Progeny #5: An Era In Which Learning Was To Be Feared...

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This message Progeny #5: An Era In Which Learning Was To Be Feared... was posted by Fin Fang Foom apologizes for text goof-ups, as he did part of this in a new word-processor application on Friday, September 6, 2002 at 23:01.

In a moment we lost our minds here
And dreamt the world was round

A million mile fall from grace
Thank God we missed the ground...

Live, "Run To The Water"

---------

"Look, if you forget everything else I said, just remember this: I gave up supermodels, and I don't want you to screw that up. I mean, we aren't talking international celebrities or anything, but the kind you'd see on the covers of those--you know--those young women magazines that are in the check-out line. With articles like '250 Ways To Please Your Man In Bed' and 'How To Know If He's Cheating', right? Anyway, I've run into those cover-models, and liked 'em, and they liked me...but I have to avoid the political S-word. Scandal. So I turned 'em down. For the greater good, y'know? And now you're telling me that's all for nothing, because you just dragged me into your very own scandal. If I could've dated them, because my political career was doomed anyway, well...I'm not gonna be a happy man. So, let's hear it. And it'd better be a masterpiece of excuse-making."

Assistant Commissioner Severin clenched his fists quietly, trying to ignore the tirade. He'd been offered a seat, but had chose to stand practically at attention--not out of respect for the man that was speaking, but because he couldn't relax. It was bad enough that he felt incredibly out of place in the redesigned city hall building--his black-and-white suit looked like it'd been pulled out of a 1950's closet, and his butch carrot-top-red hair gave him a militaristic bearing.

He didn't know which he hated more: the office, or the man it belonged to. The office reminded him of his teenage daughter's room--it was trying just a bit too hard to be cool. It was all non-traditional colors and minimalist furniture, surrounding a watery-black desk. A double-door-sized window looked out over Government Row, in the Shelton district of Parodiopolis.

As for the man...Councilman Andrews was an unfairly-perfect combination of everything Severin hated about politics. The wall behind his desk was filled with variations of political-science degrees. As far as Severin was concerned, he was a theoretical hotshot who could write a thesis paper and look smart for the cameras, but couldn't solve actual problems.Of course, he had solved problems, many times, but Severin still didn't like him.

Andrews was clad in grey slacks, with a muted purple shirt. His brown hair was just a bit too long for Severin's liking. He had a youngish look about him. As usual, he was gesturing melodramatically and pacing like a maniac. "No, really, I'd love to hear this one. I always get disappointed with movie endings and stuff like that--they just don't match the build-up. But yours will, right?"

Severin vowed to calm down before he started speaking. A few seconds of silence followed...

"Come on, you know what I'm talking about." Andrews gently pushed him along, treating Severin like a toddler. "I asked you to deal with our little Twelve Labors Foundation problem..."

"...and I did," Severin said, with an air of finality.

Andrews sounded flustered. "That isn't--don't do that! It isn't that simple, and it makes you sound like the Godfather or something. Look, okay, they were gonna release that report on the Parodiopolis PD, and it would've made us all look bad. But when I said to handle it, I didn't mean...well, um. That supervillain, whatever his name was--him stealing the other copy of the report was just a bit too coincidental, y'know?"

"The Harrier?"

"Yeah, him. The way we lucked out there, it just makes us look kind of...bad. Look--nobody got hurt, nobody got killed, nothing really valuable got stolen...so we can just forget about it. It's not like there's a manhunt for him or something."

Severin's thick shoulders attempted a shrug. "So what's the problem?"

"Well, for one thing, legal's breathing down my neck about McKinley. The same day we release him--and why he isn't hitting us with a wrongful-arrest suit, I'll never know--but the same day we let him go, you make a questionable search on a charity foundation that he's heavily involved in. That's the perfect excuse for a police harassment charge."

"They had two copies of the report about my department. The Harrier stole one. I had to take a look at the other one, to see if I could find out why he wanted--"

"Don't give me the company line. Take a look at this." Andrews pulled a newspaper off his desk.

Severin glanced at the headline at the top of the second page. "Questionable Tactics: Are The Police Using 'The Harrier' To Protect Their Own Interests?"

Andrews sighed. "If that'd made the front page, we'd be begging for our lives right about now. All those soccer moms that voted for me? They'd be storming the building with pitchforks and torches."

Severin saw no reason to dance around the subject. "You think it's true? That we just made him up, as an excuse to get both copies of the disk?"

"Don't ask me stuff like that, because I hate committing perjury."

Severin's face twisted. Parodiopolis was the last place he wanted to be. Pittsburgh, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia...anything other than the too-cosmopolitan-for-its-own-good Parodiopolis. It needed police officials who were good at negotiation--not Severin's main specialty. But it was the front lines in a non-stop crime wave, so what choice did he have? Anywhere else was pointless in comparison.

And Andrews...he seemed to suffer from an alternating persecution/messiah complex. Half the time, he thought everyone was against him, and he lamanted about how he suffered for the good of the world...and the other half, he acted like he was the only one keeping the city together. He overreacted to everything, and was constantly using hyperbole. No matter which subject came up, it took him less than five seconds to reduce it to stereotypes and mass generalizations. And he had the morality of a chimpanzee in heat.

Of course, the feeling was mutual--Andrews was convinced that Severin was the most old-school man alive. He equated civil rights with the downfall of society, and thought diplomacy meant using handguns instead of automatic rifles. Faking a supercriminal attack to bypass the Bill of Rights would be just his style.

"No...wait." Andrews took a deep breath, and--for the first time since Severin had come into the room--spoke quietly. "If I'm gonna play this right, and keep us out of the frying pan, I have to know. So: did you do it? Is The Harrier some police tactic--some way of getting evidence away from people? Or did it just happen to work out in our favor, thus making us the luckiest SOB's alive?"

Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door. Andrews apparently didn't want to make things look suspicious, as he said "Come" almost immediately.

Short, pinkish-red hair and brown eyes poked through the door--it was his personal assistant. "The Mayor says you have an appointment with some fed about Michael McKinley."

Andrews looked genuinely surprised. "The mayor knows I exist? Huh. Did he say what it's--"

She turned her head suddenly, as someone told her something. Andrews thought it might be an answer to his question, but from the look on her face, it was an entirely new subject. "It's, um," She seemed to have difficulty phrasing it. Her mouth moved, but no words came. Finally, she fell back on a near-antique phrase, and said "The Harrier, uh, struck again."

Andrews and Severin exchanged a single glance--and in moments, support staff were filling up the office. Any chance for private conversation was lost. Andrews wondered how deep they were in, and hearing the word "hospitalized" didn't bolster his confidence...

Progeny #5
Thoughtscape Escapees

It had started as a single idea, and then grown to something much larger.

Michael McKinley actually wasn't sure when the thought had first struck him. It had to be at some point during his year in prison, awaiting trial. With nothing to do but kill time, he'd surrounded himself with books on philosophy and history, and tried to make sense of his life. For the first time since he'd found out his father's secret, he actually felt somewhat at peace--with life, if not himself. And whenever his self-hatred calmed down, he thought about Samantha.

As he replayed the last year--his father's last year--in his mind, he noticed a series of Samantha-related details. At the time, he hadn't paid much attention...he was trying to deal with his mother's suicide, his sister's suffering, and his father's planning. Just surviving had required all his concentration. But now that he had time to really think about everything that had happened, he was starting to realize something.

Michael had never been a very whimsical person, but he did allow himself one fantasy--the one where Samantha was interested in him, that way. Prison gave him time to dwell on what she'd been doing--the signals she'd been sending which he'd never noticed. Soon, his fantasy had slowly morphed into something almost plausible. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. It became a slim chance, and slowly grew to something possible, even probable...and then, he realized that it had to be true.

For a very brief window of time, of opportunity, she'd been interested in him. Now, he prayed that it wasn't too late to do something about it.

Michael stood in the front lobby of a navy-curtained Italian restaurant, waiting for someone to notice him. It looked like something out of a mobster movie, with dim lighting, thick-patterned carpets, and heavy wood paneling. Unfortunately, this wasn't the main event--that wouldn't be until tonight, when he'd see Samantha for the first time in over a year. At the moment, he was supposed to be meeting Brian Lau, and his fiancée`, for lunch.

He knew what would happen, of course. Halfway through their dinner conversation, Samantha would casually mention that she was seeing someone, or engaged, or...

A dark-haired hostess, about Michael's age, weaved around the lobby's leather furniture. She took a moment to regard her new customer--Michael guessed that this kind of restaurant was very specific about its clientele it allowed in.

As always, Michael was all in black, complete with a long coat. Dark red hair contrasted with his pale skin. He moved very much like a ghost: smoothly, and not existing entirely in the visible world. For a split-second, he allowed himself to make eye-contact with her, and she blushed. Back at Somersdale, people had kept telling him that he should take a drama class--he had natural presence.

"I'm here with Brian Lau," he offered.

She cleared her throat self-consciously. "Right this way."

Michael was never sure where he stood with Brian. The son of KinLabs' current CEO, Brian was planning on following in his father's footsteps. It was assumed that, at some point in the future, he and Michael would be running the company together. So, Michael had always intended to become better friends with him, but he just never got around to it.

