Crossover Earth '98
Chariot of a Falling God
Scott
Bennie
A Battle in Miami
The lights are beautiful on the Gold Coast, at night, over Miami Beach. I come in for a landing, increasing the glow around myself and starting to burn a short, visible golden trail. It makes me a better target for my enemies, but I’ve survived two assassination attempts, and I’m pretty confident the third one won’t get the job done either. I look for a patch of deserted beach, and find one near Belle Island Park. I land in ankle high water. I’m not one of those supers who can start or stop on a dime. It takes meabout fifty steps to slow down, fifty splashing steps. The water hurts my shins as I use it to reach walking speed, and then on an impulse I perform a somersault and let the tide wash me as a land on my back. On impulse, I make snow angels in the sand. It’s an exhilarating feeling, a side of the Chariot no one gets to see. I’ve been accused of being incapable of enjoying myself, and there are times when I wonder if "they" are right.
"Chariot…" a voice comes through on the headset. It’s Kyle, my nighttime communications monitor. "There’s been another homicide downtown. I think it’s Skein again."
"Damn." That’s about as bad as my language gets – I am a role model, after all – and I immediately call in for details. I’ve been a superhero for eight years, since I was 19, and Skein’s about as disgusting a villain as I’ve ever fought, both in appearance and in modus operandi. Skein is a serial killer and a shapeshifter. He unravels himself. He can make his bones into incredibly nastily sharp weapons, his skin into garrotes, and even shoot his stomach acid as a weapon. Fully disassembled, he looks like a hideous dripping catgut line that crawls away on its own accord. Fully reassembled, he can look like anyone. It’s been one of my least happy cases.
South Beach isn’t too far away; not for someone with my running speed. I dim myself down to stealth mode as I put on the superspeed – I can easily weave around traffic, even on the expressways, but being seen at high velocities can cause accidents – and make my way to the scene.
There’s a lot of cameras around, and reporters. The deceased is a dancer at a gay nightclub in South Beach; third homosexual murdered this month. First Cunanan, and now this guy. And when I’m on the scene, everyone looks to me for answers, even the police, like I’m some sort of invincible father figure. And I make promises I’m not sure I can keep, look at the mutilated body, cross myself, and pray to the Blessed Virgin that I can stop this somehow.
One of the police officers comes up to me at the scene. The badge says his name is Santana. I’ve never met him before, or maybe I have. I’m not thinking very clearly right now.
"Excuse me, sir," he says. "There’s something I think you see. Someone tried to stop Skein."
"Oh my God." I am horrified at what I’d be forced to look at next.
The paramedics are hauling some guy into an ambulance. He is almost naked, except for strips of tattered denim, his jacket and his pants. Apparently Skein had unraveled himself into razor sharp wire, and completely immolated the poor guy. His body is covered in thin lacerations and he is bleeding profusely. The AMT couldn’t believe he was still alive. He’s a big guy though, built like a bodybuilder, one of the biggest ones I’ve ever seen, with a shaven head, and…
"My God, Mark?" I say as I recognize his face.
Mark was in serious condition when they dragged him in the ambulance, but not critical, and I use my pull to get him transferred to the Tower, not a hospital. I did it because I wanted to see him, but I also did it because I knew what Mark can be like when he awakes in a bad situation. He was my protégé. A reform school kid who was becoming one of the best damn Golden Glove boxers in Florida before he tested positive for certain genetic properties that barred him from competition. Mark went nuts when they told him he couldn’t fight. I offered to help the kid. The courts liked me, they trusted me, figured that he’d be better off around a male role-model. His mother, a lovely and gracious woman, couldn’t handle him. He never had a father. So I had to become one. The courts made me his legal guardian.
He was 15, and me, I was 23. Mark looked like he was in his 20s, except for the babyface. I remember staring at him when we first met, shocked by how big he was for his age, thinking he’d make one hell of a superhero if we played our cards right. We didn’t, of course. We fought all the time, words mostly. Strange, for a pair of physical guys, we rarely came to blows, and we never really had a knockdown brawl. But the words were bad enough.
Two years after we met, Mark and I had another blow-up, a real bad one. I told Mark yet again that I couldn’t let him on the firing line until he was eighteen, the courts would crucify me. I lost the argument, and we went on patrol together. We encountered some bad guys, Hammer and Tongs. Instead of helping me, Mark stepped aside and just watched when Hammer shattered my kneecap with that big sledgehammer of his. Nearly crippled me for life.
"Hey, it’s what you wanted. I ain’t involved." Mark said, laughing as I was down on the ground in agony.
I managed to beat Hammer and Tongs – even with one good leg, a punk is still a punk. Mark and I stared at each other for a few minutes when it was over, and then Mark turned and walked away. I let him go. Last time I ever saw him. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hated Mark that night, except for Vivian.
I figured the next time we’d meet, we’d be trading blows. I was certain he was going to become one of the bad guys. He didn’t. He became a bounty hunter, and from all accounts, a good one. I treated the first reports with slight disapproval, but since he beat the Epee, I’ve had an increasing admiration for him. And now, here’s the next time, and he’s nearly dead at my feet.
Mark began to stir and moan, and when he opened his eyes, I could see he was facing the picture of the Virgin outside the infirmary. I’m sure he recognized it. "What the Hell…"
"You’re in the Tower." I say. But he knew that even before I said it.
