Killing Capes

  Killing Capes

  By

  Scott Mathy

  Copyright © 2016 by Scott Mathy

  Cover by Darby Davis

  All rights reserved

  This book is entirely a work of fiction; any similarities to individuals living or dead are coincidental and unintentional. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by electronic or physical means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Scott’s infrequently updated podcast and ramblings can be found at www.nerdtalkshow.com

  This book is dedicated to three people

  My wonderful wife, Veronica: your love and support are the glue that holds my life together. You’ve been my best friend for far longer than you’ve been my spouse.

  My brother, James: you introduced me to the world of comics, and have been my closest nemesis for as long as I can remember.

  My high school English teacher, Mrs. Landers: you inspired the world’s most unmotivated student to put just a few sentences on paper, and ignited his love for the written word.

  Preface

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Preface

  Writing Killing Capes was a deceptively long process. When I initially toyed with the idea of participating in the 2016 NaNoWriMo contest as a way to motivate my students to do something English-related after school, I thought it would be easy. When the month wrapped up, I had a 53,000-word pile of garbage. I wasn’t sure about the story. I hated my main character. The spelling and grammar errors were enough to make me question whether I was qualified to teach writing to teenagers.

  Thankfully, the single month for the first draft did not include the revision process. Credit goes to Stacy Evans, Cathy Mundell-Bligh, and Matt Meins for making it through that version. I’m very sorry for your suffering. After many lengthy sessions of rewrites and corrections, I finally had something I was willing to present to my chief editor: my wife. Throughout the drafting process, she was my persistent cheerleader. In the end, she became the final critical eye I needed to feel confident in the finished product.

  This story comes from a question I’ve had since the first time my brother handed me a comic book: what happens to the other people in the world, the ones without the powers? I always imagined a population filled with a mix of desire, reverence, and terror for the literal gods all around them. The drama of superheroes is entertaining, but what are these universes like from the ground?

  As a 30-year-old teacher, I’m proud of this little story. It isn’t perfect – not by a long shot – but it’s mine.

  One

  “D’you know I once punched this guy straight in the dick?” he blurted over the radio. “’e said something about the way I handled some ‘ostage, tossin’ ‘em ‘round while I fought some lightnin’ wank’eh.”

  Dwight didn’t want to think about B’s fist colliding with the Immortal Phoenix’s crotch, but there it was. With no way for him to reply to his partner, he was quite literally a captive audience. The story continued despite any of Dwight’s desires.

  “’e starts spoutin’ off abou’ ‘aving me thrown ou’ the team for endangerin’ the public, and, of course, it starts drawing over the norms.” The sounds of coarse crunching came over the speaker as well, pushing Dwight’s thoughts to self-inflicted auditory harm. He contemplated what life would be like without functional ears.

  Through his visor, Dwight could see that his partner brought a bag of chips with him and had begun snacking while he shuffled down the sidewalk toward his objective. The video feed streaming live to his headpiece showed in crisp detail the storefront ahead: its streetlights illuminated, but interior dark. That didn’t surprise Dwight; after all, what jewelry store would be open at 3 a.m. in the boroughs?

  A bright flash overhead drew B’s sight to the sky. The camera mounted to his headset gave Dwight full view of the storm overhead developing right on schedule. He noted that the Doctor’s technology had not been completely tested, and she’d want him to make a report of any irregularities. The Doc paid well for anything that helped her research – or she would, had Dwight not owed her a small fortune already.

  Within the hour, the storm would reach triple-digit wind speeds and drop several inches of rain. This would flood some of the lower areas of the city and cause a few million dollars in damage, but that was hardly a concern for the scientist. She was only interested in the limits of her weather control experiments. Dwight’s only concern was the logistics of operating within a hurricane.

  B kept talking as he started picking the lock of the store, “So, ‘e keeps going on about what a poor excuse of a ‘ero I am, calls me a psycho, an’ I finally ‘as it. I punch the little fuck right in his face in front of the ‘ole crowd. ‘e starts fight’n back.” From Dwight’s perspective, the picks in B’s hands looked comically small, as if designed for a child’s “My First Breaking and Entering” set.

  The lock pick in his hands let out a sharp crack, then twisted completely free. The oversized hands tossed the broken tools to the ground in frustration before winding back and smashing the lock with a single downward swing. The knob fell with a heavy clang as B pushed his way through the door. Dwight thought to add “subtle entry” to the list of things his partner was incapable of.

  It should be noted that, over the relatively short duration of their partnership, this list already included: childcare, polite conversation, plumbing, origami, chewing with one’s mouth closed, firearms safety, driving, tipping properly, theater etiquette, and a complete lack of manners over any communication device invented by man. This list was ever growing.

  B walked past the empty display cases, heading for the safe at the back of the shop. “Twen’y minutes later, the rest o’ the team got us pinned down, wait’n ‘til we knocks it off. They lets ’im up first, then the second they take their ‘ands offa me, I punch ‘im one last time, right in ‘is daddy bag. Sends ‘im fly’n inta the crowd. Bowled over six people, ‘e did!” B let out a cacophony of laughter and potato fragments at his retelling.