After asking him what he wanted to drink, the hostess left. Brian and his fiancee (Michael was desperately trying to remember her name) were seated in a semi-circle corner booth. They both stood up upon seeing Michael, and Brian nearly banged his head on a low-hanging chandelier--he was six-foot-seven, just a few inches taller than his father. He wore his usual casual clothing--grey shorts that hung just past his knees, and a grainy white long-sleeved shirt.

His fiancee (Carrie? Cara? Sara?) was a foot shorter, with long black hair that was drooped in two pigtail-like braids. She had a vaguely goth look about her, which was enhanced by black leather pants and a tight black tanktop.

"Michael, good to see you," Brian said, smiling naturally. They shook hands.

His fiancee extended a hand, as well. "Hi, I'm Charlotte...we just met the one time, I think..."

"Yeah, right, I remember that..." He didn't.

She nodded. "I'm a graduate student--anthropology. It's more archeology than classroom stuff."

The couple were just a few years older than Michael. They scooted over, occupying one side of the circular seat, while he sat across from them. The obligatory awkward silence followed. Small-talk was basically out the window--the last time he'd talked to Brian, Michael's father and sister had still been alive, and he hadn't yet killed anyone. They had a lot to catch up on, but none of it was pleasant.

"So, uh, you probably heard..." Charlotte held a hand up, showing off her ring.

"Yeah, congratulations, that's great."

Brian took her hand. "We haven't set the date yet, but we're thinking in about six months...wow, six months."

They looked at each other nervously, and broke into laughter. She flashed an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it's just tough getting used to the idea."

"No, it's okay, I understand completely." He actually didn't--the family secret meant that he could never get married, most likely. Michael couldn't risk telling anyone else, no matter how much he cared about them--and if he couldn't be completely honest, what was the point of a relationship? But then, where did that leave him with Samantha?

Charlotte took a sip of wine. "What have you got planned, now that you're...?" She timed it so that her next sip would interrupt her from having to say "out of prison".

"Well, before everything happened, I was planning to go to the University of Parodiopolis...I'd already been accepted, actually."

"Yeah, I remember that." Brian slipped his arm around Charlotte. "Didn't you have a 4.0?"

Michael shrugged. "Yeah."

"So, you'll have to start out as a freshman, even though you were supposed to start last year?"

"Well, my junior and senior year, the classes I took at Somersdale were all college-level, and they count as credits at the U of P. So, I'll probably get to skip a lot of the tedious stuff."

A waitress brought Michael some water, and he asked Brian if he was still playing basketball--he didn't know that much about him, aside from that.

"I'm not playing college ball anymore--I'm in busines school, now They said I'm good enough to be in the NBA, but unless I got lucky, it'd only last for a few years. I don't want to be twenty-five and be out of a job, because I blew out my knee or broke my wrist..."

"That one team you were with, didn't you win the...the big game? The championship?"

"Duke? Yeah. Two in a row."

Michael was mentally kicking himself--he should know more about him than this...

For the first time since they'd been talking, Brian looked uncomfortable. His voice took on a forced tone, as he said "So, I hear that you inherited a few billion the other day, and KinLabs, too..."

Charlotte momentarily choked on her wine.

Michael blinked. That'd come out of nowhere. "Yeah, I kinda got it all by default. I'm not really qualified, but everyone who is, uhh..." Everyone who is, died.

"Yeah, I'm really, really sorry about that...I can't believe they wouldn't let you out of jail to go to your father's and sister's funerals..."

Michael was saved from having to think of something to say, as his cel phone vibrated. "Sorry, but I should get this--I'll be back in a second."

He briskly paced to a small hall with restrooms and a water fountain. Even here, it looked lavish...paintings hung on the wall, and immaculate scarlet carpet lined the floor.

After flicking the phone open, he hit a button and pressed it to his ear. "McKinley."

"Michael? Derek Carthe here." Carthe was the current chairman of the Twelve Labors Foundation. Michael had only seen him a few times.

"Yeah, hi..."

"I just wanted to thank you for--well, for what you did yesterday. With that police problem we had."

"No problem at all." He paused. "I hope I didn't screw stuff up, by releasing that police article early..."

"No, it worked out fine. By the way...did anyone tell you about the banquet next week? I wasn't sure if you were going."

Michael had probably been told--and forgotten. He had so much going on in his mind, regular-life details tended to slip through. "Yeah, sure."

"Oh, good. See you then."

"Yeah, seeya." Michael clicked off.

As he walked back to the booth, he made a mental note to find out, exactly, what this banquet was all about. Halfway there, something in his pocket made a soundless, cybernetic "beep".

He pulled his sunglasses out, and glanced down at the interior of the lenses. His car's sensors had picked up someone with a gun--they were coming into the restaurant. Probably just some cop, or a mafia guy...still, he kept an eye out.

Once back with Brian and Charlotte, he said "I guess I'm going to some banquet thing next week...for the Foundation."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Really? Wow--no offense, but you don't seem the type..."

Michael slid back into his seat, suddenly on edge. "The type? For what?"

"A bachelor auction."

Before he could respond, a new voice said "Excuse me--"

Michael turned to find an Interpol badge practically sticking in his face.

"--but I'd like to ask you some questions about what happend in Paris..."

------------

It had been a fairly uneventful day at St. Silver's ER: they were dealing with a multiple-victim freeway pile-up, the fallout from a gang shootout, a husband who'd been stabbed by his wife in the middle of their divorce proceedings (she got him with the pen he was going to use to sign the papers), and some loser glue-using supercriminal, whose homemade lab had blown up, leaving him covered in adhesive. It had taken them four hours to torch-cut him out, and even then, he could barely breathe, and they had yet to find a way for him to go to the bathroom.

For the moment, Samantha Bridges was the only surgery-qualified ER person with her hands free. She was trying to handle the numerous easy cases, so the doctors could focus on the major problems. They had a steady stream of work/homemaker-injuries; a mix of clumsy construction workers and distracted suburban moms. She'd handled common colds, sudden back pains, and elderly accidents. And now, looking up at the board, she saw that there wasn't anything left for her to do.

Out of habit, she turned in circles in the middle of the ER, looking for the next disaster. The room was crammed with equipment and metal cabinets, which made it virtually impossible to see the walls. Her sneakers squeaked on the ugly tile floor, and she stuck her hands in the pockets of her white coat, wondering where her back-up was. In theory, an intern should never be the only one ready to take an emergency--but in practice, it often fell on her to pick up the slack.

Samantha was wearing hip-hugging bluejeans and a faded pink t-shirt--she ran a hand through her curly, frosted blonde hair, and sighed. Come on, come on... These were the moments she hated, and the moments she loved. Whatever came through those sliding glass doors, she'd have to deal with--alone, until a doctor could get free to help her.

She caught a glimpse of motion, and turned to see Dr. Warner. Though she'd never admit it, she was almost disappointed. Things were easier, now.

It looked like he'd gotten dressed in the dark--his tan shirt was half-tucked-in, and his black slacks looked as if he'd ironed them with a lumpy rock. His brown hair was poofing out everywhere. That just didn't fit...he was a pretty vain person. He allegedly spent ten minutes just getting his hair right.

She crossed her arms, and cocked her head. "What, did Fin Fang Foom step on you on your way to work?"

"What?" He looked down at his clothes. "Oh." He seemed a bit shell-shocked.

"Well, either that, or you just got back from an 'appointment' with one of your many nurses..."

He was still dumbstruck. "Uhh, no."

Now she was really worried--he'd never miss an opportunity to make himself look good.

"Well, everyone else is busy, so you'd better just…wait..........here."

She trailed off, as he walked right by her, apparently in ignore-mode. A non-doctor administrator had wandered down to the ER, and was taking a look around.

"I said--" She grabbed his sleeve.

He overreacted, nervously jerking his arm away. In the process, he dropped something.

A clear orange prescription bottle clattered to the floor. The lid had only been half-on, as it burst open, and white pills went everywhere.

Warner mumbled, and kneeled down, scooping up the pills. Just then, she realized that his hands had been shaking all along. All the ER’s ambient noise suddenly cut out. Wandering medical personnel had stopped dead in their tracks.

For Samantha, his behavior had suddenly come into focus. She said, quietly, “If you were a software programmer, I probably wouldn’t care. Or if you had some other office job, where you didn’t have lives depending on you.” She went white with indignation. "I really hope you weren't planning on operating under the influence..."

The administrator had noticed...he strolled over, and put a hand on Warner's shoulder. He was clearly going out of his way to keep calm. "Short term, you're benched. Long term, well--"

A voice came over the ER loudspeaker. "Incoming: supercriminal attack victim, possibly fear-gas--ETA, one minute."

The administrator glanced at Samantha. "Anyone else free?"

She shook her head.

"Can you handle it?"

"I guess I have to."

----------------

Welcome to the edge.

Lunch, needless to say, hadn't gone well. Michael had at least hoped to become slightly-better friends with Brian, but they were as distant as ever. It had gotten to the point where he was hoping for something, anything, to interrupt it.

He was now wishing for it to go back to being dull and uneventful.

She didn't look like an Interpol agent. Merie Velescor was a petite brunette, who appeared very harmless. The powder blue pantsuit she wore made her come off as an executive secretary, or some other breed of office-dweller. She was still standing by their booth, while they remained seated.