Mark sighs. "I knew I never should have taken this job."
"Maybe not. Skein’s a nasty piece of work. I’ll let Dr. Whelan tell you how lucky you are to be alive. He enjoys saying that."
"Skein’s wanted in Michigan. I’m here to bring him in." Mark says.
"Yeah." I say, not really caring about Mark’s professional reason for being here.
There was a long silence. I find Mark’s calmness odd. I check his pulse. Mark lets me touch him without a struggle. Strong heartbeat, as usual. I hadn’t seen him in close to three years; I’d almost forgotten how massive he is. And he had gotten bigger since we last met.
"Dr. Whelan will be returning in a few minutes. If I’m upsetting you, I will leave." I say.
"Heh. If you were really concerned about that, you’d let me go to the hospital."
"Saw right through me. I guess I just wanted to see you. Talk to you."
"Can’t think of much to say." Mark grunts.
"I don’t expect you to say anything yet. I’m calling in the Guardians. You can rest. We’ll take care of Skein."
"No!" Mark growls, getting up. Some of his cuts start to reopen. I realize that I could not have said anything worse to him. "Do you know what the bounty is on that bastard? I ain’t losing it to a pack of capes!"
"Stop it!" I shout, and pin his shoulders to the bed with the palm of my hands. Mark was bigger than me, at least in terms of muscle, but I won in the power sweepstakes. "Save your strength. There’ll be other bounties. Money is transitory. How many times do I have to tell you that?"
"Easy for you to say." Mark sneers. "You’ve got the city of Miami spending ten million a year to bankroll you."
"Twelve point five." I correct him.
"You can afford to run your little charitable empire. Some of us have to work for a living."
Old wounds were reopening, and not just Skein’s. "Mark, please. Not now."
"You were doing it all for me?" It’s mockery, but it isn’t entirely false, and somewhere inside his head, Mark knows it too. "Well, you screwed up. And you screwed up even bigger with Vivian, didn’t you?"
That did it. Surprising how quickly he found that wound. I was tempted to hit him. I had to concentrate on the lines that covered his body, forced myself to view his disfigurement, used it to make me feel sorry for him. He’d only known Vivian a short time. Had he egged her on, encouraged her betrayal? Probably not; Vivian had no patience for anyone except herself, and she never particularly cared for Battle.
"If you recover to the point where I’m convinced you won’t be a liability, you may accompany us. And you’re welcome to the bounty, at least as far as I’m concerned."
"Thanks."
"If you would talk things over instead of arguing, things would be a lot easier."
"Yeah, this is definitely the Tower." Mark spits. "The whole place stinks of hypocrisy."
I hate it when he does that. The casual, off-hand insult, the ease with which he gets under my skin. "Dr. Whelan will be back in a few minutes. Now if you excuse me, I have a patrol to run."
I love patrols. I love the night air whizzing past my helmet, making a slight whistle. I love the lights and the people, walking among them as a virtually unseen guardian. I protect them. There’s a little piece of each of their happiness that belongs to me, because my sacrifices make it possible for them to be happy. I keep Miami clean. Except for Skein.
There was no sign of the psycho, and nothing the police couldn’t handle. The smugglers and the narcotics rings, the human cockroaches, they were quiet tonight. I returned to the Tower about an hour after I left.
"Dr. Whelan."
"You owe me, Luis!" Whelan snaps, furrowing his brow and letting the spectacles droop down his brow.
"I know. Mark’s a handful."
"Ha!" Whelan says. "You should have been here."
"Maybe. I had a patrol. How is he?"
"Well, the ID-28 is almost custom-made for his sort of physiology." ID-28 was a regenerative drug that tended to work only on mutants. It was also as expensive as hell. "That should speed the healing process substantially. He might need a bit of cosmetic surgery, or the lacerations could heal completely in a few weeks. I can’t tell yet."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"I had to sedate him rather heavily. Don’t expect him to wake before noon tomorrow, uh… today." He checks his watch for verification.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Whelan seems very glad to leave the Tower. I’m in no mood to rest. I stare at the pictures of Mark and Vivian that I keep on my desk. It was Mark on Miami Beach, just after his 16th birthday. We were on a mock patrol. Mark encountered Skag Hooper, one of the most pathetic villains I’ve ever met, terrorizing the beach. Much to my chagrin, Mark beat him up before I could arrive. He posed over him, his foot on Skag’s chest, doing a double bicep shot for some photographer. He had long golden hair, beautiful yellow-brown locks, he used to shake it like a model. Even then he was brash, cocky, arrogant, but you need those qualities to last in the superhero game.
Now, the attitude is more important than the look. He shaves his head, tattoos his body, pierces his ears. I never cared much for attitude.
Then there’s Vivian. Long dark brown hair, white skin, the archetypal goth. She was such a beautiful little girl. Sebastian the Sorcerer’s daughter. He was my greatest enemy, until he was eaten by some demon he conjured in the swamps. I thought I could teach her something about doing good in the world, to forget about witchcraft, wrest her away from the devil’s trade. But even at 12, she was already corrupt, already beyond my ability to heal.
And as I looked at the picture, an image formed in the room. It was Vivian, in her astral form, coming to mock me yet again, as she does at least once each week.
