Gigaheroes

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: Seattle Vance

“Fly, Mason. Fly.” I raised a glass to Adam while I watched him zoom off on the TV.

If you asked me whether I felt guilty for what I did, that was a complicated question. I had several candidates who were suicidal enough to take the enzyme. My plan was to offer one of them godlike powers in exchange for attacking the ASA headquarters. I didn’t know if having a volunteer for the suicide pact made things any better, but it would’ve made me feel better. 

However, from the looks of things, Adam Mason’s life had drastically improved from the situation. I hope he enjoyed it. I sincerely did. The man had been dealt a shitty hand. I hoped he could at least go out on a high note. 

“Have you tried calling Joker?” Joshua walked into the room with a briefcase. 

“He’s busy doing whatever he does, but there’s no need. He got exactly what he wanted. We have our patsy and then some.”

Joshua set the briefcase on a nearby coffee table. “I did as you asked, by the way. I have several AIs running interference for superhobo. It should keep most surveillance off his trail for a little while.”

“What about the two hunter drones? I suspect they just got an update to their most wanted.”

Joshua smiled as he unlatched the briefcase. “Those two are a bit trickier. Can’t mess with them directly. I have a script running false pings throughout the city. Not enough to be suspicious, but it should waste some time.”

I nodded, thinking on the situation. As long as we were scrambling the sky, it would make it difficult for City 57 to bring the full hammer down on Mason. We eventually needed to direct him to the ASA headquarters, but that was a problem for further up the road.” 

Joshua pulled out several phones and tossed one over to me. I placed my thumb on the start button and accessed my new digital ID. On the phony account, I now had fifty thousand credits to my name. Not as many as I would’ve liked, but it was acceptable. I tabbed the ID with the half dozen others that survived the scrub on my financial assets. 

I checked the contact info on the phone and saw that it had two numbers. One I recognized as the burner that Joker used, and the other was almost certainly my connect with the Index’s unique services in City 57.

“So what’s the next play?” Joshua asked, gently taking out what appeared to be a pistol from the briefcase. 

I smiled, knowing Joker had come through for me. “The next play is to regroup and reorganize. And when the storm hits, we’ll be ready.”

Joshua handed me the gun, and I inspected it in my hands. It looked like a pistol right out of a spy movie, complete with a device resembling a silencer on one end. However, this sleek gun was designed to punch way above the average person. It emitted a directional sonic frequency which could incapacitate both normals and superheroes, and if exposed for an extended duration, would kill them. Very helpful for me, but since Nullifiers were high-end wares, useless for the police grunts. 

Even so, I doubted this small device could stop Adam Mason. At least, not alone it couldn’t. It might give him a nasty headache, but that was about it. But hopefully I wouldn’t be going up against Adam Mason. Hopefully, I would be out of the city long before he starts to deteriorate. 

I stuff the Nullifier in my waistband, and called the second number on my phone. It was time to get some new friends. 

…

The nightclub was called Euphoria, and the meet was at midnight. I wasn’t exactly keen on appearing in a public place, but the fixer was adamant about it. Thankfully, it appeared seedy enough that no one looked twice in your direction. But to be sure, I shaved and cut my hair as well as changed my clothes. It would take someone with a good eye to pick me out in the dark, and I considered myself a rather sneaky fellow. 

Euphoria itself was one of those places that sprung up in the ruins of the old city. The building had formerly been a bank. I walked into the front lobby and saw a faded logo of some corporation that no longer existed. It was emblazoned on a crumbling wall that now made target practice for people to throw broken bottles at. 

There were a few people hanging out in the front lobby. Most of these were stragglers looking to drink somewhere quiet and do the things one did on the periphery of such scenes. Faintly from inside, I could hear the beat of loud music. It was that annoying synth stuff that never seemed to die out. I inwardly groaned as I walked down a long hallway and pushed open a set of double doors, only to have my eardrums blasted by the noise. 

The room had once been your run-of-the-mill cubicle floor, but after decades of rot and negligence, the center had collapsed. Looking up, I saw a big hole where a big part of the second and third floor used to be. The owner of the nightclub had cleared out the debris and turned the ground level into a dance floor. The upper levels had been reinforced with suspicious looking steel, but I didn’t want to think about that too much. 

There wasn’t a DJ or anything like that. Instead, the sound was blasted from cobbled together speakers spread throughout the area. I wondered how often they went through that equipment, running them so loud. There were the usual dancers in the center, though the way they danced, I suspected half of them were hopped on some sort of drugs. You didn’t come to a place like Euphoria to have fun. You came here to get wasted on something. 

I skirted the edges of the dance floor and wandered around. I made sure to keep in the dimly lit areas, never sticking in one place too long. My contact with the Index had been deliberately vague on the details. I didn’t even know what he looked like. Half the time, I kept glancing over my shoulder, waiting for someone to mysteriously appear behind me. 

Instead, I felt my phone buzz. 

Third floor. The text read. 

I shrugged and started climbing the stairs. The third floor was filled with booths of varying design and quality. I could tell they had been scavenged from the rest of the city. In the back was a bar hosted by a lovely woman who seemed to be too pretty for this place. 

“Mr. Vance,” a voice called out from one of the booths. 

I looked over, and I saw an elderly man somewhere in his sixties. He was wearing a loose blazer and slacks which probably hid a gun. I was surprised seeing someone so old here. I took a seat opposite of him. 

“May I interest you in a scotch?” The old man brought out a bottle and two glasses. 