  By now, the silent alarm should have notified any patrolling Cape of their trespassing. It would only be a matter of time before some self-sworn guardian of the borough showed themselves to protect the humble neighborhood business. Dwight watched as B grabbed the steel handle of the safe door and began pulling. A few seconds later there was a groan, then several pings of rivets snapping, then finally a tortured shriek as the door wrenched free. B pitched it behind him without looking.

  From the sound of the glass shattering and wood breaking, Dwight guessed that it smashed into one of the display cases. Were this an actual robbery, he would have been annoyed with his partner’s blatant disregard for the preservation of the merchandise. However, given their objective, B’s lack of discretion may actually have been a boon.

  His partner’s next move was already planned out for him. He took out a small sack and began stuffing anything from the safe into it. Handfuls of cash, tiny envelopes of jewels – all of it went into the bag as quickly as he could maneuver his shovel-like hands. He was about halfway through the safe’s contents when Dwight’s feed suddenly shifted to the floor. B’s vision tilted up to a lone figure standing in the shattered doorway.

  The camera followed as B pulled himself to his feet, reaching behind his head to figure out what hit him. Dwight had already guessed that it was some sort of projectile from the Phoenix’s a
rsenal. Sure enough, B’s oversized hand held out a metallic disk with the symbol of a bird engulfed in flames. The thin ring of blood around its edge marked where the object pierced the back of his partner’s skull. Dwight couldn’t tell from his feed if the shuriken had done any serious damage. From his experience, the weapon would be more of an annoyance.

  “Figures,” B said, discarding the weapon with a flick of his wrist, “You lot always gotta ‘ave your call’n cards.” He cracked his neck and rolled his gigantic shoulders, “Let me show ya mine.”

  The Phoenix rushed in. The martial artist’s movements were so fast that before B could raise his colossal fists, he was hammering the giant’s torso with agile strikes. When B finally found the sense to respond, he was swinging at open air. Though B was certainly tough, he could not catch the smaller man. A sweeping kick knocked B off his feet and onto his back. Dwight would have been worried, were it not for the profile he had studied when they created this scheme. The Immortal Phoenix had, over time, grown increasingly violent, foul-tempered, and was prone to abandon his training for the sake of a killing stroke.

  B’s camera looked up at the ceiling. He started laughing. They had talked about this: taunting the Phoenix into making a mistake. Predictably, he leapt onto B’s chest and started beating on the man’s face. Swinging over and over, he knocked the headset away. Though it had gone flying to the side, Dwight still had a clear view of the fight. He recognized the contempt beneath the Cape’s half mask. This wasn’t a hero; this was just a violent thug who happened to be on the city’s good side.

  The Phoenix got in a few more hits before B was done toying with him. He caught the Phoenix’s fist with one hand, then reached up and grabbed his head in the other. In one motion, B rose and swung his arm around, putting his opponent’s skull through one of the glass cases.

  Now, with B firmly back on his feet, Dwight prayed that his partner remembered their mission. “Run, you idiot,” he snarled, “He’s not done.”

  For once, it seemed that B thought about the goal instead of the moment; he turned and fled off-camera toward the back of the shop, abandoning the Phoenix in a heap of glass shards and splintered wood. A few moments after B left his view, the Cape crawled to his feet. The jagged bits of glass buried in his face fell to the floor as the injuries healed themselves. He had earned the “Immortal” part of his name by surviving injuries far worse than what B had just put him through. There was an audible pop as his jaw realigned itself. After a momentary pause of heavy breathing, he took off out of sight after his opponent. The camera remained there, forgotten in the wreckage of the jewelry shop, along with the bag containing the contents of the safe.

  Dwight removed the eye piece he had been using to watching the fight. Crouching in his hiding spot, he slid the rifle from its rest into the firing position. Outside, the storm had worsened; the lightning intensified to a near constant rate, and the rain was coming down at nearly a forty-five degree angle from the extreme winds. A flick of the switch on his gun brought up its high-powered scope. He studied the various readings, fascinated with its ability to cut through the interference to the rooftop three blocks away. At the bottom of the screen, a tiny meter monitored the noise generated by the thunder and wind. At the far right, a green sliver denoted the target volume. Peering through the scope into the night, Dwight waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. B’s massive body crashed through the emergency exit and went sailing out into the pouring rain. He slipped over the wet rooftop and landed hard, hitting the back edge of the parapet. The Phoenix followed, fighting his way through the broken door. As he finished knocking it off its steel hinges, B stood back up, spitting blood and, Dwight guessed, a few pieces of his teeth. The two stood for a moment, staring each other down. For B, this was a dream; he was finally getting to go toe-to-toe with one of the Capes who had driven him away. Though the giant remained mostly a mystery to him, Dwight had heard his share of rumors.

  B began slowly laughing, “Something wrong, Scraps? You done fight’n already?” He braced himself against the ledge.

