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STRIKE ONE:
The red words scrawled across the white mansion dripped like blood, but the message was quite cheery: OH NO! YOUR UPPER CLASS NEIGHBORHOOD HAS WRITING ON IT. Silas placed a hand over his masked mouth to suppress his snicker.
The next bit of graffiti was more political, showing a rabbit holding a sign reading, THE EARTH ISN’T DYING, IT’S BEING KILLED. A pointed message for the home of an oil CEO. The next graffiti said, IF YOU THINK THIS WRITING IS BAD, WAIT UNTIL YOU FIND OUT ABOUT ALADDIN OIL INC. BUYING POLITICIANS. The next drawing had no words, only a very vivid hourglass with a melting iceberg at the top, dripping down to flood the city at the bottom. The final graffiti was still in progress. Images flowed from the artist’s hands, rising up like colorful smoke. The colors coalesced on the slate roof into a man who looked a lot like the oil CEO, choking for lack of air while surrounded by dead trees.
Silas cleared his throat, his voice coming out modified through his silver helmet with two stars on either side. “You’re talented. I haven’t chased you around town before. I’m Shooting Star, what’s your villain name?”
The graffiti artist turned around. Even his tattoos were political: Radicalized by common sense wrapped around a robin on his right hand and If you are not angry, you haven’t been paying attention across red, white and blue stripes. More tattoos peeked out of his collar and his long sleeves. He wore a white smock covered with paints. It didn’t appear to be a secretly strong armor designed to look like an artist’s smock—it had holes in it. With his mismatched socks, rainbow headband, and shoes with his toes pocking out the holes, he dressed like a homeless person under house arrest. Wild curly red hair poofed in all directions. The hair color looked natural though the golden streaks could not be. He had only a black mask as thin as a blindfold, the holes cut out revealing his electric blue eyes. The fact that he managed to look handsome even without combing his hair could only be considered a testimony to good genes, or perhaps those brilliant eyes full of life and passion. “I already signed my name.” He gestured at the words ART at the bottom of his latest drawing.
“…Is that a villain name referencing your power or a nickname for Arthur? You can’t go around giving out your real name. That’s not how the hero-villain business works. You need to hide your appearance better too, especially the tattoos.” Silas was genuinely concerned. Art’s costume made only a half-assed attempt to disguise his face. He could get into real trouble if he caught the eye of someone scarier than a hero. Especially since his power didn’t seem much use for self-defense. “Have you heard Master Race kidnaps weaker superpowered to experiment on them? He doesn’t spare fellow villains either.”
Art only stared, eyes hard and wary. “What do you want, fascist pig?”
Clearly an intervention was required for someone this ill-prepared to survive as a villain. “I’d like to treat you to a meal so we can discuss your artistic inspiration.” Silas chuckled, because a smile wouldn’t be seen behind his mask. “It’s prejudiced to call people fascist pigs. How can you know what animal suits me best when you don’t even know me? Pigs aren’t fascist, they’re sweet-tempered and intelligent. By the way, real fascists dehumanize people by referring to them as animals.”
“Fair point.” Art tilted his head sideways, squinting at Silas as if not sure what to make of this curiosity. “You will pay for my food?”
From the emphasis, Silas guessed Art must be poor. “Anywhere you’d like to eat in the city, as much as you can eat. You can take leftovers home. No one will question your mask if you’re with me.”
“Arrogant as any hero,” Art muttered. But slowly, he nodded.
Silas had done this before with dozens of villains he’d caught committing petty crimes. He took them to the Cross-Legged Crab if they didn’t suggest a place, because it had the best seafood in town and a private room where he could avoid cameras. He’d set them at ease with a few jokes, often poking fun at himself and heroes in general. Then he’d listen to their stories.
Ever since a strange meteor striking Earth had led to an outbreak of superpowers, society had been in a state of flux. Sometimes powered people got rejected by their families, treated as demonic or possessed by aliens. Sometimes they felt overly pressured by the U.S. government’s aggressive recruitment agenda. By lending a sympathetic ear and sharing resources to help powered people down on their luck, Silas had often been able to talk them into reforming. It didn’t thrill the Hero Department, who had quotas of arrests to fulfil. But Silas had only a loose contractor relationship with the government: he didn’t even share his real identity with them and he only took on missions that he chose. Law enforcement had been so desperate for powered defenders to counter villains, heroes could write their own contracts. Some of them took advantage to act like tyrants. Silas considered those heroes more deserving of a beating than a petty graffiti artist.
Art wasn’t an easy nut to crack. He refused to say anything personal about himself, despite his lax attitude towards secrecy. Instead he ranted about the crimes of the Aladdin Oil Inc. CEO.
Silas nodded along. “I can’t arrest anyone for murdering the environment, though I do agree with all of your points. Campaign donations are also legal. But if he’s crossed over the line to bribery, that’s another story. I’ll pass your accusations along to people who handle white collar crime.” He wiped his mouth, still savoring the taste of the delicious crab. The shell on his plate had now been sucked dry of all meat. His costume could retract around the mouth to allow him to eat.
Art puffed up like an angry cat. A dab of tartar sauce on his cheek ruined any attempt to look ferocious. “Are you going to tell me that my cause doesn’t excuse illegal methods, then try to arrest me?”
“Of course I can’t arrest you. We’ve shared bread and salt together. If I broke the laws of hospitality, then I would be chased for eternity by the Furies.” Silas gestured at the door. “Fly free, birdie.”
Art’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the real reason you haven’t attacked me yet?”
Tough audience for his jokes. “I don’t believe in imprisoning people for nonviolent crimes.” Although it seemed rude to say it aloud, Silas didn’t think Art would fare well in jail. Superpowered prisons weren’t tortuous hellholes like in comics—they were normal prisons, because some heroes (Silas included) had insisted on it. All prisoners wore a wrist cuff made of Euron, a substance left behind from the meteor that blocked use of superpowers. But all superpowered got sent to the same prison regardless of their crimes. Art wouldn’t last long if locked up with the really bad supervillains. Silas shrugged. “I don’t care about your graffiti, I thought it was funny. That CEO is a multimillionaire, he has the money to repaint his house.”
“But he’d use his influence to ensure I got the heaviest possible sentence.” Art’s gaze never left where Silas’ eyes would be under the mask. If he knew that, why did he still seem unafraid?
“Yes, exactly. He might come after you anyway. Seriously, I know I keep harping on that point, but you need a better mask.” Silas held out a business card, with only Shooting Star for his name and his office phone and email, no personal information. “If you get into any trouble, you can contact me for help. If you need a safe place to stay, I’ll arrange it. More people than Master Race target the superpowered. Stay safe.”
Art took the business card. Their fingers brushed, or rather fingers touched armor. Art said, “I don’t have a phone because the government tracks them, and I don’t have email because AI reads all the messages.”
“My card has an address for my office, you can reach me there. Just don’t show up looking like a villain. Or tell them you’re an informant, whatever works.” Silas’ smile never faltered, though it was hidden under his mask. A habit.
Art tilted his head, mouth steady, though there might have been a smile in his eyes. “I take it back. You’re not like a pig. You’re a Golden Retriever.”
“Hey!” Silas clutched his silver suit over the heart, as if struck by a blow. “At least call me a cheetah, with my powers.”
Then his phone buzzed. His eyes widened as he glanced down. “Sorry, I gotta go. Tell the waiter that the change is tip.” Silas flung down cash on the table, more than double the amount of the bill. Then he moved so fast, the air roared with his passage. Shooting Star was faster than any other hero or villain in existence.
On the other side of the state, Silas effortlessly slapped handcuffs with Euron interior lining around a villain attempting to blow up a government building, before the villain even had time to see him. He used his superspeed to vibrate the cuffs through her full body armor. Heroes and villains alike covered up all their skin. Only an idiot would dress as skimpily as a comic book character, because contact with Euron was everyone’s weakness. And his ability let him become everyone’s weakness.
As long as he kept his arrest record up, no one bothered him too much about the petty criminals he allowed to escape. As usual, he donated nine-tenths of the villain’s bounty to charity.
