Griefman (Pt. 1)

[Trigger warning for this book. Click here for details.]

 

{I am on break so I can attend a wedding! I’ll be back on the 28th. Wish me luck—I’m going back to the land of misery. Canada. (I’m looking forwards to it this time. I just hate air travel.)}

 

[The rewrite of Book 12, The Witch of Webs, has now been uploaded to the site! You can read the updated version now! Sorry for the wait!]

 

(The Empress of Beasts, Book 13 of The Wandering Inn, is out now! Flee to your internet sites and spread the word! Look at the amazing cover!)

https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Empress-of-Beasts-Audiobook/B0D7F6BZBC

https://www.amazon.com/Empress-Beasts-Book-Wandering-Inn-ebook/dp/B0D81GZHMY/

 

 

 

 

Foreword:

Griefman is a story I came up with years ago. I tried writing a bit of it, but I gave up quickly and never finished it. Not just because it was a difficult, emotional story, but because I wasn’t ready to write it.

This is the story I came up with when I thought of mortality—not my own, but how I would react the day I learned my parents, grandparents, or anyone else close to me died. If it is strange, thinking of that kind of thing and wanting to write a story, well, it is something we as Humans wrestle with.

We avoid it. But not one of us, no matter how technology advances, no matter how close we try to crawl towards immortality, no one will ever be free of death. I came up with Griefman as my answer to the question of how I’d feel and then put the story away in the back of my mind and seldom thought of it.

A few weeks ago, my grandmother passed away. There are many things I’d like to say of her, and how I feel, but I am tired. It makes focusing on work difficult. It is hard to know what to say or do and I am told that is such a quintessential thing to the Human condition—but it is one of my first times here.

My grandmother passed away. I wrote Griefman. This is the first draft, and a better version may appear in years, but if you would like to read this standalone story, I hope you find something in here that matters. Be warned, it’s not for everyone. Not everyone needs to read Griefman. But some people will understand it, I hope. Thank you,

—pirateaba

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

A forty-two year old accountant tackled a supervillain during a brawl, and it was the finest day of Roy Mackendal’s year. And it was November.

The supervillain in question was named ‘Towertoppler’, one of those retro-types that wore an old-fashioned cape and styled himself like a cartoon antagonist from the late 1900’s. Which it had to be said, he might not have even remembered because he was only thirty-two.

Towertoppler. Five foot something without the boots that just made him tall enough to hit six feet, not inhumanly fit or attractive like most super-powered peoples, and for all he had a voice modulator to make his voice impressive, he wasn’t that scary looking. The name, though…that came from him knocking down skyscrapers with handmade explosives.

Dubai, 2032. He took out six skyscrapers. Casualties in the tens of thousands with superheroes on the ground within seconds of the explosions.

A wanted criminal with back-to-back life sentences. He was affiliated with at least eight different supervillain groups and had been tossing around explosives filled with ball bearings, cackling as they went off with enough force to turn everyone in the room into perforated jelly unless they were a superhero with protective powers. Or they had a ring with a force field built in.

Super-person was the actual term these days, actually. Of course, some people refused to use the term because superhero was traditional and nothing was sacred anymore. There were a lot of scrolls about it on Greecia these days. Greecia was the all-in-one messaging, social network, shopping, and anything-you-wanted platform. Scrolling was tweeting. Sometimes, Roy felt old.

Anyways, the tackle. Towertoppler had fought demigods, special military forces, and Aldorius hand-to-hand. He’d eaten punches from mechanized robots (admittedly, he’d broken every rib in his body), and he was holding his own in the mass superpowered brawl between Stellaris’ superheroes and the League of Anti-Capitalism who had taken two hundred people hostage (including Roy, but that was almost a given).

An accountant’s tackle should not have been high on Towertoppler’s list of worries, but look at it another way. Roy Mackendal wasn’t the most svelte of men. He never had been. He was six foot three, even if he slouched a lot, and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. More fat than he wanted; he kept meaning to either buy a weight-loss pill or take up lifting weights. He went to the gym enough, though, and he had been a college quarterback.

So looking at it another way, you had Towertoppler in heeled boots at five foot seven and about a hundred and forty pounds getting hit by someone over a hundred pounds heavier than he was in a running dive.

They hit the ground hard. Roy heard a hubgle sound emerge from the man’s throat, which beat the ‘boom’ that the accountant had really been worried would be the last thing he heard. Along with that—an old-fashioned stick of dynamite went skidding across the floor.

It wasn’t lit; it was just for show. Towertoppler had the detonation switch in his glove. The glove Roy decided he’d better take off now.

A white-faced man stared up at Roy as the accountant fumbled with the glove. He knew he should put Towertoppler into a hold, but all his self-defense training had evaporated from his mind. Towertoppler gasped.

“You—you—”

Roy was wrenching at the glove as he sat on Towertoppler’s back, trying to get it off. But it was locked into place, and the enraged supervillain was squirming, now.

“Get off me, Roy. I’ll blow you all to smithereens!”

He even talked like an old-timey villain. His fake black mustache was slightly askew, and he was red-faced. Roy yanked on the glove.

“Blow up that dynamite and you’ll kill yourself!”

“You fucking idiot, it’s C4. I don’t need it—”

Towertoppler pulled his other hand free as the two wrestled on the ground, and he pointed a finger at Roy’s face. A ring on his gloved hand spat fire at Roy.

Flamethrower ring. Roy had completely forgotten about it. Towertoppler leapt to his feet as Roy threw up his hands with a shout. The accountant flailed at the burning flames, then stared at the shimmering yellow forcefield around his body that the flames washed around.

Towertoppler stared at Roy’s own hand where a glowing ring was furiously flashing. Roy waved the ring theatrically.

“World Pact has been alerted. Surrender now, Towertoppler.”

The supervillain stopped and stared at Roy. For a second, he dropped his grandiose tone, turned off the loudspeakers on his armored costume, and just looked at Roy.

“Goddamnit. You really are the luckiest loser on this planet, aren’t you? You belong in a comic book, not me.”

He tossed a stick of dynamite at Roy, and the accountant tried to dodge and tripped on his own legs. He sprawled as Towertoppler twitched his fingers—and the bomb that should have shredded Roy, forcefield or not, exploded.

—About four hundred feet away in the air. Roy stopped covering his head. He looked up, and a man with a smile like the sun winked at him. He brushed back his hair, dazzlingly bright, and Towertoppler instantly yanked out two large explosive devices.

“Aldorius—”

The supervillain’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed. Punched faster than he could see, or maybe just immobilized some other way. The world’s greatest superhero saluted the unconscious villain as he fell backwards.

“Don’t go killing accountants, Towertoppler. Especially not this one. How am I going to file my taxes without Roy? And you, Roy, don’t you know better than to tackle walking bombs?”

He flashed one of those too-perfect grins at Roy, all straight white teeth, and the accountant exhaled. Aldorius didn’t wait for a reply. He zipped left, knocked a charging figure off his feet—Crocodileman—kicked the Floridian supervillain through a wall, and then caught a falling superhero in his arms.