"Having trouble with Skein?" she laughs.
"Are you protecting him?" I demand.
She laughs again. "Please! I have better taste than that! You think I want to hang around such a gross little loser? Give me a break."
"The Mockery Brigade is not much of an improvement." I spit back.
"Whatever you say." she laughs. "Tell it to us when America is ours. Preferably when you’re on your knees in front of Flagstaff on the White House lawn."
"That will never happen, and you know it."
"Whatever you say." she laughs again. "Oh, by the way, tell Mr. Battle that Skein’s little fishnet pattern doesn’t look particularly good on him. Like, I know he has no taste, and he’s way too musclebound to be an attractive crossdresser, so I thought somebody ought to tell him that. Given that he has no taste, and you don’t either."
"Little bitch!"
"Ow, that hurts!" she says, laughing long and loud. "I guess I’m just daddy’s little girl."
"No, you’re not." I say. "Your father was a gentleman, and I respected that. You’re nothing but Flagstaff’s little smart-mouthed whore."
"At least I have someone who loves me." Vivian replies, still laughing like a teenage girl chatting on the phone with her best friend. "Well, this has been a real chuckle. But crime’s a wasting."
I scowl. She and Mark both have a lousy sense of humor.
"And by the way, good luck against Skein."
"Allow me to guess. You want me to live so you can have the privilege of hanging me yourself."
"You’ll swing low, sweet Chariot." Vivian’s laugh had reached epic levels of annoyance. "Ta ta!"
Vivian’s image fades. I have a sudden urge to go on a patrol again.
It’s raining now, and I find the slickness on the pavement to be a nice challenge. I practice sliding, using hydroplaning to my advantage. The streets are quiet enough that I can easily make a safe takeoff, and I spend a bit of time flying. After another two hours, the bad taste of Vivian is out of my mouth, and I’m able to return to the Tower again. But I can’t sleep.
I check in on Mark. Looks like the cuts are already healing nicely. I go over to the parapet, take off my clothes, and stand naked in the wind and the rain, watching my city crawl and stagger in the early morning along the barely illuminated streets. It looks like an ant farm, if ants were fireflies.
"Never seen you in the buff before." Mark says, walking up behind me, surprising me.
"Of course you didn’t. I was your legal guardian," I reply. "It wouldn’t have been appropriate to let you see me this way." This is an embarrassing situation for me, but I do my best to ignore it, to not let him see my shame.
"Well, if you’re gonna parade around like a queer, at least you’re a good looking one."
Time to change the subject. "Dr. Whelan says you should still be asleep."
"Screw Dr. Whelan." He takes a deep breath. "What’s the diagnosis?"
"You should be in fighting shape in two or three more days."
"Good." Mark says. "By the way, you’re an idiot."
I turn to him. "What?"
Mark points to the roof. "Up there. If I were your enemies, that’s where I’d send my sniper. Expert marksman, hired by someone from one of the drug syndicates that you’re so fond of busting. Dress him in cloakmouflage, arm him with a high intensity parawatt laser. Burns a hole through your forehead before you know what hits you. Chariot’s naked ass found dead in his little Tower, his brain boiled like an egg. Film at 11."
"I have security systems on the roof. And a very thick skull."
"Yeah, we know that. Or how about, a few ounces of plastique, planted on the joints of the balcony by robot pigeons. They blow the balcony, you fall eighteen storeys to the ground, and even if you’re still conscious at the end of the fall, a team of power armor goons waiting on the ground dusts you."
"Now you’re going Wile E. Coyote on me."
"Whatever, man. Just trying to do you a favor."
I put my hand on Mark’s shoulder. I almost tell him about Vivian.
"Just look at this place." Mark says, looking down at the lights. "Always hated this city."
"Because of me?"
"Because it’s Sodom and Gomorra. Nobody does anything useful in Miami except lie around on some beach, or party at night. It’s like nobody here grows up."
I laugh. "You have changed!" I say, smiling.
"I was never that bad. There’s fun, and then there’s business."
"You think I don’t do anything useful?"
"Not if you’re protecting these morons." Mark spits.
This annoys me, perhaps because it reminds me of Vivian. I spin Mark around. I can’t really put into words how I feel. The next sentence comes out badly.
"They’re my people. I treat them right. I expect you to treat them right too, at least while you’re in my city!" I say.
Mark removes my hand. "As far as I’m concerned, Skein’s doing the gene pool a favor. There are places in this town that could sink into the Atlantic and we’d all be better off…"
I slap Mark. Hard, in the checkerboard face, drawing blood. I look at my hand. Mark clenches his fist, and I hold still. I’ll let him hit me. Let him get in his blow. Perhaps this fight is what we need to finally clear the air between us.
Mark takes a step back, and I know the punch is going to hurt. Our eyes are locked, and I know what he’s thinking. I’m going to kick your ass, old man. I tense, I get ready. He can get off the first punch, that’s fine. But there’s no way I’m letting him beat me.
But he never throws it. He sighs, and though his eyes lose none of their intensity or hatred, he relaxes his arm. "This ain’t gonna get us Skein."
"Agreed." I say. We turn and face the city again. It’s an excuse, for both of us.
"His murders always happen at least seventy-two hours apart. My guess is that it takes him at least that long to reassemble himself back into a human form."
