A blue sky, dotted with little white fluffy clouds. (Can we brighten those in post-production? They're looking a little grey.) Artistic lens flare (Really, Jerry? Really?) as the camera pans down to reveal the distinctive Chicago skyline. (Actually that distinctive skyline is looking a little straggly right now - can we do something about that in post? Just a little tweak here and there; neaten it up a bit, you know.) Towering skyscrapers stand starkly silhouetted by dazzling summer sun, half in shadow, half in light. (Nice! Very arty - are you aiming for cinematography award or something?)
Suddenly!
A dark shape zips across the sky. The camera zooms in to reveal a human figure, a woman, flying through the air. One arm is stretched out in front of her, while behind her hair and her half-cape flutter in the breeze. We zoom in closer, and the figure is instantly recognisable as Lady Liberty, Chicago's very own superheroine!
(She damn well should be recognisable if the marketing team are doing their goddamn jobs! Sarah: Do we have the latest brand recognition stats? I want to see if I need to go down there and choke a few people. Hell, maybe I'll do it anyway; keep them on their toes...)
Lady Liberty dives down towards the city. The camera zips after her.
Cut to:
We're at street level, somewhere in the middle of the city, surrounded by people. The people are fleeing in panic. The camera pans from side to side, just enough to show that this isn't just one or two people: it's practically a stampede. (Nice composition. Make sure you hold the shot long enough for the viewers to wonder what they're running from, but not so long that they get bored and change channel.)
Suddenly! (Repetition from out of nowhere! I kid, I kid. But watch it, okay?)
There's a luciferous orange flare from up ahead. The camera zooms in, and the images resolves itself into a roiling inferno of blazing hellfire.
(Did someone swallow a thesaurus this morning, Jerry? Are you trying to impress someone? Could it be little old me? Aww, I'm flattered. Just don't let anything flowery like this get beyond our little circle, hmm? We'll save the purple prose for the licensed romance novels. Which reminds me. Sarah: Schedule a boudoir photo shoot with our star ASAP. And do *not* let her know what kind of photos they are ahead of time, or she'll bolt. I mean it. I won't have a repeat of the last debacle.)
People scream. The fleeing crowd flee faster, but the camera heads against the current, towards the disturbance.
(Well, duh! That's what we damn well pay them for! And we pay them damn well, too. Damn unions and their 'hazard pay' scam. It's not like any of them have actually died, or anything! Well, not recently. Not in at least a decade or so. I think.)
A man stands alone in the heart of the blaze, apparently unharmed. His legs are braced as if he stands against a mighty force, his arms spread wide, his head flung back. He seems to be laughing. (The guy certainly knows how to make an impression. I'll give him that much. Pity he can't fucking follow simple fucking instructions! Like sticking to the timetable we agreed. Goddamnit! Sarah: get me a meeting with this diva, stat.)
The man - the supervillain - seems oblivious to the screaming, running people. His laughter fades, the flames retract a little, apparently drawn back into his body ("apparently"? Please tell me you're just waxing poetic and you haven't been listening to the "it's all techno-gadgets and special effects" consipracy nuts, Jerry. You, of all people, should know better than that...) he turns his head from side to side as if scanning the sky. And then...
Lady Liberty lands softly, not even pausing to gather herself - or to pose heroically - before striding determinedly towards her antagonist. (No doubt Eli will whine later about the importance of striking a pose in reinforcing brand iconography, but right now she really doesn't care. She just wants to get this over with.) As she moves, her eyes are automatically scanning the scene before her, a distant part of her mind performing the assessment that's become a part of how she thinks.
There are no civilians in the immediate danger zone, which is good. There are a lot of glass-fronted buildings, which is bad, but there's enough open space that it shouldn't be a problem as long at they stick to the rules of engagement. (Well, as long as they don't go any further outside their bounds than doing this at all.) Cameras: one hand-held, no visible mobile rigs (but that doesn't mean they're not there), several fixed-place mounts disguised as security cameras. Recognising the handheld operator, she takes care to angle her approach so as to give him a good tracking shot of her silhouetted against the flames. From the discreet thumbs-up Carlos gives her, it works.
She takes a deep breath. "This is a no smoking zone, Captain. You're going to have to put that out before someone gets hurt."
Captain Corruption turns to face her. The helmet obscures part of his face, but not enough to hide the way he smiles as he makes a show of looking her up and down.
