Nemesis

Interlude One: Flux, Part 1

[Author's Note: I have invented Flux's hometown. If there is such a city, it's not the same one as I have created.]

2004

Boston, MA

"So ladies; ever met a real live superhero before?"

A couple of the women giggled, and one or two looked interested. Troy Fielding, aka Monopole, took that as a positive sign, and gave them his best charming smile.

"Actually, yes," one of them replied unexpectedly. "Stardust saved my life a couple of years ago. I was in a car crash, and he got my parents and me out safely. He was nice, too. But he didn't have to try nearly as hard as you are."

They giggled again, but this time, Monopole didn't think they were giggling at his wit. At that moment, almost to his relief, a hand fell on his shoulder. He looked around to see Bulldozer; the older hero's impassive face revealed nothing of what he was thinking.

"If you're done chatting up the local talent," Bulldozer told him with no trace of sarcasm in his voice, "it's time we kept moving on the patrol."

"Right, right," Troy agreed. "Catch you on the flip side, ladies."

They moved off along the nightclub strip, leaving the young women to their own devices; he wanted to look around, but at the same time didn't want to be seen doing so.

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Bulldozer abruptly.

Monopole glanced at him; the Protectorate hero, clad in yellow and black, with metal plates attached to each forearm, would have made up four of Troy in bulk, despite being no taller than the Ward. He moved forward stolidly along the pavement; people got out of his way, mainly due to respect, but at least in part because of his size and heft.

Bulldozer's special Brute gift, as far as Monopole was able to determine, was that once he started moving along a particular path, nothing would stop him if he didn't want it to. He wasn't particularly fast, but once he started moving, he kept moving. Traction didn't matter; nor did the strength or weight of the opposition.

"Oh, uh, sure, it's great," Troy replied belatedly.

"This isn't a job to be enjoyed,"Bulldozer stated flatly. His expression had not changed, and nor had the tone of his voice, but Monopole knew he was being censured. "Instead of chatting up the girls, you should be paying attention. Watching people, instead of just looking at them."

"I was just socialising," Troy protested. "Being friendly. Approachable."

"I notice that you were being 'approachable' to the girls, but not the nightclub security, or to the other patrons, the men and older women," the older hero observed bluntly.

Bulldozer's singlemindedness, Monopole reflected, was not only expressed in his physical actions.

"But there was nothing going on," he protested.

"On the contrary, I saw three separate illicit drug deals that were aborted when we arrived on the scene," Bulldozer stated. "Two of the young women you were being 'approachable' to were under the influence of something that wasn't alcohol, and one was underage. I spoke to nightclub security about the matter, and they agreed with my conclusions."

"Why didn't you tell me, instead of leaving me to make an idiot of myself?" Troy demanded.

"I was giving you the chance to see it for yourself," Bulldozer replied. "You didn't, mainly because you were looking at their cleavages rather than their faces. Although you were a useful distraction; while they were looking at you, they weren't looking at me."

Bulldozer's voice, a slow rumble, did not alter its ponderous cadences, nor did it rise in tone or volume. But Monopole knew he was being read out all the same.

"Fine," he retorted bitterly. "I suck at spotting illegal behaviour. I admit it. Happy now?"

"No," responded his mentor. "I'll be happy when you decide to learn, instead of complaining that you're not being taught anything."

Troy felt anger growing. "I didn't -" He cut his words off.

"Yes?" asked Bulldozer.

"Nothing," muttered Monopole. "Not important."

"You were going to say something," Bulldozer pressed. "And it sounded as though it was important to you."

Troy took a deep, aggravated breath. Does this guy never let up?

The answer, he strongly suspected, was 'no'.

But it wouldn't help to snap at Bulldozer; he knew that now. So he took another breath to calm himself. The older hero waited patiently. He did that really, really well.

"I was going to say, I didn't come to Boston after I got powers in my little dinky home town just to be shown up on exactly how bad at being a superhero I am. I was … " I was important. I was a hero. I wasfamous there.

