Superhero Nation

by

Mike Tanier

Part Two of Five

The year is 2049, and reporter Randy Stone is assigned a documentary on the superhero youth subculture. An investigation leads him to Atlantic City, where a team called the Goths, lead by the overzealous Travis Hood, operate as a back alley vigilante hit squad. Randy discovers that there's tension within the team: Travis is constantly butting heads with JD, his streetwise partner, and Alicea Mann, his ex-girlfriend and reluctant partner who possesses the rare gift of telepathy. Randy is determined to get footage of the team engaged in vigilante turf wars, but Alicea will not consent to appearing in the documentary. . .

Chapter 4: Awkward moments

That night, I patrolled with the team. I gave JD the minicam, against my better judgement, and let Travis ride with me and my second camera in the van. We followed the girls on the scooter through the same streets where the team had gone on a spree last night.

"It's nice to have a ride for once," Travis said as he looked out the window. "Sometimes, I take the bike out, but most of the time, I have to run wherever we go."

I nodded. We were just driving around in circles. Not much was going on.

"There's about six blocks around our apartment that we keep as safe zones. Nobody tries anything there, because we hit them so hard. We've branched out into this neighborhood. There have been a lot of gang wars here; I'm trying to maintain some kind of order. Last night we had some success. Look how quiet it is."

The streets were mostly empty, but sub-zero temperatures probably had as much to do with it as fear of the Goths.

I signaled to make a left turn, basically for a change of scene: one ghetto street traded for another. But Travis stopped me: "We don't go bayside in this part of town."

I asked him why not.

"That's Black Street Herd territory. They keep the peace on the streets."

It figured that Atlantic City was a big enough town to have a Black Street Herd chapter. Part gang, part community service organization, the Herd was in every major city, doing what vigilantes used to do before they changed the laws.

"We've jammed with the Herd a few times," Travis explained. "Just misunderstandings, you understand: they're a righteous mob. There's about 100 of them and four of us, so we use common sense when it come to their territory."

We steered wide of that part of town, but there were plenty of drug corners and seedy drags to choose from without having to step on the toes of the Black Street Herd. Still, we came up empty.

"I don't think we have any action here tonight. Let me call JD."

Travis reached for his portable phone, but I explained to him that the minicam had a built in portable. We pulled into a parking lot, where I showed him how to use the telecommunications console in the van.

"This rocks," he said, placing a headset over his head. "Come in Dangerbird!"

"Over and out, Roger Wilco, and all that happy shit," JD replied, but the video wasn't of JD, but of a high-rise window about 100 feet away. "Randy, which one is zoom?"

"The one that says 'zoom' in big letters," I said.

He must have found it, because the window closed in, and we could see a woman dancing alone by the window. "She's been dancing like that for 20 minutes," JD said. "She must have dosed on something strong: N10City, maybe. Bet she's got company coming."

Travis cocked his head suspiciously. "You been drinking?"

"God damn, Travis, I mean Blackheart," JD stammered. The dancing girl drifted out of focus. "I just been pullin' on the Christian Brothers wine, which is all the buck in my pocket got me. It's like kissing your sister. Not your sister, Travis. My sister, if I had one."

Travis pressed his fingers into his temples. "It's got you all bent," he said.

"Shit, Travis, I need something. You try flying when it's five degrees out."

Travis rolled his eyes beneath his mask. "Listen. The Ocean Park area is quiet. I guess you haven't found any action."

The camera focused again on the dancing girl "Just what you're looking at."

Travis portable rang. The girls had ridden around the block a few more times, then parked next to us.

"Are you guys having fun in there?" Alicea asked. "We're freezing."

Travis waved out the front window. I jacked the telephone into the console. Now we were all on conference call.

"Just figuring out where to go next," Travis said.

"Someplace indoors," Alicea suggested.

"Perfect. We'll hit that strip joint on Pacific." He meant the place that we passed that afternoon.

Alicea was irate. "I don't want to hit a strip club. Neither does Julianna."

"Give up on that damn place," JD said.

Travis' jaw hardened. "Find me someplace better."

"Travis, maybe you don't know what it's like to fly on a night like this. I'm next to a heating unit on a roof just trying to thaw out."

Travis thought for a minute. "What about the motels on the pike? Lots of girls turning tricks out there."

Alicea sighed. "There he goes with the prostitutes again. Do you have some urge to hit women?"

"No," Travis said, "but I'm getting one."

"Cute. I'm taking Julie home."

"Woah, check this out," JD said.

The camera pulled away from the dancing girl to the front door of her apartment. Not one but two guys, blackjack dealer types, poured through the entrance, a bottle of booze in each arm. The dancing girl didn't stop dancing; she swayed right up to the suitors, throwing an arm around each one. "That does it," JD said, "I know where I'm going."

Travis and Alicea exchanged knowing glances. "JD?" Travis said cautiously.

"I'm firin' up engines and getting out of this Ice Age. Three's company over there, man, and four's a party. You guys all get killed. I'm gonna have some fun."

The camera feed cut out. JD had made up his mind. Travis pointed to the ignition, and I started the van. Everybody must have had the same idea. Alicea sprinted back to the scooter, took the seat on a leap, and cut off two cars pulling into traffic. I followed her as best I could.

Travis tried to reason with JD over the headset. "JD, man, we got business to do."

JD's response was audio-only. Static crackled beneath his angry words. "Shit, there ain't nothing going on. Go the hell home and leave me alone!"

Travis looked up at me, a little nervously. "JD, we have company."

JD knew he was talking about me. "Damn, Travis, this is the only action Randy's gonna see around that house, and you know it."

Travis ripped off the headset and slammed it against the dashboard. I followed the girls as best I could; they were weaving through traffic and ignoring lights, and that's easier to do in a little scooter than in a van full of video equipment. Travis tripping next to me didn't help my concentration. "Damn him!" he cried, kicking the passenger door and leaving a dent. "How dare he throw that in my face! How dare he!"

One day of shooting, and already the fly boy was going AWOL, and Travis was more concerned about insults than God-knows-what JD would do when he got to that apartment.

They found the apartment. We double-parked outside, all of us searching for the suspicious window. "It doesn't look like he crashed in," Travis said, still growling.

Alicea studied the building across the street, the one JD perched on when we were talking to him. "It looks about five stories high," she said. "It had to be the fourth, fifth, maybe sixth floors."

Travis removed his mask and tossed his buckler back in the van. He motioned for his sister to give him a sweatshirt. He pulled it over his costume; suddenly, he wasn't a superhero anymore. "I'll take care of this with a low profile. I'll start on the third floor, then follow the shouting," he said. "The rest of you get out of sight."

Alicea didn't have to be told twice. She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm taking Julie home," she said. Then she sneered at me. "You boys play nice."

Time was wasting, and following Travis up the stairs was a month's worth of exercise in my book. We listened at each landing for evidence that a pierced, gap-toothed, mutilated street punk in a stainless-steel flight suit had crossed paths with trouble.

We found it on the fifth floor, where the shouts in the hallway were shaking the doorframes. One of the card dealers had his shirt off- JD came calling at the wrong moment- and the guy looked like a match for Travis. The other guy was shoving JD around, with JD giving almost as good as he got. It hadn't come to real blows yet, but it did as soon as Travis arrived.

I got the whole thing on tape. Travis drop-kicked one guy, swept the other, and had them both on the ground in two seconds. He was already on his feet when they looked up, and they thought better of engaging him. The dancer, all hopped up on whatever turned her on, watched with detached interest, shooting Travis a provocative glance when he felled her cabal of admirers.

*****

We rode home in silence. Both Travis and JD stewed silently. They didn't have to tell me that this sort of thing happened all the time. I could tell by the way the team scrambled when JD went off, and by the way the two of them didn't acknowledge each other on the drive home, like they had already had the argument. JD muttered a defense or two: " . . . It was my business, not yours . . . You ain't my fuckin' father; I can get laid when I want to . . .". A look from Travis was all it took to silence him.

We returned to the apartment, and JD started shedding his equipment in the middle of the floor. I prepared to shoot the squabble that was about to begin, mounting my minicam on its floater and adjusting the program. It hovered across the room to catch Travis pounding shots of whiskey over the kitchen sink, but Alicea stood in the way. A ruined shot: since Alicea refused to appear in the story, I would have to erase her features, and the whole thing would look ridiculous. JD stretched his arms and felt for bruises between the tattooed designs on his shoulders, but Alicea stepped in the way of that shot, too. The camera turned for a reaction shot of Julianna, who sat on the floor in the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees. But there was Alicea again.

"I can keep this up all night," she said.

She snatched the floater out of the air, turned off the camera and pressed it against my chest. "We have some dignity and privacy around here. I have some things to say, and I don't want you to hear them."

I tried to defend myself. "You have my word that I won't use . . ."

She tucked the camera under my arm. "Goodbye, Randy."

I gave up and left. They started fighting before the door slammed behind me. Staying to listen in the corridor crossed my mind, but I couldn't use any of it, and it didn't take a genius to fill in the pieces. Travis could give speeches about "making a difference," but these kids didn't see much value in anything, their friendship least of all.

So I didn't catch any footage of the fight, except for some shouting that was audible in the back alley and a few images of silhouettes captured against the blinds beside the fire exit. The documentary isn't missing much, I thought, and if Alicea kept imposing censorship on anything she didn't want me to see, there wouldn't be any documentary.

*****

After JD's walk on the wild side, I realized that there was no way to make this story work without Alicea' cooperation. It wasn't just a matter of editing around her and blocking out her face. She could drag the whole operation to a standstill. If she tried to keep the team inactive or slow them down while I was there, I could wind up without enough footage to make an interesting hour of Television.

I decided that the best way to get Alicea in my corner was to get her away from the others. Out of the apartment, away from the pressures of the team, she might feel comfortable opening up. Then I thought about what Travis did to Shorty Rock: would he think I was moving in on his girlfriend and kill me? He wouldn't if he didn't find out. It was just a matter of getting her to agree to talk to me at all.

