Vs Reality (16 page)

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:31 am, Eastern Daylight Time

Paige scrapes the purple-streaked bangs from her face, looping a strand over her ear. She can already feel the disruption in the airflow, even from blocks away. She lets out a shaky breath. The incessant buzz of whirling blades grows louder. As the helicopters approach the sound of three spinning rotors coalesce into a single continuous drone, like a nest of furious hornets preparing to swarm an intruder.

She steps towards the railing and tells herself not to look down. So of course she does. From this height the cars are just shiny metallic rectangles winking up flashes of sunlight, inching their way along the pavement. The pedestrians are clusters of microscopic dots milling about on cluttered sidewalks. ‘Collateral damage isn’t just inevitable, it’s a necessity’, she remembers overhearing during her years spent as an army brat. It was a cynical, soul-depleting phrase designed to help warlords sleep at night, no doubt. And right now she wishes it weren’t true.

She blinks hard, refocusing.

With a flick of her thumb the plastic cap pops from the syringe, exposing the needle. She presses it into her arm, draining the vial. Brodie’s experimental blue serum screams into her veins, pumping through her bloodstream like a dose of liquid rapture. She manifests, but not like she’d ever had before. This time, it’s electrifying, euphoric. She arches her back like she’d been shocked to life with a defibrillator, eyes exploding with purple energy. She reaches out as the energy travels down her arms, coiling, pulsing, becoming extensions of her fingertips. She traces patterns in the air, the swirling tines of electricity obeying her every command.

The metal chairs on her terrace wobble, legs rattling into the tiles. They’re drawing closer to her.

Inside the lead helicopter a soldier assembles an elaborate sniper rifle, snapping the barrel into place, and adjusting the calibration on the scope with the twist of a dial. He slaps a magazine into place with a lopsided grin. “I can’t
wait
to try this out in combat. This bad boy can liquefy a ten-point buck from over eighteen-hundred meters. That’s farther than a
mile,
my man.”

The pilot responds with suspicion. “Hey man, how the hell could
you
possibly know what that thing would do to a deer?”

“Last weekend I took one of the new M-800’s down to my cottage in Minnesota and brought a handful of these explosive rounds with me. I wanted to take it for a test drive before we used it on a mission. And you know how rarely we get to do shit like this anymore.”

“What?” The pilot responds with surprise, and a hint of admiration in his voice. “You’re telling me that you took a government issued sniper rifle on a
recreational
hunting trip,
and
you swiped a bunch of explosive shells? You are one crazy son of a bitch Mason, but I gotta hand it to you: you’ve got some giant, swinging steel-plated balls. You know what the penalty is for that, right?”

“Don’t be such an altar boy,” Mason snorts. “I only wanted to mount a kick-ass deer head on the wall of my cottage, but after I took the shot I couldn’t find it. The thing practically liquefied.”

The pilot laughs. “We
need
to hang out more, man. The most exciting thing I did last weekend was clean out my garage. And then Claire made me…oh shit, check it out. I’ve got a visual. Target on the rooftop at our twelve.”

Flipping open his tinted visor, the pilot can see Paige standing on the rooftop in the distance. In the glare of the morning sunlight he can’t detect the purple energy surrounding her, steadily building towards a crescendo.

Mason pulls a pair of yellow sunglasses down over his eyes and adjusts the strap around the back of his head. “Is she armed?”

“Naw...she’s just standing there,” the pilot groans with disappointment. “And you know it’s against procedure to open fire on an unarmed combatant. Strict orders from The Mayor. Gotta keep this op as quiet as possible.”

Mason leans into the cockpit. “But...in our report we could
say
she was holding something in her hand? Maybe an illegal firearm?”

“Works for me,” the pilot laughs. “Nobody ever reads those things anyway.” He hovers over the adjacent building and rotates the helicopter sideways with a jerk of the yoke, opens the side door, and allows Mason to position himself.

The sniper presses the metal stock into his shoulder and peers through the scope, expertly placing the narrow red crosshairs on the center of Paige’s forehead. “I have a visual on the target. She’s a sitting duck. Hold the heli steady because I’m taking the shot.”

Mason pulls the trigger and releases a single round, travelling at more than three thousand feet per second.

Nothing happens.

Or so it would appear.

From Mason’s point of view a fraction of a second had passed, and the bullet disappeared into the horizon, completely missing his target. But if he could have seen the bullet traveling in slow motion, he would have seen it leave the barrel of the gun, spiral towards the rooftop, and then begin to melt. Inches before it would have made contact with Paige it became a puddle of silver liquid, dripping harmlessly to the marble tiles of her rooftop patio.