"Someone who mattered," finished Bulldozer, finishing the unspoken thought with surprising accuracy. "Here, in the Protectorate, you're just another teenage cape. You're not the leader of the pack any more. But you're part of the pack. We're here to back you up. You're here to back us up. It's a lot safer than going it alone. Do you understand?"

Monopole noted that Bulldozer hadn't addressed the bit about him being a sucky superhero. He wasn't one to give needless praise.

And Troy really, really hated to admit it, but the guy had a point. There'd been a couple of sticky situations, back in Bedford, where he could have done with backup.

But I'm better than that, now. I know what I'm doing.

He had come to Boston with the full expectation of being recognised for his capabilities straight off the bat; however, these had been dashed, as he was immediately relegated to the position of junior member of the team, despite the fact that he was almost seventeen, and was older than most of them.

After his team leader had reported 'attitude problems', he had started going out on patrols with Protectorate capes; the latest of these was Bulldozer. His initial impression of the man was someone who moved slowly and thought slowly, but he had learned otherwise; at least to do with the slow thinking. Bulldozer might not talk fast, but he thought deeply, and reached surprising insights.

The worst part of it, he reflected bitterly, was that his powers weren't even in question here; Bulldozer was more concerned with his attitude, the way he did the job, than what he used to do it. He couldn't shake the idea that the older hero was trying to show him how to be a better superhero.

But I am a good superhero! I've got the powers, the name, the costume. I'm friendly and courteous to the public, I get the job done.

But he couldn't say that to Bulldozer's face. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I understand."

"Good," responded the older man. "Let's keep going. We've got more area to cover."

Which didn't mean that the conversation was over, Monopole knew. Just that Bulldozer was done talking for the moment.

2005

"Monopole."

Troy stood a little straighter before the desk. "Director Armstrong."

"When you came to us, we had high hopes for you. I had high hopes for you." The greying man behind the desk opened a manila folder.

Here it comes.

"But too many problems have arisen. Too many questions without answers."

Troy took a deep breath. "Sir. If people are saying things behind my back -"

There was a brief shake of the head. "No-one is talking behind your back, Mr Fielding. I'm speaking of Bulldozer."

I can still salvage this.

"Sir, I admit that I could have done things better, but to fire me because of his death? Would he even want that?"

Director Armstrong fixed him with a stern gaze. "Were it just that, I would be strongly inclined to do as you suggest, but there's more to it than that."

"Monopole. I need to talk to you."

Troy turned from his locker. "Oh hey, Bulldozer," he greeted the Protectorate cape. "I was just going off duty. Can it wait?"

Bulldozer shook his head ponderously. "Come up to the roof," he invited the Ward. "Now. Please."

Troy paused, but it seemed to him that Bulldozer wasn't so much asking, as telling. Very politely. So he went.

They emerged on to the roof and headed over to where the statue of Stardust looked out over the city. "Okay, so what is it?" asked Troy.

"I've been hearing things around the city," Bulldozer told him. "Disturbing things. About you."

Troy frowned. "About me? What things?"

"That you've been talking to the drug dealers, the minor criminals. Letting them stay in business, warning them of raids, so they can steer you on to higher-value targets."

Troy opened his mouth to answer, but Bulldozer had not finished. "And those that are higher in the food chain are saying that all they need to do is pay off the kid with the magnetic powers, and he leaves you alone."

Troy shook his head. "No. That's bullshit. There's no way they could be saying that. Someone's trying to screw with me."

"If you're doing the former," Bulldozer continued imperturbably, "that's not something a Ward is supposed to be doing. Turn over your information to the police, and go back to being a superhero. The latter … if you're doing that, it's reprehensible. If you are, then I can only advise that you turn yourself in, and confess what you're doing, and your punishment will be much lighter than if you're caught at it."

Troy was still shaking his head. "No," he protested. "No, it's bullshit. All of it. Someone's pulling something on me."

Bulldozer nodded. "I will investigate more fully."

"Thanks," Troy told him. "I appreciate it."

"Do not thank me yet," Bulldozer told him. "If I find proof, one way or the other, I will be taking it to the Director."