"Sounds reasonable. Where would he do it?"
"Any out of the way place, I guess." Mark says.
"He always seems to attack homosexual males."
"Ethnic homosexual males." Mark adds. "All three of his Michigan victims were Black. Here, they’re all Cubans. We have no idea who he really is, but he doesn’t like minorities."
"White supremacist?"
"That’s my guess, given that the first murder occurred near militia country." Mark theorized. "Probably a repressed homosexual too. That’s about as politically incorrect as serial killers get."
"Sounds logical." I say, ignoring the joke. "Where would he stalk next?"
Mark snorts and gives a half-laugh. "Talk about target rich environments. Somewhere in South Beach. He also likes to spread the wealth. He’s never attacked in the same area twice. Every attack has been outside a twelve block radius of each other."
"I’m not sure we can rely on that always holding true," I say, frowning. "But it does help. I’ll break out a map and we can plot possible targets tomorrow."
"He went Salsa on us last time. I’ve got a feeling he’s gonna go for a Jesse Jackson look next time." Mark posits.
"A woman would be less conspicuous. And he might leave the county."
"A woman would challenge his manliness. My biggest fear is that my attack might have spooked him. He’s drawing a lot of heat right now, and it’s gonna get a lot hotter real fast. Another reason I don’t want the Guardians coming in. They show their costumed asses in town, and he’ll fly for sure."
"He might enjoy the challenge."
"There’s fun and then there’s stupid. I don’t think Skein is that stupid." Mark licks his lips. "I don’t suppose you have any smokes in the place?"
"Of course not."
"Crap." Mark says.
"You faced him. He clocked you. Did he get you by surprise?" I ask.
Mark is not particularly anxious to answer the question. "Nah. I got lucky when tracking his trail from Michigan. Got his flight number and seat number from a leftover photocopy of his itinerary in a Detroit apartment. I managed to track him down to a hotel, got a description, and started scoping out clubs in the area. That’s when I found him."
"But the fight. He really nailed you." I trace the crisscross pattern on his shoulder. Mark blanches. It takes him awhile to talk about it.
"I freaked, Luis. I never seen nothing like that before. All that blood and guts. The guy disassembling himself into pieces. I thought I could take anything, but this, this was just…" Mark shook his head. "Shoulda dodged better. Man, I screwed the pooch."
I feel like taking him into my arms, comforting him like a son. Instead, I settle for a friendly pat on the back. "Let me give you a bit of experienced advice. If you walk away from a fight, you didn’t totally screw up."
"Another guy’s dead. Skein’s still out there. I ain’t got my hundred fifty Gs, and I’m a human billboard for Purina dog chow." Mark responds.
"How tough is he?"
"Got through my force field," Mark answers. "He can propel bone fragments like .223 hollowpoints, just incredible penetration. His physical form is amorphous, it’s difficult to affect him with brute strength. But I can’t describe what it’s like to fight this thing. I still get sick thinking about it. Watch yourself Luis. Your armor and thick hide may as well be a wet newsrag as far as he’s concerned.
"Let’s go inside." I suggest. Mark walks back into the Tower. I put on my robe, and we head back into the Tower. It’s pretty obvious Mark needs a distraction. He inspects my desk, picks up the old picture of himself.
"God, I look queer here. Look at that gay bodybuilding pose I’m doing. And
that hair! Makes me look like Hansen."
"I never thought you looked bad. More like Brad Pitt than Hansen."
"Definitely Hansen. Probably thought I was going be in a rock band or something. Why’d you bring this out?"
"I didn’t. I always keep it out."
"It sucks. The Dysfunctionals get their family portrait taken. And Skag Hooper!"
"He’s still in prison."
"What a loser. I coulda taken him when I was 12." Mark boasts. But he was probably right.
"Definitely not one of your high grade villains." I note. "Mark, I need rest. You definitely need rest. Tomorrow."
Mark grimaces at the order. He picks up the picture of Vivian, holds it at just the right angle to let me know without a doubt what he is holding, then sets it down again without comment. I look at him, stone-eyed, as he walks to bed. This is going to be worse than I thought it’d be.
I was hoping Mark would join me for brunch, but he was still asleep at mid-morning. The morning patrol is usually my least eventful, except for the occasional Samaritan duty, helping a busted motorist or working with firefighters at an early morning blaze. This particular patrol is also one of my saddest. Everywhere I go, I pass newspaper stands with headlines that mention how Skein has struck again, the Catgut Killer gets away, no end in sight . Rarely has my failure been so clearly pointed out to me.
Most annoying of all is the talk radio. I force myself to listen while Melinda, my morning shift monitor, keeps track of the police bands. I expect to be criticized on some of the white stations. There are always people on them who are saying that I’ve lost a step, lost my edge, that I’m an arrogant prima donna, it’s part of the business. But the Cubans are especially important to me, and they’ve never lost faith in me, except for a few crazy people who want me to invade Havana single-handed. But today, there are a lot of doubters.
"Chariot’s been doing this for a lot time," a female caller says, "and people know who he is. The gangs and the syndicates know how he thinks, how to get around him. He isn’t capturing the number of criminals that he used to. It’s time to get some new blood in Miami."
