 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

(Teaser)

VOLUME ONE: Malevolence

Good Guy #50

Good Guy #51

Malevolence the Malcontent #5

Good Guy #52

Good Guy #53

VOLUME TWO: Indestructible

Target Acquired #165

Good Guy #54

Indestructoman #82

Good Guy #55

Good Guy #56

Psionic #77

VOLUME THREE: Truce and Consequence

Good Guy #57

Good Guy #58

Good Guy #59

Good Guy #60

Good Guy #61

VOLUME FOUR: Enemies Like These

Target Acquired #173

Good Guy #62

Good Guy #63

Dodging Trouble #199

Good Guy #64

VOLUME FIVE: Latent

Good Guy #65

Good Guy #66

Malevolence the Malcontent #21

Good Guy #67

Good Guy #68

VOLUME SIX: What the World Forgot

Good Guy #69

Malevolence the Malcontent #24

Good Guy #70

Good Guy #71

Good Guy #72

Good Guy #73

Walk A Mile

Sidekicks

About the Author

Enemies Like These

P.K. Gardner

Copyright © 2015 by P.K. Gardner

All rights reserved.

All Erin's fault.

Free fall.

The wind bites at my cheeks, roars against my ears.

No one learns about their superpowers until they're in a position to use them. I learned I could fly when I jumped off a building.

This time, I can't stop, hurtling through the air as the ground lurches up to meet me.

Brooks is laughing in my ears.

Too long on the job, and all the dreams are like this. Fighting, falling, flying. It's all the same. Always wake up before I hit the ground.

The treetops whiz past.

I can't keep doing this.

I'm going to wake up.

I need to wake up.

VOLUME ONE:

Malevolence

Good Guy #50

The gawkers are out in full force.

The hostage situation is an escalation of a bank robbery that broke just after rush hour. The well-dressed commuters walking up the Northern Spoke's sidewalk would rather see it live than catch a much-safer version on the news.

A single uniformed cop is attempting and failing to establish a perimeter. He's just a kid, my age maybe, the sort who started on the force after high school and will work the streets until he retires or gets shot.

The District throws an apocalypse every other month. Betting money says he gets shot.

Probably not today though. The bank robbery's tame by the District's usual standards. It's just the hostages who are a complication.

There's this thing about people in peril that attracts superheroes.

Like me.

I land beside the cop and win the crowd's immediate attention due to the fact that I'm dressed like an idiot and they have camera phones. "You realize you're all at risk of taking a stray bullet," I announce.

The crowd can take a hint. Very few people enjoy getting shot. Just Indestructoman, and he complains bitterly about the bullet holes in his costume. The rookie cop throws me a look that's two parts gratitude, one part apprehension. Official word from the police department is that costumed heroes are unlicensed vigilantes. This kid is still new enough not to know that rule gets broken a lot. He fingers his gun. I try to smile.

His trigger finger tenses.

The on-scene detective, on the other hand, claps me on the back and drags me behind the rookie's feeble barrier tape. He's a well-dressed, solidly built black guy with about five inches and forty pounds on me. It's everything I can do to stop myself from hovering a few inches from the ground to meet his eyes.

I've seen his face on TV before, in the wake of various supervillain-related disasters, but this is the first time we've met in person. I'm guessing he's heard of me.

"Thank God, we got a super. This perp's a fucking lunatic. We had him on the phone for all of thirty seconds. Hasn't got a damn thing on his list of demands. Doesn't want release or a getaway or anything. Says he'll be done in a few, leave him be, he's just robbing a bank because he's poor. Jesus Christ almighty."

Seems like a pretty standard reason for bank robbing, but I'm not a trained law enforcement professional. I scratch the back of my neck, thick black leather gloves soft against my close-cropped hair. Have to break that habit. It would be just my luck to knock off the mask because I have an itch. I wonder if the detective expects me to get to work or if I need permission first. He's not going to arrest me, but the fact that he can looms over us. While I hesitate, he takes out his phone, punches in a number and puts it on speaker.

"Look," the voice on the other end answers before the first ring has even finished, "already told you I'll be out of your hair as soon as this idiot stops pissing himself and remembers the codes for the safe. Has the entire world always been this goddamn slow? I don't want anything from you, so stop—"

"This is Detective Lombardozzi calling to let you know Good Guy is on the scene. Surrender now or I'm turning the show over to him and washing my hands of this whole damn mess."

That sounds like a threat. Must have confused me with X. Most fights against Good Guy are non-fatal. Matter of principle. The line crackles with static and then that same voice, pitched a little too high and a lot too fast, says, "Could you send someone else? Maybe the idiot in the baseball jersey? Or the chick with the legs! She's totally my favorite."

Lombardozzi's eyes flicker to me, appraising. I'm still pretty new on the scene, and if I'm honest, Dodger—the idiot in the baseball jersey—is probably the guy you want at a hostage situation. My skill set isn't exactly tuned for delicate operations.

The crook on the phone is still rambling. "Got this far under the radar by not picking up a name. I can't have my first proper knock-down with some pompous asshole who goes around calling himself Good Guy. God, name like that, he probably doesn't even get laid."

Insulting, but mostly true. Good Guy isn't a name I picked out for myself. No one would call themselves something like Good Guy. My first time in costume, X mistook me for someone with nefarious intent and dangled me by my ankles from a rooftop while I screamed, "I'm one of the good guys!"

The press heard, I'm Good Guy.

Not my proudest moment.

X was the only one who took my protests in stride. Only X taking things in stride meant he shrugged and said, "I'm sick of you wannabe heroes anyway. Better safe than sorry."

Then he dropped me off a roof.

Four stories falling before I remembered how to fly. One day, I'll get to the point where it's instinct.

"Does this guy even pause to breathe?" Lombardozzi groans, cupping a hand over the receiver. He rolls his eyes but there's a tightness in his stance.

Wait...

The cops think this guy is dangerous. Really dangerous. I should have picked up on that considering he has hostages. The last thing this city needs right now is a massacre. We have to rebuild post-apocalypse every other month and morale's bad enough.

"Saying I wind up with Good Guy as a nemesis, what happens?" The bank robber's still ranting. "The press starts calling me Bad Guy. I'm not going through my career as Bad Guy."

"But you are a bad guy," I snap.

"Here we go," Lombardozzi mutters.

"Hey, I'm on speakerphone! That's rude." Instead of annoyed, he sounds delighted. "I would expect better from a hero, especially one so proper as Good Guy. Then again, half you superheroes have that tragic orphan past. Probably no mother to explain the rules—there we go. About damn time. Sorry, Good Guy, Detective Lobotomy, places to be."

The line goes dead.

"Detective Lobotomy?" Lombardozzi glares at his phone and throws up his hands. "That's it. I'm done with supers. The shield is not worth the headache. I want a liaison."

I would really prefer not to be lumped into the same category as supervillains.

"He's probably got the vault open," I hedge.

"Which means my hostage situation will suddenly involve bullets when he decides to make a break for it." Lombardozzi eyes me critically. "My SWAT crew's in transit. You guys are all bulletproof, right?"

I'm not, and getting shot hurts. It's slightly less fatal for me, but I'm no Indestructoman. Dig one bullet out of your arm and you try your best never to have it happen again. Self-surgery leaves a hell of a scar. "I'll see what I can do."

When I'm about a foot from the door, it opens and a crush of people spill into the street. The name-tags tell me that some of them are employees, which makes the rest of them customers. The hostages.

I don't actually like hostages much on the whole. The brave ones have a tendency to die and the others get in the way.

Something blurs in the corner of my eye. I whirl and reach for it, but it's moving fast and momentum is not my friend. It goes from the teller to the door in the time it takes to blink. I don't manage to get a grip on the figure but I do inadvertently clothesline him. It sends me spinning and the speedster pitching forward onto the sidewalk. He bounces back to his feet in an instant and squares to face me, eyes appraising. "So you're Good Guy, then? That's very... wholesome. You look like a newsie."

The speeder's a skinny guy wearing what looks like a spandex running suit straight out of the Olympics. It's not black, but it's a close-enough green that it might be confused. The mask is actually a pair of old lab goggles. The kind that freshmen chemists buy before their first lab. I can see his breath hanging like smoke though the chill of the air. His entire body vibrates with excess energy. It manifests in how he fiddles with the straps of a duffel bag stuffed full of what I have to assume is either cash or diamonds.

For whatever reason, most supervillains go for the diamonds.

"I'm not letting you get away."

"So I robbed the bank a little." He hikes the duffle bag up on his shoulder. There's still a panic around the scene, hostages everywhere, but I'm a little surprised no one has taken a shot at him. "Why do you care?"

I don't actually care that much. Banks are insured. By the sheer volume of flailing limbs the hostages are waving about, it doesn't seem like anyone got hurt. "You took hostages. I can't let you go."

He snorts. "You know what, Good Guy? Catch me. I dare you."

Then he's off, weaving through the crowd of gawkers at top speed, which if I had to guess is a damn sight faster than the speed of sound. Behind me, Detective Lombardozzi is cursing into his radio. "Perp's a fucking speedster. Get me a time frame. Visuals if possible. I need a trail, people. Keep the search contained. Report every speedster sighting in the city."

It's easier for me to fly when I have a nice tall building to jump off first. The ground rushing up is a hell of an incentive for keeping in the air. Starting from the ground, it always takes me a moment to pinpoint that power, that sinking in my stomach. By the time I've found it again, the speedster's not even in sight. I take off anyway and spend a few hours soaring through the city. There's not much happening, most of the petty criminals in for the night. Then I do notice a few pre-teens bullying some kid.

Not okay.

I land behind one of the taller boys and tap him on the shoulder.

The kid shrieks and books it in the opposite direction, his friends following only a second later.

Sometimes being a superhero is awesome.

The little guy takes my hand and lets me pull him off the ground. He launches himself at me and wraps his arms around my waist. I pat his head awkwardly. "It's all okay, buddy. Promise."

He insists on holding my hand as I walk him home.

When I finally turn away from the house, I find Dodger watching me from atop a power line. His faded baseball jersey is unbuttoned, the scripted "Dodgers" cut in half and exposing a smooth white full-body suit that encases everything from head to toe. He's got three black spots over the spandex on his face. I'm not sure if the psychic's third eye is a metaphor or literal.

"Why are you in this part of the city?" Dodger demands, voice muffled.

I glance up to him. "Looking for the speedster."

"The speedster's long gone," Dodger says. "Go home."

I don't land next to him because I'm still not sure if electricity is one of the forces I'm immune to. I got over the testing-my-limits phase months ago. "What are you doing here?"

"I live nearby. Anything that happens, I've got it covered." His body shifts in my direction, which is as close to eye contact as I get. "Go home, Alex. Have a glass of warm milk and turn on the television. It's past your bedtime."

Dodger always makes it a point to greet me by name when there's no one else around. He's the most powerful psychic around, and it only makes sense that he'd pry loose a few identities. The name thing is a bizarre form of affection. I mostly find it creepy.

Besides, I'm twenty-one, a couple months into my senior year at college. I've been at this since I was nineteen in some capacity or another. You'd think I would have earned some respect.

Oh well. At least the other supers don't drop me off buildings for fun anymore.

And I know from experience that when a psychic tells you something, you listen. Dodger probably saved me from an early death by tetanus when he took one look at my costume and told me to invest in sturdy boots.

Dodger nods as I swoop off, headed back for my apartment.

The window's open. Always leave it like that when I head out. When apartment hunting, I'd figured that being on the top floor in a building that hadn't bothered with elevators meant no one would notice a super soaring in.

The old rabbit ears on the television take a bit of finagling but I get them in tune in time to catch the end of the late-night news. The runner at the bottom identifies the man on screen as Davey Carlson, Hostage. I recognize his face vaguely from this afternoon. "He did have one thing to say though. After he opened the vault, he said, Tell those clowns my name is Malevolence."

The screen cuts back to the anchor, corners of her mouth tugging up beneath the somber expression. "There you have it, First Metropolitan robbed for sixty thousand dollars this afternoon by a masked speedster identified as Malevolence. Despite the presence on scene of Good Guy, Malevolence escaped. The incident has tentatively been linked to an attempted robbery at the university bursar's office last month."

That crime didn't get a lot of press. Bursars and financial aid offices are always getting knocked over by collegiate would-be villains. More than a few of the angrier teenage heroes got their start the same way. But there's a pattern of escalation, which means...

A glance at the answer-phone confirms five messages. All of them from my mom, who's still kind of freaked at the thought of me living in a city that routinely gets stomped by horrible monsters. And that's not even taking into consideration what happened to Brooks a few years back. I flop back on the couch and tug off my mask. "Fantastic."

I call her. It's one in the morning, but Mom won't be asleep yet. She never is after a news report like this.

The conversation is mercifully short. Mom's one of those old-school types who still rises at the crack of dawn. She just needs a few assurances. Yes, I'm all right. I was in the library, nowhere near the Capital District. No, I'm not getting a cell phone. No, I've never hung around with anyone who gallivants around town in a mask.

When I hang up, I'm bone-tired, but I can't help thinking about the speedster. Malevolence is a better name than Bad Guy for sure, but it's a mouthful. Brooks would have loved it, but Brooksie always had a soft spot for the villains. Said they had more fun than us heroes. When's the last time you heard a hero laugh? If you can fly or something cool like that, you'd think you might spend just a little time enjoying it.

I pull on a blanket and glare at my busted space heater. Maybe I'll laugh in the summer.

Good Guy #51

The time to leave for class comes a damn sight earlier than it should. I miss so much because of my extracurriculars that I make sure to haul myself to lecture if all my limbs are attached. My usual attire is a sweatshirt and jeans with holes torn through them. Good Guy wears suspenders over a long-sleeved, three-button cotton shirt and slightly baggy but neat brown slacks. Also, combat boots.

Alex Manners definitely doesn't do combat boots. You'd be lucky to see him out of flip flops no matter how low the temperature dips.

I tug up the straps on my backpack and push the massive pair of glasses up my nose. I've got to wear contacts when I'm Good Guy, but I'm too lazy to bother in everyday life. Besides, eyes tend to glaze right over the dorky bespectacled history major when they consider suspects for possible superheroes.

"Hey there, Alex." Elle Nieves grins as she locks the door on the apartment next to mine. "How goes the crime fighting?"

Okay, so the secret identity is safe from everyone but Elle. In my defense, she ran across me the same day I got a massive dose of truth serum blasted into my face. I told her absolutely everything.

She thought I was joking.

Because who would look at someone like me and think superhero? Elle's under the impression I'm a delusional shut-in. Considering I make most of my exits from the apartment window, the only time she ever sees me leave is when I'm heading to campus.

I can almost hear Brooks laughing.

"Same old, same old," I say. "Bank robbery. Very messy."

"I heard someone got away with it. Malevolence? Sounds like he's a bad one."

"You're judging a book by its cover. For all you know, Good Guy's a real prick."

"And someone calling himself Malevolence is secretly a saint?"

"Touché. At least he bought a thesaurus before picking the name."

Elle punches me in the shoulder. The flinch is easy enough to pass off as pain. "You know you're ridiculous, right?"

"I am the least ridiculous person you'll talk to this morning. You work for a shrink."

Elle's a receptionist at a psychiatrist's office. To my knowledge, the office has never had any supervillains or heroes come through as patients. Which is great because someone would probably try to kidnap her to get to me.

Or something. It's not like I have a lot of friends to choose from.

"They're not all crazy, you know. No matter what you think," she snaps and by then the trek down the stairs is over. "You can make fun of me all you want when and if you snag a job with that history degree of yours. Until then, forget it."

She's gone without even a backwards glance.

I trudge to the bus stop, flipping up my hood to stave off the freezing drizzle.

Class time turns into nap time, but that's not exactly new.

#

Looking past the bluster, Worst Nightmare's just a kid. She's maybe fifteen, with miles of long dark hair and a face that gets fuzzier the harder I try to memorize it. She pulls fears out of the heads of the population, crafts horrific monsters out of thin air and tosses them loose in the city. Today is her biggest outing to date.

The city's in chaos, all heroes on deck. X's mask is torn, displaying half of a scarred cheek and Dodger has a growing red patch against the white of his costume. Psi's down for the count, but Psi fuels her powers with sunlight and when she's missing the sun's pick-me-up she may as well be a civilian. Even though I can feel high noon's ghostly warmth, it sure as hell looks like midnight. And if I have to guess, Psi's nightmare is missing the sun's blessing.

I'm skipping my afternoon class for this, but with the inky blackness spiraling out from the Wheel in the direction of the College Quarter, I'm thinking maybe it gets canceled.

As the wind picks up, Worst Nightmare's hair billows back, her cape trailing dramatically behind her. She looks like a goddess. Something to be feared. Lightning crackles with every step she takes.

"It's an illusion," Dodger calls over the wind. "None of this is real. She's wearing pajamas."

Right. Because in addition to mild bouts of telekinesis, Worst Nightmare can make you see whatever she wants.

"...kill you," X huffs, beating me to the punch. "Dodger, I'm going to kill you for this one." He draws a gun from the small arsenal he has on his person, tracing the movements of something I can't see. I can only imagine what it takes to scare someone like X, but his eyes are wide behind the mask and his movements lack their usual efficiency.

What I see is something completely different: Brooks lurching up at me from ground level, the skin half rotted from his face. My mother is two steps behind, staggering with her arms outstretched, mouth working without sound. It's not real, just a nasty hallucinated ball of all my issues. My worst nightmare.

"You can always leave," Dodger suggests, striding toward the vortex of the storm. "I've got this under control. This isn't any of your business."

Like hell it isn't.

I tear my eyes from the scene to walk forward, straight through my apparition. It vanishes into mist. Dodger gives me a small, surprised nod. Between X and me, I wasn't the one Dodger thought would get his act together.

X, still slightly wild-eyed, whirls, gun training on a lamppost, a bush and finally on me. Dodger lunges for him just in time to push the weapon skyward before it goes off into the night. "Knock it off, X." He puts a hand on either side of his temple and commands, "See."

The spare gun from X's holster is out and pressed against Dodger's throat in the blink of an eye. "Stay the fuck out of my head."

Dodger doesn't even flinch, his voice still low and reasonable. "Take the kid, and get out of here. You're hallucinating and that makes you a liability. Worst Nightmare is mine."

Heroes get all proprietary about their villains. I haven't missed that. Less than a month into this gig, I realized no one touches SuckerPunch save X and that Worst Nightmare's gifts are the sort that only Dodger can diffuse. It's the same for villains. I'm pretty sure that ninety-eight percent of what Pitchfork does is designed to catch Indestructoman's attention. Indestructoman just happens to be playing hard to get.

"I'm not a kid," I protest as X grabs me by the shoulder and steers me two streets over.

"Stay put or go home," X orders before drawing a sword from the endless array of weapons strapped to his back and jogging into the night.

When I'm positive he's not going to turn around, I flip him off.

"Holy hell, y'all are better than cable," someone from above says.

I look twelve stories up to see Malevolence sitting on a rooftop, his legs dangling over the edge, apparently unconcerned by the carnage as he munches on popcorn from the carton in his hand.

"You know, it's considered rude to eavesdrop."

A few kernels of popcorn hit me in the face. I can't help but be a little impressed by the aim. Then again, I'm not sure if Worst Nightmare's windstorm is reality or illusion. Malevolence smirks as I wipe the greasy streak of butter from my cheek. "You know you're pathetic when the other heroes put you in a time out."

"Malevolence," I say, "we have unfinished business."

"Do all you heroes talk like this? I'm genuinely curious. Is there a class? I mean, the villains do it too and if this is contagious, I might be in the wrong line of work."

In the time it takes for him to finish his rambling, I've remembered how to fly and am hovering a foot in front of his face. He grins at me, unperturbed. "Got to say, I like your trick. Something biological, I'm guessing. Doesn't look like anything you designed, which means you must have one hell of a genetic mutation. How does someone even go about learning to fly? Because if this is something anyone can learn, I'm definitely giving it a go."

That's not an answer I'm ever going to share with someone who would kill me given half a chance.

"Recalcitrant?" Malevolence says. "I like that in a hero. Always preferred to do most of the talking, but hold on. I actually know this part! This is the part where we fight, yeah?"

Before I can answer, he jumps to his feet and slams an uppercut into my jaw. It happens so fast it takes me by surprise, and that's not good for someone hovering in midair. I plummet toward the pavement, grasping at the empty air. Survival instincts kick in before I hit the street, just like they always do, and I stare at the rotting hand of zombie Brooks reaching for me from the sidewalk. Looking up, I spot Malevolence peering over the edge of the rooftop, curious to see if he'd killed me.

I ascend twelve stories in a second and clip him in the jaw on my way.

The blow is enough to lift Malevolence from his feet. He lands three yards back, wiping the blood from his nose and looking smug as hell about it. "Thank God," he says. "I hate them pacifist sorts of heroes."

Then he's on me.

Malevolence is far from the strongest villain I've faced, but he's definitely the fastest. I'm starting to get the idea that a half-dozen quick blows to the kidney will do about the same damage as a single huge one. Five to one I'm pissing blood tomorrow.

The speedster laughs, dancing away from my most powerful punches like it's nothing. I'm built more for brute strength than speed, and it shows. Malevolence can literally run circles around me. His one weakness is that in order to hit me, he has to get within an arm's length.

I'm not ashamed to say that most of the shots I get in are thanks to blind flailing. Malevolence takes each hit harder than I do, and I'm starting to see the pattern in how he attacks. It's enough to use his momentum against him and toss him into a wall.

He has to struggle to get back to his feet, a fine mist of blood spraying out of his mouth with each breath. "Oh, you've got a steep learning curve. I like you."

"Are you insane?"

The grin Malevolence flashes me is stained red. "Hey now, I was just crashing this party because I thought I might be able to scavenge something in the inevitable carnage, but this..." He gestures vaguely to something in the space behind me. "This just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting."

Brooks is behind me, his ruined face oddly luminescent in the dim light. When he reaches for me, I don't stop him. Maybe this is how it ends. He cups my cheek in his cold hands. Only then it isn't Brooks. The rotting flesh falls away to smooth skin and deep-cast eyes. The mouth takes a distinctly feminine turn, the hair sprouts like a time-lapse photograph, and then it's Worst Nightmare drawing her frozen fingers against my temple. The smirk with its faux-innocent turn, the voice, all-encompassing and I have just enough time to think, oh shit, before my world grays out.

#

Brooks is here.

Not the Brooks from the rooftop lurching out from my nightmares, but the other one, the Brooks who is practically my brother. Brooks with his whip-sharp mind and shit-eating grin. Brooks who is reckless and ridiculous and likes starting fights he knows he can't win. Brooks who died when he stepped in front of a bullet that by all rights should have been mine.

Brooks who lay in the gutter while my drunk ass sobered up real quick as the ambulance sirens screamed through the night. Who promised me, Alex, gonna be all right, man. Not even gonna rat you out, and when I protested, called me a stupid fucking asshole and passed out.

Brooks who died almost a week later because of infection and complications from the surgery.

The Brooks who is here doesn't look quite like the one I last saw in the hospital. This one's older, the Brooks who could have been. His hair is longer, curling around the ears, his face a little more gaunt and the grin a lot sadder, but I'd know him anywhere.

"I missed you," I say.

"Yeah, if I had a nickel for every time you told me that," Brooks says. "You really ought to stop missing me and start paying attention. It'll save you a hell of a lot of trouble."

"Attention to what?"

"Are we going to have this conversation every time you see me? Because I'm sick of it."

My head is throbbing. Feels like someone has fingers in it, wiggling them around. Looking for something. "We've never had this conversation."

"You're driving me up the wall, you know that, right? I'm going to start trying to destroy the world. I'm done saving you. You don't notice the people saving your sorry ass."

"I don't need saving."

"Are you fucking kidding me? You need saving all the time, but I'm not about to start this argument again." He goes to the fridge, scowling when he finds no alcohol. "You're planning to bang that Elle chick of yours someday, right? Because way I'm looking at it now, I've got a better shot at her than you."

"You're dead."

"Ah, but I've got so much game."

I try to punch him in the shoulder, but miss. Probably for the best: My punches pack a wallop these days. "Worst Nightmare tried to get me to think you were a zombie. You were coming after my brains."

Brooks snorts. "I'd be a fucking excellent zombie. No way would I go after your brain-dead ass."

"I wish you didn't die."

Shaking his head, Brooks steals a book off my coffee table and says, "I'm about done with this dead thing. I'm going to have to get drastic. Mark my words, Alex, that's a threat. I'm threatening you."

I laugh and look up to the ceiling, thinking this is about as far from a nightmare as I can get. The nightmare is when I wake up, he'll still be gone.

Malevolence the Malcontent #5

Good Guy drops from the sky, and Malevolence pumps a fist in the air. He doesn't like people who get to bend the laws of physics. At least super speed can be explained. The human body can be tuned, forced to run into overdrive, muscles and brainpower accelerated. Mal has to consume a stupid amount of calories to maintain himself but at least he makes sense. Good Guy doesn't look like a birdman. He's definitely not aerodynamic, and he's got far too much muscle mass to be sporting hollow bones.

The math doesn't work. Everything about Good Guy says he's got to crash and burn. No matter how much Mal turns it over in his mind, he can't come up with any explanation outside magic. Mal hates magic. There's no point to magic unless you like making zombies.

Malevolence hopes to peer over the edge of the building and watch Good Guy go splat. He deserves it after the day he's had. Worst Nightmare ruins his plans by rounding on him, eyes glinting in the moonlight. "Malcolm Quick," she says.

Mal dances two steps back and out of the range of her knockout fingers. "Didn't get the memo? The name's Malevolence."

Her smile draws her face too wide. What looks like a dragon swoops up from behind the building, breathing fire that has no real heat.

An illusion, just like most of the mayhem in the District tonight. Which is a bummer considering Mal's only here because the preliminary news said there were robots. Never occurred to him that some people have nightmares about robots.

Worst Nightmare takes another step forward. Because Mal has super speed and a sense of self preservation, he bolts rather than find out if she has enough juice for round two.

Three blocks away, he runs headlong into a solid piece of empty air and goes tumbling to the sidewalk just as a bullet whizzes past his forehead. Looking up, Mal spots X perched on the rooftop, taking aim at a spot just to the left of him.

Great. Mal's in the line of fire of the vigilante who carries the equivalent of an entire battalion's weaponry that he mostly uses to shoot at SuckerPunch, the invisible man. Mal picked the wrong party to crash tonight. He could be safe in his apartment fiddling with his artificial intelligence. Then again, Mal's AI is still in the fledgling state and he wasn't really up for a night of the thing saying 'Hey, asshole' on a continuous loop.

Besides, being quick enough to actually dodge through the barrage of bullets is the king of adrenaline rushes. Sheer volume gets to be an issue after a while so Mal veers through an alley and catches up with Good Guy in time to watch him swing a metal baseball bat at the superhero with those legs. Mal thinks her name is Psi. He's half convinced she's narcoleptic because every time he's seen her after dark, she's three steps from unconsciousness.

Good Guy's swing is tragic. Mal would be stunned if he's played a game of baseball in his life. It should immediately disqualify him from being any sort of national icon. Still, the fact that he's attacking another superhero means he's either got a split personality or is under a massive mind whammy. The human brain's basically a giant electro-chemical computer: If it can be hacked, Mal's definitely interested.

All in all, watching Good Guy and Psi beat on each other is much more interesting than the prize fight between Worst Nightmare and Dodger. That consists mostly of the two of them thinking. No theatrics. No style.

He knows Dodger wins when the sun slinks back into existence. Mal feels the tension seep out of his body. Changes to weather patterns make him nervous. He likes the world best spinning at its constant rate.

Psi rallies, soaring up a few feet as a gash on her arm knits itself together. Good Guy lands, blinks and starts walking down the demolished street, too out of it to fly to the benevolent side's equivalent of an evil lair. Good Guy's probably got some castle suspended in the clouds.

Mal's curious, so he follows.

Good Guy ducks into an alley and comes out in street clothes, his frame still cutting a familiar figure in the late afternoon sun. Really, jawline like that, it's a wonder everyone who knows him hasn't put the pieces together.

Mal keeps tracking him until he winds up in an area of the city almost entirely devoted to housing the poor students of the same university that kicked Malcolm Quick out fifteen months and a lab accident ago. The conduct board might have been more forgiving if Professor Nieves had survived the blast, but incinerating a professor is frowned upon by the academic community. A life of crime's always been his back-up plan. It's better than crawling back to the tiny mountain town where he grew up and wallowing in despair. Guilt isn't his thing.

Good Guy stays in the rest of the night, comes out the next morning wearing a backpack and a hoodie and takes the bus to the college. He sits and listens to a history lecture and then trudges back to that same building.

He never talks to anyone. Never breaks his routine. It's like someone put him on autopilot and left him drifting. If that's not the coolest piece of programming Mal's ever seen, he doesn't know what is.

Got to be an electrical impulse. Probably a psychic is more tuned to the brain's electrochemical fields. If Mal had to guess, he'd say Worst Nightmare's dialed in enough to change the channels and reprogram Good Guy's TiVO. That's a phenomenon Mal wants to map. Isolate the frequency of a person and that will get him a good skeleton to use for his AI.

Or he could just control Good Guy with a remote. Both would be cool.

Mal starts making excuses to mess with Good Guy. Sits behind him on the metro to kick at the back of his chair, bumps into him on the street to see if he'll push back. He even resorts to attempting to pick a fight with him in the middle of a crowded street as a dozen people gape at the sight and another two dozen pretend nothing's going on. A single enterprising twelve-year-old tapes the whole thing on his camera-phone.

But Mal could have hollered himself hoarse, and Good Guy, whose real name is Alex Manners, wouldn't have moved a muscle. He's boring in a way he hadn't been before Worst Nightmare touched him. Mal keeps waiting for Good Guy to snap out of it and clock him across the jaw.

That's probably how he makes it a whole week before it dawns on him that he's stalking Good Guy. It's not out of the norm for villains. Though invisibility gives SuckerPunch an unfair advantage, he's rarely a block or two from the scary dude who carries a personal arsenal. Pitchfork just stalks Indestructoman. Last Mal checked, Pitchfork was planning to kidnap Indestructoman's kid.

But God, Pitchfork is lame. Rule number one in the Malevolence handbook is Don't be like Pitchfork.

Rule number two, if Good Guy is any indication, might have to become Don't piss off Worst Nightmare.

Mal forces himself to stop watching and spends two sleepless coffee-filled days in his lab, shifting through the code that will eventually run his new robot. Now it's just waiting on Professor Deadly throwing a decent party so Mal can pinch some of her hardware.

Mal's never going to figure out how she manages to get all the funding for her projects, but he's got no qualms at all about repurposing it. Reduce, reuse, and recycle. Deadly's got sleek bots, but she's shit at programming. Rule number three for the handbook: If at all possible, steal Deadly's shit. It's given the two of them a contentious relationship, but who doesn't have a few mortal enemies these days?

Mal works until he passes out. When he wakes up, he goes to check the occupancy status of the old abandoned train station on the other side of the river. He'd found it a week ago, stocked with some top-of-the-line equipment. Odds are it belongs to one of the other supers, but as far as he's concerned, if you leave something good alone for a week, it's up for grabs.

By a lot of crooks' standards, that's practically a code of honor.

The station is still vacant, which means that the next chance Mal has, he'll start running over computer equipment from his apartment and setting up a lair. He bolts through the Warehouse District and doesn't even realize that it's probably not the best idea to do something like this out of costume until he runs headlong into Alex Manners.

Manners is standing by the bus stop, his head tilted back as he stares directly at the sun.

"Watch where you're going, dip-shit," Mal grouses, but Manners doesn't even blink.

Mal's kind of worried for the guy. Manners has huge glasses to magnify the effects of the sun's rays. Mal reaches up and tilts his head down to street level. "Come on, Manners."

"Brooks?" Manners mumbles.

At least the speech centers of his brain are intact.

"Malevolence," Mal corrects. "I'm kidnapping you. You cool with that?"

No answer, but that's practically permission.

Good Guy #52

When I wake up, there are electrodes attached to my temples and some kind of viscous liquid dripping down my forehead. From the tingling in my fingers, I'm pretty sure I've been electrocuted in the past couple minutes. Almost as soon as I have the thought, there's another jolt and I shoot upright, howling in pain.

"Holy hell," a voice says from a few feet away. "I was not expecting that to work."

"What the hell is... Brooks? Where's Brooks?" My eyes adjust to pick out the blurry shapes of an IV stand, some computer equipment that looks like it's been assembled from discarded cell phones, and a dozen half-finished robots. It takes another second before I place the voice by the tempo more than anything. "Malevolence?"

"This was so very much not part of the plan," Malevolence says. His lab goggles are firmly in place, his face smudged with grease. "Sorry, Good Guy. Time to go back to sleep."

The next time I open my eyes I'm staring at the water stain on the ceiling in my bedroom, nursing a massive headache. My most recent memories are a haze of Brooks, Malevolence and experimentation. Dodger sits at my desk chair, casually flipping through one of my history textbooks. The white body suit is recognizable even before I jam on my glasses. "Dodger, why are you in my apartment?"

"X wants to kill you," he says.

Unfortunate, but X wants to kill everyone at one point or another. The fact that he actually does kill people on occasion makes him one of the least liked but most useful heroes in the District. "Did I do something to offend?"

"You attacked Psi."

"Why would I...? I like Psi." I push myself up from the bed. "God, my head hurts."

"That's because Worst Nightmare stuck her fingers in your brain. You've been out of the loop for two weeks. Our friend X thinks you've gone dark side."

In Dodger's perfect world, we are all cogs in a Guild of Superheroes and Sidekicks. He wants us deployable, spread across the country. It's probably a pipe dream considering all of us have an alter ego that we play close to the chest. As the resident psychic, he's the only one who's pried loose enough identities to network.

To my knowledge, he's never unmasked for anyone, but he uses his knowledge to drop into our apartments at night like he's the sandman or something.

Either that or I'm special.

God, I hope I'm not special.

Dodger snaps his fingers three times in front of my face. "Need your focus, Alex. You zone out way too easy. No wonder Nightmare got to you."

"I'm fine," I snap, making sure to back out of arm's reach. I know Dodger can get a read on almost anyone in a room the instant he enters, but I'm thinking he needs contact to pick up coherent thoughts. "Never better."

"Which is exactly what you would say if you were still brainwashed. Which is exactly what you did say to Psi before you attacked her with a baseball bat."

"I don't even play baseball." The only bat I have is Brooks's old thing, but that's buried in my closet with all the other pieces I'd rather not remember.

Dodger fingers the baseball jersey he wears over his white body suit, looking very nearly offended. "Lack of baseball is a tragedy that explains why you are not a stable person. What do you remember?"

"Brooks, mostly."

"Brooks Black?"

I shouldn't be surprised that he's heard the name, but that doesn't stop my throat from drying up. "That's right."

"Come on, all it takes is a dead friend to send you off to dreamland? Indestructoman's kid could have broken out of that spell before you managed it."