Things were calmer the following night. The team didn't patrol; JD disappeared, while Travis and Julianna blasted plug music, cruised the net, and drank. When Alicea slipped out onto the fire escape for a quiet moment, I decided to take a chance.

"Knock, knock," I said as I stepped out the kitchen door and into the icy evening.

Alicea didn't look up. She slurped her drink and stared over the alley and across the roof of the adjacent building. "You're still here?" She asked.

"You keep asking me that."

"And you keep being here. Why?"

I sat beside her. She still did not look at me. "I'm wasting my time here if you aren't willing to play along. I want you to be part of the documentary, and I want to interview you privately. I think your boyfriend will agree to allow me to take you to the boardwalk, as long as we stay six feet apart and keep one foot on the floor at all times."

She chuckled into her glass. "Great," she said with sarcasm. "I thought you would have given up on this documentary by now."

"And why is that?"

"I though after a day or so of this you would figure out that we're not what you want. You wanted wild and crazy teens, didn't you? Sexy, troubled kids tempting death for fun and profit and thrills. Non-stop drinking and drugs and action. Well, we're not teens, except for Julie. As for the sex and action, JD tried his best to accommodate you, but we stopped him. We can't even get casual nihilism right, for Chrissakes; we develop a conscience just when things get hot. We can't hope to be as entertaining as you want."

"Actually, I want a true story. I want to show the superhero scene for what it really is, even if that means documenting a few awkward moments."

"All you've seen so far are 'awkward moments'. That's all we have: one awkward moment after another." She finally turned to me, throwing her hair back from her eyes. "Save the crap about 'truth' and 'reality' for snowing Travis. I've been inside your head. I know what you came for. You'll cut down all the video you've been gathering to make us look like strung-out losers."

That ticked me off. Everybody has integrity in this world except the media. Drunk kids with no lives in ghetto flophouses get to be self-righteous with you. "I'll edit this video to represent what I've seen. That may turn out to make everyone look like strung-out losers. I don't know: if all you people do is hang around head shops all day picking fights and get drunk and cruise for trouble every night, I'll have a hard time making you look like anything else. Have you looked around? How am I supposed to edit the footage?"

She snapped back. "Edit it all onto the floor and go away. Find some New York gang to follow around. I don't need a video document of the way we live." She turned her whole body away from me, leaning her arms against the railing and tossing back her hair.

"That's what this is about," I said, suddenly figuring her out. "You aren't afraid of getting caught. You're afraid of being embarrassed."

She shook her head and turned away, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Who cares what I'm afraid of? Travis sure doesn't."

"I do."

She turned to me, questioning me with her eyes..

"I do. One thing I expected when I took this job was that I would find a team where all the members would be excited about being on the net. Everybody likes to see themselves on the screen, after all. And most kids devote their lives to this stuff; it's not that often that I run into someone in the life as reluctant as you are. When you guys agreed to do this, I knew there was some friction, but I thought you were just afraid I would dime you to the McCoy units."

She waved the thought off. "That's just what I said to dissuade Travis. You have to know how to speak his language. Once you put those stars in his eyes, the only way I could try to talk him out of this was to make him feel threatened."

"Now I know that, " said, sitting beside her. "I realize that you're opposed to this philosophically, and I need your permission to continue taping. If you tell me right now that you won't agree, I'll pack my cameras and leave tonight."

She looked deeply into my eyes.

"You know why I'm out here?" she asked.

I became aware of how cold it was. The wind stabbed at my face. My body shivered beneath a lined trench coat, and Alicea wore nothing but a sweater. "To be alone?"

She nodded, taking a long, slow drink. "Yeah, but if I'm willing to sit out here and freeze to death, I must really need to get away from something. Don't you agree?"

I told her that I did.

"Travis keeps bragging about what he did to Shorty Rock, like beating up a five-foot tall hustler is an accomplishment. He wants me to be proud of him for protecting Julianna . . ."

She paused, her voice trailing off. She looked into my eyes again. I wondered if she was trying to read my mind.

"I'm not," she said, rather ironically. "Reading can be tiring after a long day. I don't need to read minds to know if someone's being honest with me. Old fashioned woman's intuition does that job nicely."

She turned back to the alley and sipped her drink. "Do your damn documentary, Randy," she said. "I'll be reasonably cooperative. And I'll do the interview."

*****

I met her for lunch. She worked at a garment warehouse right beside the Atoll tunnel entrance. Assistant production manager: a good wage to live on if you don't have three full-grown dependants. Doing the interview on the Atoll was out of the question, as cameras were forbidden. We settled on a boardwalk restaurant inside one of the old casinos. We found a booth in the back, far from curious eyes, where Alicea could sit dwarfed by the overstuffed cushions, her legs drawn up beneath her arms and the Travis-sized sweatshirt she wore. The place was dark, with just enough light for recording. I programmed the floater to fly in a random pattern, taking close-ups and wide shots alternately, aiming for that grainy, unpolished, late 20th century look.

The camera rolled, and I tried to make her feel comfortable: no mean feat with the floater whizzing around her head. I asked her about her favorite ice cream flavors, her favorite net shows: just some chit-chat to get her smiling. Then I began the interview in earnest:

ME: The first thing I noticed when I began working with your team is that you, personally, don't have a costume.

ALICEA: (Hugging her legs a bit tighter). Oh, well, that's because I'm sorta. . . between costumes right now. I had a little black spandex thing, which I guess was a typical superhero uniform, but I gained a little weight, and I never really was comfortable in it.

ME: So the others fight crime in costume, but you don't. Doesn't that make you feel a little out of place?

ALICEA: Maybe a little. I improvise sometimes, wearing a black sweatshirt or a hockey sweater or something. Occasionally, I'll go out on a job wearing bib overalls, a tee shirt, and a baseball cap. (Laughing) Travis hates that. He calls it the 'shit-kicker' costume.

ME: Tell me about your relationship with Travis.

ALICEA: Boy, it didn't take us long to end up there, did it? (Looking around the room). Travis and I dated. . . off and on. . . for about a year, from when I was in college until about last year. We still get together from time to time; I guess I could be a little stronger when it comes to that. Ideally, we should be far away from each other right now, healing wounds, growing up, learning to be our own people. . . In reality, I don't see that happening any time soon.

ME: Why?

ALICEA: Because emotionally, we have a pretty well-established co-dependency happening. He relies on me financially, and for stability, and for validation of this lifestyle he's chosen. And sex, when neither of us can manage to get anyone else and we can't stand being without it. Meanwhile, I wouldn't know how to live life without the rest of the team turning to me for life's necessities and then ignoring me when I try to have my say in matters.

ME: You sound bitter.

ALICEA: Call it resigned. If something besides my own weakness was forcing me to stay, then I might be bitter.

ME: What really keeps you here?

ALICEA: (after a long pause). You ask a lot of the questions that I ask myself. (Laughs). On Monday, I might tell myself that I believe Travis and his high-minded malarkey about 'making a difference.' On Tuesday, I kid myself into thinking that I really love Travis, and that our lives are part of some doomed tragedy that I'm just destined to play out. I get disgusted with myself when I think like that, so by Wednesday I decide that I'm going to leave as soon as I can save enough to put a month down on any closet I can find. By Thursday, I'm telling myself that no one will look after Julianna if I leave, so its my job to protect her from her misguided brother and his loser friend. That gets me to the weekend. On Friday night, the thought dawns on me that I'm too lazy and too much of a coward to do what I have to do. That thought doesn't sit well in my belly, so I drown it with whatever's handy. A good hangover will scare the demons away until Sunday night, at which time I just clutch my pillow and prepare to start the cycle over again.

ME: You don't sound like you have the temperament for this lifestyle.

ALICEA: Ahh. You see, that's what sets me apart from the others. They all sought out superpowers, what with their deodrine and power gauntlets. Meanwhile, I had superpowers thrust upon me.

ME: Explain.

ALICEA: (Yawning slightly, as if reading from a prepared script) Psionic powers, like telepathy, cannot be acquired by taking drugs or having surgery, unless the surgery is performed at a very young age, when the brain isn't fully developed. My parents wanted an exceptional child, and in the 2020's doctors were just starting to operate on newborns to prevent possible future illnesses. It started with marrow infusions for AIDS babies but for a few years, all types of mutilations were legal.

Not that many parents had the means- or the audacity- to do what my folks did. I was a guinea pig for a Japanese neuro-surgeon. He forced my mother to deliver by C-section 14 weeks early so he could shoot my peanut-sized brain full of chemicals which he probably only had a passing familiarity with. He had fourteen other wealthy parents, in addition to mine, convinced that he could expand our intellect and ability to a degree that would make his extraordinary means worthwhile.

You won't find an account of the results in any medical journals. Two babies died on the table as a direct result of the treatment. Two others died within one month from complications arising from the premature deliveries. Four others started showing signs of acute schizophrenia before their fifth birthdays. One is now profoundly retarded. Another committed suicide by rolling in broken glass until he bled to death. Two others, while not institutionalized, suffer from clinical depression, migraines, and periods of hallucinations.

That left three "success stories," although the numbers have probably dwindled since I last checked. A girl from Tokyo now has an IQ of 245 and an acute awareness of other people's thoughts. A Seattle girl was hired by an insurance company when she was 16, apparently because of her 'innate sense of probability,' which means that she's so smart that she can see into the future. Of course, she's also profoundly autistic. And then there's little old me. The treatment didn't jack up the IQ points that much, but I can hear thoughts and project them.

ME: What your parents did to you was barbaric. How did they justify it to you when you were older?

ALICEA: They didn't. My father is the kind of person used to getting what he wants. He wanted a genius and got a kid who was always sick with this side-show trick power. He was never satisfied with me. He always pushed me one way or the other: use what you have, make the most of it, get rich off it.

ME: There must be lucrative ways of using powers like those.

ALICEA: There must be. Unfortunately, any prolonged effort to read minds brings on migraines so intense that I'm essentially disabled. I can open my mind for about four seconds with no pain, and can chance maybe thirty seconds after that. Then I see the lights in my eyes, I get nauseous, and I start to see things that aren't there.