Michael had almost given in to his urge to panic. The downside to a guilty conscience--though he didn't feel bad about his murders. Just nervous about being caught. But, thank God, she wasn't here for him.

"I don't see why you came all the way across the Atlantic just to talk to me," Brian Lau said irritably. Ever since she'd announced herself, he'd been acting a bit rougher. "Yeah, fine, we all got kidnapped in Paris...it's over now. Just leave it alone."

Merie was very soft-spoken, and didn't seem to take offense at Brian's tone. "Actually, we're over here running tests on some evidence, that we got from the crime scene. But, I figured, as long as I'm here..."

Evidence? That can't be good.

"I already went through this with the FBI. I told them everything that happened. Just bug them about it, okay?"

Michael had never brought up the subject of the kidnapping. He figured that Brian wouldn't want to talk about it--and it looked like he'd been right.

Merie easily kept her composure. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the person--or people--that saved you. If you'll let me--"

"No, I won't let you. I know what you're trying to do, okay? The guy saved my life--he saved all our lives--and you want to go after him? Screw that. Find someone else to help you nail him."

"People can't just go around killing other people, Mr. Lau. We will find him, even if he's hiding a thousand miles away..."

What if he's right in front of you? Michael did his best to act normal. This was as close to the edge as he cared to get. If she was telling the truth, there was an international investigation that was tracking him down...and one of the lead agents was standing a few feet away from him. The air all around him was tingling, like somethign could explode at any minute.

"Look, I understand that it's your job to go after killers. But I can't do that to someone who helped me. It's not like I know him or something, anyway--I never even saw the guy. Like I said, I already told the FBI everything, you can just talk to them."

"Well, sometimes, it helps to go over everything again, to--"

Brian took Charlotte's hand, and they stood up. "Michael, I'm sorry...you want to do this another time?"

The perfect excuse to escape. "Yeah, sure."

"Sounds good." Brian turned to Merie. "You want to talk to me again? Call my lawyers."

In seconds, Merie was standing alone. She tugged on her sleeves, sighing. It was like one of those old Western movies her grandfather had watched--she'd just come into a new town, and nobody wanted to talk to her. Her first official interrogation hadn't gone well. Hopefully, Runner would have better luck in Icarus Innovations' labs...

----------------

As a child, Samantha Bridges had been fearless in any kind of public performance. While other kids got stage fright, she wasn't bothered by it at all. In some ways, she thrived on it. The rest of her family was the same way, but she never understood what it had to do with their medical talents...until she started working in the ER.

The sirens hit, and everything went into slow motion. She snapped on a pair of gloves, and started walking into the lobby, towards the doors that led out to the vehicle-reception portico. As she did that, it felt like every eye in the room was on her. Some of them were just figuring out what was happening--where were the other ER doctors, why was she doing it alone, etc. The usual doubt and worries. If she was going to save a life today, she had to be above that.

Tires screeched to a halt, and she heard ambulance doors slam open.

I'm on.

Two black guys in navy-and-yellow EMT jackets were rolling the gurney inside. The body was covered in plastic-wrap, and a bulky breathing-hose poked out of it. He was barely conscious, and the plastic was tight, restraining his movements. He'd been stripped to the waist. "Mr. Paulson, fifty-five, venture capital guy. That new guy--The Harrier?--broke in and scared him to death, up in Pierce Heights. We don't know if he's delusional or what, but he's in shock, and his vitals broke the ceiling. No physical injuries, near as we can tell."

He rattled off the guy's bio-statistics, and she shook her head. "Why'd you come all the way down here? Memorial's closer."

"Yeah, but they don't specialize in this stuff."

A pair of nurses flanked her, taking over for the EMT's. They gently lifted the man onto another gurney. She had time for one last question--better make it a good one. "Any idea what's got him like this?"

"We didn't find any traces of fear-gas, but that's our best guess. We bagged him just to be safe."

She nodded--that was standard procedure for bio-warfare victims, so they wouldn't infect the rest of the ER.

Samantha had cleared out one of their sterile, specially-outfitted rooms: they were there in less than twenty seconds. It was a metallic-blue-tiled room, with lots of counters and locked cabinets. The door sealed behind them, and they put on rebreathers.

"Let's get him out of that."

One of the nurses found the plastic zipper, and quickly pulled it. As soon as it was open, Samantha reached towards his neck, checking his lymph nodes. With fear-gas attacks, they tended to swell. But his nodes were fine. His pupils looked a bit strange, though...

Suddenly free to move, the man started thrashing around--Samantha caught a backhand across the nose, which nearly knocked her rebreather off. "Strap him down!"

"What? No, no, I'm fine." Amazingly, the guy sounded completely level-headed, though his body was going through a private earthquake. "You can let me go now. I'm fine, really."

The nurses were trying to hold him, but he was too fast and strong--probably a side-effect of whatever had made him like this. One of the nurses grabbed what looked like a small staple-gun, pressed it against his bare upper arm, and injected him with more than enough sedative.

He shrugged it off, and kept struggling. "The Harrower. Can you please get him for me? We weren't done talking. We weren't done talking and I don't want him to think I'm rude, what with the screaming for my life and all. Could you--"

The nurse put in a different cartridge of sedative--a universal fear-gas counteragent. If they knew specifically what kind he'd been infected with, they could use a more effective, specific one. But this would have to do. .

"Oww. Can you please stop poking me? I need that arm for tennis later."

"Screw this." Samantha snatched an empty instrument tray off of the counter, and used it to blindside him across the face. His head gently bounced back onto the headrest, and he stopped shaking. Out like a light. "Strap him down, and hook him up."

In moments, his vital signs were flickering across their equipment monitors. It didn't look good. His heart rate was dangerously high, he was practically hyperventilating, and his blood pressure was out of control. He was old, overweight...he could only take this for a few minutes. If it was fear-gas, the symptoms were psychosomatic, and his body should've relaxed when he lost consciousness...

One of the nurses said "It's gotta be his body, not his mind."

Samantha winced. "Strip him. Look for any entry marks." Samantha ran over the possibilities, since fear-gas seemed to be out. Neurotoxins, bio-electric nanotech, some other kind of viral agent. But his mind seemed to be perfectly fine--his brainwaves were all within normal limits. That ruled out telepathy, or some other form of mind-control. Or maybe it was some garden-variety psychotropic drug, like LSD. But the effects of that would show up on their scanner...

The nurses were still pumping sedative into him; they'd switched to muscle-relaxants. "No entry marks."

"Get the handheld scanner out. Set it for tech, exotic energy, and bio-chemical." That particular device was found only in four hospitals across America; it was a Bautista Enterprises prototype.

No.

Something was wrong. Everything she saw said that it was his body, but that just didn't feel right. And his pupils...

The nurse with the scanner shook her head. "Not finding anything. I'm not--"

His vitals were starting to reach a crescendo. The sedatives weren't helping. It wouldn't be long now. They'd run down every option for his body--whatever it was, it had to be in his mind.

She thought about his behavior, before. A person whose body was going through that shouldn't be calm. They should be out of their mind. His brainwaves had been too normal. The lack of a problem was the problem.

Longshot time.

Samantha scrambled to grab something out of one of the cabinets--her hand came out with a black visor, which had a handle attached to its center, making it look elephant-like.

As crazy as it sounded, this piece of equipment was used to shock people out of hypnosis and microscopic holographic illusions (which could be projected into the eye, and then "overlap" everything that a person saw). It was a solar-variation laser.

She pressed it against his face. "Cover your eyes on three. One, two--"

She hit the button. Purple light escaped from contours of his face that the visor didn't quite match up with. His entire body stiffened, like he'd run into a brick wall.

His brainwaves surged, went flat, and were then back to normal. His vitals downsloped to a safe level. She'd essentially rebooted his brain, using his eyes as an interface. Anything that wasn't there naturally would now be gone.

One of the nurses straightened her white shirt. "What was that?"

"I don't know--but whatever it was, it got into his mind through his optical system. Someone's invented a form of mental influencing that we can't pick up. And somebody'd better tell the police that he was talking about 'The Harrower', not 'The Harrier'."

------------

Seconds after stepping into the harsh, neon daylight, Michael heard footsteps behind him.

He briefly considered the situation. Was his death the final stage in the Paris cover-up? Had they just sent that Interpol agent in to get Michael’s location?

The parking lot was all but empty--the lunch crowd had to get back to work. On the outside, the restaurant was an old-fashioned brick building, with lavish green canopies and a small patio for outside dining. It was a glorious-as-usual day in Parodiopolis, with gleaming white skyscrapers set against a crystal-blue sky. A flock of doves rounded a nearby building. Young women with tans and shorts jaywalked gleefully, clearly having the time of their lives.

Part of him didn’t want to turn around. At times like this, life seemed almost livable, and he knew he was about to get dragged back into his personal world of death. Just stand there and let them shoot you in the back of the head. But--just like his father--he had an annoying instinct for survival.

He knew who it was before he’d fully spun around. High-heels on asphalt, in a frequency that suggested work, rather than play.

“I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was?” Merie Velescor stood before him, with a small notepad flipped open. She was looking at it, not him. The petite brunette didn’t seem to be handling the heat well. Her accent sounded like it was Swiss or something…she was probably used to colder temperatures.

