DARKSEID
"So," he said. "What have you brought me?"
"An opportunity."
He nodded. "I see many opportunities in this situation. None of them involve that little inhaler there, so why don't you tell me what's in it before I seize the day in other ways."
The man in front of him did not blink. "You've heard of amobarbital?"
"I have. Is that the opportunity? The chance to listen to men babble?"
"No, because with this compound is not amobarbital. This compound does what the creators of amobarbital only dreamt of doing: rather than depressing the nervous system of the interviewee, if you will, stimulates the psyche of the interviewer."
That idea was intriguing. "It creates telepathy?"
"Almost. Once this compound is inhaled, the inhaler can ask any question of anyone and receive a truthful answer - well, as truthful as the person answering believes it to be."
"So there is babbling."
"You've heard the phrase 'shit in, shit out'?"
He laughed, and picked up the inhaler. "You're telling me I breathe this in and you'll tell me who you're working for, where your girlfriend lives, that your favorite show is DancingwiththeStars?"
"Yes, yes and no. My favorite show is Survivor."
"All right. We'll have to test that. What are the side effects?"
"Good question. The primary side effect is death, preceded by cramping, nausea, chest pain and other symptoms of a myocardial infarction."
"And how long between inhalation and onset of these symptoms?"
"Eight to ten hours."
"You mentioned amobarbital earlier. Can this stuff work on the catatonic?"
"As far as I know that hasn't been tried, but since it works to enhance the psychic powers of the questioner, I don't see why not."
"How much of it do you got?"
He watched from behind a two-way mirror, marveling at how irrational the human mind was. The kid would perform very differently if he could actually see his boss watching him, and so his boss hid. It was one of the downsides of the suggestibility of the human mind, he supposed. Today, however, he planned to concentrate on the upsides.
The girl lay on her back, a position he was told she had assumed 26 hours previously. She moved only when instructed, to eat or to shit, and otherwise resumed her repose. It was a breath-taking accomplishment, and all the more so because he didn't know who - or what - had done it. The resonance from the signal he'd received had been warped somehow. Warped by whoever had done this to her. Was it a gift, a tribute of some kind? Or a clue, laid down by some being that had previously traveled this way? As the kid entered the room he stood, unconsciously pressing his palm to the glass.
"What color are your eyes?" the kid began. They had very few control questions, and none that she had the capacity to lie about, but he wanted to see if he could detect any differences.
"Green."
"Where were you born?"
"Metropolis."
"Did you live in Smallville, Kansas during October 1989?"
"No."
"How tall are you?"
"Five feet, four inches."
"What is your name?"
She smiled. His breath caught for a moment. It was the first expression he had seen her make.
"IamLazarus, comefromthedead, comebacktotellyouall, Ishalltellyouall," she said.
MXYZPTLK
He watched a left hook hit its mark square in the jaw and glanced at his watch. 10:30. Only 10:30. Four more hours of this to go. He wasn't going to make it, he knew that. His mind would implode from the boredom and he would be left a vegetable, with so much potential wasted. He signaled to the server, who rolled her eyes. "Go," he said, and she did, despite not having heard him, headed to the bar and back. She didn't bother with a glass, just brought the whole bottle with her.
"I need a glass," he told her.
She looked around. "You think this crowd cares?"
"You think these assholes know good vodka when they taste it? I care. Get me a glass." He pulled out a c-note and handed it to her. "Please."
She twisted her mouth, but did as she was told, this time of her own volition. God, if the Boss had the common sense just to pay these idiots off, his life would be a whole lot more exciting right now. He could be watching reruns of Friends right now. Or TwoandaHalfMen. He hadn't seen the first runs of either, so at least whatever happened would be a surprise.
Unlike tonight. He poured himself a shot and downed it, then three more. It wasn't as if his "job performance" would be affected. He glanced at his watch again. 10:43. He glanced back up at the fight. Neal clearly had the upper hand, but that, he knew, was not expected to last. The smart money - by which was meant the Boss' money - was on Lesner. He checked the Boss' box. Empty. He had a few more minutes. He poured himself another shot.
10:46. Lesner began the new round with energy. Good, that was good. That made it that much more believable. And the Boss was in place now. The Boss always wanted to see the fall. Well, he was glad somebody did. He focused on the match now. He needed to catch a good hit of Lesner's. The guy was making some punches, but nothing that said knock-out; they were still too close. Jesus, he was really going to have to micro-manage this thing. "Stumble," he whispered, as Lesner landed a hit to Neal's ribs. To the other spectators, it looked as if the force of Lesner's hit was enough to throw Neal off-balance. Neal stepped back, putting his weight on the outer edge of his foot. Lesner swiped Neal's chest, not a forceful blow, but Neal was shaky and he, Mikhail, had a job to do. "Fall," he whispered, and Neal fell.