Most employers interested in a telepath would like someone who can keep her mind open for hours. Through an entire luncheon with a major client, for instance. There are some people who can actually do that, I'm told, as the result of accidents or experiments similar to mine. As for me, I use my power as infrequently as possible.

ME: That makes you unusual, both in this team and in the vigilante business.

ALICEA: You aren't kidding. I watch Travis give himself an injection in his neck every night, and I wonder. I see JD mutilate himself in the hope that he'll be able to fly a few hundred more feet, and I can't imagine why he would put himself through that. I see Julianna burn her hands on that machine of hers, and I just want to cry.

ME: That's the second time you mentioned Julianna. Do you two have a special relationship as the team's two girls?

ALICEA: (eyes watering) I try to have a relationship with her. I try to be there for her. She shuts people out. She shuts everyone out.

ME: Its safe to assume that you don't think this is the right environment for her.

ALICEA: (crying) She shouldn't be here. Travis and Julie have a great aunt out in Pittsburgh. Julianna was supposed to go out there and finish high school. She was a 14-year old rebel when their mom died. I screamed at Travis. Don't encourage her, I told him. Don't put ideas in her head. (crying more severely). She wasn't being rational, and neither was Travis, and then they just got stubborn.

God damn him. I hope he's happy. She could be a normal kid now. If anything happens to her . . .

(Alicea breaks down in tears at this point, crying for over a minute. I stopped the camera to give her a chance to compose herself. When we start rolling again, she's still sniffling, but she's calm).

ME: I'm sorry that I have to ask such hard questions.

ALICEA: Don't apologize. It's amazing the amount of regret and guilt you can live with, at least until somebody brings it out into the open.

ME: I have to ask one other tough question. There are some viewers who may be skeptical of your mind-reading abilities. If it wouldn't hurt you too much, I was wondering if you could demonstrate your powers.

ALICEA: (biting her lip) I suppose so.

ME: Do you want me to think of a number or something?

ALICEA: Write it on a piece of paper

(I do so)

ALICEA: I need you to know that when I reach out to your mind, I can't be very picky. I'll get the number, but I'll get other things as well. Usually, that's limited to the thoughts that have passed through your mind in the last few seconds, but you would be surprised how many thoughts you have every second.

ME: I'm ready.

ALICEA: (After a brief pause) One-hundred-eighty-eight.

(I display the number to the camera. Alicea is correct.)

ME: What else did you discover when you read my mind?

ALICEA: (nervously) Just a few things.

ME: Could you be more specific?

ALICEA: (Blushing) Not in front of the camera.

ME: Don't worry about embarrassing me. Anything I don't want the world to know will wind up in the editing room.

ALICEA: Well . . . I discovered that you find me attractive.

ME: You're an attractive girl.

ALICEA: No, not just like that. I didn't sense the passing appreciation of the opposite sex that strangers exchange when they walk along the boardwalk. Your thoughts were more complicated than that. If I didn't know better . . . oh, never mind. Your thoughts are your property and your business. I can't judge a person for the passing thoughts that are cluttering up their brains.

ME: Did you ever read Travis' mind?

ALICEA: (Smiling) How nice of you to change the subject. Yes, very often. It's easier for me to open up when I'm familiar with a person, and when that person's the only one nearby. When Travis and I were serious, it became easy for me to link up with him.

ME: What was it like?

ALICEA: It was the most terrible kind of intimacy you could imagine. I would slip into a link with him casually, not even realizing that I had done it, and then hear thoughts that I never wanted to hear. Sometimes, I wouldn't know if I was listening to my own thoughts or his. I started to lose myself a little bit, in a way that I can't really describe.

We don't link in that way, anymore. The bond isn't there, either. He's almost as much a stranger for me to link with, as you just were.

ME: Do you think that all that mind-reading led to the current state of your relationship?

ALICEA: That's a good excuse for Saturday night: I'm stuck in this apartment because I spent so many nights inside Travis' brain that I think like him, or I'm afraid that I won't feel complete without him. It sounds good, but it doesn't ring true. I'm mature enough to know the truth. There are millions of women in this country just like me, except for the special powers. They won't do what they need to do. They tie themselves to a man and a life that they know damn well will ruin every chance they have in this world of happiness. They don't use telepathy as an excuse, so why should I?

I'm sorry, Randy, but if you're trying to figure out what I'm doing here, I'll have to disappoint you. There is no reason. There's no reason for anything we do. We don't even make decisions. I've become very good at letting the wind blow me wherever it wants to go. Right now, I'm caught up in Travis' breeze, and I'm likely to keep blowing his way until something takes me elsewhere.

I stopped the camera. "Is there anything you don't want me to print?"

She brushed her hair away from her face. "I don't think so. What have I got to be ashamed of at this point?"

She had nothing to be ashamed of, but I did. I edited very carefully around the sequence where she read my mind. She was absolutely correct: I was attracted to her, and I was admiring her even as we did the interview. I rewound the part where she made that revelation about a hundred times before I deposited it on the floor of the van, trying to determine if she flashed a little Mona Lisa smile when she found out.

Chapter 5: Pick Your Friends

Every morning, before the kids woke up, I up-linked with the network and sent the footage back to New York. I flagged the good parts and left instructions for a junior editor so that the hours of useless junk could be hacked away by someone other than me. Gus must've been looking over the kid's shoulder while he edited, because he knew all about the team when he came down to Atlantic City to check on my progress.

"Actually, this is just an excuse to hit the tables," he said as he twirled pasta around his fork. "I dropped 300 bucks at The Shoals last night."

I laughed. It had been over a week since I had spoken to any adult, let alone a colleague, and I welcomed the company. We met at a seafood house on the Atoll for dinner while my cameras kept an eye on the team.

"Seriously," Gus continued after taking a bite. "The rushes look excellent. And you say that you've solved the problem with the one girl?"

I nodded. "She signed on the dotted line after a heart-to-heart, so you can tell Junior not to digitize her face."

"Fantastic." He leaned forward. "You know, the network was delighted to find out that you were doing this documentary in Atlantic City, considering our interests in the Atoll."

Our network was so diversified that it was hard to keep track of all the pots it had a finger in, but I did remember that they made a sizeable investment in one of the amusement parks, and probably made some quiet donations to the building of one of the casinos. There were always subtle cross-promotions going on: a sitcom might film an episode at the park one week, a singer from a variety show might appear at the Atoll the next week. Had I been sent specifically to Atlantic City, I would have known that the network wanted some Atoll publicity for sweeps week. Since I wound up here by accident, they were probably pressuring Gus into making sure that the Atoll didn't figure negatively into my story.

"These kids don't get out here that much," I assured him.

"If they do, don't try to record them," he said, reminding me of the Atoll's no video policy. "We'll be able to get official security videos if you need them."

I smiled at my editor. "Don't worry. I promise not to ruffle too many feathers."

A meaty hand pressed against my shoulder. "Don't tell me that you two gentlemen are spying on me."

I turned around. It was none other than Congressman Joe Bell, looking a little red in the cheeks and enjoying a gin and tonic. The old bird knew Gus pretty well and had met me once or twice. I shook his hand warmly. "Enjoying a little vacation, Congressman?"

He flashed a tipsy grin. "I'm enjoying the best entertainment America has to offer, Randy: the Atlantic City Atoll. I just hope that your presence here doesn't mean that some superhero is ready to blow his top."

I laughed. "I don't think so, Congressman. If so, you'll have to pass some more reforms."

He slapped me on the back. "Oh, that's on the way, Randy. I have some legislation brewing. No compromises to the Republicans this time, Randy. I don't need another tongue-lashing in your column."

"I was never that hard on you," I replied. "Anyway, I save the toughest talk for politicians who listen."

I should back up. Bell was one of the first politicians in the national spotlight to buck the trend toward "get-tough" anti-vigilante legislation. About eight years ago, when he was a state senator, he proposed a series of acts calling for counseling programs, halfway houses, and other rehabilitation services for vigilante criminals. I praised the whole bill; even though I was new on the beat, I could tell that the "throw away the key" mentality was getting us nowhere and wasn't addressing the root causes of superhero crimes. Bell's legislation nearly died in on the senate floor in Trenton; he had to take the teeth out of it, and the idealistic young Randy pounded him for it, probably unfairly. Bell's down in Washington now, but he's always pushing for sanity and moderation while all his peers are calling for mandatory life sentences for CFC users and other overbearing statutes. He had his detractors, but take away the minor drinking problem and I would consider Bell presidential material.

"The Atoll is made for a guy like that," Gus said after we finished schmoozing.

"He likes the booze and the tables," I said.

"It's not just that. There's no recording devices out here. A guy who's always in the public eye has a great chance to disappear. He can walk around with a woman on his arm other than his wife, and he doesn't have to worry about paparazzi behind every bush."

I watched the Congressman spread his wide frame across a barstool and order another drink. "Bell's getting around on his wife?"

Gus smirked. "Surprised?"

I shook my head. "I don't surprise easy. Plus, all those guys do it. As long as he shows up for work and passes good laws, I'm not about to question his personal life."

Gus took his travel bag from beneath his chair. "I agree, but Giles Wasserman probably wouldn't. he'll be interested in knowing the congressman is here, seeing how well they get along."

I stopped in the middle of a bite of spaghetti. "I'm sorry, but did you say Giles Wasserman?"

He removed a laptop computer from his travel bag, then dialed on his modem. "Yes I did. Our esteemed sponsor wanted a conference call to stay updated on your progress. It was a last minute thing."

I dropped my fork in disgust. "Thanks for the ambush, boss."

"Just wipe the butter sauce off your face and smile, Randy," Gus replied.

The computer monitor blinked, and the immaculately manicure image of Giles Wasserman appeared. I was mildly surprised. Wasserman, among his many endeavors, is chairman of a coalition called Family Values Advertising. About a hundred major corporations hire his watchdog group to select appropriate programs upon which to advertise their products. They were tied to a number of other conservative groups and agencies, and generally used their financial muscle to influence programming and public perception. I knew the network dealt with Wasserman regularly, and it made sense that Family Values would be wary of a story like mine, but Gus usually handled matters like this himself.