New blood? Like I’m some sort of replaceable fixture? Superheroing isn’t my job, it’s my life!
And what hurts even more is that they have a few valid points. I haven’t been capturing as many criminals as I used to. At first, I thought it was because I’d cleaned all the major nests, and because the nation’s crime rates in general were dropping. Drug use is down. But lately, I’ve come to wonder if this might not because the criminals are getting smarter. My actions are forcing the criminals to become smarter. Like an evolving virus, they’re becoming immune to my form of vigilantism.
Why in Hell does the world have to keep changing on me?
I return to the Tower, my Ivory Tower, as one caller called it on one of the white stations. I check in on Mark. He’s healing well, the scars are almost imperceptible. He’s just beginning to rise.
"How’s it going, Champ?" I ask him. It’s an old nickname, stemming back to his old Golden Glove days. He never liked it very much.
"Not bad, Charred Riot," he answers, and I squirm when I hear that one. That’s what the Pyrotechnician called me after I received third degree burns when I was caught in one of his booby traps.
"Mark, last night, about that slap…"
"It ain’t anything." Mark says. "Grandma slaps harder than that. You got that map ready?"
"Actually, if you feel up to it, I thought we might try a light workout."
"Cool. Haven’t tested my strength in awhile."
The Tower is an old office building, twenty storeys high, abandoned during the 1980s recession, converted into a superhero operations center. The city bought it as a headquarters for the old Gold Coast Guard superteam, but they were lost in some sort of dimensional vortex in 1990, and when I emerged as a publicly accepted superhero, the city gave it to me as my headquarters. The Guard had reinforced the building and added a lot of experimental tech that I’ve managed to keep a secret – a pact with the fallen heroes, I guess – and included one of the most advanced superhero training facilities in the country. I change into the tank top version of the Chariot costume, gold with black trim, no helmet or shoulder pads. I wave at Mark, who’s in his usual white T-shirt and denim shorts.
I really shouldn’t be pushing him yet, but training is one of the few activities we used to enjoy together. I also suspect Whelan is being as needlessly paranoid with Mark as he is with me when I’m injured. Mark heads like a rocket for the bench press machine. He sets the weight to a ton, and starts doing reps.
"This has gotten easy!" he exclaims.
"Don’t push yourself too hard." I caution. I figure he’s probably gotten a lot stronger over the last few years, but I wanted him to warm up, not rip himself apart.
"What’s your record for ten reps?" Mark asks.
"486.7 tons."
"You’ve plateaued. Or you’ve gotten lazy."
"You think I’m lazy?" I challenge him.
"I dunno." Mark shrugs. "Without somebody around like me around to dog your ass, probably."
"Easy there, Mark. Let me warm up right before you try to psyche me, okay?"
In past workouts, I always set the tone, but today, we’re a little more collaborative. It’s a pretty good feeling. It allows me to get past the attitude a little, get to know the guy Mark keeps hiding from the world. I spot for Mark while he does his next lift.
"Twenty three hundred!" Mark exclaims like a kid. "Man, I just did ten reps at twenty three hundred, without force field support. And it was easy!"
"I knew you’d gotten stronger." I say. "But let’s not push yourself until tomorrow."
It takes me about ten minutes for me to convince Mark to take it easy. I remind him that he can kiss the bounty on Skein good-bye if he hurts himself before Skein’s next appearance. That finally does the trick, although he nearly kicks apart a stand of free weights to alleviate his frustration. I allow him to do it without rebuke. Mark and I have never seen eye to eye, but I understand frustration as well as he does.
"I’m going out on patrol." I tell him.
"Can I…" and then Mark stops. "Actually, I need to do more bookwork on Skein’s first victim. I want to see if there’s anyone he’s connected with in the Florida area."
"Good idea."
"First rule of bounty hunting. Connections, connections, connections."
"I guess it is." I’d never really considered bounty hunting as a career, but it gives me a good feeling to see Mark using his brain as well as his brawn.
"Well, have a good one, Luis."
This was the first time Mark had used my first name since we were reunited. I couldn’t help but smile.
A day passes. Mark and I spend several hours reviewing known data on Skein, psych profiles, the works. We go over the map, looking for possible sites. We find three areas that could provide Skein with fresh meat.
"I think he’s got a seventy-three hour regeneration cycle. Let’s assume he’ll strike within zero to three hours of regeneration."
"That places it within ten in the evening to one in the morning, tomorrow night." I note.
"I dunno. Why continue to draw heat by a casual attack? He probably wants to make one last big score, then he’ll leave the area."
"A prominent community homosexual?" I wonder.
"Yeah. I guess we can rule out Versace."
"You’re sick." I say.
"Maybe Anita Bryant."
"What?" I exclaim.
"The bitch has to be in serious denial. That’s the only explanation."
"Get out of here!" I give him a playful shove.
Mark laughs, then his face takes on a thoughtful look. "Let’s see, if Skein is as ego driven as we think, he’s in serious competition. With Cunanan. He’ll want to kill somebody in the gay community who’s as big or bigger than Versace."
"That’s a real tall order." I say. "Johnny Versace pretty much single-handedly brought the gays to South Beach. I can’t think of anyone in the gay community here who’s a match for him."
Mark seems hesitant. "Actually I can think of one right off the bat."
"Who?"
"You."
