtta have a chance to clear the air." He nodded and took a seat.

Pulse drained his mug, and stood. "I rather expected this," he said. "Still, had I even seriously considered switching sides, would I have shown up today? If I were carrying a wire, I would have tripped the alarm. I set up that system myself, and even I have no way of circumventing it short of destroying it. Warmonger himself can verify that it is operating normally." He looked to their host, who nodded.

"My actions in the last few months," Pulse continued, "whether for vengeance or income, were for my own benefit. That they have benefitted others was a side-effect. Although that too has redounded to my own benefit, by taking some heat off me."

"So passing information about Republic Industries to the heroes was for your gain?" DeVine's tone and glare were disbelieving. "I can see the bank caper, but…" he shrugged.

Pulse frowned. "Republic's shoddy products killed one of my minions," he said. "Vengeance is always proper."

"How does handing the heroes the keys to the joint do anything for you?"

"DeVine, you lack vision," said Pulse. "The heroes will do my dirty work for me. And, there is some personal gain involved… and not only for myself, but the rest of you as well." He paused.

"Spill it, Pulse," Warmonger said at last. "What's the scheme?"

"Tomorrow, Republic Industries holds its annual shareholders' meeting. The heroes will go in, guns blazing as they say, to arrest Palmer Lanois and most of the upper echelons of the company." Pulse smirked. "I have shorted Republic's stock, and I suggest you do likewise, if you would enjoy a quick, risk-free profit."

The other supervillains, after a moment, joined Pulse's maniacal laughter.

Enemy of My Enemy (#FridayFlash)

I got requests for more Pulse, and the Muse was in an obliging mood…

---

“Harr Electric.”

“Do you repair computer room powering?” The voice on the phone sounded frantic.

“We can, and have, on a number of occasions.” Pulse, in his public guise as Helmut Harr, listened and jotted down names and addresses. “Do you not have an electrician on retainer? … Ya, I can send someone right away, but I will have to charge emergency rates.” He listened some more, then shuffled some papers on his desk and tapped at his keyboard. “All of my other people are on jobs right now, so I will have to come myself. No, it’s no problem.” Both were true. As a supervillain, Harr’s electrical contracting business provided not only income and a cover for his extra-legal activities, it could provide opportunities. Like now. He pulled up Maps and plotted a route. “If I am not delayed by traffic issues, I can be there in about half an hour. No, I am leaving right away. … You realize, if I am detained by police, it will take even longer. … Yes, I am leaving now.”

Hanging up, Harr turned back to the computer. Republic Industries was a nut he’d wanted to crack for a long time. Their IT was top-notch, and had thwarted prior attempts to break through from outside. Inside, things should be much easier. Like last month’s bank caper, and the ongoing campaign against spammers, this was personal. Republic had a “devil may care” attitude toward product safety, and their subsidiary’s faulty electrical equipment killed one of his workers last year. Harr’s insurance covered the monetary loss, but neither he nor the employee’s family could replace Kenny Brownfeld.

Checking his inventory, he had the repair parts most likely needed. He tossed them in a component bag in the back of his pickup truck (blue, with an aero-cap and the Harr Electric signage prominent). A few of his ferret kits were already hidden in the toolbox.

The guard at the gated parking lot waved him through, and Harr took a contractor parking space. Hefting his tool box and component bag, he entered the maw of the beast itself. The indoor security looked through his things, but found nothing to raise suspicion. The ferrets were in hidden compartments, and were powered down in any case. Satisfied, the guard led Harr to the IT director’s office.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Mr. Harr,” the director said. “We’re in a pretty tight spot here.”

“Your redundant supplies didn’t kick in?”

“No, and it’s horribly embarrassing. One of our subsidiaries made the equipment.”

“Ah. So all of your powering is JES?” Jelsen Electrical Systems made the box that killed Kenny Brownfeld.

“You’re familiar with it, then.”

“Oh, ya.” Failures with JES products kept Harr Electric profitable, personal antipathy notwithstanding. Ironic, that it now provides a path to vengeance. Harr had emigrated from Austria, as a child, with his parents. They worked hard, and expected him to do the same. He learned English, endured the other kids calling him “Helmet Hair” and mocking his accent. When he discovered his power to create an electromagnetic pulse, he took great delight in frying their electronic toys. Vengeance brought such satisfaction…

The IT room was dark. “Everything is powered down?” Harr asked, incredulous.