"Indestructoman has a kid?"

"Not the point. You remember anything? Maybe what snapped you out of it? Because it would come in handy if you get mind controlled again."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think of anything but Malevolence and his surprise that I woke up at all. Unfortunately, that seems to be the best way to broadcast something to a psychic.

Dodger straightens. "Malevolence? That speedster punk snapped you out of Worst Nightmare's fugue? Please tell me this is a joke."

"I think it was an accident."

Like that helps my cause.

"There is something wrong with you, Alex. Watch yourself. I know you've had issues with blackouts before. If you get the urge to rob a bank or something, let me know so I can flag down X. At this point he might be doing us all a favor if he kills you."

And then he's hauling himself out my open window and up onto the roof. I've got to invest in bars, except that would be a hell of a thing to justify to the landlord considering the fire escape ends three floors below me.

I blink in surprise at the shining sun, glancing to the tan line on my left wrist. Malevolence must have removed my watch so it didn't get ruined by his electroshock therapy. Considerate.

Or it would have been, if he'd given it back.

I've got no idea what day of the week it is, but I'm guessing that whatever I was doing while Worst Nightmare had me under her spell did not involve attending class. I grab a sweater and bolt for the door, trying to come up with a fake illness that can explain my two-week absence to my professors. Mono might work, only I pulled that last year. Does mono even have relapses?

Elle is standing outside her apartment looking for her keys. She has the messy hair and rumpled clothes of someone who has had what I'm guessing was truly spectacular sex. "Alex?" she says, amused and unconcerned that I've caught her doing the walk of shame.

Not that she looks like she's ashamed of anything. Probably snagged a boyfriend in the weeks I was missing. I'm not sure if that makes things more awkward or less. Probably more. I'm pretty good at awkward. "Hey, Elle."

"I haven't talked to you in ages! How are you feeling? You looked pretty out of it last week."

"What?"

She leans against the door. "You barely said hello on your way to class."

I went to class? I nearly collapse in relief. The semester's well past the point where I can drop without penalty, and I'd rather not take a zero on my transcript due to mind control. "It's been a rough couple of weeks."

Elle shrugs. "They've been pretty good to me."

"Hey," I say, wincing because there's no way to ask something like this without sounding like an airhead. "You wouldn't by any chance have the date?"

She frowns at me. "It's Saturday the fourteenth. You must have had one whopper of a bender."

So long as I didn't rob a bank or kill anyone, I'm okay with this interpretation.

Since I don't actually have class on Saturdays, I spend most of the afternoon in the library, combing through two weeks of news reports looking for indications of my misdeeds. The fight where I brained Psi must have been on the down low because there's nothing here. Nothing at all.

#

Malevolence goes on a crime spree over the following week. He tries to knock over another pair of banks, striking after hours instead of around closing time. Both banks have sophisticated security systems that are hacked. I miss the first one, but get to the second in time to trade blows, my own swings fueled by anger that, admittedly, should be aimed at Worst Nightmare.

Malevolence grins through the entire fight, darting around my punches just to prove he can until the sirens sound in the distance. The distraction is enough to slow him down and let me grab him. As soon as I get a handle, I know he's toast. Malevolence may be fast, but he's a lanky kid, about my height but lacking muscle tone. Using my bulk for leverage, it's not hard to pin him to the ground.

"That's it," I hiss into his ears. "You're done."

"You think so, Alex?"

My blood goes cold.

He knows my name.

It's one thing to hear it from Dodger, who's at least a nominal ally, but Malevolence is the enemy. Malevolence is someone who can destroy me. His face is pressed into the sidewalk, but I can feel his smirk through my gloves. "Enjoying your post-hypnotic suggestion?"

In my shock, I must ease my grip because Malevolence finds room to wriggle out of my grasp, slithering back to his feet. "You're so much more fun when you're functional," he says, darting forward to pinch my cheek. "Seriously, you're adorable."

Then he's off and running, and I know from experience there's nothing I can do to catch him. I sink back against the gutter.

What the hell just happened?

#

After that I make it a point to show up to all of Malevolence's shindigs. Even the ones that don't amount to anything but Malevolence blowing up port-a-johns because he gets a kick out of the flaming shits.

Pretend I didn't just say that.

My professor hands me back an A on the paper I don't remember writing. At least when Worst Nightmare put me on autopilot, she let me do my research. I'm not terribly pleased that the paper was about Holocaust deniers, but I'll take what I can get. I might graduate this year, after all. Provided, of course, I don't wind up with another extended hospital stay like I had last year. I'm seriously considering faking a chronic illness to blame when I need to skip class. It would be a better excuse than the ones I've been using.

I don't realize how serious my thing with Malevolence is until I'm cruising the city one night and Indestructoman lopes down the street to boom up to me, "You'll want to head to 22nd and Skinner."

I know the area because it's maybe two blocks from my apartment, the gray space where the College Quarter starts to blur into the Warehouse District. The area is fairly high crime, but it's mostly small stuff like muggings and pickpockets. "Why do you need me?"

Indestructoman is big and broad, with a robust mustache and biceps thicker than most people's skulls. He's also about the only hero I know who will walk into heavy artillery fire without a second thought. He told me once that getting shot kind of tickled.

I've been shot. It feels like getting shot. Blood everywhere. There's a lot of pain.

My point is, there's not a lot of things out there better fought by Good Guy than Indestructoman.

"It's Malevolence," Indestructoman says. "I'm taking off. Might finally get home in time to kiss my son goodnight."

He might be the only well-adjusted superhero out there. Somehow I doubt X or Dodger have much of a private life. But Indestructoman is living the dream. Wife and kid, still a super.

"How old's your kid?"

His eyes go guarded, his body tensing. Crap. Crossed a line without even thinking. Not a good idea when X still wants to kill me. "Don't tell me. That's not actually a question. Why do you want me for this one?"

"Because Malevolence is yours."

Like Worst Nightmare is Dodger's.

Like SuckerPunch belongs to X.

I didn't want this to happen.

But I can't stop it now so I soar off to the scene. I find a robot strolling down the Southern Spoke. Which is weird because most of Malevolence's stunts this far have been pretty low key. There have been enough B and E by way of security breaches to make me think he's subtle rather than slap-happy. The crooks who know their way around computers tend to be saner than people like Pitchfork, who dresses like Satan.

The bot isn't overly big, maybe a foot higher than me, without a face to speak of. It's not the sleek kind I've come to expect from folks like Professor Deadly. This one's all sharp corners and welded steel. I take a step toward it, curious more than intimidated.

It brings both arms up in a slow hitching motion. There's nothing by way of opposable digits, but it does have two nozzles. I realize what they must be a second before fire spills out of them, brilliantly orange in the dim light.

Malevolence whoops from his perch on top of the building, hands raised in triumph. "That was definitely the coolest thing I've ever done."

I back away, trying to assess any fire hazards. Probably need to get it out of the alley. A dumpster fire is the kind of thing that can grow, and people panic around fire.

"What's your end game here, Malevolence?"

"Are you kidding? Do you see how cool this is?" Malevolence fiddles with a device in his hands. It looks like something he cobbled together using an old Atari controller. "Come on, I was waiting special for you because you don't usually ask the shit questions."

Brooks always used to like the comic book villains more than the heroes. Said the heroes had no fun at all. Villains, though...

I look up at Malevolence's maniacal grin and try not to answer it with my own.

"You built a fire-breathing robot for fun?"

"Technically, it doesn't breathe fire. You'd kind of have to be a biological to breathe fire. This one shoots fire. My prototype didn't work half as well. I kind of blew up a lab."

"So now you're going to blow up my city?"

"That's the whole point! It doesn't blow up anymore. Six-year-olds can make explosives. Do you know how hard it is to make a chemical mixture like this that doesn't blow up?"

I turn the corner, drawing the bot out of the alley and onto the main street, running into a couple exiting a bar. There's a tall blonde, her hand clasped tightly around that of a young brunette. They freeze when they see me. After a second, the shorter girl waves.

Behind me, I hear a hiss of fire and offer the couple a quick smile. "I realize this is not a great end to your night, but you really ought to run."

They both gape at me for another long moment, and then Malevolence's robot rounds the corner and I roar, "Run!"

My point is punctuated with a hiss of fire, the heat licking at my back, just enough to singe my shirt. I flip around, leapfrogging the bot. Maneuverability issues. It's going to take a minute for it to reverse face.

I put my fist through its back.

The metal splits my knuckles and, judging by the pain, possibly breaks my wrist. A sudden flood of clear liquid soaks through my pants and seeps into my gloves. The smell of gasoline hangs in the air. When I look up at Malevolence, he grins and suddenly I know his plan. I shoot straight up into the air, desperate to get as much distance as possible before...

Malevolence hits a button. A spark flashes. The robot explodes into flames. I'm just far enough up to miss the blast. I hover in the air, breathing hard, and lock eyes with Malevolence. "Well," he calls, "wouldn't have been the same without you."

He blows me a kiss and chucks the controller. It hits me square in the face. I catch the rebound out of reflex. The thing's held together with masking tape. It has a joystick, a red button that I can only assume means fire and a black on-off switch.

God help me, I'm a little impressed.

Good Guy #53

I wake up drenched in sweat. My wrist is screaming at me, still pissed about my robot-punching venture. My costume is in a heap next to my bed, singed a little from Malevolence's bot. It's not as big a deal for me as it is for someone like Dodger, whose costume involves a vintage baseball jersey, or X, who needs maybe two dozen holsters for his weapons. My shirts can be bought in bulk. Similar mass orders of spandex would be suspicious. I've got a shit by-the-hour data entry position to supplement my scholarship money until I'm out of school. Mostly I use that money to eat.

I eat a lot of pasta.

Glamorous life of a superhero, right?

My fists clench against the sheets, stomach twisting at the very thought of food.

A nightmare. I can't remember the details, but it's always the same one. I can still feel my best friend's blood slick on my hands. The ghost of the bullet that should have hit me is a phantom pain in my shoulder. Remnants of a fading dream.

I need some air.

I scramble out the door and down eight flights of stairs, still wearing pajama pants. Elle's checking her mailbox and glances over in time to see me brush by.

It's a cold day, the sun bright but skimping on warmth. I lean back against the wall, fighting the black on the edges of my vision. Elle crouches in front of me, pushing a strand of hair from her face. "Alex? Feel like I haven't seen you in weeks? How goes the crime fighting?"

Oh God, she's the last person I want to talk to when I'm on the verge of a panic attack. "Oh you know, slow. Hibernation for villains."

"Really? Thought you'd have a few stories considering that robot was incinerated about a block away from us."

The brick wall behind me scratches rough against my hands, the air too thin. "Holy shit," I gasp around the tightness in my chest. My vision is already a soft blur without my glasses, but it's getting worse by the second. No one is supposed to see this, but I couldn't breathe in that apartment. My wrist is hideously bruised, almost definitely broken from my ill-advised attempt to punch a robot. I pull my sleeve down before she can see it.

Elle crouches down in front of me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at the contact, but she doesn't notice. "It's all right, Alex."

People are always saying that.

Five embarrassing, oxygen-deprived minutes later, the world starts to swim back into focus. Elle sits next to me on the filthy sidewalk, one hand slung over my shoulder. My skin's crawling, but that's not her fault. She's being a friend, offering sincere comfort. Been a while since I had one of those. It's not her fault I'm kind of a freak.

When she realizes I'm through the worst of it, she helps me to my feet. "I'm buying you a cup of tea."

I let myself get dragged to a coffee shop where Elle purchases two drinks and shoves one into my hand before steering us to a booth. She doesn't say a word, just sits across from me, her hand cupped around her mug for warmth. My own cup is some kind of herbal blend, meant to have a calming effect. I'd be insulted if I wasn't so touched. I take a sip.

It's terrible. Too weak and too bitter, but that's not something I'm going to say. Elle watches me expectantly, probably some sort of interrogation technique gleaned from that psychiatrist boss of hers.

Even though I can recognize the technique, it works wonders. No wonder I'm always getting mind controlled. "Elle, please say something."

Elle blinks. "Why? I'm just a friend chilling here while you have some tea and get your feet back under you." She takes a sip of her own drink. "That was some freak-out. You considered therapy?"

"Therapy presupposes a disposable income or health insurance that can be spent on a therapist. I'm going to consider myself healthy."

"So you're one of those people who don't believe in therapy."

"Don't believe and can't afford are not the same thing."

Though in my case, both apply. Superheroes don't have the same problems as normal people. I can talk to Dodger if I get desperate, but that sounds more like a recipe for disaster than anything Malevolence could ever cook up.

"You should really talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me, but people who shut themselves in their apartments for weeks and then have panic attacks when they go outside aren't the pinnacle of mental health."

"Yeah, I make a pretty shit superhero, don't I?"

Laughter teases from Elle's lips. "You know, I always thought most superheroes would be pompous dicks. World handed to them on a platter and they use it to police the rest of us. You can always be something else."

I look away, out the window toward the alley where I'd found Malevolence's robot only a few days ago. Think of my dead-end history major and Brooks's blood on my hands. If I wasn't a superhero, what else would I be?

Elle follows my gaze but sees nothing. Her eyes flicker down to the bruised and swollen skin on my right wrist. She says my name just once and then doesn't say anything at all.

#

I'm in a funk until the next mass disaster.

Lately it seems like every time there's a skirmish, I wind up squaring off with Malevolence. Not that I want to fight anyone else considering my options. Three blocks away, Pitchfork and X are going at each other hard. Dodger's hopping from building to building doing crowd control the way only a psychic can. Indestructoman is locked in battle with a figure encased in black.

I'm not sure which supervillain is responsible for this particular bash, but it's a big one, all heroes on deck.

Malevolence and I are off in our own corner, no robots this time, just fists. My right wrist is still weak, but I've dug out my old splint. The two of us are at the point where we know each other's moves too well for that to really be a hindrance. I know the precise length of his limbs, the speed of his fists and the best moves to counter.

It's not something I'll admit out loud, but fighting Malevolence is fun. All the same, a mistake here will get me killed. Last time ended in fire. This fight feels damn near friendly in comparison. Or as friendly as people can be considering a growing history of broken bones and bloodshed.

We're well into battle when the shit really hits the fan, and a cold laugh crackles out over the city. Malevolence skids to a halt that leaves me stumbling forward, my timing thrown off. Malevolence tilts his head sideways, and something in his stance makes me uncomfortable about moving to attack. "I don't like this."

"Puny mortals," the voice booms. "Welcome to the end of the world!"

"No," Malevolence says. "I definitely don't like this."

When he's not moving, Malevolence is closer to scrawny than bulky, a frown cutting through his masked face. He's changed his goggles in the past couple weeks to a dark gray model rather than intro-to-chemistry blue. The track suit only highlights the fact that I've lost fights to a flyweight. He pulls a powerbar from his suit and downs it in two bites.

"What?" I say, more sharply than intended. "You wanted to be the one to announce the master plan?"

"Me? You think this is my plan? Come on dude, you know me better than that. This reeks of Professor Deadly. Besides, why would I want to end the world? I live here."

Put like that, the very concept of supervillains gunning for the apocalypse becomes ridiculous, but no less imminent. An explosion echoes in the distance. Malevolence flinches.

"I should probably go and stop that," I say. "You know, if you promise not to kill me while my back is turned."

Malevolence hesitates. For a moment, I'm sure he'll refuse. Instead he licks his lips and says, "Do you need any help? You may be a pompous ass, but I'm all for keeping the world turning."

I debate taking offense, but having help sounds better. "Yeah. That could work."

"Fine then," Malevolence says and extends a hand. "Truce."

VOLUME TWO:

Indestructible

Target Acquired #165

Xavier Zimmerman has blood on his hands.

It's not an unusual state for him. Hell, it's the reason he picked red for X's costume, but it's the sort of thing that bothers the other heroes. Times like this, he misses Kyle, but considering Kyle is SuckerPunch, a supervillain, thinking that way has been forbidden territory for years. He and Kyle are in an off-again phase. That means that if he sees SuckerPunch, he starts shooting.

It's only complicated if he has to explain it out loud.

Fighting Pitchfork is a joke compared to fighting SuckerPunch, but X finds his standards have been warped unreasonably by a nemesis who can't be seen. He holsters his weapon because the ammo isn't worth the cost when he can rip the oversized barbecue fork from Pitchfork's hands and use it to pin him to the ground.

Adrenaline floods his system as he presses one of the prongs to Pitchfork's neck. He's been too long dealing with small-time crooks, people who surrender the second he wraps his hands around their throats. People who should have known better than to try something on X's watch. Pitchfork does not beg. Considering he's chosen Indestructoman for a nemesis, he's probably not the sanest specimen.

No one will shed a tear if X takes out the trash just this once. He applies pressure slowly, savoring it.

Pitchfork says, "Kill me and you'll never find Ajax Gadzinski alive."

A little more pressure gets blood. "I don't know any Ajax Gadzinski."

"Maybe not, X." A smile curls around his red-tinged lips. "But he's oh-so-precious to one of your own."

X has no one to speak of in terms of family, but he's not the only hero in the District. He eases up just a fraction on Pitchfork's throat and flags Dodger with a thought loud enough to make him wince. Do we know an Ajax Gadzinski?

There's a moment of silence and then Dodger is cursing in his head. X hates this mind stuff. It always makes him feel too open, too pliable, but his sixth sense is screaming trouble and Pitchfork is laughing under his hands.

Yes, Dodger says. Fuck. Keep him busy. I'll be there soon.

X is under the impression that he was trying to stop an apocalypse. Something about a biological weapon and Professor Deadly.

Good Guy's got it. We have bigger things to deal with.

X isn't exactly sure what could qualify as bigger than the apocalypse, and he definitely doesn't want to leave the world in the hands of that flake.

Almost as an afterthought, Dodger adds, Don't kill him.

"Stay of execution," X growls to Pitchfork, who squirms.

There's a hissing sound and the smell of sulfur. By the time Xavier realizes that Pitchfork has triggered some kind of canister in his sleeve, his arms won't cooperate in delivering a killing blow.

#

X wakes up to Dodger's masked face, that third eye boring into his skull. It's not an unfamiliar sensation, just unwelcome. He shoves Dodger back, using more force than necessary. Dodger falls to the sidewalk, hand pressed against his temple. "Relax, X. I was only waking you up. I'd rather not start this with a migraine."

"Where's Pitchfork?" another voice says. It's impossible not to recognize it belongs to Indestructoman from the way the words resound.

"Got the drop on me," X says. "Which never would have happened if Dodger here would have just let me kill him."

"We can't kill him," Indestructoman says. "Not until we find Ajax Gadzinski."

"If we lose one person, who cares?" X says. "Do you know how many that would save? Or am I the only one who didn't flunk grade school math?"

"Ajax is my six-year-old son," Indestructoman intones, stepping up to loom over him. It's an intimidation tactic, plain and simple, and X doesn't even have a way to threaten him. Bullets don't cause Indestructoman lasting damage. X has seen him regrow entire limbs without flinching. "You want to say he's not important again?"

Apparently Ajax Gadzinski is important enough that Dodger will entrust an apocalyptic battle to the hero who went on a two-week walkabout the last time a psychic sneezed at him. "Didn't think you were the family type. I could have sworn your MO was picking crazy bitches to stab you in the back."

Dodger steps in front of Xavier before Indestructoman can take a swing. "X," he says calmly, "Don't pick fights."

Dodger, also known as Sam Suzuki, has known X for almost a decade. He has no reason to still be surprised. Picking fights is what X does. He'd done it before he was a superhero, back when he was just Xavier Zimmerman and trying to survive. "I'm going to kill Pitchfork the next time I have him. Just so you know."

"You've made that same threat to me," Dodger retorts. His voice is measured, but X can't miss the edge. Dodger's laughing at him, would be laughing out loud if not for Indestructoman and his kid.

X considers outing Dodger's secret identity just for spite when Indestructoman sighs and says, "I'll let you kill him if you like, just let me get my kid back first."

Now that part's a little more his speed. X flashes Indestructoman a grin that the mask obscures. The big guy still doesn't look happy.

"Love the enthusiasm, but I don't have a read on Pitchfork right now." Dodger trails off, voice thoughtful X. "Unless... X, you had skin-to-skin contact?"

Dodger tugs a glove off and reaches for X. His bare hands are an inch from X's temple before X manages to draw a gun in each hand. "Not today, Dodger. You've already had your free run once this year."

"Come on, man." Indestructoman's mustache twitches, his face red. "This is my kid we're talking about."

X thinks he might have to consent to giving Dodger temporary access to his brain after all. Then he spots a piece of paper that had slipped out from his holster fluttering through the air. Indestructoman catches it.

"Ransom note?" X ask.

"Statement of intent," Indestructoman intones. "Pitchfork wants me. Wants me unarmed."

"Trap," Dodger sing-songs.

For the first time in years, X is on the same page as Dodger. He looks to Indestructoman. "Who do you think sold you out this time? Pick up another evil bimbo? It's been like six in a row that tried to stab you in the back."

"This one's the mother of my child!"

Xavier, Dodger says in his mind, I will detach your brain from your mouth. It will give me a hell of a headache, but it will be worth it.

Out loud, Dodger says, "X, you don't get to judge anyone based on their love life."

X rolls his eyes and holsters his guns. He'd get defensive, but Dodger's right. He claps Indestructoman on the shoulder. "On the bright side, you're the guy who's built for surviving traps. Saving your kid? Piece of cake."

Good Guy #54

I'm still half convinced this truce is a trap.

But Malevolence is standing next to me, his face tense as he scrolls through data input on his smart phone, lights flashing menacingly from the skyline above us.

"I don't see how this is helping," I say.

"That's because you're an idiot." Malevolence doesn't even look up from the phone. "Professor Deadly only ever uses a half dozen frequencies. This isn't rocket science."

I could take him out now, overpower him and leave him tied up for Detective Lombardozzi to find. But I can't make myself move.

"Deadly is a blowhard," Malevolence continues, "but she has to be broadcasting from somewhere to get that kind of volume. Best I can tell, she shouted it through everything with a speaker. Which means there has to be a source. Considering she wants to end the world, I doubt she's bothered with encryption."

"You can trace it?"

Malevolence glances up. "Did I not just say that?"

After a few more minutes of frantic typing, he tosses the phone to me. "There we go. Location. She probably has a security system. I'll meet you there."

The air cracks as he goes supersonic and leaves me to stare at the Mapquest directions on his phone.

I don't recognize the location, but it's somewhere in the Warehouse District, which isn't particularly surprising. Over the past decade—since the superhero era began, really—that part of the city has been demolished and rebuilt more times than I can count. As a consequence, the quality of the buildings has steadily declined and the people willing to venture there has skewed away from law-abiding citizens toward those with nefarious intent and really broke college students. I take three steps, jump and catch the air, spiraling up over the rooftops.

The sound of gunfire has trailed off, which means X is not currently fighting. It's the sort of thing that makes me nervous with all the death threats floating around. I catch sight of Indestructoman bolting down the sidewalk. He's probably heading after Professor Deadly as well. That's slightly worrisome considering Malevolence gave me directions to a place on the opposite side of the Wheel. "What's going on?" I call.

Indestructoman looks skyward. "Not your concern," he calls. "Go."

Professor Deadly tends to bring serious firepower, and Indestructoman is built for fights like that. I want his help. But if there's anyone in this world I trust, it's him. So when he tells me to go, I listen.

Malevolence is outside Deadly's warehouse when I get there, splitting his time between working a computer console built into the brick facade and darting off to distract three dozen robots that wheel toward him. "Little help here, Good Guy? I get fried, all this goes sideways."

The minions are more of an annoyance than anything and seem to consider me a bigger threat than Malevolence. They're tiny and need to swarm to have any real effect, but I can see how they could be a distraction from actual entry into Deadly's lair.

I punch one of the bots off my shoulder. It explodes on contact. I rock back.

"Gentle touch, you oaf," Malevolence calls, clacking away at the keyboard.

The next metal minion I grab as loosely as I can—not an easy feat for someone with super strength—and lob it at one of its friends. After a brief mechanical whir, both minions explode in a ball of white hot flame.

"Holy hell, those are awesome," Malevolence says, fingers pausing as he watches. "Save me one."

"Priorities!" I remind him. There's another explosion by my ankle, fragments of the bot imbedding itself in the leather of my boots.

"Right." Malevolence pops a USB out of the computer interface and darts to cover my my back just in time to stop one of the minions from jumping me. He tosses it against the wall, and it explodes harmlessly. A gash runs down Malevolence's forehead, blood leaking steadily to the ground. He moves for the door, but misses the tripwire in the entrance way. There's a tiny twing and then a spear hurls through the air. I grab it a second before it impales Malevolence in the chest. His eyes are wide even as he breathes out, "I could have dodged that."

"Of course," I reply.

I should have probably let it kill him.

Inside the warehouse is a huge canister, clear and filled with some viscous yellow fluid. "Malevolence, this looks extremely toxic."

"Mal," he corrects absently. "Don't have time for formalities anymore, Alex. This looks like an aerosolized toxin. Depending on the contents, it could wipe out a whole city. More if it's a contagion."

His voice trembles, and he suddenly seems more like a skinny kid who's afraid he's gonna die than a supervillain. After a second, he clears his throat, straightens his spine, and approaches the computer, Malevolence again. "You need to make sure the thing isn't booby-trapped. I'll check out the system. Maybe there's a way I can bypass the command sequence."

Malevolence starts pecking away at the computer, cursing every few minutes.

"Lemme guess. It's bad?"

"Oh, it's liquefy-your-entrails bad," Malevolence confirms. "Virus is mutagenic. I might be able to Andromeda Strain this bitch but I need ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Virology isn't my strong suit."

A flashing red light suddenly fills the warehouse, alarms screaming. I clap my hands over my ears. "Mal, what just happened?"

"Wasn't me." Mal shouts over the sirens. "It's a remote detonation. Twenty seconds until release. That's not half enough time."

The device hisses, smoke flowing out from the bottom as a gigantic needle moves to puncture the seal of the virus. I dive for the power outlet and rip the cord from the wall. The light dies, and the machine whirs off, needle just inches from puncturing the seal. Malevolence leans back in his chair, running his hands through his hair as he lets out a long breath. Sweat streams from his temples. "Why in hell did you not do that as soon as we walked in?"

"You said to expect booby traps."

"I said check for booby traps."

A long moment of silence passes before I realize, "You never would have thought of that."

He puts on a show of looking affronted, but a relieved grin keeps peeking out. I pull out Malevolence's cell phone and dial Detective Lombardozzi's number. He picks up on the first ring. "If I'm getting a call from an unknown number, you sure as hell better have something useful."

"Detective, this is Good Guy. You'll want to get a Hazmat team to the Warehouse District. There's a contained biological toxin at the old Sandmill Plant. It's safe for the moment, but this is not the sort of thing you want lying around."

Silence for a moment and then Lombardozzi says, "God, like you bastards making solar eclipses and robots isn't enough, now you gotta move into real—"

I hang up on him and toss the phone back to Malevolence. He fumbles the catch before shoving it back in his pocket. "Dammit dude, do you know how annoying it is to get a new number?"

I start to answer, but stop short. We stare at each other, remembering the part where we're mortal enemies.

Malevolence breaks the silence. "You know, with the police about to show up and what feels like a royal bitch of a concussion, you mind if I raincheck our fight to the death?"

"Sure," I reply, not feeling up to another fight myself. "Sounds like a plan."

#

There are six messages on my answer-phone, all from Mom in various levels of panic. "I wish you'd pick up your phone—"

"Was talking to Mrs. Penn and—"

"Alexander, sweetie, there's someone talking about a biological weapon on the news—"

I delete the rest and phone home. Mom always puts on her calm voice when she's talking to me in person. That lessens the guilt. "Alex, I'm sorry about the calls. I just get worried about you when I watch the news. I know you're probably studying in the library, but..."

"It's all right, Mom. Besides, this stuff is ridiculous. Biological weapons that toxic? It's just a bunch of people blowing things out of proportion."

"This is what happens when people dress up like comic book characters and run around in the streets! Twenty years ago, we had nothing like this at all."

Twenty years ago, there was also the worst zombie uprising of the century. But hey, nothing like time to tint those glasses rosy. "They're just trying to do what's right, Mom."

"You can't tell me you're in favor of these people?"

"If nothing else, it makes the news more interesting."

"I don't understand you sometimes. I swear I stopped knowing you when Brooks—God rest his soul—died."

My chest tightens. I look to an old photo on the dresser, holding the phone with my chin as I peel off the gloves. A headache's building behind my temple.

"Mom..."

"It wasn't your fault. You know that, don't you?"

Funny how saying that never makes it true.

Indestructoman #82

Home.

It's been a while since Nicklas Gadzinski has seen home. At least from the inside. It's easier to protect the precious occupants when removed from the situation. Ajax is asleep in his twin bed, or more accurately, curled up on the chair that doubles as a safety net. He has his thumb shoved in his mouth, his other hand curled around a red plush doll that looks like the devil.

A gift from Pitchfork who used it to lure his son out of his school. Ajax adores it, and Nick doesn't have the heart to take it away despite the source. Pitchfork had him for seventeen hours. This could have been so much worse.

He owes his son's life to Dodger and X. He doesn't want to contemplate that kind of debt. Dodger had laid down an illusion for distraction while X had cheerfully drawn the gunfight out of Pitchfork's lair. It let Indestructoman sneak into the lair and scoop his son up in his arms. It allowed him to deliver the child back to his sobbing mother.

Now, hours later, Nicklas Gadzinski slinks back into his house like a criminal. The window to Ajax's room is cracked just enough for Nick to climb inside. Next time he has a home improvement project, he'll spring for bars, but for now, he's grateful for the convenience. He can't go through the front door in costume. Indestructoman doesn't live here.

"Thought I'd lost you today, buddy," he says, stroking Ajax's hair. "Nearly had a heart attack when Dodger got me the news."

It didn't even occur to him to return one of the five missed calls from his wife. His wife has taken to calling at two-hour intervals, trying to catch him in an affair that is really just a bad cover for his nightly excursions into the city. When he'd first heard of Deadly's plot, he told her he was trapped in meetings all day. The outing had elongated considerably with Pitchfork's involvement. He might not be able to explain that.

When Jada crashed back into his life, a five-year-old Ajax on her hip, he'd sworn it was time to retire the mask. But more than a year has passed and he can't give it up. Pitchfork's schemes are always tailor-made for his attention, and people like like Good Guy are springing up all over the country. People who could be his son in a few years.

As much as he wants to leave this all behind, there are still people out there who need his help.

He uses his son's bathroom to change out of the costume and into his street clothes, stashing the outfit in his briefcase's hidden compartment. Then he pads out of the room, down the hall and into the kitchen.

In the living room, the slow static of snow brightens the television, the soft crackle hissing over the speakers. His wife, Jada, is asleep on the couch. Shaking his head and smiling slightly, he moves to turn the television off and spreads a great green fleece over her.

Jada stirs at the contact. "What's her name, Nick?"

"Who?"

She sits up, rubbing at her eyes. Her voice is deep and strong. "The woman you're seeing. What's her name?"

"How can you even ask me something like that?"

It's hard to see her face in the dim light. Too many shadows. "That's not a denial. You think I don't notice, but I'm not an idiot. You get home late. You never take off your shirt if you can help it. Is someone else leaving her marks on you? Hell, you're friendly with women all over the city. Half of the mothers of Ajax's friends are madly in love with you."

"Jada, sweetheart..."

He reaches out a hand, but she swats it back.

"Ajax was missing today. He was gone for almost six hours and I called you and called you, but you never picked up. I left you messages, and you ignored them. What could have been more important than that? Your son, Nicklas. He idolizes you. He thinks you're more fantastic than the superheroes filling up the sky, and you can't even bother to worry about him. I'm through with it."

Nick raises an arm, his instinct to comfort, but he aborts the motion when he sees her face. There is nothing he can do without confessing what he really is. And no way he can tell her without putting her in unspeakable danger. "You don't understand. It's not like that."

Jada barks out a harsh laugh. "Not like that. Of course it's not like that. If it's true, I want to hear you to say it. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me there's no one else."

That's easy because it's the truth. He can never tell her the real reason, but this much has always been true. X always taunts him for his abominably bad taste in women, but Jada, she's the mother of his child. It's been a year since he looked at anybody else. He just needs his one secret. Telling her about Indestructoman is impossible, but this, this isn't too much to ask. "You're the only one. It's always been you. No one else."

She goes quiet, her eyes shining with unshed tears. When she opens her mouth to reply, Nick kisses her and finds it returned even as her tears tickle his cheeks. "I love you so much."

Jada closes her eyes. "I love you, too. I wish you were different, but I do love you. I shouldn't expect you to change."

"Come to bed," he pleads. "It's been a long day, but Ajax is safe. Everything will be better in the morning."

"You go," she replies, squeezing her hand. "I'll be there soon."

It's always easy for Nicklas to fall asleep, and he does so almost immediately. His son is safe. His wife will forgive him. Dodger had promised to watch Pitchfork to make sure he doesn't come back tonight. Psi will take over first thing in the morning. Even X has granted his grudging cooperation. Nicklas drifts off before Jada even makes it to the bedroom, smile ghosting over his face.

Jada stays awake almost three hours more, watching several infomercials while finishing a bottle of wine. Her vial of sleeping pills is in the pocket of her nightgown. She's been saving them for the right moment.

At just past four in the morning, she goes to her son's room and kisses him on the forehead. Then she walks to her bedroom and smothers her husband with a pillow.

Good Guy #55

The murder-suicide reported on the news is almost an afterthought in the wake of Professor Deadly's attempt on the world. But somehow, as I sit on my couch eating Froot Loops, it's the news clip that grabs my attention. The anchor's face is grave as she does the report and the words rattle in my head.

Their bodies were discovered early this morning. The couple leaves behind a son, Ajax, just six years old.

This is why I'm never having kids. Not that it's on most heroes' to-do lists. Kids seem to be good for leverage and pooping. Besides, when you spend most of your nights out on the city getting pummeled, you're not usually up to dating.

Evidence my vast wasteland of close personal relationships.

There's a rapping on my window. I can see the bottom half of a familiar white suit so I assume it's Dodger, who typically gets into my place by dangling from the rooftop. I consider leaving him there, but I'd rather encourage this startling new habit of knocking.

I open the window, and Dodger swings himself into the room, straightening his jersey as he does.

"Not that I don't appreciate a house call, but I've got class tomorrow and about three hundred pages of reading," I tell him, gesturing to the television. "Nothing cataclysmic going on. Just the one husband-wife murder-suicide."

"You've heard then."

"I haven't heard anything." The anger builds slowly in my veins. I am not above getting in a fistfight with another superhero. "Tell me what's going on or get out of my apartment. You're not actually invited."

Dodger walks around my kitchen table and flops back against my couch. "Indestructoman is dead."

"Bullshit." I cross my arms over my chest. "He's indestructible."

"His wife caught him by surprise. She felt so bad about it, she took her whole bottle of sleeping pills. The kid found them."