Silas ran into Art on the job many times after that: vandalizing an oil tanker, a lumber factory, a fur coat shop, an animal testing laboratory, and quite a few more rich people’s mansions. With his speed, Silas always made sure to reach the scene first, before any other hero. That way, he could prevent a fight. Art came across as a cloudcuckoolander, only staring blankly when asked what he would do if arrested. Silas worried that Art didn’t understand the risks of his activities. Although Silas had asked if Art had a place to live and enough food, he’d never gotten a straight answer. Art always accepted the offer of a meal but didn’t seem starving at least. Silas kept on being friendly, hoping to become someone the graffiti artist would rely upon if ever in trouble. That was all he could do.
To be blunt, Art wasn’t a top priority. Silas had been working sixteen-hour-days looking for Master Race and the kidnapping victims. He had tied the crimes to a billionaire named Denzil Avery, but as soon as he wanted to arrest a billionaire, suddenly the Hero Department cared about due process.
Silas didn’t believe in hating people. Hatred was a poison that killed both the person who felt it and the target. He tried to understand everyone. But Master Race was everything he hated deep down, where his angry inner child hid behind a hero’s mask.
Silas had grown up poor, the only White kid in an inner city Black neighborhood. There he had developed the people-pleasing tendencies that had put him in years of therapy, always desperate to fit in. He’d avoided the police harassment that often fell on his friends. He’d also been shot in the shoulder when eight years old by a passing gang member for no reason except his skin color. The bullet had been aimed at his head.
His childhood experiences had left him with a revulsion for prejudice in any form. By luck and desperate studying, he’d made it into college. Once he’d hidden his AAVE dialect, no one could tell where he came from, another privilege of his skin color. He’d been appalled by the questions people asked him if he mentioned his past: they somehow expected Black people from his old community to be violent, dysfunctional, and essentially different. His neighborhood had been the most welcoming place he’d ever lived. He could knock on his neighbor’s door, and she would invite him in for dinner. His legal guardian had been his drug-addled grandmother, so he’d mostly raised himself. He’d only made it to adulthood on the kindness of neighbors. There had been an attitude of sharing: if one person had eggs and another had cheese, they could make omelets together. If one person worked night shift on weekdays and another on weekends, they could swap watching each other’s kids. Everyone had been on the boat labeled “survival.”
It had been a hard place to grow up as well. Once it hit nighttime, everyone stayed inside and pretended not to hear the gunshots outside. The family across the street had been murdered one night, down to the youngest two-year-old girl, and to this day no one knew why. Silas had reopened the investigation as a hero and come up blank, the trail completely cold. The family had kept their noses clean. They could have been mistaken for someone with a gang hit. Or the culprit could have been too high on drugs to have mercy.
He’d been left with a deep desire to stop criminals and a reason to become a hero. Because of crime, the ordinary people in his childhood neighborhood could not their lives in peace. Yet he also had more sympathy for poor criminals than the average hero. Drugs had killed his grandmother, sending him hopping between foster homes for his later teen years. He’d personally known a kid down the street who’d started dealing drugs because he had five younger siblings and a sick mother to feed. That was why he tried to talk to villains and why he fought them. The world would never be black-and-white to him, no pun intended.
The hatred between powered and non-powered was simply a new coat of lipstick on an old racist pig. Silas could have seen through that bullshit even if blindfolded in a snowstorm. Master Race had plenty of old prejudices on top of his powered supremacy beliefs. He thought himself superior in every way: gender, class, race, and superpowers. He stirred up hatred and got people killed in the crossfire.
The next time Silas caught Master Race’s scent, he was going in alone. If he didn’t call for backup, then no one would have time to order him away from the fight.
STRIKE TWO:
Hospitals were a risk for heroes. Silas kept reminding himself of that as he curled up in bed with two broken ribs, a sprained ankle, many bruises, almost as many ice packs, and a splitting headache despite the painkillers.
In addition to moving fast, Silas healed fast. If he could make it through the night, he wouldn’t need a hospital. Master Race had connections all over the city and would be looking for victims with the same injuries he’d left on Silas. The Hero Department would provide discrete healthcare, but he refused to take off his costume around them. They wanted his identity for their own reasons and they’d been infiltrated by Master Race. Silas had only told a few hero friends about his plan, but Master Race had been expecting him, so he figured he’d been betrayed. He didn’t dare go to anyone for help.
The broken ribs hadn’t punctured an organ, even if it felt like it. He could wait it out until he healed on his own.
A cold anger was burning in his chest, right next to the pain of his damn ribs. He’d freed the prisoners in the labs—that was how Master Race had gotten close enough to hurt him, usually he’d be too fast to touch. Several of the strongest ones had been lobotomized. Nothing even superpowers could do could restore them. He remembered the hollow eyes like a sick animal.
There were two wolves inside of Silas. One of them believed strongly in a justice system focused on rehabilitation, not punishment and that the death penalty should never be used under any circumstances. The other wanted to vibrate his hand so fast, next time he would stick it through Master Race’s chest and see if he could find a minuscule heart.
His ankle kept swelling; he was starting to suspect it had been broken not sprained. It burned with pain, the ice barely soothing. After lying down on his bed, he had no inertia to get up. Either way, it would heal on its own. Everyone always went for his legs first, believing that would stop him. Fools. He could still move on one leg, and even if he wasn’t as fast, he would still be faster than the eye could see. He’d even trained himself to walk on his hands in emergencies.
Were the bruises at least healing? They didn’t feel better. His entire back had become a mass of pain. Master Race’s fingers had brushed his spine, just a hair’s width away from crushing—but Silas had been faster as usual. He could heal anything short of death. Probably. He’d never tested near-death, but he’d been maimed a few times.
The air smelled like paint. Maybe he’d have wondered if he hadn’t been in too much pain, the type of pain where breathing took too much energy to think.
He had not intended to fall asleep. That would be risky, he needed to give in and call a hospital if he felt shortness of breath. But the long days with little sleep caught up to him, and in between one labored breath and the next, his eyes slipped closed.
When he next became aware, there was no pain at all. Just a strange heat filling his limbs, not uncomfortable, barely enough to slowly rouse him. It felt as if threads wrapped around him, holding him in place.
His eyelids fluttered open. A pile of pillows propped up his head, letting him gaze down at a quilt every color of the rainbow. The brightness stood out in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from a merman-shaped nightlamp plugged into the wall. It cast shadows across a round room.
This was not his bedroom. It had to be a dream. The walls, ceiling, and floor had all been painted, but Silas could not quite make out the pictures in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he heard a rustling next to him on the bed. Some instinct made him close his eyes and even out his breathing, faking sleep.
Someone lifted up his head and placed it into their lap. It would have been agonizing, if he still had his injuries. Gentle fingers played with his hair, then stroked the old bullet scar on his shoulder. The touch felt alluring, pushing him closer to slumber like the tide pulling a boat away from shore.
The fingers smelled like oil paints, and that jolted him just enough to stay awake.
“You meddle with your concerns for other people but you don’t take care of yourself at all, Silas,” a husky voice murmured. The voice sounded familiar, but Silas was too brain-fogged to identify it. “Sleeping off three broken bones? Really? I know you heal fast, but you’d heal faster with the bones set. Of course, no hospital can change your entire body as fast as I can. I did a full-body scan and caught an ingrown toenail too. That could have turned into a real problem, in your line of work.”
The voice held an indisputable satisfaction. Someone lifted up one of Silas’ curls and kissed the tip. “All better now. No trace of that disgusting monster. Master Race will pay for putting his hands on you. Rich, entitled people think they can take anything. The way he looks at you—of course you don’t even notice, you’re too naïve. Even monsters can recognize a rare, precious treasure. I’ll have to handle him.” The tone turned darker. “He’ll never have another chance to touch you in any fashion.”