“Felicia Fortune. Another lucky save.”

She sprang to her feet as the League of Anti-Capitalists took one look at Aldorius and went running. Half began teleporting out or using magic to escape. Crocodileman just pulled up a manhole cover and leapt into the sewers.

“Aldorius, you make your own luck. Come on, everyone, they’re getting away! Rookies, get back! No one go after Crocodileman in the sewers!”

And then it was over, at least, the part where Roy Mackendal mattered at all. He stood there, panting like he’d run down a football field, feeling his heart beating out of his chest and with the vague urge to both pee and throw up.

That was what normal people felt like when superpowered people fought around them. They even spoke like different people, with quips and lines straight out of movies or the comic books. Then again, most of them practiced their one-liners.

This was the age of super people. And magic. And aliens and alternate dimensions, and if you were really unlucky, alternate realities or time travellers, though that ended up getting a bit silly. Aldorius floated through the wrecked convention hall, speeding injured civilians and superheroes to the hospital, stopping to shake hands and reassure everyone that the kidnapping crisis was over.

Superheroes. Earth in the year 2035 was a crazy place. Just eleven years since the Convergence and they were living in extraordinary times where anyone blessed might develop the power to fly, find a sword in a stone, or just be melded to their spacesuit and become a cybernetic superhuman.

But even now, in the land of the future and dreams—well.

There was always a job for an accountant. And that was Roy Mackendal, the luckiest man in the world. No, seriously.

He’d won an award.

 

——

 

“Roy! Did I see you tackling Towertoppler back there? You crazy idiot—leave the punching to us!”

The first superperson to notice Roy after the chasing of supervillains had ended was Mister Olympics. A superhero with the power to do anything an Olympic athlete could do—only the mortal, drug-free, power-free, non-paralympic Human gold medalists. Every time one of them broke a world record, he got a bit faster, a bit stronger, or more adept at their chosen field.

Put that together and you still got a pretty powerful person. Mister Olympics bounded over, picking up arrows and shotputs he’d been tossing at the League of Anti-Capitalists, and slapped Roy on the back with the power of an Olympic weightlifter.

“Ow.”

“Sorry, sorry. Did I hurt you? I’m amped up after fighting the League. Did you see Crocodileman? Nearly took my head off! I’m going to petition the Olympic committee to put crocodile-wrestling in for the winter Olympics. Might help, what do you think?”

Roy grinned. He was still trying not to throw up. Mister Olympics, real name Freddie Larhnen, was a Kentucky-based college quarterback, a decent one, who’d gained his powers during the first match of his freshman year. He might joke, but he’d been one of the first wave of superheroes eleven years ago, and he now contributed millions to the Olympic committee’s funds yearly and had a permanent position on their board.

$243,143.06 this year. The odd number was because Mister Olympics’ time as a fundraiser and spokesman was counted as his contributions. Since he was also a registered Stellaris-superhero, he got to count his contributions to the committee as tax-deductible superhero work. He even had six offices around the world, which he all claimed on his tax form. Doing his S-2 tax form each year took Roy at least three days of solid work.

Because he was a veteran hero, Mister Olympics noticed Roy’s pale, sweaty face and instantly pulled something out of his pocket.

“Steady now, Roy. I forget you’re not used to seeing the bullets fly up close, even if you’d done this, what, forty times?”

He waved a vial under Roy’s nose. Sort of the opposite of smelling salts; they made Roy straighten and settled his stomach. Roy gulped.

“Sixty-five, I think.”

Mister Olympics whistled.

“And this makes sixty-six! When I saw the League of Anti-Capitalists on-screen, the first thing I said to Felicia, the first thing—well, the first thing I said was, ‘we’ve got to get in there’, but the second was, ‘I hope Roy’s not there’. Then the camera pans left, and there you are!”

He laughed, and Roy muttered something about bad timing.

“I get invited to these events all the time. I think it’s less bad luck and more…you know? Where else would the League of Anti-Capitalists attack?”

Mister Olympics nodded, staring around the trashed foyer that had been supposed to commemorate the 100th skyscraper going up in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The new metropolis had invited Roy to take part in the ceremony.

“Well, at least all this repair work just means the construction jobs keep coming. Shame about the ceremony, but was it that nice?”

Roy shuffled his feet.

“I, uh, missed most of it. I was mostly hoping to use a bathroom, and then I remembered the meeting—”

More laughter. Mister Olympics drew heads as he threw his head back, and then he seemed to realize more people were considerably more traumatized than Roy. He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Whoops. I’d better get back to making sure things are alright. Good tackle. But Towertoppler would have killed you if you didn’t have that ring. Better get it recharged.”

“I was worried he’d blow someone up. Don’t worry—that’s enough excitement for me.”

Roy mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief. Unlike Mister Olympics, a face which could grace a thousand billboards—and had—Roy was balding in that unfortunate way where his hair decided to abandon the middle and center of his head, but make a fighting retreat around the sides. He could have bought hair tonics, which actually worked, or asked for a hookup from a famous hero, but he didn’t have time.

Plus, Roy didn’t like bothering the superheroes he knew for anything. He was, after all, just an ordinary man.

The luckiest ordinary man. No one was going to write ‘Roy Tackles Towertoppler; Saves Day’ at the top of the headlines in tomorrow’s paper. For one thing, newspapers were all-digital. At most, he’d receive a second’s mention in the coverage.

He was just an accountant. No powers. He’d been tested more times than he could count. But here was the thing:

Superheroes needed accountants. Just like they needed someone to handle their press releases, dry clean their outfits, make sure there was no avocado in their food at the 6-star Michelin restaurants because they were deathly allergic, and feed the hamster when they were on an intergalactic adventure. And Roy?

Roy was the accountant for the top heroes of Stellaris. He did World Pact’s tax returns, and they were a multinational organization. So of course superheroes tended to recognize him, even if it was just the face or the vague recognition of the name. Someone had to know where you lived or your real identity. And Roy’s superpower, if he did have any, was trustworthiness.

The news crews were arriving; the first floating camera drones were hovering behind excited announcers trying to get into the hall. Mister Olympics turned.

“Time to go. I’ll talk to you later, Roy.”

“Next year, sometime? Unless your assistant forgets to file your quarterly taxes again.”

Mister Olympics laughed, then scowled, then turned back.

“I’ll get them to put you in the books for March. Thanks for sorting that out, by the way. Until later. Oh! Did you want another of these?”

He flashed a bright token at Roy, a glittering coin with ‘Mister Olympics’ written below, his personal icon, which wasn’t the Olympic rings because those were trademarked, and ‘STELLARIS’ written on top.

“I figured you didn’t need it, but it was a heroic tackle. You probably saved some of us from shrapnel or worse.”

“I’ll take it. For the collection.”