“Michael McKinley.”

“… The Michael McKinley?”

“Yeah.” Michael felt like he was smuggling gold bricks out of Fort Knox--weighed down and conspicuous. Every answer she was looking for was right in front of her. How long could he keep up the act?

“Oh. Okay. I was just going to ask how you know Mr. Lau, but, that answers that.”

Michael casually glanced around. He didn’t see any possible threats. “Anything else?”

“Just a second…”

She kept flipping through her notes. He sighed--definitely a rookie. Then, he saw the bike-messenger. Tan, dark complexion, a white-and-black baseball jersey tucked into bleached denim cut-offs. Though he was also wearing a backwards cap and sunglasses, Michael recognized him immediately.

DuPlis.

Michael’s first thought was that, if they were going to gun him down, they might get her, too. He’d have to push her one way, and backflip in the opposite direction. But before he did, DuPlis waved something at him--a white handkerchief.

DuPlis skidded to a halt, and dabbed at his forehead with the cloth. “Hey, you Michael McKinley?”

Michael decided to play along. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Got somethin’ for ya.” He pulled out a manila envelope. “From the University. Registration papers and stuff.”

Michael nodded absently, praying that Merie wouldn’t notice what was really going on. Sane government agents approached their secret weapons through subtle means. Scrambled calls, coded e-mails, hidden messages. But doing it right in front of an Interpol agent that’s after the both of them…he knew DuPlis was a risk-taker, but this was something else entirely.

Merie was still buried in her notepad. DuPlis looked at her, and--apparently deciding things were still too boring--decided to engage in small-talk. “Had to chase you all over the city, man. You don’t stay in one place for too long. What, you on the run from the cops or something?” He laughed.

If I get out of this, I’m gonna use his head as a tetherball. Suddenly, Michael looked down at the envelope. How did he know that it wasn’t a letter-bomb?

Apparently noting Michael’s concern, DuPlis spoke up again. “Oh, and they said there might be something else in there for ya--bit of extracurricular stuff.” From the look on DuPlis’ face, he was talking about “work”.

“I’ll take a look at it.”

“You look like an athletic guy…I bet it’s right up your alley.” DuPlis checked out Merie. “You look new in town. Like it so far?”

Merie finally took a good look at this cyclist stranger. Michael tensed--but no, she didn’t recognize him. They both worked in the same field, but apparently in different parts, thank God.

“It’s pretty nice.”

“Well, hey, if you ever want a tour…I know all the hot spots.” He grinned like the devil.

She didn’t respond, but did manage to turn bright red.

“Oh, I’m sorry--this guy’s your guy, right? Sorry, man, she’s all yours.” He looked her over. “We should all be so lucky.”

“No, he’s--” Merie’s tongue tripped over itself. “He’s younger, I’m--”

“Hey, no problem, age doesn’t matter.”

Michael glared at him. Get out of here before you get us both arrested, you idiot!

“Anyway, I’m Audi.” With that, DuPlis took off, and Michael tried to breathe normally.

Apparently wanting to get out of an awkward situation, Merie blurted out “I guess that’s it.” She stuck her notepad in her purse. “Thanks for your time.”

“Anytime.” Never again. Please.

--------------------

Samantha Bridges would never understand.

Though she was now standing in a beige hallway, in St. Silver’s violet-carpeted psych ward, her thoughts were constantly pulled back to the ER. They told her that she was too sensitive--or, alternately, too demanding of others. But she was sure of one thing: at this moment, people were in the process of dying. She routinely gave up most of her free time to keep them alive. Meanwhile, others shopped, went to games, and generally goofed off. How they could do that, when they knew that people were dying…it was beyond her.

Why weren’t they running to help? How could they enjoy themselves, knowing what others were going through? Where was the compassion? When something bad happened, why didn’t the city descend on the ER, looking for ways to pitch in? Normal people had a bit of an excuse…their tax money helped pay for public hospitals. But doctors? Hippocratic Oath, anyone? It was wrong--her being the only person to handle a medical emergency was just wrong. There should be more of them. Ready and willing.

So, Samantha stood with her arms crossed, her expression glowering over the friendly décor in the mental trauma wing. The hospital’s personnel--who were used to her behavior--made sure to steer clear, afraid of having high expectations sicced on them. They always told her that not everyone could be perfect, like she was. Yeah, right: because she doesn’t get emotional, she must not have emotions. She told herself that she’d feel better in a few hours. Sometimes it took luring an unsuspecting male out of a bar, but she would make herself feel better.

Her patient--who was in a padded room, directly in front of her--was resting comfortably. She waited calmly, knowing that they’d be showing up soon. They always managed to arrive just after the work was done, and then acted like they should have control over the situation.

The elevator rang, and a man in grey slacks and a black shirt stepped out. He was thirty-ish, with brown hair, and solid features. She relaxed--thank God, it was one of the decent ones.

Detective Gamble held out his badge towards some orderlies, who nodded in return. This part of the hospital was off-limits to the general public.

He smiled upon seeing Samantha. “You catch this?”

“Yeah, I was solo.”

He pocketed the badge. “This a mind-control, mental influence kind of thing?”

“As near as we can tell, yeah. But his mind looked fine--it was his body that was freaking out. I think we’re dealing with some new tech.”

“And maybe a new guy. The Harrier. Or ‘The Harrower’.” He shook his head wryly. “I don’t know about the first attack, with the Twelve Labors Foundation…but I’m assuming this one’s for real.” Gamble had been working in the newly-created Superhuman Affairs division for the last few months. It was a lone wolf, in terms of how closely it was connected with the rest of the police.

The elevator rang again, and Assistant Commissioner Severin walked out, along with a blonde, goateed man with rectangular glasses. He was dressed casually, in navy shorts and a dusty red tanktop. He was thin, and had an intellectual look about him.

Severin gave a gruff hello to both of them. “This is Dr. Trohje--he’s a psych and criminology professor at the University. And he works with the regular police department on a consultant basis. We’re hoping he can give us a work-up of whoever we’re dealing with here.”

Samantha noticed the sharp looks being shot back and forth between Gamble and Severin. There didn’t seem to be any love lost between them.

Trohje nodded warily, also noting the tension. “They grabbed me when I was out jogging, so I haven’t really had time to look at the case…”

“On the surface, it’s pretty straightforward.” Gamble pulled out his notepad. “The Harrower broke into the home of John Paulson, a venture capitalist. At some point, his wife went looking for him--she got to his study, which was locked. The Harrower threw open the door, she was hit with ‘something blue’, and ended up on the floor. The Harrower kept talking to Paulson, until he tossed Mrs. Paulson a cel phone, and told her to call 911.”

Severin nodded. “Is Mrs. Paulson here? And where’s the doctor that saved her husband?”

“She’s uptown, at Memorial--her injuries didn’t need specialized care. And I’m the one that saved him. Samantha Bridges. I’m an intern here.”

Severin gave her an incredulous look. He seemed to have trouble grasping that a young person--let alone a woman--had done it.

Anxious to move things along, Gamble said “She was hit with plain-vanilla blunt force. And she wasn’t wearing her glasses, so she didn’t get much of a look at our perp.”

Trohje looked around. “Can we go somewhere to talk? So we can sit down and look over everything…”

“Yeah, sure--in here.” Samantha led them into a small, blue-and-white conference room, which was often used to counsel patients. Gamble and Samantha took the small couch, while Trohje and Severin sat at an anorexic table.

Gamble tossed some files on the table. Severin gave Samantha a dirty look, apparently wondering why she needed to be there.

Trohje took a minute or two scanning various pieces of paper. Then, he took his glasses off, and straightened in his seat. “Two things: first, I’m assuming that we’re just going to be looking at this incident, and not the one from yesterday. As we aren’t sure that they’re the same guy.”

Gamble glared at Severin. “That’s up to the Assistant Commissioner.”

A very stiff man, Severin did something that barely resembled a squirm. “Well, just to be safe, let’s just look at today’s attack.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. In other words, the first one wasn’t real, huh?

Trohje went along with it. “Okay then. And second: I’m assuming we don’t have anything that points to who he is, so, let’s look at any possible motivations.”

Gamble was the first to speak. “What about his name? With a lot of these supercriminals, what they do is summed up in their codename.”

“I think ‘harriers’ were used in the middle ages--people that scared birds away from the fields. Real-life scarecrows. And harrowing also has to do with fear,” Trohje said. “Unfortunately, that just shows his m.o., not his agenda.”

“Could just be some random supercrazy idiot,” Severin said loudly. “In this city, it isn’t that far-fetched. Supercriminal attacks man, not a story.”

“Let’s not be too anxious to close the book on this,” Gamble suggested.

Trohje cocked his head, thinking. “Well, to be obvious: it could be a financial thing. Paulson lived in Pierce Heights, and he was a venture capitalist. Are we looking into the business angle? Who stands to profit from his organization taking a hit? Or, it could be blackmail, extortion…”

“That was my first thought, too,” Gamble agreed. “But think about it. You’re a big supercriminal, you’ve got some fear thing going on…you could scare the guy into giving you money, without revealing yourself to everyone else. He let the wife in, and later, he tossed her the phone. Basically announcing himself to the world. And not only did he not hurt him--physically, anyway--he told the wife to call 911.”