Silas couldn’t move his body. Why couldn’t he move his body? Everything felt in working order. Euron sapping away his powers would have made him feel mildly ill. It only felt as if he’d been wrapped up tightly in a warm blanket. What if that was a sign of sleep paralysis? What if he’d taken a turn for the worse in the real world? This was a dream…right? The sensations all felt very vivid. Hot breath caressed his ear.
“The asshole billionaire isn’t even the only pest around you. When you’re nice to everyone, some people will take it wrong. I’m not saying it’s your fault. They’re classic ‘Nice Guys TM.’ You could handle a regular one, but a supervillain nice guy would be dangerous. Your home doesn’t have adequate defenses. You scold me about secrecy, but you rely too much on it to protect you. You trust your ability to run away, but you need to sleep.” Someone sighed deeply. “Thank goodness it’s only me, not someone who would take advantage of you.”
Silas was trying hard not to panic, but his breathing came out faster.
Colorful lights danced before his closed eyes. His entire body relaxed, wholly against his will. The physical reaction caused his mind to follow suit. He felt warm and safe. Gentle arms held him. His tired brain failed to raise the alarm signals properly.
He fought through it, opening his eyes a crack.
A water glass sprouted threadlike legs and walked off the end table, landing in someone’s pale hand.
Oh, this was definitely a dream. Silas closed his eyes and released his tension. He drank the water held to his lips. The tide carried him deeper down. He allowed someone to massage his shoulders. He lived alone, no family. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked after him. It felt amazing. That must be why he’d dreamed it up.
“I understand why you had to stop Master Race, he’s a monster. That’s not dehumanizing him, it’s a statement of fact. But there’s a limit to how many times I will tolerate this happening. You’ve been overworking yourself too much.” A soft kiss pressed against Silas’ forehead. “I would almost think you want to see me, except you don’t know that I’m coming over whenever you’re injured.”
With those chilling words, the world went dark again.
Silas woke up back in his bedroom at home. The blackout curtains kept him in total darkness, just how he liked it, but he recognized the scratchiness of his wool blanket. Silence reigned, except for the insects outside. He felt completely relaxed and refreshed, better than he had in weeks. Buoyant energy filled him. Even his constant leg muscle soreness had been erased.
Silas shot to the bathroom so fast, he vibrated through the door. He turned on the light. His pockmarked cheeks had no trace of bruises, though he needed a shave. He pulled his shoulder-length dirty blond curls up in a messy bun for a better look. The bruising had previously swollen one steel grey eye shut, but now he could see perfectly.
His healing ability had never been this good before. It should have taken several days for all the bruise to fade. He’d barely dared hope to walk without a limp in the morning. But abilities increased over time. His top speed kept going up. He’d already noticed an uptick in his healing speed.
I would almost think you want to see me, except you don’t know that I’m coming over whenever you’re injured.
Silas leaned his hands on the counter and dry-heaved. He was being foolish. It had only been a dream. He hadn’t been able to run because it hadn’t been real. Vivid nightmares could be a symptom of his pain.
Because a hero needed to be cautious, he went to check his cameras. The feed showed nothing except a rabbit had approached his property. He did not actually film in his bedroom, but the cameras pointed at his door and window showed no one had entered all night long. Besides, he lived in an isolated wilderness cabin, without even any roads. It wasn’t as though the commute to work caused him any problems. No one without his superspeed could have possibly removed him from the house, then returned him without any time seeming to have passed.
Silas released a breath as he turned off his camera monitor. He muttered, “Next time, I’ll go to the hospital.”
The very last of his suspicions about the dream faded away when Master Race didn’t die. Instead, CEO Denzil Avery was found dead in his home, nearly every bone in his body broken and his hands missing. Wide eyes betrayed the agony he’d died in. The autopsy revealed somehow his own hands had gotten into his stomach. Master Race was seen by many witnesses robbing a dozen of Avery’s businesses in the days afterward, then the villain vanished.
With reluctance, Silas set aside his theory that Denzil Avery and Master Race were the same person. They’d clearly been working together at least. The prevalent police theory was that the murder had been a falling out between criminals. Master Race would probably pop up again after he found a new funder for his twisted torture disguised as science. At least in the short run, the city had become peaceful again, with the weaker powered no longer fearing to walk the streets at night.
Silas couldn’t be satisfied with Master Race getting away with a huge amount of money. He threw himself into pursuit. The trail ended so abruptly, he’d become even more convinced there must be a traitor amongst the heroes.
Perhaps because of the disorganization of crime in the city after Master Race’s fall, Silas didn’t get seriously injured again. He kept waking up refreshed after even short sleeps, which only further proved that his healing powers had increased over time. Not that he thought about it. The strange dream had entirely slipped his mind with all his more pressing concerns.
STRIKE THREE:
Fashionada stood on a raised platform, waving her hands. “Skinny jeans are an abomination! They will be outlawed under my new reign.”
Silas shot behind her, slapping the Euron cuffs on her wrists before he spoke, because he wasn’t an idiot villain to monologue first. “I agree, but I can’t let you take over the city, even if I’m sure it would be better dressed afterward.” He released his hands carefully, meaning he moved merely about ten times faster than the average human. Even with thick metal gloves on, he never made direct contact with Euron.
“What?” Fashionada gaped. She did not wear a mask, only a ridiculous feather boat and ostrich feather in her hat. It was a sign of mental instability that he would ensure would be taken into account at her trial. Her gaudy platform was bright pink except for the blue eye painted at the base. Her own eyes did not point in the same direction as she demanded, “How did you get past my Euron gate?”
“I didn’t. I came that way.” Silas pointed at the cement wall behind him. “Did you know that if I vibrate fast enough, I can pass through the spaces between the molecules of a solid object? I love my power. Your clothing manipulation is fun, you should consider persuading people to wear your fashion instead of dressing them by force. Plus, then you would get paid.” He noticed the telltale colors drifting up in the air like a beacon. “We can talk more about this later, I have another crime to stop.”
He waited only long enough for the regular police to pour through the gate, then zipped away.
Silas even whistled as he raced towards Art’s latest crime scene. Superpowered graffiti was an easy crime to handle. No one got hurt. It made his day fun.
Today’s mansion only had the words NO PEACE UNTIL JUSTICE in red along the side. The lack of any embellishments meant Art was angry. As soon as Silas noticed whose house, he knew why.
Deliberately, Silas walked the last few steps slowly so his footsteps could be heard. “Vandalizing his house won’t change Dr. Lesley’s mind about powered people.”
Art whirled around. “He turned away powered people from his hospital.”
“And he’s currently facing a lawsuit which will ruin him for it.”
“It had better ruin him. If he weasels out of it with his expensive lawyers, then I won’t let him get away with it.”
Silas glanced around. “Let’s have this conversation over a meal. My treat, as usual.”
Soul Food served classic comfort food and had a series of private rooms perfect for costumed people. There was another blue eye drawn under the table. Silas had been seeing those all over the city, maybe Art had inspired more graffiti artists.
Cutting up his meatloaf, Silas asked, “How are you doing?”
Currently, Art had tattoo sleeves of a forest with a sunset sky spreading up his shoulders. His tattoos changed every time they met, it must be a feature of his powers. He still loved tie dye shirts and jeans with colorful patches, but since their first meeting, he kept his clothing clean and his socks matched. His wild red hair had been tamed into a high ponytail, exposing the golden hoop earring in one ear. Today’s streaks were all colors of the rainbow. He’d probably splashed on cologne, judging from the woody scent with a hint of aquatic. People who had money for cologne weren’t starving, nor did he eat like someone starving. He took small, neat bites of his burger. Silas no longer thought that Art was homeless, but it was interesting no one had been able to find where he lived. Not that Silas had looked, but he knew some wealthy, annoyed people had used facial recognition software from their home security cameras. It was as if Art had no past and vanished into thin air whenever not graffitiing the city.
Art swallowed, then set down his burger. “You’re not going to lecture me about using the wrong means to change the world? Or about how I’m only making the bigots feel justified?”
“Nah, not this time.” Silas shook his head. “That hospital director will never change his mind about us, not if an angel wrote the message in the sky in flaming all-caps. He’s an asshole bigot. Your revenge was proportionate, less than proportionate even. You just scribbled on his fancy house. You didn’t murder his dog.”