"Well, well, if it isn't Lady Liberty. Fancy meeting you here, Miss." A beat. "Or is that Mrs?"
"A little late for you to play innocent, isn't it?" She just about hits the light tone she was aiming for, but there's an edge she wasn't quite intending. Still, it could have been worse: his appearance here could have come as the surprise it was meant to be. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, noting the way the flames retreat before her. Putting her hands on her hips, she makes herself smile, and the edge this time is entirely deliberate. "You called. I came. I am *not* going to let you hurt anyone. Now, what do you want?"
He pauses; hesitates, really, although to anyone but her it probably just looks like a beat for dramatic effect. He brings his hands in, palms together in a way that's not *quite* prayerful, not *quite* humble. (Not *quite* natural - it took a team of image consultants to agree on the final pose.) The flames retreat into his body as he does so, damping down to the merest flicker outlining his black and red-clad form in a glowing nimbus.
"I want to talk." The words are quiet, reasonable, and hit her like a punch to the gut. But she's had a lifetime of putting on one mask or another, and so her only visible reaction is to raise one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
"So talk."
"Here?" He spreads his hands to indicate the street, the square, the city. "I don't think so." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope, presenting it to her with a theatrical flourish. She makes no move to take it.
"What's that?"
"Your invitation, of course."
"Invitation?"
"To dinner." He gestures again with the envelope. She looks down at it, looks up at his face, and then deliberately crosses her arms.
"Why?"
He rolls his eyes a little, a silent question: is she really going to make him do this? The tiniest nod of her head in return: yes; yes, she is. He sighs quietly, and she shifts her weight, balancing herself on the balls of her feet.
"Because I want to talk to you!" The words rip through the air, his aura flaring brightly, a wash of heat rolling over her as he flings his arms wide. She's already moving, leaping gracefully backwards just ahead of the flames, tossing her hair as she lands in a fighting pose. She can't help noting - bitterly, ironically - that whatever else may be said of them, they still dance well together. "You need to hear the truth!"
"The truth?" Coolly, she stares him down. (But then she always was ice to his fire, even before they became what they became.) "What does Captain Corruption know about truth?"
The silence stretches. Distantly, she's aware of the murmuring of voices from the edges of the square. Some of the more curious (and more foolhardy) of the civilians must have started creeping back to see the showdown with their own eyes. (To film it with their own phones.)
He laughs; a jagged sound, knife-edged and bitter.
"Hiding behind titles, Alicia? What's wrong, can't you even call me by my name any more?"
They're not supposed to. He knows they're not supposed to. Not out in the field, not on camera. It's not like their real names are exactly secret, but that's not the point. It's about the brand. It's always, always about the brand. Part of her wants to break the rules, just this once, to throw it in his face, to call him *Peter*.
But then, that would make this real.
And if she starts letting out what she's kept bottled up inside her all this time, she might never stop. And fuck the cameras, fuck the viewers, fuck the *brand*. It will just be Alicia and Peter and their failed marriage, hanging out there for everyone to see. A simple, ordinary, *boring* story about a man and a woman and a betrayal of trust.
But no one wants to see that. No one wants to know about the faces behind the masks.
They want to hear about Lady Liberty and Captain Justice, with their whirlwind romance and their fairytale wedding. They want to hear about how Captain Justice fell to the dark side and broke Lady Liberty's heart.
They don't want the truth, and she doesn't want to give herself to them one torn and bloody piece at a time. It's bad enough she has to play the role. But the role is her shield as much as theirs, and so she'll play it to the hilt.
Lady Liberty strides forward, braving the flames to face off against her nemesis. "You gave up your name when you turned to evil," she says softly, but clearly. She takes the invitation from his hand. She can feel the heat of it - whatever it's made from it certainly isn't paper - even through her glove, but she refuses to show any pain. (His fire has always been her kryptonite, but she can take it. And she knows she'll heal. She will always heal.) "You've delivered your message. Now get out of here before someone gets hurt."
He draws the fire into himself again and bows, a mocking smile on his lips.
"As the lady wishes." He starts to turn away from her, then turns back, pointing a gloved finger. "Just make sure you show up. If you don't, I'll have to try to get your attention again." He drops his voice into that low, menacing tone he does so well. "I don't think you want that."
And then, predictably, he takes off.
He always did like to have the last word.