The crowd went wild. He poured another drink.
Eventually, the booze caught up with him. That was only natural, he was a Mxyzptlk, not some meteor freak with super bladder control.
He caught the Boss' eye and nodded toward the exit. The boss nodded in return. It was getting late, the night was winding down, the A-listers had all mostly left for the comfort of somebody's bed. He rose and walked himself to the back hall, to the grungy, employees-only toilet with the cracked mirror, and the filthy grout and the acrid odor of urinal cakes. It was so ridiculous, a toilet like this in a place where money fell out of marks' pockets like ... piss out of a drunk. When he was a kid, America had been like a paradise he dreamed about, home of Metallica and Kurt Cobain - of course, Cobain had killed himself, but it wasn't until he'd come over that he'd realized why. Underneath the shiny pretty surface he'd seen in the movies and on t.v. America was full of crumbling, shoddy shit-holes that were themselves full of crumbling, shoddy people. Nobody in those places had a job but everyone had a buck, or a fight, or a life to lose
He had had to have been awfully young and naive not to have predicted that.
He washed and dried his hands, probably a futile effort in this joint but the gesture was important. He opened the door just far enough to feel it hit something solid half-way and hear a muttered, "Goddammit."
He pushed at the door again, and again it was stopped. "Would you hold on a second? You can't be in a hurry to get out," the voice said. "You, move back four steps."
"Excuse me?" he asked. The voice sounded like his server's.
"Not you. You can come out now." He opened the door, all the way this time, and there was his server. Standing a foot or so from the door there was also a blonde woman, with eyes fixed forward, who looked vaguely familiar.
"OK, walk into the bathroom," the server said. The blonde woman moved forward, followed by the server, both of them resolutely ignoring him before shutting the door.
Well. That was ... unexpected. And wrong somehow, and while he definitely wasn't the best judge of that, it was still... Something about the way the blonde girl had stared. Emotionless, and that wasn't right, because he felt like he knew her, and that feeling said she was opinionated. And there'd been a lot of color around her, and a big bird, and - a crow. A big, painted crow. She was that girl from the high school - his American scholarship high school. The self-righteous one with the newspaper.
Jesus. What the hell was she doing here? She should be nagging some poor schmuck to clean out the gutters or change the oil in the car, not wandering around the basement of this sewer. Or being pulled into bathrooms by that cow of a waitress. Under other circumstances, seeing that would have made for interesting speculation, but tonight that too felt wrong. Tonight there was something going on he didn't understand at all.
He slouched back against the opposite wall and waited for the two women to come out. It took longer than he expected it would.
Finally the door opened. The server blinked. He smiled. The blonde stared past him at the wall.
"You gotta go again?" the server asked.
"Pretty girl," he responded, nodding. "Where did she come from?"
The server smirked. "From the Boss, that's where."
"Is she his kid?"
"Not hardly."
"So, she's not his girl?"
"She's off limits is what she is. You should get back to work."
He shrugged. "My shift's done." He smiled again. Women seemed to like his smile, even when he didn't tell them to. "Let me come with you. It'll be fun."
"No, it won't. Besides, I think even you would get tired of having to tell her what to do every minute. She can't even pee on her own without someone to tell her to go."
"What happened to her?"
"I guess that's for the Boss to know and you and I to wonder about."
He looked at the girl again. He remembered having to hand-cuff her to keep her from interfering with his plans. She hadn't moved once since he'd started talking to the server. That was no good.
"No," he said. "I think you should sit."
The server sat. He squatted down, looked at her eye to eye. "Stay," he said. "Forget." Her eyes went blank, not unlike the blondes', and it occurred to him that command may have been a bit broad. Then he remembered the bottle without the glass and the way she'd rolled her eyes and shrugged. He could always let her remember later. Or not.
He stood and walked to the other girl. It had been fun, he remembered, showing her what he could do. Showing off, in fact. Girls always liked seeing it, until they realized he could use it just as easily to control them as he did to entertain them. This one though, the one in front of him, she had been the only one to try to stop him from controlling others. The only one who had stopped him.It should make him angry, remembering. Thinking about it had always made him angry before - but when was the last time he really had? When was the last time he'd been angry? When was the last time he'd felt anything except drunk or bored?
He took her arm. "We are going for a walk, pretty girl." He realized he was tugging at her unmoving form and remembered what the server had said about peeing. "You are going to walk with me," he said. She picked up her foot to follow him. He curled his lip in disgust.