“Helluva place you chose to meet,” I said. “Aren’t you worried you’re going to catch some unwanted attention? You stick out like a sore thumb.”

The old man chuckled as he began pouring, anyway. “I happen to own this place. If anyone wants to mess with me, they gotta go through Grogo first.”

I was about to ask who Grogo was when I saw the giant of a man in the corner. I couldn’t believe I missed him earlier. He might’ve been the bouncer of all bouncers, standing at least six and a half feet tall and built like an ox. But just as quickly as I saw him, the lighting grew dimmer, and I lost track of him. 

“Tell me, why did you come to City 57? Was it just for the job Joker offered you?” 

“More like the money. I’ve been running on the streets all my life. Wanted to take my shot at the big leagues.” I took the glass, but I did not sip it. “Speaking of which, I’ve never worked with the Index before. What do I call you, Mr…?” 

The old man smiled. “In my business, it’s exceptionally dangerous to hand out a name that ties back to you. You can call me Mr. Greene for the purposes of our discussion.” He took his scotch and sipped it. 

I nodded my head in acknowledgment. 

“If you wanted to hit the big leagues sooner, you could’ve signed up with us. Why not? A man of your skills comes very useful.”

“But then I’d have to take orders from someone. That ain’t no way for a man like me to live.”

“I assure you, our association is completely voluntary. You would choose the contracts you like as they come, no strings attached. And if you ever want out, all you have to do is say the word.”

“That’s what they all say. I know you claim to be neutral, that you are just an underground network of brokers and contacts. But no one’s really neutral. You’ve got your own agenda just like the Checkered Hand. And joining you means I would have to pick a side. I don’t want to be anyone’s foot soldier.”

Mr. Greene grinned. “You’re a clever one. No wonder you’ve made it this far. But let’s get down to business. Joker informed me that you require our services, and he graciously paid up front. I don’t know what you did to earn the man’s trust like that, but you must have a more impressive resume than even I can track down. I have already reached out to my clients, and a few have agreed to your contract.”

The old man lifted a folder with a thin stack of papers and spread them out on the table. I glanced through a few pages. They were all handwritten with pencil.

“I thought this would be… more high tech.”

“The Index cannot afford to be stored on a single database or any digital equivalent. Any leak would be disastrous to our operation and put our clients at grave risk. For their safety and for the safety of the organization, everything is done with as minimal technology as possible. It makes everything much more secure. A file cabinet cannot be hacked, nor can its contents compromised without someone being there in person.”

I looked through what Mr. Greene had provided. There were nine pages each detailing the info of nine different people. It didn’t list much beyond a pseudonym, their age, gender, and their super power. Alongside that was also their power class, which made it a lot more helpful in determining proper candidates. 

It was a system straight out of a video game, but it still was undeniably useful. Power class was usually determined by combat effectiveness, but it also reflected the strength of any given super power. A class one in invisibility meant someone could go transparent or turn one body part of theirs invisible. Class two could go fully invisible as well as much as another person. Class three could make an area go invisible. Class four could get up to several buildings. And a class five… well… a class five was a force to be reckoned with. 

“I want these three.” I pushed forward several papers. 

Mr. Greene reviewed my choices and clicked his teeth. “This can be arranged. Though forgive me, knowing the job Joker gave me, I’m surprised you chose this one.” He lifted one paper up from the others. 

“Call it a hunch,” I said. “Let’s just say the past twenty-four hours taught me to expect a fair amount of trouble going forward.”

Mr. Greene shrugged. “Very well.” He pulled an envelope out of his blazer. “You will write down times most preferable to you as well as any additional information your team will need. The Index will select the location of the meet, for obvious reasons.”

I scribbled down the information and handed the envelope back to Mr. Greene. “Anything else?”

“Not for business purposes, no. But if you would indulge an old man’s curiosity, may I ask what is within the ASA headquarters that warrants this most trouble? Obtaining class five enzyme is a feat of its own. That Joker is willing to go to such lengths is… interesting.”

“Would that I could tell you,” I said. “He keeps these things close to the chest.”

“Hmph, fair enough.” Mr. Greene chuckled. 

“And if you don’t mind me asking a question. What is a man like you owning a place like this? Pardon me, but you don’t strike me as the type.”

“You’re right that I don’t partake in the vices of the city.” Mr. Greene sipped his scotch. “But my business requires… a feel for things, a finger on the pulse of the city. You don’t get that from a penthouse view. You have to keep your ear close to the street, see what doesn’t want to be seen.”

“And what is the pulse of the city?”

“Subdued. Holding its breath.”

“I could tell you that. Trouble is coming.”

Mr. Greene raised his glass. “Trouble is only a matter of perspective, my friend. What is coming for this city is change—and opportunity. And that is what people are most afraid of. Status quo means three meals a day and some guilty pleasures to ease your misery. But if you change that… Mm, there’s a whole new set of winners and losers, and you might end up losing—or winning—everything.”

“I just want my slice of the cake,” I said as I got up. 

“Mr. Vance, one last piece of advice.” Mr. Greene glanced up at me. “About the big leagues. You want to swim in the deep end? Take it from an old man who has been in this business for a long time. There are two doors you can take. Door number one, you continue as you are, doing odd jobs until you become inconvenient for someone somewhere. And then there’ll be no one to help you when that bill comes due. Door number two is picking a side. And while you might make good business with the Checkered Hand, I doubt your conscience will remain clear for long.”

“You forgot door number three,” I told Mr. Greene before leaving the nightclub. “I make my own side.”

Link to Chapter Nine