Troy nodded. "Got it. You'll find it's all bullshit, you'll see."

He headed back to the elevator with Bulldozer, but while he kept his face calm, his thoughts were awhirl.

Fuck. I only took the one damn bribe. Did they have to fucking spread it around?

Bulldozer brought his forearms together. The Tinker-built plates attached to his forearms unfolded and locked together, forming a shield before him. He was reasonably durable, but he wasn't totally bulletproof, and so he'd had this accessory built for him. Aside from the steel plates shielding him from the front, it also generated a force field that covered him to the top and sides.

"Ready," he stated into his radio headset.

"Ready," the PRT on-site commander replied.

Along with the rest of the Wards, Monopole waited a little way back. They were there, along with the Protectorate, in case the reports of new capes in Boston turned out to be true. He moved slightly, to keep a viewpoint on Bulldozer.

The Brute started walking forward, speeding his pace as he went. Gunfire lashed from the windows, sparking from the metal shield before Bulldozer. There were trucks parked side by side before the front doors; when he reached them, he did not slow and did not stop. PRT troops, riot shields held over their heads, moved in behind as the trucks ground sideways, their tyres scraping over the asphalt.

Bulldozer reached the front wall of the drug house. It was made of reinforced concrete, which fared no better than the trucks. A large chunk cracked away and fell into the building as he kept moving at his own steady pace.

And then, just before he disappeared from view, he brought his arms apart, separating the halves of the shield. Another storm of gunfire erupted; the PRT troops entered the building, their own weapons returning fire.

Some of the Protectorate capes were called in to provide cover for the PRT troops; in time, Bulldozer's body was carried out. He had suffered many grievous wounds, some from high-explosive ordnance.

Despite the best of care, he lapsed into a deep coma after undergoing extensive surgery.

No explanation was ever reached as to why he dropped his shield at that crucial moment.

"Shortly before he was killed, Bulldozer came to me," Armstrong went on. "He confessed that he had doubts about your integrity."

"Wait, what?" Troy exclaimed. "The guy had doubts about me, so I'm supposed to have sabotaged him somehow?"

"Your powers could have caused him to separate the halves of his shield," Armstrong went on remorselessly.

"But I didn't!" protested Troy. Oh fuck, I knew it was a bad idea. "I couldn't even see him!" I could, but you don't need to know that.

Armstrong's lips thinned. "Be that as it may, do you have any idea why he may have said that to me?"

Troy shook his head. "Beats me. We were getting along pretty good, I thought." He paused, then caution prompted him to add, "He did say something about some druggies trash-talking about me. I set him straight on the matter."

Armstrong rubbed his chin. "Hm. He did say that he'd spoken to you. What were these druggies supposed to have said about you?"

"Uh, that I was supposedly turning a blind eye, in return for information on the bigger operators," Troy replied. "Which was not true. Just saying."

"Even if you were, it would be merely grounds for a censure, not legal proceedings," mused Armstrong. "Are you sure that there was nothing else?"

"Not that I can remember," Troy hedged.

Armstrong nodded. "Very well. Carry on. I will let you know if there needs to be a follow-up interview on the matter."

Troy nodded. "Thank you, sir."

He exited the office, thankful that the cold sweat of fear had gone unnoticed.

I should never have done that.

But I didn't have a choice. Bulldozer would have gotten his proof, and gone to Armstrong with it.

If I stay in the Wards, it'll come out eventually.

Shit, what do I do? I can't just quit. It'll look suspicious.

Furiously thinking, he strode upon his way.

"Mr Fielding."

Troy stiffened to attention. "Sir."

Director Armstrong eyed him disfavourably. "I believe I saw you last week, about the Bulldozer matter."

"Sir."

"And now, what's this? A fist-fight with Airdrop?"

"He wouldn't get off my case, sir." His tone was carefully selected, to be just short of insolent.

"Airdrop says otherwise."

"He would, sir." Almost a sneer.

"The other Wards on site also state that you picked the fight, Mr Fielding."