I circle the couch and sit down on the opposite side. "Jesus, what happened to super strength?"

"You're the one who can bench press elephants. Indestructoman was built like a tank but he wasn't superhumanly strong. X always suspected steroids. Apparently being indestructible doesn't work when you can't get enough oxygen to induce cellular repair."

I shake my head. "And the kid?"

"Probably messed him up for life. But he's six and far from our biggest problem. We can find him someplace safe, but if anyone gets wind of Indestructoman's death, we're in trouble."

"There are plenty of other heroes."

"Alex, if it gets out that you can kill a super by the usual means, do you have any idea what's going to happen to us? Half the reason every idiot with a gun isn't shooting is the fact that Gadzinski had them convinced that bullets bounce right off us."

"Gadzinski?"

"Indestructoman. Nicklas Gadzinski. I thought you said you watched the news. That was his real name. He was supposed to be bulletproof, but at last count most of us aren't."

I rub at the scar on my shoulder. "I know. I've been shot."

"Hurts like a bastard, doesn't it? And my guess is that's an option back on the table. Someone took a shot a Psi this afternoon. It wasn't a super, just some kid looking for bragging rights."

"Has X caught wind of this?"

Dodger shakes his head. "I don't even want to think about X right now. I might suggest he take a vacation. He's going to try to shoot me."

"He does it with love."

"He does it because he's a crazy motherfucker with a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island. God, I need a drink. Do you have anything? Are you even 21?"

"Going on a year now."

"But no booze."

"No booze."

Dodger stands up, making his way back to the window. "Nick was one of the good ones. They're putting him in the ground on Saturday."

He doesn't give me the details, but it sounds like an invitation.

#

It's a sunny day at the Gadzinski funeral. There's an open casket, Nicklas Gadzinski's face peaceful in death with all signs of the bruising around his mouth erased by make-up. He's built like a superhero should be, big and broad, with a neat mustache and a square jaw. His biceps are massive, but they've got him in a suit that swallows his incredible physique and makes him look like a normal corpse. I hope Dodger rigged him up a bell or something in case this turns out to be a huge mistake and he wakes up six feet under. Crawling out of a coffin sounds like something Worst Nightmare cooked up.

Despite the sunshine, the day's cold and I regret not wearing my costume under my suit for the warmth. It's the first funeral I've been to since Brooks, who's buried in this same cemetery, under an old oak tree. I flex my fingers as the priest reads through the sermon. There are a few other faces in the crowd that don't mesh with the rest of the family and friends. A guy whose entire face looks puffy from scar tissue stands in the back, his hat pulled low. A dark-skinned woman with oddly bright eyes that I would bet money is Psi sits in the same row as the kid. The creeping presence in my spine, more than anything, tells me Dodger is here, probably camped out in a tree as he watches for threats.

Gadzinski's kid is a sullen six-year-old who refuses to be near the social worker. He squirms through the sermon, flinching every time the microphone squawks. It's an unusually big funeral considering how little family shows up. Gadzinski had a lot of friends.

I always liked him most, too.

After the funeral, I make it a point to approach the kid. Ajax is small for his age. The dark hair and angular features make him look more like his mother than his father. The eyes are all Indestructoman though, sharper than I'm used to seeing from a kid. "How you holding up, buddy?"

"They put my dad in a box," he says. "And they're going to dump dirt on him. They did Mom yesterday, but they didn't talk so much first."

"Sorry," I say. "It was a pretty stupid question."

"Yep," Ajax mutters, squeezing his tiny fingers into a fist.

"You know there are people looking out for you. Right, kid?"

"Scary people keep telling me that."

Scary people. Guess he met X. "We're good guys," I tell him. "We just want to catch bad people."

"Mom wasn't bad people," Ajax declares and wanders away.

#

Over the next week, I get shot at fifteen times, hit twice, and stabbed once. Psi takes a bullet in the abdomen and disappears. It takes a visit from Dodger to convince me she survived, scurrying off to Florida where she can soak up as much sun as she needs to heal.

A mugger manages to get a sheet of plastic film around my head like he can choke the life out of me. I dump him in the river and let him swim to land.

X does one better to the shithead who comes after him. He strings him up and displays him dangling from a bridge over the river. He's condemned for it, of course, no matter that the guy had several rape charges against him and the only witness to the scene was under attack when X dropped in.

The attacks on the supers slow after that. Instead I get treated to people calling me a vigilante terrorist on television. Sure, most of the ire is directed at X, but Dodger and I get some flack, too. Psi escapes the media firestorm unscathed, but she almost always does. There's speculation about what happened to Indestructoman, but while the criminal element spreads the story of his disappearance like a multiplying cockroach infestation, it hasn't made the press. If Dodger has his say, it never will.

I heal pretty quick, but it's a rough few days getting up to go to class. Elle asks what the hell manages to break a superhero like that. I tell her I'm done with that mess and have started a fight club instead.

She thinks I need lots and lots of therapy.

After all this, it's something nearing relief when I get wind of exploding robots at various political shindigs. It's just an online news blip, a twenty-second YouTube clip of the damn thing parroting politicians in a pitch-perfect imitation but using words sixty percent more vulgar. When the subroutine is exhausted, they shout, "Cede power to Malevolence" and then self-destruct.

The first incident is laughable; the second, more worrisome. The third forces me to mobilize.

Malevolence is short of full costume when I find him in a warehouse very close to Deadly's old hideout. He's wearing oversized black welding goggles that obscure his face. His jeans are grease-stained, in some places burned, and look years past their expiration date. He twirls a wrench, staring at a computer screen full of gibberish, a heap of welding equipment at his feet. "You know," he says without looking up from the screen, "I don't usually run into people like you in places like this."

"Evil lairs?"

"Places where science happens."

"So, what?" I trail my hands against the edge of a workbench. "You're some kind of genius?"

"Can't accelerate the body without getting something extra for the brain. Wouldn't expect a dumb jock like you to understand."

I debate taking offense. My GPA hovers somewhere around a 3.9 despite all the classes I miss. I backed into the history major by accident. It could have just as easily been bioengineering if I had the kind of time required. In the end, I took the path of least resistance. Always better to be underestimated. "You've been causing problems."

"I reckon I have," Malevolence says, tapping a finger against his chin. "We should probably fight."

Before I have the chance to respond, the wrench he's been twirling hits me in the shoulder, right on the most recent gunshot wound.

"Bull's-eye!" he crows. "Twenty points for Malevolence."

All of a sudden, I'm not in the mood to fight. The gunshot aches, still about a day from healed, and I'm tired in a way I haven't been in a long time. "What are you even doing? No one cares about political fundraisers. Shouldn't you be destroying national monuments or something?"

"I've decided to rule the world one day. Every bad guy needs a goal, right?"

"So you picked world domination? Seems like a lot of work for a whim."

"It's a long-term kind of goal. I'm just doing grassroots now." He pulls a remote from his desk and fiddles with the dials. "Gives me time to mess with other stuff. You should really see my AI. It's going to be something special. In the meantime, this is still pretty neat."

The end of the controller flashes red and suddenly twenty of Professor Deadly's robots converge on me, all quite a bit nimbler than they had been just a month ago. "Isn't this plagiarism?"

"It's re-appropriation of misused resources. Not all of us have the kind of capital you need to build this stuff from scratch."

"You robbed a bank literally last week!"

"I've got student loans to pay!" He touches his goggles and then starts the robots. "Also, I need shoes. I go through two pairs a week if I'm running. Shoddy workmanship."

The next twenty minutes are a blur of fire and metal. My fists split open against the hard outer shells of Deadly's re-purposed minions. Malevolence has the minions better organized than Professor Deadly and less likely to explode on contact. They're a nuisance, not designed to inflict heavy damage. But by the time I get to actually fighting with Malevolence, I'm bone tired, the gunshot wound is throbbing, and I'm spilling blood everywhere.

And Malevolence is fast.

This has been such a shit month. I've become a target on the news, thanks to X's stunt. I've been shot and stabbed and have gone days without sleeping. Indestructoman, whose very name suggests he was the one guy I could have counted on, died because his wife mistook nights of superheroing for nights with a mistress.

To put it plainly, I'm pissed.

I take it out on Malevolence, who eventually breaks off the fight, cradling a splintered wrist. "Holy hell, dude. We'll continue this when you're not feeling so homicidal. In the meantime, I need to find someone to set this."

He speeds off. Presumably to a hospital. I collapse in the middle of Malevolence's broken robots, my breathing shallow, hands clenching in fists against the fabric of my slacks. No Elle this time to talk me down. No Brooks to pull me out of my funk.

It takes longer than it should for the world to swim back into focus. I should probably find a phone. Call Detective Lombardozzi and see about having the warehouse overhauled for evidence. Fingerprints, maybe. A way to track down Malevolence's real identity, get him corralled into jail. Even Malevolence can't move that fast in shackles.

But I've only got a land line back at the apartment and finding a pay phone is a damn near impossible feat. Malevolence gets a pass this time.

Good Guy #56

We take turns watching the Gadzinski kid. Ajax is in foster care, enrolled at a school in the city where he spends most of his time alone in a corner of the playground. He gets into fights sometimes, little scuffles with kids who give him a hard time because a Miss Susan picks him up instead of a mom or dad.

I know how he feels. Mom wasn't supposed to be able to have kids and Dad skipped out when he found out that wasn't the case. Growing up, most of my fights started with, Why don't you have a dad?

The answers in the schoolyard for me had been, Because Dad didn't want me.

For Ajax it's, Because my mommy killed my daddy.

Knowing what happened up front is as good as it gets. My bad years wouldn't have been quite so bad if someone had sat me down and told me why my dad wasn't around when I was Ajax's age. Not that this is any comfort at all to the kid.

It doesn't help that the lights tend to flicker when he gets pissed. The school is full of unobservant civilians so they don't notice. A small pit of dread grows in my stomach, because this is a path I can imagine. Orphaned by his parents' murder-suicide, nursing an affinity for electronics that tends toward destruction...

"Recipe for a supervillain, isn't he?"

X appears at my shoulder. I'm not entirely sure he can't teleport. I should be able to hear him with the amount of artillery he carts around.

"If you take a shot at a kid, I will stop you."

The snort of derision at my statement isn't a surprise but it cuts. "Good Guy, you don't have the balls. And this is a favor to Gadzinski. I'm not killing his brat unless I have no choice. Give him a decade or two and we'll see."

"You're a disgrace."

"I'm effective. And I've never been mind-controlled, so I'm a damn sight more reliable than you. Dodger assures me you're no threat, but I don't like you."

"Gee, I never would have guessed after you dropped me off a building."

"You can fly."

"You didn't know that."

X's eyes are still trained on the Gadzinski kid, rocking slowly on the swing. "I take care of threats. Potential or otherwise." He fingers a knife on his hip, tracing the blade. X is only a hero in the literal definition of the word. I know for a fact that he has a higher body count than most villains. He's the one Dodger calls when someone needs to be eliminated.

"I haven't seen Malevolence since his stunt at the fundraisers," X continues, all too casual. "Did he 'take himself out' or did you do it?"

"Neither," I say. Not for the first time I wish my mask covered more of my face. "Broken arm, I think."

"Then he's at his weakest." X leans casually against the fence. "You may want to consider dealing with your problem while you can. I don't like the smart ones. The smart ones are prone to escalation."

Ajax hops off the swing, scuffing the ground with a toe. X's presence means that my shift watching the kid is over, but I don't leave.

#

A few days later, Malevolence takes a stab at destroying the Freedom Memorial. He traps about a hundred people inside by whirring around the building in circles fast enough to keep them there. His wrist is covered in what probably used to be clean white plaster but has become an unappealing gray-brown. He's not shy about wielding his cast as a weapon, as effective as brass knuckles. It's an advantage that is somewhat mitigated by his winces of pain.

"You're a cliché," I tell him after tossing him to the ground.

"And the Freedom Memorial is a giant phallic eyesore. This is a kindness." He makes a failing effort to push himself up from the ground, pawing at the blood running from his nose. I've fought him enough to realize when he's running on autopilot. The words are slurred. Wonder what his IQ was before all the concussions. Must have been staggering. Probably still is. "And you were the one who suggested national monuments."

"I didn't—"

Crap. I did.

"Not like I can actually get up enough speed to whirlwind the damn thing to Oz. Physics doesn't work like that. Just figured this for a good distraction." He stops, winces. "Can we pretend you didn't hear that last part?"

"No." I step forward to press a boot down on his ankle. Break one of those and he's out of commission for at least a month. No use in a speedster who can't run. "What's your plan, Malevolence?"

"Why in hell would I tell you that?"

I add a little more pressure. The ankle starts to bend.

Malevolence squeezes his eyes shut. "Right. Because it will reduce the overall amount of pain."

I'm not X. I don't particularly want to hurt Malevolence. Especially not when fighting him is the only part of my life that hasn't sucked in recent memory, but if it's breaking an ankle or letting his plot succeed, I'm breaking the ankle. It's a relief for both of us when he starts to talk.

Malevolence's plan is a weird convoluted thing where he kidnaps the president and replaces him with a robot. It's very nearly the stupidest plot I've ever heard. With a story like that, wouldn't be surprised if his ultimate goal is messing with me.

"I could totally build a workable android president," he says, his chin jutting out defiantly. He's managed to produce an energy bar from the sleeve of his costume and is chowing down, his face still slightly gray. "It would be extremely patriotic, too. Just like the real thing but less of a pushover because I'd be making the decisions."

"Remind me why you want to rule the world?" I never had that much ambition. Not even when I was a kid. Brooks wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a bike messenger.

Malevolence looks out at the city and for a moment, I think he's actually going to talk. Then police sirens start to howl, and I remember that civilians eventually stop panicking during disasters and call the cops.

"Nice attempt at distraction, Alex." He salutes me with the wrong hand and flees because I'm the idiot who neglected to handcuff him.

#

I change out of costume at one of the drop sites I have stashed around the city, stop being Good Guy and go back to being Alex who can pass, invisible, through the emergency personnel. It's a cold day, but this time of year they all are. I still have crap eyesight, the scars from the gunshot, knife wounds and the ghost wound from the bullet that should have hit me instead of Brooks.

Superpowers don't help with things like that.

At the end of high school I was kind of a mess. Found out who Dad was and where he lived. Paid him a visit and got tossed out on my ass. Started on Mom's stash of alcohol and found people willing to get me more. Hit rock bottom the night after graduation when I got thrown out of a bar to puke in the gutter, only my fake ID for comfort.

I called Brooks. Called him because he'd asked me to get him out of jams before. Called him because I didn't have a number for a cab and it was smarter than calling my mom. Brooks, because he was Brooks, asked no questions, just drove forty minutes across town to find me being robbed at gunpoint, my drunk ass too uncoordinated to find my wallet.

Brooks parked the car, grabbed his baseball bat from the back seat and said, "Hey assholes, he's plastered. Leave him alone."

The memory of the night's a little hazy, but I can picture the moment Brooks realized he was in a gunfight.

You sober up really quick with your best friend's blood on your hands. Especially when you're the reason he's shedding it.

The alley where it happened is a few blocks off the Southern Spoke, close enough to the river to smell the staleness in the air. I walk here sometimes without even noticing. Enough time and rain have passed so that there's no sign of the years-old struggle but I still hear the echoes. It's the reason I started a life as a masked vigilante alongside maniacs like Dodger and X.

My hand presses against the wall, rough and somehow still warm despite the wind. I expect Dodger to find me and to tell me I'm chasing ghosts, or for X to stab a knife through my palm, or even for Elle to insist I talk to a mental health professional.

Instead I get the high-pitched voice of a kid saying, "It's a wall, mister."

When I turn around, there's tiny Ajax Gadzinski standing there, wearing a backpack jammed full and holding a stuffed pig in his hand. "Where's your adult?" I ask.

The kid wrinkles his nose.

"You're running away, huh?"

I'm never sure how to deal with kids. Never had younger siblings to babysit. But this one isn't a stranger from the street. He's Indestructoman's kid. "You were at Daddy's funeral," Ajax says.

"Yeah, I worked with him sometimes."

"Where do you work?"

I eye the kid. "Where do you think your dad worked?"

"He was a 'countant." Ajax squeezes his stuffed pig against his chest. "Mom said he was boring as hell."

"That's the kind of word your folks probably don't want you saying, champ. I mean hell and shit—stuff. I meant stuff. Not nice words."

"You're bad at this."

He's got me on that one. Outwitted by a six-year-old. "Where are you even going? You got a plan of attack? Place to stay? Way to feed yourself?"

"No."

"Want me to take you back home?"

"I'm not staying at home."

"Back to whoever's looking out for you then?"

"No."

"Can I buy you an ice cream or something?"

"Too cold for ice cream."

"Hot chocolate?"

"I'm not supposed to go anywhere with strangers." He looks me up and down. "But you're nice, and you knew Daddy."

Shyly, he offers me a hand. I take it, surprised by how small it is, and steer him into a coffee shop. I dig the emergency twenty from my jeans and buy the kid a hot chocolate, topping it off with a huge dollop of whipped cream. Ajax scoops off the whipped cream first, shoveling it into his mouth. I don't say anything, just let him chatter on about school and how Jeff was mean to him but Trillian let him borrow her crayon.

Kids are strong. Mom always said it, but I never understood it before now. A month ago, this kid lost everything, but give him a hot chocolate now and he's happy.

Wish it had been that easy when I'd had to deal with my own dad.

When Ajax finishes his drink he looks at the empty cup and then back out the door. "Why's the man in black following you?"

Wonder which hero's currently on Ajax-watching duty. I certainly don't know any who dress all in black. Then again, I can't even spot the guy so it's probably just the kid's overactive imagination. "We're just making sure you're safe," I say. "You still running?

Ajax looks at his backpack, picks up a napkin and wipes his face. "No."

"Good."

It takes us the better part of an hour to locate the foster family where Ajax has been staying. When we do, Detective Lombardozzi answers the door. He does a double take when he sees me, but the suspicion fades as soon as he sets eyes on the kid. "Found him wandering a few blocks over a couple hours ago. Says he was running away."

"And you didn't bring him right back?" Lombardozzi demands.

"Look, the kid was freaking out. Said he just moved and couldn't remember the new address. I bought him a hot chocolate, let him calm down until he remembered."

Lombardozzi calms at that. "Sorry. Rough couple of days on the job. Most of these stories don't get happy endings."

The foster mother comes over and gives me a hug, relief obvious in her face.

Ajax sits quietly on the third stair of the townhouse, pulling clothes from his backpack. It's hard to miss the fact that they're all a dozen sizes too large for him.

Doesn't seem like a happy ending, but I guess it could be sadder.

Psionic #77

The Moon laughs.

Psi does not find the situation funny, but she endures anyway. The Moon is fickle and capricious but she is willing to bend rules that the Sun will not. Psi will gladly bear the Moon's cost if it gets Nick Gadzinski back.

"You are not the only one with a claim on this soul," the Moon says. "You are not even the first to approach me."

Psi can feel the sun's protection ghosting over her skin. She has precious little time left before sunset where she may be able to negotiate from a position of power. She's already waited too long; the bullet to her stomach made her miss her best window. Nicklas Gadzinski, better known as Indestructoman, died under the moonlight on a waxing crescent, so it is the Moon she must petition. Because the Moon is a contrary creature, Psi guesses she would be most amenable to fixing things on the waning crescent.

Psi's missed that deadline by a week. She had not even expected to be entertained. The moon often chooses to scorn the Sun's favored daughters—especially those who show disregard for the rules.

But if someone else has asked after Nick's soul, that changes the situation. It means there is someone she can challenge for it. Psi has considerably more confidence in her fights than her negotiations. "Who else would even think to come to you?"

Psi's tone of voice is wrong. She knows it as soon as the question leaves her mouth. There is an odd formality in dealing with heavenly bodies that has eluded her since she was gifted her powers, but she couldn't have sent any of the other superheroes. X believes with conviction that the dead should remain so, and Dodger distrusts anyone who may try to barter for his name or his face. As for Good Guy, well, Psi doubts Good Guy even knows to consider resurrection.

"The one from below has shared death with the soul before," the Moon says. "I can think of no stronger bond, none better suited for the task."

"You got a request from from Pitchfork?" Psi blurts before she can school the surprise from her voice. "I can't believe Pitchfork would barter for Nick Gadzinski's life. I know you value sincerity, and I can attest Pitchfork's plots against Indestructoman were honest and true attempted homicide." The Moon is a devious creature, her darkness constantly at war with her light. Psi should not be surprised that she entertained Pitchfork's request, the darkness in his soul so close to her other face. At least she can understand the Moon's logic. Psi should consider herself lucky she doesn't have to deal with that dick Neptune.

The Moon smiles beatifically and says, "Together, the two are as close to whole as they can be. There are those who say that darkness has no meaning without the light."

"You've considered Pitchfork's request? You're going to bring Nick back?"

"There can be no life without death, and you have both asked for the life of the indestructible. One of your heroes. The life of something extraordinary demands extraordinary payment. You will not be willing to pay the price, if I understand the Sun's favored daughter."

The warmth of light is fading from Psi's skin. She has maybe twenty good minutes left before this negotiation is beyond her capabilities. The Moon looms larger in the darkness, so much closer than the sun. "There's not a lot I wouldn't do for Gadzinski."

Nick is family. The kind Psi never had growing up. The name on her emergency contact form. The man who stepped in front of bullets for her and for whom she did the same. She's sure Jada cursed her specter before she smothered her husband—and with him, Indestructoman. Just as Psi knows Dodger, Wisp, SuckerPunch and X used to run a betting pool on when she and Nick would get together. They never realized they knew each other too well to ever walk that path.

She wants Nick back more than she can ever express. Each second spent in the Moon's mockery of light, she feels that truth like a weight.

"You ask for the return of his light," the Moon says. "The price is a single day without mine."

Psi knows with a cold certainty that Pitchfork got the same offer. A day without the sun is a day where Psi would be next to useless. Pitchfork's own interpretation would be apocalyptically bad. Removing the sun for a day would involve stopping the Earth's rotation. "And that's the only way to get Gadzinski back?"

The laughter is written all over the Moon's cratered face, and Psi knows this price is too high.

She will never get Nicklas Gadzinski back.

She should have known that before she started but having it confirmed steals the last of the sun's warmth from her skin.

"I did not think the Sun's daughter would be willing," the Moon taunts.

"What about Pitchfork?" Psi demands. "Did he accept your offer?"

"He swore he would succeed," the Moon intones. "You do not have much time left. Not if you would like to stop him."

#

Psi knew Sid Span before he became Pitchfork, skin reddening as he stood trapped in the reactor, tail curling out from under his jeans. He doesn't look a thing now like the kid she grew up with, but mutation or not she recognized him the first time Pitchfork opened his mouth.

And what happened then? What happened when the skinny kid who everyone picked on got all the power he could dream of?

The other heroes, they don't get Sid. Not even Indestructoman. Sid was the kid who wanted to be noticed, wanted to be something other than the brunt of every joke. Psi knows exactly how far he will go for the chance to bring Indestructoman back. For the chance to be a hero.

If he doesn't have the brains to give the Moon her darkness, he knows the people who do. Sidney Span has never been anything less than determined.

Psi runs because she can't get to the sky, not at this time of night. It's all she can do to put one foot in front of the other. She throws her mind out, looking for Dodger who should already have noticed the disturbances. Crooks seep onto the street, the small-timers who can sense something in the air, who know an apocalyptic battle is the best time to get away with looting. Legs dangle from the edge of one of the buildings, Malevolence, waiting on high because that's the quickest way to snag Good Guy's attention.

She's going to get suckered into a fight, one of the petty ones. She's reaching the point where she can't physically handle more than that.

She'll have to leave Pitchfork to the B-team, because even without the night sapping at her strength she's not sure if she can bring herself to stop a resurrection.

Maybe's she's wrong about the cost. Maybe the world will keep spinning.

If Pitchfork gets the Moon a day of darkness, then Psi gets Indestructoman. Gets Ajax his father back. The insidious fingers of the night must be seeping in deeper than usual, because Psi's starting to think it might be worth it.

VOLUME THREE:

Truce and Consequence

Good Guy #57

I don't wake up until noon.

In my defense, the sun never comes up.

Which is a good excuse but makes for terrible circumstances.

I check every clock in the room before starting to panic. Psi says she's been stuck in a time loop before, but she attracts that kind of pseudo-mystical bullshit. I deal in things that I can punch, and more recently, robots. The mental and the mystical have a tendency to kick my ass.

All my clocks are working.

Not good news, because a time loop is something that can be fixed.

That the sun didn't rise is bad. Really bad. A lot of the apocalypses never feel like they're going to succeed all, but something like this might have a real chance.

Not twenty yards outside my window, I spot Malevolence sitting on a rooftop, his feet dangling off the edge, the same pose he'd struck before our first real fight. There's a notebook open in his lap, a pen shoved behind his ear and a pencil in his hand as he scribbles away.

As I fly over to him, I notice he's not wearing his goggles, but that's not as big a deal with the villains as it is with us heroes. It's not like I'm going to leverage his family against him.

"'Sup, Good Guy," he says, still working through a mountain of calculations. "The Earth's rotation is slowing down. Whoever did this probably meant for a complete stop, but momentum's a bitch of a thing to fight."

"You're not in costume." I'm hovering in midair. I should not be embarrassed that I am in costume.

"We went to high school together, you asshole," Malevolence retorts, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "My googles don't cover that much."

Malevolence doesn't look familiar. The hair's dyed black, the cheekbones sharp and filled with a riot of freckles. "You've...changed," I hedge. He's messing with me. He's got to be messing with me.

"Don't strain yourself, Alex. You can always just figure I'm lying and blame your little brain-dead mishap with Worst Nightmare." He jots something down in his notebook even as the chills run down my spine. "May as well call me Mal."

"The world must be ending," I moan and slump down on the building next to him.

"Well yeah, that's the sum of things." He tilts the notebook in my direction like I can make sense of the equations. "World's got to decelerate before it stops for good. We've got about thirty hours if I have the math right, and the last half of those hours, most of us will be well on our way to dead."

"You know my secret identity."

"I've known your secret identity for months. If I didn't figure it out the same day I met you, I definitely would have while I was poking at your brain after Worst Nightmare had her way with you. I've also got your social security number, but you're broke so I'll pass on the identity theft. You're welcome, by the way. I haven't told anybody. I mean there's another dozen or so who've figured it out without bothering to confirm, but you have bigger issues right now. Like, I dunno, saving the world so I have somewhere to live?"

I can already hear the sound of fights breaking out over the city. Some involving looters, others instigated by Dodger and Psi.

"While you do what? Sit there and doodle all over your science?"

A split second of exasperation flickers over his face before fading. He gives me a wry smile, closes the notebook and tucks it into his jacket pocket. "Gee, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were asking for my help."

I shouldn't want his help. I should really touch base with X, but X is such a douchebag. "Yeah, that sounds good. Truce?"

He eyes my proffered hand with manufactured disdain and doesn't take it. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. "Good idea. You'd probably manage to accelerate the process without my help."

"I think I'm offended."

"Don't bother, you're significantly less of an idiot than most of these clowns. Who's your money on for this mess? It's got to be Deadly or Pitchfork. Deadly, she's probably got the brains, but Pitchfork's been inconsolable since Indestructoman kicked it and this reeks of desperation."

It's Pitchfork. We spot him just off the wheel cackling manically.

I don't understand Pitchfork. He's got red-tinged skin that's either a terrible sunburn, a very unfortunate deformity or an indication that he actually paints his entire body red before he goes out to cause trouble. For a villain, that's either pathetic or terrifying.

The fact that he carries an actual pitchfork makes me think he's mentally unstable or an actual demon. Between Mal and I, we take care of him. By the time he skitters back toward the sewer, plot foiled, Mal and I are both beaten to a pulp, holding each other up so we don't collapse.

I'm too tired to realize how weird it is.

"I deserve a free pass for this one," Mal slurs. "Sixteen free passes. I have so much karma right now, my next scheme should go off without a hitch. My next scheme should be so wildly successful you don't even notice it's happened."

"If I don't notice, X probably will, and you don't want X crashing your scheme."

"Is X the psychic one?"

"No, he's the homicidal ninja." Not to mention the only one of us heroes who routinely kills instead of captures. "Dodger's our psychic."

"I thought one of you assholes was named Psi?"

"Psi can re-appropriate power from the sun."

"Then why's she called Psi?"

"She says the name's misdirection, but I'm pretty sure it's from one of those old Pokémon games."

Mal actually laughs at that. He's missing one of his front teeth. Pitchfork has a mean right hook, and that's before even considering his... pitchfork. "At least she didn't think stopping the Earth's rotation would give the moon her 'day of darkness.' Does Pitchfork even understand planetary rotation? Or that the moon's essentially a giant rock?"

"You don't think it would have worked?"

"I don't think we would have lived long enough to find out, but no. It wouldn't have worked. At least Professor Deadly runs her math. Pitchfork broke physics."

"But maybe—"

"No. There's no way it would have worked."

"But what if—"

"I'm so ashamed that you ever beat me."

I'm grinning despite the bloodied mess of my face. "I always beat you."

The moon shines overhead. Call me crazy, but it doesn't feel like it approves.

#

Two weeks later I run into Malevolence again.

On the sidewalk.

In broad daylight.

Out of costume.

Mal's walking down the busy street, head down, hands shoved in his pockets. He spots me about the same time I see him and heaves a full-body sigh before crossing the street. We're within an inch in height, though I've got maybe fifty pounds of muscle on him. The cast is gone, exchanged for a flesh-toned splint. He's managed to replace the lost tooth. "Alex," he says.

"Mal," I return. "You have an excellent dentist."

"Same guy who does the hockey team," he says. "I'm guessing you finally looked me up? Is this the part of my life where six different superheroes sweep in and whisk me off to a maximum-security prison?"

"We're in public so you'd have to be in costume. Anything else would restart those rumors about X offing civilians."

"Course." He runs a hand through dyed black hair. "You're just going to break into my apartment and grab me while I sleep then. Fantastic. Because my insomnia isn't bad enough." He reaches out and grabs me by the elbow. "Come on. I could murder a donut and you definitely owe me coffee."

I should refuse for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that Mal has robbed enough banks to have buckets of cash, while I've got what passes for a sense of justice and maybe twenty bucks in my bank account.

Also, there's the whole nemesis problem, but that somehow feels like less of a big deal.

"Sure," I say and let him steer me into a coffee shop.

The cashier has Mal's order down on sight. Large coffee and a half-dozen pastries. I stare at the menu, trying to figure out the equivalent of what I usually get at Starbucks. To my surprise, the only options under coffee are regular and decaf. The selection of tea is rather more impressive, but if the herbal crap Elle tried to pour down my throat is any indication, I'm not a fan.

"Order your damn coffee, Alex."

To Mal's horror I take one sip and then dump four sugar packets into the coffee to make it drinkable. "I have a fast metabolism," I say defensively.

"So do I," he says, biting into the first pastry. "That means nothing. It's like you're a six-year-old."

My mind flickers back to Ajax, sullen and running. "I'd never let a six-year-old drink coffee. That would be irresponsible."

"This is you joking, right? Because for a while I thought your sense of humor was more dead than deadpan. It's terrible, but at least you've got one."

"Pitchfork doesn't." It seems important to note that out loud.

"He's just pining for Indestructoman." Mal takes a long swig of his own coffee, black. "Seriously though, I met Psi after we took out Pitchfork. She was going on about resurrection and a deal with the moon. I'd much rather be fighting you."

I'd much rather be fighting on the same side as Mal, but that's another story all together. "Can I ask you something?"

"If you ask nicely."

"Why do you do this?"

"Hey now, decaf. Don't hate on those of us with an addiction. This is a good spot. God knows Starbucks doesn't need the cash."

"Not the coffee shop. The whole mad scientist thing. You don't seem like the rest of them. You know, dripping evil."

"Had heart-to-hearts with loads of us then? Color me jealous."

"I'm being serious."

"And I like building giant killer robots."

It takes me a moment to realize that's meant as an explanation rather than a bizarre segue. "And that's all there is to it?"

Mal lounges back in his seat. "No. I'm also a poorly socialized college dropout with crazy eyes and a criminal record. Getting into politics to take over the world seemed futile."

I take a sip of coffee. It's still too bitter. Mal bites into his third pastry. Must burn a lot of calories moving that fast. Because if not, there should be a couple hundred more pounds of him.

"You don't seem poorly socialized," I comment.

"Gee, Alex. Is this your way of saying we can be friends?" There's about a ninety-second pause before it hits us at the same time. "Holy hell, we're friends, aren't we?"

I reach for another packet of sugar. It's not funny. Not even a little. Because my last friend was Brooks, and I was supposed to maybe try it again with Elle. Not Mal, who is as close as I have to a nemesis. Mal, who salvages robots from other villains and unleashes them on political fundraisers. Mal, who wanted to replace the president with an android.

"Oh my God. I'm a failure. I'm going to have to let my android take over," Mal moans. "Something is seriously wrong with my life."

"I can count at least seven things, and we've only been friends for five minutes."

"Holy fuck, if it ain't Malcolm Quick."

The color drains out of Mal's face as we both swing our gazes to the voice. The guy in line was probably an athlete in high school before gaining the freshman fifty in college. He wears a baseball cap flipped backwards and carries a cup of coffee in one hand, a bag of pastries in the other.

"Peewee, that's you, right?"

"Asshole!" Mal greets him, a hint of mountain accent curling around his voice. "Say my name again, please. Louder."

The guy pulls up a chair, jerking a thumb in Mal's direction. "This cowfucker was the brainiest feller ever went to my school. Must've been what? Fifteen when you graduated? We all thought he was going to invent the fucking cure for cancer. Whatever happened to you, man?"

Mal sinks down farther in his chair. "Lab accident," he says. "They kicked me out."

"Gave you the boot? Brain big as yours, you must've set the place on fire or something."

The smile across Mal's face is brittle and dangerous. "I could set your place on fire."

The guy booms out a laugh, missing the threat in Mal's voice. I almost feel like I should intervene but it's like watching a train wreck. Which, as a superhero, I should probably also try to stop. Still...

"Hell, Quick, I forgot you was such a mouthy guy. Would have thought we beat it out of you."

"You tried," Mal bites.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Never beat on you too hard, but I feel like it's something that looks different from the other side. We was just messing around." The guy finally seems to be cluing in and has unconsciously moved out of striking distance. "Nice to see you, Peewee. The hell I put you through, I probably owe you a beer or twenty. I'll look you up sometime."

He lumbers off, Mal's gaze tracing him the entire way.

"Okay, you definitely didn't go to high school with me. I would have remembered that guy."

"I'm going to kill him," Mal says. "It will look like an accident."

I clear my throat. "Sitting right here."

"Right." He has the good grace to at least feign guilt.

"Lab accident?" I ask. "I think I remember hearing about that. Someone died."

