Cerberus shoved a blue Prius up onto the curb and kicked the last motorcycle away with a spray of sparks. A few blinks inside her helmet switched on the armor’s night vision scopes, and she examined the shadowy underside of the freeway overpass. Some jagged, green graffiti spelled out PEASY RULES. Nothing else.
Her footsteps echoed on the concrete pillars. Another set of blinks brought up the long-range lenses. She studied Melrose as far as she could see for signs of life or ex-life.
Nothing.
She plodded back under the bridge and into the sunlight again. “Clock’s ticking,” shouted St. George from the truck. “Everything okay?”
She gave him a heavy nod. “How’s that look?” she bellowed back with a wave at the overpass.
Luke gave her a thumbs up from the cab and Big Red rolled forward. St. George walked alongside until they reached the overpass. Cerberus was still gazing down Melrose. He rapped her on the arm. “Something wrong?”
Her head shook. “I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”
“How so?”
The suit swept its gaze back and forth across the overpass. “Not sure,” she said. She shrugged her massive shoulders.
“Mount up for now. We’ll figure it out.” He hopped past her as she rode the lift gate back up. “You okay for power?”
“I’ve got another ninety-one minutes at peak, three hours of idling.” She dipped her head at Barry, a fetal ball in the blankets. “Let him sleep. It’s not like he gets to that often.”
The lift gate locked into position and St. George leapt to the roof of the cab. Lady Bee gave him a wink and settled back on her pillow.
There was a gas station at Vermont, drained dry three months back by an earlier expedition. They were turning onto Vermont when Lynne, the teenager, stumbled to the front of the swaying truck. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You guys are the only heroes left, right? I mean, you and the ones back at the Mount.”
“As far as we know, yeah,” said the hero. “We know some are dead and a few are exes.”
“Were there any supervillains? You know, like in the movies?”
“Not that we know of.”
“So who stacked up the cars like that?”
“We think it was the SS. The South Seventeens. They were one of the gangs from the Koreatown area, like the XV3s. There are other survivors in LA, but they’re not all quite as civic-minded as us.”
“No,” she said shaking her head. “I mean how’d they do it? How’d they cram them all under the bridge?”
THEN
Seeing the Big Picture
The third punk met my eyes and froze in mid-swing. I held his gaze, drained him until he dropped the baseball bat, then let my goggles snap shut. The little fuck fell over, twitched once, and whined like a hurt dog.
When my eyes first started to change, a few days after I got the blood transfusion from that creepy old woman in Greece, I thought it was kind of useless as superpowers went. Then I realized people couldn’t fight me without looking at me. And that changed my view on things.
After stumbling into this night job about seven months ago, I had a solid routine down. Work at the agency by day. Grab dinner or hit the gym to work out, socialize a bit, and convince everyone I have a life outside of work. Leave early because I say I’m working on a script, like half the people in town. Home to sleep until eleven. Patrol as Gorgon for four or five hours. Two hour nap, and then back to work. Catch up on any lost sleep over the weekend, and be seen enough to keep people from wondering why Nikolai started wearing dark glasses for his sensitive eyes around the same time an optic-themed superhero appeared.
Of course, half a dozen comic-book types have appeared all across the country these past few months, even some in Europe, and they’re all a lot more interesting than me. Somebody flipped a switch and wham superpowers are showing up everywhere. The Mighty Dragon was the first, but I think the morning after my first night out the big story was a man made of electricity in Boston. The Awesome Ape is in Chicago. Here in LA, in addition to the Dragon, there's some kind of monster terrorizing drug dealers in Venice Beach, and a dominatrix-ninja type cleaning up the Rampart district. Over in Beverly Hills there’s an immortal guy who heals instantly from everything. Just the other night I heard about some kid down in Koreatown who’s wearing a rainbow-striped karate uniform and bouncing around like a superball.
Wearing spandex or bright colors wasn’t my thing, though. There’s so much more practical stuff you can get when the agency you work for represents celebrities. The body armor? It’s a gift for Colin—-he’s playing a SWAT cop and wants to get used to the weight. I know it’s bending the rules, thanks so much. Reinforced leather duster? Hey, you-know-who has a weird fetish, what can I say. Storage locker under an assumed name? Ms. Lohan has some things she’d like to keep out of sight, but doesn’t want to get rid of. Your discretion is appreciated, thanks. Custom motorcycle helmet? Military-style utility harness? Kevlar gauntlets? People hand you stuff so they can tell their friends someone famous touched it.