My face turns ashen. I feel like I had been struck in the stomach by a sledgehammer. "You mean you want me to pretend to come out of the closet?"
"If that’s how you want to justify it, sure." Mark says.
There’s dead silence for at least five seconds. "Are you saying I’m gay?" Something clicks inside me. I’m losing it, and I know it. This was the last thing I ever wanted Mark to say about me, to think about me. I begin to shout. "Whatever made you…"
"Come off it Luis. I saw the way you looked at me when I first…"
I slam Mark in the face, and follow up with a kick as he falls. I manage to regain enough of my composure that I don’t strike him a third time. Mark rises to his feet, licking the blood off his lip.
"I have never done anything like that! Never!" I shout.
"So daddy’s little Catholic boy never allowed himself to screw someone’s ass. Big deal." Mark says.
"Get the Hell out of here!" I shout. How dare he defame my father!
"Throw me out, yourself, Chair Rot." Mark taunts. "Or better yet, why don’t you go out on another ‘patrol’. That’s what you always do when things get hot, isn’t it?"
My lip curls, and I give him another punch. I’m expecting a real fight, finally, but Mark just stands there and takes everything I dish out. I’m a heavy hitter. Five punches later, he is on the floor, face swelling and bleeding.
"Why don’t you defend yourself!" I shout.
"I dunno." Mark says, under heavy breath. "When I came back to this place, I figured I was gonna have to kick your ass at the some point. I was looking forward to it, actually. But maybe I’ve figured out just how pathetic you are. You just ain’t worth the effort."
We stay frozen in the same spots for about a minute, maybe more. We are both too scared to move, too angry to apologize. One of us has to bend our monumental pride out of the way.
I’ve always admired my bloodline. I come from Castillian stock, about as proud a people as anyone on the planet. A direct descendent of the governor of Cuba at the time of Cortez, and I’m proud of that too. Mark, on the other hand, was the illegitimate offspring of a one night stand between a waitress and a soldier. There was no pride in that, except what he made for himself. And yet, his pride was enormous, as large as anyone I’ve ever known. And I had an enormous respect for it.
"Mark…" I begin.
I had said his name. I had shown weakness. That was Mark’s cue to get up. To leave and never come back. He knew it, I knew it. He had done it before. Mark got to his feet, turned his back to me, walked through the doorway… then stopped.
"Oh, screw this!" he exclaims, and he turns back around and he nails me in the chops. I fall to the floor, almost stunned by the blow. Mark follows up with several kicks to the ribs. I do not try to resist.
"Not defending yourself?" he notices. "Idiot." He kicks me again. "Screw the martyr complex, let’s go."
"No." I say, resigned. "I’ve got a lousy temper, and you get under my skin. But I never wanted to hurt you."
"Ain’t this a touchy feelly moment?" Mark mocks. "You only hurt the ones that you love? Yeah right." Mark picks up his picture, throws it on the floor, and stomps on it until it breaks into pieces. "I’m free of you, Luis. You’re never getting your hands on me again. I’m not that flexing little brat anymore."
"If that’s the way you want it, go." I say, getting to my feet. "I do care about you, and if I’m bad for you, then I do hope we never meet again."
Mark stops. "Aw, ain’t that sweet," he mocks.
"I realize you have no respect for me. That’s always been your problem. Nobody’s ever been able to earn your respect."
"You ain’t worth it."
"You’ve got to give in some time, Mark. There’s somebody out there who’s worth it. I tried to earn it, and you know it. I did my best. Your mother tried too."
"Leave her out of it!" he snaps.
"When was the last time you visited her, Mark? When was the last time you phoned her, or wrote her? I’ve written her every month, Mark, asking about you."
"Lay off the guilt trip, Luis. It ain’t working."
"I’m sorry. You’re right." I admit. I pause, let a few contemplative seconds pass. Mark is leaving, forever, and there was nothing more I can do. I spot the picture of Vivian, and then something else occurs to me. I pick up the picture of Vivian and show it to him. "You know, a couple of days ago, Vivian came by. In astral form."
"So what? What’s that bitch got to do with me?"
"Before you left, I thought I should warn you. I think she may be planning to mess with you. She mentioned you rather prominently."
"I only knew her for about three months. What the Hell would she want with me?"
"A way to get back at me. Perhaps she sees you as my surrogate son. She still blames me for her father’s death."
"I wonder if she can still cast her spells if I break her fingers." Mark says.
"Anyway, I thought you should be warned. It’s the least I can do. Before you go."
Mark sits there and stares at me. For someone as tough and mean as Mark, he can be incredibly contemplative. "Do you want another chance to make it work between us?" he finally asks. I nod. "You coming out of the closet?"
"Even if that were true, it would be a sin, Mark."
"There’s always confession." Mark says.
I’m angry again; there are some things you just don’t mock. I had always hoped Mark would become a Catholic, but it was obvious from the beginning that there was nothing spiritual about the man. I swallow the anger. "I won’t break my covenant with God. If you can’t respect that, I’m sorry."
"I can’t respect anyone who uses religion to run away from the truth." Mark says. "I don’t like queers much, but at least they’re honest. With themselves, and others."
"Mark, sometimes the lies make us the men we are." It was as close to an admission as I was willing to give, to him, and to myself.
