Project Northwoods (112 page)

July 16
th
, 2011

Morning

Julia felt surprisingly light as her eyes opened to the early morning sunlight pouring through the windows of the living room. The confessional, even though Officer Berkeley didn’t want her to refer to it as such, had proven surprisingly cathartic. She and Ariana wouldn’t be having coffee together any time soon, but there was enough suffering between the two of them that the effort of hating each other seemed too great to continue with.

In the post-sleep haze, she wandered into the kitchen, set up the coffee pot, and placed a skillet on the stove. After clicking on the surface unit, the creak of wood alerted her to someone moving inside her house. She turned and moved briskly toward her room.

 She grabbed the key from her pocket with shaking hands as she neared the door, unlocking it as quickly as she could. The dark hallway filled with daylight as Talia turned away from the newly opened window to face Julia. The woman glared at her, the ill-fitting pajamas the heroine had put her in revealing her midriff. Despite having been shot, the skin was completely scarless.

“I’ll have to assume that this is either all over or we’re both very screwed right now,” the Russian said, her fingers to her lips as though a cigarette dangled between them. “I suppose I should be thankful for you not killing me,” Talia growled, contempt clearly in her voice. She gestured to her stomach. “But I distinctly remember leaking from this general area the last time we met.”

Julia swallowed. “Miss Illyanovich…” she began, but faltered, not quite sure how to continue. “… I’m sorry.” Talia cocked an eyebrow. “I brought you back here when it happened and tried to stitch you up…”

“You did a very impressive job,” she said. Talia looked over at the nightstand, picking up a shirt that Julia had attempted to launder and placed nearby. She squinted, examining the bullet hole and blood stains. “I shouldn’t have survived, it seems.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Julia said, stepping further into the room. Talia looked up at her. “You stopped breathing ten minutes after I sutured you up. Your heart stopped after that.” Talia’s eyes focused on the hero. “An hour later… I had tried everything I could think of, but you were gone.” She threw her hands up into the air. “I promise you, I did everything I could…”

“Just get on with the story,” Talia ordered.

Julia wetted her lips, looking away for a moment to collect her thoughts. “I put you in here until I could… I don’t know… cremate you… or something…”

The reporter snorted. “I’m glad you held off on that.”

“But the next day, it looked like nothing happened. You were…” She gestured to Talia. “Whole. And breathing. Your heartbeat was barely there, but…” Julia shook her head. “You have no idea how close people came to finding you.”

“Archetype?” Talia asked.

“Yes, and Clay…” she trailed off. “How did you know?”

Talia scuffed her feet against the floor. “He has a way around people’s heads.”

Julia’s eyes went to the floor, scanning the surface as she processed the information. “You had contact with him before you went to the VWN station that night, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Why?”

She looked up. “That’s why all those Enforcers were dead when I found you. He was manipulating people the entire time.”

“I’m not surprised,” Talia said, turning back toward the window. “But I am surprised that, in the midst of all that mayhem, you tried to save my life.”

Julia felt the conspicuous weight of the necklace around her neck. She pulled it up and around her head, the jewel coming out of her collar as she did so. Quietly, she walked to the other side of the room, winding the chain around her hand. Talia turned to her and regarded the cracked gem with a hint of recognition. “You had this on you when I…” she trailed off. Talia held out her hand and Julia gave it to her. “… I just wanted to know where you got it.”

“Impossible,” Talia said, holding the gem up, examining it. “How did it break?”

Julia looked the necklace, then back at Talia, the reporter’s eyes still locked on the jewel. “I was wearing it the other night when… I was attacked by… my father.”

Talia looked at the girl. “Your father?” Julia nodded. Talia wound the chain up and gave it back to her. “Arthur gave it to me the night the heroes came for us.” The villain’s eyes flashed toward Julia. “How is Arthur? Have you had contact with him?”

Arthur walked into the dark apartment quietly, desperately hoping that Ariana wasn’t home. Content with the complete silence as a sign of her absence, he walked further in, beelining for Tim’s room. His friend needed a change of clothes for work and some other stuff. He didn’t ask why, as the cataclysm that was brewing between Tim and Ariana was threatening to take out half of the city. He couldn’t be totally upset by it; once Tim finished breaking up with her and kicked her out, Arthur was free to be as lazy as he wanted without the constant nagging about…

“He’s fucking her, isn’t he?” came the surprisingly meek question from the kitchen, startling him.

“Ari?” he asked, slowly heading in that direction. Sure enough, she was on the floor, a bottle of half-consumed white rum in her hand.

She smiled and waved, the movement rubbery due to the alcohol. “Hi.”

He immediately felt awkward. “I’m going to go.”

“Stay and have a drink,” she offered sweetly. He didn’t move. “Now!” she demanded, less sweetly. Arthur obliged, sitting down and taking a swig from the bottle, wincing at the taste. “What does he see in her, Arthur?” she slurred. “Petite… little… petite… thing,” she mused, yanking the rum out of his hand.

