Assault or Attrition (5 page)

“What’s left?”
I asked.

She swallowed
hard and stepped away from me. “A mob burnt it down two weeks ago.
Molotov cocktails, right through the front window. The police
thought it was because they figured
you
were inside. You
were at Excelsior, on camera before Arena Mode, so...” She turned
her head, blinking a pair of tears from her eyes. “The whole thing
is a write-off.”

Excelsior Retro
Comics was much more than just a store to Gavin; it was the
culmination of his life’s work. His entire personal
and
professional comic book collection had been reduced to ash, and it
was all because I’d retreated into hiding, unwilling to step
forward. “I have money now,” I said reassuringly. “I can replace
everything. That’s not a problem.”

Peyton shook
her head. “Not everything can be fixed by signing a check.”

“I can...it’s
all right – I can help,” I stammered. “Look, when things cool down
I’ll help him rebuild.”

“If you really
wanted to help you would have been there for Gavin,
and
for
me. Months ago. The way we were there for
you
when you
needed us most.” She took a moment to zip up her fitted black coat
and pull on a pair of thermal gloves. “You seem to have your mind
made up, so there’s nothing left for us to talk about. Enjoy living
in your bubble. There are people back in New York who need me, and
I want to be there for them.”

Peyton abruptly
turned towards the exit and I lunged forward, hoping to stop her. A
razor-sharp pain sliced across my abdomen when I made the sudden
movement, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait,” I said through gritted
teeth, reaching towards her, “I want to be there for you guys – I
do. You can count on me.”

Peyton paused
for a moment, just an arm’s reach from the door. She lingered in a
moment of hesitation before reaching for the knob. “I’m sorry,” she
sighed. “But right now, I don’t even trust you.”

“
I should
have stayed in Sudan,” Valentina grumbled. “Shit was always blowing
up, but at least it was warm.”
She pulled her jacket tight
around her waist, burying her chin into her collar.

Turning my back
to the wind, I yanked my wool toque down over my ears with both
hands. It was an exceedingly unpleasant October afternoon, even for
Ontario; a light morning snowfall turned to freezing rain,
punishing every square inch of our exposed skin like tiny needles.
The hospital’s rooftop hoverpad was open to the elements, with
nowhere to seek shelter from the icy shards.

My jet arrived
a moment later and touched down silently, and the entrance ramp
lowered to invite us aboard. The new G12 with vertical take-off and
landing capabilities was the most expensive aircraft available, and
also the fastest; with a top speed that exceeded Mach 2, I could
travel halfway across Canada in just over an hour. It was the first
toy I’d purchased with my fortune, and the only luxury item I’d
really had a chance to enjoy.

Valentina and I
removed our jackets as soon as the door sealed shut behind us. My
pilot, Kirk McBride (who referred to himself as ‘Mac’ most of the
time – or, depending on whom he was introducing himself to, ‘Big
Mac’) greeted us with a beaming grin. “Mister Moxon, Miss Garcia,
nice to have you aboard. Can I offer either of you a beverage this
afternoon?”

“Kiss my ass,”
Valentina hissed. She shoved him aside and stomped to the back of
the plane, disappearing into one of the private rooms.

“What’s up with
red?” Mac asked innocently – or, more accurately, in a tone that
was designed to feign innocence. “She seems even more pissed off
than usual. Did someone drop a house on her sister?”

“She hasn’t
slept in three days. Cut her some slack.”

Mac smiled
again – a crooked, mischievous grin that usually meant he was about
to suggest a detour. With two day’s worth of beard stubble and a
thicket of dark rumpled hair, he perpetually had a dazed look to
him, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a night of binge
drinking. He was more than just the life of the party – Mac
was
the party. Well into his forties and two decades removed
from college, he still celebrated each day as if he lived in a
raucous frat house. His abundance of energy baffled me; at
twenty-nine years of age I was perpetually exhausted, but Mac had a
seemingly bottomless gas tank, fueled by nothing more than alcohol
and debauchery.

“
No
,” I
said emphatically.

“I didn’t say
anything,” he protested, holding his hand up in surrender.