"It's a pleasure to speak to you, Randy," he said cordially. "I'm a big fan. I sometimes think that your reports on the vigilante situation are the most important segments of a news broadcast."

"Thank you," I said cautiously.

Gus leaned forward so Wasserman could see him through the computer's tiny camera. "Mr. Wasserman, I don't think that this camera has the acuity to see across the dining room, so you'll have to take me at my word that Mr. Joseph Bell is sitting at the bar behind Randy."

Wasserman crossed his hands. "Ah, Congressman Bell is enjoying the fruits of the taxpayer's labor far from the prying eyes of the press. I'm sure that there's no more . . . traditional vacation spot in New Jersey for him to frequent in this joyous season. A brothel, perhaps?"

Gus chuckled. I nodded politely. "The Atoll is good enough for Gus and I, Mr. Wasserman," I said.

"Oh, don't be offended, Mr. Stone," Wasserman said convincingly. "Bell and I spar often over legislative matters, and we tend to get personal, but it's all in good fun. I tend to forget that your politics are similar to Bell's."

So that was the story, I figured: Wasserman didn't like the idea of a liberal like me doing a Family Values sponsored documentary. Forget the fact that I'm not really a liberal: anybody left of Ron Reagan was a liberal in Wasserman's eye. This was a "reign in the eager reporter" meeting, something I hadn't dealt with since I was a pup covering the crime beat in the Bronx. I bristled with resentment, but kept my mouth shut.

Gus didn't miss a beat with his toadying. "Have you had an opportunity to look at the rushes I sent you?" he asked. "I hope you weren't offended by the violent scenes."

"Yes I did, and I am very pleased. FamVal realizes that a program like this will have violent content. We need to make sure that the violence is handled responsibly."

"That's why we sent Randy," Gus replied. "He knows what to show and when to draw the line."

"Indeed. Randy, just how dangerous are these young people?"

It struck me as an odd question, but you don't argue with the advertisers. "To themselves, they're very dangerous. To the rest of the world, they're harmless."

"I see. Not a major threat to public safety, then?"

"Not really. But then, most superheroes aren't. They're more likely to injure themselves than anyone else."

"Randy," Wasserman said in a condescending tone. "We don't use the term 'superhero' on a FamVal program."

Gus scowled at me. I apologized.

"It's OK," Wasserman said. "The vigilantes in question may refer to themselves by that misnomer, but we feel that you, as the reporter, have an obligation to use the socially acceptable term."

Gus assured Wasserman that no such slip-up would be tolerated.

"Splendid," Wasserman continued in his measured tones. "As I have said, we have no concerns about the violence level of what we have seen so far. Can we expect it to escalate?"

Wasserman was fishing for something, but I couldn't figure out what. I know what answer Gus was hoping I would give, but I couldn't.

"Frankly, Mr. Wasserman, it almost has to, if this story is going to be worth your clients' advertising dollars."

"Randy . . ." Gus began, ready to breathe fire.

"What do you mean?" Wasserman asked.

I explained. "We have some good footage right now, but these kids aren't what I expected. All they do is drink and fight with each other. Once in a great while, they beat up drug dealers. I'm not sure this story is going anywhere. I can produce the show, of course, but it won't have any crescendo."

"Mmmm," Wasserman said thoughtfully. "But this is more of a concern for your editor than for me."

"Yes it is." Gus said, looking ready to hack me to death with a fork.

"I just need you to know that if anything big does happen, we're going to have to include it in the story. We don't have enough video to hold anything back. If these kids do stumble into something serious, it could get gory."

"I appreciate you candor," Wasserman replied. "I don't want you to get the impression that FamVal wants you to hold back. Quite the opposite. The vigilante problem, especially as it affects young people, is the most important item on our political agenda right now. A truly graphic portrayal of the atrocities these criminals perform will help to create a proper political climate."

"I appreciate your candor," I replied. Wasserman's public face was that of a crusader for children, but he was a savvy politician. FamVal almost certainly lobbied for various types of legislation, with vigilante laws near the top of their list. A juicy story on prime time not only made a prime advertising vehicle, but could also be a useful public opinion tool. "Of course you realize, though, that I won't sensationalize this story to help you get a crime bill past Bell in Congress."

"Randy, Randy, no one is asking you to get your hands dirty in politics," Wasserman replied with a dry grin. "We may not agree on political matters, but both of us are disgusted by what vigilante violence is doing to today's youth. You advocate rehabilitation, while FamVal feels that rehab is the velvet glove that must be supported by the iron hand of the VPA and other laws. That's just quibbling. We both know that a solid production on your part may benefit FamVal in many ways. And as for your concern that the story may lack . . . crescendo, I wouldn't be concerned. You have several weeks of shooting left, and anything can happen. We'll nudge you if the violence is too extreme, but otherwise, feel free to do your story."

I smiled, and the image of Wasserman disappeared. Gus was sweating. "You have to antagonize people like that, don't you Randy?"

I sipped my drink. "I don't trust him."

"Neither do I, but we have to play nice. Either way, that went well."

"I guess so. I'll bet that's the first time that Family Values invited a producer to put more violence in a show."

"No, it isn't." Gus said, gulping his drink. "Not by a long shot."

*****

The living room was silent, and except for some distant street lights filtered through the blinds, completely dark. Travis sat alone.

The apartment was usually alive late into the night after patrols, with the team drinking and playing virtual games and blasting music on their headsets. But Travis had patrolled alone that night. He returned to an apartment that was empty save for his sister, who slept soundly in the second bedroom. His body bruised and aching from his nightly rituals, he stripped down to the waist, poured himself a drink, and sat silently, staring at the blank screen of the video console.

Alicea returned from her evening shift around 11. She dropped her handbag in the kitchen, slipped off her jacket, and gulped down a beer as she watched Travis sit motionlessly. She left to change into night clothes, boxers and an oversized tee-shirt, without acknowledging him. When she returned, he still had not moved.

"I'm going to bed," she announced.

He turned to look at the open doorway to the bedroom they sometimes shared. Then he turned to her. "Am I invited?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes. But only because it's colder than usual, and the bedroom is drafty. It's either you or a hot water bottle."

Travis chuckled faintly.

She leaned over his chair. "Come with me now, and I might even manage to be romantic for a minute or two before exhaustion overtakes me."

He turned back to the blank screen. "Later. I'm waiting for JD."

"I thought he was going out with you."

Travis shook his head slowly.

"He might not come back tonight," she said.

Travis' features hardened. "He'll be back."

Alicea withdrew from him. "Whatever," she said with resignation. She patted the back of the chair, studied the back of his head for a moment, then disappeared again into her bedroom.

Travis was alone again. He squeezed his knuckles, soothing out aches and rubbing knotted muscles. It had been a short but productive patrol. His target had been Top Hatz, the strip club down the street that had offended him a few days before. He climbed the drain spout and slipped into a second story window. Inside, his suspicions were confirmed: both drugs and sex were available for the right price. He broke the jaw of a security goon and threw a dealer down a flight of stairs. A patron drew a Saturday Night Special on him, but he repelled the shot with his buckler and cracked the gunman's head against a door frame. He destroyed several thousand dollars worth of property, bringing business to a stop at the legitimate club operating below. Then he crawled back out the window, nary the worse for wear.

The doorknob turned. JD tried to creep in unnoticed, but saw Travis sitting with his back to the door. "You usually aren't back yet," he said, the hint of guilt in his voice.

Travis didn't turn around. "They say that you pick your friends," he said. "It's not true."

JD dropped a package on the kitchen table, seemingly ignoring Travis.

"Some fourth-grade teacher decides that the best way to arrange her class is in six rows of five. By virtue of the alphabet, and that particular sequence, Hood and Orczykowski sit beside each other for a full year. If she arranges her class in four rows of seven, I might be having this conversation with Mike Maloney, or I might not be having this conversation at all."

JD laughed. "Mike Maloney was an asshole."

"So were you," Travis replied. "Hell, so was I. But we sat next to each other, and we talked to each other because there was no one else to talk to. Then fifth grade comes, and we talk to each other because we know each other from fourth grade."

JD stood in front of Travis, grinning nervously. "The rest is history, buddy."

Travis shook his head. "Of course it is. We hang out on weekends, because we're used to each other. Then comes drinking, then comes girls. Next thing you know, ten years have passed, and we've shared everything: homes, cars, even girlfriends. We never chose each other, but we're like family: we're stuck with each other.

"If you do something stupid, do I turn you away? Of course not. How do I turn away a friend. Especially an old friend. One who bought me my first beer. One who watched my back when I dropped a punk into the hood of his car. We're trapped together."

JD's grin slowly faded. Travis' gaze was accusing. "Travis, I don't know what the fuck you're getting it."

Travis stood beside his friend. "I know where you went."

JD nodded. He opened the door to Julianna's bedroom and retrieved his flight harness. "I went to Shorty Rock," he said.

"How could you?"

JD didn't look at him. "Shorty was willing to erase some debts for a favor. I wanted to hear him out."

"So you snuck out. You didn't think to talk to me. Don't you think that was selfish?"

JD rolled his eyes. "Sure, Travis. Everybody's selfish but you."

"I never said that," Travis said as he followed JD to the couch, where the flyer bolted the apparatus onto his flesh. "But I know when I'm being betrayed."

"You're fucking nuts."

"What's in the package," Travis asked, pointing to the brown satchel on the table. "Weapons? Drugs? Are we running N-10-City for Shorty now?"

"It's a minicam," JD replied. " Like the one Stone has watching us right now. He needs to get it past Atoll security. I'm going to fly it out to a maintenance shed and be back in an hour. I wouldn't have taken the job if it were drugs or weapons. I got some standards."

Travis laughed. He poured another drink and watched as JD adjusted his flight harness. "One day you wake up and you realize that you don't have anything in common with your best friend anymore."

"Here we go again."

"You've spent your lives together, but you've processed the same experience from two different angles. You realize that if you saw this guy, this friend who you shared your life with, walking down the street you would snap his neck rather than deal with him. But he's your friend. You're forced to stand beside him."

"You ain't forced to do anything, Travis. You can cut your own deal with Shorty."