Mister Olympics tossed the coin, and Roy fumbled his catch, but didn’t drop it. The other man strode away, lifting a hand, and Roy watched him go, then looked at the coin.

A ‘Super Civilian’ coin. It was a commemorative little thing that super people carried to show their gratitude to people who helped them in times of need. A brave firefighter, someone shouting ‘look out’, and so on. There was a huge black market for them and a bit of controversy around people trying to earn them, but despite it all, lots of first-wave super people like Mister Olympics still carried them.

Roy had hundreds. But not one from Mister Olympics. He put it in his wallet, carefully, and stood there, looking around, brushing dust from the ceiling out of his hair.

His heart was still pounding from his one note of bravery. He was definitely not superhero stuff; they were doing interviews, cleaning their wounds, preparing to track down the League…Roy was shaking, needing a pee and a long lie down after he got something to eat.

But he was also, well, a bit more put together than the traumatized civilians, who were visibly distressed. You either froze up, babbled incoherently, started crying or shouting, or just became profusely thankful for your life. All normal reactions to nearly dying, let alone seeing someone punch through a solid stone wall next to your face.

Roy tried to go. But alas, he couldn’t leap a small building in a single bound or fly away. One of the police officers saw him going and called out.

“Sir? Sir! Are you hurt? We need a trauma kit over here—please stay here, sir. We’ll need your account of the events and to put you on the affected persons list.”

Roy may be entitled to compensation for his distress. At the very least, the Canadian government would pay for a specialized therapist to talk to him about his experiences.

“Oh, no, I really don’t need—”

Too late. An EMT from the super-powered division was already rushing over with a vial like the one Mister Olympics had used, running a scanner over Roy and doing a double-take when it turned up negative. Roy held up his ring hand.

“I’ve got a ring, and I’m affiliated with Stellaris. I’m a civilian—”

It took them a few seconds to realize who he was. Then the police officer snapped his fingers.

“You’re…that guy! The accountant for World Pact, right? Uh—uh—”

“Roy.”

“Roy! No wonder you’re not screaming. Sorry, sir. You’ll have to stay and give an account.”

“No problem.”

Roy heaved a huge sigh. He bet it’d take at least an hour to be processed after a fight this big. All this because he’d wanted to use bathrooms with the nice toilet paper, two-ply. He could have stopped at a Bacchus Beanery, but no…

As luck might have it, or not, his phone rang, and Roy picked up the call. His earpiece had gone, taken when they’d held him hostage, so he just spoke into his smartphone instead.

“This is Roy.”

He thought, at first, it was his father calling to ask how things were. He always called. But one glance at the caller ID and Roy realized it was work. A benefit of working for World Pact was that Aerthe, one of the most technologically gifted beings in the entire planet, had permanently blocked all calls to his number except those on a dedicated list.

This caller was very familiar.

“Roy, it’s me. My card’s not working. I’m in the middle of a mall in some city in Ghana, and they just told me it’s declined. Again!”

“Seithe? It must be the same issue. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll sort it out.”

Roy was already dialing up the bank on a second phone. The voice on the other end sighed loudly.

“Thanks! That was Roy, everyone on stream. Hey, Roy, everyone’s saying you got kidn—”

Roy didn’t mean to hang up on Seithe. He was already speaking.

“Hello? This is Roy Mackendal calling on behalf of Superhero Seithe. Their card has been declined.”

Seithe, like Aldorius, was one of the members of World Pact, the association of the greatest heroes in the world. They were also the most or second-most in tune with social media. They must have been live streaming an event. Roy listened to the person on the other end, trying to speak.

“Y—no, I don’t need to verify my account. Check my number, please. I’m calling on behalf of Seithe. Their card’s blocked.”

He listened. Thank goodness technology sped things up or he’d have had to wait for them to pull the files up, and Seithe got bored fast.

“Yes, thank you. I know they’ve hit their spending limit on the card. They shouldn’t have one at all. Can you unblock the card? And remove the cap? Fraud isn’t the issue here.”

Technically, this wasn’t his job, but it was the kind of thing he was used to. Roy pinched his nose a second.

“I understand. Thank you, I do. Can you please get your manager? Please tell them it’s a Stellaris call. Not an emergency.”

He waited.

“No, I’m asking you to do that. Your manager, please. Or I’ll have to redial and try again.”

It was tempting, in the back of his head, for Roy to point out that Seithe had more money than some nations. That they were on a livestream, all this could be easily confirmed, and that this person should lose their job for making an error he’d had to report to the bank twice before.

—But then they’d be out of a job. It wasn’t their fault they hadn’t dealt with superheroes and superheroic spending before. So when Roy got the manager on the line, he spoke in a calm voice.

“Thank you. I’m Roy Mackendal, calling about Seithe…they’re having a problem with a spending limit on their card. I’m sure it’s just a procedural issue, but if you could reactivate it and remove the limit now…?”

 

——

 

Sixteen minutes and Roy called Seithe back. Twice. On the second time, they picked up.

“Hey, Roy! Were you kidnapped?”

“Just a bit. Your card should be good, Seithe. No more issues.”

“Kief! But someone just paid for all of it on-stream. Thanks anyways, Roy! Got to go! See you at the weekly meeting!”

They hung up, and Roy made a note to call the bank later tonight and make sure the spending limit was actually gone. Then he decided to go to the bathroom and get all this grit out of his hair if he was stuck here for a while.

Roy was just heading to the bathroom when they finally decided to get his account of events. He paused as someone called his name and imagined lovely porcelain with heated seats…

He had to go so badly it hurt. Two hours of being a hostage, Seithe’s small emergency, and Roy and the toilet had a dance with destiny. He gritted his teeth as he tried to waddle over while clenching both front and backside to avoid…leakage.

It seemed like chance had more in store for Roy, though. Which wasn’t surprising with Felicia Fortune, the actual luckiest superhero in the world, around. Roy was just recounting a very brief summary of events to an officer with a notepad when he felt a glow on his skin, and the woman in front of him went slack-jawed.

“Aldorius.”

Roy didn’t have to turn to know it was Earth’s mightiest superhero floating in the air. Aldorius—yes, the comparisons to Superman were there. He invited them. He had a double-episode comic where he and the greatest fictional superhero met in a teamup. Roy had the issue in his house. Autographed by Aldorius himself.

Let’s see. Tennessee-born boy from a rural town. Jaw so strong he could smash a Greek statue to bits with it. Green eyes like glowing emeralds. Hair—now, his hair was luminescent on its own. It was slightly wavy and added to the glow about Aldorius.

A secret that less than five people on the planet knew? Aldorius dyed his hair. It was actually just brown.

Aldorius had a bit of that corn fed accent, and he spoke sometimes like a superhero, sometimes like he had just emerged from a baseball game holding a hotdog in one hand and a USA flag in the other. Because he never missed a game from his state’s team.

