I heard Deacon’s voice, trying for a tone of professional politeness that was utterly absurd given the circumstances. “Please accept our sincere apologies on behalf of the Maxwell group and Adrian Maxwell for this rather… abrupt introduction. None of your friends were harmed when we made our extraction, but the BSA was making it absolutely clear that you were being held as an incommunicado virtual prisoner at the Kellar academy, so we needed to… take steps to ensure your freedom to make your own decisions.”
I nodded slowly inside the hood. “So that’s why you have me in a black-out helmet, a set of nullifiers, and pumped me full of animal tranquillizers? And why nameless here…” I nodded my voice in the driver’s direction, “told the pyro there to burn any innocent bystanders, wall guards, tourists, or any other possible witnesses to a crisp. To set me free. How… liberating. Apology not accepted. I will not cause problems for now, out of a desire to prevent unnecessary deaths, but you might as well toss me out of the door right now, because I won’t cut deals with mass murderers, kidnappers, and psychopaths. My dance card is full.”
The male voice at the front sighed deeply. “It appears we have made a poor impression on our guest. We are past the border, and there seems to be little sense in keeping him blinded, unless you’d rather keep the helmet to preserve your identity?”
I shrugged. “The only enemies I am worried about right now are the ones who drugged me and snatched me naked out of my bed somehow in the middle of a protected underground complex. If you did it without hurting anyone, I applaud your talents despite wanting you dead for daring to threaten to murder innocents.” I said, since Deacon’s apology implied that they didn’t want me dead. “Since you already know my identity, then I don’t see how protecting it is going to help much.”
After a moment, the chin strap was removed and Deacon, a small and slender, French-looking brunette with a doll-like face, half-mask, and a skintight costume of a gauzy, pale blue material, removed the helmet. Beside her was another woman, this one clearly wearing serious combat armor, black with red edging and a full face mask that looked like something out of a transforming robot cartoon. Edgy.
“Oh, he’s a pretty boy,” Baelfire remarked, her voice a distorted, threatening buzz from behind the mask. “I think you should let me put a few marks on that beautiful face. That way he wouldn’t be so pretty anymore.”
I chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Hey, you got the generic threatening thing down pretty well. Tell you what. I’ll happily let you burn me if you don’t mind if I take off your arms and legs first. I will heal. Will you? If you’re worried about commitment, I might just settle for your fingers. After all, you don’t need them to burn things, right? You can just glare menacingly.”
Did I think I could actually defeat her in a straight fight? Of course not. But I was a master of bluffing and getting away from exactly her type. Pyros were not as sought-after on hero teams—too much collateral damage—and thus I had helped several of them get good rep, including that dick-bag Hotshot. With my newly improved energy pool, I might even be able to locally shut down the heat from her abilities, at least for a while… and a pyro with no heat was just a nasty woman with a flame fetish and really tacky armor. No, I was not impressed or intimidated.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Baelfire just stared at me for a long moment. Her faceless mask shook slightly. “You honestly believe that, don’t you? Your infrared signature didn’t waver in the slightest. You honestly believe that if I tried to burn you, you could take off my limbs and not be harmed, even wearing a nullifier. Are you insane?”
I looked at her with mock shock. “Isn’t everyone who puts on a costume and a mask and goes out to kill or die for whatever stupid adrenaline junkie reason they can think of? It’s pretty much a prerequisite. I love the mask, though. It really pulls off the whole ‘faceless evil’ vibe. You could make a mint as a professional PR villain, especially since even with all that armor it’s clear you have an underwear model’s body and porn star’s… proportions.” I was going to say ‘tits’ but even my cynicism has a filter, sometimes.
As Baelfire just turned away, seemingly more confused than angry, Deacon looked at me in utter bewilderment. “Are you trying to make her angry? The last guy that made a pass at her got both of his hands burned off.”
I shrugged, the nullifiers clinking softly. “I am not making a pass. I’d sooner french-kiss a nuclear reactor. I’m just pointing out observable reality. As alphas, our definition of ‘insane’ is pretty far out there. If Baelfire here tries to burn me, I can guarantee you with utmost confidence I would get better, and I’d take away a body part or two as a souvenir. I wouldn’t do it for revenge, or out of fear or pain, I’d do it to remind her next time not to fuck with what she doesn’t understand.” I smiled at Deacon, a sharp, predatory expression that didn’t reach my eyes. “The same applies to you, and nameless behind the wheel who is apparently running this operation. As a personal favor, I would rather you not make me clean blood out of my teeth or give you aggressive, fast-acting colon cancer. Both are unpleasant and remarkably painful ways to die.”
The guy behind the wheel, a heavyweight type wearing a tied bandana mask and a ballcap, shook his head. “Jesus. Class sixes. You guys really do consider yourselves gods, don’t you?”
I smiled a little. It was time for the grand reveal. I focused, tugged my wrists apart just enough to get a precise feel for the locks, and then sent a micro-current of power through the electromagnets, overloading and fusing their delicate cores. With a soft pop-hiss, the magnetic seal died. The physical locks were child’s play; I simply disintegrated the slender internal mechanisms that held the bands closed. I could probably have just cranked the bolts open with my enhanced strength instead, but it would have been a lot less impressive than casually snapping the bands and dropping them onto the floor with a dismissive clatter. Besides, they were blueprinted now. If I needed a pair of nullifiers later, I could just create a copy; they weren’t made of particularly unusual or expensive materials.
“Aren’t we?” I asked, flexing my freed hands. My voice was calm, flat, and utterly confident. It was the best performance of my life. “How about we go have a talk with this Adrian Maxwell guy, and I can decide whether or not to kill him for hiring murderous thugs to come after me.”
If there was one thing a failed superhero turned rent-a-villain was good at, it was monologuing and projecting unshakable confidence, even if the only thing I was truly confident about was having a decent chance to dash through the floor and run like hell.
