by Scott Bennie

The first thing I noticed about the man who entered the precinct house was his huge shoulders. He had a bald head, piercing blue eyes, and enough muscle to be a serious competitor for Mr. Olympia, but it was the shoulders that caught my eye. They’re the foundation of a man, and the way he carries them, slumped or straight, narrow or broad, almost inevitably tells me much I need to know about a person. Police work has taught me that nothing communicates like body language.

"Here’s my paranormal activities permit and my paranormal weapons permit," the man said as he came to my desk. His head was bowed from fatigue, but his shoulders were straight and wide as a canyon. "How long’s the wait for processing today?"

"Slow day today." I said. He smiled - nice teeth - and handed me his ID. "Marcus Adrian Battle. Born March 24, 1978, Shreveport, Louisiana, currently a resident of Florida. Yeah, I recognize you."

"Bloody Hell. Who are you?"

"Sergeant McCoy. First name’s Elizabeth."

"Nice ass you got there, Liz." Battle said.

I did my best to remain calm. "Let’s remain professional, shall we?"

"Fine." Battle said, shoulders not hunching at the rebuke, but now leaning slightly towards me. I knew he wasn’t going to let it go easy.

"Who’s your quarry, Marcus?"

"Mark, not Marcus," he said, establishing his turf. "And I’m looking to see about going after a John Doe, better known as Mastiff."

I froze. Mastiff had been terrorizing New York for weeks. A paranormal, more agile than an Olympic athlete, incredibly strong and vicious. He had killed a lot of people. A number of paranormals had taken a run at him, with limited success.

"What makes you think you’ll bag him?"

"I’m very good." Battle smiled. His shoulders leaned back a little, and it looked like he was puffing his chest, though with his build, it was hard to tell. "I’m gonna shove my fist down his throat so hard it’s gonna come out his ass."

"Yeah, right." I scoffed. "Look, as much as I want to collar this guy, I don’t want any more people getting hurt."

Battle leaned on the desk and looked at me with utter derision. "Damn." His tone was incredibly sarcastic. "And here I was, about to challenge him to a fight in Times Square, just to deliver as much property damage as possible. And I was even going to bus in a load of nuns and orphans so we’d have some cover."

I ignored the remark. "How do you intend to bag him?"

"I’ll need access to your records. I want to see if I can track down where he comes from. Where he’s holed up when he goes to sleep."

"We’ve got detectives looking into that." I said.

"I hope they’re wearing plenty of body armor." Battle responded. "And funeral coverage. They shouldn’t be out after a rabid paranorm."

"There are some very brave people out there wearing a detective’s badge." I was starting to get annoyed.

"That looks great on a tombstone. ‘I was brave, I was stupid, I was overmatched, and now I’m a pulped-up corpse.’" Battle spat. "I’m not much for the long underwear brigade, but they have their uses."

"Is there anything else I can do?" I said, staring daggers.

"Yeah." His shoulders relaxed a little. "I need a map of his appearances. In chronological order."

"I believe our detectives have one. I can make sure you get one." I promised.

"Excellent." Battle smiled. "Also, I want the location of the nearest Omegacorp facilities."

"Why?"

"That one will cost you dinner."

"Not telling me will cost you jail time for obstruction of justice." I replied.

"Not for conjecture." Mark stated. "You gonna come?"

"I’ve got a boyfriend." I replied. "Mad Dog Decarlo. Captain of the SWAT team."

"Great. I can kick his jealous ass, then we’ll have dinner. You’ll get food and a show. Maybe more, if we’re lucky."

"No, if Hell freezes over." I said.

"It gets pretty cold in New York, you know. And some people think it’s a close approximation of Hell." Battle replied.

"Do you think insulting my city is going to get me in bed with you?" I snapped.

Mark took a deep breath, shoulders leaning back, he exhaled with a smile. "Every cop loves their home town. And every cop hates their home town. No one knows a city like the police, the good, the bad, but mostly the bad. Some days, you just want to nuke the place to Hell, but it’s also the thing you’re sworn to protect. If you think I’m wrong about the city, show me some of the good stuff. Either that, or kick my ass out of this precinct house now."