“Roy! There you are! Man of the hour; I heard you gave Towertoppler a taste of what he deserved. Shame you didn’t hand him the old one-two while you had him. No injuries on you? Good man! What’s that, sixty-six kidnappings? What say I fly you home or to Tokyo? He’s with me, officers.”

“A-Aldorius.”

The officer made that stuttering sound of someone tongue-tied before the broad-chested giant. Aldorius was six foot six, and when he landed, he still towered over everyone. Even when Roy stood straight, he looked up at that giant.

“I know you’re doing your jobs, and I thank you for it, but can you make an exception for good old Roy?”

Aldorius winked, and he got his way. He always did. He slapped a hand on Roy’s shoulder, and the accountant staggered, so it was a light touch for the superhero who had once caught the moon.

“Tokyo, Roy? Or are you exhausted by all this superheroing? The League keeps getting bolder, I swear. We’ve got Towertoppler on ice, but if that fellow’s out in a month’s time, I’ll have to head over to the Canadian Freezer and have a chat with the warden. I know they do their best, but this is doggone ridiculous!”

The trick with Aldorius was never to say things like ‘Tokyo, you mean, Tokyo, right now’? He’d humor you, but it was a waste of his time.

“I think I might need to lie down, Aldorius.”

Roy spoke weakly, and the superhero nudged him with a playful grin.

“Come on, you, me, sushi? I have an event in three minutes I have to be at. Sure I can’t twist your arm?”

“You can certainly do that.”

A huge booming laugh that attracted every eye. Roy felt a bunch of flashes begin as the camera-drones swiveled to face him. Maybe he’d be in the newspapers after all. His father wouldn’t shut up about that—

On cue, his phone rang. Roy checked the caller.

Jorrey Mackendal.

He hit ‘decline’ instantly. Aldorius turned as someone else bounded over with the power of an Olympic long-jumper. Mister Olympics.

“Roy, are you still around? I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“He got held up giving his account. How’s that leg, Olympics? Crocodileman didn’t take a bite out of you?”

“I got it checked. I hope it’s fine, but I’ll make sure. He was probably pumped up on ketamine or something, which means it’s in my system. No passing any drug tests for me for a while.”

The two superheroes were bantering as Aldorius nodded.

“I’ve got to fly, but I was trying to talk Roy into heading off with me.”

“With you? Where?”

Mister Olympics was a famous hero, but he was only on the Stellaris top-100 ranking lists. Aldorius was the hero who topped the charts along with the rest of World Pact. Only in the east did he not make the top three lists every single time. Aldorius nodded at Roy.

“I was just inviting Roy to a dinner. In Tokyo. One of those meetup summits. Shoot the shit with a few generals from the army, introduce myself to the new Prime Minister, that sort of thing. It won’t be a place where I could play a game of pool with a cold one, but I might swing a bat around. They do love their baseball over there.”

Mister Olympics’ laugh was a bit forced. They were, like Roy, all three from America, but Aldorius had once said if you opened his chest you’d find red white and blue inside. Roy murmured to Aldorius.

“Just don’t hit a ball into space. Aerthe has enough space junk to clean up already.”

“And you’re going with Roy?”

Mister Olympics was still getting around that part of it. Aldorius laughed, and Roy got another slap on the shoulder as Aldorius hugged him tighter.

“Oh, I won’t lack for good company, but Roy’s the steady influence you need. Not one of those new hotshot heroes. I’m sure Miss Fortune will be there, and we’d have a grand time, but I told her I’d bring Roy this time. Plus, there’s always Haoren, and I have to give a speech…good company will abound, but you have to have a Roy.”

You do?

“I might have to pass this once, Aldorius. I think I do need to lie down. Uh, but I hope you have a grand time. Would your father like the food?”

Aldorius blinked, and a look of disappointment flickered over his face to be replaced with good humor. He waved a hand.

“My old man’s not a fan of seafood. I’m sure I don’t want to bother him. A lad’s gotta cut loose by himself, you know? Speaking of which, Felicia, a ride or are you teleporting over?”

“Teleporting!”

The superheroine called back across the hall. Aldorius turned to Roy.

“Well then, let me give you a ride, Roy. Vancouver, your flat?”

They were on the other side of the continent from Vancouver, where Roy had his apartment in one of the world’s largest and most superhero-heavy cities. A hub of the world—Aldorius didn’t have a place there. Or rather, he had a place everywhere, including in space.

“I can take a teleporter.”

“It’s no bother. Just say the word.”

Knowing it was better to accept than to protest, Roy glanced at the officers, waved to Mister Olympics, who muttered another ‘good job’, and stepped forwards. Aldorius grasped his arm—

—and Roy was still standing in the convention hall as his feet left the ground, and he jerked. His mind tried to catch up to the blur around him, but he just felt lightheaded. The world turned white in a rush of sound and speed and—

Roy stumbled as he appeared outside his apartment building. He had an entire floor of one of the skyscrapers. Not bad for an accountant. People whirled as Aldorius appeared, and he gave them all a salute.

“I’ve got to be off. Almost late for Tokyo. Say, why did you go to that convention, Roy? I thought you were done with the fancy events.”

Roy shuffled his ordinary, scuffed shoes and adjusted his moderately expensive suit—moderately expensive for normal people. He felt threadbare and ordinary in front of the shining superhero.

Good old Roy. He coughed and whispered.

“I, uh—actually I just needed the bathroom. I still do.”

Aldorius’ eyebrows bounced up. Then his cheeks ballooned and he guffawed, then slapped his chest and flew upwards.

“Roy—never change. I’ll see you at World Pact tomorrow. Try not to get kidnapped again this month?”

He saluted, and before Roy could say anything, he vanished. The accountant stood in the street a second—then he practically raced inside for the elevator. He spent the next thirty minutes in the bathroom. His father called him once, and Roy sighed. When he checked the news, no one mentioned the tackle, but they did have a line about ‘Roy, kidnapped again’ with that picture of him and Aldorius.

Only he thought of the tackle. It really made Roy’s day, problems and all, as he dialed Seithe’s bank up and prepared for tomorrow’s meeting with World Pact. For a second—he’d almost felt like a hero.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Roy Mackendal had been voted the world’s luckiest human man, excluding magical items, luck theft, or deals with beings of questionable religious or occult importance, for eight years running by popular vote.

Luckiest human man. Human. Man. Also, popular vote. Important qualifiers. Because the truth was that Roy Mackendal had been privately assured by Felicia Fortune that his luck score was simply average.

Felicia Fortune. Now there was a name known worldwide. The world’s luckiest mortal woman, who had won a game against the possible incarnation of luck itself, and a superhero of Stellaris, one of the thousand superheroes authorized to represent Earth in space and combat threats from the stars.

She, along with the Man Thief…a play on the word for Gentleman Thief, the world’s most accomplished thief who could steal the ephemeral quality of luck and, incidentally, too many hearts to count—the world’s voted #7 hottest gay male superhero, and yes, he didn’t even break top 10 for men overall sadly—had both investigated Roy Mackendal’s charmed life.