"Yes, sir. They would, sir. I'm the outsider here. I'm automatically in the wrong." A challenging stare.

Armstrong clasped his hands over a manila folder on his desk. "I've received troubling accounts of your attitude, but I've let them pass. No more. You can resign from the Wards, or we can institute legal proceedings to have you removed."

Troy fought to keep the triumph from his voice, his face. "So you're letting them win. You finally got rid of me. Fucking congratulations."

"Mr Fielding - "

"Don't bother. I quit. I'm gone."

Turning, Troy headed for the door. His hand was on the handle when Armstrong's voice cracked out from behind him.

"Mr Fielding!"

Slowly, he turned, so as not to appear to be actually obeying the implicit command. "What? I quit. You can't give me orders anymore."

Armstrong appeared to be working to keep his temper under control. "You will leave the costume. That was supplied to you by the PRT. Likewise, any equipment. Your clothes and personal effects are all you can take from the building. Also, you may not use the name Monopole in future; that name is registered as that of a Wards cape. Which you are not."

Troy's eyes widened. "What the fuck? My costume, my cape name?"

"Our costume, Mr Fielding. Our cape name." Armstrong pressed a button on his desk. The door opened, to reveal a PRT soldier. "Please escort Mr Fielding to the Wards base. Allow him to take his clothes and personal effects, nothing else. Then escort him from the building."

The PRT trooper nodded. "Sir." He grasped Troy by the elbow. "Come along, sir."

Fuming, Troy allowed himself to be led away.

2006

Bedford, MA

Troy opened the email and scanned the text.

… interesting proposal …

… rarely sponsor superheroes …

… spoken with PRT Director …

… our good name …

… not at this time …

Snarling, he clicked on the next one. It was much the same thing. Since he had returned home from Boston, he had found it hard to maintain a heroic image on the basic pay of a fast-food attendant, and on the hours he was having to work. The only way he was able to survive at all had been to eat humble pie and move into his parents' basement and pay them room and board.

After about six months of this, with his savings from his stint in the Wards steadily dwindling, he had hit on the idea of corporate sponsorship. If he applied a corporate logo to his costume, they could pay for his superhero career. It was brilliant.

Except, that it wasn't. His exit from the Wards had been less than stellar, and the connection between Monopole and Flux was well-known enough that savvy PR guys were no doubt asking Armstrong for a quote. He could just imagine what the old bastard was saying about him.

I must have sent out hundreds of fucking emails in the last month. I'm lucky if one in ten has replied. And they're all the same. Thanks but no fucking thanks. Scared I'll screw up their precious corporate image.

Upstairs, the phone rang. He ignored it, clicking on another email. This one told the same story, in slightly more flowery prose. He just had to look a little harder to see the 'no thank you' hidden in the wording.

"Troy!" his mother called out. "Phone!"

Who the fuck's ringing me?

Getting up from the computer, he trotted upstairs. "Who is it, Mom?" he asked.

"I don't know, dear," she responded, handing him the receiver. "They didn't say."

Frowning, he put the phone to his ear as his mother wandered back to the sofa, to continue watching her daytime soaps.

"Troy Fielding speaking," he stated.

"Mr Fielding, hello," a smooth voice on the other end greeted him. "I understand that you are seeking corporate sponsorship, and are so far meeting with less than spectacular success?"

He jerked the phone away from his ear and stared at it, as if it were a poisonous serpent. Cautiously, he brought it back, and whispered harshly, "Who is this, and how did you know who I was?"

There was a warm chuckle in his ear. "Rest assured; we do not intend to use this information against you in any way. I merely represent a consortium that wishes to engage your abilities for financial recompense. You will be amply rewarded, I assure you."

Troy blinked. "You, uh, don't want to sponsor me?"

"No, Mr Fielding. We want to hire you."

"Hire me. What, as a super-powered mercenary?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "Why don't we meet, and discuss it in person."

"Yeah," Troy agreed. "Why don't we do that? Where do you want to meet?"

"I can only presume that you're less than trusting of my motives. Personally, I don't blame you. Pick a location, one with privacy but plenty of witnesses."