He had three ways out at this point: through the club, through the kitchen or through whatever was being built downstairs. The club was out for obvious reasons and there was a security guard stationed at the work site 24 hours. On the other hand there were still a couple of servers left who might be hanging out in the kitchen or by the door, smoking. It was harder to work his mojo on groups but the servers were less likely to be carrying than the guard was, so through the kitchen it was. He steered her through the swinging door, past the stainless steel bench tops and shelving, ignoring a few uncorked bottles of wine, stepping around the crates of produce on the way to the alley door, which sure enough was propped open to permit re-entry. Burnt tobacco met his nostrils, a smell that always reminded him of his mother and interminable waits on rail platforms.
"Jessica?" he guessed as he pushed the door open. He didn't know all their names, but that one seemed common.
"Yeah?"
"I saw, I think, Krista? In the hall by the restroom. She did not look so hot. I think someone should check on her."
"She's not puking is she?"
"Not yet."
"Christ. Should just let her get fired," she said, but then stubbed out the cigarette. She turned and saw the girl behind him, her eyes widening for a split second before he whispered, again, "Forget." Her eyes looked merely confused as she walked away. That worked better. Better than the last one, at least.
He turned to the blonde girl. This might be tricky - it wasn't like he could command her to become invisible. "Stay out of sight," he told her. "Keep going until you find help - do not stop until you find someone to help you. Don't mention me to anyone. Okay? OK. Go."
Then she was - gone.
How the hell had he done that?
TURPIN
"... forty-threeinterceptionsthrown - "
"Youkeepsayingthat."
"Itdeservesnotation. Forty-threeinterceptionsinasinglegame. Nobodyhasthrownthatmanyinagamesince 1962. Nobody. NotevenFarve, andhe'sthrownwhat, 324 overhiscareernow?"
"328."
"Well, giveHammeracoupleofyears, he'llhavehimbeat."
"Ithinkyou'remakingthisabiggerdealthanitis."
"No, that'stheproblem. Nobodyismakingabigdealofthis. It'slikenobodycaresanymore. Notthefans, notthecoachingstaff, nottheownership. Andthat'swhereitstarts. Rightthere: ifownershipisn'twillingtomakethechangesthatneedtobemade, wewon'tneedtwoyearstobreakFavre'srecord. There'snoaccountabilityanymore."
"You'retalkingliketherewasaccountabilitybefore."
"Therewas! Beforetheoldmandied, somethinglikethiswouldhappenandHammer'dbebenched. Endofstory! NowwejustcomeoutofapressconferenceandallChildresscansayistheguyhadabadgame! SomebodyfromLuthorCorpneedstostepforwardandsay, 'Thisiskindofperformanceisunacceptablefromthethird-highestpaidquarter- "
The passenger door opened opened and Harper slid in, bringing the coffee and a whole lot of wet with him. "Tough time to be a Sharks fan," he said.
"Remind me what the Chiefs' record was finishing 2008? 2 and 14, wasn't it?"
Harper grinned. "That's why you have my sincerest sympathy, kid. I know where you've been. It gets better. We're 6 and 2 so far this season."
"Yeah, that won't last. You get any cream or sugar?"
"Nah, you're better off drinking it black. Put hair on that chest. When was the last time the Sharks even made wildcard?"
"2007."
"Exactly, so don't get snotty. Ah..." Harper sighed. "That's the good stuff."
"Are you serious?"
"You got used to drinking that $3 a cup yuppie crap Turpin, that's your problem."
"You get what you pay for."
"Quarterbacks too?"
He shook his head. Hammer was a joke, everyone knew it, but he hadn't always been. Everyone had boggled the year he was a drafted, wondering what the hell the Sharks were thinking using up a first-round pick on a QB from Washington State, but he'd had a spectacular rookie season. That'd been the year before the older Luthor died. Hammer's fortunes seemed to go out the window with the late owner, though, and the Sharks' with him.
"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I think they're right. It's not like it used to be. The team was better off with Luthor Sr. at the helm."
"No, they're wrong. Nothing was better off with Lionel Luthor in charge, trust me."
"You got something personal against him?"
"You know he grew up in Suicide Slums, right? Just like I did. Little older than me, but people'll repeat some stories 'til they're dead, and there were a lot of stories about Lionel Luthor 'round the neighborhood when I was growing up. Then he makes his first million or so and suddenly the people telling those stories aren't around to talk about him anymore. He did the world a favor killing himself."
He wasn't sure what to say to that. Harper'd never said anything about the IAB inquiry, but he had to know about it. Everyone did. It was just not everyone felt the same about it. "So, you think it's a good thing he's dead?" he asked.
