Chapter Two

“What was that?” Livewire exclaims as a building five blocks ahead of us explodes. He parks the bike in a nearby alley and tells me to stay put. That’s the second time tonight that I’ve been told to sit on the sidelines.

“If I need you I’ll call,” he says, handing me a new earpiece.

In classic fashion, he takes to the rooftops. His uniform, a dark shade of blue�"almost black�"with golden lightning bolts streaking down either side of his torso and another wrapping around his waist. Electricity crackles from his gauntlets, also golden, and I notice a slight smirk as he flies upwards.

I brush my fingertips across my ribcage and pain shoots through my body. If nothing is broken, at the least I’ll have an unflattering bruise for a few days.

 Just then a woman with long, black hair comes streaking out of a condemned building and into a pair of reptilian arms. She puts up a decent fight, clawing at her assailant’s face until he releases her. I guess his eyes don’t have super strength.

A smaller man, engulfed in blue flames saunters out of the building and creates a ring of fire around the woman. Her mouth is agape preparing to yell for help, but instead, she falls to her knees and grasps at her throat.

Swinging my leg over the chassis, I dismount the motorcycle and try my best to limber up. The stretching only causes more pain so I suck it up and charge headlong into action. Wisely, civilians run in the opposite direction of the villains. I don’t pretend to understand why Komodo and the burning guy are attacking the woman. I figure that two known bad guys plus helpless woman means my night is far from over.

 Komodo is a low-level enforcer, offering his services to the highest bidder. It’s stereotypical to assume that the big, strong guy is the dumb one, but he is. Seriously, who volunteers to have reptilian DNA injected into their body, especially after what happened to Pool-boy?

I land with both feet into the brute’s chest, sending him careening backwards into a moving van. I estimate that while he struggles to liberate his entrapped head I’ll have just enough time to incapacitate his accomplice.

A smoke pellet takes the pyrokinetic’s attention away from the now unconscious woman, who I quickly move to safety before confronting her assailant.

“A child?!” he bellows. “A child dares to challenge me?”

“Either we’re about the same age,” I retort, “or someone didn’t eat their vegetables.”

“Shut up!” he cries, anger increasing the intensity of his flames.

“I’d be upset too if ‘Shut up!’ was the best comeback I could think of.”

He lets out a bestial yell as streams of fire spout from his finger tips.

“A little late for a barbeque,” I quip, tumbling out of the way. For a moment, pain causes me to freeze.

Keep moving.

I open my jacket and withdraw a Remington Zig-Zag Derringer, customized of course. I fire a single round from the six-shot barrel which grazes the side of his head. Unlike my mentor, all of my bullets are made from rubber, so the impact should leave him with a welt and a migraine.  He releases a blast from his hands which connects with the ground below him sending him sprawling on the concrete.

Komodo curses me for giving him a headache and lifts the truck high above his head.

“It’s a shame I have to off you, squirt.” He lumbers towards me, the corners of his scaly mouth curled upwards. “I do hate squishing children.”

“Glad for the concern.” I fire a second shot, this one aimed at Komodo’s armpit. I know; weird place to shoot, but it causes his burden to come crashing down on his head.

Content that he is out of the picture for now, I turn to find the matchstick yelling obscenities at me as he brushes bits of rubble from his costume.

“Okay, I have to ask,” I say, easily dodging another stream of molten death. “How does it feel to know your greatest weakness is a glass of water?”

“I am Baron Skullflame!” he exclaims. Blinded by rage he sets everything within a ten foot radius ablaze. “I will suffer no more indignations from�"”

His sentence is cut short as his flames slowly diminish. A quick glance reveals a tiny dart protruding from his neck. Before his limp body falls to the ground I feel a slight prick below my left ear. Instantly my surroundings begin to blur and my movements become sluggish.

Fighting to remain conscious, I notice the woman, previously in distress, now wearing a completely different outfit and walking confidently towards me. A sleek, black and green unitard replaces her blue jeans and loose-fitting university sweatshirt. The bottom portion of her face is covered by a mask, further emphasizing an emotionless stare.

From her back she unsheathes an eerily familiar katanna, whose blade is adorned with several strange markings.

No, I think to myself. How did she get Caliber’s sword?

Slowly, she approaches me, and grasping the hilt with both hands she raises the weapon above her head.

Suddenly she stops.

Returning the blade to its sheathe, my would-be-executioner bows her head and takes several steps backwards. Confused by this reprieve I take the opportunity to look down the street towards Livewire’s location.

“Checking for Sparky, are we?”

Dazed from the poisonous dart I try my hardest to concentrate on where the voice is coming from.

“Well he can’t help you now.”

Seemingly born from the shadows, a man appears before me. His clothing is dark, and so is his body armor. Yellow accents outline his shin guards and greaves, the spaulders on his shoulders and his mask. Around his waist is a yellow sash and his hand holds a katanna, similar to the one the lady in green possesses.