"I don't deal with scum like him. And don't pretend your doing this for me."

"I'm not. I'm doing this because I'll have to live in this town long after this vigilante gig dies down."

JD grabbed his parcel. Travis stepped in front of him as he tried to leave.

"We do this dance too often," JD said. He tried to step around Travis, but was blocked.

"I know," Travis replied. "and we know how it ends. "I can make you stay here, but I won't, because I need you on my side. Just like Alicea: she can kick me out of the bedroom for a month, but I won't do anything about it. The cause is bigger than all of us; keeping the team together is my main responsibility."

JD shook his head. "There's no cause, Travis."

Travis smiled. "There is, even if you can't see it." He stepped away from the door. "Do what's in your heart," he said.

JD left, returning two hours later without the package. Travis spent the night in the easy chair, staring at the blank video monitor until sleep overtook him.

Chapter 6: Booze, Explosives, and Instability

They couldn't put it together the next few nights. Travis, JD, and Alicea were barely speaking to one another, and Julianna never spoke to anyone anyway. They would find reasons to quit after an hour or so on patrol: somebody's throat was sore, it was too cold, whatever. They sniffled and snapped at each other, bickering like old married people. I had more footage of arguments about the dishes than I had of the team in action.

I started snoozing in the van and letting my floater do the work when they went out. I wasn't missing anything. The police scanners were quiet, the streets quieter. It was too cold and rainy for crime. By midnight, they were back in their cave for four hours of drinking and shouting. Better for me to watch from a safe distance.

Night three of this, and I was remembering those stories of fake documentaries, how the reporters would set things up. They used to put explosives in trucks, then run crash tests. Documentary subjects were given booze or goaded to make them act unstable. I could use a break like that, except these kids already had all the booze, explosives, and instability they needed, and they were still boring. What they needed was an emotional kick in the teeth, and one from the outside, not the constant sniping they gave each other.

That's what I was thinking when the police scanner crackled to life.

"All units," dispatch began. The voice was shaky. "Request immediate backup. 301 Ocean Ave: possible 8080 in progress."

I nearly fell out of my chair. Adjusting my headset and checking the video feed, I located the team. Luckily, they were still on the street, not hanging out in a pizza joint. They had just met in a parking lot not a half mile from the crime scene. If they were moving, one of them would be monitoring the scanners.

Travis leapt into view, turning up the volume on the radio they kept in the scooter. "Did he say 8080?"

He had, as the dispatcher immediately verified. Julianna looked around in confusion; JD clamped his helmet down and tightened his flight harness. Alicea just shook her head.

"That's the code number for a super villain, isn't it?" Travis asked Alicea.

She nodded. These kids probably only knew about the super villain code from movies and the net. Atlantic City had never seen a major super villain incident, at least to my knowledge. The police didn't sound too confident in themselves: they listened for a moment while the dispatcher gave way to a lieutenant who gave way to a captain, each verifying the situation. All the cop on the scene could verify was that somebody big was busting up a saloon and possibly endangering patrons. The perp called himself Mace. The beat cop was ordered not to advance until experts, presumably the McCoy units, were called in.

"This is big," Travis said, "and it's not even ten blocks away." His eyes widened.

"Well, shit," JD said as he began strapping his harness over his shoulder. "Let's go."

But I was already in motion. The Goths against a real super villain? It was my first break since I met them. This called for multiple-camera coverage. I decided to leave the van behind: too conspicuous, and the crime scene was only a mile from me. It was a great night for a wind sprint through freezing drizzle with a camera mounted on your shoulder. I needed the fresh air.

*****

(Note: Much of the following was taken from my November expose on Supervillains. - R.S.)

The average self-proclaimed "super-villain" is between 35 and 50 years of age, male, white, and divorced, separated, or otherwise estranged from a spouse. Most are moderately affluent and live in suburban or affluent communities. Few demonstrate any maladjusted behavior during adolescence or early adulthood. For most, it's as if someone flipped a switch the moment middle age approached, transforming a respectable family man into a souped-up, costume-donning maverick capable of all manner of socially unacceptable mischief.

Psychologically, it's more complicated than that. While only a few SVs are victims of childhood abuse or other trauma, most are categorized upon capture as sexually repressed, and government shrinks agree that most have demonstrated an escalated cycle of passive-aggressive behavior in the months leading up to their "transformation." A Harvard psychologist coined the term "Middle Manager's Disenfranchisement Syndrome" to describe the impulse many moderately-successful males experience to engage in misanthropic behavior, be it old-fashioned drug abuse or wearing a spandex costume and beating up teenagers. Simply put, the man who must drive an hour each way to and from a dull job and a sterile, uninspiring home life can become a fusion capacitor of pent-up rage.

Not that all SVs resort to violence. Most are too repressed for that, even after they have medicated themselves with Ray-Tae (or bought a power suit, or whatever) and started to troll the streets in a pair of tights. Every night, you can go downtown to any precinct in Manhattan and find drunk-tanks full of broken-down SVs who did little more than harass a few passers-by or spray paint a few buildings. Others lash out on a very limited scale, causing a barroom brawl here, robbing a convenience store there, and generally being more of a nuisance than a threat to public safety.

It's the truly disturbing cases, like the Red John incident I covered four years ago, that make the big headlines and fuel the public opinion that SVs are truly dangerous. Red John was Dave Pullman, a loan coordinator from Long Island who fit the Super Villain profile almost too well. One day he drove to his local mall, wandered into the Tiffany's Secret lingerie shop, whipped off his overcoat to reveal a red spandex vampire costume fortified with a home-made power harness, and demanded ten million dollars in cash from the state government to prevent him from blowing up the whole mall. He toasted a few security guys to show that he had truly lost it, then pulled down the cage, locking a half-dozen employees and shoppers in the store with him.

It turned out that Pullman had spent months building the harness in his garage. The project maxed out all of his credit cards, with the most expensive device also being the most dangerous: a High Yield CFC, which must have set him back at least fifty grand. When the local township police arrived on the scene, they knew the situation was critical. Not only was Pullman ready for the cracker barrel, but his handiwork wasn't that great: the CFC was jury-rigged to his apparatus with alligator clips and duct tape. The whole thing could go off at any time, with or without Pullman pulling the trigger.

So all of us waited for the McCoy unit to arrive. The local police stalled Pullman while I recorded everything on minicam. Pullman's behavior alternated between psychotic and silly. He would shout threats and grandiose boasts at the authorities, then turn and try to flirt with his hostages like some horny teenager. All the while, he kept jostling his power harness. With my zoom lens, I could see an alligator clip slipping off its contact just above the CFC. Maybe that would disconnect his power. Maybe that would cause a surge and kill us all. I was no fusion mechanic.

The McCoy Unit arrived quietly in the parking lot, and they soon discovered that this would be no routine operation. Standard operating procedures called for a quick commando operation, but the delicate status of the power suit ruled out the use of stun guns, particle weapons, or old fashioned bullets. Sleeping gas was the safe alternative: just pump it in, knock everybody out, and wake the hostages up later. But recon determined that Pullman was carrying an oxygen supply unit with him. Apparently, he was familiar with McCoy Unit techniques from the net.

Eventually, they decided to use stealth tactics, which worked perfectly. It took two-and-a-half hours for two officers to silently cut a hole through the ceiling of a dressing room using a laser on low power. The McCoy team stalled Pullman the whole time, claiming to be negotiators and so forth. That long wait took us to the four o'clock news, and the affiliate went directly to my live feed. I stood for forty minutes, narrating a typically boring hostage situation to a riveted television audience, all the while knowing how the scene would act out. While the fake negotiators kept Pullman distracted, two officers slipped down from the ceiling into the dressing room, snuck through the store, and grabbed him, one plunging a hypodermic full of something strong into his neck. Pullman dropped like a bag of flour, and crisis engineers rushed in to make sure that the CFC didn't accidentally go off.

So ended the crime spree of the mighty Red John, resulting in the deaths of two mall security guards and lasting a total of five hours and fifteen minutes. The police later discovered that Pullman was wearing panties and a garter under his costume, which to me was the least bizarre detail of the whole incident, but which drove the tabloid press crazy.

What drove Pullman nuts? His wife had left him six months before the Red John case, and many jumped to the conclusion that the separation drove him over the hill. Further investigation revealed that that wasn't the case at all: Mrs. Pullman left because her husband was already losing it. He had been seeing doctors and counselors to combat impotence for years, all to no avail. She supported him through his troubles, but he became increasingly bitter and unwilling to communicate. He started losing his temper over minor affairs, finally trashing their house after discovering that she had missed a few credit card payments. That same Harvard professor I mentioned a few paragraphs ago commented in an interview with me that Pullman "had lost all efficacy, at work, at home, essentially, in his whole life. Not surprisingly, he created an illusory character of power as a defense mechanism." Pullman began referring to himself as "the red vampire" casually, making boasts and threats to friends and co-workers, and even claiming to have hypnotic powers. When he refused to seek additional counseling, Mrs. Pullman gave up. His condition deteriorated from there.

When most people think of SVs, then, they think of cases like Red John, or of Clyde Koch (the Birmingham Bandito) or of one of the other sensational cases from recent years. These famous incidents create a warped perception of who SVs usually are and what they are typically capable of. Most super villains differ from Pullman and his ilk in two major ways. One, I mentioned earlier: few can bring themselves to acts of murder. Two, few possess power capabilities as dangerous as Pullman's. High- and Moderate-yield CFCs are expensive and hard-to-find, and just owning them is a felony. Most SVs just dose up on Ray-Tae or Phinny-Bar for a few months, bulk up to their satisfaction, and start punching things. A few will procure some type of blaster weapon or assemble a power suit based on just a superconductive power unit or a bunch of minimal-yield CFCs. Lucky for them that they stay away from the major hardware. Attorneys are usually willing to plea-bargain down an SV from a federal offense to something not tied to the Vigilante Prevention Act if all he used were some chemical muscles or a blaster. There was no escaping a federal facility for Pullman; he earned himself ten years the moment he bought that CVC, then tacked some consecutive life sentences onto it.