"Dr. Leonor Nieves," Mal replies. "She got incinerated. I got superpowers. Surviving doesn't make it my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then drop it."

The coffee's cold now. I touch my glasses, memorizing the face in front of me. "Malcolm Quick?"

He scowls. A bit of powdered sugar is smeared across his face. "I never claimed imagination."

"I could have found you using the phone book."

"Oh, fuck you, Manners."

Good Guy #58

Someone's been in my apartment.

I know it the instant I step inside, a sixth sense I've developed since my first time in costume. The ability to take in a room and know that something's changed. I place my keys on the hook by the door and reach for Brooks's old baseball bat. I don't remember when it migrated out of my closet but it's handy for threatening Dodger. The television is on, the window open. I pull the power cord out with my toes and leave the window open for a quick getaway.

No one is in the living room, no one in the cramped kitchen which just leaves the bedroom. I burst in through the door, expecting to find Dodger taking a nap, but it's empty. No one in the bathroom either, but my nerves are still jangling.

Leaning back against the bed, I tell myself it's just been a bad day. I have a thousand and one reasons to be on edge. About a hundred pages of unread textbook await me before class tomorrow. I let Malevolence get away again.

I drop the baseball bat to the floor and roll over sideways.

That's when I see the picture. It's supposed to be of me and Brooks in graduation robes, wearing those stupid square hats with the tassels. We're both smiling even though I was well into my tailspin, face gaunt, dark circles under my eyes, out on the town pretty much every night after I confronted my dad as the son he never wanted. Brooks looks better, ecstatic to be getting the hell out of high school, arm slung over my shoulder, grinning like he could rule the world.

He died later that night.

That's not the photo on my dresser.

I stand up, my hands shaking, and move closer. The picture's still of me and Brooks, but it's a much more recent likeness. I'm sporting a black eye, which puts it well within the era of Good Guy. I never got into fights back when I was just Alex. Not even at my most self-destructive. My eyes are red as though I've been crying and the photograph is poorly framed like one of us is taking the picture, arm extended.

Next to me is Brooks, but not the same Brooks from high school. His face is paler, the hair a shade darker, and just everything about him is older. He doesn't look like an idealistic kid ready for college. He's got the scruffy beginnings of a beard and looks like the kind of guy life has shat on for years.

It's a picture that never happened, one that couldn't have happened, because Brooks has been dead for years now.

I can't think.

The glass splinters in my hand, showering shards against the carpet. "Shit," I hiss, squinting at the pieces. I'd kicked off my shoes first thing when I got home, like I always do, and I regret it. I dump some of the larger pieces of glass in the wastebasket and get the rest with the dust-buster. Doesn't stop me from cutting up my hands in the process. Nothing bad, but enough to leave a trail of blood across the photo when I tear it from the frame.

The usual picture is under the new one and for a moment I'm pissed at myself for breaking the glass when there could have been fingerprints or DNA or some clue about what the hell just happened.

I find myself outside the apartment after a while, rapping on Elle's door. She opens it after almost five minutes, bleary-eyed and says, "Alex? What are you doing? It's one in the morning and I have work to—"

Then she sees the rest of me, the shaking and the undoubtedly pale face. She pauses. "Something happened."

"No," I say, but that's a stupid answer. "Yes. Something is very wrong, and you said I should talk to someone. I don't know where else to go right now."

"Breathe," she commands.

I listen, drawing in air, forcing my fists to relax. I'm wrinkling the photo. I can't do that. Need that. Could be evidence. "Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Elle's wearing sweatpants and a worn, oversized T-shirt. Her hair's a mess of tangles, blue eyes rimmed red. I've obviously woken her up, but I'm too freaked out to care. "I need help," I say.

"I got that part. You need to tell me what's going on if you want help."

I hand her the picture. She looks at it with confusion. I'd been expecting a reaction, something to tell me she knows how wrong it was, but all I get is, "You look very nice. I mean, except for the shiner."

"I've never seen this picture before in my life." I'm pacing, bare feet against the carpet, unable to stop.

"You're bleeding," Elle says. "Move before you ruin my carpet."

"You don't get it. That picture can't be here."

She's too busy pushing me toward the kitchen to hear the panic in my voice. "You probably forgot you took it. I do that all the time. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I find on my digital camera sometimes. Bombs and robots mostly. Can't blame a girl for being proud."

I barely hear her. "Elle, it can't be here because Brooks, the guy in the picture, he's been dead since I was eighteen."

The comforting smile fades from Elle's lips. "What?"

"This isn't me being crazy, all right? This isn't a joke about a superhero. This is someone fucking with me. Four years ago, Brooks got shot. He hung on for a few days and then died of complications in the hospital. But he's dead. This is not me freaking out and seeing ghosts. This is someone breaking into my apartment and leaving me a photograph that can't possibly exist." I cut off, my breathing ragged as there's a thud from the bedroom. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"There's something in your bedroom," I say, trying to push my way out of the kitchen and knocking what looks like a textbook on biomedical engineering from the counter.

"Oh no," Elle ducks in front of me and shoves me back. "You are not going to my bedroom to investigate a sound you 'might' have heard."

"But—"

"This isn't about a sound you heard. This is you freaking out." Elle steers me into the kitchen where she pours half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide onto the cuts on my hands before procuring a few bandages to cover the cuts. "There's an explanation for this. You know there has to be. Photo manipulation. Not to mention the guy in the picture looks a bit older than eighteen. It might not even be him."

She's right, but she's also not looking close enough. Malevolence's voice rings in my head about the possibility of creating an android president. I've been around the superheroing business too long to dismiss the possibility of clones and evil twins. But it matters if someone is messing with Alex Manners or if the message is for Good Guy.

"There we go, Alex." Elle rubs my back. I flinch at the contact and the tension mounts instead of easing. She doesn't seem to notice. "Breathe."

"I miss him. I miss him so fucking much. I keep dreaming about it. I've been dreaming about it since the day it happened, and I can't forget. Not any of it."

"You have to forget some of it. Human nature."

"I can't. Not this. That's the worst part. Brooks and me, it was always the two of us against the world. And he didn't get a chance to make his mark. There's nothing left of him. No big ideas, no books he wrote, no college classes he took. If I don't remember, who will? If I forget him, it's like he never existed. The world's already full of spaces where he should be."

Elle hasn't looked at the photo since she put it down. "I won't say I'm sorry, because that means shit and it won't make you feel better."

"You're a terrible therapist."

"I'm a receptionist for a psychiatrist. And babysitting a couple panic attacks gets me to friend, right? So I'm going to tell you this: If someone is messing with you, they're succeeding. If this is all true, you've got a serious problem. Not the least of which is that you should really call the cops about someone breaking into your apartment."

"But?"

Elle breathes out. "But I think you're going to pick up this photo again when you haven't just woken up from a horrible nightmare, and you're going to realize how much this guy doesn't look like your friend."

"You really think so?"

"What did you expect me to suggest?"

"Honestly? Androids."

Elle's burst of laughter is tinged with surprise. That makes me feel better, but not much. "One of the hazards of being a superhero, huh?"

"No one who knows me would ever want me for a superhero."

"I dunno. I wouldn't complain about a superhero who's a little more human."

I pick up the photo from the table, careful to keep my face blank. There's been no change. I may have panic attacks on occasion, but I'm not prone to wild exaggeration. My head is screwed on straight. It's the same picture I saw in my apartment. Me with tears in my eyes and Brooks with a beard and a few extra years on his face.

"Well?" Elle prompts.

There are two weeks I don't remember. Two weeks under Worst Nightmare's spell before Mal, for reasons unknown, snapped me out of it. Something big happened. Something that must have involved Brooks. "You're right." I flash my teeth, not caring how fake the smile looks. "I'm really sorry for waking you up."

"I'd make you a cup of tea, but I'd definitely poison it when I realize I'm still really pissed at you for waking me up," Elle says. "So don't take this the wrong way, but if you don't need someone to talk you off a ledge, could you get the hell out of my apartment?"

"Yeah. Of course. Thanks, Elle. I don't know what I'd do without you."

#

The next morning, I'm asleep from the first minute of class straight through to the end. I feel bad, because Professor Halpern, who teaches World War II through the uprisings, is the best I've had in the department. He's an ancient guy with wizened features and the white beard of someone who could have been around during the Civil War. He ruins the ambiance by wearing Grateful Dead T-shirts instead of blazers to class. As a lecturer he's engaging, moves fast, and concentrates more on the stories than the facts.

He's also not at all hesitant to wake a sleeping student by slamming a textbook on his desk.

"Mr. Manners, a word?"

Blinking the remnants of one of my rare dreamless sleeps out from my eyes, I glance around the empty classroom. "How late is it?"

"You missed the end of my class by ten minutes."

I duck my head, hoping to hide some of the sickly green bruising around my temple. Most of my acquaintances probably think I'm in an abusive relationship, but a professor could put up a red flag in an official capacity. "I'm sorry, sir. I've got to get to my next..."

"What you've got to do, Manners, is get home and go to sleep. But while I've got you here, I've been meaning to talk to you about your work. I just got through your last paper and I have to say, after what I saw at the end of last semester, I'm disappointed."

I touch the frames of my glasses, shifting in my seat as I look for an escape route. "Sir?"

"Oh, it's technically proficient, well researched. I've always been a fan of your thoroughness, but I was hoping for something... more from you. When I got your final paper from last term, I thought you'd finally found it."

Great, that's the paper I wrote while Worst Nightmare was playing me like a fiddle. "Sorry, sir, found what?"

"Found some passion, Mr. Manners. We talk about objectivity in my line of work, but that's a falsehood. Ideas are what matter. Conviction. Belief."

"What are you saying?"

"Look around you, Mr. Manners. We live in an age of conviction. I'd thought we'd burned out after the uprisings. There are years I lived that won't be more than a paragraph in the history books. And then—boom." He punctuates his point with a clap of his hands. "Supervillains, superheroes. People who genuinely want to end the world and those who protect it."

"And you don't think these people are just a little bit ridiculous?" I bite out before I can stop myself. "I mean, for putting on a costume to sound like a good idea, you wouldn't just have to hit rock bottom, you'd have to crash straight through."

Professor Halpern walks back to his desk to pack up his stack of notes. He leaves a trail of chalk dust across his briefcase. "But that's what makes it so fascinating. Where did this all come from? Who are these heroes? How is this going to end? This will either go down as the brightest spot in all of history or one of the darkest."

"Seems like we have a threat for the end of the world every other week."

"Yes, we do, don't we? But the world hasn't ended, Mr. Manners. We're living in the most dangerous, most exciting era in human history, and you're writing papers you don't believe in."

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I look up to meet his eyes. "Don't you think that's a little harsh?"

"This is a wake-up call. In more ways than one. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you're due to graduate this May."

"That's the plan."

"You won't stand a chance of getting a job in this field unless you have a passion. You've only got the one paper left for my class. Treat it like a senior thesis. Write something you care about."

"And what if I don't care about anything?"

"Then you won't find much of a life once you get out of school, I'm afraid. You might still pass my class, but I don't intend to make it easy."

Great. Just what I need. "How the hell am I supposed to find something I believe in?"

"You could always look to those ridiculous superheroes that you find so unseemly. Do you really think Good Guy is out there because he's got nothing better to do?"

It takes everything I have not to laugh in his face.

Good Guy #59

I wake up to Psi in full costume sitting at the foot of my bed, examining her nails. The thunderous clomp of giant footsteps echoes in the distance.

"What the fuck!" I hiss, clutching my bedsheets to my chest. "Is there an open invitation? Did Dodger send a memo?"

"Window was open," Psi says. "And sweetheart, you haven't got a thing you need to worry about me seeing."

Psi is gorgeous. I can tell that even behind her mask: Dark skin, unnaturally green eyes, a body emphasized by spandex laced with solar panels. She probably doesn't even need to eat to maintain her appearance. Just gets everything she needs from photosynthesis when she's not blasting bad guys with sunlight. Most of the heroes are a little bit in love with her. "Window open does not mean invitation. Window open means it's stuffy. I'm on the top floor. The fire escape doesn't even go this high."

"Aren't you adorable?" She reaches out to ruffle my hair. I shudder. "Thought I'd drop by and let you know your friend is at work again. There's a giant killer robot."

I really should have seen this coming because maybe ten days ago Mal told me he really likes building giant killer robots.

Psi isn't through talking. "Dodger told me, and I quote, Get Alex. I'm done with this shit. Congratulations, you've got Nick's old job."

"What?"

"Indestructoman was our brute force guy and he's not coming back. Which means you're up."

I grab for my glasses. "When the hell did you even find out where I live?"

"Your paranoia hasn't set in yet, but the rest of us have been around long enough to be watching everyone, friend or foe. Indestructoman is dead because he was betrayed by someone he loved. You don't think the same can happen to you?"

I sit up, pulling my costume on in pieces. "You've got to be close to someone before you can be betrayed."

Psi shakes her head and pats me on the knee. "Go fight your bad guy. Life won't be this simple forever."

She winks at me and then jumps out my window. Before she hits the ground, she's gone, riding off on a sunbeam or something. I've never been able to figure out her set of skills.

I'm out the window a minute later, contacts stinging against my eyes. The robot isn't hard to find. I follow the shockwaves down the Southern Spoke toward the river. Malevolence is even easier to locate, buzzing around at the bot's ankles cursing at his remote control. I land next to him, fists raised.

Mal freezes, drops the controller and puts his hands in the air. The robot barrels forward. "This is not my fault. I swear to God, this is not the intended function. There was a glitch and then that asshole in the Dodgers jersey went and—Holy hell, Alex. Truce!"

"This is your monster."

"Technically it's a robot. And I want to stop it. Do you know what this kind of thing can do to a crook's reputation? Losing control of your monster is a cheesy Bond villain level of incompetence."

"Bond villains don't build robo—"

"Priorities!" Mal screeches, his voice rising an octave.

"This is your fault. I'm allowed to laugh."

"I get it. I'm Malevolence, the maladjusted, malcontented, maladroit. The thing's headed for the baseball park! Pitchers and catchers report in like a week."

"You're worried about baseball when there are probably people out there—" Everything gets a whole lot less funny. "Mal, there are people out there dying!"

"That's what I've been saying. The robot's got a weak spot. I left the wires on the back of the left knee exposed. Rip them out, the whole thing falls."

"The left knee?"

"You really think I'd put it in the neck or the chest when you morons attack a robot like it's a person? What use is a failsafe if I can't reach it? If I get a distraction, I can end all this nonsense."

Our plan falls together without any more words. It's better to have the robot's attention in the air than the ground so I take to the sky. Mal speeds his way through the fleeing citizens, not really caring who he knocks over in his haste.

The giant killer robot has very little to distinguish it from all the other robots I've seen since I started this gig. It shoots missiles and stomps on things. I'd be disappointed in Malevolence for his lack of imagination if I wasn't damn near sure he built this thing by cannibalizing vacuums for parts.

It does have slightly better maneuverability than the last few bots I've seen, but the aim is worse. Of course, that's a blessing considering I'm the target. It's no problem to dodge missiles while Mal buzzes around its knees.

"How did you ever think this was going to work?" I call.

"Hush now." The robot bats Mal fifty yards into the side of a building. He pushes himself slowly to his feet. "It totally would have worked if that Dodger asshole hadn't tried to mind control my AI. I mean, what the hell? Who even does that?"

Off the top of my head, I can think of a half dozen heroes. Dodger's the only hero in the District, but this isn't even the biggest city in our time zone. My momentary distraction breaks when a missile whizzes by my cheek. I feint left and get my hand up just long enough to use the missile's momentum to redirect the trajectory and return it to sender.

It hits the robot in the face. That has absolutely no effect because Mal lodged the optics in the chest and put the heart in the left knee. Ingenious, even if I'm going to kill him for it later.

I only have one play left. I fly straight for the robot's chest. It sets its sights on me along with another pair of missiles. I veer straight up into the air, forcing the robot to track. But considering the location of the optics, that forces it into an awkward angle. Following my trajectory means it can't see Mal.

Still, I spend a good minute absolutely sure I'm going to die. Then the robot teeters and crashes to the ground where Malevolence stands holding a mess of wire. Civilians are still swarming around the place. Considering the immediate danger is gone, the press will be all over this in a few seconds. I can see the vast green expanse of the Wheel in the distance and hear the river behind me.

I allow myself to exhale in relief.

#

No one knows what to do with Mal's robot, so it's still in the middle of the Southern Spoke the next day, with traffic rerouting to some of the smaller streets. It takes less than an hour before some of the more daring kids tag it. The splashes of haphazard graffiti have the same effect as a kindergarten's art class. The lack of police presence tells me that Detective Lombardozzi has bigger things on his plate.

I find Mal attempting to pry off some of the more expensive parts. I should have really spent yesterday dismantling the robot, but in my defense the parts were welded together and even I'm not strong enough to fly something that big out of the city intact. Besides, I think the EPA might get on me if I dumped that much metal into the river.

Thoughts of preemptive dismantling go out the window when Mal throws a piece of scrap metal at my face. He lacks super strength, but Brooks used to point out some of the best pitchers in Major League Baseball are wiry guys. If Mal's got one thing going for him, it's the ability to generate a lot of torque. It's all in the technique, and really, anything traveling more than a hundred miles an hour shouldn't be hitting me in the face.

Mal whoops in triumph, polishes off the granola bar in his hands before launching himself wholeheartedly into the attack. He's lost the splint sometime in the past week but has changed it out for a pair of brass knuckles that give his punches a little more bite. I don't hold back either, thoughts of the photos of Brooks and anger rich in my fists. Mal's not only someone who can take my wrath, but someone who it is socially acceptable for me to beat to a bloody pulp.

We go at it until almost dawn when Malevolence grabs his backpack full of salvaged parts, winks at me and asks, "Feel better, buddy?"

I go back to my apartment and don't sleep. I dream I'm talking to Brooks. Nothing huge, a heated discussion about rival college basketball teams. Which one will do better come NCAA tournament time. When I wake up, the window is open and the apartment is freezing. My cheeks are wet from tears and I have no idea why. School is another series of lectures and classmates asking me if I feel all right. I make a joke about feeling all left and when I get home I put on a costume and fly back to Mal's robot.

Malevolence is there again, prying off more pieces of the robot but not with much urgency. The rest of the heroes seem to have decided he's my problem and ignored him. "I saw Psi a few hours ago," he calls up to me. "I was starting to think you stood me up."

A vast black bruise spans his cheek. My fault. The matching bruise on my fist has already faded, but the sight of his injury leaves a funny feeling in my stomach. It doesn't stop me from going at him again.

This fight isn't nearly as vicious as yesterday's, more blows dodged than landed. Mal's bouncing on his toes like a parody of an underweight boxer, chattering the entire time and sneaking drinks of an extra-large protein shake for a pick-me-up. I find myself coming out of my funk, grinning back at him, feeling every bit as alive as I did back in high school.

Eventually, the sun sets and there's a barrage of gunfire on the horizon. I freeze, blood spatter painting the insides of my eyes. Brooks died in a rain of gunfire almost four years ago, and the sound still makes me cringe.

"You should probably go get to that, Alex," Mal says.

I don't hesitate to fly off. Mal stands on the street below with a smile on his face and calls, "See you tomorrow, babe!"

The third night of our showdown goes the same as the first two. We skip the fourth because Mal has tickets to some sports game, and the fifth stops abruptly when Mal's projectile hits me in the forehead and opens up a deep gash that won't stop bleeding. It's been almost two years since someone cut me deep enough that I needed stitches. I usually save those repairs for gunshot wounds. More than the pain, the shock of seeing my own blood stops me. Mal blanches and disappears.

He's back the next night, throwing rolls of gauze at me from behind his rusting robot. Which is either a joke or really thoughtful. Like the last fights, this one feels like a sparring session. I find myself trying new things, using flight to gain momentum for my hits as Mal springs sideways from every flat surface to get away.

I don't realize Dodger's there until he starts a slow clap when I land a particularly solid blow and send Mal careening into the carcass of his giant killer robot. Dodger is perched on the telephone wires, steady despite the wind, his expression masked by the white hood.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" I call up to him and hope he doesn't say the rest of the heroes think I need help dealing with Malevolence.

"Psi said I should come watch." He swings off one wire and lands on the next. "You two put on a helluva show."

Mal pulls himself to his feet, still a little unsteady. He'd shown up tonight wearing a new pair of goggles that I assume have night-vision capabilities. "'Nother one of you assholes, huh?"

Dodger angles himself toward Mal and nods.

Mal rubs at his forehead, leaving a trail of grease behind. He looks to me. "Is this the psychic one?"

"Yep."

"Fuck," Mal says and bolts off into the distance.

"Oops," Dodger drawls, not sorry in the least.

"You let him get away!" I shout.

Mask or no mask, I can feel the disbelief radiating from Dodger. "You weren't going to put him away tonight."

I sigh, but there's no use in arguing when he's right. "Why are you even here, Dodger?"

He jumps to the ground, landing inches in front of me. "Checkup. Been a while since you went on walkabout. Wanted to make sure it doesn't happen again."

I step back and let myself drift into the air. "No."

"Alex..."

"My head, my business."

"Now you sound like X."

His blatant manipulation nearly works. The only thing driving me for most of my first year on the job was to be a different kind of hero than X. "Why are you checking up on me now?"

Dodger flexes his fingers. "What did you do two nights ago?"

"I stayed home and didn't fight Malevolence."

"Specifics, Good Guy. Did you watch a movie? Jerk off? Have a date?"

"What does it even matter?"

"X was following you, and he doesn't remember anything."

That's possibly the most terrifying piece of news I've ever heard. "X is following me?"

"Really? That's what you took from that? X doesn't remember. You don't remember. Am I the only one noticing this is a problem?"

"I'm going home to put bars on my window," I say.

"I don't know why I even bother," Dodger says, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Tomorrow I'm going to bring X and popcorn, and we're going to watch you and Malevolence kill each other."

He's not joking. He and X are perched on a rooftop when I get there the next night.

Malevolence, wisely, skips out.

"Missing your friend already?" X calls.

I don't answer.

"I liked his robot." X strokes the gun in his lap. "More showings like that, and he just might merit my attention."

The last person X deemed worthy of his attention wound up dangling from a noose off a bridge. The one before was dropped from ten stories headfirst onto the steps of the police station. I school the anger from my face. "Don't you two have some crime to fight?"

Good Guy #60

Mal lies low for a week and then pulls off a successful bank heist. A few days after that, he falls on his face spectacularly while attempting to mind control the Senate. I'm at the clean-up for the first incident and deliver the ass-kicking in the second. Neither of us pull our punches. Mal's overmatched, but he fights with everything he has. He weaves his way through the carcass of his giant robot with ease I can't hope to duplicate.

"Mind control?" I hiss between blows. "I thought your thing was robots."

"Why the hell do you think it didn't work?" Mal sputters back. "I'm shit at the squishy sciences. The only thing I ever did right with it was save your brawny ass." I falter and his fist slams into my face. "Got to say, Alex it's been worth every second. Not a lot of folks out there would let me get away with half the shit you let slide."

He's winding me up. I can see it. This isn't Mal on autopilot. This is Mal pissed off because he actually wanted this scheme to work. The entire Senate under his thumb. Jesus. His fighting has a dangerous edge. He doesn't bother to dodge, just attack, which leaves me with a lot more damage than I'm used to.

"Now Professor Deadly, that's someone who can do it all." Mal dances out of the way of my blow and is behind me before I can blink. "Interfacing the bots and the biological. My old research advisor Nieves could do that. Kind of wish I hadn't blown her up. She was a bitch, but she was smart. More useful than Deadly, who tries to kill me when I ask for help."

"Crying for you."

Mal punches me in the throat.

Ironically, I'm saved by Pitchfork, who rises from the sewers in all his red-skinned glory with what looks like a tail curling behind him. Mal goes from breaking the sound barrier to a dead halt. "Sid, what the literal hell are you doing here?"

Pitchfork's skin seems to glow in the darkness. "Malevolence, I wish to propose an alliance! If we were to join forces, the Earth would bow before us!"

"Yeah, I'm not liking that proposal." Mal takes two decisive strides and offers me a hand up. "What do you say you let me finish kicking your ass another time?"

"Gladly," I reply.

After that, for just a couple of hours, everything is easy. Pitchfork descends to his usual hole in the ground and leaves me and Mal standing in the middle of the street, neither of us quite sure where to go from here. I half expect another fight, but Mal tugs off his goggles and looks me over. "22nd and Ninth. I need a beer."

He's off before I can respond. It only takes me a few moments to make the decision. I fly to one of my spare stashes of clothes and walk to the intersection where I find a dive bar called Lair on an otherwise quiet block. Maybe a dozen people are there, none of whom look up when I enter. A couple plays pool on an uneven table in the corner, and the barman looks like he might actually be a reanimated corpse.

I haven't been in a bar since I was eighteen and toting a poorly made fake ID.

It's Malcolm Quick, not Malevolence, who grabs me by the arm and shoves a beer in my hand. We grab a tiny table of heavy oak in the corner with a view of a TV showing a West Coast hockey game. The beer's good. Not the shit I used to drink for volume more than quality. It's the first alcohol I've had since Brooks died, and that's bringing back all manner of crap memories. "This is weird," I say.

"If it makes you feel better, I poisoned your drink," Mal says. "Always wondered what cyanide does to a superhero's constitution."

I spit the beer back into the mug. That's another reason I haven't touched a drop of this stuff since high school.

"Joking," Mal says lightly. "The worst thing I did here is use my fake ID. The bartender gives zero shits."

"I really hate you." Cyanide's not a fatal problem for me, but it does give me indigestion. "See how you like it when I put cyanide in your drink."

"Is poisoning going to become a thing?" Mal asks, eyes bright. "Because I can probably build a filtration device that could take care of the worst of it. Installing it might be a bit difficult, but come on, becoming part cyborg would give me so much street cred."

"Joking again?"

Mal smirks and tilts the beer back, finishing it without taking a breath. "Don't think so. I'm liking this cyborg idea. Got to get the eyes that do X-ray vision. How cool would that be?"

I open my mouth to counter, but if I were in the market for a cybernetic implant I'd probably go with the eyes too. Glasses are a real pain. "Be better if they were zoom enabled. Maybe infrared."

"Of course. That goes without saying." He waves a hand. "Lasers, Alex! I could make them shoot lasers! Why have I not already made cybernetic eyes that shoot lasers?"

"Installation," I reply.

Mal goes quiet for a moment and then busts out laughing. "Holy hell, the sense of humor's back. This is why you're more fun than the rest of you idiots."

"Nobody throws keggers for the villains?"

"Oh, hell no. Can you imagine Worst Nightmare at a party with the scary-ass vibes she puts out? Not to mention she looks like she's twelve. Pitchfork smells like brimstone, and Professor Deadly is more than a little pissed at me for stealing her stuff."

"Really? She's not a fan?"

Mal shakes his head. "We've had a bad run-in or six. She doesn't take kindly to folks who pitch in to stop an apocalypse. I'm surprised X puts up with you after you worked with me. Seems like he'd be the same flavor of uncompromising."

Now that he mentions it, I'm surprised too. A lull in the conversation leaves Mal tracing the edges of his empty glass. I stand up, head to the bar and get him another beer. He gives me an appreciative grin when I slide it over. "Look at you, contributing to the delinquency of the underaged."

I roll my eyes. It's not like I can cast stones. "You've been to college. And I doubt you're a minor."

"I'm nineteen," Mal offers. "But you know, also Canadian so it's not like it's a big deal."

"You're not Canadian. You might be a pathological liar, but you're not Canadian." I slide back into the seat across from him. "Can I ask you a question?"

He holds up one finger and takes a sip, as if using it to gauge my taste. Satisfied, he wipes foam off his face and says, "Only if I get to ask you one back."

I nod. My own beer's getting warm, and it takes a conscious effort not to pick it up for a sip. The only time I've been in a bar since college, I was in costume and breaking up a knife fight. "Worst Nightmare messed me up pretty good a few months back, and you fixed me. Why?"

"Oh, you haven't figured out the bit with the post-hypnotic suggestion yet then, have you?"

"You are so full of it. You didn't do anything except snap me out of it. Dodger would have let X kill me if it was anything else."

Mal purses his lips and runs his hands through the dyed black hair. "Look, I ran across you when you were brain dead and babbling. I figured fixing mind control was probably a good skill to have in my pocket." He rubs his hands together. "I probably should have just replaced your brain with a computer and used you like a remote control."

"Do you know what I was doing before you found me?"

"It was Worst Nightmare's doing. You were probably frolicking around the zoo or something. Who knows what goes on in that head of yours? Hey, maybe you robbed a bank! We could totally start a club. Or maybe a band. Call ourselves the Getaways. I like that. My turn." He takes another sip of beer and then looks to mine. "Why don't you drink?"

I stare at my beer, still mostly untouched. "Pretty sure drinking and flying would be an even worse idea than drinking and driving."

"Ain't talking about that. I'm talking about the fact that you have the best house brew in town on this table and are losing a staring match with it. You gone teetotaler or something?"

"You noticed?"

Mal taps his temple. "Not going to brag, but I'm a genius. And I remember you from high school. You were a train wreck."

"You didn't go to my high school."

"Sure about that one, Manners? Look at me, I'm probably your age. Probably that skinny kid you picked on but don't remember."

"No, I'd remember a Malcolm Quick in my grade. You've got a name that stands out. Besides, mom always made me buy the yearbook. I checked."

"Caught me," Mal concedes. "My question. Why don't you embrace the alcoholism that is so prevalent in our lines of work?"

"Last time I drank, some really bad stuff happened."

"Really? Bad stuff? Man, if you don't have at least one story like that you're doing life wrong."

I look down at my hands. "I was eighteen the last time I went on a bender. I got my best friend killed."

I want to say that was the worst it got for me, that Brooks's death shook me out of my funk, but there was a year between Brooks and Good Guy. I spent most of it in a fog. I drifted through my first year of college and ended it on a rooftop.

Mal is quiet for a long time, but I don't blame him. Finally, he reaches across the table, grabs the rest of my beer and claims it as his own.

#

Dodger is waiting in my apartment when I get home, watching infomercials. "Your thing with Malevolence," he says without looking up. "Nothing good can come from it."

I should be worried. It's the kind of prognosis no one likes to get from a psychic, but I think I much preferred him being done with me. Anger feels good, an old friend wrapped around my bones. "You know what? You can go fuck yourself. You haven't put Worst Nightmare behind bars, and X is never going to kill SuckerPunch. How is that any different?"

Dodger stands up and squares his body to me. It's as close as he'll get to eye contact. "Worst Nightmare is my kid sister."

I sputter. "And X?"

"X and SuckerPunch are as close as you can get to star-crossed lovers. There's a lot of hate sex. You don't want to go there."

"Wait, SuckerPunch is a girl?"

"X is queer." He crosses the room and pats me on the shoulder. "Make a big deal of it and he will kill you."

"Because he's in the closet?"

Dodger walks into my kitchen, pulls open the fridge, looking for something. I haven't made a grocery run in two weeks so there's nothing but condiments. "No, because he doesn't like you, and he's the deadliest bastard on this planet. But if you want to ask if his alter ego's out, be my guest."

I pull my wallet out of my pockets and put my keys on the hook by the door. "I think I want you out of my apartment."

"Who's Malevolence to you then? Because if you're going to ignore the blackouts, you've got to tell me this much, what's his hold on you?" In a second Dodger's an inch from my face, a hand pressed against my bare arm. I can smell cigar smoke on his breath, feel the fingers combing the surface of my mind. "Wait. You'd never met Malevolence before you started the hero gig. Do you realize how fucked up that is? Most of us have a history with our nemesis. You started a bromance between beat-downs."

"I made a truce when someone tried to end the world."

"You could have called us! Me or Psi or X. I don't like this. Not at all. First you ignore there are days you can't remember and now you're drinking with supervillains. You don't have an ounce of sense in your body. This has to stop."

Mal. He's going to give Mal to X. My fists clench. "Mal is mine."

"Alex, you let us worry about Mal. Take a few weeks off. Work on that degree of yours." He approaches the window, one foot on the ledge. "And you might want to start locking your windows."

Good Guy #61

Three weeks.

Dodger benches me for three weeks. I had no idea he could do that. Psi tails me anytime I think of trying to go out, blasting sunbeams at my ass until I'm too annoyed to do anything. I tear though my apartment thinking I might find some other indication of whoever left me the photo of Brooks but only succeed in pulling out a lot of memories I'd rather forget.

I turn twenty-two on a Wednesday and spend the night working on a paper as the hockey game plays on the radio. I call Mom, who asks me if I've found a girl. I talk to Elle, who laughs and says I'm on the verge of a psychotic break. Some nights it's not just Psi or one of the other heroes tailing me. I keep catching a figure dressed in black out of the corner of my eyes.

Malevolence is in the news. Not as much as SuckerPunch or Professor Deadly, but I've learned enough about his style to pick out which unsolved crimes point the malevolent way. The one time he's actually captured on film is during a fight between him and another supervillain. Professor Deadly is bigger than Mal, her face scarred, her voice booming. She looks slightly different every time I see her, the topography of her face morphing with the light, the hair a different shade, the lab coat a different length.

It's the first fight I've ever seen where Mal has murder in his eyes.

I don't like it.

It's hard not to be antsy. I'm nearing two and a half years at this. Three since I jumped off a building and found out I could fly. Almost four since Brooks died in front of me. The superhero gig has seeped into my blood.

I sit in Professor Halpern's class staring at the scars on my knuckles. We've made it past the World Wars, into Reconstruction. A period even Halpern considers a dead point in history. Might get better once we enter the uprisings. I'm planning to write my paper about one of the uprisings. There was one in this city maybe forty years ago, hundreds of zombies fought off without any use of supers at all.

Comforting to think it's possible.

Halpern's voice starts to lull. But I've got to be here, awake and alert. I don't have an excuse for nodding off in class, not now, when Dodger's intent on keeping me from a fight. I've slept more in the past three weeks than I have in the past year.

I'm still tired. I keep thinking I see Brooks. He's every face in the corner of my eye. The doodles in the margin of my notes are starting to take the face of heroes and villains. Dodger's patterns of three black eyes against his white hood. X's cutaway mask outlined in bold pen strokes. I'm drifting again. Dodger's ominous warnings about blackouts play in my mind, but I'm so distracted I doubt I'd even notice. The whole year after Brooks died is still mostly a blur. My direction's gone. Who is Alex Manners without Good Guy?

The door to the classroom swings open. Professor Halpern stops mid-sentence, and the lights flicker. A familiar figure moves across the room. Dark green spandex, lab goggles, slim frame. Halpern stands his ground, not even fazed by the sight. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and slide my chair back as quietly as I can. The girl sitting next to me—I haven't gotten her name despite us being six weeks into the semester—puts out an arm as if to stop me.

"Can I help you, sir?" Professor Halpern asks. "I don't believe you're on my class roster."