There was something about the guy, that, that… I can’t describe it. His shoulders, square and straight, depicted a keenness and intelligence that his language and build tended to deny. "The only place you want to see is my bedroom." I blurted. I didn’t know why I wasn’t just ignoring the guy. I tend to get hit on a lot, I’m used to it.

"We can save the best for last." Mark replied.

I finally surrendered to the mix of emotions that I was experiencing. Dinner was at a rather nice place in uptown. Mark drove to Jersey and picked me up at seven. He was wearing a tuxedo. It accentuated the "V" cut of his broad frame, that impossibly broad expanse of black fabric about his shoulders.

"Rental?" I asked, fingering it.

"Yeah. Real pain to find, too." Mark replied.

Mark was actually a careful driver. We drove to a parking lot at the edge of town and took a taxi to the restaurant, listening to a Pakistani cab driver’s long bitch session about his day.

"So how was the rest of the day at the precinct, Sergeant?" Mark said. The driver’s face widened, he slowed dramatically, and shut up for the rest of the ride.

We had crossed into Manhattan when we began seeing lightning bolts in the sky, and heard the sound of thunder. There were no clouds in the sky, and the lightning bolt looked like it came from a fairly shallow angle, not directly from the sky."

"Four seconds." Mark counted the interval between flash and thunder. "That puts it about two-thirds of a mile from here."

"Supervillain?" I asked.

"A good bet." Mark sighed and instructed the cab driver to stop. "I hate freebies, he said as he left the cab.

"I’m coming with you." I shouted. "Call Precinct 36 and tell them we’ve got a 632."

"My fare!" The taxi driver shouted.

"Keep it running." I instructed. I grabbed Mark’s hand, and was inadvertently grabbed and brought to the side of a twenty-plus story building. The ground began to rise… no, we were standing on air… and we rapidly began to climb.

"When we get to the top, find cover." Battle instructed. "Did you leave the meter running?"

"Uh huh."

"Son of a bitch will probably ramp the meter. Damn this bloody arbitrary fight scene."

"Huh?"

"It’s comic book lingo." Battle explained. "When a fight occurred that really threw a damper on one’s personal lives, Chariot used to call it an ‘arbitrary fight scene’. Although given that El Capitain Miami never had much of a personal life, I wonder how he ever learned the term."

We reached the roof. It was a spectacular ride. Another flash. One. Two. Boom. A loud boom. I could hear the window rattle.

"Five hundred yards, there about." Battle estimated. He had an eager, predatory stance, shoulders leaning. I could see his chest begin to heave, and not from exertion. "Let’s hope we get to kick some ass."

The wind was a little rough. I looked for cover. There was a glowing figure, three hundred yards distant, about a hundred feet above the rooftop, angling roughly in our direction. It was too far to tell if it was man or woman, or whether it was costumed or not.

Mark issued a challenge. A multi-colored force field flashed into the sky. The lightning rider turned and moved in our direction. Mark tensed. I could see an animal expression on his face now, and his shoulders were hunched, ready to spring.

In seconds, the lightning rider was a hundred yards away. No lightning came toward our direction, a reassuring sign to me. It seemed to build up the frustration in Mark.

When the target reached fifty yards, the building began to glow with St. Elmo’s Fire, illuminating the roof with an eerie glow. I wish I was packing right now. Radiant embers danced around Mark.

"Hi!" the man on the lightning bolt said. He looked a teenage boy, reasonably well-built in a green costume. He had blond hair a thick mop on top, and buzz cut everywhere else, a teenage fashion fetish that only someone who thought they were immune to pattern baldness would dare.

Mark breathed loud breaths through his nostrils. "Who the Hell are you? What the Hell are you doing out here?"

"I’m Lightning-o, the Thunder Wonder!" the kid grinned. "No, that name’s way too geeky. I’m… uh… Totem, the Thunder Man. Actually, I haven’t really decided on a name yet."

"What does the IRS call you?" Mark snapped.

"Poor." The kid smiled.

"Okay, kid. What are you doing out here?" I finally decided to come out of hiding. Battle tried to wave me back. I could tell from the kid’s body language that he wasn’t playing possum.

"I’m testing… my powers."

"Son, do you realize how much damage your thunder could do to the windows around here?" I asked.

"No." Kid Thunder said, wearing an "I’m innocent" expression on his face, while the rest of his body was saying "I didn’t think of that but I should have".