“Even the security cameras. Is it going to be a problem?”

“Not at all,” said Harr, hefting his toolbox. A golden opportunity, indeed. “I always bring emergency lighting.” He put the toolbox down long enough to bring out a trouble light. “Lead the way.”

Alone in the dark, Harr plugged two ferrets into unused Ethernet ports on the primary routers. Small magnets kept them hidden inside the racks, where they were not likely to be found for a long time. It took only a few minutes to confirm Harr’s guess about the problem: the under-spec’ed relay JES used in the switching circuit had burned out. It took only ten more minutes to replace it with a better part.

With his actual work done, he loosed a little of the EMP power that gave him his supervillain name, damaging several servers and switches. They would not fail right away.

He wrote up the invoice in the IT director’s office, shook the man’s hand, and left. Whether Republic actually paid the eight hundred dollars was doubtful, and not important; Harr already had what he wanted. They would pay far, far more.

At home, working through his carefully crafted relays, he accessed the data the ferrets were already sending. He smiled, attached several files to an email, and clicked Send. Then he opened Twitter and DM’ed Captain Heroic.

sv_pulse
You have mail.

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
AMAZING! How did you get this?

sv_pulse
Unimportant. I will soon have more if you need it.

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
Sure, send what you can and I’ll pass it on. But this is actionable. You want to be in on the takedown?

sv_pulse
Justice is the heroes’ job. ^_^

Captain Heroic (Ret.)
With enemies like you, who needs friends? LOL

sv_pulse
Sometimes, the enemy of my enemy is also my enemy. Good hunting.

Harr closed Twitter, and looked at the data continuing to pour in from Republic’s no longer secure network. Soon, he would have what he needed to hang CEO Palmer Lanois himself. “All in a day’s work,” he chuckled.

Anti-Hero (#FridayFlash)

Chirp, the computer said.

“Hunh,” said Helmut Harr, better known as the supervillain Pulse. That chirp meant he’d received a DM on Twitter, which didn’t happen often. He kept a low profile online, routing his access through several hacked PCs and an anonymizing relay or three. His Twitter account followed a few random normals and the known superheroes and supervillains. Even mortal enemies had to communicate on occasion. Harr shrugged and closed his solitaire game. He gave the tweet a curious scowl:

Captain Heroic (ret.)
You have HNN on? Go check it out.

“Vas ist…?” he muttered, then shrugged and ambled into the living room. HNN was often useful for tracking movements of the enemy, giving villains windows of opportunity, and that was the channel the TV came up to most days.

Harr gasped at the title on the screen: “Pulse: Supervillain or Folk Hero?” He gaped at the parade of normals being interviewed. “About time someone took Wall Street down!” “Yeah, Pulse, stick it to the Man!” “He did more for normal people in ten seconds than all the superheroes combined have done in ten years!”

They cut back to the studio, where Betty Kanaka (so easy on the eyes, Harr thought) anchored the desk. “It was an audacious caper,” she said. “Pulse managed to gain entry to the server rooms at Goldman Sachs headquarters, and the Skyscraper City branch of Bank of America, and left them a smoking ruin. Computers, routers, disk drives, security systems—all completely destroyed. Statements issued by both banks claim that no data was lost, and disaster recovery plans allowed them to function normally within a few hours.”

“Ha. No data lost.” The fact was, Pulse had hacked into Bank of America and deleted several hundred mortgages from the system (including his own), along with about ten thousand foreclosures (including one for Jaguar, a supervillain who’d had a run of bad luck lately). The EMP attacks covered his tracks, and he’d hit Goldman Sachs just because they were assholes.

“Pulse has not yet issued a statement, nor has he responded to our emailed questions.”

Harr muttered a curse in German. He only checked his email once a week, and most of it was spam anyway.

“The FBI has reiterated their standing offer of a two-million dollar reward to anyone who can positively identify Pulse, or bring him to justice. For HNN, I’m Betty Kanaka.”

Harr hit the Power button on the remote, and returned to his computer. The DM window was still up, so he typed his question to Captain Heroic: WTF?

Captain Heroic (ret.)
You thinking about switching sides?

sv_pulse
Nein. No. Hell no.