Art’s lips puckered comically. “I would never harm an animal!”
“I know.” Silas smiled, and Art relaxed at the tone if not the hidden expression. “I’m envious sometimes that you can prank people who deserve it. As a hero, I could never. It would be an abuse of power.” Normally he would not admit such a thing or praise graffiti. A hero must always be seen to uphold the law. Maybe it slipped out because he didn’t truly believe the doctor would face justice instead of wiggling out of it with money. As a hero, he always felt tired, like Atlas carrying around the world on his shoulders with the added benefit of the world constantly screaming at him on social media to do a better job.
“Nothing forces you to stay a hero, if you don’t find it enjoyable,” Art said, though in a careless way, as if it was entirely up to Silas. Earlier in their acquaintanceship, Art had been open about his dislike of heroes, but he’d relaxed his stance. “Why did you become a hero?”
Silas stuck a finger under his helmet, getting at an itch on his neck. “It seemed like the thing to do, when I developed superpowers. Ordinary people with powers have to become heroes. I grew up on a diet of old-fashioned superhero comics.” Because he hadn’t been able to afford new books. “I’ve always admired heroes, and when powers suddenly became real…it felt as if everything I’d suffered through in the past had just been my hero origin story.” That was perhaps a tad too personal. Silas tried to laugh it off. “I guess I like the admiration too. I can’t bear to disappoint people by quitting. I’ve always been a people-pleaser.”
“You shouldn’t be hard on yourself. Your desire to make people like you is a natural trauma coming from relying on the charity of neighbors, then being bounced between different foster homes. You’re a good person too,” Art said firmly. “That’s not the same as being a people-pleaser at all.”
“Yes, I learned that lesson in therapy.” Being good meant being able to stand up for what was right, even if it started conflict. Wait, had Silas ever told Art that he’d been in foster care after his grandmother died? He’d mentioned it to petty criminals who he’d taken out for meals in the past, building common ground with those who’d also been in foster care. But he knew nothing about Art’s past. He must have told the story to Art at some point. His blurred memory struggled to precisely delineate between all the conversations with different people he’d tried to help.
“You should also work on being less naïve.”
“I am not.” Silas felt a stirring of indignation, vaguely recalling someone else calling him naïve lately, though he couldn’t quite remember. “I grew up in the poorest neighborhood in this city. As a kid, I always wished people could just be kind to others. Now I’m trying to lead by example. I know the world isn’t kind, so I try to inject kindness where I can. Is that wrong?”
“It’s beautiful. I admire that about you. I’ve always wondered if people are worth saving, especially when we’re killing our own planet and electing awful politicians. You remind me at least one person is worth saving.” Art smiled. “You’re wasted on heroics. But I have to admit, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who I would consider a real hero.”
What a beautiful smile. Impulsively, Silas said, “I admire you for using your powers to have fun. I’ve never been able to have such freedom. As a hero, I have to set a perfect example and only use my abilities for the greater good. You’re the first person I’ve met who only uses your powers for what you want to do, not to make money or for the hero-villain war. You remind me of why I thought superpowers were cool as a kid.”
Art tilted his head. “Why don’t you use your powers for fun too, then? Do you want to prank Dr. Lesley?”
Silas flushed under his mask. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”
“I’m not suggesting anything criminal. We’ll start small for your first time.” Art rooted around in his patchwork shoulder bag. He held out a whoopie cushion. “What if you planted this on Dr. Lesley’s chair?”
“Um, that would definitely be a crime: trespassing.” Silas took the whoopie cushion and squeezed it, releasing not only a loud fart sound but also a foul stench. “It would be silly.”
“That’s the point.”
The temptation itched under Silas’ skin, just like the itch under his mask he couldn’t quite reach. When he’d first developed his superspeed, he’d had many ideas for funny pranks he could pull—but never the nerve, and the Hero Department frowned on him using his powers outside work at all. He needed a better reason. “How about this? If I play your prank, then you’ll do a legitimate painting job for me. You have an amazing gift, you could use it to make a lot of people happy. Haven’t you ever wanted to use your power for more productive purposes?”
“No.”
Silas paused, not sure what to do about this frank refusal without any hints of a crack. “Would you do the job as a favor for me? I want you to paint my office walls.”
“Yes!” To Silas’ surprise, Art’s eyes lit up.
“Since you refuse to use money, I’ll pull your prank for you in return. The hero does a crime, the villain does legitimate work. Fair trade?” Silas had wanted to ask for a while, because he genuinely liked Art’s style and humor. But he’d figured a villain would see an offer of work at the Hero Department Headquarters as a trap. Plus, Art called money the root of all evil and a capitalist fiction. Maybe after this Art would discover the joy of being praised for his work and become a legitimate artist. Or more likely, they’d continue running into each other at graffiti scenes, but at least Silas would get an awesome office out of it.
Art kicked his feet against his chair, ink leaking out of his fingers in eagerness. “Can I paint your home too?”
It seemed rude to say Silas didn’t trust anyone to know the location of his home. “Let’s start with the office. It’s very drab and boring. The government is allergic to any color except off-white.”
Undeterred, Art asked, “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”
“You can do tattoos? I mean, on other people not just yourself?”
“Yes, and best of all, I can effortlessly change them.”
“Interesting. I used to want a bat tattoo, maybe a small one on my ankle, after Batman, my favorite superhero. But the Hero Department nixed the idea because heroes aren’t supposed to have identifying marks. I had to agree with them on that one, it would be a risk. In any comic book, that’s how my identity would come out. But if you can change the tattoo—” Silas hesitated, remembering that letting a villain tattoo him using superpowers would be an entirely different set of risks. Art seemed harmless, but who was to say if it would have any side-effects? “Uh, let me think about it.” That was what Silas usually said to avoid a direct no.
Leaning his arm on the table, Art chuckled. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a Batman person, you’re too Superman.”
“I love Superman too. Batman is my favorite because he uses his money to make his city a better place and he tries to reform villains.” Silas shrugged. “When I was a kid, I also liked him for being a hero without having superpowers. I didn’t know I’d develop superspeed back then, or perhaps my favorite would have been The Flash.”
“I’ve started reading comics because you made them sound interesting. I have a soft spot for The Flash, he has a smart mouth like you.” Art’s tone held a light, teasing note. “I’d be delighted to paint your office. I’ll do such an amazing job, I’ll make you want to use me on other projects too.”
Silas could think up plenty of city-wide projects to keep a graffiti artist distracted with legitimate work. “Deal.” He held out his hand to shake on it. Bringing the whoopie cushion, he shot away.
He returned only a second later, face flushed. “I can’t believe I just did that. He’ll surely suspect something supernatural at work, won’t he?”
“Breathe.” Art patted Silas on the back. “You’re fine. No one can spot you on cameras when you move at top speed. Even if the Hero Department somehow found out, they’d never fire one of their most valuable assets over a prank.”
Silas breathed deeply. When he’d been a child, he’d been desperate to avoid a criminal record because one mark against him could ruin his hopes of ever clawing his way out of poverty. His circumstances were completely different now. Art was right, the Hero Department would be more likely to cover it up, as they’d covered up worse crimes. Which was not a good thing, but he refused to ruin his prank-fueled high dwelling on it. “I admit it, that was fun.”
Art grinned. “When do you want me to paint your office, and do you have pictures in mind?”
Silas froze, remembering his upcoming undercover mission. He needed an excuse to delay the painting. “Uh, actually, I’m going out of town soon. Would you believe I’m taking a vacation?”
Art stared hard. “No.”
“You got me, I’m investigating clues related to Master Race’s disappearance. I’ll contact you when I get back.” Silas hesitated. “I’ll be difficult to reach. Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone. Other heroes might not let you off as easy as I do.”
Without any trace of emotion, Art said, “I wouldn’t go easy on other heroes like I do with you, either.”
“I’m serious! Some heroes get hardass about their arrest quotas. There’s a reason I always make sure I’m the first to your crime scenes.”