But he didn’t have a guardian angel, lucky star, omen of prophecy, or any other powers. He was just averagely lucky, which somehow meant that he was the most averagely lucky man to live. After all…who else in this world knew Felicia Fortune was actually named Angela?

Angela Heading, 33, business address Stellaris, the linked space station to the Vancouver base.

Private address for personal gifts, do not send anything eye-catching or make personal calls in-costume: 1228 Beacher Ave., Kewaunee, Wisconsin, 5300…

Well, he always forgot the last digits of the zip code and had to look them up. But the fact that Roy Mackendal knew what arguably less than ten people in the entire world knew about Felicia’s name, address, and how much she’d declared on her quarterly tax returns to Canada, the United States government, her local city, state, and Stellaris arm of the organized hero branches was astonishing.

It was also completely mundane. Roy did Felicia’s taxes, and they always seemed to come out better than everyone else’s. She accidentally walked into a new spending loophole, no one ever audited, there were no fights over her deductibles—even the yacht—

He was used to it. As used to it as having to find Gorridion, the Barbarian out of Time, an exotic meats supplier and having his salary converted to gold bullion, jewelry, and the like. Qer Dul, the greatest magical entity in the ranks of the superheroes of Earth—and interdimensional travellers—let Roy manage his earthly affairs, and he’d even had Roy take a shot at outer-world taxes, though it had been too much blood signing.

Even Aldorius, the world’s greatest superhero (again, by popular vote), who had vanquished alien armadas, choked out gods, and once single-handedly stopped the Earth from being sucked towards a black hole in the tragic incident where Gravition had sacrificed their lives to keep the Earth from being simply pulled apart—yes, even he went to Roy for his taxes and financial management.

Roy Mackendal was the accountant for superheroes. Not just any superheroes. Not vigilantes. He was trusted to do Stellaris’ top heroes. World Pact, the even more elite group of heroes who tackled not only interstellar, native Earth and interdimensional threats, all went to him.

Because Roy was trustworthy. There were armies of accountants, lawyers, financial advisors, and more, some with abilities of their own that were supernatural or cybernetic. Some heroes could calculate their problems with the insight of post-Human intelligence.

However, none of them had been tested like Roy. No one had been kidnapped, tested for loyalty, thrust into the spotlight of world attention, been subject to as many bribe attempts, threats, and more so many times…and had come out spotless.

People wondered whether Roy was being paid an obscene amount of money. Some conspiracy theories, if people paid attention to him at all, went that Roy was a robot, or being magically or otherwise kept loyal. A few people even wondered if Roy was even the ordinary Human he was made out to be—the world’s luckiest average Human man, who got to rub shoulders with the superheroes of this world.

The truth was just that Roy had passed his CPA. He had studied the ethics of his career and sworn to uphold the standards of his profession in conduct with dignity and honor.

The truth that Roy was ordinary. But his friends weren’t. And oddly…he saw quite a lot of them. For an accountant, for the world’s luckiest mortal man—not a week went by when he didn’t rub shoulders with giants.

 

——

 

The day after his tackle and the League of Anti-Capitalists incident, Roy took the subway. The mag-lev rails and trains sped him silently and efficiently across Vancouver towards his destination. There was, of course, a crowd, and Roy could have paid for one of the new flying cars, but they were expensive. He could have teleported, but he liked to walk.

He was, as the kids might say, an ‘oldhead’, unless they had changed that slang too. Roy had been born in 1993, at the dawn of the internet. He’d thought he was keeping up with the times pretty well until 2024.

Convergence. Superheroes and magic had sped forwards technology so fast and so far—and for once in such a way that everyone benefited—that people didn’t remember railway systems. Kids these days really didn’t get a world where you couldn’t teleport. Even when someone said ‘back in my day, we had to fly in planes’…people still flew in planes. But how did you explain that your airplanes were huge jets that you waited for hours in an airport to get into, not supersonic carriers that you could hop in and out of and be at your destination across the world in two hours, max?

…If you had the money. Those old jets were still flying in poorer nations of the world. Vancouver, though? Vancouver was where Stellaris had been founded. The mag-lev train lifted up, took off, and put Roy down twenty miles from where he had stepped on.

Twenty seconds from when the doors closed. If Roy thought about it, he got happy. He liked living in the future.

He stepped off the platform, checked the time on his smartphone, and got a call again.

Jorrey Mackendal. This time, Roy picked up.

“Dad, it’s me. I’ve got a meeting in five, and I can’t talk—”

“Roy, I saw the news. You got kidnapped again? How’s things?”

“Fine, Dad. Really. No problems. The ring protected me, and Aldorius saved the day. Felicia Fortune and Stellaris too.”

Roy took the stairs two-at-a-time, heading up. Stellaris’ HQ was just ahead. It was a vast plaza with a giant, impressive citadel, the ground-based headquarters linked to the floating space-station via a space elevator above. A giant ‘tube’ of compressed air and forcefields let visitors fly up into the space station.

Roy got sick when he took it. The people walking towards Stellaris were already taking pictures; tourists most of them. Vancouver regulars knew you couldn’t enter the building, but everyone tried—they just ran into the forcefield around the plaza.

The accountant kept walking as he spoke.

“I have to go, Dad. It wasn’t anything, really.”

“Heard your name, Roy my boy. They didn’t mess you up, did they? That bombing bastard was there.”

“Towertoppler, Dad. I actually tackled him—”

“You what? The news never said! Hah! That’s a quarterback for you.”

Roy groaned. He passed through a shimmering forcefield and batted away the letters.

‘Welcome, Roy Mackendal.’ 

A tourist behind Roy tried the same thing and walked into the jelly-like barrier. Roy whispered.

“Teleporter, World Pact, please. Dad, it wasn’t anything. Mister Olympics had to save me.”

“You still squished that guy, right? Tell me about it.”

“Dad, I have to talk to World Pact! I’m late!”

Roy was striding towards the teleporters, now, a room to the side of Stellaris’ HQ. He saw several superheroes moving out of it and checked his watch.

“Oh, alright, Roy my boy. Good job on that tackle. We’ll talk later. That Felicia. Did you see she was in Tokyo wearing—”

“She’s a client. I have to go, Dad.”

Roy hung up with that vague feeling of irritation and guilt he always got. He stepped into the first teleporter that was showing his name, adjusted his tie, checked his watch, and sighed. He reminded himself he was just Roy.

Just Roy…and these people were busy. So Roy was already pulling his files out of his briefcase, his physical briefcase, and getting ready to launch into the introduction. He waited, felt his stomach lift—

Appeared in a room filled with six superhuman people, who turned to him. And Roy nodded.

“Sorry I’m late. Shall we begin?”

World Pact. Greatest heroes in the universe.

And Roy. He did their finances, and every week, he gave them briefings on the very few things he was qualified to speak. Like finances. Or businesses that Heradonus wasn’t involved in—so not much of that. Or finances.