Captain Heroic (ret.)
Hey, I’d come out of retirement if you did. Might be fun to work together.

sv_pulse
I had personal reasons.

He opened his email, and found the questions from HNN buried in about two hundred offers for reverse mortgages, horny married women, Nigerian ancestors, timeshares, discreet pharmacies, and the like.

Captain Heroic (ret.)
So what’s next?

sv_pulse
Spammers. I hate opening my email these days.

Captain Heroic (ret.)
So you’ve already switched sides. If you need help with that one, let me know.

Captain Heroic (ret.)
Miss Siles wants a piece of spammer. Or some spammers in pieces.

Captain Heroic (ret.)
But keep it online. She’s… distracting to work with in person.

sv_pulse
So I’ve heard. I’ll keep that in mind.

“No time like the present,” he said, opening the HNN message. He scanned the vacuous questions, clicked Reply, and typed: Those who make a supervillain look like a hero, should take a good long look in the mirror. Yesterday, big banks. Tomorrow, spammers. Do not think of this as switching sides, rather I am eliminating the competition. He clicked Send, and smiled.

Origins: Miss Siles (#FridayFlash)

This is a followup to an earlier flash, Miss Siles…

---

Miss Siles’s logo

“Thanks for inviting me over, Montana.” Miss Siles settled into the leather recliner, wine glass in hand.

“My pleasure.” Montana Rack took the love seat. A glass-top coffee table stood between them. She poured her own wine, and set the bottle on the coffee table.

“I guess you want to interview me, right?” Miss Siles asked. “There has to be a reason for this invite. The dinner was great and all, I just figured… you know.”

Montana laughed. “That’s not the reason. If you want to talk about anything, though, I’m all ears.”

“And tape recorder.”

Another laugh. “A good transcription starts with more than memory! No, I wondered if you’ve given much thought to who you wanted to have for your Recording Journalist. I think we’d be a good fit. I won’t get distracted by your, um, superpowers, and I do have experience. Now that Captain Heroic’s retired, I’m open. He’ll vouch for me.”

Miss Siles laughed herself. “I bet he would! Sure, why not?”

Montana nodded. “One drawback. I give it maybe ten more years before I’ll have to give up live reporting and move to the anchordesk. But that gives us plenty of time to find a replacement.”

Miss Siles shrugged, making the recliner shift. “Fair enough. I guess you want to hear my origin story, then.”

“Of course!” Montana rose, and returned with a recorder. “Just tell the story. Once I have it down, I’ll pass it to you and let you add or correct things as necessary. Then it goes into the archives until you’re no longer active.”

“When is Captain Heroic’s story coming out?”

“Not right away. He still might have to come out of retirement.”

“Oh. All right.” Miss Siles began:

I was born June Stiles, a corn-fed girl from small-town Nebraska. I’ve always been a big girl—I mean, not like this, more like you—and I learned early on how to make it work for me. But I mostly earned my school grades, and I was accepted into IU without a personal interview. I majored in biochemistry, with a minor in genetics, and Sontanmo hired me after graduation. Despite knowing how to work what I had, I have to admit I was still pretty naïve. I bought that whole line about Sontanmo wanting to work with nature, improve on it, and feed the world.

They know how to work the idealists, too. Keep up the happy-babble, and keep us busy on small corners of the Big Picture. Get us tied to that paycheck, so we’ll look the other way the first time we catch a glimpse of what’s really going on.

I’m sure that’s what caused the accident. After a couple peeks behind the curtain, I was having some—okay, a lot of misgivings about working for Sontanmo. So I was distracted, wondering what I should do. I’d not even worked for a year, yet, and already I couldn’t afford to just quit. I had an apartment, car payment… oh, you know the tune. Besides, I was gnawing at a technical problem. EG-12 was a genome we were trying to splice into corn. The goal was halving the time to harvest—which meant we’d get two harvests in a season! Being able to double production would have been a game-changer, you know?

Like I said, I was distracted. I usually put my lab coat on backwards, so everything up front got covered, but I didn’t that morning. And it was a hot day, so I was wearing something low-cut. Lucky I had my face shield down when the centrifuge came apart, but my upper torso wasn’t shielded nearly as well. The seniors designed EG-12 to be delivered as a bath, so we could soak the corn in it. For all my working my assets, I was kind of modest at heart, so I didn’t do the smart thing and get out of my clothes and jump in the shower right away.