“Here I thought it was because you liked my graffiti.”
In spite of himself, Silas smiled. “I do like your graffiti. Fine, I know you won’t stop, just be faster and leave before anyone catches you.” He suspected sometimes Art lingered, waiting for him to show up.
“I’ll promise if you tell me where you’re going.”
“Baltimore,” Silas lied easily.
He didn’t expect to ever be caught in the lie. His plan involved faking his death, but if all went as intended, only major villains would ever hear of it. Art was a minor player. He’d never even know.
OUT:
Master Race’s armor was heavy, cumbersome on the joints, and had dozens of small symbols that looked a lot like thinly disguised swirly swastikas. Silas felt unclean wearing even a replica of it.
Only the grave importance of this mission had compelled him to pretend to be Master Race, of all the awful villains. Recently a shipment of Euron had been stolen, and he’d uncovered evidence the hero traitor had been responsible. He couldn’t allow more to be lost, for several reasons. First, he relied on Euron to be able to capture people with strong powers alive. Second, if got sold on the streets then it would be used to identify people with minor powers who often hid them, leading to more discrimination and more abductions.
Even more importantly, three hero identities had been leaked, leading to them and their entire families being killed. Then someone had tried to hack into the Hero Department database to uncover all the recorded identities. Silas himself had never given the Hero Department his real name. But most of his fellow heroes had—understandable if they didn’t have healing powers and relied on their employer for medical care. Every hero was spoiling for blood after the murders. If all the identities got leaked, it would be outright war. No one would be trying to take the enemy alive any longer.
The old bullet scar in Silas’ shoulder throbbed. He could almost hear the gunfire from the gang wars during his childhood. No matter who won, the people caught in the crossfire lost.
Silas refused to let a superpowered war rip apart his city.
Carefully keeping himself to a human pace, Silas strolled up to Normal Bar, the most notorious villain hangout in town. The name was very much a joke. The clientele was exclusive to a small group of powerful villains who’d made the cut. When the bouncer asked for a password, he casually held up his own Shooting Star helmet, covered in a convincing perma-blood product.
As he’d hoped, the sheer nerve of it got him inside. He had no clue about the password. But he was relying on both Master Race’s reputation and his own. Heroes and villains alike would be scared to imitate Master Race, who was known for torturous punishments. And surely no one could have obtained the helmet of Shooting Star, the fastest hero, without killing him.
Now he needed to find the traitor before anyone had time to think too hard about his story. If this went on too long, then someone would ask him a question that he couldn’t answer. He had no intention of letting word of his death spread, either. He didn’t want to cause a public panic. The stolen shipment had been sold here, so he knew the traitor frequented the bar. He’d get in, find the traitor or provoke someone to give him the name, then get out.
Afterward, it would be a lark to reveal his ruse. If the insult lured the real Master Race out of hiding where he could be arrested, then all the better. He’d gotten the idea from comic books were heroes always died and returned to life, wouldn’t it be fun to try it?
Soon Silas found himself surrounded by villains, all eager to buy his drinks and demand details of Shooting Star’s death. The bar counter was covered in doodles. The rim had an eye the same shade as Art’s blue eyes. Damn, that particular graffiti had gotten popular.
Resting his elbow on the counter, Silas said, “I caught that buzzing fly completely off guard. He thought I’d fled the country.” He’d always been good at accents, so he put on Master Race’s Northeastern drawl and typical arrogance.
The owner of the bar, retired villain Lady Methuselah, polished a glass. “How did you get a hold of the speedy bastard? He ran through my Euron cage! Which shouldn’t even be possible unless he’s secretly an alien!”
It was possible if Silas vibrated his body before he phased through the Euron, so he never actually made contact with the metal, simply ran through it. If anyone ever got an Euron cuff on his skin, he’d be screwed. “I had help from an inside source.” Here would be his opening to guide talk toward the traitor. They chatted for a while, Silas dropping hints, trying to tease the name out without revealing he didn’t know it. From a few dropped “he’s” the traitor was male, which did not narrow it down a whole lot.
It depressed him a little to see how everyone celebrated his death. Sure, they were enemies, it was to be expected. Maybe it was his old people pleaser tendencies coming back, making him nervous whenever surrounded by people who didn’t like him.
The bar door chimed and opened, seemingly to let no one in, until Sargeant Sincere turned off the invisibility.
Silas froze. Sargeant Sincere was the traitor? He’d thought they were friends! They’d laughed together about bureaucratic stupidity and Master’s Race’s shitty costume. In retrospect, all of those social invitations had been angling for his real identity. He should have known better than to trust anyone named Sincere.
The three dead heroes had all been Sargeant Sincere’s friends…which in retrospect had been how he’d gotten their identities. They’d mourned together. Or one of them had been mourning and the other been smiling behind his mask.
Sargeant Sincere laughed at the bloody Shooting Star helmet propped up on the counter. “I heard from the bouncer, tell me it’s true! Tell me I’ll never have to listen to the insufferable prick’s politically correct speeches again!”
Yeesh, these days it was politically correct merely to be against Nazis. Silas smiled in a hard, calculating way behind his mask. “I’ll tell you how he died if you tell me how your mission is going.”
A villain in the back shouted, “Take him up on it, he keeps playing coy.”
Sargeant Sincere took a seat. “The list is nearly in my grasp, I’ve been working on seducing the head of the IT department.”
Silas has been planning to run out the door as soon as he had the traitor’s identity, but why not try to get a little more information while he was here? He could always escape faster than anyone could grab him. “I’ve heard security is tighter on Euron, any luck there?”
A clamor came from the villains around them, all demanding details on Shooting Star’s death first.
The door’s chime did not activate, yet somehow Art stood in the back of the bar. He wore a black suit with a black vest and tie, like a funeral attendee. He had no tattoos, and he’d dyed his hair black. Never before had Silas seen Art completely stripped of all color. It looked wrong. The fool had not even worn his flimsy mask over his eyes, no effort to hide at all. He’d turned so pale he resembled the corpse at the funeral. His knuckles were bruised and his nails bloody, as if he’d lost a fight with a steel wall. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
Lady Methuselah’s scornful eyes raked over Art. “This bar is invitation only. Who are you, anyway? Minor players aren’t welcome.” She didn’t sound like she cared enough to stop polishing glasses, though.
Art had eyes only for Silas. “Tell me how he died.” The growl seemed to rumble up from the cracks at the center of the earth.
Silas gulped. What in the name of DC Comics was Art doing?! The people in this room would murder a graffiti artist and paint with his blood for fun! It would have been nice to see someone care about his death, if that someone hadn’t been going about it in such a spectacularly stupid way. Art should have gone to report it to the Hero Department, not walked into a bar full of stronger villains to die.
Silas could pick up Art and run away, except the bouncer blocked the door and he couldn’t vibrate someone else through objects. His suit had been specially designed to keep up with his vibrations. It would be harder to dodge around the surrounding villains while carrying someone, especially if that person didn’t want to be carried. Lady Methuselah in particular could be a real problem to fight even one-on-one, much less when outnumbered. Any chance he could scare Art off? Plan B would be tossing Art through the window.
Around him, the crowd added to demands to hear about Shooting Star’s death. They swarmed closer. Even with bodies between them, Silas would swear he could feel Art’s furious gaze burning through his armor. Well, at least this confirmed Art did consider them friends or friendly acquaintances? Sometimes Silas suspected he just dragged Art around between different restaurants while Art didn’t care enough to complain. Art was a difficult person to read, open about his opinions and tightly restrained in his emotions. Not today, though. Today he boiled with such rage, it was a miracle the air hadn’t exploded with it.
Silas’ throat felt dryer than a desert. He fiddled with an untouched glass for time. (He wouldn’t actually drink at a villain bar. Roofies were another weakness of his power.) “Naturally, I played with Shooting Star after I got the Euron cuff on him. Thanks for the shipment, Sargeant.”
The others patted Sargeant Sincere on the back and offered him drinks.