I pressed my
fingertips into my eyelids and let my head sag forward. “Just say
it,” I insisted. “I know you have something in mind.”

“Okay, so have
you ever been to Montreal?”

I shook my
head. “I
just
had surgery,” I grumbled. “We’re not going to
a strip club.”

“How did you
know I was going to suggest a...anyway, this isn’t just
any
strip club – it’s
the
strip club. In Montreal they play by
an entirely different set of rules. You know how when you’re in a
club in the States they have that pesky ‘no touching’ rule?”

I winced and
took a seat, reclining into one of the lounge’s white leather
chairs. “No, Mac. I did not know that.”

“Well,” Mac
explained, his hands more animated than usual, “in Quebec it’s
practically the opposite. You can touch the strippers
anywhere
–
they almost insist on it. And lap dances only cost—”

“Look,” I
interrupted, “I know you’ve been on this jet for nearly three
months, and you’re going a little crazy, but I need to
rest
.
Recover. Groping a nineteen-year-old French girl with daddy issues
isn’t at the top of my priority list.”

“I just
figured, you know...after what happened in Argentina. You’d want to
get out. Live a little.”

“I’m not going
to talk about Argentina,” I said quietly, careful not to let my
words travel throughout the rest of the aircraft. “And neither are
you.”

“Fine, fine.”
Mac smiled and returned to the cockpit. He took a seat and pulled a
long red lever, bringing the powerful twin engines to life with a
soft rumble. “Where are we off to now, ‘Mister’ Moxon?” He added
the ‘Mister’ ironically, since he knew it bothered me.

“Fortress 23,”
I instructed. “But first, we need to make a stop in Thunder
Bay.”

“What’s in
Thunder Bay?” he asked curiously.

“Another
hospital.”

Mac glanced
over his shoulder. He flashed a set of pearly-white teeth as he
extracted a pair of aviator glasses from his jacket. “Mox, you sure
how know to party.”

***

It took us
just thirty minutes to cross The Great Lakes
and arrive at our
destination – a small hospital on the outskirts of Thunder Bay,
Ontario. The sleepy, overcast city seemed particularly quiet, and
the snowfall had accumulated far more than in the Toronto area. We
touched down on hospital’s small rooftop hoverpad and I stepped out
of the jet, landing ankle-deep in crisp white snow.

Valentina
zipped up her jacket and followed closely behind, but I insisted
she stay onboard and try to get some rest. I was still concerned
about security, but a superhuman assassin seemed like overkill for
a stroll through a small-town hospital. I had my wrist-com in case
of emergency, and she wouldn’t be far away if I needed her. She
grumbled and argued, but I insisted she stay. A consummate
professional, she never let me out of her sight while we were in a
public place. Part of me thought Valentina was just
that
dedicated to her job – and a larger part believed she was more
concerned about the fact that her final paycheck might not clear if
I were killed.

I wandered
through the stark white hallways, passing the occasional nurse or
janitor on the way. No one gave me a second glance. When I arrived
at my friend’s room in the recovery ward, he appeared much like he
had on the day after Arena Mode; pale, sickly, his breathing
shallow and weak. A small rectangular monitor blipped quietly in
the deathly silence, tethered to his chest by a series of thin
silver wires.

Kenneth
Livitski’s bleak hospital room was brightened by the abundance of
cards, flowers and comic book paraphernalia that surrounded him.
His parents and siblings lived nearby and visited on a daily basis,
never arriving empty-handed. The private room I’d financed was the
largest that the hospital had to offer, but was quickly filling up
due to the constant influx of gifts. I might have to rent out the
adjacent room just to accommodate his growing collection.

  In the
three months since he’d been in a coma, I’d come to visit exactly
once. Wrapped up in my own bullshit, as per usual, I always came up
with excuses why I couldn’t make the time. Since Arena Mode ended I
had avoided Peyton, walked away from my best friend Gavin, and I’d
barely given Kenneth the time of day since he’d landed here.

Living in
denial was one of my specialties, but I never lied to myself about
why Kenneth was in a coma: he was here because of me. Because I had
convinced him, along with the rest of the world, that I was a
superhuman before the tournament began. He believed that I’d have
his back as much as he had mine, but when the fighting began and a
sword pierced Kenneth’s abdomen, I panicked – I was sure he was
finished, and I was sure that I was next. And I ran.