“Blackmail and extortion are probably out, then,” Trohje said. “And he wasn’t there to rough him up. It could still be some corporate espionage thing, though. For all we know, The Harrower could just be a high-tech mercenary.”

Severin leaned forward. “Do we know what The Harrower was saying to him?”

Gamble looked through his notepad. “When the wife fell, she landed on the side of her head…her good ear was to the floor. But she did manage to catch a word. The Harrower said something about ‘educating’ him.”

Rocking back in his chair, Trohje frowned. He apparently didn’t like the idea that an academic person could do this.

“What about Paulson himself?” Severin demanded. “Can he talk yet?”

Samantha shook her head. “He was conscious for a few minutes, but not now.”

“What, exactly, is wrong with him? I mean, what did The Harrower do to him?” Gamble was poised to write more notes.

“In layman’s terms? Some kind of light went into his eyes, and affected his mind. When he was brought in, he was calm--too calm. His body was suffering from the psychosomatic symptoms normally associated with extreme fear or stress.”

Severin sighed. “But psychosomatic means that he’s imagining it, right? And you said he was thinking straight. So what was wrong with him?”

“Well, he wasn’t really thinking straight. He was saying that he wanted to keep talking with The Harrower. But he was polite--almost rational--about it.”

“But he’s okay now?”

Samantha shrugged. “When he woke up, he was about the same. He asked us to let him go. He still had ‘something to discuss’ with The Harrower. A few minutes later, he said he was better now, and that he just wanted to rest. When we asked him if he wanted to see The Harrower, he said of course not. He went out of his way to make up a lot of reasons--lame ones--for why he was okay. It was kind of pathetic, actually. I mean, he was obviously lying.”

Severin looked unhappy. “I thought you snapped him out of…whatever it was.”

“I did--as near as we can tell, there isn’t anything unnatural influencing his thoughts. He’s either had a nervous breakdown, or he’s sane. I think he’s sane: he had the presence of mind to lie to us.”

Trohje considered it. “If he’s sane: The Harrower told him something…something that’s causing him to lie to us, and making him want to talk to The Harrower again.”

“Look, we’ve been analyzing this so much, let’s just take it at face value for a minute.” Gamble patted the air, trying to slow things down. “The Harrower breaks in. Talks about educating him. Now, Paulson obviously learned something from this--he knows something we don’t. And he wants more.”

“Wait, I thought this was mind-control,” Severin interrupted. “He got zapped in the eyes, right?”

Samantha nodded. “Whatever it was, I think it was just a medium. Like a TV--someone sees something on TV. You can take the TV away, but they still remember what they saw. It wasn’t controlling him…I think it was just showing him something.”

Trohje put his glasses back on. “So, assuming his mind is sane and isn’t being tampered with: we have to figure out what you could say to a person, to make them lie for you and want to talk to you, even though you nearly scared them to death.” He snorted. “Not too hard.”

--------------

In comparison to other major Parodiopolis hotels, the Brinne was modest: only fifty stories tall, and mostly used by the “upper-middle class”. Since it was relatively cheap, the Parodiopolis city government always kept several rooms there, for low-level VIPs. It was very low-profile, compared to City Hall, so the local politicians also liked to use it for more sensitive meetings.

Contrary to pop culture, most of these meetings weren’t sexual in nature. More often, they involved questionable alliances--the sort of things that the voters didn’t need to worry about. So, Councilman Andrews had slipped in when all the doormen were distracted, and then used a private elevator. He knew that, like all politicians, his career was always one witness away from certain doom.

He now sat in a room that was big enough to be a penthouse apartment. It was covered in immaculate white carpeting, with metal-tinted grey walls. Powder-blue furniture was arranged in a circle, and three wide stairs led to the kitchen and dining area. In the background, to the left, was a hall that led to two bedrooms. Though it was wide-open, it had a cramped feel about it…but maybe that was just Andrews’ nervousness.

Against his better judgment, he drew the curtains back. That made him breathe easier. The sun was going out, and he could see the mall--even from that high up, he could tell that the early-evening shopping crowd was out in force.

He wished that he’d had time to change--purple and grey might be a bit too progressive for whoever it was he was supposed to be meeting. All he knew was that it was about Michael McKinley.

The events of the day came back to him. Andrews had never pretended to be a nice guy: he’d cheated on every girlfriend he’d ever had, he hadn’t talked to his parents in years, and he was an unashamed careerist. But he’d never been a criminal. And he was terrified that Severin would lead him down that path. The man was a fanatic...

Andrews had never had much direction. But, when he found out that he was good at politics--he could play the game, anyway--he assumed that he should run for office. He didn’t have any lofty goals, or noble aspirations…it was just all he could do. Besides, lots of politicians had been mediocre, until some crisis triggered their innate leadership skills. But as near as Andrews could tell, his job was making him worse, not better.

He tried not to think about it. For the next hour or so, he’d have to be completely focused. And he’d have to put his natural reactions on mute. No over-the-top speechifying. If this went well, it could be his ticket to the top.

His life-plan wasn’t going well. He was supposed to be in the Senate by now; not mired in city government. He spent most of his time dealing with Parodiopolis’ main problem: traffic and parking. They just didn’t have enough room, and getting it all laid out was maddening. Of course, supercrime was in second-place, though it got all the media. And as far as Andrews was concerned, he was above dealing with traffic control.

Then he heard the toilet flush; and water running. His pulse kicked up a notch--he’d had nightmares like this. This was the part where he found out that some other politician had his mistress holed up here, and she’d walk out of the bathroom completely naked, see him, scream, run into the hall, someone would get a picture, and he’d spend the rest of his life teaching at some community college…

A white-haired man, in black slacks and a green polo shirt, casually walked out of the bathroom. Andrews resisted the urge to say “Thank God, I thought you were some naked woman that I was gonna scare.”

The man spoke first. “Mr. Andrews, is it?”

“Yes.”

He gestured to a round glass table, and they went to sit down. “I’m…” Without trying to be subtle, he looked at what was on the table--little bars of soap, mints--and said “I’m Mr. Ivory. I work for the government. And no, I’m afraid I can’t be more specific.”

“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands. “I understand that you wanted to talk to me…”

“That’s right. Tell me, Mr. Andrews,” he began, “What do you think the next major issue will be?”

“Issue?”

“The next big controversy to tear this nation apart. Back in my day, it was civil rights and Vietnam.”

Andrews paused. He’d waited his entire life for someone to ask him what he thought about the major issues of the day, but now that the moment was here, he was stupefied. He had to make sure his answer was good…

“Just whatever comes to mind--you aren’t being graded.” Ivory laughed. “Don’t worry, we pay people to figure this stuff out, and they don’t even know for sure.”

“Probably culture-clash. In our own country, and internationally. All learning how to live on the same planet, even though we don’t agree on much.”

“Very good choice. And you’re right, that’s something humanity has been dealing with for as long as it’s been around. But I had something else in mind. Genetics.”

Andrews tried to keep smiling. Of course it was genetics. Stupid, stupid…

“All the other issues we’ve faced, as a country…they’ve been one of two kinds. The first kind is something that affects us personally, but it doesn’t affect all of us. The second kind is the stuff that affects all of us, but just on a political level--not anything personal. We’ve never had a combination of the two…until now.”

Andrews did his best to act interested. And he was, but he had to make sure that Ivory knew that.

“Everyone in America is affected--intimately--by genetic research. You think that past controversies have been big…they’ll pale in comparison. We’ve started to unlock the secrets of life--and how we use that knowledge will create dozens of ethical problems. Just by its nature, America is a very diverse country…and this will make us even more fragmented. We’re going to need someone in the field, to act as a leader…a moderate, who’s well-known, and can bring everyone together.”

Finally catching on, Andrews said, simply, “Michael McKinley.”

“Exactly. I want you to…to look out for him. Keep him in good shape for us. Because someday, we’ll have need of him.”

“If, uh…if you don’t mind me asking, what makes you think he’s good for the job?”

“For most of us, by the time we get into a position of power, we’re--well, we’re old. We’ve compromised more times than we can count. Our leadership is very precarious: if we make any sudden movements, or offend the wrong people, we’re out of a job. But Michael is the sole owner of KinLabs--and when he’s older, he’ll have complete control of it. Plus, he understands the issues. I read a thesis paper of his, about the ethics of bio-technology…great work. He isn’t the scientist his father was, but he’s more than capable of being a figurehead.”

Andrews couldn’t keep himself from asking. “Will I be doing this in my current job, or will I be promoted?”

“For now, you’ll stay on the city council. But don’t worry. It’s like…my mother used to drag me to Sunday school, when I was a kid. They told us about ‘parables’, right? One of them was about some master who was going to test his servants. He gave each of them a little money, and told them to use it to earn more money. The ones that did good were entrusted with more money--more responsibility.”

“Right.”

Ivory put his hands together, opened them, and closed them again. “If you prove that you can handle this small thing, you’ll be given…larger things. Simple as that.”

Andrews nodded eagerly. He was about to become Michael McKinley’s best friend in the world, whether he liked it or not…

-------------------

Late summer in Parodiopolis: the sun had melted into the horizon, but it hadn’t yet dipped below seventy. It was still somewhat bright out--the sky was a burnished midnight blue, and the streetlights were only partially fired up. Patrol cars were becoming more numerous, and strange lights were blinking across the sky. The city was known for its nightlife; with action in the clubs and on the streets.