“What in the blue hell?” Mason shouts, reloading his rifle with a loud ratchet. “There must be some heavy wind shears because there is
no way
I missed at this range. I’m taking a second shot, so hold her
steady
this time.”

“Don’t blame your shitty aim on
me,
Mason. I’m holding her steady. If you’d just—” The pilot is cut off by a loud groan reverberating through the helicopter. It’s the unmistakable sound of buckling metal. “Something is wrong here,” the pilot screams as he rapidly flicks switches and tries to restore power. The lights on the dash flicker and die. The copter pitches forward on its axis. “We’re losing altitude!”

Hands spread wide, Paige swings them together with a thunderous clap. The energy she’d collected in her palms explodes into shimmering purple stardust. She sees the already plummeting helicopter compress, crushed into a jagged metallic ball like discarded tinfoil. It disappears into an alley, away from the busy street. She hears the heavy clang of steel meeting asphalt, followed by the blast.

She leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the wreckage below. “
Whoa
…” she whispers, jaw hanging slack. “That was
literally
the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing her ear. Paige is so fascinated with her handiwork she momentarily forgets about the two remaining helicopters hovering over the neighboring building. More snipers. Another shot rings out and she extends her palm. The bullet stops in mid-flight just inches from her hand, its inertia slowed to a crawl as if it’s stuck in a wad of ballistics gel. She plucks the hovering shell from mid-air, frowns at it and tosses it over her shoulder. Two balls of white-hot electricity form in the center of her palms, and with a guttural scream she claps them once again. A purple pulse bursts from her fingertips, rippling through the air like a tidal wave, cresting and crashing over the helicopters. The magnetic force sends them spiraling towards each other, twisting sideways. Rotating blades chop into each other’s cockpits before they’re engulfed in flame.

As the pieces of charred metal rain from the sky she falls to a knee, heavy eyelids fluttering closed.

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:32 am, Eastern Daylight Time

The service elevator doors pull open, sending a shaft of fluorescent light into the damp concrete hallway. The winding corridor is used for maintenance and leads to the west entrance of the building; a nondescript grey metal door that hasn’t yet been breached, at least according to the live security feed streaming to Brodie’s cell phone.

Cole and Jens follow him through the passage, stopping before they reach the exit.

“Time to get your game face on,” Brodie says, clapping Cole on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he sighs, staring down at the syringe. “Guess so.”

“Well go for it,” Jens says with a grin and far too much excitement, the anticipation causing him to bounce from one foot to the other. “Do it, man. Hulk out.”

He rolls the injector back and forth between his fingers, watching the cobalt liquid slosh inside the glass vial. This is it, he thinks. I inject myself with Plan B and I’ll become someone else
.
Muse turned him into a monster, numbing his conscience, and if this is even half as powerful as Brodie claims it is…

“
Bro
,” Brodie says, though not in a friendly way. The word comes out sounding much more like ‘asshole’. “
This
is the plan,” he shouts, pointing sharply at the syringe. “If you don’t do your part of the plan, the plan pretty much falls apart. Then it
ceases
to be a plan.”

“Are you okay with doing this?” Jens asks, his excitement giving way to concern.

“Yes, he is,” Brodie cuts in. “See this? It’s the pointy end. It goes into your vein.”

He makes the pokey-pokey motion towards his arm.

Cole’s eyes flick to Jens.

“Hey, man, if there’s another way…”

“There
isn’t
,” Brodie says, his glare slicing through Jens like a laser. “He needs to inject himself and he needs to do it now, because if he doesn’t, we are all totally and utterly fu—”

Brodie’s rant is cut short by the sound of the empty syringe clattering to the concrete floor. Cole manifests, faster and more powerfully than before: shoulders broadening, chest expanding, arms nearly tripling in width. His tattered black tank top struggles to remain intact, the fabric audibly tearing as he reaches his full size. And it’s not just his size that’s changed. This time he’s hyper-aware of every cell in his body; he feels the blood pumping hot through his veins, coursing in tides like molten lava, ready to erupt in a swell of unbridled violence. He looks down at his arm and flexes, spellbound by his transformation.

“Holy
shit
,” Jens whispers, now flattened against the wall, as if trapped in the narrow hallway with a caged lion. “I’m never betting against
you
again.”