People expected Master Race to torture his enemies to death, but Silas strained to come up with something convincing. “I chopped off his legs first so he couldn’t run.” Master Race had always been threatening his legs. Wait, wouldn’t he bleed out too fast in this hypothetical scenario? “Then cauterized the stumps.”
The villains laughed. Art hissed, a soft sound penetrating the noise like a single drop of blood diffusing into water. Silas felt uncomfortable witnessing the naked agony on Art’s face. Heroes and villains alike always hid behind masks and voice modifiers, not showing their true emotions. Hurting another person like this made Silas feel like a bully. “Anyone who isn’t laughing at my story can leave.”
“I need to hear it to the end.” Art’s voice held a deadly calm that did not match his face.
People in that kind of state might do something insane. Silas glanced at the window, but some dick with a horned helmet was blocking it. Ugh, after he got Art out of this alive, he would deliver a blistering lecture about staying in your own league of enemies.
By now, Silas’ throat felt so dry, even the cacti in the desert were dying. “Then I broke Shooting Star’s fingers.” That seemed like a standard evil torture. “And punched out his teeth until he stopped the awful chatter.”
The bar counter creaked and groaned. What had done that? Lady Methuselah shooed everyone’s hands off, grumbling about being careful with their superstrength.
Bloody Blade, a tall villain carrying more swords than anyone could ever need, said, “Everyone accuses villains of monologuing, but Shooting Star was the worst. He was so powerful, no one ever told him that he wasn’t funny. Was anyone else here ever at the receiving end of his insufferable attempts at friendship? Worse than being arrested by him.”
Hey! As Silas recalled it, Bloody Blade had been grateful at the time for help with a lawyer, a legitimate job after he got out of prison, and paying for his first month of rent. Then Bloody Blade had returned to minion work after a few months, but Silas couldn’t win with every single person he tried to help. He’d never gotten the slightest indication his help and money hadn’t been welcome at the time. He always respected boundaries. He suspected Bloody Blade was just putting on a show for the bigger villains, which didn’t make it any less irritating. He knew some of the criminals he tried to befriend used him as a sucker—it was the price he willingly paid for the times when he could make a difference.
Sargeant Sincere nodded along. “Shooting Star was obsessed with appearing to be a good person. It was pathetic. He loved the adulteration of crowds. He leaked to the press that he donated nine tenths of his salary to charity, then everyone was pestering the rest of us to do the same if we called ourselves heroes. He got off on appearing better than us.”
Excuse him? Silas most definitely had not wanted the press to find out, because then he’d gotten in trouble with the Hero Department for which charities he donated to. They didn’t mind him supporting families in need and inner city schools. But they had suggested he pick “less controversial” causes than LGBTQ+ rights and global warming. His activism on prison reform, gang intervention, and helping the incarcerated find employment had especially pissed them off, because it indicated a “lack of faith in the system” which they were not wrong about.
This should not bother Silas so much, he didn’t care what a traitor thought about him. He shut his mouth before a defense emerged. Good thing no one could see his expression from behind the mask.
A villain named Lamia spoke with a hiss, difficult to tell if it was an affection or if real scales hid behind her scaly costume: “Don’t keep teasing us, dish the real dirt: what did Shooting Star look like under the mask?”
“Devastatingly handsome.” It popped out before Silas could stop himself.
The room groaned. Lamia said, “We all know about your creepy obsession already.”
Um…what? That had to be a joke, right? Silas shuddered. He could not imagine a more abhorrent admirer than Master Race, even Mr. Collins would be preferable. He’d never gotten any indication, he preferred to think it was a joke.
Lamia continued, “I bet you took the opportunity to stuff Shooting Star’s mouth with something else while you—” Her words choked off as a narrow red thread wrapped around her neck. It ripped her head clean off her shoulders. Blood splattered across the villains, hitting the front of Silas’ mask and saturating his untouched drink. Lamia’s head embedded in the ceiling, shattering a light. More blood dripped down from the severed spine.
The crimson thread extended back to Art’s wrist. The demented look on his face could not be called a smile: it was the death mask of a rabid animal. “Oops, my control slipped. Don’t let me stop you from continuing. I need to know exactly what you did, so I know what I’m going to do to you tenfold in return.”
Years of battle experience took autopilot control of Silas’ body. He tried to leap backward, away from the walking incarnation of death.
His legs could not move. The itching felt like threads moving under his skin. He could not even turn his head to look. But he could see the blue lines growing on the skin of all the villains before him. He tried to speak, but the threads had sewn his lips shut. It verged on the edge of painful, a maddening itch and a taunt that pain would soon come. The entire room had gone hushed as a grave.
Art spoke mockingly: “You have nothing else to brag about? Then I’ll just have to torture you for months until I’ve gotten every possibility out of the way.” There was no triumph on his face, not even malice. The emotion in his eyes had gone past hatred, reaching a place of total rejection of the entire universe. These were the eyes of a man already dead.
Silas tried desperately to say something, anything, to prove his real identity. But he couldn’t move.
Worse, he couldn’t run. He’d never before realized how much he relied on his ability for mental support as well as literal power. In every single battle he’d ever fought in the past, he’d always known he had the option to run away too fast for anyone to catch him. At times, he’d made the decision to risk his life by staying to fight, such as his previous battle with Master Race. But even when his bones had been broken, it had been a conscious sacrifice for a good cause. Now that he had no choice, now that he’d been trapped…it felt completely different. His throat clenched, sweat racing down his forehead like a rainstorm. He hadn’t been this scared since he’d been a child crouched in a porcelain bathtub, the best place in the house to hide from stray bullets as a gang war waged on the streets.
“Since we have a crowd of volunteers today, allow me to demonstrate your fate.” Art crooked a finger, and floating chains dragged Bloody Blade over. “My power can do anything I imagine. This will allow you to experience all kinds of tortures that should not even be possible. For example, what it’s like to survive with every bit of your skin gone.”
In place of Bloody Blade stood a realistic anatomical doll: no armor, no weapons, no skin. Blood gushed and pumped through exposed veins. The doll screamed with a pure, exquisite agony of no mind left. It filled the silent room. And Silas, unable to move even his eyes, could no longer deny that Bloody Blade was still alive.
Art snapped his fingers, and everything turned to ashes, even the blood. The horrific sound mercifully stopped. Art said, “I could continue it forever, as long as I can summon the will to stay alive myself. That one was simply not worth the effort, let’s see about our other volunteers.”
Lady Methuselah could not move, but she still had her telekinesis, so she must have been the one to press the button on the bar counter. The button flashed red. An alarm blared. Euron rained down from the ceiling, in sharp knives designed to penetrate costumes, the bar’s final defense.
Where the Euron bounced off Art’s head, the gold-red metal turned steel grey. “A waste of effort, didn’t I just tell you I could change anything according to my will?” The shards rose up and coalesced into blades. Lady Methuselah screamed as the knives sliced and diced her.
Art was unaffected by Euron?! It shouldn’t be possible. Silas could vibrate through it, but even he would be doomed if it directly touched him. Euron was the only reason superpowered hadn’t taken over the world. Without that weakness…with reality-bending powers…Art was the strongest superpowered in the world.
Did Art have any limits all? His colorful threads had taken over the entire bar, crawling along the walls. Silas had seen him working on canvases of greater width before, like that time he’d graffitied the New York Stock Exchange Building. Would a ranged attack have any effect? Silas tried his best to think about this instead of the screaming both outside and inside his own head.
Blood had covered the floor, dripped down the glass cabinets, and splattered every villain. It had leaked between the cracks of Silas’ armor, turning his joints sticky. Only Art stood untouched, the red swirling up around him in the shape of autumn leaves.
Silas’ bloodstained helmet raised up, resting on a golden pedestal, caressed and polished with dozens of floating brushes. The blood on the walls turned into paintings of Silas: running through the streets, fighting, laughing, spinning on a tire swing. (Hey! How would Art even know about the tire swing that Silas had at his forest home, or that he still liked playing on it like a little kid?) The pictures moved constantly, always showing him in his mask, and they seemed to dart away from Silas’ frozen eyes. Almost as if Art wanted no one else to see his memorial. By this point, the thought had crossed Silas’ mind that Art might have feelings deeper than friendship, but he didn’t want to presume, it seemed arrogant.