Michael McKinley checked his watch--he was twenty minutes early. The dull white elevator he now stood in was slowly working its way up to their floor. He’d parked his car in the garage of the Bridges’ apartment building, which was only five blocks from St. Silver’s.

Michael had spent most of his afternoon filling out registration forms for the University. Plus, he’d had to ditch something in the Throneroom. DuPlis had given him some information on Global Bank, for some reason. It wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to keep lying out in the open, and the Throneroom was the most secure place he knew.

It was strange: all day, he’d hardly though about Royale. Most of the time, guilt and knowledge consumed him…but today, his main topic was Samantha. It almost made him feel human.

A large part of Michael’s life was prioritizing and multitasking. He thought about the things he’d be dealing with…possibly a new mission from DuPlis, worrying about the Interpol investigation, and that stupid bachelor auction. And he’d have to go to the University tomorrow, to sign up in-person.

The doors slid open, and Michael stepped into a pentagon-shaped lobby. Its walls, ceiling, and floor were all covered in a marble-like tile, with a large window at the tip of the pentagon, and two tall doors on opposite sides. The Bridges shared this floor with only one other family.

He’d already been buzzed up, so he just knocked on the door on the left. It creaked open--it hadn’t been closed all the way.

For a split-second, he realized that if someone wanted to control him, they’d just have to grab Samantha. Without hesitation, he shoved the door open and took a giant step through.

“C’mon in, the door’s--” Alex Bridges stopped short: he was just walking to the apartment’s entrance, and the door nearly clipped him. “--open…”

Realizing that paranoia had gotten the better of him--again--Michael pulled an excuse out of his hat. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t see you standing there.” He glanced at the door. “It just kinda got away from me.”

“Don’t know your own strength, huh? Never had that problem, myself.” Alex--the neurologist of the family--didn’t look a day over thirty-five, though he was in his late forties. Thin, and about the same height as Michael, his brown hair was receding slightly, and he had a goatee and glasses. He wore a black and tan striped polo shirt, with khaki slacks.

They went through the obligatory greetings, and Alex invited him into the kitchen, where he claimed to be working on the best angel-hair pasta that Michael would ever taste. The apartment was mostly cream-colored, with dim greens and blues everywhere. The living room and dining room were to the right, with a spiral staircase to the left. The second floor of the apartment was open-air; the hallways were like balconies above them. Near-transparent white curtains hung from the windows.

By the time Michael’s shoes clicked on the hard kitchen floor, he could feel himself relaxing. It was good to be back--everything was just like he remembered it. Alex took up a position at the soft grey stove, which had a bubbling pot on it. Michael got on the other side of the kitchen “island”, and leaned against counter. This place felt like his real home.

“Am I early?”

“No, no…everybody else is late. But you know us,” Alex laughed. “Million things going on, just like always. Jeff’s soccer match is in overtime, Kayla is finishing up an ER shift, and Samantha--well, actually, I don’t know what she’s up to. But she caught a patient that the police are interested in, so that might be tying her up. And she might be stopping at her place first, to freshen up.”

“Is she in a dorm, or…?”

“No, she rented an apartment with some girls she knows.”

Michael had to find out more, but he had to be subtle about it. As offhandedly as he could, he asked how she’s been doing.

“School’s been going great--she made the Dean’s list. And she’s our highest-rated intern. It keeps her pretty busy, so, not much time for anything else.” Alex then glanced around, as if securing the area. His voice took on a jokingly naive tone. “She’s been dating quite a bit, but it’s usually a new guy each time. I haven’t seen one last more than a few weeks.” He let that one dangle for a moment, watching as Michael paid more and more attention. “Now, her mother thinks she has high standards. Or maybe her lifestyle is too intense--she has rough hours. I don’t know, I think she’s holding out for someone.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if clueless about the situation. But his eyes told a different story.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Michael took a deep breath--that was one bullet dodged. Mr. Bridges had always been a bit distant, but he had a cool, ironic way of getting his point across. And unlike many girls’ fathers, he as actively trying to get his daughter hooked up with the right guy.

They heard the door slam, and in seconds, Kayla came bounding into the kitchen. She looked more like Samantha’s older sister than her mom, though she was just a few years younger than Alex. They had the same color of hair, but Kayla’s was less curly. She carried a purple duffel bag which must have held her work-clothes, as she now wore short white shorts and a purple tanktop. Alex freely admitted that Samantha had gotten her gorgeous looks from her mother. As ever, she had a smile on her face, though she looked too hot. She’d probably jogged home.

Michael started to say hello, and then got a hug for his trouble. He made an “mmph” sound. Alex cleared his throat, reminding her that people had to breathe.

She finally let him go. “Michael, hi! How’re you?”

“I’m okay, you?”

“I’m doing great.” She leaned over to kiss her husband, who remained composed and intellectual…but Michael could feel the chemistry flickering between them. “Samantha might be a little late--she had to go back to her place, and traffic sucks.”

Alex returned to fixing dinner. “How was your shift?”

“Not too tough. I worked on some of those freeway victims, and the usual suspects. Oh, and, remember that divorce stabbing from this morning? The guy that got stabbed by his soon-to-be ex-wife, right in front of their lawyers? Well, the guy’s mistress tried to run over the wife. Revenge, I guess.”

“Tried?”

“She didn’t see the ‘men at work’ warnings. Or the ten-foot-wide hole in the street.”

He winced. “Ouch. That’s…yeah.”

“So the husband and the mistress were in post-op together. And we brought her in right when he was out of his mind on sedatives, crying his eyes out, and begging for his wife to come back. The mistress, um, isn’t too happy about that. She gets out of bed, and that’s when we find out that some intern gave her robe a weak knot…it fell off, she unintentionally flashed everyone, and then the wife walks in.”

“Uh-oh.”

“The mistress jumps on the husband and starts hitting him. The wife thinks they’re having sex in front of everyone. The wife is screaming about them humiliating her and conspiring against her. The husband is screaming that he loves his wife. It took four security guards to pry the mistress off him, and to get her robe back on.”

“So, the guards don’t need a bonus this year,” Alex said dryly.

Kayla rolled her eyes. Michael always loved these little conversations--this had to be what normal families were like. Relatively speaking, anyway.

They looked at each other, and then looked around for Michael, who was right in front of them. They’d apparently forgotten that he was there. Alex turned to him and said “She has all the good stories. Things are a bit quieter in the neurosurgery department.”

Pulling some bottled water out of the fridge, Kayla said “Speaking of which, how’d Mrs. Adams do?”

“It isn’t a tumor--it’s an old injury. She got it when she was in her 20’s. Car crash. But she never noticed it until now. Until a few months ago, it was very mild, she wrote it off as headaches. It’ll take a few months of treatment, but I think we can get it.”

“Good.” She said it with feeling; it wasn’t casual. Kayla was one of the most affectionate, caring people that Michael had ever met--and when combined with her high energy level, some people mistook it as ditziness. In truth, she wrote textbooks for cardiovascular courses in her spare time. St. Silver’s cardio department had been trying to get her for years, but she was happy in the ER. They wanted her to oversee the department and do paperwork; she wanted to be around lots of people.

Alex nodded. “But, we can talk about all this stuff at dinner. Don’t mess up my concentration, stirring is an art.”

“I, uh, I may not have a lot of stuff to tell,” Michael said hesitantly. “For the last year, I was in the same room twenty-three hours a day, sitting or sleeping on the same cot…”

Kayla shuddered. “I’d go insane after five minutes.” Though it had to be ice-cold, she dumped the water on her face and neck. “They made me sit still for like forty minutes today, filling out forms about what I saw with that naked-divorced scuffle. It took twenty laps around the morgue before I got the kinks out.” She stretched. “Can you finish this yourself? I’m gonna grab a shower.”

Alex said sure. Though the plastic blue garbage can was on the other side of the kitchen, fifteen feet away, she casually tossed it over, and it went in without touching the wall behind the can, or even the can’s rim. She then started to pull her now-soaked tanktop off…

“Company,” Alex said casually.

Kayla suddenly looked up at Michael. “…oops. Sorry. I’m kinda on autopilot. With Samantha out on her own, and Jeff busy with all his stuff, I’m used to having a bit more…freedom. Hey, before I go--what were you talking about before I got here? You got quiet when I came in.”

Michael thought back to their conversation about Samantha, and tensed. Alex shrugged, and muttered “Boring guy stuff.”

------------------

They sat down at the large, round table, a half-hour later. It was covered with a powder blue tablecloth, and the chairs were antiques; the kind you’d find in old-style ice cream shoppes. Samantha still hadn’t arrived, but Jeff, her younger brother, had--he had dyed-blonde hair, baggy black shorts, and a red Grand Theft Auto 3 t-shirt. Michael had somehow ended up sitting next to him, and was now being asked if prison was really like how they showed it on HBO.

Apparently, they weren’t used to eating together--or even at the table--as no-one knew where the placemats were, and Kayla had to clean cobwebs out of the flower-vase centerpiece. She’d changed into khaki shorts and a black shirt. Michael had actually taken his black coat off (he liked having something kevlar on), and was wondering where Samantha was.