“Finally,” Brodie says, far less impressed. He motions towards the door. “This way, guys. We only have a couple minutes before this all goes down and I have to be out front. Let’s goooo…” As they approach the exit he pulls a small hand-held device from his pocket and touches the screen, illuminating it with a bright green keypad.

They hear a chime at their backs, the sound echoing through the long corridor. It’s the service elevator. The doors have pulled open. Someone is coming.

“We have to move,” Jens says breathlessly.

“Whoa, just hold up,” Brodie says, raising a hand. “Let me just check if I can tap a security cam for the west exit and see what’s going on in the street.” Before the word ‘street’ escapes his lips, Jens has already pressed open the steel door, stepping outside into the bright morning sunlight.

“No!”
Cole screams, sprinting out the door, clasping Jens by his arm, flinging him back into the safety of the hallway. It’s too late. A sniper, positioned on a nearby rooftop, has squeezed the trigger.

Before the sound of the gunshot even registers a bullet pierces Cole’s chest, dead-center, and bursts through his spine, embedding deep into the brick wall behind him. A spatter of crimson freckles Jens’ ash-white face.

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:35 am, Eastern Daylight Time

She hears the elevator’s ping, muffled voices, and the clatter of heavy boots on the tiles just outside her penthouse door. They’re here. A dozen, by the sound of it – maybe more. A gruff voice barks instructions and the clatter subsides.

She has just seconds now. Ten, maybe. Fifteen if she’s lucky. Dia’s nerves are jittered and raw; fingers trembling, lips going numb. But her mind begins to level off. A calmness takes hold when a voice from her past reminds her of who she is, and what she’s capable of.

The muffled commands from the hall are more audible now. Coming with a nervous energy and more authority.

It’s a countdown from three.

Two.

One.

Now!

A thunderous crack resonates through her penthouse when an object (a battering ram, she assumes) impacts her thick metal door with a solid
whump
. A second crushing blow snaps it from its hinges, dropping it into the corridor. A swarm of heavily-armed soldiers wearing helmets and body armor flood her living room, guns drawn, forming a semi-circle around her with military precision.

A few more rush off to the kitchen where Heinreich is bound and gagged. “Sir!” someone shouts. “We’ve got a hostage in here. He’s alive.”

Dia’s feet remain planted. She can’t see the SWAT team’s facial expressions through their dark tinted visors, but their body language is a portrait of shock and awe. Some of them even lower their guns at the sight of her standing perfectly still, eyes glowing, hands crackling with electricity, fingertips billowing plumes of swirling blue smoke. Welcome to the club, she thinks. Superhumans are real. Deal with it.

The team leader raises his weapon a little higher, planting the metal stock firmly into his shoulder. His thumb flicks the safety latch. “Dia Davenport!” he barks out, his stilted commands sounding more rehearsed than authentic. “Place your hands on your head, and turn around.” He shakes the tip of his assault rifle towards the floor. “And get down on your knees, now!”

Dia cocks an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Are you at least going to buy me a drink first?”

“Ma’am,” he shouts, louder this time but with less certainty. “I just gave you an order! Turn around, place your hands on your head, and…” he pauses for an awkward moment, before adding, “…and stop making your hands glow.”

She whirls on her toes in a pirouette and faces the back wall, her fingers trailing blue smoke behind them. She’s facing the door that opens to the spiraling staircase – the exit that leads to the roof. Dia reaches up and places her hands on top of her head, loosely lacing her fingers together. She needs to create the illusion of compliance, if only for a moment.

Dia draws in a deep breath and whispers under her breath. “Shit...here goes my security deposit.”

She curls her fingers into claws and tears them across time and space, slicing open the fabric of reality. The gaping hole burns bright, like a blast of unfiltered sunshine. Even the tinted visors can’t provide enough protection from the initial glare and the soldiers shout out, turning their heads.

She lunges to side-step the opening and sprints towards the exit.

A tsunami explodes from the rift. A six-foot funnel of water explodes, blasting the SWAT team backwards. A dozen soldiers stumble to regain their footing but the power of the tide sends them careening into the hallway, bouncing, rolling, limbs slamming off the walls and floor. The portal floods the penthouse like a massive broken fire hydrant; the stream is relentless and seems to only gain momentum with each passing moment.

As the waterfall continues to blast from the opening, Dia rushes up the staircase and out to the rooftop terrace, barring the door behind her. Not a single soldier will survive the flood, Dia realizes in that moment, and neither will Heinreich. The skin flickers at the corner of her lips at the notion. She suppresses the urge to smile.