"Yeah. Maybe you’re right."
"So this is good-bye."
"I suppose. Man, that’s a cliché."
"You don’t want this, you know."
"Yeah. And that’s another cliché."
"But you know what the Stones said. We can’t always get what we want."
"Screw the Stones." Mark snaps. "Fat ass old dinosaurs. I’d like to bust Mike Jagger’s lip. And that’s a third cliché."
Can I least get a handshake? I ask. No, I didn’t say it aloud. I start again, almost trembling. "Any chance you’d be willing to shake on it."
"No hard feelings? That’s another damn lie."
"You’re right. How about, ‘I care about you’? I can shake on that one."
Mark takes my hand and shakes it politely. Mark was never that warm, although I could sense we were both close to tears. He walked away: slow, deliberate, troubled steps. Yet it was a victory for both of us.
Two nights later was when we expected Skein to show up. I suspect Mark is still in the area, but I’m hoping we don’t meet again. I take a central point between the three areas and patrol the perimeter. I had alerted the police that Skein would probably be in the area, and there are a lot of dispatched plain clothes cops in the three target zones, working a lot of overtime. Hopefully, I’d get word from them when Skein strikes.
The alert came at 12:06. A gay nightclub, approximately two miles away. Skein had decided to attack the club. He had killed a bouncer, and was attempting to amass as high a bodycount as possible. Mark was right; he was trying to compete with Cunanan. He couldn’t compete in quality, so he was competing in quantity.
I race to the club, not bothering to cloak. I tie in my feed to all police bands, and an emergency signal is sent to the Guardians, who are on stand-by. Readouts keep me under Mach-1. It only takes about an eight second burst to reach the club, and by that time, the body count had reached three. Two patrons are suspended on strands of hardened skin, sharpened bones piercing through their hearts like stakes through a vampire. A cross between a crucifixion and an impaling. I cross myself.
"My God. In God’s name, why?" I shout at Skein. I’ve fought Sebastian’s demons and other atrocities, but this thing is worse than any of them.
The monster turns toward me. His face has been removed from his body, and his lips vibrate something, but without lungs to provide wind, he is silent. An intestine rises out of the mass of body parts, supported by a lattice of skin and muscle, lifts into its mouth, and he shoots spray of exceptional powerful stomach acid out at me.
It blinds me for a few moments, and I feels flaying skin whipping me, bone fragments at the tips to give them an extra wallop. I take a few blind swings before my vision clears.
The room is panicking. Can’t blame them. My first job is to get Skein away from the crowd. I do an acrobatic leap, find a fire extinguisher, and use it on Skein to get his attention. I’m hoping his loose nerve endings might be vulnerable to it. They’re not, but I have gotten his notice. He tries to wrap a tendril of hard leather skin around my throat, but I’m too strong to be trapped that way. He does reach under my helmet and leaves an ugly taste in my mouth, like oily hair you can’t get off your tongue.
I’ve now made my way to the kitchen. I look for a deep fryer – that would be a good weapon. But Skein is no longer in a mood to play. It shoots out extremely thin lines of skin, barbed with bone, reinforced with muscle. Five threads shoot through my armor, right into me. Looking behind me, I see they go right through me, lodging on the wall behind me. I’ve been impaled multiple times.
Blood is everywhere, my blood. I manage to grab the strings and shred them, which at least frees me from the immobilizing effect. I plunge my fist into the mass of body parts, but I can’t connect with anything to pulp. Instead, I find myself covered in acid, blood, and sharp, sharp body parts. My costume is shredded, and my right hand, it’s nearly on fire.
It’s time to run, regroup and think. There’s a freezer, and there’s a back entrance. I’m not thinking very well, but I manage to keep enough composure to tumble backward through the door, into an alley.
Skein follows. He makes a real disgusting dragging sound as he slithers.
I attempt to get some ground, even though the blood loss is getting to me. I’ve experienced this before, but it’s real bad this time. I try to climb a fire escape. A leathery tendril manages to pry me off, loose skin supported by muscle, with just the hint of toenail, shaped like a claw for clinging. I shouldn’t be this weak, not this soon…
More tendrils attach themselves to me. Skein’s skin begins to immolate me, forming a net pattern. It’s going to do to me what it did to… to…
I hear a loud boom behind me. An explosion… a shotgun blast. Skein’s grip loosens slightly.
"Chariot, pull back!" It’s Mark’s voice. "Come toward me!"
Mark? I’m only dimly aware of him, which makes the voice seem more believable, less prone to question. I run back, and begin to get the gist of Mark’s plan. I’m traveling opposite of the direction that Skein is anchored, pulling him like taffy.
Skein realizes his predicament. More tendrils go shooting through me. I feel his muscles like strings crawling through my body, trying to disrupt my nervous system, causing as much internal injury as possible.
"Go to Hell!" Mark takes a trash bin lid, one of the metal sheets, and pries it loose with his force field. I see Skein launch knife-edged bones at Mark, but they bounce off his defense field. Mark runs his force field over it and uses it as a cutting tool. He cuts a large chunk of Skein off, amputating about one third of its body.
"No, you’ll make… two of them!" I shouted. I had feared that Skein would have passed his neurons throughout his body, and be able to control independent pieces. But I was wrong. Even unraveled, Skein needed a brain, a central control. Mark had seriously weakened him.