The man in costume, the man in Mal's costume, runs a hand across the desk. I grab an umbrella, one of those long sturdy metal ones, from a guy in the fifth row. He makes a fist and punches it into his hands, mouthing, Get him.

"Thought I'd make history," the man in costume says, and it's not just Mal's suit, it's Mal's voice, Mal's smirk playing across his face. He's holding what can only be described as a big-ass sword. "Or you know, end it."

Before I can get there, umbrella raised like a club, the sword is in Professor Halpern's gut.

A second later, my swing collides into Mal's face, sending him skittering sideways. "The world is going to end," Mal says. His voice is echoing through the PA system. It's the kind of effect Malevolence could create if he was being showy. Another idea cannibalized from Professor Deadly. "And when it ends, I want you to know that it was me."

Then he's through the door, at a pace that is practically sauntering for him. I debate going after him, but Professor Halpern makes a choking sound around the sword and I move to him instead. The sword is clean through. Blood pools onto the tile floor, some of it spattering backward, dripping off the chalkboard. I don't pull the sword out. I know enough first aid for that. Right now it's the only thing holding in his intestines.

"Call an ambulance," I bark, but when I glance back a half-dozen students already have cell phones in hand.

If any of this turns up on the internet as a video, I may actually be forced to kill someone. "Hold on, Professor," I tell him, but in my head I'm back in that alley with Brooks burbling blood all over my shirt.

You fucking asshole, Brooks had hissed. You stupid fucking asshole. He'd wasted away through three failed surgeries to repair the damage before dying of infection. I got to see him after the fact, but he was never conscious. Those were the last words Brooks ever said to me.

You stupid fucking asshole.

Professor Halpern is an old man, a big man, but this is a big sword. "Always wanted to die like this," he says, so low that I almost miss it amid the sirens.

"You're not going to die, Professor," I say. Which is ridiculous, because of course he's going to die. I've seen stuff like this before, I've assessed wounds, sewn myself up even, but this is something I'm not sure I could survive. Maybe Indestructoman, but Indestructoman was one of a kind.

"Part of history," Professor Halpern finishes.

And I can see it, that moment when the lights go out in his brain. The paramedics push me away and work at trying to revive him. The nameless girl who sits the next seat over hugs me, tears rolling down her face. I'm too tired to flinch away. The student whose umbrella I grabbed is puking in a wastebasket. One of the brown-nosers who sits in the front row is in hysterics, ranting about the crazy villain in costume and the end of the world.

Detective Lombardozzi eventually makes it to the scene, already pissed because it's a superhero case. "Right," he claps his hands. "Nut-job in costume. Any of you kids happen to know which nut-job?"

"Malevolence," I say, barely more than a whisper. The rest of the class looks to me, blank. Malevolence isn't the type to make a huge splash in the news, and the giant malfunctioning killer robot was more than a month ago.

"Sorry," Detective Lombardozzi says, "I didn't catch that."

"Malevolence," I say, louder. "He's a speedster. If I remember right, he builds robots."

And apparently stabs people.

Lombardozzi fixes me with a long stare. "You're Alex Manners, right? You were the one who tried to stop this?"

"Didn't do much good."

Lombardozzi stares for a long moment before steering me to a room for individual questioning. It's Professor Halpern's now-vacant office. I've never been in here before. Framed degrees hang on his wall, arranged in ascending order up to Ph.D. The computer on the desk is dusty and a decade out of date. On the other hand, there are dozens of notebooks on a shelf, all full to bursting with paper and labeled in duct tape. The books around the room are varied, but most are related to the World Wars. A small corner of the uppermost shelf has books with J. D. Halpern, Ph.D, as the author.

Detective Lombardozzi closes the door behind us. "You were the same kid who brought Ajax Gadzinski back to his foster family."

Of all the things I'd expected him to notice, that was way down the list. "Yeah, I did."

"How long ago was that?"

"Don't really remember. Last semester."

Lombardozzi circles around and sits at Professor Halpern's desk, gesturing at the chair on the other side. A vein in my forehead throbs, but I don't sit down. "And you're a student here?"

"Yes, sir. History major. Senior. I should be graduating this May."

"Congratulations. Do you also happen to have a death wish?"

"I'm sorry?"

Lombardozzi narrows his eyes, his teeth flashing in an almost predatory smile. He's wearing a neatly pressed blue shirt, blue tie and brown slacks. He looks like he could be a tax accountant, but he's the only person on the police force who has managed to respond to cases with superheroes for more than six months without resigning. Sure, he complains bitterly the entire time, but he's persistent, sharp and more than willing to bend rules he thinks are stupid. My stomach ties itself in knots.

"You were in a room with twenty other students, sitting in the back row when Malevolence—and let me tell you, even having to say that name gives me fits—comes in and threatens the professor. Out of the entire class, you're the only one who tries to stop him."

"I liked Professor Halpern," I say, schooling my face blank. "Why wouldn't I try and stop him?"

"Because you were going up against a supervillain. Don't you watch the news, kid? Some of these fuckers can shoot lasers out of their eyes. Why risk your own skin?"

"What does it matter? It didn't work."

"I don't care that it didn't work. I want to know why you tried." Lombardozzi eyes a Newton's Cradle on Halpern's desk, drawing back one of the metallic balls and sending it careening into the four others. His pose is one of studied nonchalance, but there's tension in his muscles.

"Malevolence doesn't look like much. I thought I might be able to take him."

"Uh-huh. Son, three months ago, if something like this happened I'd have put my money on you being buckets of stupid. Turns out my perspective's changed. Developed some new instincts." He catches the Newton's Cradle, stopping the clacking sound and leans forward. "Did you know Ajax Gadzinski's father? Kid told me he saw you at the funeral. Swore up and down you knew his daddy. Somehow you managed to become the one person in the whole world that kid trusts."

"I'm sorry, detective, but what does this have to do with Professor Halpern?" It's an effort to keep from stammering. "I feel like I'm being interrogated. I found Ajax and took him for hot chocolate. I got some work done from his dad once or twice. He was a nice guy."

"He was an accountant. You're in college. You don't need one of those until you realize you're drowning in student loan debt." There's a shark-sharp grin on Detective Lombardozzi's face. "Gadzinski was also Indestructoman, but you knew that already, didn't you?"

People have found me out before. I might be the only super in the city who hasn't told a significant other or a family member, but that doesn't mean people don't figure it out. Hell, it took Dodger all of a month before he regularly started to break into my place. Psi snuck in through my windows just a few weeks ago. I'm not sure if X has figured it out, but Mal knows. And once a villain figures it out...

"Not surprised at all, huh?" Lombardozzi says, his voice brittle. "Which one are you? You don't have the legs to be Psi and I don't really see that crazy fucker X attacking anything with an umbrella. So who does that leave? Dodger? Good Guy?"

Almost against my will, I look up and meet his eyes.

Lombardozzi leans back in his seat, chewing on his pen. "Well I'll be damned. Good Guy's a frat boy."

"I didn't pick the name." My voice is quiet, as much of a concession as I'm willing to verbalize. I cross the room and sit down on the chair across from Lombardozzi. "Please, you can't tell anyone."

"Anyone on the force who would out a superhero is brain dead. I kind of figured there'd be a super in this classroom, because really, what the hell kind of villain would kick off a plot for world domination in a history classroom instead of the White House? Only answer I could come up with is a villain who wants to piss off a very specific hero."

A pulsing headache builds behind my eyes. "You think this is my fault. Christ, you're going to arrest me as an accomplice."

"Don't be stupid. You're practically a kid. And believe it or not, I think people like you are far and away the best suited to deal with apocalyptic threats. But..." He shifts, and Halpern's chair groans. "Look, if you need help, that's what the police are for no matter how much I bitch about supers."

"All right," I say.

Lombardozzi eyes me, and there's a full minute of silence. An interrogation technique. I read somewhere that people always want to fill the silence. I stare back at him.

He sighs and beaks the staring contest. "Fine, I get not talking about it, but I need to know this, does Malevolence know your identity?"

"Yes," the word is little more than a whisper, but it makes Lombardozzi's body sag.

"Jesus, kid. You got any family I need to put on protection? I mean you're what, eighteen? Nineteen? This is the sort of thing that can get you dead."

"I'm twenty-two."

"Good Guy's been at it for about three years, which means you started when you were nineteen. Jesus, my kid brother just turned nineteen. Why do you even get into something like this? Adrenaline junkie? You used to do base jumping and find out you could fly?"

"I hit rock bottom, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me, vigilante. Official position on you supers is that you are crazy bastards who deserve to be locked up. Unofficially, the city would be a smoldering pile of ruins without you. So I'm telling you this: If this Malevolence character makes a play to destroy the world, we will try to stop him. I get that trying may well send the whole damn police force through a meat grinder. So I'm asking you—asking Good Guy—to stop this fucker. Before he does something like blow up the sun."

"He wouldn't do it that way," I mutter. "He has this thing about obeying the laws of physics."

"Sure as shit doesn't seem to stop him from being apocalyptic levels of crazy. Fix it, Manners. Please. In the meantime, I need to take care of a murder investigation."

"Murder investigation?"

"How many seventy-year-olds you think get run through with a broadsword and live to tell the tale? I'm sorry for your loss, but somehow when I got assigned to the supers beat, I got sucked into everything that touched it, so I've got sixteen thousand things to do. You wouldn't happen to have an actual identity for this Malevolence clown, do you?"

Malcolm Quick. The name is on my lips, the smirk etched in my mind. I can see him even now, laughing, joking, fighting, against me, beside me.

"No, sir," I say. "Didn't know him before we started fighting. Don't know him now."

"Figured as much," Lombardozzi says, standing up. He hands me a business card. "If you have any information, this is my personal line. Don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," I say, staring at the card.

"Stop Malevolence, and I'll consider us even."

The door to Professor Halpern's office swings shut behind Lombardozzi. But I sit there staring at the business card without really seeing it. I'm not sure of a lot of things in this world. I don't know what's been keeping me fighting, and I sure as hell don't know why anyone out there makes the choices they do. Halpern wanted me to put my faith in something. Find my convictions, something I believe in. Turn Alex Manners into someone more like Good Guy.

A sense of wrongness gnaws at my gut. Malevolence just rolled into one of my classrooms and killed my professor before declaring his intent to end the world.

Malcolm Quick likes this world too much to ever destroy it.

This is something I believe.

VOLUME FOUR:

Enemies Like These

Target Acquired #173

People say morality is a moving target.

They're wrong, of course. There is a right and a wrong, a quick decision point. Black and white. Easy as pulling a trigger.

X slides a sword out of its sheath, training it on a spot in midair. SuckerPunch is close. Xavier can feel him, a prickling in his arms, protesting against scar tissue. He doesn't trust a lot of things in the world, but instinct, he does trust. He stands absolutely still for a long moment, listening to the shifts in the wind.

SuckerPunch attacks from behind. X is too slow to stop the blow, but it doesn't surprise him. SuckerPunch has a knack for this. It's one of the things Xaiver has always appreciated about him, even back when SuckerPunch was just Kyle Aucoin going through unfortunate bouts of invisibility.

X's swing is a bit wild on the return, and he feels the drift in the wind as SuckerPunch dodges out of his way.

It's been almost ten years since Xavier saw Kyle's face, the two of them guinea pigs at the Superhero Project. X woke up after weeks of treatments with reflexes so fast they bordered on precognition, no sign of the nerve damage that had forced him out of the Marines.

Kyle woke up missing half his right arm. He'd stared at the missing limb, muttering, "Xavier, you don't understand. It's not like it's gone. I can still feel it. When I reach out, it's like I'm touching skin."

The next day Kyle woke up missing a leg, and Xavier decided it was time to get them both out of there. There'd never been a successful trial at the Superhero Project before the two of them, and Xavier could see where it was going to lead.

Could see it even on the day he'd volunteered.

He wonders sometimes how much of Kyle is still left in SuckerPunch. Xavier's been losing pieces of himself to his alter ego for years now. The picture of Kyle's face is fading in his mind, but his mind's never been his best feature.

A solid kick to the wrist sends the sword flying, but that's why X never carries just one weapon. The gun's a heavy weight in Xavier's hand. He's good at this. Always has been. He moved a lot as a kid and with that came a parade of people picking on the new kid. When he reached his teens, he decided that was okay so long as the other guy got it bad, too. It's the kind of fighting style that landed him in more fights, made him harder, made him better.

The time between meeting Kyle and Xavier's first brawl with Kyle was roughly ninety seconds. Explosive chemistry, Kyle said almost a month later. Always knew you were going to be fun. And then there were years of just the two of them, and they were good years.

A familiar fist slams into his cheek.

"You're not even trying," SuckerPunch says. "What the fuck is wrong with you today?"

SuckerPunch's victims are accusing him with vacant eyes. He hasn't been offered a justification. Kyle used to at least try to offer justification.

Xavier knows this script. It would be so easy to catch a forearm, grab for a cheek. He still knows the curve of SuckerPunch's mouth, will always know it. But he's drawn his line. Again. Just like he always does, in the fucking sand. He will not have sex beside corpses.

Xavier should probably just swear off sex with SuckerPunch. But you can't be invisible while wearing clothes, and damn if he isn't a fan of easy access.

He hears the sound of feet against pavement and whirls to fire off two shots. X will kill SuckerPunch if he has the chance. He won't hesitate. Never again. X will look SuckerPunch straight in the eyes he can't see and put a bullet between them.

Hopefully, SuckerPunch won't have the time to point out that X kills people all the time.

And that's what scares him. What still scares him after all these years. Xavier Zimmerman and Kyle Aucoin always had the potential to be killers. Just took the Superhero Project to bring it out. But they put an end to the Superhero Project and that's something he will never regret. What he does regret is the day he found Kyle smiling in a street full of dead cops. Burn every piece, right X? Just like we agreed.

Lines in the fucking sand. They're both killers because they like it, but at least X has standards. Politicians are kind of his over-under.

X. It always takes a second to recognize Dodger's presence in his head, and that's more than enough to throw off his rhythm. Dodger can't access Kyle's mind. Invisible body, invisible thoughts. Xavier probably got the short end of that stick when it came to powers—though the last time he suggested a swap, SuckerPunch put a knife in his gut and left him to die.

SuckerPunch lands a blow to his stomach. Xavier doubles over, gasping for breath. Found the one kink in the armor, but SuckerPunch has always been good at that. His mouth opens involuntarily and then there are lips against them, cold and chapped. It's reflex that makes him react, a decade of sense memory. Of Kyle Aucoin at his side before he faded.

Xavier almost wishes it had been for good.

"Been fun, X. Till the next bloodbath."

Even listening, Xavier can't tell when he leaves. When SuckerPunch first became invisible, you could hear him like the distant rumble of artillery fire. He's evolved since then, learned to be light on his feet. Xavier hates him for it. Hates him for so many things.

Xavier looks up to see Dodger swinging off a power line, his ridiculous jersey swirling behind him like a cape. For just a second, he has a vision of pulling the trigger and putting a bullet straight through Dodger's third eye.

Xavier holsters his gun, retrieves his fallen sword and sheaths it. "You interrupted, in case you were wondering."

"We've got a problem," Dodger says.

Dodger has come to X with his problems more than once. "And I'm a solution."

Xavier likes to think that makes Dodger wince, but the hood masks his expression. Dodger knows every hero in this city, knows their strengths, knows their weakness. Dodger thinks that provides supers with some protection, but Indestructoman still got iced.

Dodger never saw it coming.

Xavier guessed something bad would happen to Indestructoman well before it did. Indestructoman always had shit taste in women. He had an army of ex-girlfriends that either ended up shooting him or selling him to the crook of the moment. The only part Xavier didn't see coming was that Indestructoman could be killed.

Ironic, considering X is the resident expert in death.

"You remember Malevolence?" Dodger asks.

Of course he does. The little shit had been nothing more than a fly for the first few months, but more and more robots bear the marks of his sticky little fingers. "The speedster with the giant killer robot. Hard to forget."

Malevolence is an odd one, laughing through fights, joking and wisecracking. Reminds Xavier of one of the old heroes, the Wisp: A tiny little thing, barely more than fifteen, a teleporter who used her ability like breathing. She loved to fight, but loved to laugh more. Dodger was crazy about her. Then one day the Wisp made a mistake and jaunted into the path of one of X's bullets. It was an accident. A freak of chance.

Dodger has never forgiven him.

Xavier has never asked him to.

"Malevolence has made a move," Dodger says. "Murdered a college professor in front of his class and promised the world's end."

X's hand itches to draw a gun, but... "Malevolence isn't my problem. Let Good Guy deal with him."

"Good Guy will have a shot at him, but he won't take it." Dodger taps his temple. "This, I know. This, I can see."

"Then he doesn't take the shot. People die. Happens every day. You can't save everyone."

Xavier can feel Dodger starting to press forward, his fingers against his mind. X brings up his best mental blocks.

Dodger lets out a quick breath of frustration. "X, if you had a chance, if you could go back to that night and pull the trigger, you'd do it, wouldn't you? You wouldn't give Kyle the chance to become who he is today."

Could he?

Before that night, Kyle had been a friend and ally. The four of them, Dodger and Wisp and X and SuckerPunch, fighting to keep the world safe. Then X had found SuckerPunch standing in a street full of dead cops, raised his gun and failed to fire.

At the time, Xavier still thought Kyle could be saved.

"You're right," X says. "I'd pull the trigger."

He'd been naive. Hundreds of lives could have been saved if he'd been able to see SuckerPunch for what he was. If there was a way to go back and put a bullet through his best friend's brain, X would take it in a heartbeat. It would probably destroy him, but watching Kyle destroy himself has been worse. Xavier might follow it by a bullet through his own skull. He's not entirely convinced that world would be worse for the loss.

"Malevolence is the same kind of problem," Dodger says.

Good Guy won't be able to eliminate Malevolence. Xavier knows this because he lived this. He doesn't want to watch it happen again.

"Been a while since I hunted someone who was actually worth the effort," X says.

"I don't want to know any of the details," Dodger says.

"Sure thing, boss."

"I'm serious about this, Xavier."

Xavier freezes. It's appalling how little sense this psychic has when cut off from his best advantage. "We're not friends. You don't get to call me that."

"Just get it done, X."

Xavier thinks of Malevolence locked in a fight to the death with Good Guy, neither of them realizing that they're pulling their punches, thinks of Wisp and how her smile faded with the crack of the gun and Kyle Aucoin's translucent face in his crosshairs.

X knows what he has to do.

Good Guy #62

After Lombardozzi interrogates me about Professor Halpern's murder, I start walking and keep walking. Eventually I make it to the outskirts of town, haul myself over the pedestrian bridge spanning the river and stop at the abandoned train station where Brooks and I spent hours as kids. Five years later, there's more wear, more graffiti, and probably a few more vagrants, but it's still my favorite place in the city.

This is the first time I've been here since Brooks died.

"There are ghosts in there, you know," a voice says from behind me. It's a kid on a bike. He's maybe twelve years old with smudged glasses and torn jeans.

"There's no such thing as ghosts."

"If you think that, you're an idiot," the kid says. "I've been in there before. Things move around. My friend was pushed down the stairs. There's all sorts of cool stuff, but it's not worth it."

The doors are boarded up, but there's a way in through the basement around back. The power's been out for a long time, but a skylight in the main lobby hasn't succumbed to nature yet. I put my hand on the locked door and close my eyes. It's warm. But that might be my imagination.

"Who were you talking to before?" the kid asks from behind me.

"What?"

"Before I started talking to you, I heard voices, but there's just you here now. Who were you talking to?"

"No one," I reply instantly, but tears sting my eyes and my voice sounds hoarse, like I have been talking for hours. When did the sun start to set?

My head aches.

"You're a weird dude," the kid says. "I wonder if that's why Shadow is following you."

"Shadow?"

"That's the ghost." The kid rolls his eyes. "Why do you think no one wants to go in there anymore?"

"If you're so afraid, what are you even doing here?"

The kid smirks. With his dark hair and dark skin, he looks nothing like Brooks, but that expression is still achingly familiar. "I like seeing if I can scare people. How'd I do?"

I shrug. "Points for effort, kid, but this is far from the scariest part of my day."

"Is that why you have blood on your shirt?"

I'd scrubbed my hands nearly to the point of bleeding after Detective Lombardozzi let me go, but a fine red mist remains on my shirt. The kid doesn't seem afraid. This neighborhood must have really gone to seed in the past few years. "Tomato sauce," I tell him. "I had spaghetti for lunch."

"Right." The kid cranks down on the pedals and wheels away, the bike rocking from side to side as he throws his whole body into the movement.

I look at the locked door, wondering how much has changed inside. If Brooks's stash of comics and whiskey is still in the only functioning locker.

It takes a conscious effort to turn away from the door. Professor Halpern's blood is on my shirt so I clutch my jacket tight, keep my head down and ignore any and all signs of police presence in the city as I walk home.

A figure in white has been trailing me for nearly a mile, running across the power lines as if they're tightropes. Dodger. I consider pushing the flash of anger in the psychic's direction, but I get it.

We watch out for our own.

I'm not the kind of guy to go on a rampage after something bad happens to me, but history suggests I am the kind of guy who might jump off a building.

I've never told anyone about that, but Dodger has to know.

Elle's waiting when I get to the top floor of the apartment building, throwing her own door open as I fumble for my keys, my fingers numb. She hugs me tight, not even seeming to notice the blood on my shirt, and drags me into her apartment. She puts on a pot of tea, dumps me on the couch and gives me a blanket. She pours me a cup, and I just hold it in my hands. While I've been missing both warmth and comfort in my life, her tea is crap.

"I heard about your professor," Elle says. "It was on the news. They said you tried to stop the bad guy, and it sounds like it was awful and—"

"I know," I interrupt. "I was there. Saw the whole thing in technicolor."

"Alex, I'm sorry." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. It should be a comforting gesture, but it's everything I can do to keep from pulling away. "Do you want to talk?"

"No." I look at the steaming cup of tea.

"That's all right, too."

We sit for a long moment in silence, and that's strange. Her hand covering my own is making my skin itch. I think I'm allergic to her perfume because something is tight in my chest, the air heavy and still. I always thought the reason for surrounding yourself with people was so there would never be quiet. I've had far too much silence in my life lately. So I say what I imagine Brooks would have said. "Can I proposition you? That's totally how this scene wor—"

She elbows me in the side before I get the words out.

"Sorry," I huff. "I'm not good at this."

Elle leans into me, her breath hot against my cheek. "You know I've been waiting for you to make a move, right? Like actually make the move."

That's not something I seem physically capable of right now.

Elle rolls her eyes and swings herself around to sit down squarely on my lap, hair dangling enough to touch my face.

My hands shake. "What are you doing?"

"You were propositioning me, right? Come on, you had a bad day. My side project isn't going well. We could both do with forgetting for a while."

There's an old burn scar on the side of her forearm I don't remember noticing before. My vision's tunneling. I swear her eyes were a different shape yesterday, but that might be the light. Her pupils are huge, brown almost swallowed by black. She rolls her hips. I'm not sure it's possible to sink farther into the couch, but I give it a go. "Why?"

"Come on. You're cute in a dweeby sort of way. I'm not really equipped to take on someone with as many issues as you long term, but that's no reason not to blow off some steam."

She leans down and kisses me, lips cold against mine. I have to force myself to respond, because isn't this what Brooks always suggested? Find a girl, blow off some steam, be like everyone else. If you're not feeling it, you're not trying hard enough.

Elle shifts her hand down, and I push her away. "Jesus, Elle, what happened to your boyfriend?"

She narrows her eyes. "The one who doesn't actually exist?"

But looking around the room, I see evidence of another person. Notes in different handwriting on a pad by the television, a dress shirt that definitely wouldn't fit Elle draped over the back of a chair in the kitchen.

Elle sighs and climbs off my lap, sinking back down on the couch next to me. That's the biggest slice of relief I've had all day.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

"You wince when people touch you," she replies. "I was kind of curious to see what you'd do if I offered."

"That's mean."

She shrugs. "You're the one who started this. We don't have to talk about it again. Besides, did what it was supposed to do, right?"

"What was it supposed to do?"

"Make you forget. For just a few minutes."

Forget Professor Halpern. Forget Brooks. Forget the way the blood on my hands always feels the same.

Elle pats me on the shoulder. I fight the urge to flinch.

Good Guy #63

The next day brings a robot infestation in the city, all of them spouting vitriol about a Malevolent plot for world domination.

The look of the robots is too shiny, too sleek. Everything Mal builds looks like it comes from sixteen different sources. He doesn't bother with outside appearances, only function. These bots move with grace and don't have an ounce of rust. They're not brawlers but elegant vessels of destruction.

These bots look expensive. If I've learned one thing about Mal, it's that he's struggled for what he has and is struggling still. He hasn't robbed a bank in almost four months, which should put him on about the same economic level as me.

I'm about two months from a massive pile of student loans.

Everything is coming together, but it's coming together like a caricature, Malevolence drawn in crayon by someone with the functioning mental capacity of a six-year-old. Mal might have changed his base design since the last time I saw his giant robots, but this is out of character.

The other heroes don't think so.

Dodger spends most of the fight cursing in my mind. He hates robots. Hates anything he can't feel with his mental touch. He's nearing useless when he's not fighting people, so he's regulated to crowd control while Psi and I deal with the brunt of the attack. I head for the back of a robot's left knee, looking for exposed wires that aren't there and get slammed into the pavement for my troubles.

It takes X emptying a magazine into the thing's metal face for it to fall, but lots more robots are going strong.

Psi will blast for as long as she can, but the sky's clouding up and the sun's setting. She can't do this long past dark. Even X's supply of ammunition isn't inexhaustible.

So I start picking the robots up by their ankles, the heavy metal bodies a strain on even my strength, and dropping them to the ground from about twenty stories up. It's far from the neatest method of disposal, leaving huge robot-shaped craters in the streets, but it's better than more human casualties. The state of the roads has been atrocious for years anyway.

"You think you could do some more property damage if you tried, Good Guy?" Psi calls, humor in her voice as she looks to the dying sun for more power.

"That sounds like a challenge."

A missile whizzes by my head. Psi zaps it before it hits a nearby building. "Throw them in the river or something."

Because robots leaking fuel into the river is buckets of safe. Then again, no sane person would drink that water with all the mutagens going around, and Malevolence won't have anything to scavenge after river renders the electronics useless.

Except Mal won't be scavenging anything because this is supposedly a Malevolence-hosted shindig. His end-game. No point to scavenging your own fight while it's in progress.

"On your left," Psi calls, giving me just enough time to duck the clumsy blow of another robot. It fires two shots into a nearby building.

I swoop low, grab the robot by its lowest point and fly straight up.

"The river," Psi calls.

It's a bitch to find a handhold on the sleeker model of bot, and my entire grip is dependent on fingertip strength. I barely manage to lift it above the rooftops. The thing's flailing arms do some damage to high-reaching satellite dishes.

Oops.

Dodger's got 22nd Avenue cleared of civilians and has raised his fingers to his temple in response to a robot moving toward him. Kind of stupid because you can't mind-control an AI.

I drop my robot on his robot's head. The clack of metal on metal is deafening. The robot doesn't fall quite squarely, taking out a row of cars parked on the sidewalk.

"What the hell are you doing, Good Guy? I had that covered." The frustration in Dodger's voice is undercut by the waves of relief rolling off him.

"You're welcome." Because I'm still kind of bitter, I add, "You know you're useless with bots, right? Might want to evacuate the College Quarter. Panicky students, you know."

"Oh fuck you, Alex."

I touch down briefly on the roof of a building and scan the city. Malevolence would never leave his own party, too fond of his bots, too fond of the fight. Another patch of smoke is visible a half mile away so I step forward off the ledge and plummet two floors before soaring back up to make my way through buildings and screaming civilians.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a ghost. Just for a second, but I know him too well to ever mistake him for someone else.

In my distraction, I sideswipe the window of a building, not enough to break the glass but more than enough to throw me for a loop. I recover before I hit the ground, tracking back through the city to where I saw him, the incongruous figure in an alley raining destruction.

"Brooks!" I scream. "Brooks!"

He was here. The same lanky frame, the same shaggy hair, the same body language, everything. My head is throbbing, but he was here.

Here, in the same alley where he died almost four years ago.

It's suddenly very hard to breathe.

There's writing on the wall, letters four feet high that take up the entire panel.

BROOKS WAS HERE

I back up, my whole body shaking. I'm inches away from a full-blown panic attack. I've been back to this alley since Brooks died. Almost once a week, without fail, but this graffiti has never been here.

My mask is making it hard to breathe so I claw for the tie and pull it loose, cradling the black cloth as I gasp for breath. In the distance, I can still hear fights, screams from civilians, the clamp-clamping of heavy metal feet and the battle cries of other heroes.

Sweat rolls down my temple. My fists clench at the fabric of my slacks. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when I'm in costume.

I have better control than this. Forcing myself to stand, I pull the mask back over my face. Alex Manners can't drag his issues into Good Guy's fight. Because if I fuck up, we both die. I stare at the graffiti for another moment. A hand on my shoulder jars me from the scene.

"Brooks?" I ask and spin on my heel.

It's not Brooks.

It's Worst Nightmare.

She's not decked out in her usual cape and gray dress. She's wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her young face looking bored despite the chaos in the city. "Oh," she says. "Hey, Alex."

I scramble back. My history with Worst Nightmare is checkered. I don't respond well to psychic pressure. Never have. It's probably a sign of that grievous mental instability I assume is common in heroes.

"Good Guy," she says, "Why are you afraid?"

So many reasons. She's already sent me on a two-week walkabout, if I get close enough to touch her I might lose an entire month. That kind of takes away my advantage in a fight.

And then there's the impossible writing on the wall.

BROOKS WAS HERE

"Why am I afraid?" A hysterical note mars my usually deep tones. "You, mostly. Last time I lost two weeks."

Worst Nightmare nods. "Dear brother Dodger says I have a shadow in my heart. Says it has corrupted me, but I didn't hurt you. Just let you drift, stole away your nightmares. Did you see him?"

"See who?"

She laughs, her whole body shaking. She seems less somber than usual. Maybe because the entire city is gripped in a shared nightmare. Something more manageable than slice after slice of personal hell. "You have a lot of fingers in your brain, Alex Manners. Mine and Dodger's aren't even the most important."

"I can screw up my own brain, thank you very much."

She shakes her head, dark hair swishing side to side behind her. "You don't see it. Is it only me who notices? Everybody's got it wrong. Even your friend Malevolence."

"I saw Mal kill someone right in front of me not two days ago. Did you mind control him, too?"

"Malevolence is a genius. Nasty things in his head. Too fast for me, but that doesn't mean he understands. Neither do you. Don't presume to think differently." A can of spray paint is on the ground. Worst Nightmare kicks it up to her hands in a feat of coordination that, for all my strength, I'd probably never be able to replicate.

Or maybe she's telekinetic, too.

"People think dreams aren't real," she says. "But they're wrong. The monsters under your bed will draw blood if you let them. I had a sister once, I think. But she went into the shadows and left me all alone. The shadows have their secrets. The problem is you've gotten too scared to listen to them." She shakes the can and steps forward. With a single decisive motion, she strikes through the letters of the middle word of the graffiti. "You don't understand. But no one ever does. Not even Dodger."

Tossing me the can of spray paint, she spins around and around. Out of nowhere her costume springs into being, hair whirling with her cape. If it's not an illusion, it's magic. That's ridiculous even in the kind of world where I live.

"You'll find Malevolence at 31st and Cartwright," Worst Nightmare says. "That is, if X hasn't found him first."

Then she's gone, melting back into whatever nightmare realm she hails from. I turn back around to cast one last look at the letters on the wall, and my heart nearly stops. It no longer reads BROOKS WAS HERE.

It reads BROOKS IS HERE.

I'm not sure I've ever been more terrified in my life.

So I fly away.

Flee.

With the state the city's in tonight, I'm fleeing in the direction of a half-dozen killer robots. It's better than staying in that alley. Brooks might be there. Even worse is the idea that Brooks isn't there. That I've been seeing things for months.

Years.

Goals are a lot simpler when I boil my task down to stop Malevolence.

Malevolence isn't at 31st and Cartwright, he's at 5th and Dock, down by the river. Worst Nightmare is a crazy person or she's messing with me.

I like the second option better. Might even explain the graffiti in the alleyway.

Malevolence has a whole orchestra of computers running, a marked difference from his usual sedate affairs where he gleefully punches code into an old X-box controller, the fight combinations straight from Mortal Kombat. Malevolence is a genius, but his price range is joysticks and red buttons.

Not this.

The entire place hums with electricity, video monitors plotting feeds from the optics of every robot in the city. Several of the monitors are down, but on others I can see Psi swooping through the clouds, getting slower and slower as the sun creeps down the skyline. X is in another part of the city emptying magazine after magazine into robot faces. Dodger's still doing crowd control, taking special care to steer the robots away from the part of the city where Ajax Gadzinski's foster family lives.

I move for what looks like the main computer array, staring at the whirling green lines of code. My first instinct is to put a fist through the monitor, but I'm not naive enough to think that would actually stop a program. Instead I try to trace the wires back to the mainframe, following the trail until a voice cackles through the light of the dying day. "Ah, Good Guy, I should have expected you."

"When did you start talking like a cartoon?" I ask, eyes narrowed.

Malevolence steps off his platform, circling me at speeds so slow they have to be deliberate. He looks positively tranquil. It's such a change from his normal jitters that I can scarcely believe he's the same person. "Did you get my message?"

"You killed my professor and threatened to end the world. I caught the show. What's your end goal anyway? Not complaining, but these bots are missing your Malevolent touch."

There's got to be an explanation. Am I really this bad a judge of character?

"The bots are merely a means to the end, my dear friend."

"End of the world? I thought you were joking. Did you forget that ending the world is the stupidest of all nefarious plots? Remember how you live here?" Remember how that time, the first time, you stopped mid-battle when Professor Deadly highjacked every loudspeaker in the city and said 'I don't like this,' how you told me I'd accidentally accelerate the progress of Pitchfork's schemes if you didn't help? "You're not Mal. What have you done with him? Is this mind control? Something else?"

"You don't know me at all," Malevolence sneers. "Have you liked our little games? Did you actually trust me? I can't believe you hero types. Befriend the enemy. It's the oldest trick in the book. This isn't about ending the world. Not today. This is about being remembered. And today, I'm not thinking of ending the world. Just ending you."

"I'm touched." I look for projectiles to launch in his direction. "But really, it's cute that you think you can win this."

Malevolence cackles. It's not his usual laugh but something dark and echoing that rings in my ears. This whole thing makes my skin crawl. He's supposed to attack, come at me in his blur. I'd swing my fist as soon as I catch the first glimpse of motion, because that's the only time I have even a prayer of hitting him. He's not supposed to just stand there.

"I've already won," Malevolence says finally before slamming a flashbang onto the ground right in front of me. The shock of the explosion sends me careening into one of the computer-laden tables. I must lose consciousness because when I open my eyes, a hot mess of blood is all over my face and every monitor in the complex is counting down from five. I scramble to my feet, suddenly sure the entire place is wired to blow at zero.

