Saturday, November 01, 2008

"Never Special," Confrontation, pt. 1, 422 words

For those not in the know, Lucila was accidentally kidnapped by Nefarious. The actual kidnapping and Nefarious's side of it all starts here.

I'm a thousand feet up when my phone rings. I drop a good ten, fifteen feet in my surprise, and scramble to yank the damn thing out of my pocket without dropping it. I loathe the bright, chirpy ringtone I set up on it, but it just makes me quicker to answer. The caller ID shows the name "Iron Will."

Cupping one hand over the mouthpiece to block out the air currents up here, I immediately say, "What is it, Will? I'm out on patrol."

Patrol. Right. Like I'm one of those heroes who actually manages to catch anything while out like this. Like I can see or hear anything from this high up. I just haven't been able to sit still for the past three days, ever since Nefarious reappeared and Lucila disappeared. And last night, as if I needed the confirmation, he declared to the world that he had her. Though I'm not sure who I'm more worried for, because I think Lucila would just kick him in the crotch the first chance she got, even if he wasn't trying to hurt her.

Especially if he wasn't trying to hurt her.

"Get to the port," Will says, hurriedly. "Pier Sixteen."

"Why? What's going on?"

"It's your nemesis. Nefarious."

My... Oh damn, the others are already talking about him as my nemesis. No wonder Will called me, instead of just going in to try to deal with things himself.

"I... Thanks. Thanks a lot, Will. I owe you."

I kill the phone before he can say anything else, and zip the phone up back in its pocket. I look around, squinting into the cold wind, and spot the port. There, I can just barely make out a fuzzy blur, a tiny spot in the midst of all that light which wavers and distorts. That must be Pier Sixteen. I snap my goggles back over my eyes and go.

The blot of distortion in the port resolves as I grow closer. It's a white cloud of some sort, like fog or artificial smoke, concentrated around what must be a single building. And against the churning mass of the fog, an image has been projected showing Lucila Martinez, hanging from a winch by her bound hands, over a vat of... something. The angle's all wrong. Whatever it is, though, it can't be good. Nobody's ever hung over a vat of just water. Not anymore. Even the people who like to feed their victims to sharks usually use genetically modified acid-breathing sharks by now.

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