I see Skein attempt to gather his mass and reknit himself, to try to escape. Mark grabs the trash bin and slams it on Skein’s center. Once. Twice. Three times. That one’s the charm. Skein is no longer moving.
I figure I’m dead. I sit, immobile, against a wall, trying to stay conscious for as long as possible. Mark comes over to me. "Man, you look like crap."
"Thanks." I croak. "Guess this is it."
"Death sucks. Don’t go there." Mark says.
"Can’t argue with that… for once." I say, and try to smile. I can’t seem to smile.
"Mr. Battle." One of the patrons begins to speak. Handsome guy, a young Cuban kid, dressed in pink. He looks at me, sees what had happened to me, and has to repress a gag impulse.
"Get the Hell out." Mark says.
"I wanted to thank you for saving our lives. Both of you. We’ll do what we can for him."
Mark looks at him oddly, perhaps reevaluating some of his prejudices. "Thanks, man." He says. But the patron has already gone back into the club, looking for a doctor or an EMT.
"My people." I rasp, proudly. "We take care of each other."
"You arrogant son of a bitch." Mark snaps, mocking me. "They’re
nobody’s people."
Police are everywhere now, and the Guardians are on the scene, supervising the capture of
Skein and his pieces. I ignore them. "Yeah I know." I tell Mark. "But it
makes the job easier sometimes."
And with these as my possible last words, this was that point where I had lost consciousness. Not my first choice for an epitaph, but life often takes your decisions away from you.
I remain in a coma for about a month. It’s an odd feeling, made worse by the occasional visit from Vivian. It’s really petty of her, but she’s a very spiteful girl. I finally come to the conclusion that Flagstaff’s deliberately cultivating her hatred, using it to control her. She’s still a fifteen year old girl. Maybe someday, someone can reach her, get her away from that old black magic before her soul completely rots. Deep within my barely functioning mind, I pray for her.
When I awaken, I can barely understand what’s happening around me for three days. I’m paralyzed. Skein caused major trauma to my nervous system, and removing the pieces of Skein from myself made it worse. Some of Skein is still lodged in my brain. My speech centers are damaged, like a stroke victim. Communication is limited to grunts and incoherent mumbling. I finally manage to ask for Lightstar or some other telepath to come by and help expedite the process. The request isn’t honored. They’re worried telepathy will cause brain hemorrhaging.
After about two weeks, I start to get better. I ask to be taken to the Tower; after about the fifth time, I’m told that isn’t possible, and after the eighth time, I’m told the Mockery Brigade destroyed it several weeks ago. Damn them! That was my home!
Gradually, they stop trying to coddle me, and I start to recover. More information comes out. Skein was arraigned. With his remaining pieces, he managed to reform himself into a quadriplegic. At the arraignment, all he did was sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic, over and over again. They’re going to ask for the death penalty for him. I’ve never been in favor of state sponsored murder, but this time I’m conflicted.
I’m also told that while I was in my coma, the Grey Gorgon broke out of prison and stormed the hospital in an attempt to kill me. Two hospital security guards died saving my life, and one of the hospital wards was badly damaged. The doctor who tells me this tries to make a point of how many lives I’ve saved in the past. You can’t buy blood with blood. Somehow, the Gorgon’s going to pay for this.
After three weeks, I’m allowed to have visitors. In contrast with the intolerable treatment I’ve received from the doctors and the nurses, I’m told my sacrifice against Skein has made me a national hero. There’s a long list of people who came by to see me, who want to see me, starting with the governor. I’ve gotten more movie offers than Elvis. I ask to see the list.
There’s one person who came to see me that I want to see first. She’s a woman of incredible dignity, in her mid-40s, brown hair with a touch of grey. Margaret Battle.
A day after I ask for her, she comes.
"Mark has been to see me twice in the last two months. He said I had you to thank for it."
"Guh..uhd." I said.
"Please don’t try to talk, Luis."
"Uh…kuh… ay… yuhh…"
"Mark gave me a letter. He said that if I saw you, I should read it to you." I try to respond. "Now hush…"
Luis, I hate you more than anyone else alive. You’re an arrogant, manipulative bastard who thinks he knows more than anyone. You screwed me over in more ways than I can count.
In spite of this, I also love you more than anyone else alive. You taught me about courage and integrity, even when you didn’t always show them. You always did your best for me. You’re the one person I’ll be able to count on if the world turns against me.
This is just too damn weird. One of these days, I’m gonna have to figure out where we stand. We gotta settle this thing one way or another.
Let me know when you do ten reps at 490 tons. I’ll come by then, and we’ll put an end to it.
Signed (The Champ)
"I’m afraid I edited some of this. Mark is…"
"Guh.. Guh.. od… buh..lesh…thuh…" I said.
"Don’t try to talk, Luis." Margaret says, annoyed at me.
God bless the little bastard, I was trying to say. 490 tons, eh? I’m going to do it, of course. Somehow, I’m going to get out of this bed, rebuild my body, rebuild my home, and become Miami’s protector again. And when I’m ready, the criminals, the costumed villains, and the drug syndicates are going to be incredibly sorry that Skein couldn’t complete the job. It’s a promise.
It’s also nice to get pushed once in awhile. Thanks Mark.