As more people died, Silas strained to move, but the only movement came from his neck involuntarily turning, forcing him to witness every last gruesome death. Blue eyes fluttered around the room, capturing every last detail too. There had been an eye like that on the bar counter, it must have been how Art had found out about the fake death.
When all but three people in the room had died, Art turned on Sargeant Sincere. “I have something special in mind for you! The traitor, the one who provided the Euron, the one with the second biggest mouth.”
Judging from the smell, Sargeant Sincere had crapped his pants. As he floated over, his pupils twitched weakly. Raspy breath pitifully tried to come up his throat in the form of words. It must have been a plea. Blood ran from his nose.
Art still had no smile on his face, no vindication, only yawning despair and hate. “You’re going to eat every last word you spoke.”
Blood flowed faster from Sargeant Sincere’s nose, forming the words in the air, I heard from the bouncer, tell me it’s true! Tell me I’ll never have to listen to the insufferable prick’s politically correct speeches again! His jaw prized open with a bone shattering sound. Then the words leapt done his throat.
Once again, Art let his prisoners scream while dying, but Sargeant Sincere could barely even sob. His body grew wan as he ate himself. Silas remembered: CEO Avery’s own hands had been found in his stomach.
Silas strained against the bindings, desperate to plead for his enemy’s life, because no one deserved this, dammit.
When Sargeant Sincere finally gurgled his last and died, Silas would have sobbed with relief if he could move.
Then the cold, hateful gaze turned on him.
Art strode across the blood with the finality of approaching Death, and eyes as blank as a skull’s sockets too. “Don’t imagine you’ll die as quickly as the others. They merely laughed at his death—you killed him.”
Silas’ armor contracted around his body. It forced air out of his lungs, yet he had no voice for a scream. Ah, yes, that was the familiar sound of his ribs cracking. Pain made him lightheaded.
“I can erase any injury.” Art stepped so close, his forehead nearly touched Silas’ helmet. “I’ll heal you over and over again, then start from the beginning. Your torment won’t end until I finally tire of existence and kill myself. I have nothing left to live for now, except to make you suffer.”
Oh, gods. Silas was going to die. He’d always known he could die on the job, but this would be so much worse. It wouldn’t a heroic death helping other people. It would be a tragic and pointless death, caused by a misunderstanding.
Still his tongue would not move. He could hardly think through the fear.
“First, I need to know who you are. You can’t possibly be Master Race, since I ended his life with his own two hands.”
Wait, then CEO Avery had been Master Race, as Silas had suspected? It would be easy for Art’s potent illusion powers to make it seem as if Master Race still lived.
As Art reached for the helmet, Silas despaired. It didn’t matter if Art saw his face, because Art didn’t know what he looked like. If he could have spoken, he could have found a way to prove his identity. But he had no power now: his lie had become his truth, he had caused all these deaths, he was a joke of a hero.
From the first reveal of flesh, Art’s eyes widened. The helmet completely dissolved in his eagerness. Their gazes locked, grey storm meeting blue lightning. The faintest flicker of hope rolled across Art’s face like the rising sun. He whispered, “Silas?”
Why on earth did Art know that name? The bonds around Silas loosened.
This was Silas’ moment to say something brilliant, a secret that only he would know. But what popped out in the most stressful moment of his life was a shitty dark joke: “Forget what I said about using your powers for productive purposes, you should do more graffiti. Only graffiti. Put it up all over the city.”
“It really is you.” Art lifted Silas off the ground in a hug and burst into noisy, fervent, unrestrained tears.
The hug pressed against Silas’ broken ribs. His eyes rolled backward, and he passed out.
HOME BASE:
Silas’ heart hammered in his ribcage like inexorable waves against crumbling cliffs.
There was no pain. Instead of armor, he felt a soft bed against his back and silken pajamas. Warmth wrapped around him like a cocoon. He could have nearly imagined everything had been a dream, except for another person’s fingers in his hair.
The sensation felt entirely too familiar.
Silas sat up, shaking off the hand. Bright lines wrapped around his body and even colored his skin. The sensation of being restrained always put him on edge. But the threads retreated away, taking some of his tiredness with them. Blessedly, his limbs could move now.
The bedroom was as colorful as Art’s usual fashion: rainbow ceiling, a forest painted on the walls, the floor painted like grass, beanbags of all the primary colors, and glowsticks hanging off the sparkling shelves of books and art supplies. A teddy bear sitting on the shelf looked just like the one he’d lost in foster care, but surely it could not be. The round bed had a patchwork quilt. Silas kicked it off.
Art caught Silas from behind and hugged him, burying a face into his back. No creaking came from his ribs, he’d completely healed. By this point, he’d come to suspect the unusually fast healing afflicting him as of late had not been his own. It would explain how Art knew his name and face. Art sobbed, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
Silas turned so he could pat Art on the head. Art looked a mess, eyes puffy and lip cracked from biting. Silas could not help but take pity. “I’m not angry at you for attacking me. You didn’t know. I daresay it was my own fault, a hairbrained plan in retrospect.” He swallowed. “But you shouldn’t have killed the others.”
Art’s grip did not loosen, but his tone became slightly exasperated. “Really? You’re more upset about your enemies dying than your own pain?”
“They deserved a fair trial. No one deserves to be tortured.”
“Did you not hear them talking about how they would have tortured you if you’d been caught by them? You’re a softhearted idiot and lucky I find that endearing.”
“I’m a hero, I can’t play tit for tat.”
“That’s very you.” Art’s voice held fondness, though his expression could not be seen with his face buried and smelling every bit of Silas’ skin. “I’m a villain. I can do whatever I want.”
Yes, Art could. He could do whatever he wanted to the entire world. Silas gulped. “Why have you been pretending to be weak?” Although he had many things he’d like to scream, he had a duty to gather information first. “What are you planning?”
“I haven’t been pretending to be weak. No one tested my temper before. I don’t have any ambitions, I simply use my power for fun. The world doesn’t deserve my efforts. Why would I need to take over the world when I can create my own worlds?”
“Your graffiti is lovely. You should definitely focus on that. I’ve always thought ruling the world is a very silly comic book motive.” Silas’ paralyzed heart thudded to life again. Knowing Art could surely feel the pulse, he tried to take deep breaths.
Art raised his head. He rubbed circles on Silas’ back. “It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot. The trauma will pass, I’ll make sure of it.” The tone verged on threatening reality to comply with his will. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me about your plan? I was so busy painting my eyes around Baltimore, I lost sight of you. You could have been killed, walking into the biggest villain bar alone, I could have—I did—” Art shuddered. “I should have known you anywhere, even masked. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I didn’t have a way to contact you,” Silas said. It was true, but it also never would have occurred to him to try and tell Art the plan. His tone had the same appeasing note he’d used around authority figures as a kid. It meant he felt afraid. The colorful room had turned muted in his eyes. His emotions lurked under a blanket suppressing what he didn’t yet feel ready to face, but the fear still leaked out.
Art scowled. “You could have told me on our last date, or when I visit you at night. You’re always inviting me on fun dates, but then you never reach out when you need help. I could have easily handled this entire situation. If you were after the traitor, I could have told you his name. Your childhood has left you with issues accepting help, we need to work on that. I’m here for you. I won’t leave your side until you’re recovered.”
Ah. There were three more things Silas had not yet been ready to face, now dragged out in the open. Art thought they were dating. Art had invaded his home. Art was currently holding him at an unknown location, and he did not know if he would be allowed to leave.
How to handle this? Silas had two obvious options: try to break through Art’s delusions or play along. The former obviously could be dangerous. Art’s use of torture had revealed Silas didn’t truly know the villain at all. If Silas played along, perhaps he could escape this room. But what afterward? If he fed the delusions, he’d make it worse. There would never be a good moment to reject a villainous stalker with godlike power.