There is nothing about this man to suggest we had prior dealings. Maybe he’s an “old friend” of my father’s. But why would he be coming after me? Except to get to him.

What if something happened to him? To allow this woman to obtain his blade?

“Let’s see here,” the man says, crouching beside me. “Evaluate the situation. Your partner at least ten minutes away from here, so no back-up, and your body should be just about numb by now.”

His companion delivers a swift kick to my already injured ribs. I can’t quite feel pain, but a warm sensation lets me know that there’s blood pouring from my side.

“You shouldn’t be able to feel that,” he continues, “but if you do, oh well. What’s the next step? Oh, right, examine your enemy. What are his strengths? Weaknesses? Fatal character flaws that you can exploit? The thing is, you know nothing about me, but I know all there is to know about you.”

He stands and with hands on his hips he paces back and forth.

“Now, our situation can be dealt with in one of two ways. The first option: you run along and tell every cape and crook in this town that Eastville is under new management. Or, door number two…” His fingers wrap tightly around the hilt of his sword and in an instant he brings the blade to my neck, ever so slightly cutting the fabric of my costume. “I think you catch my drift.”

He motions to the black haired ninja who silently falls in beside him. As if attuned to his body’s movements, she halts as quickly as he does.

“Oh, one more thing,” he cautions. “Whichever path you choose, I promise we will meet again.”

 

"Look at him!” an obviously aggravated pedestrian calls out, bringing me back to consciousness. "He caused all this! None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him!"

Despite a splitting headache, I twist my neck to find a balding, middle-aged man yelling at me.

“If it wasn’t for your kind, we honest, hard-working people wouldn’t be up all night. I don’t know about you, but some of us have to go to work in a few hours.”

His words elicit cheers from the assemblage behind him. I’m used to people not liking me. It’s been that way for years. The insults and verbal jabs are easy to shrug off when you’re racing off into the face of danger. They almost fuel the adrenaline rush. But they sting so much more when you’re battered and bruised; helplessly lying on the ground.

“You shut up!” a young man’s voice cries out. I close my eyes tight, expecting to hear a condescending rant from the Baron. Surprisingly though, someone stands up for me.

“That young man probably saved your life.” He continues to berate his elder while other like-minded bystanders divert their eyes. “He’s a hero! Imagine how much worse the property damage would have been if he hadn’t stopped those two?”

I smile underneath my mask. It’s nice to get some recognition every once in a while. Usually the only words spoken about me are curses. In this city, as soon as one person bad mouths a cape then every citizen within earshot follows suit. Once, an old lady chucked vegetables at me from her grocery bag for saving her from a mugging.

Skullflame and Komodo, still unconscious, are being loaded into the back of two black vans with “D-6” written in bold white letters on either side. Division Six is a new agency cooked up by the government to contain metahuman incidents. At least a dozen agents armed with assault rifles and in full riot gear set up a perimeter around their detainees. A man and woman, dressed more like executives than foot-soldiers are in the thick of everything speaking with the police.

 “Let me help you up.” My savior offers his hand as the crowd begins to disperse. Now that I have the chance to see who he is I realize why he didn’t have to hard of a time convincing the people that I wasn’t an instigator. “We’d better hurry.”

We scurry down one of many alleyways, him supporting me and my wobbly legs. After we’re a safe distance away he eases me down on cold steps and kneels so that his gaze is on the same level as mine. In a better mood now, I ask, “How did you know it was me?”

“Who else dares to run around this city dressed like Caliber?” Magick responds. “That outfits does nothing for you health.”

“At least I’m not wearing that silly, metal headband.”

“It is not silly,” he replies, running a finger across his brow. “This is what saved you. Otherwise the division would have locked you up with the other guys.”

He has always been proud of his enchanted artifacts. Some he had come across on his own, but most were passed down from his parents, beings who are well-versed in the mystic arts.

Suddenly a cool breeze rushed down the alley. Peering into the darkness I can make out the shape of a person, levitating inches above the ground. Magick remains calm, which lets me know that the new arrival means no harm.

As the figure draws closer moonlight reveals a head of hair as rich and dark as Magick’s. He wears black trousers that are met at his shin by a pair of burgandy boots. A vest, the same color as his pants, is over top of a loose-fitting, white, linen shirt. His shoulders are covered with a blood red cape which would sweep the ground if he were standing on it.

"There's something bad going on, isn't there, Father?" Magick asks.

"Unfortunately so," the man answers, his eyes broadcasting fear. "I'm afraid that something has been done to distort the universe itself and he is the only one that can undo what has happened."

"I did what now?" I ask, confused as to how I could have gone from being duped by a ninja lady and a crazy guy with a skull for a face to having thrown the entire universe out of whack.