Of course, just then, the doorbell rang. Despite his enhanced reflexes, Kayla and Jeff had already pushed their chairs out, and were starting to get up. Racing to the door was a Bridges family tradition. Alex’s voice came from the kitchen, suggesting that they let Michael get it.

He quickly volunteered.

So, a few seconds later, the door swung open, and there she was. Samantha was surprised to see that he was the one letting her in. Despite himself, he could feel his eyes wash over her. She was more tan than he’d remembered, which made her white-blonde hair and blue eyes seem even brighter. He uttered a silent thank-you to whoever had invented the low-cut, super-tight Little Black Dress. Though calling it a dress was a bit of an overstatement--a bikini with a little fabric stretched across the two pieces, maybe? Three or four washrags stitched together, busting at the seams?

He’d been dreaming of this moment for the last year. He had a million things he wanted to say to her. He’d finally realized how essential she was to his life. With his luck, and the sheer amount of people after him, this could be the last time he’d ever see her. He managed to get out a “hi”.

She said “hi” back, and they hugged awkwardly.

Michael McKinley: ladies’ man supreme. Smoothest of the smooth. Don’t trip over your own tongue, you moron.

-----------------------

The food was perfect, naturally. Kayla told horror stories about her attempts at cooking in college, before she’d met Alex. They all nodded in agreement about how messed up the legal system was, since it’d accused Michael of a crime he hadn’t committed. Jeff provided a super-detailed account of the highlights of his recent soccer games. They gushed over Samantha’s accomplishments, as she mumbled that it wasn’t a big deal. The Bridges’ kids got to hear about the divorcee fiasco in the ER.

Michael and Samantha weren’t talking to each other much--as usual, her mother was stealing the show. They were, however, engaged in a game of eye-contact tag. Michael would look, Samantha would look away. Vice-versa. Repeat as necessary.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to future plans. Samantha’s were obvious--graduate from med school, work full-time at St. Silver’s. Michael’s were a bit less well-defined…

It took him a few seconds to come up with a (halting) answer. “Well, college, of course. After that, I’ll just be continuing the work my family started--KinLabs, and the Twelve Labors Foundation. They, uh…they should’ve got a chance to finish what they started. So I’ll do it for them.”

Alex nodded solemnly. Then, he said “I know what you feel like you have to do, but what do you want to do?”

Without intending to, Michael glanced at Samantha, making full-on eye-contact.

“I’m…still figuring that out.” He laughed weakly, apologetically. And inside him, a familiar voice came to life. Liar. But what you want is irrelevant--you have a lot to make up for. You’re rich from blood-money. Your father killed dozens of innocent people to get what you now have. You have to give something back. Everything else--including her--has to come second. It’s too late for you, and you know it.

“Nobody would blame you if you took a semester off,” Kayla suggested. “Go see the world or something.”

Samantha briefly glared at her mother, apparently not too happy about the prospect of Michael running around the world, meeting new women in the process. Alex picked up on it almost immediately. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and said “Well, honey, he might feel better staying around people he knows.”

Jeff excused himself--he took half a dozen steps to their TV, and started looking for some sports scores. Financial news was being read, and his eyes scoured the sports-ticker at the bottom of the screen. Then, his eyes widened. “Uh, Michael…did you inherit eighteen billion dollars yesterday?”

Silverware hovered in mid-air, as everyone stopped moving. Unblinking, Michael stated “More or less.”

Awkward silence followed. Jeff sat back down, and the only noise came from forks hitting plates.

Alex was the first to break the tension. Apparently reversing his earlier position on the global-trip, he explained: “Michael, I don’t want to sound presumptious, but hear me out. I feel like I got to know your father pretty well, over the years. Trust me, as much as he’d want you to keep up your family’s work, I know he’d want you to spent a little on yourself. Maybe you should take a few months off.” Then, he added “I know that Samantha needs a break, too…”

He casually returned to eating, as if he’d suggested something eminently normal. But he’d basically told them to spend a few months together, alone, out on some yacht or something. Michael and Samantha once again looked at each other, now that they’d been presented with an interesting new turn of events.

“Sounds good to me,” Kayla mumbled, swallowing pasta. Pointing her fork at Samantha, she said “I don’t want you turning into a workaholic, sweetie. We don’t want you to be serious like your father.” She and Alex chuckled at that.

Samantha sighed. “I’m not--I went on that trip, remember? Cancun?” As soon as she’d said it, her mouth snapped shut. Michael wondered why she’d cut herself off. Then, looking at Jeff, he suspected the truth.

Jeff had broken into an evil grin when she’d mentioned her trip. With more patience and carefulness than a teenage male had any right to possess, he slowly began to unwrap what was sure to be a blistering speech. “She went with four swimsuits,” he said simply. “She came back with a half of one. Oh, and they were all bikinis. Thongs. They just mysteriously vanished off her at the beach.”

Samantha growled “Jeff--”

“We kept wondering how she could afford that place in Carrington, even with her friends pitching in. Well, when they were in Cancun, they got money from winning a few wet t-shirt contests. Actually, my dear sister Samantha got first-place in most of ‘em. Didn’t you, dear sister? And the wet t-shirts came off and vanished at some point, too.” He was barely holding back his laughter.

Michael was trying his best not to imagine that, though every physical instinct in his body was telling him to do the opposite. Her parents didn’t seem to care--he guessed that Kayla had done far worse things in her youth, and Alex was pretty easygoing.

Jeff turned to Michael. “So, when she tells you that she hasn’t been doing much, or she hasn’t been dating much, well…just wanna keep that in mind.”

Though he was obviously trying to embarrass her, he was right: her father had said that she wasn’t seriously seeing anyone, but did he really know everything that was going on in her life?

As if suddenly remembering something, Alex dug into his pocket. “Jeff, you’re done eating…why don’t you go run some errands for me? It’ll give you some driving practice.”

Not realizing what was actually going on, Jeff snapped up the keys and listened intently, as his father gave him instructions on what to get.

Alex stood up, gathering the dishes. He told Kayla that it was her night to dry. They vanished into the kitchen. Before Michael knew what was happening, he’d been left sitting alone with Samantha.

-----------------

A minute of self-conscious small talk later, Alex and Kayla returned, and said they were going for a walk. They’d “wimped out” and decided to use the dishwasher. Apparently, they’d be gone for a few hours. The door slammed loudly, and Michael and Samantha both relaxed. It was the first chance they’d had to really talk. Even though no-one else was there, they still spoke in hushed tones.

Samantha looked him over. “So…you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because, you know, prison is…”

“It wasn’t that bad--we only had to be around other prisoners for like an hour a day. Pretty high-security. We had to eat and shower in our cells, so there weren’t many opportunities for fights or anything. And they didn’t want us talking to each other--most of the guys there are professional assassins and small-time supercriminals, and they know how to plan stuff. All they need is one chance, you know? Anyway, it was basically like school--I sat still and read all day. Pretty easy.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he wanted to make her feel better.

“Why’d you end up there, instead of a regular prison?”

“They thought I broke through all that government security, to kill the other Gemini Twin. So they thought if I could break in, I must be some master escape artist, too.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it…”

“No, it’s okay. It, uh…it gave me a lot of time to think.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Um…all that stuff Jeff said, it’s…well, it’s true, but it’s not like the way he made it sound.”

“I kinda guessed that, yeah.”

“It…it sounds stupid, considering everything you went through, but…my last year wasn’t too good, either. God, I must sound spoiled. Complaining about how bad I have it, after you had to--”

“It’s okay, really.”

She smiled weakly. “Anyway, I let my friends drag me to all this stuff, because I thought it’d make me feel better. It was kinda fun, but…just temporary. It always wore off. I don’t know, maybe something’s wrong with me. They said I’d feel better if I went out with all the right guys, and all this…and they loved it, but I didn’t. And I feel bad because I didn’t.”

“No, I know what you mean. People see me on TV or something, and say ‘he’s a multi-billionaire, he must have a perfect life’--and if you say no, my life sucks, they act like you can’t appreciate how good you have it. But it just looks that way on the outside. They want to be rich and famous, and they have this idealized vision of it, but it isn’t real…”

“I know…I got back from Cancun, and everyone was asking me how the trip was. They couldn’t believe I didn’t like it. I liked parts of it…running around naked on a beach all day is nice.” She reddened slightly, unable to mask her smile. “They said they’d kill to be that young again, to be in the middle of a giant party like that. I did all the stuff that they said was fun, but after a while, it just felt…empty. And I haven’t had anyone to really talk to since you had to go away.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Samantha suggested that they go sit on the couch--it was actually a green love seat, but she didn’t call it that.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m babbling…I’m just used to holding it all in.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“After everything Jeff said, you probably won’t believe me, but…I’m not seeing anyone now. I never was, really. I dated a few guys, but it never got serious.” She let a breath out. “That’s probably why I can’t stop talking--they never wanted to hear it. I was there for a good time, not anything emotional. If they thought I was becoming a drag, they’d take off. So I always dumped them first.” She laughed, and then abruptly stopped, trying to hide the fact that she’d enjoyed abandoning shallow men.

“Evil, evil Samantha,” Michael grinned.