Four.

I got it wrong.

Three.

I saw bright spots in Malevolence that weren't actually there, and I'm going to die because of it.

Two.

No way can I make it out the front door in time so I reach for that sensation, the line between falling and flying.

By the time I find it, the ticker has counted down to one second and then...

Zero.

The pressure wave comes first. I ride it out through the shattering skylight as best I can, but the heat and the crash are on its heels.

I don't have that kind of speed.

Nothing hurts anymore, which is nice because it's been a long time since I could say that. I think I see Brooks again. That makes more sense. Most people don't survive explosions like this. Pretty much only Indestructoman could, and even Indestructoman had his limits.

I'm not flying anymore, I'm falling, crashing and hitting the river that may as well be concrete. My left arm shatters on impact.

Then I'm under.

Then it's black.

Dodging Trouble #199

When Good Guy falls, Dodger's three blocks away. The explosion's massive enough to shatter windows, raining down glass over the panicked crowd. The screams start again. The shockwave knocks everyone off their feet.

Dodger hits the ground so hard it nearly shatters his concentration.

He blinks the black from his vision, pushes himself to his feet and runs toward the explosion. He casts out a net with his mind, looking for a foothold. Alex Manners thinks more clearly when he is Good Guy, almost like the uniform magnifies his focus, calms the storm of his mind.

Good Guy's mind is dimming by the time Dodger gets to the water. It's hard to pinpoint his thoughts with the constant barrage of Oh God, we're all going to die roaring out of the masses.

People die sometimes. Or they don't. Not a lot normals can do to stop it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dodger sees a familiar costume. Malevolence is moving away from the blast site. X probably will follow, but Dodger can't. Good Guy is dying, and if Indestructoman proved anything, it's that depriving someone of oxygen long enough is fatal no matter what your superpowers are.

Prioritize, he tells himself. Save Good Guy because saving him is the same as saving lives. Malevolence might get away for the moment but guys like that come back.

Good Guy plummets toward the river's bottom. He's too far away for normal measures. This is going to hurt.

Telekinesis is the only option but it's not Dodger's forte. It would be awesome if it didn't involve nosebleeds, blackouts and a monumental lapses of concentration.

He needs every ounce of talent he has.

He lets go of the projection he's held for nearly a decade and hits the water. It's cold enough to steal his breath, but he keep moving, hands outstretched. He can feel Good Guy, already ten feet under and sinking fast. Dodger reaches out with his mind, grabs Good Guy's ankle and starts pulling.

Worst Nightmare is so much better at this.

A blood vessel bursts in Dodger's nose, and the blood streaks through the water behind him. He keeps pulling, keeps a mental scream of ALEX, STAY AWAKE, STAY AWAKE, STAY AWAKE projecting into Good Guy's mind.

By the time Dodger lays physical hands on the idiot, Good Guy has swallowed too much water to be breathing on his own. Dodger pulls him out of the river by his unbroken wrist and dumps him onto the trash-ridden strip of rocks that passes for a beach. The smoldering heap of what used to be the Fifth Street Docks lends a bit of warmth to curb the threat of hypothermia. Dodger casts his mind out through the city, trying to summon an EMT while peeling up the bottom of his mask to start CPR.

On the fourth pump, he breaks one of Good Guy's ribs, but Good Guy isn't breathing. Even his mind's gone quiet, and Good Guy is one of the least mentally calm people Dodger knows.

Blood streams out of both Dodger's nostrils at the effort of trying to jump start the kid's mind, but Dodger keeps trying anyway. On the fifth set of pumps and rescue breathing, Good Guy coughs up a lung full of fetid river water and rolls on his side, still out of it. Dodger takes his pulse and finds it weak but steady. He lies flat on his back to stare at the sky, drunk with relief.

A half dozen people are in the area, most of whom probably have cameras on their phones. They appear to be in shock, having been close enough to the blast to still have ringing ears. None has the presence of mind to start filming, but that will happen soon.

The ambulance he'd hailed with his mind screams toward them, a firetruck in tow. Good Guy's mask is a victim of the river. Dodger remembers at the last second to pull off the trademark suspenders, leaving only Alex Manners, half dead in the street. One of the onlookers has finally recovered enough to start fumbling for his phone.

Dodger's shields are in tatters. Despite what people think, telepaths are measured not by what they can hear but rather how well they can filter the world around them. Come here, he thinks at the bystanders. The accompanying blast of pain is worsened by the din in his mind.

"Dodger," one of the bystanders says, gesturing vaguely at his chest. "You have..."

Yeah, like he didn't know that already. Dodger's problems today just keep compounding. He raises both hands. "Bedtime."

The small crowd falls bonelessly to the ground limbs at awkward angles that will leave them hurting tomorrow. Not as bad as Dodger's going to hurt, but enough.

Dodger tugs off a glove, grabbing for skin, pulling up recent memories, deleting everything after the blast. The bystanders will wake up and assume the shockwave knocked them unconscious, and they'll never have questions beyond that.

Neat. Simple.

The effort of erasing the last memory brings Dodger to his knees. He has to tear off the mask to stop the sensation of choking on his own blood, a move that leaves the wrong face in Dodger's costume. The face he hasn't worn since discovering he could be somebody else.

Good Guy has one of his drop sites near here. Dodger slips out just as the ambulance rolls in, Good Guy's suspenders still clutched in one hand. They'll go a long way to holding up the oversized trousers.

He runs a hand through his hair, short and uneven. Ten years ago, he could have gone to Wisp for advice, for help, but she's gone, leaving X as the only tie to the old crew. Dodger's never told X and never will. Not if he has even the slightest chance to avoid it.

Good Guy would probably take the news in stride. Aside from a few panic attacks, he takes nearly everything in stride. But considering Good Guy has managed to become besties with a supervillain he'd never met before their first fight, he's not the kind of person Dodger can confide in.

Dodger jams his hands into the pockets of Good Guy's oversized jeans, not terribly surprised to find a Metro card. He keeps one at most of his drop sites, too. Then he walks through what's left of the city.

The one redeeming factor of the evening is the bots in the city dropped with the explosion. Psi's still hovering over the rooftops. She'll probably fall at any moment, the sunset zapping her powers. The bursts of gunfire ringing across the District are more the start of the post-fight looting rather than X's inevitable showdown. The general clamor of thoughts pressing against his unguarded mind are more of the is it over? tone than oh God, oh God, we're all going to die.

Dodger reaches out with what's left of his skill, trying to find X and Psi. I'm down for the cleanup. He has no idea if his message gets through or not.

On the Metro ride home, six different people ask about the nosebleed and if there's anything they can do to help. That's nearly double the number that would have asked if he looked the same way he had this morning. He spends most of the ride with his head between his knees, trying to keep from puking because the lady three seats up has motion sickness.

It's damn near a miracle when he makes it to his dank basement apartment without collapsing. The door's already unlocked, sending alarms ringing through his already throbbing skull. He can't feel anyone inside. That could be because he's mentally exhausted or it could mean someone on the other side of the door can cut him out completely. He pushes the door open with the toe of his boot, and something hits him square in the chest. He struggles for a second before decoding the action as a hug.

His kid sister, Sally Suzuki, better known nowadays as Worst Nightmare, is in his apartment. She launches herself at him, hugging tight. It's been nearly five years since she even acknowledged him outside of outright attacks.

He hugs her back. There's nothing else he can do.

"Samantha," she sobs into his shoulder. "Samantha, you were gone, and no one remembered. I thought you were dead."

Oh.

Samantha.

His one mistake. His imperfect venture into shaping the world. Because ten years ago, Samantha was fifteen and Sally was six, he figured out how to be the person he was meant to be. To live outside of the skin he hated. It was supposed to be easy. A little worm in the heads of his parents, his friends, his teachers. One that said Samantha Suzuki has always been Samuel Suzuki. It wasn't a huge change. Everyone already called him Sam.

It worked. It worked on everyone he tried. Or at least it worked on everyone who wasn't already psychic.

Like his kid sister.

Sally remembered Samantha, swore up and down that not only was Samantha real, she'd been stolen from the world, killed, replaced by Samuel. He'd tried to explain, tried to show her, but Sally just screamed and screamed, watching him like he was an impostor.

Samantha was a dream, Sam tried to tell her.

So Sally sank into dreams, sank so deep she fell into nightmares, too. Sank so deep in the nightmares that she never came back out.

But this isn't Worst Nightmare in front of him. This is Sally. Sam's kid sister, who he messed up because he was sick of wearing a face that wasn't his own. "You know I've always been here, right?"

If she could read his mind, she would have all the answers. But another psychic's mind is an insurmountable hurdle.

Even if it were a possibility, he's not sure he could let her in. Not when he's guarding the secret identities of Good Guy, Psi, X, and a few dozen other heroes scattered throughout the country.

"You went away," she says, pouting. "And you got a really crappy haircut."

"Did it myself with one of X's hunting knives."

"Looks more like you used pruning shears."

He laughs so hard his ribs hurt, a nice counterpart to the gore from the nosebleed staining his shirt. Sally smiles too, the kind of smile that makes him remember she's still short of sixteen. She grew up in other people's nightmares, but she's still here sometimes, still Sally underneath it all. He knows X wants her in his crosshairs. Knows if he gets her there, he'll pull the trigger.

Moments like this let him hold out some hope.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Sally asks.

"You can stay here as long as you want." He threads his fingers through her hair.

"Is Samuel coming back?" Sally asks.

This body feels wrong, these hands, this face, this everything. The trick to projecting an image has always been belief, and there's only one belief Dodger ever held strong enough to make reality. "Sally, I've always been Sam."

But for the days it will take him to recharge, maybe he can pretend.

Just for a little bit.

Just for her.

Good Guy #64

Injury totals: Some broken ribs from whoever fished me out of the river and did CPR, a broken wrist from impact, a couple burns and a concussion. Could have been a hell of a lot worse. Even though the blast knocked the mask off and left most of my generic top in tatters, no one seems to have made the connection between Good Guy and Alex Manners.

In the hospital, I get lost in the fray. Hundreds of people are here, most of whom incurred minor injuries while the killer robots stomped through the city. A lot of funerals will be held in the next few days too, I'm guessing. Not as many as there would have been without us, but more than if we hadn't lost Indestructoman.

Somebody set my arm and did it up in plaster while I was unconscious, which I guess I'm grateful for. There's no one in the room when I wake up, and no name on my chart.

I wasn't carrying identification so Mom doesn't know about the disaster or the broken arm, a stroke of luck any way I look at it. Even if it means two hours listening to panicked messages on my phone back home. I stare at the steady blip of the heart monitor for a while until someone finally comes through the door.

It's not a doctor or a nurse, just a woman who looks like she could be Worst Nightmare's older sister. She's got a pixie cut, dark hair and darker eyes. "Okay then," she says, her voice unusually deep. "Alex Manners?"

"Last time I checked."

"Right." She shoves a change of clothes into my hands. "Put these on. We're getting you out of here."

It's a pair of jeans in my size and a shirt a size too small. I tug on the clothes without complaint, and the girl tosses a pair of Dollar Store flip-flops at my feet. "I'm sorry, but who exactly are you?"

"Dodger sent me."

"What?"

"You're taking up valuable hospital space, and you heal too fast to stay here without suspicion. Some people actually give a shit about keeping a secret identity secret."

I really don't like the insinuation. I'm going on two years at this gig, and I have told absolutely no one. Everyone seems to figure it out on their own. "Are you Psi?"

"Do I look like fucking Psi?"

She doesn't even share the skin color. Tall for a girl and built sturdy. Broad shoulders, slender, but with muscle definition. Not much by way of cleavage, but pretty as far as I can tell. "What now?"

"I could push you out a window, but this is a public building. We walk out the front door."

She turns briskly on her heel, clunky brown boots stomping against the tile floor. I follow, trying to keep up with the length of her strides. I'm still a bit addled. Head injury. At least I don't look so impaired that someone stops me.

Then again, if you move with enough purpose, no one ever stops you. We're all the way to the parking lot before she finally slows her pace. "There we go. Good jailbreak."

I rub at the back of my neck. "If you say so."

She nods, shoves her hand in her pockets and keeps moving as if she wants nothing more than to get away from me. I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. She glares at it until I take it off.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But you obviously know who I am, and I'm not exactly comfortable with people I don't know..."

"I'm not going to tell anyone you're Good Guy," she says in a whisper in deference to the people still milling around the ER entrance. "It'll be a cold day in hell before anyone pries it from me."

Better to go the direct route with someone like her. I stick out my hand. "I'm Alex Manners, but you know that already."

After appearing to think about it for a long time, she grabs my hand, her palm rough and scratchy against mine. "Sam Suzuki."

If my smile is a little dopey, I blame the painkillers. "It's nice to meet you, Samantha."

She pulls her hand back. "And how the hell do you know it's not Samuel?"

I blink. "Is it?"

"It's Sam," she says. If that's not a grin on her face, it's damn close. "Nothing more, nothing less."

Figures Dodger would find a complete hard-ass to do his work for him. Not that I blame him for using the intermediary. You can't exactly stroll through a hospital in full costume.

Sam walks away, arms folded across her chest.

It's cold outside, the last vestiges of winter's ice grip. I flex my fingers, somewhat in awe of the fact that hypothermia didn't get me when I hit the water. It takes a few steps to get my bearings but I've got the hospitals pretty well mapped in my mind. There's a nearby alley where I stash a spare set of civilian clothes so I walk there and pry a few bricks off the back of the building to pull out one of my old dusty sweaters.

Can't do much about the hideous flip-flops. I kick them off, wiggling my toes against the gravel. Checking behind me, I make sure no one's around and jet ten stories above the skyline. In one long swoop, I make my way home.

The window's locked for once. I guess I should be thankful for that. Or at least I would be if I didn't have to break into my own apartment. My cast makes a good battering ram despite the sharp bite of pain.

I keep a few spare window panes stashed behind the sink. I've gotten pretty good at window repair these past few years.

Before I can get started, a knock sounds on my door. Elle's muffled voice calls, "Alex, are you all right? I heard something break."

Whoops. Hadn't counted on her being home. Must be the weekend. Which means I lost more than a day while I was in the hospital. Great. At least classes don't tend to be in session on days when robots stomp through the city. If they were held, attendance would have been optional.

Seriously, with how often this town gets trashed, it's a wonder anyone still lives here.

I tug the chain off the door, unlock it and pull it open. Elle's face sags with relief. "Alex. Thank God. I could have sworn someone was breaking in."

"We're on the top floor. I don't even have a fire escape."

Elle waves a hand. "Paranoia, I know but—oh my God what happened to your hand?"

"Fractured wrist." Cracked ribs, second-degree burns. "Picked the wrong part of the city on the wrong day. I'll be fine."

"I swear you have the worst luck in human history. Six-to-eight weeks in a cast has to put a damper on little things like showering."

Lovely, she's established a time frame. I'm going to be stuck wearing this damn thing for the duration even though I'll be fully healed in a fortnight. The cast will be itchy and smelly by then. Only positive is I'll pry it off myself and skip the trip to the hospital to get it removed.

"It could have been worse," I say, keeping my tone neutral.

"Still, it's good to know you're all right," Elle says before she goes back to her place.

My apartment is cold and drafty as hell. I pull on a second sweater, the cast straining against the fabric, before I stop to let myself think about the last two days. About the strange girl whose face was an echo of Worst Nightmare's. And about Malevolence, whose nefarious plot wasn't quite shaped like his usual affair.

And, of course, the graffiti in the alley.

Brooks was here.

Brooks is here.

It's the most awful sort of night I can imagine.

Between Worst Nightmare and the concussion, I'm probably mentally compromised. I need to see Dodger and confirm it one way or another. I grab some leftover card stock and scrawl, Dodgers suck! and top it off with a doodle of the baseball team logo. I stick it on the outside of the pane of glass and then do my installation. The lack of wind chill makes the apartment marginally more bearable, but it's still cold so I grab my fleece blanket and collapse on my bed.

First time in a long time I don't dream while I sleep. I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a side effect. I wake up before dawn to Dodger knocking on the door to my bedroom.

I wish this sort of thing still surprised me.

"That was uncalled for," he says, buttoning up his jersey. "And you drew the LA logo."

"I thought your jersey was from Brooklyn."

"It is. Brooklyn number 42 not ringing any bells? Seriously? How much did that fall scramble your brain? I wouldn't have fished you out of the river if I knew you were brain damaged."

"You fished me out of the river?"

"You really think I'm losing another super after what happened to Indestructoman?" He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. "Look, I don't usually make house calls."

"You break into my house all the time."

"The invite is throwing me off. What have you got for me, Alex?"

"I need a favor." Breathe out. "I ran into Worst Nightmare before I got blown to hell. Your sister said some stuff and, well, I've always had a bad track record with psychics."

"I'm a psychic."

"That's why I need you. You've got to tell me if anyone's been scrambling my noggin. I'm not loving the idea of becoming the Winter Soldier."

"You really think I didn't do a scan on you when you were unconscious?"

The voice is flippant, but he's moving forward. Dodger's a few inches shorter than me but still, staring at the third eye on the mask, I'm a little intimidated. "It'd give me some piece of mind."

"All right then." Dodger says and uses both hands to grab either side of my face. His hands are smaller than I would have thought but they're calloused, same as mine. My brain kind of fills up with a buzzing white static. I'm not sure how long it lasts, but I'm weak-kneed when it's over. Dodger retreats and slumps against the back wall.

"You okay?" I ask, stepping closer.

Dodger clutches his head and raises a hand to ward me off. "Sorry. I need some distance. I'd rather not spend any more time with pieces of your personality. You've got some serious skeletons up there."

"But the skeletons are all my skeletons. It's not like someone snuck inside and dumped a bunch of bodies, right?"

"They're all yours," Dodger promises. "God, I haven't had a headache like this in years. I don't like your brain."

"To be fair, I don't like it when you break into my house."

A red spot grows on his mask, right where his nose is. "Uh, Dodger, you're bleeding. You want me to clean you up?"

It might be nice to stanch someone else's bleeding rather than my own. I've got far too much practice with that.

Dodger curses, but backs up farther when I try to approach him. "Proximity is not going to help. I'm going home and sleeping for a week. And you should stop trying to jump off buildings."

"I can fly."

"That's completely different, and you know it."

Before he retreats out the window, a thought occurs to me. "You sent Sam, right? To get me out of the hospital?"

For a second, Dodger's body goes rigid. "Why, you want her number or something?"

"I forgot to say thank you."

Dodger loosens his frame limb by limb. "I'll make sure she gets the message."

VOLUME FIVE:

Latent

Good Guy #65

It takes two weeks before I've knitted together enough to go back out on the streets. The rebuild of the city is already in full swing. Construction jobs are never in short order. Neither are contractors, or decorators. If you can deal with property damage and an apocalypse or two, the economy's thriving. The university's got a hell of a program in both architecture and structural engineering.

Dodger's out of commission, too. He'd seemed pretty scrambled when he checked out my brain, but at least he's not dead. X shot six different looters in the wake of the last disaster—only killed one of them—but if Dodger was on the town, Dodger would have talked him down.

I shouldn't be out here. I've still not pried the cast off my mostly healed wrist. If someone catches a flash of plaster as Good Guy soars through the crowd, they might remember most superheroes aren't invincible and start literally gunning for us again.

But I'm antsy. Professor Halpern's replacement is competent but not the same. They've scrubbed the blood from the chalkboard, but I keep seeing it anyway. I know I'm not the only one. Three students have already dropped the class.

I can't do that. I promised Halpern a decent paper at the end of this, and I'm going to deliver. There was a fellow about forty years back, Ben Bashum, who played a role in stopping what would later be documented as the world's first supervillain attack. Most of the details got lost in the Last Great Uprising, but what I can find is fascinating. Bashum was a great big bag of neurosis and that makes him the sort of guy I can relate to.

I go back to the alley where Brooks died and find white paint covering the wall where the graffiti had been. Should have come back the first day out of the hospital. Whenever city employees go on one of their post-fight cleanups, they sometimes get carried away.

I fly up a few stories, hop a building and head over to investigate one of the carcasses of the fallen robots.

Malevolence is there, elbow-deep in robot guts, the sleeves of his suit covered in tiny tears from the metal's bite.

I don't let myself think, just attack.

"Alex!" Mal says, voice light like he hasn't killed my favorite professor and tried to end the world.

My first three blows land before Mal even moves to defend himself. He catches my arm before the fourth punch connects with his nose, staring, cross-eyed, at my fist. "When the hell did you get a cast?"

"After you blew me up, you jackass!"

"What? When did I—"

He ducks the next flurry, dodging left to right with a look on his face so intent I can practically hear his brain working. "You don't get to talk."

"Don't get to talk? Have you met me? Talking's pretty much all I do."

It's back. All of it, the voice, the jitters, the maddening ability to fight with a running commentary. Every incongruity about our last two encounters comes screaming back to me. I back off, hands held high as a sign of peace. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You can try."

"Why kill Halpern?"

"Who in hell is Halpern?"

"A seventy-year-old history professor."

"And why would I ever want to kill a seventy-year-old history professor?"

I swallow, flex my fists. "Because he was my history professor. You came in the middle of one of his lectures and skewered him with a broadsword. You capped off the day by spouting off nonsense about the end of the world."

He licks his lips. "I think you've been mal-informed."

"Please say you didn't just make a Malevolence-influenced pun."

"Think about it, Alex." Behind the goggles, Mal's eyes are wide and earnest. "Does any of this sound like me? I mean if you ignore the part about messing with you. Unless Halpern was trying to end the world, odds are good I didn't kill him."

"Last count, you were trying to end the world. You had robots stomping through the city two weeks ago."

Mal pinches his temples. "Now robots do sound like me. Was that the part where I accidentally blew you up? I don't remember that, but it is stupidly easy to make explosives so I can't tell you for certain it wasn't me. I understand why a lot of folks decide they want to be chemists. Any junkyard kid could figure it out. These bots here, on the other hand, now these are something special. Maybe a dozen people worldwide can put this together. The joints are a work of genius."

"Am I correct in assuming you're counting yourself in that dozen?"

"Me? I've never had this kind of money or time. Maybe if I win the lottery and take a sabbatical, I might be able to come up with something like this. I dunno. I've never been this picky about style. Can get you twice the function for half the funds."

"Then these robots aren't yours?"

"You mean you can't tell? And I threw my last party special for you."

"Mal..."

Mal must pick up on the pleading tone in my voice because for the first time since I've met him, he goes perfectly still. His head tilts. "Alex," he says finally, "Whatever happened the past few weeks, I had nothing to do with it. If you want me to give you an alibi, I can—"

I don't let him finish. A wave of relief crashes over me, and I take two steps forward to capture him in a hug.

Mal relaxes into it for about two seconds before he squirms away. The strip of his face that I can see below the goggles is red with embarrassment. "Do you want to tell me what the hell that was?"

"Yes, Good Guy," a new voice says from above us. "Please, explain what just happened here."

X stands on the lip of a rooftop, a pistol in each hand. The mask is covering his mouth, but I can see that his eyes are narrowed, his purpose abundantly clear.

"You don't understand, X," I begin.

"What I understand is Malevolence has killed dozens of people in the past two weeks. The world is better off without him."

"Back the fuck off."

"Such colorful language from someone who calls himself Good Guy. Aren't you supposed to be the family-friendly super? Or was my first instinct about you right all along?"

"What the hell's he talking about?" Malevolence asks from behind me.

"He threw me off a building one time," I reply before turning back to the threat at hand. "You can't do this. Halpern, the bots, that wasn't Mal."

"Funny thing about being a witness." X cocks both triggers, a smile in his voice. "You learn to trust your own eyes."

This is about to go really, really bad. I don't risk taking my eyes off X while I tell Mal, "Run."

"But A—Good Guy."

"Fucking run!"

X pulls his trigger and a piece of sidewalk by my feet explodes into a white cloud. I jump and wind up hovering even though I didn't plan it. I risk a glance behind me and see no sign of Mal.

X does a flip as he jumps down from the ledge and lands neatly on the concrete, legs bending to absorb the impact. He holsters his guns and circles me, frame relaxed but ready. I've seen him kill people while looking like he's half asleep.

"Do you have any idea who you're protecting?" X asks.

"He didn't do it."

"That doesn't matter! He's a bad guy. He's been terrorizing the city for months, and you're giving him hugs. You think that can fix anything?"

I throw the first punch. X absorbs it like a pro. To my knowledge, he's not superhuman. Just a guy with a chip on his shoulder. I wouldn't be surprised if he has a healing factor, though. I'd be even less surprised to find out he's got a sixth sense that lets him anticipate an opponent's move in a fight.

X doesn't dodge out of the way like Malevolence, but rather raises a forearm to block my blow while countering with his off hand. He's tenfold better at fighting than I am.

"Don't pretend you don't understand," I hiss. "You've had lots of chances to kill SuckerPunch, and you never have."

"I wish I had killed him!" X shouts, drawing a knife from a thigh holster. "The second I figured out he was bad news, I should have stuck a blade through his throat. Do you have any idea how many people are dead because I can't get over the fact that SuckerPunch is my best friend?"

He slashes his knife wildly in the air, the blade biting through the thick cotton of my shirt. I duck and try to take out his legs. X anticipates the move and jumps out of the way, leaving me exposed.

He brings the knife down, and I barely lift my left wrist in time. The blade imbeds itself in the thick white plaster of my cast and sticks there. X tries to pull back the weapon. While he's a better fighter than me, I'm stronger. I yank my arm toward my body, pulling X off balance and giving myself time to scramble to my feet.

"You're protecting a monster, Good Guy," X says. "The best thing I can do for you is to take him out of the equation. It is, after all, what the Dodger ordered."

"Wait. You're after Mal because of Dodger?"

"Dodger got me the tip, but I don't answer to Dodger."

Except Dodger is the architect of all the unwritten laws of superheroing. Dodger is the reason no one encroaches on villains that belong to other heroes. Dodger knows everyone's secret identity. More than that, he can plant ideas in people's heads. "He's got some nerve."

"Dodger made the right call. More people make calls like this, Pitchfork is pushing daisies and Indestructoman's kid still has his parents."

I push myself to my feet and wrench the knife from my cast, swapping it into my dominant hand. Behind me, Mal's long gone. X is breathing hard. "Malevolence needs to die, Good Guy. Anything less and he'll drag you down with him."

I hear the rest even though he doesn't say it: Like SuckerPunch dragged me.

"You're too late this time. Mal's a speedster. He's miles away."

"And plotting. You're walking a dangerous line, hero. We do this again, and I might not have only one name on my hit list."

X scrambles off. A single pedestrian, a kid maybe twelve years old and holding an ice cream cone, stands in the street with his mouth agape. It's such a clichéd pose that I nearly laugh.

"I'm on the right side," I say, more to myself than my audience. "I'm doing the right thing."

I blast off before he has the chance to respond, making my way back to my apartment where I use X's knife to cut away the remnants of my cast.

Something about the apartment is different. I creep through it slowly, half afraid Dodger's let himself in again, but that's not it. What's different are the photos on top of the pile of old newspapers. There are only three of them, but I pick them up with a trembling hand.

Brooks stares out at me from every photo, looking older and wearier but still like Brooks. On the back of the last image, the one with my friend flipping off the camera, a hastily scrawled message reads, Why don't you just look?

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of X gunning for Malevolence. Of Halpern dead in a lecture hall. And Worst Nightmare striking through the graffiti in the alley to change the tense of a word.

Brooks was here.

Brooks is here.

I push the window back open.

I've put this off long enough.

It's time to go to the cemetery.

Good Guy #66

Brooks is buried in a dingy spot on the wrong side of the river. It's a big cemetery, has to be in a town like this. Brooks's dad is buried a quarter-mile away, the date on the tomb just a year after Brooks. Freak accident, gas-line explosion. The kind of thing that shouldn't happen but does anyway.

I'd gotten the news about his death right before climbing to the tallest building I could find and jumping off, expecting to meet pavement. The Blacks never had much by way of money and both graves are overgrown in the absence of regular visitors.

Brooks and I met in first grade and within a week started hatching plans to get our parents married so we could be brothers. We stopped wanting it to work out when we were thirteen and walked in on the two of them in bed. Their fling lasted just long enough to ruin the idea of sex. It fell apart at the right time to make I'm crashing at Brooksie's place an alibi Mom never thought about calling me on.

I abused that one more than once during my tailspin.

Still, the memories of the Blacks are mostly good, at least before the end.

I stop by Mr. Black's grave first, stealing a few lilies off a nearby tomb as an offering. I'm never sure why people bother with places like this. There's some sort of ritual to it, the flowers, the prayers, but I've still never seen the appeal of being put in the ground. For a few decades when there were zombie uprisings everywhere, it fell out of fashion. But the threat of reanimation went away, and people were suddenly game for shoving corpses in the dirt again.

They could just incinerate them and save us all the space.

Some people talk when they're visiting graves, but I stand there, trying to remember the color of Mr. Black's eyes, because the stupidest things always seem important when people are dead.

Also, it gives me an excuse to evade the real reason for my visit.

I follow the path, leading to Brooks's grave, flashlight out in front of me. Can't make this kind of trip in daylight, and it's only partially because I don't want anyone to see my inevitable panic attack. More because if I actually do have to dig up this grave, it's probably best no one witnesses it. All we need is one idiot saying they saw a zombie for a riot to break out.

I know what I'll find when I get to the grave. Brooks's tomb hasn't gotten enough love over the years. Mr. Black used to clean it up, and I think my mom visits every anniversary to leave a bunch of lavenders.

I don't like the cemetery so I don't visit the cemetery.

Elle would have a field day with this. Elle's boss would have me committed.

I turn the corner of the path in time to see a figure clad in black spandex raise a sledgehammer and obliterate one of the gravestones.

"What the hell?" I say.

The figure turns to me, hood obscuring his face.

My nearest costume is almost two miles away. My mask, too. No one's here but Alex Manners. There are usually two scenarios when encountering someone like this. Either the guy has a bad case of the smashes and comes at you waving a hammer like he's Thor. Or he drops the weapon and books in the opposite direction.

This guy, though, he doesn't say a word, just stands there, hammer pressed against the ground. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, déjà vu washing over me.

I take a step forward. Clad-in-black takes a step back. Monkey-see, monkey-do.

Keeping my eyes square on him, I back in an arc toward the grave. He maintains the same twelve-foot distance. I bend down slowly and pick up one of the smashed pieces of granite. The fragment of a name only confirms what I already know. I look back to Clad-in-black, my face as bland as I can make it. "You do know this is grave des-dis—" Wow, I can never spit out that word.

"Desecration," Clad-in-black corrects. He has a voice modifier, the tone tinny but even. "Is there something you want to do about it?"

And then I'm back to Mal and the bank. I don't care what people do to corpses so long as they're not being reanimated. Gravestones are silly, and people who attach heaps of meaning to a slab of rock have always confused me.

Still.

"This gravestone belongs to a friend of mine." Everything that has happened to me in the past year has seemed to point back here, back to Brooks, the one place I never wanted to look. "This is—"

"You really aren't going to do anything? Some friend you are. You don't even care."

"Caring won't stop his being dead."

And damn if that doesn't hurt to say. If I had the chance to go back, there's pretty much nothing I wouldn't trade to get Brooks back. Good thing no one's stumbled into time travel yet, because I would be stuck in the center of one big paradoxical clusterfuck.

"No one is buried here," Clad-in-black says. "Does that change anything?"

Lightning flashes in the distance like God decided the atmosphere wasn't creepy enough. "What? You're saying someone's collecting corpses? Like an uprising? Because as of twenty years ago, zees are good as extinct."

"That's where you go? To zombies?" The laughter out of Clad-in-black's mouth has a vicious tinge. "Maybe this entire graveyard is empty."

"Is it?"

The laughter's more genuine this time, even through the voice modifier.

I hadn't meant it as a joke.

I clutch the fragment of tombstone in my fist. It's got enough heft that I could probably surprise Clad-in-black, knock him out. Or maybe I could kill him by bringing his head down against one of the intact tombs. It would be more violent than my usual ventures, but I don't care about the sanctity of graveyards. This is about Brooks and the asshole using his memory to send a message. "Why this grave?" I ask. "The costume, I get. Spandex is kind of a fad these days. The sledgehammer's clunky, but..."

Clad-in-black takes another step toward me, sledgehammer dangling from his left hand. "You know what it means. I am someone you should fear."

"There's not a lot I'm afraid of these days. Have you seen the giant robots?"

"I am at this grave, because this is not a person to be forgotten."

"You think I could ever forget Brooks? He was my best friend. And he died because of me. Is that what you want to hear? How I watched him die? How I saw him buried?"

Clad-in-black shakes his head and brings up the sledgehammer, swinging for my skull. I have the presence of mind to duck the blow rather than jump. Jumping would lead to floating if I'm not careful, and this is Alex Manners's fight, not Good Guy's.

Clad-in-black is clearly an amateur. His blows are wide and sloppy, fueled by anger more than skill or strength. He's taller than me, but as I'm of relentlessly average size, that's not unusual. He doesn't know how to use his reach to his advantage so I duck under the hammer and knock it out of his grip. My flashlight hits the ground. The sledgehammer does too, leaving us bare fisted.

I let him beat on me a little more than strictly necessary. I don't even care that I'll have to explain myself to Elle again. A superhero against a relative newbie isn't actually a fair fight. I can kill this guy, easy, but I won't because I have standards.

Lights cut on around us. A cantankerous old man hobbles out, toting a shotgun he fires once straight up into the air before leveling it on the two of us. "I'm only going to say this once. You boys take this fight somewhere other than a resting place or I'm going to be crowned a hero on the evening news for putting down a pair of zombies before we have us another uprising."

By the time I turn back around, Clad-in-black has fled, leaving his sledgehammer behind. I dust myself off, stand up and collect both it and my flashlight. The caretaker looks from me to the destroyed headstone. "You, boy! Tell me what you did."

"Me? Nothing! I was paying my respects to an old friend and found that guy smashing up tombs."

Tomb. Singular. Just Brooks's.

I turn the flashlight into the old man's eyes, using the brightness to keep him from getting a decent look at my face.

"I'm calling the police," he says, shotgun still level.

I run. While I'm not Malevolence, I'm no slouch when it comes to speed. The caretaker gets off one shot. It explodes the bark off a nearby tree but misses me completely. After three steps, I'm flying, up out of the cemetery and back to my apartment, sledgehammer in one hand, flashlight in the other.

I lay both of them on the kitchen table and move to my computer to search the Internet for how to make fingerprint powder. Luckily, I've got starch on hand. The handle of the hammer is black and smooth, so I sprinkle on some starch, blow it away and pick up the pattern with some tape. I stick the lift on the back of the card Mom sent me for my birthday last month.

Then I pick up the phone and call in a favor with Detective Lombardozzi.