"You’re grounded." Mark smiled. His face looked a bit worn; after the adrenaline rush of the approach, there was disappointment etched on it.

"Very funny, " the kid spat.

I pulled out my badge. "McCoy. New York Police Department."

"I’m not under arrest, am I?" the kid said, suddenly worried. "Mom and dad will kill me!"

"No. But you’d better not use your powers in an urban area again without a damn good reason. A paranormal powers usage permit would be a start." I responded.

"Especially if you want Big Brother to watch you day and night." Mark said. I glowered at him. "Come here. I’ll put you safely down on street level."

"Who are you?" the kid asked Mark.

"I’m Tuxedo Mask. And McCoy here is really Sailor Moon. Now get your butt over here before I pound a lesson in common sense onto it!"

The kid came over to us. We brought him to street level, and called him a cab. I gave him thirty dollars to pay for cab fare to take him home.

The rest of the ride went without incident. "At least you didn’t rip your tuxedo." I said.

"It wouldn’t have happened." Mark said. "If he’d attacked us, I’d have just surrounded him in a force field bubble that would seal off energy discharges and air circulation. Each lightning bolt would waste the oxygen faster. When he passed out, I’d have let him drop to the street."

"That was a forty story drop!" I exclaimed. "The fall would have killed him!"

"Maybe. But better him than me. You put on the costume, you take your chances. Stupid things happen to stupid people. Speaking of which, you shouldn’t have come out into the open back there."

"Body language. I knew he was just a kid."

"No, it was stupidity." Mark said. "What if he was possessed by a demon who could change instantaneously from a kid to some fiend from bloody Hell? Never make assumptions about supers."

I tried to argue that this wasn’t likely, but we both knew it was a hollow argument. Mark was right, never assume anything with paranormals. "We should keep an eye out for that kid, in case he wasn’t all he appeared to be."

"That’s why I wanted him registered."

"I said an eye on him, not the hands of the bloody government all over him, molesting the poor little brat." Battle answered.

I swallowed hard. Battle and I did not share political common ground. We ordered the soup. "Okay, enough stalling." I cajoled. "Explain your theory about Mastiff to me.

"My working theory is that Mastiff’s genetically engineered." Battle explained. "If he was magical, every mage on the East Coast would be after him by now. Magic always attracts magic. So that rules that out."

"He could be a natural mutation."

"Most mutations occur by puberty." Battle explained. "Mastiff’s facial features are an adult’s, at least if the descriptions are accurate. It’s possible he’s a mutant, but it’s unlikely. I think he’s a custom job."

"Okay, so why did someone create a six foot six inch homicidal human attack dog? And who did it?"

"I’ll answer the second question first. Admittedly there are a few independent geniuses out there, but the best bet is that he was produced by a major genetics lab. And there’s one place where most of the government researchers are going - Omegatech."

"Omegatech’s doing a lot of hiring these days, not just genetic technicians." I said. "It’s only logical that they’d go there." I was beginning to think I was having dinner with Mel Gibson from Conspiracy Theory."

"Omegatech fits the bill better than anyone else." Mark said. "There’s only one thing I haven’t been able to find out to determine whether my theory gets completely shot to Hell."

"What’s that?" I had started to drift away from the conversation, seduced by the violins playing in the background. I had to jerk my attention back to the discussion.

"Where did Mastiff get his name? Why is he called ‘Mastiff’?"

"Because he looks like a dog. The press gave it to him." I laughed.

"It’s hard to say." Mark replied. "Someone says something, thinks it’s their own idea, thinks it’s not important. But names are very important in the world of supers. Almost as important as in the world of magic. Names tell a lot about a cape. How they think, what their attitude is…"

"Mark Battle, someone who likes to fight."

"Yeah. But that one’s a coincidence." Mark smiled. The soup arrived. "But suppose Mastiff’s name isn’t. Suppose the bastard’s called that for a reason. And suppose he is a genetic engineering experiment."

"I’m not following you."

"Suppose I wanted to create a human bloodhound or attack dog. What animal would be best suited for the job, what genetic material do I use? Something primed to attack, and domesticated enough to obey a human master? Dogs are the most domesticated species on Earth. Attack dogs are one of the most vicious. It’s a natural combination, especially for some genetics nutcase with big balls, a bigger billfold, and a god complex."