“So the EG-12 soaked into you?” Montana looked shocked.

“Right,” said Miss Siles. “Next thing I knew, I was… growing. Then the men in black showed up. That’s how I always thought of them. They gave my family some line about Sontanmo sending me overseas on a special project, and brought me to Professor Zero. He helped me learn how I’d changed, helped me develop my new talents, and sent me here to Skyscraper City.”

Montana gave her a sympathetic nod, and refilled their wine glasses. New superheroes were always vulnerable, as they adjusted to their new lives. She remembered Professor Zero’s words: as a Recording Journalist, your job is to simply listen, at least as much as covering the exploits of your assigned superhero. Your careers are symbiotic. With no secret identity, this poor kid would never have a normal life to fall back on, so she’d be even more vulnerable. Zero should have addressed this before sending her out.

Well, she’d been Captain Heroic’s friend all those years, and more than a friend now that he was retired. She could be June’s—Miss Siles’s—friend, too. She turned off the recorder. “That’s enough for our first night,” she said. “How about a movie? I have Nextflick.”

#FridayFlash: Miss Siles

There’s been a spate of posts lately, criticizing how women are drawn in comic books. I join the dog-pile…

Our newscaster was featured earlier in Captain Heroic’s Last Hurrah, if you were wondering.

---

“Time for Channel 14 News, Skyscraper City’s finest and fastest news source! I’m Rudy Bass. Tonight, we lead off with breaking news at City Hall. We go now to Channel 14 On the Scene with Montana Rack. Montana?”

Cut to: exterior, City Hall steps. Montana Rack, mike in hand. “Thanks, Rudy. A new superhero has come to Skyscraper City! This ViewerCam-14 footage was just sent in by high school student Philip Wright, who happened to be on the scene at Fountain of Progress Square.”

Cut to: wild tilt and pan, a cellphone camera moved too quickly. Sounds: police whistles, running feet, growing babble. Montana voiceover: “Watch what happens.” A woman in spandex, with an impossibly large chest, moves across the scene. The camera follows her.

A man runs onto the scene, carrying a purse, looking over his shoulder. The woman jumps and spins, striking him in the head with her chest. The fleeing man flies backwards, landing on his back. He does not move. Youthful voice, presumably Philip Wright: “Holy bleeeeep! That’s gonna leave a mark!” View goes wild again, approaching the fallen man.

Cut to: Montana. “Thank you, Philip, for sending that in. We’ll be sending him a ViewerCam-14 tee-shirt and matching cap. And now, with another Channel 14 exclusive, we’re here with the heroine of the day: Miss Siles!” Camera zooms out to show Miss Siles next to Montana. She wears a tight blue spandex outfit. Logo: two rockets in flight. “Miss Siles, is it true that you have just registered as Skyscraper City’s newest superhero?”

“That’s right, Montana. I’m here to fight for truth and justice!” Camera slowly zooms in on Miss Siles, then tilts down. “Criminals beware, because you just might be the next one to get: busted!” Chest sways threateningly. Camera zooms out quickly. Montana gives camera an annoyed look, then puts on her smile. “What else can you say? This is Montana Rack, Channel 14 on the Scene. Rudy?”


Montana nods, then removes her earpiece. She glares again at the cameraman. “Kyle, that was so unprofessional. I thought you were gay!”

“Sorry,” Kyle mumbles, and carries his camera to the van.

“It’s not his fault,” says Miss Siles. “Just one of my superpowers.”

Montana laughs. “How do you do it? I’m a big girl, nothing like you of course, but I get backaches all the time. Where do you get your bras?”

“I don’t need one. That’s another one of my superpowers.”

Montana grins. “I hate you.”

“I hate you, too. You’re dating Captain Heroic, right?” They laugh together.

“What other superpowers do you have?” Montana asks.

“The Pose.” Miss Siles thrusts her chest forward, her hips back, and twists. Kyle sits down, hard. “I could have stopped that purse-snatcher in his tracks with that one, but he was looking back. I had to take more direct action.”

“Wow. This is off the record, of course: do you have a secret identity?”

Miss Siles laughs. “Are you kidding? Honey, there ain’t no concealing these weapons!” They laugh together again. “I’ve been offered some serious money to do porn, though.”