Lady Liberty watches a moment to make sure the flames of his departure haven't started any fires, then turns away. Taking a few steps towards the crowd - making sure to position herself so that Carlos can get a good shot - she calls out to the crowd of spectators, letting her voice show concern.
"Is anyone hurt? Do you need help?"
A superheroine's work is never done...
The last shot:
Lady Liberty, Chicago's very own superheroine, stands in the square, reaching out to the people. The fading contrail of Captain Corruption's exit can just be seen in the sky behind her, but she resolutely faces forward.
Whatever turmoil may be in her heart, she has a job to do.
And cut.
(Yes. Yes, okay. Nice composition and camera work. More than adequate camera work, actually. Kudos to the guy holding it.
The narrative's... okay, but it doesn't really have the emotional impact I would have liked. Doesn't quite get the juices flowing. Unfortunately, that's more down to our star.
What does it take to crack that ice maiden facade of hers, anyway? Would it really have killed her to show a little shock? Her ex shows up in the middle of the city, apparently bending if not actually breaking the rules of the game, technically putting civilians at risk, personally calling her out! And the strongest reaction she can manage is 'stern disapproval'?
For fuck's sake!
I mean, don't get me wrong: I can work with the whole 'stoic resolve' angle. And the build-up will make it all the more memorable when she does finally let go, but still... Sarah: Ask Alicia to meet with me when she gets back from her school outreach thing, will you? Thanks.
Hey...
Do you think someone tipped her off?
Sarah: Look into it. Get, oh what's her name, Kali? Indira? Lydia? You know, the hot one with the stilettos. Whatever her name is, get her on the case. The last thing we need is someone feeding the talent unauthorised information. We wouldn't want the poor dears to get confused and actually try to do something extreme like, I don't know, use their own initiative.
Would we?
Anyway, I think this chapter's ready to hit the airwaves. Good one, Jerry. We'll meet tomorrow to discuss the next part of the arc. Sort out a timeslot with Sarah.
Now, let's go make some magic.
Excelsior. Or whatever.)
Lady Liberty lands on the roof of the Heroes, Inc. (Chicago branch) tower, hitting the landing spot dead centre. As always, she has a friendly smile and hello for the security guard on duty, who smiles back at her as he lets her into the lobby.
"Welcome back, Ma'am!" he says, cheerfully.
"Thanks, Joe," she replies, pressing the elevator call button. She's asked him a thousand times to call her Alicia, but he never does. He says it wouldn't be right; wouldn't be respectful. She's honoured, of course, but it makes her feel a little uncomfortable sometimes. "How are you today?"
"Oh, can't complain, can't complain. How about yourself? Another hard day of fighting crime?"
"Something like that." The elevator dings. "See you later, Joe."
"Goodbye, Ma'am."
As soon as the doors close, Alicia Florick sighs heavily, slumping back against the mirrored wall. It's been an exceedingly trying day and all she wants is a long, hot shower. Unfortunately, she has to get through a debriefing first. The elevator pings again, prompting her to put her shoulders back and lift her head up. Lady Liberty strides out into the corridor.
"Hey."
Alicia stops, turning to face the speaker with what feels like her first genuine smile of the day.
"Hey Kalinda." The other woman is leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, one stiletto-heeled boot crossed loosely over the other. "How did you know I was back?" The only answer is a raised eyebrow, and a tiny, amused quirk of the lips. Alicia laughs. "I know, I know. You have your ways."
Kalinda nods slightly. "Well?" she asks.
Alicia sighs. "You were right. Thanks for the heads up, by the way." Her voice hardens. "Apparently, Peter wanted to invite me to dinner."
"Are you going to go?"
"Do you think I have a choice?"
Kalinda shrugs. "There's always a choice. It just comes with... consequences."
"Tempting as it is to tell the powers that be where they can stick this invitation" - Alicia waves it around for emphasis - "I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with the inevitable fallout. Not yet, anyway."
Kalinda shrugs again, pushing off the wall and starting to click her way down the corridor. Alicia falls into step with her. The two of them walk along in companionable silence for a while.
"Let me know when you are." Kalinda speaks without looking at Alicia. Alicia darts a quick glance her way, and smiles.
"I will."
And, just like that, she starts to feel a little better. It's always good to know that someone's got your back.
After all, sometimes a superheroine needs a sidekick.