His family
never blamed me for what happened, though I almost wish they had.
The last interview I saw with Kenneth’s mother was a simulcast on
CNN, where she prayed for not only her son’s recovery, but for
my
safety as well. When the reporter asked if she harbored
any ill will towards me for fleeing when her son was stabbed, she
smiled warmly and stated there was nothing that I could have done
to help. It was all in God’s hands, and we’d have to wait for His
plan to unfold. I don’t know whether it was innate kindness or just
irritatingly powerful positive thinking, but she refused to lash
out, and assign blame for something she had no control over. Her
son was in a bad place, but she didn’t want anyone else to suffer
just because he had.

I think the
reason I avoided these visits was because I feared running into
Kenneth’s mother. If she screamed, or slapped me, or cursed my
existence I could deal with the sting. But I couldn’t bear the
guilt if she let me off the hook.

I patted
Kenneth on the hand, silently swearing to be a better person. To
come visit more often, and keep pursuing every medical alternative
to help him come out of this coma. Stem cell replacement and tissue
re-gen therapy had kept him biologically alive; had he suffered
that much internal damage even ten years ago he would have
certainly died. But it was the blow to his head that was the larger
issue. When the blade was extracted from Kenneth’s torso he fell,
cracking the back of his skull on a curb as his body went limp.
Medical treatments were advancing at an impressive rate, but there
was still nothing available that could improve his condition.

I reached into
my jacket pocket and pulled out a small vintage figurine I’d
purchased in Japan. It was him. A limited edition Kenneth Livitski
toy, complete with his ‘Living Eye’ costume and removable mask,
identical to the one he’s worn in Arena Mode. I articulated the
arms and posed the legs, carefully standing it on the end table
next to his bed. It made me smile to think that if he woke up
tomorrow, the first thing he’d see would be a plastic figure of
himself staring back at him. For someone who loved comic book
culture even more than I did, it would be like waking up in
Heaven.

When I turned
to leave a cold draft hit the back of my neck. It was powerful, as
if someone had inexplicably turned the air conditioning on
full-blast during a snow storm. I craned my neck upwards and that’s
when I saw it – saw
her
. A swirl of blue mist materialized
from the aether, touching down at my feet like a funnel cloud
during a hurricane. I shouted and scrambled backwards, which was
when she took form.

It was
Brynja.

The
porcelain-skinned, blue-haired girl who stood before me was visibly
shaken.
She looked and sounded exactly how I remembered Brynja;
her almond-shaped eyes, waif-like frame, the tattoo of a blue
manticore emblazoned across her left arm – every discernible detail
was identical. It
was
her...it had to be. I just wasn’t sure
how it was possible.

She blinked
hard and squinted, perplexed as she studied my face. “What the
hell...
Mox
? Where’s your armor? And why are you wearing
those clothes?” It took her a moment to realize that she was in a
different time and place – which explained my change of attire. And
it took her a moment longer to realize that she wasn’t wearing any
clothing of her own. “What the
hell!
” Brynja threw her hands
across her chest, pulling her knees together. “What did you do to
me, you freak?”

“Me?” I stepped
back, shielding my eyes with an outstretched hand. “I didn’t
do
anything! You died back in Arena Mode – or disappeared, I
guess – and this is three months later, and...” I spread my fingers
ever so slightly, sneaking one more glance (just to make sure I
wasn’t hallucinating), “here you are.”

She tore the
sheets from Kenneth’s bed, wrapping them around her torso.
“I...
died?
”

“Well,” I
replied, lowering my hand. “I guess ‘died’ would be overstating it,
considering the fact that you’re standing here and stuff. You
disappeared after the bolt hit you.” As I explained what I’d seen I
could almost see the light bulb illuminating over her head: towards
the end of the Arena Mode competition I was struggling to disarm a
British swordfighter named Winston Ramsley. During the brawl his
weapon discharged, firing several thousand volts of electricity
into Brynja as she rushed to my aid. A moment later she blinked out
of existence, never to be seen again – until now.