They could move quickly when they wanted to. The floater caught the whole scene: JD engaging his engine and gaining lift from a running start, Travis taking to the skies, the girls revving up their bike and rolling. The scramble took about eight minutes: great response time, but not good enough to beat the cops to a crime scene in a real emergency. They must often have showed up a minute after the authorities and watched from a distance as their chance for glory dwindled; I could picture the kids in their little costumes shuffling their feet at the perimeter of a crime scene. This could easily have been one of those instances. But unlike their New York counterparts, Atlantic City cops were spooked by the news of a super villain at work. As I followed the sirens to the scene, my police scanner buzzed with information.

"Cruiser 19, what is your status?"

"We're outside the main entrance. It's sealed off. This is a hostage situation. Repeat: the SV does have hostages."

"Do not try to engage. We are awaiting instructions from the ATF on how to proceed. Observe only: we will be sending a negotiator shortly."

Indecision bought the team some time, and they didn't need much. Alicea and Julianna parked some distance from the scene, meeting Travis a block away in a dark alley. I parked, taking remote control of my camera.

"Main entrance is blocked off," Travis told the others.

"Kitchen door?" Alicea suggested.

"One if by land, two if by air," Travis said, and the others nodded. He signaled to the rooftop above them. JD was perched on the façade, a motionless gargoyle overlooking the scene.

They moved out, noiselessly, swiftly, Travis proceeding to the back entrance, Julianna to the shadows across the street, Alicea to a fallback position. The coordinated efforts surprised me: Travis claimed that they practiced occasionally, but all I had seen were some romps on the beach, so I assumed he was exaggerating. But there they were, moving in unison: even Alicea, who watched the others from the rear and signaled Julianna into position.

*****

The saloon itself was called the Bashful Banana, a gay joint far from the glitter of the Atoll and the fading charm of the boardwalk. It was a hellhole in a part of town where they never bothered to fix the street lights. There were no windows; the outer walls were covered with placards and graffiti. Flashing lights and sirens in the parking lot didn't attract much attention from the area residents; they probably only scared the drug dealers off the corner. The night was silent and still, except for the sirens, the squad car bearing witness to the violence inside the club.

Eyewitnesses later filled in the details. At about 9:00 PM, a 44-year old investment analyst named Dennis Michael Zane (according to his driver's license) entered the club. He wasn't a regular. He kept to himself at a corner table for several hours, drinking scotch and soda and refusing offers to dance. There was nothing unusual about his attire, or at least nothing that would stand out in a place which usually boasted a few dozen drag queens. Sure, he was wearing a lot of leather, even by the standards of the biker boys. His briefcase didn't match the outfit, but nobody noticed. Zane himself attracted a different kind of attention: the biceps which three months of Rae-Tae had built brought a steady stream of admirers to his table.

After about two hours, a well-known local player who called himself T-Bone approached Zane and propositioned him. The two quarreled verbally for a moment, then T-Bone was flung across a bank of tables. This type of thing often happened at the Banana: a few beefy bouncers moved in to control the situation.

That's when Zane pulled the prod from his briefcase. It was an ordinary cattle prod, souped up with two low-yield CFCs in the handle. Police in the Midwest have been known to use a similar device as a powerful bully-club, but they only turned the power up in emergencies. Zane struck one bouncer with the prod and incapacitated him, burning a hole in his shirt and charring his skin in the burn region. He swung wildly at the second bouncer, struck a patron, and seriously injured him. Zane then barricaded the main entrance, flinging several tables and chairs against the door.

Then began the tirade. Zane, now calling himself Mace, had apparently tripped on his way out of the closet The manifesto he delivered to his captive audience could've kept a psychology class busy for weeks: their were homophobic threats followed by demands for sex, rants against society and misquotes from the bible. Nothing unusual by SV standards: hapless hate crimes were often within their repertoire. But predictability made Zane no less dangerous, and the patrons wisely avoided provoking him.

The tirade, the threats, and the terror continued for nearly an hour, witnesses said. No one saw the DJ escape to inform the police. They all stood in three rows along the bar, watching Mace preen and pose and wondering when he would blow his top and start zapping anyone in range.

No one moved to stop Mace until a section of the wall gave way above the heads of hostages, and a winged man flew through the opening: a 23-year-old, acid-etched punk descending on this Mace character like an avenging angel.

*****

Travis had given the mark, relayed by Alicea, and Julianna unleashed the power of her gauntlets. When "Velvet" used her iron-fisted weapon against me the week before, it was on minimal power: a brief static pulse slamming into its target at a few hundred joules, enough to knock a big guy senseless. In an open environment, the superconductive generator could rev up to a few thousand joules, emitting the pulse in a cylinder or a cone or a wide ellipse. She directed a cylinder of maximum force against a portion of wall out of the sight lines of the distant squad car. The air in the force field wavered, like the heated air above blacktop in the summer, and then a transverse pulse of distortion was visible. After a few seconds of assault, the old masonry wall caved in, and JD blew through like a rocket.

At the same moment, Travis' shoulder splintered the board that secured the service entrance. He disappeared into the kitchen, with Alicea inching carefully along behind him.

JD picked out Mace quickly. He flew straight into the villain, pile-driving him into a nearby wall. The blow rattled Mace, but didn't knock him out, and JD had been careless: he was no longer airborne, and Mace still had his prod. JD managed to grab the more powerful man's forearm before being struck, but Mace bloodied JD's nose with his left hand and tossed him away.

As Mace moved in to attack the prone JD, Travis dove through the doors behind the bar. He leapt atop the bar with one hop and landed a foot in Mace's stomach. Mace had Travis beat by fifty pounds, but Travis' speed allowed him to jab Mace a few times in the face with his buckler before the larger man could take a wild, errant swing with his weapon.

Alicea caught the attention of the hostages and moved them through the kitchen to safety while their captor was engaged. Travis struggled with Mace for several minutes, catching the prod against his insulated buckler while landing punches and kicks which would knock a normal man out.

Then a sudden pulse of distorted air ended the fight, as Travis finally cleared far enough out of the way to give his sister a clean shot at Mace. The villain collapsed sideways from the force. When he tried to right himself, JD scrambled back to his feet and stood over him, extending a sharp wing until it dug slightly into Mace's flesh.

Alicea returned from rescuing the hostages. "Is it over?" she asked.

Travis nodded. "We won," he said, his chest heaving with pride.

As they stood catching their breath, they noticed music playing. It was plug music: the stuff all street kids listen too, all drums and static and piercing super-sonics. At first, it sounded like some punk blasting his portable unit outside, but it quickly became louder, to the point where it seemed to surround the building.

"What the hell is that?" Travis asked. Live weapons fire punctuated the beats.

"That ain't part of the song," JD said.

Alicea peered through the service door. Her eyes widened. "Everybody find cover!" she shouted. "Now."

The watched in confusion as she grabbed Julianna's arm and pulled her toward relative safety behind a bank of overturned tables. She leapt over a table, Julianna instinctively following. The music and shooting outside grew deafening.

Travis turned to join the ladies, but saw that a nearby wall was shuddering. He pulled a heavy oak table from a corner and hoisted it on his shoulders. The wall was splintering now, ready to collapse at any moment. With a running start, he leapt, table and all, over the upended tables and chairs separating him from Alicea. The wall erupted in a hail of particleboard, wood and masonry. Travis braced his arms. The table shielded the three of them from the debris, but they were soon hidden beneath the table and rubble.

Blasters lit up the parking lot behind the collapsed wall. A few cops were in a firefight with what appeared to be a small battalion of armor-clad warriors. These weren't McCoy troopers in their state-of-the-art gear, though. Everybody had his own custom hardware, most of it in shoddy condition. The only constant was the plug music: all of them were jacked into one source, blasting the noise from speakers mounted in helmets or power gauntlets or breastplates. Five goons poured through the opening they had just made; three had conventional CFC rifles and some armor, one wore a scope helmet, and one was decked out head-to-toe in piecemeal plate mail, not one piece matching any other.

"Black Street Herd in the crib" announced the helmet guy, his voice amplified through the same system that provided the music. "Lookin' for the faggot called Mace." . . .

I found safety in the door frame between the bar and the kitchen. I crouched low, letting the floater do the dirty work and using my own camera to catch whatever was available without exposing myself to crossfire. Despite their sometimes fawning support in the media, the Black Street Herd wasn't above gay bashing and other hate crimes, and they wouldn't discriminate now that they've come looking for action.

There were now two gaping holes in the wall. JD took full advantage of the cross draft, springing into flight and drawing Herd fire as he left the building. Two Herd members assaulted Travis as soon as he cleared the rubble pile. They were wearing nano-servo armor on their upper-bodies, which granted them incredible strength. Travis only partially deflected a blow to his stomach, and a second attacker tossed him into the wall with ease.

The other Herd members searched the room. The found Mace lying half-conscious on the floor. All of their communications were broadcast over their plug music transmission. "That damn fool beat us to him," one said, lifting pointing to Travis while Mace's limp body.

"Take his ass down," another said, aiming a laser pistol at Travis, who was struggling to compose himself.

It appeared that the pistol-wielder fired, but instead he collapsed. Julianna appeared from her concealment behind a pile of rubble, her gauntlet freshly discharged.

The Herd members opened fire upon her, and she ducked for cover. She lifter her gauntlet above the rubble, firing wildly at the sound of weapon discharges. She grazed another attacker by dumb luck, but they split up to surround her.

JD lit back into the room at full throttle. He drove a sharpened wing into a joint in the servo-armor of one of Travis attackers, yanking back with his shoulder to stay in flight. The blade dripped with blood. Travis took advantage of the wounded attacker, whose armor was damaged by the assault. He jabbed his hands inside the crack JD created, slipping the Herd goon into a hug and peeling off his protection like he was cracking a lobster. Travis threw the armor at his second assailant to slow him down, then quickly subdued his powerless foe.

JD flew right from his assist of Travis into the chest of one of Julianna's attackers. The thug lost his weapon as the wind was knocked out of him, sending him sprawling onto the bar. JD was back on his feet, but couldn't take flight again quickly enough. He was a big winged target for the other thug's blaster rifle. He managed to duck a direct hit, but shrapnel from a table and barstools showered him. Julianna tried to retaliate, but her blast was off the mark.