Harper glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Let's just say sometimes things work out the way they're supposed to."
"And when they don't?"
Harper glanced at him again, took a sip of his coffee. "That's what we're here for. Speaking of which, are we gonna keep the peace tonight or are we gonna sit here flappin' our gums?"
"Yeah, we should get going." He turned the wiper speed up and threw the car into reverse. It had been a slow night, a few domestics but not much else. Weather like this made it miserable for anyone who had to make their living on the streets. He shifted into first and hit the indicator. They were pulling out.
As he wrote later in his report, the rain was thick and visibility bad. It was also possible the girl had some metahuman capabilities, because, as his partner James Harper would attest, she had not been on the street the second before their squad car came within inches of running into her.
The girl freaked him out. She sat still as a statue in the back of the car, but from her lack of reaction she could have been anywhere: at church, the park, her own living room. Nor did she ask any questions, demand to see her lawyer or blow raspberries at Harper and him, and she'd gotten in the car quietly once Harper told her she had to. She sure as heck wasn't acting the way most people did when they were dragged down the station. Harper dealt with the whole situation as he regularly ran down mute, I.D.-free zombie chicks in the course of his day, and who knew, maybe he had once upon a time, but he, Dan Turpin, on the other hand was officially weirded out.
"They're gonna need to run a tox screen on this one," he said, apropos of nothing.
"What? Oh, on her?" Harper indicated the woman in the back seat. "Probably, but I don't think they're gonna find anything."
"You think she's just crazy?"
Harper hesitated. "Maybe."
"Maybe? Harp, I'm not a doctor, but this girl has issues. She's either high or she's nuts or she's both. I mean, look at her. She's just ... staring."
"Yeah. I guess so," Harper answered.
He stole a glance at Harper and saw the other man looked a little worried, so maybe he was finally starting to freak out a little too.
"I know a guy," Harp continued. "He kinda specializes in head cases like this. If you pull over a minute I can give him a call."
"You can't call him on the way?"
"He likes his privacy."
"Yeah, OK. Let me find a spot." He turned up the next street into a residential area and pulled over. Harper got out and walked over to a car port, out of the rain. His old partner, Mike, would have made the call from the car, but Mike was the whole reason he was rolling with Harper now. He'd trusted Mike because that's what you did on the force, you looked out for each other. Until you didn't. Hell, Harper was probably right not to show him his cards. Harper couldn't know how he was gonna play it.
Harper didn't know he just wanted to do his job and go home.
He looked in the rearview, back at the girl. She still hadn't moved. God, that was weird.
"So, you got a name?" Maybe if he talked it would be a little less creepy in here with Harper gone.
The girl smiled. Her eyes stayed straight forward, but she smiled. "I'mnobody," she said. "Whoareyou?"
So, no. Not less creepy if he talked. "I'm, uh, I'm Officer Daniel Turpin, I'm with the 13th precinct, and I'm gonna try to help - "
"Howpublic," she interrupted. "Likeafrog."
Oh boy. "Uh, yeah, I'm a public servant, and me and my partner, Harper - he's out there, see -" he pointed to Harper standing under the car port and the girls' head turned - "he's a public servant too, and we want to help you. To do that, we need to know your name."
"Arosebyanyothernamewouldsmellassweet," she said, still staring at Harper.
Turpin sighed. He hoped Harper got a hold of his 'guy' soon. "Look," he told her, and suddenly her face swiveled back to look at his. Okay. He shook his head, it was as though she took every word out of his mouth literally. But that would be just... he paused and took a slow breath. "All I want to do is find out where you belong, and hand you off to your people without going through a lot of bullshit, and I'm sure you'd like to avoid that too. So, ma'am, do you know where you live, where your people are at? Who your people are? 'Cuz I'd love to be able to take you to them."
She frowned, which was the most bizarre thing she'd done yet. It made her look almost normal. Did she have to think about that one, he wondered.
"Clark Kent," she said after a few seconds.
"You belong - what did you say?"
"Clark Kent," she repeated.
"Yeah, I heard you..." His weird night had just gotten exponentially weirder. What would top everything off would be if the guy still had the same number, he thought as he scrolled through his contacts. That would really take the cake. He found the listing he was looking for and hit 'send'.
Harper poked his head into the car as the connection began to ring.
"You get an I.D.?" he asked.
"Kinda."
"Kinda?"
"You know how you said sometimes things work out the way they're supposed to? Well, this might be one of those times."
"You don't say."
Dan held up his hand as voicemail kicked in. "You'vereachedClarkKent, DailyPlanetandKent'sOrganicProduce. Pleaseleaveamessage. Thanks."