Mysticism isn’t an area of the world that I care to delve too deeply into. But thanks to my pal Magick, I have been dragged into and saved from countless excursions into the unexplainable. Needless to say, I can’t wait to hear how I am responsible for whatever distortion I supposedly was the cause of.

"Come with me, and I shall explain everything."

Before I can offer a reply, I find myself standing in the middle of a large room, surrounded by objects that look like they belong in a European museum. Mysterious and potentially lethal talismans from dimensions I can barely pronounce adorn each wall and are displayed on ordinate pedestals. Never before have I set foot in this chamber, but the aura around it is comforting, like a mother’s embrace.

"Welcome, Edward," a woman’s voice calls.

Hearing my name puts me on edge. Protecting one’s civilian identity is possibly the most vital task of a superhero. Not only does having one keep your work and private life separate, it helps in the avoidance of legal ramifications. The state foots the bill for any rampages the so called “criminally insane” may go on, but a good citizen who just so happens to have special abilities would be labeled “reckless” and have to pay out the a*s for taking justice into their own hands.

“You may call me Amirah. I trust my husband’s mode of transportation wasn’t too unsettling.”

“No, no. I’m fine,” I reply. I take a moment to compose myself, I knew Magick’s parents were powerful sorcerers, but aside for random spots of brilliance he’s displayed while taking out a bad guy, the most he had ever shown me were levitation spells and incantations to assist with cleaning the house.

Suddenly, as if pressed upon by Hercules, the large, bronzed doors at the front of the room burst open and in comes his father, no longer wearing his cape, and with the gravest of expressions on his face. Walking directly to one of many bookshelves that line the walls, feverishly, he searches amongst the numerous tomes.

“Dear,” Amirah says. Her eyes change from auburn to a stark shade of yellow and with the wave of a hand, a large, leather bound book floats into her grasp. “The least you could do is greet our guest.”

Releasing a sigh, evidence that his wife’s magical prowess often surpasses his own, he says, “I am Grimoire.”

“Would you guys mind calling me ‘Kid Cal’?” I ask. “Or at least ‘Kid’? There’s a reason for the whole secret identity thing.”

“Forgive me while I search for an incantation,” Grimoire says, ignoring my request.

“So,” I say, “what’s this thing I apparently did?”

"You have toyed with the universe in ways that you no longer remember," comes his reply, meticulously thumbing over each page.

"Could you be more specific?”

“Come, have a seat,” Amirah says, taking hold of my hand and leading me beside a fireplace. “Ethan, would you please?”

Magick snaps his fingers and instantly flames dance inside the hearth. The sorceress relaxes into a spacious leather chair. Crossing her legs she asks, “You are aware of Biblical stories and folktales regarding deals made with the Devil?"

"What are you getting at?”

The sorceress continues, "Why do people in these stories feel compelled to do such a terrible and obviously self-defeating move?"

"They did it because they felt like they had no other choice,” I reply.

“But there is always a choice.”

As if they can communicate without speaking, she shoots a glance at Grimoire to which he replies, “Just a minute, honey.”

Returning to our conversation, she poses an intriguing question.

"Theoretically, if someone were to make a deal with the Devil or a demonic being like him that caused someone they loved to be saved, yet had no side effects, that would be good for the entire universe, correct?"

"I don’t think I’m following you,” I say, growing annoyed with her vague questions. “Look, if I’ve done something to throw the world off its axis I have no memory of it."

"Edward…”

“Kid,” I butt in.

“Kid, something has happened that has irrevocably changed the realm that we live in," she says, standing up to join her husband. "Something that has caused it to lose its energies in a way that sends them somewhere else, thus empowering that plane of existence and causing ours to grow weaker in comparison."

I nod my understanding having heard stories of the happenings in the outer dimensions from her son during one of our many team-ups. I have been very glad to know that someone else is dealing with that kind of responsibility, as I am out of my element when it comes to threats that could destroy entire universes.

“A rift was created that will allow a being to come into our own dimension and attack us in an attempt to further empower theirs. However, they were allied with a being that gave them the chance to allow this Fault to come to being in the first place. If events had happened differently in the true path of our dimension, they would not be a threat to us at all."

"So someone allowed this “being” to come into our dimension by making a pact with it,” I say. “And judging from mom’s questions, you two think that that person is me for some reason."

"Indeed," Grimoire says.

"But how could I have done something like this?” I protest. “I'm just a simple boy. I go to school and deal with D-list bad guys. I would never willingly do something like this…whatever it was that I did."

"And you did not do it willingly," he replies as he puts down the ancient book with a thunderous slam. He lifts his hands and says, "See for yourself."

Before I can react, the entire room is engulfed in a white light. Husband and wife each place a hand on my shoulders.

"Edward, you must know that what you are about see here is the result of desperation and of being manipulated by a being that most are not prepared to fight against. From my point of view, you must be held responsible for this, but my wife believes that you can be absolved of any wrongdoing.”