“You and me both,” says Montana. “Here’s my card. Call me any time, if you have something newsworthy to say. Or if you just want to chat. We can have coffee or something.”

#FridayFlash: Captain Heroic's Last Hurrah

Now that I’m back from vacation, maybe I can get a regular blogging schedule going.

I’m going to start serializing “Season” (Chapter) 3 of Accidental Sorcerers on Tuesdays. This one will last six episodes. If you need to catch up first, check out Season 1 and Season 2.

On to this week’s story:

---

Captain Heroic's Last Hurrah

“Breaking news from City Hall. Channel 14’s Montana Rack is on the scene.”

“Thanks, Rudy. I’m here with a man whose name is synonymous with Skyscraper City — Captain Heroic. Captain, can you tell our viewers what you just told me?”

“This wasn’t an easy decision, Montana. I just wanted to put that out there first. In brief, I just left City Hall, where I gave Mayor Barkley and Police Chief Holling my formal announcement to retire as a superhero.”

“Stunning news, Captain. Can you share what led to this decision with our viewers?”

“I’ve been fighting crime for twenty-five years now, Montana. Sure, there’s been some downtime in there, but I’ve always answered The Signal when it came. I’m in good health yet, but it has been getting a little harder this last year or two. My reaction times are off noticeably from just last year. It’s not severe yet, and it hasn’t impeded my powers, but it’s just a matter of time. I think it’s better to retire at the top of my game rather than to keep pushing my luck. It wouldn’t be good for anyone’s morale, on our side at least, if one of the villains at large could brag about taking down Captain Heroic.”

“There have been rumors concerning the flood of competition in the last few years. Could you address that?”

“I’ll be honest, Montana: that was a contributing factor. As you know, very few superheroes are self-funded. The rest of us depend on bounties to fund our ongoing arms race with the other side. When I began, the Heromobile and a handful of gadgets was all I needed. But now there’s jumpjets, submarines, computer power, and a lab where I can put all of it together. Meanwhile, bounties have stagnated since the turn of the century. The economy has squeezed Skyscraper City’s budget, and they had to cut superhero stipends. On the other hand, you have new faces on the scene — the League of Devis moved in from Kalikut, and Count Boris from Romania, not to mention the Masked Warriors from China. We work together when necessary, especially Boris and I, but everyone who works together splits the bounties. The new guys are younger and rely more on sheer numbers than technology. Since supervillain tactics have evolved to fight a lone superhero with gadgets, the ‘human wave’ guys have another advantage.”

“I’m sure I speak for most citizens when I say I’m really sorry to hear that, Captain. If you’ve just tuned in, this is Montana Rack. I’m with Captain Heroic in front of City Hall, a place where we’ve met so many times before. The Captain has just announced his retirement, citing age and financial issues. So, Captain, if you are retiring… is there any reason to not reveal your secret identity?”

“Many reasons, Montana. I’ve lost count of the number of evildoers I’ve put behind bars. There’s at least fifteen supervillains and several dozen major mobsters in prison right now, who might have enough influence to exact revenge.”

“Disappointing, but understandable. Any regrets or unfinished business?”

“One. I never could catch up with Icy von Doom. There’s a supervillain who deserves some respect: it’s hard to collect evidence from a smoking crater. I know the young turks are gunning for her, but she hasn’t made a misstep yet. We’ve been able to thwart her attempts at world domination, but that’s about it.”

“What if The Signal is lit?”

“There’s a work crew taking The Signal down off the roof as we speak. Mayor Barkley requested that it go to the Skyscraper City Museum, and that’s a fitting place for it. But I’ll be watching, and if the young turks are having trouble, Captain Heroic will be there to save the day!”

“Thank you, Captain Heroic. This has been Montana Rack, Channel 14, speaking with Skyscraper City’s most famous superhero about his announcement to retire. Back to you, Rudy. … That’s a wrap, Kyle. I’ll meet you at the truck in a minute, okay? I need to collect my thoughts. Thanks. … Off the record, Captain. What’s next?”

“Off the record? Oh, I don’t know. How about dinner?”

“Dinner? We’ve known each other for over twenty years and you’re just now getting around to asking me out?”

“Sorry. It was for your own safety. If we were dating before, you’d have been a target. And a highly visible one at that. But now?”

“I’m not getting any younger either. Why not?”