Reinforcements were arriving for the Herd. They had spooked the police into a temporary retreat, and four more jammers, alerted by the shooting, came to join the fight. JD was down, Julianna had her hands full, and Travis was doing all he could to avoid the swift, deadly punches of the armored behemoth he battled with.

Alicea saw the reinforcements arriving as she crouched behind her concealment of splintered tables and crumbled wall. "We're out of our league here," she whispered as she poked her head out to observe Travis' progress. His hit-and-run tactics weren't putting a dent in his opponent. Her eyes narrowed.

"Blackheart," she shouted, for once remembering Travis' code name. "That one carries the music amplifier for the whole Herd," she said, pointing to a power pack fastened to the rib-plate on the thugs armor.

Travis leapt back and ducked to avoid the table his attacker tossed at him. He looked at Alicea and shrugged his shoulders.

Her eyes narrowed again. I wasn't sure if she could project thoughts or merely read them, but it made sense that even if she couldn't project thoughts to others, she might be able to send them to Travis.

That's what happened. Travis spun away from another attack, then feigned clumsily, allowing himself to get caught in a vicious headlock. The grip was suffocating, but it put him into position to punch the casing protecting the amplifier that blasted inspirational music to the troops.

The others in the Herd charged through the opening in the wall. They formed a line along the bar, blasting indiscriminately at the debris the girls were using for cover. Travis cracked the casing, accessed the controls of the music, and cranked it. The whole system fed back, the piercing howl affecting all of us, but especially the Herd, who were closest to the noise. They clutched at their ears instinctively; Travis, freed from the headlock, ran to JD, shouting orders to his sister. "Take them down!" he shouted.

The feedback subsided, but Julianna trained her fist at the row of attackers and adjusted her weapon for a wide burst. Travis hoisted JD over his shoulder and scrambled for cover. The pulse distortion erupted from Julianna's gauntlet, knocking some of the thugs to their knees and others over the bar.

One of the kneeling Herd jammers looked down at his weapon. It was an ordinary blaster rifle, like the one which incapacitated JD moments before, but it was wired to a CFC booster pack strapped to the guy's waist. The wire was frayed, and Julianna's blast had disrupted the energy flow. A high-frequency hum emerged from the booster pack, and the weapon began to glow, faintly at first, then suddenly with white-hot intensity.

"Overload," Travis shouted, and he dove into the makeshift redoubt that protected the others. The Herd member looked up at them in plaintive horror. He tried vainly to unbuckle the power booster. His comrades, composing themselves from Julianna's attack, saw what was happening and tried to escape.

The floorboards shook as the weapon exploded. Liquor bottles burst into flames, causing a hundred mini-explosions that showered the bar in glass and droplets of burning alcohol. The Goths huddled in relative safety as flames quickly overtook the building.

"Don't they use safety breakers on those things?" Travis asked as he protected the others from the rain of glass with his buckler.

"It's too late to ask, isn't it?" Alicea replied.

Julianna peered from over her brother's shoulder at the blast zone. " I think . . I think they're dead."

She was right. A pair of them managed to escape, but they guy with the faulty weapon was a smudge on the floor, and one of his comrades was torn apart gruesomely. A third crawled along the floor, desperately trying to escape the flames.

"The police are moving in, and this place is close to flashover," Alicea said.

"They'll get the villain and any other survivors," Travis said. "We're out of here."

*****

The whole city was alive with flashers and sirens. The howling from police and fire units echoed through the streets as my scanner crackled with data. The fire swept into the adjacent (fortunately vacant) building, reaching four-alarm status and requiring the assistance of units from the mainland. The police lost the trail of our heroes, as did I: they moved quickly when the cops arrived. I headed back to their apartment building and waited in my van in the back alley for signs of them.

They were only a minute or so behind me, despite being on foot and not moving at full steam. Travis supported JD with one arm as the injured flyer hobbled with pain, clutching a burn wound on his shoulder. The girls flanked them, keeping a wary eye for the authorities as they moved. The motorcycle was lost: there was no time to retrieve it as they fled the scene. They were all covered with scrapes, bruises, burns, and ash from the collapsed vents.

Alicea tugged at the fire escape ladder. "We'll have to risk sending Jeremy through the front door," she said.

"Can't," Travis said, huffing as he eased his comrade to the ground. "Someone will see us."

"Then how the hell will we get him up there?"

"Julie, help me lift him."

Alicea watched as Julianna tried to help her brother support JD's weight. An attempt to support JD by his injured shoulder elicited a tortured wail.

"My God," Alicea gasped. "We have to get him to a hospital."

"No way," Travis replied. "Jules, climb up and get him something for the pain. And me for courage."

Julianna ascended the fire escape as Travis removed JD's flight harness; Travis had been carrying it over his free shoulder. "Alicea, do we have any rope?"

They did; Alicea produced a large spool of bailing twine that she kept in her hip pouch. Travis fastened the twine to the edges of the harness, looping it several times through the eyelets where JD normally attached the metal dowels implanted beneath his shoulders. He created several wide loops, tying them off at the top to create a makeshift basket.

JD's consciousness appeared to be waning; Travis slapped him lightly across the face to wake him. "JD, can you support yourself by sitting inside your shoulder harness and holding onto the rope?"

JD shook the cobwebs out of his head. "I think so."

"Good. I should be able to lift you then."

Alicea helped Travis adjust JD in the harness, then Travis began to climb. He climbed about halfway to the first landing with JD still resting on the ground, but then he had to turn and lift his friend with both arms, wrapping one leg around the ladder for support. Once he cupped one arm within the basket loop, he was able to grip the ladder with his free arm and complete the last few tortuous steps to the first landing. All the while, he held his right arm outstretched to keep his injured friend from swinging and banging hard against the iron ladder.

"One down, eleven to go," Travis said as he caught his breath.

Alicea stood beside me and watched the slow ascent. "Can't you do anything?" she asked.

"Not really."

"But what about your floating camera?"

My floater and minicam were hovering beside me, taping the climbers from a low angle. "The floater only has enough juice to hover with about eight pounds of cargo. The only reason it's not up there getting close-ups is because Travis wouldn't exactly consider it moral support to see something flying beside him."

They reached the second landing when Julianna appeared. She had changed out of costume and was sliding down from landing to landing with a bottle in her hand.

"I brought some whiskey," she called down.

"Good work. Meet us on the third landing," Travis replied, his voice weak from exhaustion.

They were on their way to the third landing when the strobe hit us. A police cruiser drove into the alley, and his beam lit everything: Travis on the ladder, JD hanging from a rope basket, Alicea and yours truly. Needless to say, they felt the need to investigate further. They stopped the car and turned on their flashers, keeping the strobe right on Alicea and I.

"They see us," Alicea whispered.

With a flick of my controller, I sent my floater into a darkened shadow beside a trash dumpster. There was a good chance that the cops didn't notice it when the lights hit us, and I had no interest in being identified as a journalist at that moment.

"They made it," Alicea whispered. Sure enough, Travis had managed to crawl onto the third landing and pull JD up. They tried to hide up there with Julianna, but to no avail. One of the officers shined his flashlight through the grates of the fire escape, and the trio could clearly be seen, although Travis was doing his best to conceal the flight pack.

"Could you have your friends come down from there?" one cop asked, addressing me. I was formulating a few lame stories when Alicea spoke up.

"It might not be a good idea," she said, speaking loudly so her comrades could hear. "They've been drinking for hours."

A good lie, I thought: the fire in the bar had left all of us with a sickly, alcoholic smell, and the crew on the fire escape had a bottle to corroborate the story.

"So that's what you've been doing," the cop asked, "drinking all night?"

Alicea nodded.

"And what was all that nonsense with the one guy hanging from the rope?"

Alicea fidgeted. "Oh, boys will be boys." She then closed her eyes, concentrating for the briefest of seconds. Then, she affected this dizzy teenager pose, pointing to one cop's badge. "Hey, your badge says you're Sergeant Dugan."

The cop nodded.

"Isn't Vince Petrone your usual partner?"

The other cop, who had been snooping around the alley and flashing his light up the fire escape, turned to look at Alicea.

"Yeah," Dugan said. "You know Vince?"

"He's my cousin!" Alicea said, smiling warmly. "Did Lucy have the baby?"

The other cop spoke up, "Yeah, Friday. Petrone's on family leave."

"Like Lucy really wants him around the house, making a mess and sucking down chocolate pudding."

Both officers laughed. "That's Vince, always with the damn pudding." Dugan said. The other cop flicked off his light. "Listen . . ."

"Alicea."

"Alicea: I want you and your friends to get the hell inside. I don't know what they were doing up there but it looks dangerous. I'm not going to bust you for drinking outside, but I can't have anyone getting hurt. We have enough problems tonight, without having to deal with kids falling off a fire escape."

"I understand."

Dugan turned to me. "And you: aren't you a little old for this scene?"

I was about to mumble something when Alicea threw her arms around me. "This is my boyfriend," she said.

I smiled weakly at the two cops.

"You are over 17 years old, aren't you?" Dugan asked Alicea.

"Way over. Thank you so much, officer. If I don't see Vince, make sure you tell him I said hello."

"Will do."

Alicea pulled away from me as the police returned to their cruiser. As soon as the strobe light flickered out, she lost her balance and tumbled back into my arms. I carried her over to the base of the ladder.

"Thank God I don't wear a stupid costume," she mumbled. "And thank God he was sweating on me. And thank God his mind was so damn easy to read."

Travis slid down the ladder. "We're going to take JD through the third floor hall to the elevator; I don't have the energy to lift him, so we'll just take our chances."

Alicea nodded, then put her hands over her eyes.

"Is she OK?"

"She will be," I said. "She had to read the cop's mind to get you out of this mess. I'll stay with her, then help her get up . . ."

"I'll take care of her," Travis said, and he shot me a scowl that told me that he saw her grab me while she was conning the cop. I shrugged my shoulders- hey, it wasn't my idea- but Travis' eyes could melt lead as he hoisted Alicea to his side and pulled her up the ladder.