“I really don’t know who…”

Ariana looked at him, looking like she had just been slapped. “I’m still pretty, right?”

“Of course you are,” he consoled.

“I just… I just don’t get it…” She hiccupped, startling Arthur.

“You hiccupped.”

“No I didn’t,” she said, dangerously gesturing with the bottle.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Who hiccups when they’re drunk?”

Suddenly, she shoved the bottle under his nose, bumping it fairly hard. “Drink,” she commanded, not looking at him.

He obliged.

He obliged many, many times. The conversation got a little hazy after a while. Somewhere between “You are an attractive man, but you whine like a shriveled little ballsack,” and, “No, you
will
be a super villain, that’s what I’m saying, I can be your… like… duo… duet… thing,” he realized that she was incredibly gorgeous. He had noticed it before, but in the ‘Tim’s girlfriend is hot!’ kind of way. This was the dangerous kind, the kind that was going to make him stupid.

She must have noticed a shift in how he was looking at her, because her own glances became longer, more alluring. They fought over the bottle of rum, Arthur bringing it to his mouth while she tried pulling it away, clanking the glass on his teeth. He didn’t care. This was fun, and she was being nice to him and she was just so hot that he didn’t even care that her tongue was pushing the bottle from his mouth and finding itself perfectly at home between his lips. He pulled her on top of him, feeling her body grind against him as she gasped for breath, the drunken excitement overriding the need for oxygen.

Suddenly, the sun was blinding him as his head pounded. He groaned and rolled off the bed, hitting the floor inadvertently and nakedly.

It was… unpleasant.

What was more unpleasant was the realization that he was in Ariana and Tim’s room. “Ari?” he called out, fairly concerned. Did… did they? He pushed himself to his feet, one foot bare and cold on the floor while the other remained nestled in his sock. He exited the room and shut the door behind him. “Ari?” he called out, covering himself with his hand.

No one was home.

He opened the door to his room, the clothing he had on last night scattered haphazardly on the bed. The front door snapped unlocked and he ducked inside his room, reaching for his boxers as someone charged in. “Art!” Tim yelled as Arthur nearly fell over trying to put his pants on.

“In… my room, Tim!” he shouted, quickly buttoning himself. Suddenly, Tim appeared in his doorway, positively manic.

“Look, I’m not even gonna hassle you about leaving me in a lurch, man…” Arthur tried to say something in response, but failed. “I’ve made a huge mistake. I can’t leave Ari. Have you seen her?” In the back of his mind, he saw Ariana’s silhouette against the moon, undressed, and his heart sank. His eyes fell to the floor as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Arthur looked up at his best – and really, only – friend in the whole world. “No, man. Sorry.”

July 17
th
, 2011

Noon

Claymore sat in his cell, jiggling his leg as he waited for the arraignment. Conspiracy to commit murder. Murder in the third. Conspiracy again. Another murder, this time of someone he hadn’t even seen the night of the Fort breakout but was accused of anyway. He leaned forward, running his real hand through his hair.

His lawyer was fairly good, bought with his father’s money, but even he suggested pleading guilty to most of the charges.
No one bought it when Adolf Eichmann claimed he was following orders, why would anyone do it now?

“Mr. York, it is very good to see you,” came a cold voice, making Claymore immediately stand and back into the far corner of the cell. The thin man, head covered with a wide brimmed hat, entered, his cape gently flowing behind him.

“Y-you can’t be here…” Claymore said.

“And yet… here I am,” Archetype called out as he gestured widely. “The damage has already been done,” he said. “And, as much as I would like you to kill yourself, there’s a more convincing way for this drama to play out.” He produced a ring of keys with one spindly arm before unlocking his cell.

“What are you doing?” Claymore asked.

Archetype didn’t respond. Instead, he removed the key from the lock and tossed it by Claymore’s feet. With a small flourish of his cape, he vanished in the opposite direction from which he had appeared.

It was a minute before Claymore did anything other than stay pressed against the wall. “Hello?” he shouted. “My cell door’s open!” No one responded. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of sirens, but they faded away. Eventually, he pushed himself off the wall and made his way out of the cell.

The block was empty. Claymore walked down the hallway where Archetype had appeared, heading toward the door leading to the precinct proper. He opened the door quietly, hoping that no one was going to jump-and-cuff him.

That hope quickly turned to fear when he saw the first Enforcer’s body in the stuffy, white-on-white office. They were everywhere, slumped over desks and chairs, two on the floor in horrible positions. Nine total. His chest shook in time with his slamming heart as his eyes came to rest on the far wall, near the exit. Embedded in the wall was the freshly bloodied and broken sword Dervish had used to defend himself, tagged with a bright red ‘EVIDENCE’ card.

His finger prints would be all over it.

The sirens returned, but they didn’t fade away. Instead, they grew more and more insistent as Claymore did the only thing his mind was telling him to do.

He ran.