  His opponent tensed and froze, the Phoenix trying to recall buried memories of B’s insult. “You!?” he shouted, struggling to be heard over the rain. He didn’t give B a chance to answer, instead charging headfirst at the giant man.

  B met that rush a few feet from the wall. Both men went down. The fall took them out of the rifle’s sight. Dwight could only make out a tangle of thrashing arms. After a brief exchange, he could tell that the Phoenix ended up on top. The Cape hammered B’s face with a flurry of vicious strikes over and over. This wasn’t an attempt to incapacitate a criminal; this man was trying to kill someone. Blood coated his fists as they repeatedly rose and fell, again and again. Dwight kept checking his sights, hoping for a shot.

  Just as he was convinced it wasn’t coming, the moment occurred. A huge hand found its way under the Immortal Phoenix’s jaw. It clamped down like a vise, crushing the cheek bones of the smaller fighter. This, however, did not stop the Phoenix. He flailed, then started clawing at B’s grip. At last, B pushed with all his strength, shoving the struggling man’s head directly into Dwight’s sights. A crack of thunder overhead pushed the decibel meter on the scope over the threshold and into the green; just enough that the Phoenix’s famed empowered senses would never detect the round coming.

  It was a fact known only to a certain few that the “Immortal” part of the Phoenix’s name came from a reflex. Upon sensing his death, the Cape could free his spirit from his body, preventing a permanent death by inflicting it upon himself. Countless times he had self-destructed, only to be reborn from fire in his lair. It was also said that every death he suffered brought him back just a little more unhinged. Dwight could only guess what repeatedly dying of self-inflicted injuries would do his mind over a long enough timeline. The Phoenix wouldn’t have the chance.

  Dwight pulled the trigger. The enormous cannon braced against his shoulder kicked and let loose a round with all the violent force of an oncoming train. Through the stock, Dwight felt the recoil crash against his shoulder. He observed the Phoenix’s last moment. There was a second of recognition; the Phoenix locked eyes with Dwight through the darkness and chaos of the storm. All fight left the man. He closed his eyes and stopped struggling against B’s grasp. Despite being three blocks away and surrounded by the hellish thunderstorm, Dwight watched the bullet pass through the Phoenix’s face. His skull exploded in B’s hand; it instantly collapsed into his vise-like fist. The fragments that escaped sailed off into the night as the body slumped backward out of view.

  Dwight realized he stopped breathing sometime before he had taken the shot and let out a sigh. Another Cape who had broken the truce was gone. His bank account would be happy. A slight buzz from his pocket confirmed that the Associates already knew the job was done. His entire right shoulder had gone numb from the recoil of the rifle; he was sure that it would be a single, nasty bruise by morning.

  Unlocking the latch at his side, he crawled from his hiding place in the fake air conditioning unit. He left the gun hanging in its mount. As he rose to his full height, he felt his back complain from the duration of his stay in the metal box.

  The storm overhead let loose its last few drops as he looked up. The city’s meteorologists would report on the sudden, freak storm that had developed and dispersed within the span of an hour over the boroughs – but then again, this was New Haven. Strange things happened here all the time. A voice from his headset brought Dwight back to the moment.

  “Target down; cleanup crews are inbound. E.T.A. sixty seconds.” It was Celene, their handler from StarPoint.

  Though he had no audio connection to B in case the Phoenix’s enhanced hearing picked up their communications, he did have the ability to speak directly with her. “Celene, am I free to go? Do I need to stay here with the gear?”

  “Negative, D, the Associates will handle all of your tools. We’ll be in touch the next time we need the game reset. Good work
tonight.” She was as direct as ever.

  Dwight was about to take off his headset when something made him stop. “The target – what did he do?” Dwight’s conscience was showing itself again.

  There was an audible pause from the other end.

  “D, you know I can’t.” She waited a few more seconds, weighing the sensitivity of the information, “He beat some street punks to death last week. Two weeks earlier, he threw some purse-snatcher off a roof; paralyzed him for life.” She stopped again, searching for the right words.

  Dwight filled the gap, “And that means he should be exterminated? The guy was a hero.”

  “He wasn’t a good guy, D. And every time he came back, he got worse. It was only a matter of time before he really lost control.” She cut the line.

  Dwight didn’t want to think about the person she would have to report their conversation to. Wulf was not the kind of person whose orders you would want to ignore. Just the thought of that smile made Dwight’s skin crawl. It was his control they all existed in – his game.

  On schedule, thirty seconds later, the fire door on his rooftop opened. Two men and a woman in gray suits approached Dwight’s hiding place with no regard for Dwight himself. The woman pulled a small vial of spray from her suit coat and began removing evidence from the scene. As she did, one of the men removed the rifle from the mount and carried it off. Dwight doubted that gun would ever be fired again. He thought about it being disposed of, like he was sure he would be when there was nothing else to do with him. Wulf didn’t seem like the type to get sentimental for employees who had outlived their usefulness.

  “Your radio, Mr. D.” the last Associate approached him with his hand outstretched. “A car is waiting for you downstairs.”