"You’re saying Mastiff is a mastiff?" I was incredulous.
"Part Mastiff, or some other attack dog and part human." Mark said. "Now, I could be way out of the park on this. But I know the way these people think.

"If the theory’s correct, we might be able to track Mastiff by thinking like an animal. He’ll be territorial. He’ll be unmerciful to intruders. He’ll have a hunting mentality. His attacks on armored cars are like a retriever going after game. He may even mark his territory with urine; if that’s the case, we can look for areas where dogs don’t go and trace his rough boundaries. Random attacks on animals in a confined area would also be a good indicator."

"Maybe he’s an alien." I joked.

Mark laughed. "There’s some crap that even I don’t believe. I ain’t saying my theory’s a sure bet, or even a strong probability. But it does give us testable conditions by which we might be able to nab him. It’s the only theory I can think of that we can actually use in the field."

"Is it enough to risk a man’s life over?"

"Yes, as long as it’s mine." Mark’s shoulders were slouched a little, indicating a slight lack of confidence. "Of course, it’d be nice if that cheapskate mayor of yours raised the bounty on the son of a bitch. Ten G’s is okay, but I’ve done a lot of legwork on this one already, and that gets expensive."

"Can’t help you there." I replied.

"There are a few things you can do. Share the theory with the detectives, but also emphasize how dangerous this puppy is. I’m hoping I can find him and get him when he’s asleep and nail him without a fight."

"That’s not a fair fight." I joked.

"I ain’t a superhero. I don’t do fair." Mark said. "And I’m sure the relatives of the people he killed will be lining up to kick my ass because I didn’t play fair."

We sat in silence as the waiter laid down the main course. As I expected, Mark was a carnivore; a huge steak, which he ate like an animal. Mastiff wasn’t the only man-animal hybrid out there, I thought, watching Battle’s table manners (along with everyone else at the surrounding tables).

"One other thing…" Mark stopped chewing and gulped most of his ice water in a few seconds. "Unofficially. If things don’t go according to plan and I don’t get the drop on him, it’ll gonna be a mess. I ain’t guaranteeing Mastiff’s walking away from this fight." He made a thin force field wedge, and put a tiny hole in the oak table that passed as easily as if the table was not there. "It’s gonna be bloody, and I know how mad dogs are supposed to be treated."

"Is that all?"

"Pretty much. Oh, there is a couple more things. Talk to your dog trainers. Pass the theory by them, see if they’ve got any ideas on what Mastiff’s behavior patterns would be like. And…"

"What…"

He handed me a card with his cell phone number. "If your detectives are doing legwork, have them report every half-hour in the field. If one of them doesn’t check in, call me and I’ll head to their last reported whereabouts as quickly as I can."

"That’s sick."

"That’s one way to describe what Mastiff does. A very good way. And what’s worse, if I’m right, he’s reproducible. We may be dealing with dozens of Mastiffs down the road. Pet dogs of the new master race."

This grim thought was interrupted by dessert. Mark picked up the check - a tax expense, he told me - we taxied back to our car, then Mark drove me home. It was a long drive, and he kept looking at me for signs of intimacy. I did my best to deny them.

"I suppose that this was worth the dinner." I said as I left the car.

"Evening’s just started." Mark smiled, limbering unconsciously.

"No, it’s over." I contradicted. "I wasn’t joking about the boyfriend. And I don’t want to betray him."

Mark grabbed me gently by the shoulders and kissed me. It was a soft kiss, not forced… did I almost give in for a moment … no! I pushed him away and slapped him. I began to open my mouth to scream at him, but the sight of him, alert, calm, and square shouldered, took the words from my throat.

"Where I come from, it’s perfectly natural for a guy like me to give a woman like you a goodbye kiss after dinner. I’m sorry if the rules are different here. But man, it was worth it."

"Don’t you dare flatter me. And don’t come around me either!" I finally snapped.

"Yeah. It’s too bad you know. ‘Could have beens’ really suck. Take care of yourself, McCoy."

I was a little shaken by this - some women would call it rape - but, after a few hours, I decided to take Battle’s explanation at his word, and managed to get past it. Besides, if Mastiff was as tough as they say, Battle’s future was clouded at best. Perhaps a kiss for luck wasn’t that bad after all…