“Me? Evil?” She melodramatically tossed her hair back, and cackled. “Not as evil as a certain Mr. McKinley I know. The ‘Bad Boy Billionaire’, the papers call him. Mysterious, reclusive, a man with a past. All in black, too. Sounds evil to me.”

“As opposed to a certain superstar ER intern, who’s a perfectionist half the time, and wildly uninhibited the other half? I hear she has the best all-over tan in Parodiopolis.” He surprised himself with that last line.

She smiled softly, and laid her head on his chest. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

She scooted onto his lap. There was a collapsing sensation between them--a wall being torn down. Suddenly closer than they’d ever been, she said “What do you think?”

“I think, we’re tired of trying to impress other people. We just want…well, we just want support. Someone we can be ourselves with. And I think we can give that to each other.”

Michael knew that nothing could ever come of this. He couldn’t allow it. He could never give her the honesty she deserved. And it’d probably put her life in danger, considering all the enemies he had. There could never be a long-term commitment--he’d always have something to hide, and it’d always get in the way. She could waste years with him, years that she could spend finding someone without as many hang-ups. But he couldn’t stop himself.

In the time he spent trying to gather up the courage to kiss her, she pushed him down onto the couch and climbed on top. Michael wasn’t the only one starved for affection. They kissed.

It took them a few minutes to pull their lips apart. She straddled him, sat up, and held a finger to his lips. “Now that I know what you think about us, tell me what you think about me. Talk with your hands.” She lifted her arms, and stretched, tightening herself everywhere.

He ran them down her body, and she giggled when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. It was evident that she’d been working out. She told him to tell her what his favorite places were. He answered through a series of squeezes. He took her hands, and slowly brought her body down to him. She pulled his face to her chest. They continued to ravage each other with kisses.

“God, I’ve always loved you…I was terrified it was too late…” Samantha was actually crying, but she wasn’t stopping.

“Me too, honey. I love you too.”

She bit his ear a bit. To her surprise, she whispered “Never let go. Please.”

Samantha realized that she was shaking. Michael loosened his grip around her waist. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t…I…I don’t…”

She pushed herself off of his chest. They sat up. Samantha got off of him, and stood up--but she nearly fell over. Michael caught her. Her knees felt like jello.

“Samantha?”

“I’ll be okay. I’m fine.”

A moment ago, she’d been confident. She was going to make love to a man that actually had feelings for her. Now, all she felt was weakness. She was going to let down her defenses. She hadn’t done that in…ever. Physically, sure--she could take off her clothes in public, and get involved with lots of men. But it wasn’t the same. Allowing herself to be needy and emotionally exposed to someone else was just scary. She worked so hard to be perfect, and she couldn’t just let go of that.

Though it was over seventy in the room, she felt very cold. Her tight, tiny dress, which had seemed like far too much to wear, suddenly felt like not enough.

She clutched at her arms, trying to keep warm. “I’m sorry…you wouldn’t like me anymore if, if you knew how screwed up I really am, and how I have to…I mean, I can’t relax. I’m sorry. I love you, but what I have to do every day, it takes so much work--I can’t switch it off and on. I can’t go from being a doctor to being a person just like that. I’m sorry…”

“Samantha, no--I don’t care. We can work through it.”

Her voice was getting higher-pitched. “I need control. To wake up every morning and go in to St. Silver’s, I need control…and now that I’m around you, I feel like…no. Just…just forget that we ever…”

She started for the door. Michael reached out for her.

She was crying. “Please, no…don’t make it worse…just let me go, okay? Just…oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

Michael was now standing alone in the living room. He knew that it was all his fault. He’d been so desperate, so selfish, that he’d pushed her too far…

And, in the weight of the moment, he made a promise. Even if she never wanted to speak to him again, he’d see her through these bad times. Somehow, he’d get her through it. Her life would get better.

Through a strained, halting voice, he said “There…will come a time…when everything is okay. I’ll make it that way myself.”

--------------------------

Ideally, something was supposed to happen: of course, it hadn’t.

Assistant Commissioner Severin flicked the light again, trying to turn it on. Nothing happened. He was standing in the doorway to his city apartment--his family lived in the suburbs, but it was too big of a commute. He went home on weekends.

But the white-plaster hallway outside his door was lit, and he heard TV noise softly thumping through the walls. It was just his place.

When he stepped through the threshold, he was holding his gun. He’d wounded two supercriminals in his career, and the third time had to be the charm. Or maybe it was a plain-old burglar, but, that’d be too easy.

He was feeling smug when the door slammed and everything went black.

“You must think you’re going crazy,” a strange voice chuckled. It sounded like it was being filtered through something electronic.

Severin shuddered. This couldn’t be happening. “Who are you!?”

“You know who I am. You created me.”

“No…”

“Okay, you didn’t. But I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed your little idea. I hope you don’t mind me changing the name, though. ‘The Harrier’ made it sound like I was a jet.”

“You weren’t--I mean, you aren’t real!!”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You should’ve copyrighted the name. Can’t leave anything lying out in the open, these days. Criminals everywhere.”

Severin couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. “What is this? Blackmail?”

“Quite the contrary--I’m only interested in the truth. But we can’t have a conversation if you’re going to resort to violence.” A wispy strand of neon-blue smoke erupted out of the darkness, smacking the gun out of his hand. It was more solid than vapor, though it quickly dissipated.

Severin fell to his knees, his hands searching the floor for his gun.

“A bow? I’m flattered, but, it’s unnecessary.” Severin found the gun, which was being pinned to the ground by a metal foot. “You couldn’t hurt me with that if you tried, but it’s rather noisy. We don’t need that.”

Severin staggered to his feet. For the first time, he saw The Harrower, who was now before him.

He wore a black hood and cape, and his body seemed to be metallic black, as well--but it was transparent. In each leg, a miniature cyclone of neon blue spun endlessly. And in his arms and chest, more neon blue smoke tangled itself. There was a glowing blue oval in his waist, which seemed to convert the air to smoke. It was like there wasn’t a man inside; just this strange blue vapor. But his face…it wasn’t a face, really. There were no eyes or mouth. It was like a TV screen full of rainbow-colored static. And looking at it made Severin feel…good, somehow.

“You think this is mind-control? Please. Some control others by forcing a foreign will on them, telepathically or electronically. Others create illusions, manipulating them through their fantasies. But for me, I choose the truth.”

As much as Severin hated it, The Harrower was right. For the first time in his life, he really understood. There was no manipulation, and no lies.

“You know that you have to follow me.”

Severin nodded.

“Good. To carry out my vision, we’ll need money. I considered paying tribute to the classics--robbing a bank--but it just isn’t practical. No, we’re going to take over a bank. Global Bank, I believe. And you’re going to help me. In exchange, I’ll tell you more about what I just showed you. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. You understand what’s at stake, here. What we mean to humanity. If we win here, we win in the future, as well. Let’s get to it.”

Continued…

Run to the water and find me there
Burnt to the core but not broken
We’ll cut through the madness
Of these streets below the moon,
These streets below the moon

And I will never leave you
‘til we can say
‘This world was just a dream
We were sleepin
But now we’re awake’
‘til we can say…

Next: Courageless

Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*

This poster posed from 63.171.208.167 when they posted

Message Thread

Progeny #5: An Era In Which Learning Was To Be Feared... - Fin Fang Foom apologizes for text goof-ups, as he did part of this in a new word-processor application - 23:01 on September 6, 2002

Progeny #4... - Finny - 23:50 on September 6, 2002

The plot thickens. - (nt) CrazySugarFreakBoy! - 00:12 on September 7, 2002

I've tried to thin it, but I just can't stop. - (nt) Finny - 15:28 on September 7, 2002

WEll, well well... - (nt) Sorcy, who has her own series of squeezes ;) - 17:28 on September 7, 2002

Hey, I kept it tame. As I am a perfectly innocent and gentlemanly young dragon. - (nt) Finny - 18:00 on September 7, 2002

I will read it during this week, I promise! - (nt) Yo - 13:38 on September 9, 2002

I think I'm becoming one of those long-term writers, where people read my stuff over a matter of years. : ) - (nt) Finny - 18:35 on September 9, 2002

Dammit, Andy, this is too damn good, damn damn damn dammit... - (nt) Nats is awed at your terrific prosework and the terrific characters and situations and intriguing plots...and all without one big fight! Aaah! - 19:02 on September 9, 2002

The fight is coming. Yes, yes it is... - (nt) Finny - 19:26 on September 9, 2002

Ah. Another Andy treat for the week's bus ride! Thanks! - (nt) ag - 22:30 on September 9, 2002

I should get a federal grant for all the business I give to the mass transit system... - (nt) Finny - 01:01 on September 10, 2002

For Michael, I scream a Charlie-Brownesque AAUUUGHHH... - Neil Kapit - 01:37 on September 10, 2002

And I'm barely getting started, even. But I'll be trying to do shorter issues from now on. Don't want to overload your consciousnesses too much... - (nt) Finny - 13:23 on September 10, 2002

Nice stuff. Could you possibly repost #3 also? - (nt) HH - 11:03 on September 10, 2002

It's right in here... - Finny - 13:26 on September 10, 2002

Thanks. - (nt) HH - 19:41 on September 10, 2002

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