My night is mostly sleepless, but I make up for it the next day by nodding off in every one of my classes. I'm just back to the apartment when the phone rings. I pick it up and Lombardozzi's annoyed voice comes over the line. "Who the fuck's prints are these?"

"I have no idea. That's why I sent them to you."

"Well, I can't tell you jack shit. We got a hit in AFIS, which means the guy's in the system, but when I went to pull up the results—crash, boom."

"Your computer blew up?"

"Blew up? That was a possibility? Because if that was a possibility, why in hell would you be sending those prints to a police station? Are you insane? I must be for having anything to do with you whackjobs. Jesus Christ almighty."

I sent the prints to the police because the only alternative I have is Mal, and that comes with another host of issues. "I didn't think the computer would blow up. It was just the first thing that came to mind. A friend told me recently it's almost stupidly easy to make explosives."

"Your friend's a fucking lunatic, but he's right. This wasn't an explosion. This was more an internal boom that has every computer in my department locked up. Do you know what that does to a police department?"

"Triple the actual paperwork?"

"Kid, if you were talking to me face to face, I would smack you for that one. Do you have any idea what happened to handwriting after computers?" Lombardozzi heaves a sigh. I can hear his chair creak as he settles back against it. "Have you figured out what you're messing with at least? Because if you've got half a clue, I'm washing my hands of the whole thing. Anyway, there's a message for you, been on my damn screen all day. Just says, You should know this already, Good Guy. I think you may have found yourself a new spook."

"Good Guy?" I repeat. "It says Good Guy?"

"That is the name you call yourself, right? Or did I miss something?"

"I didn't pick it."

"You let it stick, though. And yes, it says specifically Good Guy. Proper capitalization and everything. It's on every damn computer in the precinct. Why's that important?"

I swallow, staring at the bruises on my knuckles, already faded from the fight yesterday. I'll be lucky if I can still make a fist when I'm fifty.

If I live to see fifty. I don't have money on it.

"It's important, because Good Guy didn't go to the cemetery last night. Alex Manners did."

I can practically hear his face-palm through the phone. "No costume?"

"No costume," I confirm.

"Does everybody in the damn city know who you are? Did you make flyers or something? Shout it from the rooftops? Try to impress some girl?"

"I've never told anyone about this. Or at least not when I wasn't under the influence of a truth spell. You really think I'd use a secret identity to get laid?"

"I sure as hell wouldn't see the appeal in sleeping with your crazy ass." Lombardozzi sighs, dialing back his attitude to something approaching professionalism. "Look, kid. I got assigned to the freak patrol, and I'm in over my head. Someone's messing with you. They're not trying to kill you, but they're poking the bear, testing you, and they're about ten steps ahead. Tread lightly."

"And you'll let me know if you find out anything else about this? Maybe source the virus?"

"Hell, no," Lombardozzi retorts. "The second I get my station up and running again, we're out of this mess. Next time I deal with you, it's going to be me calling in the favor."

And then, the dulcet dial tone. I stare at the line for a second and then set it back on the receiver.

You should already know this, Good Guy.

I pick up the pictures of Brooks Black from my dresser and flip through them one by one.

Malevolence the Malcontent #21

The constant gnawing in Mal's stomach isn't all from hunger. He rolls his seat back from the computer screen and rubs at his eyes, hoping the monitor's on the fritz.

Nope. Same code. His code.

Mal stands up and grabs a jar of pickles from the top shelf, the only food he has left in the apartment. He sits down next to one of the dismantled robots from last week's attempted apocalypse. The bodies of these bots are shinier than Mal's bots, the joints more refined. This one might have the dexterity to pick up something rather than crushing it, but that's overrated. Mal's bots are rugged. This one is almost delicate. The difference between a Mac and a Linux OS. One looks good on the outside, the other's just as functional if you have someone who knows their code. Same shit, different box.

Mal's shit.

What was at one point Mal's best shit.

In bots he didn't build.

Mal's about as far from a moron as you can get. He builds fail-safes. Codes designed to self-destruct if they aren't started with the right sequence. No way a bot like this gets up and smashing without Mal's say-so.

But everything in the programming is blatant thievery.

That means someone got their hands on Mal's clean script.

It's not his most up-to-date code, but Mal's used the same base algorithms since he started tinkering in high school, well before he ever got tossed from college. Someone got their hands on Malcolm Quick's work, not Malevolence's. The bodies of the bots are clues in themselves, more dexterous, but not as durable.

They're Professor Deadly's bots.

Have to be.

She's the only other person in the city sending robots to kill-crush-destroy. The rest of the villains tend to use magic and mind control or the squishy sort of science that results in stuff like mutant alligators.

The alligator thing hasn't gone live yet. Pitchfork is still gloating to the rest of the crooks about his new hell beast. Mal might slip that tip to Alex before Pitchfork lets the beast loose.

Or he might not. Mutant killer alligators might be good for a laugh or two.

He polishes off the jar of pickles, flips down his welding goggles and goes back to slicing out components of the robot. He throws the useful ones one way and discards the frayed wires and damaged processors the other. Good Guy dumped half a dozen robots into the river, which is a tragedy. Mal could have built something damn big with enough of them. Cutting-edge. Now the parts are waterlogged and useless.

The bigger problem is how the hell Deadly got her hands on his code.

Maybe Mal shouldn't be so tetchy about something like this, considering ninety percent of what he does is poach Deadly's bots, but outside of re-purposing a few minions, he usually takes the time to reassemble.

Mal minimizes the diagnostic screen on the computer, pulling up a YouTube video of the explosion, the tiny figure of Good Guy being thrown through the air. The resolution is so bad he can't actually confirm it's Alex, but considering the reaction and newly developed bruises on Mal's face, it's the safe bet.

Bots using his code. A villain attempting to blow up his nemesis while wearing his face. This can't be anything but targeted. Someone is trying to turn Mal into a Big Bad.

It's like they missed the part where he enjoys walks in the park, robbing banks, and attempting to replace the president with an android.

He switches off the blowtorch and sets it aside before slipping off his eye protection. He scratches at his forehead and leaves a trail of grease across his skin. Alex is the person most likely to mess with him, but anyone with an alter ego named Good Guy wouldn't be involved in a scheme that includes blowing himself up and setting robots loose on the city.

He pries the chest cavity of the bot open, pulls out a knife and slices through a mess of wires to get to the circuit board.

It's homemade.

Only a few people in the country do that. Mal pulls out the circuit board and turns it over in his hands. The texture is familiar against his fingers. He sets it carefully beside his keyboard and examines the code.

"Oh, hell."

Professor Nieves. She'd have access to that code and a reason to get after him. She'd been his research adviser at university, recruiting a sixteen-year-old Malcolm Quick for a project in her robotics lab. To this day Mal's got no idea why she wanted him. She'd micromanaged his projects, made him work two flawless years in the lab before she even considered cutting him a lab key.

In retrospect, she should have waited longer. When Mal got a key, Mal got access to chemicals, soldering equipment and time. No supervision meant he could show up late at night and vent out insomnia working on robots. That led to making his own fuel for his robots because electricity was too easy. Steampunk robots would have been much cooler. Mal still ignores the fact that steampunk robots shouldn't really run on what amounts to a high explosive.

Nieves would have a hell of a reason to hold a grudge.

Except the problem with that theory is Nieves didn't survive the explosion.

Professor Deadly must be upping her game. If she's making robots like these, she needs electricity and enough space to minimize the effects of explosions.

No point in wasting time.

Mal pulls off his street clothes to reveal the dark green spandex suit, tugs the goggles out of his jacket pocket and jams them on. Only a few places in the city would work for a set-up like what she needs. Most of them are in the Warehouse District.

Mal keeps as far to the outskirts of the warehouses as he can so he's less noticeable. The distance isn't a big deal, either. Fast as he is, Mal can cover a lot of ground. Mal catches sight of Pitchfork's alligator champing at the bit as he makes the dash and sees a few other supervillains, lesser kind of guys like Jan Ribiero who's trying to make the name Arrowhead work.

It's not going to work.

Petey, a fourteen-year-old telekinetic who mostly just mugs people, juggles apples in an alley. He's a nice kid. If the supers get their hands on him, he won't end up in the villain camp. That could be the best thing for someone like Petey, who's only mugging people so he can eat. Mal looks for X, who might just drop a missile on the entire warehouse district and take the rest of the year off. He doesn't spot him. Neither does he see Worst Nightmare, but she doesn't tend to hang with the rest of the crooks. She has that pesky little problem called high school to contend with.

Mal goes to the dead center of the warehouse district, scales the side of the building and squeezes in through a ventilation shaft in the roof, dropping lightly onto one of the catwalks.

The lab is here, just like he figured it would be. Deadly probably thought it was the safest, most difficult-to-find place in the entire city. Which is just as stupid as putting the processors of a bot where the heart should be.

The complex is huge, the lab section state-of-the-art. It's also meticulously neat while Mal's workshop looks like a junkyard.

"Deadly," Mal sing-songs. "Come out and play."

Something taps him on the back. He whirls around faster than humanly possibly to nail it with an uppercut to the face. He might as well be punching mud. The skin on the thing's face deforms on contact, splits at the cheekbones and reforms as Mal's hand draws back.

He shakes bits of face goop off his fingers. The last thing he needs is to start mutating.

"Malcolm Quick," the thing snarls.

"Pile of goop," Mal replies, mouth on autopilot. He backpedals.

"You are still an insolent brat," it—she—hisses.

Not Mal's fault he got beat up all through high school for being both too scrawny and too smart. Not his fault he skipped a couple grades and compounded the problem by never really having a peer group willing to talk to him. A little bit his fault that he never learned how not to be an asshole. Mal's been told that's a character flaw.

"And you're still a—" Mal stutters to a halt. "Wait. Still a brat? What do you mean still?"

"You were the last time I mistook talent for usefulness."

Mal slowly realizes what he's looking at. Impossible as it seems, he was right about who's been building the killer robots. It's an effort to get the name past his lips. "Professor Nieves?"

"The one and only," she says. "But I'm afraid that name is no longer relevant. You may refer to me as Professor Deadly."

"You're supposed to be dead."

"Because of your incompetence," she bites out.

"Incompetence?" Mal repeats, amused. He could walk into any IT recruiting department and jury-rig its coffee maker to be an iPod. He'd probably be hired on the spot, no matter how risky. It's just dumb luck he found out being a supervillain is more fun. "Really? You're going with incompetence as my fatal flaw?"

"You ruined my life," the thing spits.

"Is that why you've been imitating me?" Mal stumbles as he circles around her. "I can see not wanting to have your ugly face, but you can't have mine."

The pile of goop that used to be Professor Nieves smiles. Or at least there's a shift in the mouth area. Must be hard to keep up her calorie intake.

Great, now Mal is hungry. Thank God Nieves—no, Deadly—is gross enough to temper his appetite.

"I can imitate everyone, and I will. My name has been forgotten, but I'll make sure yours goes down in infamy."

The pile of goop that's her face shifts and reforms until Mal can pick out his own pointy nose and dark circled eyes. The faint burn scars around his ears from the lab accident don't do much to hide the freckles. Deadly doesn't bother with the costume, changing herself just enough so she looks like Mal did maybe three weeks after the accident when he got the news about his expulsion. She holds the image for a second and then the naturally red hair flickers to the black dye job that does more to protect Malevolence's identity than any mask.

Malleable DNA with instantly visible results. Not just a mutagen, but a consciously controlled one. God, Mal wants to dissect her. He would learn biochemistry in a heartbeat if he had something like that to study.

"Infamy's great," he says. "Honestly, I'm all for infamy. That's part and parcel with the whole villain thing. Should give you a thanks."

Kind of wish she hadn't tried to blow up Alex, but that's a different story. He wishes Alex was here now. Alex is deadpan as shit, but when he gets pissed he will punch you repeatedly in the face. It's always nice to have that aggression directed at someone else.

"Mr. Quick," Deadly says in that overly formal way Nieves used to speak. It's bizarre to hear something that professional sounding coming out of Mal's own mouth. "I've noticed you've thrown in your lot with the heroes."

"Please. Just because I'd rather lend Good Guy a hand than watch the world get destroyed doesn't mean I've joined up. Staging an apocalypse is like burning your house down while you're still inside."

Deadly morphs from Mal's own face back to the pile of goop and then reforms into the professor Mal used to know. She's got dark hair dusted with silver, a brown jacket with elbow patches, a thin nose and a sharp glare. She does not look like someone stupid enough to plot the world's destruction. She looks respectable. A bioengineering professor who specializes in applied robotics. "You don't get to live happily ever after, Quick. I'm going to ruin you like you ruined me. "

Holy hell, Mal hates her. Hated her even back when he was working for her. Half of her big breaks came from his uncredited work. "Hey now, that was as much your fault as mine. You're the one who introduced the heat source."

The heat source plus robot fuel made for a big whopping explosion. She'd knocked over a Bunsen burner Mal had left running in his distraction. That part was his fault. The bigger problem was someone had cut the sprinkler system. Mal had heard the explosion and bolted only to find himself five minutes and fifteen miles away. From the look of the pile of goop that is Nieves's face, she'd stayed and smoldered.

Whoops.

Then again, being a pile of goop is probably better than being dead. Mal stands firmly against dying. It sounds like it would hurt, and the conventional theory on afterlife is it's either full or torture or harps.

Deadly melts back into a pile of goop as she slithers forward. Mal dances away, trying to keep his feet out of what used to be Deadly's flesh. Seems like the kind of thing that would slow him down. And it's possible the bits of goop could spontaneously turn into body parts when scraped off his shoes.

Mal's life is pretty fucking weird.

Someone starts shooting. Deadly absorbs two bullets, her flesh inviting the lead inside and reforming around the bullet holes. Something slams into Mal's shoulder.

Mal drops to his knees and rolls off the catwalk. The landing jars him badly, the entire right side of his suit suddenly soaked in blood. After his vision clears, Mal can figure the angle of impact. He looks up to find the source of the attack and sees X reloading.

The pile of goop that is Professor Deadly surges up in the direction of X. X empties a clip into her face.

Oh, yeah. Mal stumbles to his feet, making a conscious effort not to calculate how fast he's losing blood. It's time to run.

Not to a hospital because there's nothing he can say to explain the spandex. Peeling the costume off without help is going to require at least one extra set of hands. Which means Mal needs help. Mama Q would be horrified if he showed up on her doorstep with a bullet wound.

That leaves one option.

That first truce with Good Guy was really the smartest thing Mal's ever done.

Good Guy #67

I wake up to the sound of someone trying to pick his way through my lock and into my apartment. Pulling on a T-shirt and grabbing my glasses, I make my way to the front door, pulling it open without even checking to see who it is.

Malevolence, complete with costume, is on his knees, bleeding from a shoulder wound. He holds a set of lock picks loosely in his off hand, one of the pieces held in his teeth. He looks up at me sheepishly. "Hey there, Alex. Any chance I can call in a favor?"

I glance to Elle's apartment and then haul him to his feet and pull him inside. The goggles aren't on. A scrap of fabric is tied tight against the seeping wound. His dyed black hair is plastered to his face with sweat.

"What the hell are you doing here?

Mal grins up at me. He's always been pale but he's getting paler by the second. "Thought I'd drop in, you know. Been a while."

"It's been maybe three days."

"X shot me," he says. "In other news, did you know Deadly's a shapeshifter? Apparently I'm her new favorite costume."

That explains a lot. "I should have figured that out. She is the only other person in this city who actually makes robots."

"That's all you're going to say? This is huge news. She blew you up, and you're shrugging?"

I push him back on the couch. He winces when he makes contact, putting pressure against the wound. I take his hand away and peel back the makeshift bandage. "Bullet?"

"Yeah. Any chance of you getting it out?"

"You owe me a new couch."

I walk back to my room, grab a pocket knife, a roll of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide before hitting the bathroom to sterilize the blade. When I come back, Mal's even paler, and the blood stain on my couch is reaching the size that I will not be able to cover up with a pillow. Mal eyes me suspiciously. "Don't you have any liquor or something to dull the pain?"

"No." I walk over and dump half the hydrogen peroxide bottle onto the wound. Mal's legs thrash.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm a little busy with other matters, thank you very much." I flip the knife out of the sheath. Mal hisses in pain when the knife hits flesh and then passes out when I start digging.

The bullet comes out clean and clanks onto the floor. I toss it into one of the half-empty glasses of water on my coffee table while I apply pressure. I keep all my old bullets. There aren't many of them, but they sit in the drawer in my nightstand, each one matched to a scar. Mal stops moving, but a quick check of his pulse confirms he's unconscious, not dead. I wrap up the wound and go to the kitchen to scrub the blood from my hands.

Then I walk next door to Elle's apartment and rap on the door. There are definitely voices coming out of the thin walls. Elle answers, looking thoroughly disheveled. She doesn't even bothering to remove the chain lock.

"There's a supervillain on my couch."

Elle blinks, then smiles through the crack in the door. "Alex, that's a damn good laugh, but I'm kind of busy."

She glances behind her.

Right. The mystery boyfriend's in there. The one she'll deny having no matter how obvious she is. "I'm not joking. I really need some advice."

Elle laughs and shuts the door in my face. I go back to my apartment and lock all the windows. No way I want Dodger crashing into my apartment right now.

Mal's still unconscious, as quiet as I've ever seen him. The shoulder wound looks to still be oozing, red enveloping the gauze. I sigh and grab my emergency reserve supplies. I have to change the bandage four times before the bleeding's under control, but eventually it stops. Mal still has a pulse. I rub at my eyes, exhausted from the all-nighter the day before. No way in hell will I make class tomorrow morning.

I lock the door, doubling up the deadbolts to discourage someone like X, check my messages to make sure Lombardozzi hasn't called back with the cause of the virus, and then fall asleep at my desk. The next morning I wake up to the smell of burning toast.

Mal's cursing at my toaster, still in costume minus the goggles. I'd cut the right sleeve off while wrapping the bandage last night, and the white bandages have a round red spot. "I thought I'd hallucinated you," I tell him.

"You hallucinate a lot of people?" he asks.

"That's up for debate." A sudden brainstorm hits me, and I fish out the pictures of Brooks Black from my table and hand them over. Mal exchanges the photos for the piece of burnt toast. A glance at my pantry shows it's about the last piece of food in my apartment. "Someone's been leaving photos for me."

"So?" Mal flips through the photographs. "None of this is blackmail-worthy." He pauses over the first one that was sent to me, the one with my arm around someone who looks uncannily like Brooks Black. "Hey, you should probably know who that is."

"Not necessarily."

"Alex, this is photographic evidence."

"Look. This isn't something I'm laughing about. I know who that is, or at least who it looks like. That guy died four years ago, right in front of me. That photo is a year old tops."

"Really?" Mal studies the pictures with a bit more interest. "That kind of sounds like a recipe for a nemesis right there."

"This isn't the only thing. I went to the graveyard last night and got attacked. Managed to pry a sledgehammer off the guy. I sent the fingerprints to a contact in the police department, and boom."

Mal's eyebrows hit his hairline. "The police station blew up?"

I've really got to quit using that phrase. "The network crashed. Some kind of a worm."

"Huh." Mal puts the photos down. "And you think this is related? Sledgehammer guy and the photos?"

"Has to be. Neither of them were really targeting Good Guy."

"Really? And here I thought your alter ego may as well be wallpaper. Clearly I've been underestimating you." He sits down, groaning as the movement jostles his shoulders. "Tell you what, I'll crack the police department thing for you if you help me deliver Deadly the smackdown."

"And what about the photos? Can you tell if they've been altered?"

"Maybe if I had the digital copies, but they pass the eye test. Did you miss the part where Professor Deadly's a shapeshifter? We know she can do a wicked convincing impression of me even if she can't match my sparkling wit."

"You think my guy is a shapeshifter?"

That's the most satisfying theory I've heard about this whole thing. It especially makes sense in the wake of the explosion. But at the same time, my heart squeezes uncomfortably tight, bits of black seeping into the edge of my vision. I force my hands to uncurl. There are acceptable times for panic attacks, and this is not one of them.

"Well, yeah," Mal says. "It makes sense. Deadly's been pretty pissed about me throwing in with heroes and stomping all over her plots. And that's before we even get to the fact that me and Deadly kind of go way back."

"You and Deadly?"

"Turns out she was my old research advisor. I blew her up a little. In my defense, it's almost stupidly easy to make explosives."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"This was before Malevolence. And it was an accident. Mostly."

"How mostly?"

"I was doing an unauthorized experiment to make rocket fuel for my steampunk robot."

"Don't steampunk things run on steam?"

Mal reaches up to cuff me in the back of the head. The action hurts him far more than it does me. "Look I don't see why you're harping on this. She's holding a grudge. I thought she was dead, but no, it turns out my dear professor Nieves just went Deadly instead."

"Sounds like it's all your fault."

"Probably was," Mal concedes. He stares over my shoulder to my laptop, sitting open on the table. "But she's your problem too. Shapeshifting into your dead friend, leaving you presents, blowing you up."

"You make it sound like I should have a vendetta."

"You don't have enough of a personality to have a vendetta."

I don't even bother to pretend to be offended by stuff like this anymore. This moment at least is familiar, a foothold that stops my spiraling panic. "Truce?"

Mal extends a hand. "Yeah, truce."

Good Guy #68

This truce is different.

Last time, we'd teamed up in the heat of battle, against a common enemy. This time, Mal steals a pair of my sweats and my laptop for some nebulous, probably illegal, hacking into the national fingerprint database. The bandages nearly blend into his pale skin, the lively red spot the only splash of color. The bloody spandex suit of a supervillain is in my hamper. I'll move it to the trash the second I get a chance.

Someone knocks on the door at one point. It's probably Elle, but I have to wait for Mal to wobble out of sight before answering. By the time I do, whoever it was is gone. I close the door as Mal peeks his head out of the bathroom. "Dude, everything all right? You've been standing there for like ten minutes. Did you have a stroke or something?"

A headache builds between my eyes. I pinch at it.

The ache gets worse as Mal slides back in front of my computer and starts clacking away on my keyboard.

I walk to the bedroom and close the door. The pictures of me and Brooks are spread out on the bed, wrinkled and torn around the edges from my constant handling. There's a knot in my gut, and it's getting harder to breathe. It hasn't been this bad in a long time, not since I first climbed up to the roof.

I'm done feeling like shit.

I pick up the photos and place them under the mattress. Out of sight, out of mind. When I'm sure Mal doesn't need the originals, I'll burn them.

I don't want to live this way anymore.

I've been a super for a long time. Almost three years. Three years filled with setting my own bones and suffering through a dozen or more concussions.

I need to redesign my costume. Maybe add armor so I don't get demolished during fights. The kind of thing that would save me some broken ribs the next time Professor Deadly decides to blow me up. Because running into battle with just a cotton shirt and a heavy pair of slacks isn't the smartest thing.

I pull on Good Guy's costume piece by piece, the stretch of the leather gloves more satisfying than normal. I'll have to start saving some cash for that body armor. Unless Detective Lombardozzi feels like giving me a bulletproof vest.

Mal looks up when I exit my bedroom, an interface I don't recognize flashing across the screen of my laptop. "What's with the costume? I'm not exactly up for a fight right now."

"You said X was after you?"

"Yeah. I checked the bullet. Had his insignia and everything. I want to keep it, by the way. I don't get the feeling many people get marked by that guy and survive. Hell of a souvenir."

"If X is after you, it's because Dodger sent him. I'm going to stop him. Can't have you dying on me before we figure this thing out."

"I stand firmly against my own death," Mal notes, attention already drifting back to the lines of code.

"You'll want to lock the windows after I leave. Dodger doesn't have much concept of personal space."

Side effect of having a key to everyone's thoughts.

Mal salutes me, and I jump out the window.

Three years, and this has always felt like falling, like I was barely in control. There'd always been this certainty that gravity would take over if I blinked or stopped believing.

This is the first time it's ever felt like flying.

And that's a good feeling, a heady feeling. Even if Malevolence is in danger, even if someone's running around wearing the face of Brooks Black, I can deal with it.

But right now, I have to get Dodger and X off Mal's back. And I can think of only one way to do it. I fly over to the northwest quarter of the District, where single-family dwellings stand on cramped lots that are more dirt than grass. At least this area of the city doesn't tend to get stomped by giant killer robots or swamp monsters. That probably jacks up the property values.

A man dressed in black and clutching a knife writhes on the ground beside a swing set. He's wearing a stocking over his face, which means he's a mugger who is terrible at his job.

The night will end with him in the psych ward, but I can't bring myself to be sorry. I make a mental note to call Lombardozzi to pick him up later.

Right now, I need to deal with Worst Nightmare.

Dodger's kid sister.

She's in full costume, swinging back and forth. No big surprise. She's still a teenager. She lives at home, I'm sure. Even odds she doesn't have a driver's license yet. She hits the top of her arch and jumps off, stumbling a step on her landing to leave her face to face with me.

"Hello, Alex," she says, her voice dreamy and far away. "You're late."

This is a psychic thing. It must be. "Never made this a date, sweetheart."

"A boy at my school called me that," Worst Nightmare says. "He's dead now. Accident. Very sad. Went to sleep one night and never woke up. You're here because you're mad at Dodger."

"He sent X to kill Malevolence. Malevolence is my problem, just like you've always been Dodger's. No one is supposed to touch SuckerPunch but X. But all bets are off now. You're easier to find than SuckerPunch."

Worst Nightmare twirls a piece of her hair, brings it to her mouth and starts to chew on the ends. "I'm mad at Dodger as well. He gave me my sister back and then stole her away. Even now he's trying to worm his way into my head. Trying to control me."

She steps forward. I step back, remembering that every time I have physical contact with her I seem to wake up days later in strange locations. Maybe this isn't my best plan. "Last time I talked to you, you said something about Brooks."

"Oh! Did you find him?"

"He's dead."

Worst Nightmare raises an arm, and suddenly hands reach up through the dirt.

"What?" she says, smile tugging on her lips. "Can't make this easy on you."

Zombies. Right. Probably not actual zombies considering this is Worst Nightmare. I've never seen an actual uprising, but they look real, smell real and move real. Dodger told me once that I was stupidly easy to mind control.

Not today.

I ignore the creatures and slug Worst Nightmare in the face. She slams backward, wiping blood off her face with the back of her hand.

"Very good. You're getting better. Might almost be ready for the big time." Worst Nightmare rights herself. She doesn't use her hands, just levitates, tipping herself up to her feet. "Not quite, though."

She levels her gaze on me, extends both hands and unleashes a blast of pure energy that hits me square and rockets me off my feet. I remember I can fly and regain control of my body before I slam into playground equipment. That gives me her range: Twelve feet or so. One of the street signs rips itself out of the ground and launches itself at me.

Okay, longer than twelve feet. She seems to need actual contact to put me under, but in terms of projectiles, nothing's coming at me as fast as what I see while I'm fighting Mal.

There is, however, a lot more of them in the air.

About half of the projectiles are illusions rather than actual matter, but it's impossible to tell one from the other. The zombies claw at my feet, insubstantial but more than enough to set my nerves on edge.

A big rock whizzes through me rather than hitting me, and I manage to tackle Worst Nightmare before she tosses something solid at my face. She lifts her hands and blasts me into the side of a building with enough force to shake the foundation.

"You move like you're fighting for someone," Worst Nightmare says. "That's interesting."

Brooks, I think. Brooks, who would have hit twenty-three this year. Brooks, who never did.

Definitely not fighting for Mal. I need Mal to get to the bottom of who's masquerading as Brooks and leaving me pictures. Need him to figure out if it's actually Professor Deadly, the shapeshifter, or if it's something worse. Maybe I like Mal better than other people, but that's mostly Stockholm Syndrome.

The corners of Worst Nightmare's mouth inch upward. Her face shifts, melting and changing in the same way that Mal described Professor Deadly's pile of goop. She also gains several inches and about twenty pounds. Her hair slurps back into her skull, lightening on its way.

And then Brooks stands in front of me, looking not like he did in the mysterious pictures but more like on graduation night with blood soaking through the back of his shirt.

I'm surrounded by zombies that aren't really there, but my mind flashes red and my focus narrows. Two strides, and I punch her square in the face. She doesn't respond, just moves with the contact. I plow into her with the opposite hand, two, three, four blows in rapid succession. The illusions around me flicker like the power during a thunder storm.

Suddenly Dodger is pushing me off Worst Nightmare. Bet right about now he regrets volunteering the information that she's his kid sister.

"What the fuck are you doing, Good Guy?"

"She's fair game, right?" I sneer. "You sent X gunning for Malevolence yesterday."

"If it was X—"

I take a swing at him, aiming for the right side of his jaw but hitting his right temple. Weird, but it doesn't stop it from being cathartic as hell. "Bullshit. You know it was X. You're the boss of us. Fighting in the field is fine, but sending X to seek out Mal?" I'm staking my territory. It feels good. "If Malevolence is fair game, so is she."

The girl in question has melted out of her costume, bruises blossoming over white skin. She looks very young. My mother would be horrified that I hit a girl. Worst Nightmare sticks her tongue out at me and holds up bunny ears behind Dodger's head.

My lips twitch. Given the right circumstances, I might almost like her.

Dodger folds his arms around his chest, squaring toward me. Not for the first time, I hate that not even an inch of his face is visible. He's swimming in the ridiculous vintage Dodgers' jersey he wears. "Good Guy, are you sure this is where you draw your line? You don't owe Malevolence anything."

That must mean Dodger's being the good little hero and respecting my mental integrity. Otherwise, he'd know what I was thinking. "Mal's helped me before. Something's been messing with the both of us. If I'm going to stop this, I need his help again."

"He'll stab you in the back."

It's Mal. If he's going to stab me, it will be to the face. "He's got a skill set not otherwise available to me. I need him."

"If that's true, you can't expect us to back you up. Not if you're working with him."

Like that makes sense, considering who Dodger's defending. Worst Nightmare has caused more problems than Mal by an order of magnitude.

But it doesn't matter. I've picked my side. At last count, it's only really me on this side, but it's the right side.

"Brooks Black," Worst Nightmare calls as I leave. "He's the key."

"I've got this covered," I promise. "No input required."

VOLUME SIX:

What the World Forgot

Good Guy #69

Elle's in my apartment when I get back, eating chips and chatting with Mal. She waves to me, cupping a mug of hot chocolate in her off hand. I didn't even know I had stuff to make hot chocolate. Her hair is slightly curly today. The style looks good on her. "Is this the friend you were freaking out about last night? The one you called a supervillain?"

"He is a supervillain."

"Come on. Malcolm here's a sweetie. There's no reason to go accusing him of things like that."

Mal's an ass, and from the smirk on his face, he's enjoying this. At least he's thought to throw a blanket over the bloodstain on the couch.

"You have to understand, me and Alex went to high school together," Mal says. "I kind of went out of my way to make Alex's life a living hell. I wanted to drop in and make amends. Then I blackmailed him into sparing me the couch."

"How could you have let him pick on you?" Elle arches an eyebrow in my direction. I've got maybe half an inch on Mal but I'm almost twice as thick through the shoulders. Mal smiles beatifically at me, curious about how I'm going to deal with the accusations.

"I didn't bulk up until later," I say. "Malcolm gave me more than a few swirlies."

"Hence the supervillain talk."

"Yes, Alex," Mal says. "What's this nonsense about supervillains and heroes? What happened to secret identities?"

"Truth serum," I reply.

Elle giggles like we have a marvelous inside joke.

Mal smirks like he knows we do. Should have guessed he's the type who would stop and watch a train wreck given the chance.

"I still find it hard to believe you got picked on during high school, Alex," Elle says.

"I'm a half-blind history major. Of course I got picked on during high school."

"I've actually shrunk a few inches." Mal's voice is more Malevolence than Malcolm Quick. "You should have seen me. I was a bulky bastard. Played football. Smashed people into lockers. Good times."

Mal skipped two or three grades, if I'm guessing. Spent the entire time getting his face beat in. No one takes a punch like he does without a hell of a lot of practice.

"Right," Elle says. "Alex, now that I've confirmed you interrupted my sleep yesterday with a complete and utter farce of a problem, I think I'll head out and let you catch up with your friend."

"Tell your boyfriend I'm sorry for interrupting your night."

"It's still adorable that you think I've got one." Elle stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, Alex. Would hate to have a villain blow you up before I get my chance."

She leaves the apartment, hips swinging as she goes. I blink. "Did she just make another pass at me?"

Mal shakes his head. "No. She just gave you a death threat. I can see how you might get those confused." He slumps back against the couch. "I like her. How the hell did she figure you out?"

"I wasn't kidding about the truth serum." I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. "She doesn't believe a damn word of it, but it's still nice to be able to talk to someone."

"She thinks you're gay."

"How did she get that idea?"

Mal waggles his eyebrows. I fight the urge to smash my head against the wall.

"You can't stay here," I tell him.

"I don't want to. You live in a hellhole. It's a wonder you don't freeze with this draft."

"You did make it a point to haul your broken ass to my doorstep."

"Only because I thought you lived in a decent place," Mal says. "Thought the heroes might make sure you didn't get a staph infection from your dwelling."

"Yeah, well, Dodger and X aren't exactly BFF material, but they shouldn't bother you until this is over."

"I'm touched. You call in a favor?"

"I picked a fight with Worst Nightmare," I say.

"That's a hell of a way to make your point. Also, it explains your face."

"Shut up, gunshot wound. You can't stay here. Not when Dodger still might see fit to come through my window because I beat up his little sister. Do you have a secure place to go if Deadly starts gunning for you?"

"Not if Deadly knows who I am. I've been in the same place since college, and I know she's seen my old personnel files. I don't want to go back to the warehouses. There are gators everywhere."

"Gators?"

"Giant mutant alligators, courtesy of Pitchfork," Mal says. "My guess is they break loose sometime in the next month. It's going to be a laugh, but I'd rather watch than take a starring role."

Priorities, Alex. Priorities.

"Look, there's an abandoned train station south of the river," I say. "Local kids all think it's haunted. You might have to chase a few vagrants away, but it's structurally stable and that side of the city tends to be free from supers. It'll be a safe place to hide."

Mal nods and walks to my room, digging out the tattered bloody spandex suit from the hamper. I'd figured it for a lost cause, but ten minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in costume, the spandex bunching around his bandaged shoulder.

"You're just going to walk out of the building? Wearing that? Elle's pretty willing to think Alex as Good Guy is a joke, but you start having Malevolence sighted in the building and that will change. She's not stupid."

"God, you're whipped, and you ain't got a half a chance at tapping that, ever." Mal pulls on what after a second glance looks like one of my masks. Who knows what happened to his goggles.

"I don't want to tap that. But if you kidnap her, I will kill you."

"Do I look like I'm stroking a cat and twirling a giant mustache?" He trails off, suddenly thoughtful.

I roll my eyes. "Just don't let anyone see you, dude."

"No one will see me. I move too fast, remember?" He nods toward my computer. "The decryption program is chugging through the FBI's fingerprint database. When the program's done, it should go ding and tell you whose prints set off the alarm bells. Or it could completely fry your OS. You might want to back up that senior thesis on your desktop. Looks like something you don't want to lose."