 

——

 

“…so you’ve lost the investment, I’m afraid. We’ll push for as much of the liquidated assets as possible, but the Lightbeam Company is rapidly collapsing. Their CEO’s still having a breakdown, and I’m sure the actual workers are beginning to pocket tech, if they’re even showing up for work at all.”

And there went a hundred and fourteen billion dollars worth of investment. The Canadian dollar, to be precise, which was currently worth 1.692 US Dollars.

There were a few winces, but this was World Pact. If you flinched at a ‘hundred billion dollars’, you weren’t going to survive your first encounter with a lightspeed bullet. The eight men, women, and nonbinary heroes—stop asking, thank-you-very-much—were all Humans.

Well, they had all grown up on Earth. They were six Humans, one non-Earth species—Aldorius, the prodigal son from another world—and one demi-god. But each one was a person of Earth; natural citizens. World Pact was the premier gathering.

You could join the Unnamed Legion or Stellaris, and many had dual memberships with other groups, like Embodiment, the world’s most famous female superhero, who was currently in her neo-ice gold state, to boost her mental acuity. But when people said Embodiment was a superheroine, they said she was in World Pact, not one of the other groups.

Embodiment. Currently looking like a woman made of ice and gold. Ridges of ice stood out on her head like miniature glaciers; gold below the semi-transparent ice. A being who could manipulate her form; her mind was slightly visible to Roy, who knew better than to stare. Golden strands of intelligence kept superchilled.

She got a lot of space since it was cold around her; Aldorius didn’t mind or notice, so he took her left. Far to her right was Aerthe, who had clearly upped the internal heating systems in her custom spacesuit that still had the basis of the Mars spacesuit she’d been wearing when her craft hit the invisible asteroid.

Aerthe looked somewhat more normal, but she’d upgraded her suit design; black helmet, slimmer suit than the bulky spacesuits of the past. Practically glowing with all the internal screens she was reading from as she politely listened to Roy speak slowly and deliver one information source.

Further down the line, Nightwish sat with arms folded in his skin-tight costume, clearly ignoring anything as mundane as temperature. He had an all-black uniform, except when there was blood on it. Think Batman…but maybe not as nice.

Nightwish wore a new horrific mask—this one of a huge beast with teeth half-opened to reveal his ‘face’ underneath, which revealed only a chiseled jaw of pale flesh and dark, tougher-than-kevlar fabric. The fangs opened and closed, and the eyes, red and clustered on either side of the head, seemed to stare at Roy, tiny pupils dilating at random. He felt queasy even with it in the corner of his eyes; Nightwish sat like a predator waiting to pounce, and his costume unsettled even his frien…his compani…his allies.

Roy made a note to let Nightwish know that. He kept adjusting his style, unlike the very character from stories, Batman, for maximum traumatic effect.

Batman. Superman. Marvel and DC and more. These stories always came to mind to Roy, but of course, they were stories. They had existed, captured the hearts and minds of countless people, and had been the dreams of children, but stories alone.

Until Confluence, when the first heroes started manifesting their powers. When Aldorius, son of a stellar civilization that had sent its last generation across the galaxy to grow up on different planets, revealed himself. A real Superman for these times. It was safe to say the superheroes of the first generation had played off the images they had grown up with.

That was eleven years ago. Ever since then—the world had never been the same. The young men and women had started as vigilantes, working and clashing with the government, establishing support networks, and becoming financial and political giants.

World Pact was the crystallization of that effort. World Pact invested—and lost money.

“Roy. Roy, we don’t need liquid assets. We’ll eat the hundred million dollars. Billion. Whatever Lightbeam has—any of their new solar collectors, even just one prototype—we need that.”

The voice came from a flat holo-projection at one of the desks. Not all of World Pact could make every meeting in the flesh, and the somewhat stressed voice came from Endora Silverwater, the wielder of the magical sword which might be Excalibur, who’d taken the last name of her Faerie fiancée from the realms of the Tuatha De. She was currently slightly blurred as the camera she was holding swung crazily to show a man with a rifle aiming at her—Endora’s view shifted, there was a faint cry, and everyone got a closeup of the gunman lying face-down.

The accountant hesitated. Not because he was in particular fear for Endora’s life, but because it was a tricky question bordering on his jurisdiction.

“I think there are multiple groups trying to get that, Endora. I can call up Thetre and have her take over the conversation. I can only help you on the financial level.”

World Pact’s members glanced at each other. Nightwish grunted, and Embodiment shook her head.

“Our apologies, Roy. This isn’t your job—Endora, we’ll set Thetre on it.”

That was their top lawyer, not a superhero, but certainly as feared in her own way. When you had a superhero bust up a building in the pursuit of a criminal, or had to fight jurisdiction, companies, even foreign nations who all claimed legal protections—you sent for Thetre Mills, and she cleared house.

However…Roy had met with Thetre multiple times, and she was efficient, dedicated, and very well-paid by World Pact. Yet she never appeared in person, let alone at their weekly meetings.

“Thetre could get the prototypes, but—who’s contesting this, Roy? This is a matter of solving the world energy crisis—I would prefer not to sit on my hands when a bit of duct tape and some elbow grease can get it done.”

Aldorius spoke next. And he spoke like some people imagined the ancient Grecian philosophers or America’s founding fathers must have, with the dignity and eloquence of old imperium. His voice came from a seven-foot-four man without a hint of body fat, muscle beyond muscle in his humanoid frame. Yet he was alien, and you could even see how his biology had adapted, improved the Human body.

He might be what Humans became. Or perhaps he was the vision of the next step of humanity they would never reach as a whole; an idealized version. Yet he was not alien; Aldorius had grown up in Tennessee, to a blue collar worker in coal mining. He rooted for the Tennessee Titans, collected specialty-brand sports shoes, and in his rare spare hours, could be found having a beer in a bar or chatting with people from his hometown, which was a city by now.

Aldorius had faintly pale brown hair and two eyes that stood out like green gemstones. He dyed his hair, which was actually an unreal yellow like sunlight.

He smiled at Roy, and the forty-two year old accountant nodded, slightly overweight, six-three, with skin that was already showing a few liver spots and a body that had never qualified him for professional sports, although he had been on his college football team…those years were long behind him. Not to mention the balding. Some days Roy tried to forget and got an unpleasant wakeup call when he passed by a mirror.

“It’s the United States military, along with Haoran, that have similar shares.”

World Pact stirred at the name of the Chinese conglomerate—Aldorius traded a look with a figure sitting across and to the left. He nodded.

“I’ll pop down to the Pentagon and have a word with them. If we pool interests, we can at least work out a sharing deal. Better than letting Haoran get ahold of it.”

All eyes turned to Aldorius’ counterpart, Endora, waiting to see if she’d object to starting a small fight. World Pact made no secret that each member had their own nations and beliefs; they could put it aside and work together, but Nightwish, Aldorius, and, to some extent, Embodiment were the forces of North America.