*****

The cops didn't bother us again, which was a miracle since the Bashful Banana fire turned out to be a five-alarmer which led off the news for two days. Everyone knew there were superheroes involved, but the team caught a break: the Black Street Herd was so high profile that the Goths didn't warrant a mention, and the press referred to them as "an unknown vigilante gang." In the final tally, three Herd members died, but no civilians were seriously hurt in the melee. A good thing, too: the cops wouldn't investigate gang-on-gang violence with much fervor, but they would have torn the city up if a private citizen was killed.

Things got pretty claustrophobic in the apartment, though. This was the most dangerous hit the team had ever pulled, and they were scared. Julianna didn't even get out of bed the next morning, and Alicea woke up drinking, which wasn't like her. I tried to go out for donuts and coffee and JD nearly threw himself against the door. They thought Charlie McCoy himself was on every street corner looking for them. I couldn't blame them for being spooked; the fire was all over the news. But with the lights out and shades lowered in the dark apartment, everybody drinking and staring each other down, the paranoia could have driven them nuts.

All except Travis, at least. He calmly surfed the superhero sites on the net, using one of the access numbers Shorty Rock gave them. The battle, the explosions, the narrow escape in the alley, the deaths: it all rolled right off of him. He saw something on the network that caught his attention, though, and it nearly made him drop his keypad. "Guys, you have to read this," he said breathlessly.

The following item was posted, dated that morning:

DESPERATELY SEEKING the superhero team that fought the Black Street Herd in Atlantic City. A Manhattan-based organization may want to do business with you. If interested, contact the Valley Green Company at the URL listed below. Do not save this address, as it changes daily. Retrieve our street address from that site and send a representative to meet with us in person at our New York office. Any attempt to contact us through the network will nullify this unique business opportunity.

"Well, I'll be fucked," JD said while clutching an ice pack to his shoulder.

Travis nodded, scratching his chin. "Valley Green Company? That doesn't sound like a company interested in superheroes. Maybe they are looking for security guards, or corporate spies."

Alicea threw up her arms in disgust. "What's wrong with you? It's a sting! The McCoys are hoping we're dumb enough to walk right into our trap."

"You're right," JD said. "That's why they want us to appear in person."

Travis looked up from the monitor. He was clearly disappointed. He turned to me. "Is that all this is, Randy?"

"It might be, but it sounds pretty primitive for a McCoy trap."

"They don't have to use brilliant tactics to catch us," Alicea said, sneering. "After last night, we must look dumb enough to step right into anything."

Travis was annoyed. "Give me some credit."

"Why?" she said, storming into the kitchen for a drink. "You don't have any sense of when to quit. After last night, I can't believe that you're browsing the newsgroups." She brought back something like a quadruple cognac. "Haven't we caused enough destruction?"

"What happened last night was precisely the reason to hit the web today. And look what I found: somebody trying to contact us about a business proposition. This could be our big break."

That statement fell on the floor and laid there. I don't know if any of them, besides Travis, was really looking for a "big break" or a "big chance" or an "opportunity to make a difference." After the previous night, none of those things were on their minds. Alicea looked at him the way you look at a drunk on the street: you have pity, but you think he's beyond hope. And JD was just blank.

"I don't know," JD finally said. "I think we should just lay low. Ride things out until after the holidays."

Travis nodded, like he had given up arguing. "What about you?" he asked Alicea.

She fidgeted nervously. "I don't know what to say." She took a drink. "It's never been this bad before." Another drink. "Never this bad. I'm going to check on Julie."

Travis turned to me. "Why does this Valley Green Company want a face-to-face meeting?"

I sighed. "Basically, anybody can claim to be anyone on the net. These people didn't want to waste time talking to crackpots or Turing Machines or web avatars or anything else that can be used to communicate by audio or video. Then, of course, there's the matter of surveillance and the security of digital information."

Travis contacted the URL. JD shook his head and headed for the kitchen. "So you think they're legit?" Travis asked.

I said it was possible. They could have been organized crime figures looking for muscle, or just another superhero team trying to puff up their chests, or any of a hundred other organizations with an agenda. And yes, they could be the authorities. I laid it all out on the table as Travis took down their street address.

"I guess there's only one way to find out," he said. I could see in his eyes that he was going to make contact, to hell with what the rest of the team wanted.

I had to plan my coverage. "Are you going by yourself?" I asked. "JD knows the city better."

"Yeah, but JD's hurt, and he's had his thrills for the time being. I can't go, anyway: Alicea won't spring for a bus ticket. There is someone I know who can go."

"Who?" I was hoping he wouldn't suggest his kid sister.

"You."

I almost laughed. "Let's back up for a second, Travis: you guys are the story. I'm the reporter. I don't get involved."

"Except for last night, when you helped us lie to escape the cops." His expression suddenly soured. "Or was that just your way of copping a feel from my girl?"

That set me off. "Don't go there. You know damn well that's not true."

He backed off. "Sorry," he said, logging off the network and clutching the paper with the address. I was a little surprised to hear him apologize. "Sorry. I'm asking you for a favor and then I'm accusing you of something. That ain't right."

"Don't worry about it. But I'm not sticking my neck out for you."

"Look," he said, "either way, you have to investigate this Valley Green company, right? It's part of the story now, so you'll have to do some digging."

He had me there. I never like loose ends in my stories, so I planned to do some quick research on Valley Green as soon as the name came up. The easiest way to get accurate information would be for me to walk right up to the address on that paper and knock on the door.

"If I did go, you would probably have to follow me. Just think of this as following me, except that I'm not there."

I rolled my eyes. "Can't argue with that."

"C'mon," he said, "you gave us a ride when the man was bearing down on us. You helped us out last night. Don't back away now. Look around: JDs ready to take a month off to drink, who knows what the girls are thinking. If something doesn't shake loose from this Valley Green thing, you may not have a documentary. This might be the end."

He had me again. This web posting was a direct result of the fire. There had to be some follow through. And I was involved in the story the moment it started.

It made some sense for me to go. My journalist's credentials might get the door slammed in my face, but if it was the McCoy's, then I got a chance to rib them for such a dopey sting operation. They wouldn't pump me too hard to give away my sources, and the kids would be safe. Plus, it was a chance to run home for a few hours.

I took the paper from Travis' hand. "You realize that you may not hear what you want to hear. There's a big chance that this won't amount to anything."

He patted me on the shoulders, like I was his servant boy or something. "It won't amount to anything if we don't look into it."

"You just seem convinced someone is going to offer you money to play superhero or something. I don't know if you take disappointment well."

His eyes looked toward the closed door to Julianna's room, where Alicea and his sister were. "Disappointment isn't that bad, unless it comes from someone you thought you could trust."

*****

Alicea crept into Julianna's bedroom, bringing with her a shaft of light into the otherwise dark space. Julianna sat cross-legged, propped up by pillows, staring out the window at the cold winter drizzle.

"What are you arguing about out there?" she asked. Her voice was a faint whisper.

Alicea sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, just a net thing. A New York company left a classified looking for us. The guys think it's the ticket to fame and fortune."

"I don't want to go to New York."

"You won't have to." Alicea tugged at the blanket covering Julianna's legs. "Can I have a look at your bruise?"

Julianna nodded, and she pulled away the blanket. A deep purple lump extended along the outside of her thigh. Smaller bruises, some new, some old and faded, covered her knees and ankles. Alicea turned Julianna's leg to examine the wound, and the younger girl winced. The girl who yesterday pulled the trigger on her weapon and watched two young men die a moment later welled up with tears and jerked back her leg.

"You should have told us it was this bad," Alicea said.

Julianna covered herself in the blankets. "The explosion knocked a table into my leg," she said. "I didn't even feel it right away."

"We have Codinal if you need it. But remember: no booze with Codinal."

"I may take some later."

They fell silent for a moment, Julianna flicking the blinds while Alicea watched her.

"You can talk to me," Alicea finally said.

Julianna pointed at the floater hanging over Alicea's shoulder.

"Don't worry about that," Alicea said. "No one will see this if I tell Randy not to show it. I could pull that down right now if you want me to."

Julianna shook her head. "Last night, when I killed those guys . . ."

Alicea reached across the bed and placed a tender arm on Julianna's shoulder. "Julie, you didn't kill anyone. They were the ones who stripped the safeties off their rifle casings. They were the ones shooting at your brother. You were just trying to knock them out. Don't blame yourself for what happened."

Julianna kept staring out the window. "I guess you're right," she said absently.

They were quiet again. Alicea rubbed the younger girl's shoulder and tickled her chin, trying vainly to coax a smile from her. Julianna shrugged her away at first, then turned and offered her the faintest grin.

"You can still smile," Alicea said. "Good sign."

Alicea stood to leave when Julianna spoke again. "When the fire started," she asked, "do you remember the smell?"

Alicea turned back. "No I don't. I remember the noise, and that damn plug music, and the heat. I remember feeling the fear streaming out of everyone's minds, thoughts so loud that I heard them above the shouts. And I remember seeing you trapped there, and seeing Travis toss JD across his shoulders like a bag of laundry. But not the smell."

Julianna nodded. "I remember the smell. I guess that the bottles behind the bar caught fire, and the glasses on the tables and the liquor on the floor. The smell was so sweet. It was almost syrupy, like the syrup they pack cherries in."

Her eyes grew wide, and Julianna began staring absently at the bare wall behind Alicea. "I was standing there," she continued, "my finger still on the controls, and I was blinded by the flash. When I focused, one of those Herd guys was on fire. He was jumping and dancing and screaming, and all I could think was: this whole place smells like cherries, like a goddamned flaming dessert."

Alicea went to Julianna's bedside. Julianna hugged her, resting her face beside Alicea's belly. "I still smell the damn cherries. The smell is burnt into my nose. It smells like death to me."

Alicea rested a palm on Julianna's forehead, and stared out the window as the younger girl began weeping silently. After a moment, Alicea broke down herself, and the two of them cried together.

. . . TO BE CONTINUED