Then he's gone, the front door to the apartment drifting slowly shut behind him.

I sit down in front of my laptop, almost afraid to touch his setup, but back up my important documents to an external hard drive. I've just finished and ejected the hard drive when the screen beeps and changes to something that looks like it's from a very official fingerprinting system.

Mal was looking for the data file that crashed Detective Lombardozzi's computer system. It was a hit on the fingerprint I pulled from the sledgehammer in the graveyard. A picture is attached to the file.

And a name.

Brooks Black.

Malevolence the Malcontent #24

Mal's been to this train station before.

Hell, he's looted it.

He cleared out everything useful ten months ago when he rebooted Alex's brain. He'd just found this place, thought it was a godsend because it was already tricked out with top-of-the-line lab equipment. Most likely it belonged to someone else before him, but he'd staked the place out an entire week and when no one came in or out, it was his. Mal's stay was cut short when Alex woke up from Worst Nightmare's spell.

Abandoned anything makes a good hiding place for villains, but back then, Mal had still been worried that Good Guy would hunt him down, so he'd hauled out everything useful and never looked back. Since then he's been rooting for someone with a lair will go down and he can take over something with style.

Mal wants a moat. That's the dream.

Someone else has set up a lair in the train station since the last time Mal saw it. Brought back beakers and bacterial cultures. A heat lamp pointed at some abnormal-looking plants.

The electricity he poached from the city mainframe is still going strong. The examination table where Mal plugged Alex into a couple dozen volts of electricity to reboot his brain is in the same place, not a speck of dust on it. Alex probably only had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the reboot. The thought stings.

Would have been a bitch to find another nemesis.

He runs his hands over the wires, tracing them back to a simple interface and page after page of handwritten notes. Schematics. These, Mal understands. A hell of a lot of squishy science is involved, which makes less sense, but he can at least appreciate the beauty of a balanced biochemical mechanism.

Several of the hardware designs are laughably bad. The machine will light up and whirl, but functionality is hampered to the point where it won't do more than limp along.

Mal's hands itch as he eyes the tools strewn around the room. He's always felt better moving, the curse of the speedster. And if he has any pet peeves, it's broken machinery.

He scans through the schematics, matching up designs to the various devices. There are more than enough tools and parts. A headache builds behind his eyes. He wishes he'd remembered to replace the stash of hydrocodone sewn into his costume. The gunshot wound is probably seeping. Mal's healing factor isn't the level of most supers.

He feels better after he puts his hands to work. There's something soothing about metalwork, even when he has a hole in his shoulder. Under normal circumstances, Mal would be at a spa on some rich bastard's stolen credit card. Or writing code for the android decoy of himself that will one day go to jail in his place.

That plan will be a lot harder to implement if he's a corpse.

Dying would become less likely if Mal just got out of the city.

He puts down the wrench, wiping off his hands against his costume's ragged edges. "Why the fuck are you still here, Quick?" he asks himself out loud.

The answer's obvious but also troubling. Doom clouds are gathering in the city and his sixth sense is going haywire, but he's stayed because Alex asked for his help.

Mal finishes the contraption in front of him, complete with a few special alterations. It'll need a hell of a lot of electricity, but if it gets the juice, it's going to work.

That's the Malcolm Quick guarantee.

He could have been the world's greatest IT guy, except that when he tried it at a summer job at age fourteen, he made six customers cry on his first day. Years later, he still takes some pride in that. Give him a decent set of blueprints and he can find almost any electrical problem.

"Now what do you actually do?" Mal wonders aloud, circling the contraption. He doesn't like one of the compartments. It's the perfect size for an aerosolized container. The headache multiplies, throws a party and invites some friends.

Déjà vu. Mal's worked on this before. He knows the curves of the machine too well for anything else to be true.

He should remember working on something like this. Sure, he'd have gotten bored considering the end goal wasn't some sort of bot, but he should remember.

He looks around the station again, cataloging the inventory. Whoever moved in after him had apparently purchased the same equipment and put it all in the same places. Even the notes are familiar. Mal knows he's seen them before even if he doesn't recognize the contents. It's not Deadly's either—not all of it at least. If Deadly is Nieves, Mal knows her methods, knows her precise script.

This isn't her.

The inconsistencies eat at him. He starts looking at the other contraptions. His fingerprints are all over the devices, a half-dozen different systems that may as well have his signature.

Mal doesn't remember any of it.

He can only think of one solution, and he doesn't like the implications. Speed's cool, but his brain's the only asset he trusts. Back at the computer console, Mal pulls up a program. It's the same setup Mal used to diagnose Alex months ago. Mal attaches the leads to his own forehead and clacks away at the computer program, the plan half-formed in his mind.

The gel is cool against his temples, the headache made worse by the small electrical charges. Sweat drips down his cheeks. He needs to see a scan and needs it now.

There's no reason he should be familiar with this system. Back in college, he'd arranged for a few scans to see if he could map the electrical impulses of a human brain to adopt for robotics. The design had taken him weeks to perfect.

This design has echoes of his old one. The OS is so intuitive that he must have used it before.

Mal's memory is full of holes, and he hadn't even realized that until he was here.

"What the fuck?" Mal mutters to the live scan. Patches of his brain are going haywire, circled by places that look dark.

What could do something like that?

Brain chemistry has never been his forte. Give him a couple months, and he might be able to turn himself into that kind of expert. But he's never seen the point in messing with humans when you can make androids just as good.

He regrets that line of thought now.

He yanks off the leads, fingers flying over the keyboard, hoping to find some normal scans for comparison.

"Find anything interesting?" a voice asks.

The new guy has a vocal distorter. It's good, but there's a tinny quality that is unmistakable. The figure is covered from head to toe in black spandex, not even a suggestion of what he might look like underneath. The costume has no insignia, no identifying marks.

Designed specifically to be forgotten.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" Mal asks.

"I am Shadow."

"Shadow? Really? Strain yourself coming up with that one?"

"And Malevolence is the height of imagination."

It's still better than Good Guy.

"This is a trap, isn't it?" Mal asks.

"Yes," says the ironed-out tone of vocal distorter. The dude underneath is probably gloating, gleeful. Mal would be.

This is the first time Mal's been on the other side of a nefarious scheme, and he can't figure out who's behind it. Heroes don't tend to spring traps. They're very much of the see-smash-angst mold. That could mean he's about to die, a shame because Mal would love another chance to talk to Elle.

God damn everything. Next time—if there is a next time—he's getting out of the city and leaving the world to fend for itself.

Good Guy #70

I have to remind myself to breathe.

Brooks's fingerprints mean nothing. It's Deadly, the shapeshifter. It has to be. That thought's the only thing that keeps me from a panic attack. I glance to the door, tempted to go see Elle, but I don't want to drag her into this. I reach instead for the phone and dial Detective Lombardozzi, putting him on speakerphone so I can pull on my costume.

He answers curtly, "If you're not IT support, I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm not IT support."

"Oh, hell," Lombardozzi says. "What's blown up?"

"Nothing." I unclench my fist and catch sight of the stain of Mal's blood on my couch. I iron out the tension from my voice. "I got some information for you."

I hear the chair groan as he settles back. "Because this day isn't already fun enough."

"The name on the prints that crashed your system. It's Brooks Black."

"Do I want to know how you got this?"

"Outsourced it. I don't know for sure, but if I had to guess, no, you don't."

"Fantastic. Any description? Lemme grab a pen. We're breaking out the fax machines at this point. Lucky the government never actually throws anything away."

"He's about six foot one." I dig one of the photos out from under my mattress, examining the familiar face. "Pale. Brownish hair. Light eyes."

"Build?"

Too damn skinny to be the friend I remember. "He could use a cheeseburger or two."

"Thanks, kid. That's very nearly useful. Anything else?"

I close my eyes, and I can see Brooks's blood splattering the wall. You stupid fucking asshole. "He's kind of supposed to be dead."

"We talking zombies then?" Lombardozzi sounds tired, but not surprised. "Been a few decades since the last uprising, but the bludgeoners are in the storage unit with the fax machines. At this point in the day, some pest control might be cathartic for everyone."

"If it's the same guy from the cemetery, he moves too well to be a zombie. Current working theory is shapeshifter."

"You're a pain in my ass, Manners. If I never talk to you again, it'll be too damn soon."

That draws a laugh so dry it hurts my throat. I stare at the mask in my hands but don't put it on. "Right back at you, Lombardozzi."

He hangs up on me. I set the phone down and open my window to fly out.

Then my apartment explodes.

#

X fishes me out of the rubble.

It's weird to see things from this side, the disorientation, the screaming of panicked civilians in the streets. I'd been unconscious the last time this happened, when Dodger pulled me out of the river.

This is different.

This is my home.

X stares at me, eyes widening behind the two triangular swatches that cut a crude X through his face. Everything's fuzzy, and it's not just because of my missing glasses.

"You're actually Good Guy," X says as I grope for a mask that isn't there. "That's... unexpected."

I cough into a plume of smoke, taking special aim so that it hits him in the face.

"Can you feel your leg?" he asks.

Something heavy rests on my right leg. I don't want to think about whether I can feel it, because right now the shock is my only shield against the pain. "What do you care?"

X slugs me just above the right knee. I howl in pain and punch him back.

"There's our answer," he says. "Punch me again, and I will kill you."

I sit up again and push at the rubble. The entire building shakes, but my leg's still trapped. X looks around, but there's nothing but sky. A helicopter spins in the distance. "Elle," I say. "My neighbor Elle. Did she get out?"

"Do I look like I took roll call?" He pauses. "Malevolence, right?"

"What?"

"Malevolence blew you up twice in the past month. This is what we call escalation. I'll take care of him."

"Find Elle," I mutter. "I can deal with Mal."

X hesitates, like he's considering doing what I say. My brain finally comes back online.

X doesn't hesitate. X doesn't fish people out of the rubble. And X sure as hell doesn't take orders from the likes of me.

I latch onto his arm.

"Let go, Good Guy."

I tighten my grip, suspicion growing. Police sirens sound in the distance. "Make me."

He doesn't even try despite the arsenal of weapons strapped to his back and spring-loaded onto his wrists. X had no problem dropping me from a building. He's an asshole who wouldn't give a damn what happened to Elle.

X has no idea Good Guy lived in this building.

X has no idea who Alex Manners is.

Judging by the distance of the police sirens, X didn't have the time to make it here.

"You're not X." My fingers dig into Looks-Like-X's wrist. I don't care if the bone splinters. It's still daylight so Psi should come riding in on a sunbeam any moment now. The real X will be on her heels. I doubt he'll have qualms about shooting his look-alike in the face.

The skin under my hands starts to shift, suddenly liquid through my fingers. Instinct screams at me to snatch my hand back, but I schooled myself not to listen to self-preservation instincts a long time ago.

If I let go, I lose him.

And he blew up my apartment. Not that I liked the place much, but my senior thesis was in there. Two months of research down the drain. That part I care about. Wasn't that what Halpern told me to figure out?

What do you believe in, Alex?

I believe in living to get my degree.

Baby steps. Maybe I'm getting better after all.

X's visage is melting, the mask becoming one with the skin, becoming what might pass for flesh on a good day. Mal's words echo in my head: She's a pile of goop.

"Professor Deadly," I say as I recognize her.

Deadly kicks at my leg that's caught under the concrete. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I pass out.

Good Guy #71

I wake up to a voice hissing, "I'm going to kill you."

It's Mal. His entire body is vibrating with energy behind me. I can feel it against my back, and I realize we're tied together. My left hand comes up just far enough to confirm, yes, shackles. When I turn my head, I can see the tip of a bloody ear.

"That's nice," I say.

"Alex? Thank God. I thought I was ranting at a corpse. You still with me?"

The throbbing in my head probably indicates a concussion, either from the blast or whatever knocked me out. I chance a look down at my legs. The right one is badly fractured. The bulge above my knee is probably a bone jutting through the skin.

That's... not good.

"Alex is here." I should probably hurt more than I do. Maybe whoever tied us up gave me the good painkillers. "Good Guy, not so much."

"Holy hell," Mal hisses. "I should have hung your sorry ass out to dry."

"I should have called the police when you showed up on my doorstep with a bullet wound, so I guess we're even."

"Easier to break out of jail than break out of this," Mal mutters, yanking at the chains and then hissing in pain from his shoulder injury. "I should have run. There's probably a hospital in Mexico that would have patched me up. I hear they have shady doctors. I need to find me a shady doctor."

"You'll end up with six fingers and a lizard tongue. You know it's true."

"Then I'll upload myself into a robot."

"You'd lose all your speed. I've seen your clunky robots."

"Not the point," Mal snaps. "The point is we're inside a very functional lab. I started poking around when I got here, and it's real impressive."

By poking, he means he'd picked up a welding torch and started fixing the flaws in all the doomsday contraptions. Even without my glasses, I can tell this is clearly a supervillain's evil lair.

"Mal, please say you didn't build a bomb."

"Fuck you, dude. You're the one who said, 'Oh, this place will be safe to hide out.' Didn't you realize it was Candyland for mad scientists? Because, honestly, what did you expect me to do?"

He's got a fair point.

"I didn't know it was Candyland."

"Yeah, well I didn't build a bomb. I put the finishing touches on something, but I did my math right and it ain't gonna blow. It was going to blow when I found it, though. So you know what, you're welcome."

"Thank you," somebody says from the door.

Mal and I smack heads as we both turn toward the voice.

It's Elle. My neighbor Elle, who sat with me during my panic attacks and held my fucking hand even when I flinched away.

The smile on her face is the same smile I've known for years. It occurs to me that Professor Deadly can be anyone she wants, including a girl I care about.

"Change," I demand. "You don't get to be Elle."

"Alex, sweetie. You don't get to tell me shit."

"Did I miss something?" Mal asks from behind me. "Is your girlfriend evil? What the hell?"

"I'll give it to you straight, Manners. You're not actually as far out of my league as I thought you were, but I won't touch any fool stupid enough to cavort with this idiot." She gestures to Mal. "Not my style."

"Stop being Elle," I order.

She bends down in front of me, running a hand over my cheek. "There's no such person as Elle. You've been spilling you guts to a supervillain for almost two years. I never pegged someone as miserable as you for a hero. Not even when you told me as much. See, people like you don't get to fly. You're the kind of guy who jumps off a building and goes splat."

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

"Then why bother impersonating Brooksie? What the hell would you have to gain from that?"

"Who's Brooksie?"

That's too much. I lunge for her, but she doesn't flinch. My leg jars, and, oh, there's the pain. I was wondering when that would kick in. Behind me, Mal hisses at the bite of the shackles. If I'm going to break through the chains, I'll have to hurt him. Add in his bullet wound, and he won't be worth much in a fight.

Might still be worth more than me, considering the bone poking through the skin on my leg. Then again, I can fly. I might be able to avoid putting pressure on the leg and get a few hits in before I pass out.

Deadly laughs at me and moves over to check out the gigantic metal contraption in the room. "Oh, Malcolm, you shouldn't have. I've been working on this for ages, but sometimes what you really need is a fresh set of eyes."

"Oh God, Mal," I moan. "You finished her doomsday device. What is wrong with you?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

The last Deadly Doomsday Device would have released a biological toxin. Mal and I stopped it. Our first truce. God only knows what this one will do. I try to readjust the grip on the shackles, hoping I can pull the Houdini act without breaking Mal's wrist.

Then again, at this point, he deserves it.

"You don't even know what it does!" I snap.

"It's designed to make the entire world remember one thing and one thing only." Elle taps a few lines into the computer program. "Me."

"Holy hell," Mal says, "that is the ultimate ego trip."

"You wouldn't understand what it's like," Deadly says. "I worked my entire life to build something, to be something great. And when I apparently died, my research went to the first people who found it. My name should be remembered."

"Seriously, your level of narcissism is lethal," Mal sneers. "Oh boo hoo, they didn't cite my paper. Get over yourself."

Don't taunt the supervillain while in chains. That's Superhero 101. The kind of basic rule that can prevent you from getting tortured. Minimizing torture is very much a good thing. Too bad nobody ever taught the rule to Mal.

I've got to get us out of here.

"Mal," I whisper while Deadly gloats. "This is probably going to break your arm."

"What?"

Deadly starts melting away from Elle's form, her features distorting as she moves through the machine's warm-up parameters. I don't have enough time to explain so I grab my half of the chains and yank.

The chain breaks with a metallic clink.

Mal's wrist breaks with a pop drowned out by his howl of pain. I tug at the other chain. Mal knows what's coming this time and spins around. Sweat rolls down his face, his costume already tattered and blood-stained. "I hate you. You know that, right?"

The second set of chains, I can snap using two hands, but the damage to Mal is already pretty bad. He's got one arm out of commission because of the bullet wound, the other because of the fracture. His healing factor is shit by superhero standards, and strength has never been his gig.

It's no small wonder he doesn't run.

"You know," Mal says as though he isn't in great pain, moving toward Deadly. "You'd have never finished this without me."

"I should kill you now," she retorts. "But I'd much rather you fall to my greatest creation."

"Then who would finish your projects?" Mal taunts. "Face it, sweetheart. The only reason you were on that tenure track was me."

Deadly morphs into a severe-looking woman who I guess was Mal's professor. She takes in Mal's physical state with a critical eye. "Insubordinate fool."

"God, you talked like this when you were my adviser, too. I should have figured you for a villainous freak." Mal's backing up as he talks, Deadly advancing as her anger mounts. He keeps talking, but I can see a grimace with every step. "It may as well have been stamped across your forehead."

"I was going to change the world, but you turned me into this."

"I turned you into nothing." Mal dances around some wires, maneuvering her carefully away from the equipment. "I blew up your lab. You did the mutating yourself. I'm surprised you even want anyone to remember your ugly-ass face. I would have thought you'd want to pull the plug on that venture."

The last time me and Mal foiled a Deadly plot, we'd done so by literally pulling out a plug.

That funny pain builds in my skull again. My leg feels like it's on fire. Blood trickles from my nose.

I need to think.

Any supervillain with a doctorate should be smart enough to build a backup generator after being burned once, but there has to be something I can do.

Mal stares at me, pleading in his eyes as he ducks under Deadly's first blow. He returns a feeble uppercut, hampered by the bullet wound and the fact that Deadly's face deforms to absorb his blow.

I need to move, but my broken leg keeps trying to erupt through the skin. Every inch up to full height is agony. I can't imagine how bad it would be without the ability to fly. I glance at the computer screen before looking for electrical outlets.

"Fools!" Deadly crows. "My triumph is inevitable."

Mal trips over an exposed wire, throwing out his splintered wrist to catch himself. He howls in pain. Deadly rounds on him slowly, like she's savoring the moment. Every instinct screams at me to help him, but he's doing what he can, buying me a few precious seconds.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow, the flash of an axe blade, a projectile whizzing past my ear.

Deadly hitches mid-sentence and falls forward onto Mal, the axe imbedded between her shoulder blades. Mal scrambles out from under her and rolls sideways to lay down, his broken wrist cradled carefully against his chest, the gunshot wound seeping again. The adrenaline leeches from my body.

The man in black pulls the axe from Deadly's back, brings it back down three times in quick successions, severing the head, the torso. He looks to Mal, and in a deep, intentionally altered voice orders, "Separate the fragments."

Mal doesn't need to be told twice. Even incapacitated, he's fast, moving half of Deadly to one end of the lab and leaving the other half where it lies. A precaution so she doesn't reassemble. I can't spare a thought to how gross that is, because I'm staring at the newcomer twirling the axe.

It's Shadow. The one who destroyed Brooks's grave.

Mal grins up at him, extending a hand. "Holy hell, dude. You have excellent timing."

"Mal, I don't—"

My warning falls short as Shadow socks him hard across the face.

Mal hits the wall, and I get it. This is a power play. This is Shadow looking to steal Deadly's glory.

"Alex," Mal says, spitting blood. "The power source is the chair. You've got to..."

I start to move.

Shadow throws the axe.

It hits my already shattered leg, tearing through flesh and leaving the limb dangling on a strip of flesh and muscle. Someone's screaming. It's probably me. My vision's wiped, my throat raw, blood still streaming out of my nose.

When the white finally clears, I'm on the ground. Shadow's black mask fills my vision. "You know what the only thing I want is? In all the world, the only thing I've ever wanted is to be remembered."

It takes almost more effort than I have to reach to his mask and pull it off.

It's Brooks. Brooks Black. My best friend.

My dead best friend.

I feel tears on my face.

"Brooks."

"You're not dreaming," Brooks says. "You're not hallucinating. And we've done this all before."

"But you're dead. You're..." My voice trails off as his words register. "We couldn't have done this before. I would have remembered."

"But you didn't."

"I—"

Brooks brings back a fist and slams it into my face. I see stars. "I fucking took pictures. I left them. I stayed with you a whole year after I got shot and you couldn't deign to be in the same room with me."

"But I wouldn't have..." I get a flash of something that might be a memory. Brooks on my doorstep years after he died, looking like he'd been run over by a truck.

"You couldn't deal with it, Alex. You weren't fucked up because I wasn't there. You were fucked up because I was."

I'd gone through a lot of stuff that year. The mess with my dad, the hours on end of missing time, the crippling guilt about Brooks.

"I don't remember you being there," I say.

"That's my curse," Brooks pushes himself to his feet. "Always used to say I'd love to be a villain, that they had more fun than the heroes. Didn't think it would be like this. I've got the whole world at my fingertips. I can get away with anything. I can plant ideas. I can take what I want, but the second I'm out of sight, nobody remembers me. If I want to be seen, I have to cover every part of me. I have to run my voice through a distorter. The only way I can be seen is if you can't see me at all. Do you know what that does a person. Do you know how many times you've forgotten me?"

"You were dead."

"So far as you remember. So far as anyone remembers. Got mugged. Died on the table during surgery, but they brought me back. No one could remember it, but they brought me back."

"This machine. You built this."

"I had an idea and then I found Elle. See, I had so many ideas. We'd talk for hours and she never remembered me, but the ideas stuck. It's a nice trick to make smarter people do your bidding." He stares over at the body. "Do you have any idea how many times I got to be Elle Nieves's one-night stand? I really did like her, but in the end, we were just using each other. She more than served her purpose."

"Oh, God," Malevolence moans. He's still on the ground. "The villain talk is tedious. Just get on with your doomsday plans already. No one cares."

I care.

I care a lot.

Shadow—no, Brooks—stands and turns, anger still written into every line of his body. "No one's going to forget me again. No one's going to remember anyone else either, but I've dealt with worse for years."

"We can fix this," I plead. "Look, I don't know what happened to you, but we can make it right. Mal's brilliant, and I'm not going to forget you again. I promise. I won't."

"You already promised. You promised you'd remember me, and you didn't. You're a liar. Just like the rest of them." Brooks laces himself into the console chair, attaching electrodes to his temples and chest. "But this time, I won't let you forget."

Input received, the computer squawks, and the device whirls to life. Blue lightning crackles out around the chair, encasing Brooks in its glow. I can't do anything but watch, the pain from my leg biting at the edges of my consciousness.

I need to get out of here, but I can't leave him.

If I leave, I'll forget. And I've forgotten far too often.

The computer console sends up a shower of white-hot sparks, the screen cracking. Mal's suddenly at my side. "Alex, we need to go and need to go now."

"The device—"

"The device is going to overload. I put in a failsafe in case anyone other than me tries to access it. I'm not an idiot. My doomsday devices have safety protocols. Malevolence only."

"Brooks!" I try to scramble to my feet to get to him, but my leg's mangled. To Mal, I say, "We've got to get him out, too."

"No time," Mal says. Before I can protest that he's more than fast enough to get everyone out, he's wrapped me in a sleeper hold. "I'm saving your life. Don't be an ungrateful bastard if you wake up."

Good Guy #72

The police find me alone in the wreckage with a mostly severed leg and the disintegrating pile of mush that used to be Professor Deadly oozing all over a doomsday device.

I'm half dead. It's nothing short of a miracle that I survive, superhero or not.

The next two weeks are a haze of surgeries and hospital lights, and I'm too drugged to think about much of anything.

There's something I'm supposed to remember.

#

Mal's one of my first visitors. Both his eyes are blackened, a new scar slices through his cheek and plaster encases his broken wrist. "You look like hell," I say. "X drop you off a cliff or something?"

Shrugging, Mal settles into the chair next to me. "You look worse."

I should be dead.

The fact that I'm not is kind of neat, really, the only good news I've had in a while.

Malevolence isn't one to skirt an issue. He taps the empty spot below my thigh. "So, yeah. I guess that happened. What the hell?"

"The doctors cut the rest of my leg off. It would have healed, but no one knew that, so they cut it off." There'd been talk of recovery time, physical therapy and replacement options. My insurance isn't nearly good enough to cover more than the most basic prosthetic leg.

I'm a superhero. I don't know what I'll do if I can't move well enough to fight.

"I'll never be able to walk on my own two legs again." It's a funny thing to say out loud. Even through the haze of morphine, I feel like that knowledge should hurt more than it does. Instead it just feels like resignation. Like penance.

Mal leans back, his voice measured. "You can fly, though."

"Not in public, I can't."

Mal's quiet for as long as I've ever seen him, but at the same time, he's still moving. He twiddles his thumbs, chews on his lip, rotates the bum shoulder to keep it from getting stiff.

Finally he says, "I'll build you a prosthesis. It'll be better than the real thing. You'll be kicking my ass again in no time."

"Mal, that's—"

"I'll have to rob a few banks to get the funds," Mal cuts in. "Don't you dare say thank you."

I believe him.

"What do you say, Alex?" Mal asks. "That new leg of yours, you want any special features? I could make it shoot lasers."

"Why would I possibly want that?"

"Everything is better if it shoots lasers."

"Warn me if you make those cybernetic eyes. I'll stock up on fire suppression." I look down at the empty space where my leg should be.

Honestly, it could have been much, much worse. The details of the fight are fuzzy, sandcastles washing away in the surf. Elle, who was actually Professor Deadly, had been there. And Shadow, the figure in all black who'd stuck an axe through her midsection.

Then everything gets even fuzzier. Mal ran when he heard sirens, and I'd sat smoldering after my second explosion of the day, delirious from shock.

"I'd have never made it out if not for you, you know," I tell him.

"Yeah, you would have," Mal says, his voice light. "But let's count it as a thank you for not turning me in."

I still don't have the slightest amount of guilt about that. Even if Lombardozzi is trying to recruit me to be the new liaison between the police and the superhero community.

As if on cue, the detective knocks on the door, holding a stack of files in his hands. Mal eyes him, clams up and saunters out of the room. His every movement is deliberate and slow. I can't help it. I start to laugh.

It's enough to distract Lombardozzi from Mal's exit as he looks at me like I've grown mouse ears. "They put you on better painkillers, kid? I wouldn't expect to hear you laughing after everything that happened."

"Who needs a leg if I can fly, right?" I reply, going for flippancy. If I repeat that enough, I might believe it. "I'll be all right when I get better."

"You any good at regrowing limbs?"

"Never tried it, but you're not making this process any easier."

"I'm here for business," Lombardozzi says, sitting down next to me. "It's good to see you in a better mood, but there's that pesky problem of a corpse melting all over what appears to be a doomsday machine."

"Professor Deadly," I supply. "Alias Elle Nieves. She was a shapeshifter."

"Yeah, that part's not getting to the press. Else every crook in the city will start screaming, It wasn't me, it was the shifter that did it. Thank God this creep made robots her thing."

A headache builds in my skull as I try to think about Elle's motivation. But that's not what I've been trying to remember. There's something else, someone else, just out of reach.

Lombardozzi shuffles a handful of papers into my lap. "You said you pulled prints off a sledgehammer used to attack you the night before stuff started blowing up. This is my follow-up. What do you know about a Brooks Black?"

I grab my glasses from the bedside table to examine the photograph clipped to Lombardozzi's papers. It's from high school graduation, Brooks clean-shaven and grinning. He looks like he did later that night in the alley when he was spitting blood in my face. Only he looks wrong that way. There should be darker circles under his eyes, his cheekbones should be more hollowed out, and there should be stubble on his chin.

My stomach ties itself in knots. A pulse beats in my right leg, but that's the one that's missing. Must be phantom limb sensation, just like the sensation that Brooksie never left. For a second I can picture it, his face emerging as Shadow peels off his hood, but the more I grasp for the image, the harder it is to hold onto.

"Brooks Black is dead," I say finally. "Going on four years. He was my best friend. It was a mugging gone wrong. The same day we graduated high school. Held on in the hospital for a few days, but he didn't make it."

Lombardozzi goes quiet. Maybe he finally realizes that supers have real lives. And that some of us crashed through rock bottom before deciding that putting on a mask was a good idea. Normal, well-adjusted people don't do this.

"That's a terrible story. Let me guess, we never caught the guy?"

"Not that I know of." I tend to pretend that X crucified him during one of his less savory spells. "It was my fault. Brooks never would have been in that part of the city if not for me."

"Little hint about police work. It's never considered the victim's fault. Your friend would have forgiven you. And if that's not true, then your friend was a jackass." Lombardozzi hesitates like he wants to add something but then pushes himself to his feet. "This is a dead end. And here I was hoping to put a cap on that problem that fried my department's computers. If you remember anything else that might help us, please get in touch. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Alex."

Remember anything else?

Between my pain-shrouded visions of the explosion that wound up costing me a leg and the axe that split someone I thought was my friend in two, I'm okay letting the rest of it slip away.

Good Guy #73

I opted out of the jet thrusters but Mal's prosthesis works. It looks enough like a leg for Good Guy to wear under his costume and appears low-tech enough to seem like something Alex Manners can afford. It's strong and pretty durable, too. But the real test won't come until the next time I get blown up.

Hazards of the job.

Dodger's still pissed about his sister, but he's started to forgive me. That's great except he's also started breaking into my new apartment as easily as he did the old one.

Didn't need a tip from Dodger tonight to figure out the city's in chaos. What else is new? Judging by the horrific creatures soaring through the sky—I'm pretty sure I saw a dragon—my best guess is Worst Nightmare is throwing a party.

Or a hissy fit.

X is perched on a building, guns drawn, firing at monsters like he thinks it might actually help. Psi's on crowd control, lacking the sunlight she needs to truly get a charge. Dodger's got this. No matter how much sympathy I may get for being an amputee, I'm not willing to risk a confrontation with Worst Nightmare. Especially not when Dodger would wipe my mind for looking at her funny.

Mal, predictably, is three blocks away from the action, looting a Radio Shack. I land at the door and watch him, incredulous that it takes him a good five minutes to even notice me.

When he does, his face splits into a smile as he hitches the rucksack up on his shoulders. "Alex, look at you! You're fully functional!"

I bend at the knee, just to prove to myself I still can. "Kicked Pitchfork's gator through a wall last week."

"Oh, yeah! I skipped that one. Not really a fan of giant monster critters. Thought I'd bide my time, get ready for something of my own." He smirks. "You know this is the part where we fight, yeah?"

In normal circumstances, Mal makes that statement and then blurs into motion. Today, he hesitates. I'm not too proud to ignore the advantage that gives me. My fist careens into his face, hard enough to lift him off his feet and send him crashing through a display of tablets. Mal scrambles to his feet. "Look at you, destroying property. Do you know how much use I could have gotten out of those?"

"You only want them to build another giant robot."

"It's going to be pretty awesome. Big upgrade over the last one. I know you're psyched."

"I don't like giant killer robots."

And then it's like it always is. Mal's fighting style might as well be my own at this point. Neither of us hold back. It's the first time since I lost a leg that I've really felt like myself. Mal talks through the fight, grin still plastered to his face, teeth red with blood from a busted lip. It's a stalemate, but nearly all of our fights are.

That is, it's a stalemate until Mal times one of my kicks so well he yanks off my prosthesis. For a second, we both stop.

"Oh, God," Mal says, "I'm pulling your leg."

I can't help it. I burst into giggles. Mal follows suit.

"Seriously, Alex," he says between choked laughter. "I feel like I should be swinging at you with this thing."

He actually does take a swing, but it's a lazy loop compared to his usual blazing speed. I dodge the blow easily, hovering three feet above the ground. "You haven't even incapacitated me."

"See," Mal says through his wheezing laughter. "This right here, this is why you're my favorite. I can't even do this right now. I'm sorry. I'm feeble."

"That's all right." I land awkwardly on one leg. "Hey, you want tacos?"

Mal pushes up the goggles enough for me to glimpse the bruise blossoming on his cheek. "What?"

"We've been fighting for almost an hour. If I'm hungry, you're starving. Let's go get tacos."

He gapes at me for a long moment, composes himself and shrugs. "Yeah, okay."

After Mal hands back the prosthesis, it takes a half-hour and seventeen blocks to find a taco stand that's still open. Mal bitches the whole time. "This is working-class America. And what do they do in a crisis? Abandon their posts. No wonder the economy is in the pits."

I have to stop him from stealing money from the abandoned stands. When we finally get to a place that's open, the owner gives us both a taco on the house and promptly closes shop. I don't blame him. We're both still in costume. Standard operating procedure for civilians during a fight is to get as far away as possible as fast as possible.

We sit on the curb as we eat, watching the sparks flying from the fight a half-mile away.

"I'm going to take over the taco stands," Mal says. "My employees will be professionals who sell until closing time. Anything less is unacceptable."

"You'd need a hell of an insurance plan to get anybody to sell in this kind of danger."

"Oh, that goes without saying." A bit of hot sauce stains the corner of his mouth, and flecks of beef fall out of the taco shell as he gesticulates. "Only the best for the Malevolent taco vendors."

"That's expensive for an upstart taco ruler."

"Fuck," he swears good naturedly. "Maybe I should take over some insurance companies, too. Cut out the middlemen."

"I'd stop you."

"You'd try." He pauses to chew. "I'm not really going to take over the insurance companies. Or taco stands."

I cover my heart in mock relief. "Thank God. We can go ahead and make our truce permanent then."

Mal polishes off the taco. His goggles are pushed up against his hairline, tired eyes visible. It's not often I see him without a smirk playing across his features, but he's dead serious when he looks at me.

"I'm not going to stop," Mal says. "Look, Alex, I like you. You've saved my life more than once. You're a stand-up kind of guy, but you're the sort I kind of have to knock down to get to the top."

"I'll still take you over some asshole like Pitchfork any day."

"You'll regret saying that the next time we fight." His teasing holds no venom. "We should probably stop hanging out."

"Yeah, we probably should."

Neither of us move. "That's not going to happen, is it?"

"Of course not."

Mal stands up, brushing the remains of the taco shell from his costume. "Glad that's settled. See you at the next apocalypse?"

"Looking forward to it."

And God help me, that's true.
Walk A Mile

(Part Two of the Enemies Trilogy)

Sidekicks

(Part Three of the Enemies Trilogy)

About the Author

P. K. Gardner is a diploma-holding chemist. She does not endorse attempting to gain superpowers through laboratory accidents.

www.pkgwrites.wordpress.com