In the end, Silas decided to place his bets on whatever real friendship they’d had and be honest: “Art, our meetings weren’t dates. I’m sorry I ever gave you the wrong impression. You’ve already healed me, there’s no other need to keep me here. I’d like to be alone. In my own house. Without anyone coming over uninvited.”
Silas had braced himself for sadness, fury, maybe even more pain. He did not know what to make of Art smiling: a small, weary, reluctantly affectionate sort of smile, but a smile all the same. “I knew this was coming. When you’re panicked, your instinct is to push people away. It all comes back to your childhood trauma. I’m not going anywhere, you never need to fear scaring me off.”
“Um.” Silas did not know what to do. His strategy had not failed so much as sputtered out like a firework with a wet tip. “You can’t just refuse to accept my refusal.”
“Of course I can. I love you.” The words held the same certainty as the sun rising in the east every morning and politicians being assholes. “I will never leave you.”
“Love?” Silas couldn’t believe it. He could sort of understand the lunches being misconstrued. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been friendly to someone who took it to mean more than he’d intended. He had a bubbly personality, he’d never figured out how to straddle the line between friendly without seeming flirtatious. But love? Love was too heavy a word. To love him after their short acquaintanceship would be insane.
The destruction and death wrought at the bar had been insane.
The brilliant blue spark in Art’s eyes, hot as the center of a flame, was insane.
“How could I not love you, Silas?” Art spoke the name like a prayer. “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, all the way down to your soul. I’ve often wondered if life is worth living. The world is frying, the sea levels are rising, and humans are too busy murdering each other to care. The earth is dying, and I didn’t even know if it was worth saving. Then I met you, a real hero. You care so much about the world, I can’t help but care for your sake. I felt empty before. Now, every day has meaning because I can see you. You are the only reason this world has to continue to exist.” Art took the tips of Silas’ loose hair and kissed it, with gentle reverence. “You are my reason for existing. There is nothing you could ever do that would cause me to turn away from you. Say whatever you please. Spit insults. Try to run. It doesn’t matter. My love has no limits and no conditions. There is nowhere you could go that I could not find you. I will always be there for you. I will make you happy even if I have to fight you for it. I will love you until you know in your bones that my love will never change.”
That was the most beautiful and threatening love confession Silas had ever heard. Perhaps there had been a kernel of truth to the accusations that he had attachment issues, because his first instinct was to run.
Silas vaulted over the side of the bed. He expected threads to stop him, but nothing happened. He ran straight through the door without touching it, exceeding his top speed in his panic. His bare feet pattered on the yellow hallway carpet.
In this state, the entire world became still to him, as if frozen in time. This house was enormous. He’d been sleeping on the third floor. On his way to the stairs, he passed an entire library and gaming center. The second floor had a movie theatre and a gymnasium. A real tree grew in the middle of the gym, a tire hanging from the thickest branch. The ground floor kitchen was big enough for a restaurant. The dining room was decadent: the table made of rainbow eucalyptus wood and each crystal on the chandelier a different color. How could Art possibly own such a mansion, when he didn’t believe in money?
Except this place did not seem entirely real. The walls had thousands of thin layers, as if made from Art’s thread. Of course Art did not believe in money, when he did not need it. He could create anything he wanted himself. The impoverished boy inside Silas couldn’t help grumbling that people who didn’t want money were always the ones who had never felt hunger.
Silas kept running, but the dining room kept expanding. Groaning, he strained, feeling exhaustion in his legs for the first time in his life. He broke through the dining room wall.
Instead of reaching the outside, with sunlight and fresh air, Silas emerged into the bedroom again.
Art still sat on the bed, legs crossed and a calm smile on his lips. “You can run all day if you desire. I would never restrain your powers. I don’t believe in Euron, it’s an abomination. Your speed is lovely.” His gaze had no trouble tracking Silas even at top speeds.
It made Silas feel exposed, so he sprinted out of the room again.
Silas ran through the entire mansion a dozen times and tried every wall as an exit point before he finally collapsed against the gym tree, panting. He’d never been this tired from running before. This house made him feel as if he was swimming through molasses. The distances were not quite right. It made his head ache, too.
Something fluttered against Silas’ ankle, then renewed energy flowed through him.
It felt so much like the threads that had held him prisoner, Silas bit his tongue in an effort not to scream. He looked down. A fuzzy brown bat tattoo was on his ankle. The bat had wings spread, but upon feeling his anxious gaze, it flipped upside down and folded its wings as if sleeping. He felt every movement crawling on his skin.
Silas took a few more deep breaths until his anxiety had grown into anger. Then he went looking for Art.
Art had moved to the kitchen. He carried a sweet potato pie into the dining room on a sparkly pink platter. “Hot food might make you feel better.”
At this point, Silas didn’t even ask how Art had known about his favorite comfort food from his childhood. He growled, “Why can’t I leave this house?”
Art sat. A chair nudged against Silas’ legs, urging him to sit as well. He did not, arms crossed.
Art said, “I created this entire world. You could call it a pocket dimension, to put it in comic book terms. I intended it to be my retreat no matter what happened to Earth.”
Oh, gods, there was no way Silas could escape. He forced his anger to outweigh his fear. Gesturing at his ankle, he demanded, “What’s this?”
Art blinked up guilelessly. “You wanted a bat tattoo.”
“I told you no on the tattoo.”
“I can change it to any design you prefer. I would have liked to give you longer to think about it, but it’s necessary. You did want to leave someday, didn’t you? You’re always welcome here, of course.”
“Can I leave?” Silas hated how he’d gone from demanding to leave to pleading for the opportunity.
“I never wanted to interfere with your life. I thought I could watch you well enough to keep you safe—but I was wrong.” Pain showed on Art’s face, then the same madness from the bar. “You faked it this time, but that proved it could have happened without me knowing. If you want to return to Earth, the tattoo is a requirement. It will keep you safe.”
“Why can’t I return now?”
Art reached out his hand, and suddenly they were close enough for him to touch Silas’ cheek. Neither of them had moved. The room and table had gotten smaller. “I still have preparations to make. I need to ensure my powers have spread far enough to create an environment where death itself cannot take you. You need time to rest and recover.”
More like time for Stockholm Syndrome to set in. Would playing along with Art’s delusions be a requirement for Silas to be considered recovered enough to leave? Silas flinched away from the touch.
Art’s eyes turned so sad, Silas might have felt sorry, if not for his next words. “I expect you’ll flinch from me for a while, after I accidentally hurt you. It’s not your fault, I completely understand. We’ll work on overcoming it together. Lots of close contact will help overwrite the bad memories with good ones. You must stay here long enough to finish healing mentally as well as physically. This is not negotiable, I’m making the decision for your sake while you’re not well.”
Past trauma would be the excuse, then, to forever ignore current Silas’ very real and present concerns. There did not seem to be any point in arguing. “What is negotiable?” Silas asked, because he hated feeling so helpless. He would do whatever he could with whatever small power and influence he might possess.
A slow smile made Art resemble a satisfied tiger after a hunt. “You’ve seen what my powers could do. I never considered the world worth using my abilities, until I met you. If you want me to avoid killing people while I stop them from destroying the planet, then I’m strong enough to indulge you. I could burn the world down. Only for your sake would I rebuild it instead.”
The implication lay between them, that Art would not hesitate to kill if Silas did not stick around to stop him. Silas flinched. “Is that a threat? To take over the world?”
“Don’t be silly, I just told you I don’t even like the world. I’d be content to stay here forever. But you care about the world. You care about all the stupid people who won’t even try to save themselves.” Art took Silas’ hair again, slowly caressing. His gaze never left Silas’ eyes. “Suppose I could ease global warming by removing excess carbon dioxide from the air. Suppose I could end hunger with infinite food. Suppose I could cure the ill and injured around the world. Suppose I could increase your powers so you could help even more people. What would that be worth to you?”
And Silas knew he’d been trapped more thoroughly than by a never-ending house in a pocket dimension.