Aerthe was strictly non-political, having renounced her citizenship, but that meant four of seven were from one side of the world.

Endora represented most of Europe, being from Spain.

They had two more members, one from each remaining continent. World Pact had been accused of less representation, and Roy knew that it was something Aldorius and a few other members agonized over.

—Which was because World Pact, despite the name, was comprised of six heroes who hailed from Europe or the Americas, although their ethnicities were far more varied. They had a single hero to represent all of Africa, the prodigy, Seithe, 19 years old and an official citizen to eleven different countries who had granted them honorary citizenships.

None for all of Asia except in the form of fourth-wave immigrants as in Aerthe, for example. Aldorius was wary of Haoran, which was the counterpart of World Pact and comprised of mostly Asian nations. Haoran had similarly massive funding and powerful superheroes, but they were not as worldly and, most importantly, interworldly renowned.

East versus West all over again. That was a simplification, of course, but Roy saw the historical parallels. He could have written essays on the new superhero-based checks and balances between nations on Earth, and he’d read countless essays, many of which he’d thought were biased or uninformed. But he didn’t speak. Roy waited as the heroes argued. Some days, he wondered why they even needed him here, but he didn’t object.

That was his selfishness.

“Forget about the lawyers. I’ll grab whatever Lightsource has. Stellaris gets its new technology, and Aldorius gets time to play pool in a bar.”

The sneering whisper-growl of a voice was Nightwish’s, as harsh and unsettling as his costume. He didn’t even need a voice modulator to sound like that.

“Nightwish. Let’s go above-board. Haoran doesn’t need any more reasons to argue with us, and if someone sees you, World Pact’s reputation…”

Embodiment’s voice was warning. Her real name was Yearly Thagold, heiress to the Thagold…butter brand. Her family were millionaires and had been for two generations.

Embodiment exceeded their net worth on a yearly basis, Roy was fairly certain. Even so, she had nothing on the richest individual there—Heradonus, self-proclaimed demi-god son of Bacchus, so technically one fourth god, both king of parties and wealth.

He did his own financing and had Roy check his final results. The demigod leaned back as Nightwish sneered, rolling his eyes skyward and clearly wishing he was missing this meeting like Seithe.

“If you think anyone will catch me—”

“No one’s suggesting that, Nightwish. Embodiment is correct. It’s the look of the thing.”

The masked prowler, the dark nightmare of every common criminal, gang, and underworld organization on this hemisphere, folded his arms and glared without a word. Aldorius met his gaze without flinching, but everyone watched Nightwish as Roy continued, in case his ire turned to hostility.

A mortal man with the power to challenge even Aldorius. Nightwish wasn’t here just because he was a rich billionaire with a secret cave who had a gadget for every occasion. He was, in fact, not from a wealthy family orphaned by a cruel twist of fate in an alleyway.

He had lost his parents, but they’d been average people. Nightwish had started his career without anything more than a costume. That he hadn’t died and had become the most famous vigilante in the world? It had something to do with the fact that the first group he’d taken down on his endless quest for vengeance had been a multi-million dollar crime syndicate, and he’d not only taken the money, but continued to expand his net assets.

Those were the assets Roy didn’t calculate. But the real reason Nightwish had survived to purchase, steal, and hire the world’s finest to design gear for him, including the horrific costumes he wore, was because he was possibly the world’s greatest infiltrator and covert specialist.

No one could find him when he went dark. Not interstellar aliens, not Aldorius, not world governments. He had appeared on alien spaceship command decks, snuck up on literal gods, and unlike the fictional hero he had chosen to emulate—

Nightwish didn’t kill either. But he did have a lot of guns.

“Let’s move on. I’ll head down to the Pentagon after this. Roy, what can we expect from our funding of other hero teams? Have any of them incurred more costs than usual?”

“You mean, besides the high-rise demolished per week?”

Aerthe grimaced. Aldorius chuckled politely, and Embodiment frowned.

“Do you actually mean that, or is that just hyperbole…? If there are groups out there acting recklessly, I vote to cut their funding.”

“And turn them into vigilantes? I—hold on, no interviews.”

Endora was wrapping up. She spoke as a babble in the background showed the press mob arguing with the local law enforcement. She waved a hand, and the noise cut off. The superhero continued in the void bubble provided to her by Aerthe’s tech—which ranged from teleportation to a signature shield ring and distress beacon Roy himself carried.

It had saved his life over two dozen times, and Aerthe kept issuing him the newest models even state leaders lacked. The one yesterday had done very well against flamethrowers, but Roy was glad it hadn’t been tested by Towertoppler’s bombs.

Endora spoke back to Embodiment.

“We can’t just cut their funding…”

“Not entirely. But we can cut their exploratory budgets and keep it to just maintenance and medical.”

Aldorius leaned forwards, pressing his fingers together.

“Wouldn’t that generate bad will? When we’re flush for funds…”

“They have to prove they’re responsible.”

Embodiment’s frozen look and Aldorius’ frown met across the table, and neither hero backed down. Nightwish glared, arms folded. Few could interject into even the calm not-a-staring contest, but he growled.

“Let’s cut them loose and see what happens. Bad, good—all of them. It’ll shake out the trash who only play nice when there’s money and fame.”

Aldorius hesitated, and Embodiment raised her head. But before they could actually take a vote, Aerthe raised a suited hand.

“Embodiment, it isn’t a set example. I’m sorry for being imprecise. Unless Roy has some outlier…”

And then they were back to him. Roy already had an answer, and World Pact patiently waited the second it took for him to project the group on-screen and load it onto their individual slates. Aldorius was so fast he was already halfway through the dossier, having read Roy’s movements to come up with the name.

“S.E.R.I. would be that group. They’re a four-hero team. In less than six months, they’ve levelled eight buildings in skirmishes with rival superheroes in what’s apparently an ongoing dispute over territory. Not supervillains. Fellow heroes. Eight buildings. No casualties, but we can thank first responders who cleared the area each time for that.”

Embodiment sighed.

“Well, there’s a loose cannon. Nightwish, you might get your experiment after all. We can’t have that.”

“Unprofessional.”

Heradonus added a comment; he’d been occupied with his smartphone, most likely making a business decision or texting. He looked up.

“I’m actually for Nightwish’s comments, all. But with a twist. Let’s let them keep their budgets for the month—but cut damages. They’re on the hook for everything. And if they go into the red…well, we’ll see how they handle it. No bailing out unless their team needs dissolution or mentoring.”

Aldorius was still frowning.

“It seems cruel. The optics…”

“Let’s vote. Seithe isn’t here, but the worst is we’ll wait for them to break the tie.”

The other six members nodded. Aldorius was against…and he was the only one. He didn’t seem perturbed; he sat back, nodding.

“If that’s the will of World Pact—we’ll set it up. Roy?”