Troy considered. "How about ... the Last Drop cafe, over on Broad and Main?"

"An ideal location. I will meet you there in ... say, one hour?"

"One hour. Got it." Troy put the phone down. "Mom?"

His mother looked up. "Yes, dear?"

"Can I borrow the car? I need to get into the city."

"All right, dear." She went back to watching her soaps.

As Troy reversed out of the driveway, he remembered that he'd left the computer on. Oh well, he thought. I'll turn it off when I get back.

Down in the basement, the computer chimed softly as an email dropped into the inbox. The title read, "Interested in your sponsorship proposal".

Three-tenths of a second later, the title vanished, to be replaced by that of a spam email.

Oblivious of all this, Troy drove off to keep his appointment.

"Mr Fielding, I presume?"

Troy looked up as an older man slid into the seat opposite his. The newcomer's age was hard to pin down; his face was unlined, but his hair was a smooth steel-grey. Troy got the immediate impression that this man never smiled, or frowned, without thinking about it first.

He reached out with his power, taking hold of everything metallic in the area; the man, he noted, only carried a ballpoint pen in the inside pocket of his immaculate suit jacket. No gun, no knife. Not even the slim metal needle of a syringe.

"That's me," he confirmed. "And you are?"

A brief smile crossed the man's face. "My name is Charles Holden. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Fielding. Shall we dispense with the small talk?"

Troy nodded curtly. "Okay, fine. What is it you want me to do? And how much are you looking to pay me? Because I'm telling you, if it's anything illegal -"

The man calling himself Charles Holden chuckled warmly. "So melodramatic. No, the offer I have for you is entirely above board and legal." He reached into his jacket and retrieved a notebook, and the pen that Troy had already noted. Opening the notebook to the first page, he wrote a figure, then passed it over.

Troy took it and read the figure. In an immaculate copperplate hand, Charles Holden had written '$20,000'.

"Wow," he noted. "That's a lot of zeroes for a one-time job."

Holden shook his head. "No, Mr Fielding, you mistake me. That will be your monthly salary. Your beginning monthly salary."

Troy's eyes opened wide. "You're shitting me."

"Rest assured, Mr Fielding," Holden assured him, "I am entirely serious. You have shown, with your abilities, the capability to instill permanent effects in metallic items, yes?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Troy confirmed. "I can give anything metal any sort of magnetic field you like. I don't usually use that side of my powers though; it gets irritating, unless I'm looking to do party tricks. Now, if I could make people magnetic, that would be cool."

"Ordinary metal will be fine, Mr Fielding," Holden replied urbanely. "Now, you're certain that your power effect is permanent?"

Troy shrugged. "Made a fridge magnet back when I first got my powers. It's still stuck to the fridge."

Holden smiled. "Very well, if you're willing to work for us, putting your powers to use for purely industrial purposes, then we're willing to pay you that salary every month. Shall we say … six hours a day?"

"Uh, sure," Troy told him. "But I want an official position in the company. Not to just be Joe Schmuck who turns up, uses his powers, then clocks off again. Something like assistant junior vice president, or something. And stock options in the company. I want those too."

Charles Holden leaned back in his chair and gazed at Troy for a few moments, his eyelids hooded. Slowly, he nodded. "I see what you are doing, young man," he mused. "You believe that we have something here, so you want to get in on the ground floor with the profits."

"Well, so what if I am?" asked Troy defensively.

"Oh, I have no problem with that," Charles replied. "It shows forethought. Better, it shows that you're in this for the long haul, that you want to make the company prosper so that you will also prosper. I do believe that we can accommodate you. Yes, Mr Fielding, I certainly do."

Standing, he offered his hand. Troy stood also, and shook it. "Okay, so where do we go from here?"

Holden proffered a card. "Attend this address, tomorrow. We will have the paperwork ready to sign, and we will be going over your various power capabilities, to see which can be used for industrial purposes. And then, Mr Fielding … " Another smile briefly crossed his face. " … and then, we will see about making one another very rich men."

End of Interlude One