“I have a note in the system. Onto other superhero teams. We have a request for another hideout…”

 

——

 

Here was the funny thing: Roy didn’t really need to be there. Any one of World Pact, especially Aerthe, Aldorius, or Embodiment, arguably Seithe and Heradonus too, had the powers to instantly find and locate the necessary briefing materials and keep the others up to speed. Even Nightwish and Endora were highly intelligent people, and they had a vast staff devoted to finding and procuring anything they might require to do their duties with minimal strain.

Roy should know: he’d seen their salaries and resumes. He was a man with a CPA. World Pact had people who’d run multi-billion dollar companies, the best secretaries, analysts, and strategists both military and otherwise that money could buy. They didn’t need him. They didn’t even need to meet in person, frankly, with technology being so effortless.

Heradonus, again. The demigod had revolutionized technology, absorbed so many companies that he definitely had more money than god…he could present you a list of the ones he was richer than.

Yet World Pact tried to meet in person. And Roy gave them an update every week, often on matters far out of his jurisdiction. They met for an hour or two at most, then broke up. They all had duties. Nightwish his one-man war on crime from the street level. Aldorius flew patrol across the world. Embodiment, likewise. Aerthe watched the stars, Heradonus managed his business empire and fought villains, and Seithe mixed their private and hero life together. Endora was the ambassador to the fae and engaged, but she was just as active fighting any threat coming her way.

It was Roy, though, who never fit in. And yet…after the meeting, they had an informal chat around their circular table. Some of them stood, staring into space or at the earth, or talked shop, or just…talked. And Roy was there.

“Roy. Thanks for coming up. Embodiment thought you’d be shaken up by yesterday, but I said Roy never misses a beat, even after a kidnapping.”

Aldorius floated over, smiling that incredible smile, as if he could face down armies and gods with nothing more than pure, humble confidence. Roy nodded.

“I hope you’re doing well?”

“Grand. Grand. I took a bit of a scratch from that poisoned arrow last week, but I think I’ve gotten back up to scratch. Can’t complain; it beats nearly losing a chunk when we were fighting those aliens that cut through neo-steel like butter.”

We. Roy had watched that on a screen, not been there as Aldorius himself bled crimson, fighting with the deadly alien space-creatures. But he nodded anyway.

“Are you worried about whoever’s shooting the arrows or the creatures?”

Aldorius waved an airy hand as Embodiment sipped from a cup, chatting with Aerthe, who was projecting small globules of liquid into her helmet; they floated in, and she gulped them down, suspended liquid in a zero-gravity environment. Nightwish was staring out one of the windows as Heradonus waved—

“Have to run, I’m afraid. Sorry to do it—someone’s smashing up one of my subsidiaries. Next time. Endora—it’s a dinner date with you two. I’ll bring the wine and at least one lovely—”

He vanished in a flash of light. Aldorius lifted a hand, leaning in. He swept the hand through his hair, like a young man of sixteen, looking rueful.

“Nothing monster-wise. But I’m giving a speech later today on the ethics of, well, vaporizing an alien species. I tried it on Haoran, but you know how they like me. I’m still workshopping it for the American people. You know animal rights groups. They want an ark, a containment facility—no species should be simply slaughtered, and we should have tried to incapacitate the creatures, especially if they were sentient. Public opinion’s always against it, but—what’s your thought on it?”

Roy hesitated. That was the kind of question that floored you—unless you’d heard World Pact talk about such issues. He looked around.

“Could even Aerthe create that kind of enclosure on such short notice? I also think those were spore-creatures, weren’t they? Germinated on an inbound flight? In that case, they’re more of an invasive species well and truly thriving. We don’t try to conserve rats or stink bugs—not that they’re like that. But if they were intelligent, then they’re invading soldiers who have killed innocent people and heroes. It’s not really possible to stop them without practically vaporizing or tearing them apart. So…”

He trailed off. He didn’t have an end, just his opinion, but Aldorius was nodding thoughtfully.

“Good points, Roy. Always good to hear from the man on the street. Not that you’re that man—I appreciate it. Next time—I’ll bring some good brisket from my favorite pub.”

He clapped Roy on the shoulder—gently. Roy didn’t even stumble, yet for a second, he felt like a mountain was oh-so-carefully squeezing him—and Aldorius was saying farewell.

Nightwish was next. Roy was wondering if Embodiment wanted to talk about her account for her niece who was going through a crisis, having run away and had no idea her aunt was Embodiment—but a hand touched his shoulder, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the leering monster mask. He fumbled for his briefcase, speaking a touch rapidly as he turned to face the world’s scariest superperson.

“Roy.”

“Nightwish. The costume is terrifying—”

“Not that.”

It sounded like someone was running nails through a blender of vocal cords. Nor was it conscious. Roy remembered a time when Nightwish had ‘slipped’ and spoken with his normal voice. He didn’t do that anymore. Recently, it seemed as though he had forgotten there was anything to slip to.

“How can I help you? Something to do with your accounts?”

Nightwish had multiple funds for everything from bribes to money he could use in his civilian identities. The superhero half shook his head. Roy saw one of the mandible-teeth flex towards his face and flinched.

The two burning mortal eyes in the mask stared blankly at Roy, then Nightwish blinked and adjusted the fang protrusions. His voice became a bit less gravelly.

“They don’t bite. It’s too heavy to wear if I reinforce it enough to tear metal. Magic’s too noticeable. Not the problem.”

“Ah.”

Roy waited. Behind him, Aerthe and Embodiment looked up. A pulsing siren was blaring, and Roy’s blood thrilled at the alert.

“Deep space. This one’s us. We’ll talk later, Roy. Nightwish?”

“Later.”

He barely looked at them. Embodiment was gone in a flash, changing from ice-cold metalica to a flash of light so bright Roy shielded his face. Running lightning. The smell of ozone. A comet blasted past the window, Embodiment heading towards the alert. Aerthe was after her in a second, afterburners on her suit flaring.

It might be an alien invasion. An armada. An interstellar visitor or a false alarm. Nightwish continued as if nothing had happened, and Roy did likewise. If the world ended, well, they’d been there before, and it was only Tuesday.

There was a little custom that happened with Roy and Nightwish. Roy had a small pack of wrapped, round objects he handed over.

“They might have gotten a bit banged up in transit, sorry. I think this one’s a bruschetta, and that’s—”

Nightwish barely glanced at the objects as he took them. Brusquely—he was distracted, brief, even for him. Something was wrong. What was it?

“Thanks. Roy. The anniversary is coming up.”

Oh, of course. Roy connected the dots. The League of Anti-Capitalists had made him completely forget. It was that time of year again.

“Oh. I’m…for Rosalin? I’m sorry, it’s today, isn’t it? The attack—”

Not a flicker of emotion on that face, but the voice deepened. The growl of a man about to beat any criminal unconscious. Flat, discordant with the simple words.

“Yes. My mother. She died…a week after.”

In the hospital. Roy didn’t know what to say. Nightwish went on, growling, angry—and suddenly with another note inside of it. Rare uncertainty.

“I’m visiting the grave. It’s the anniversary. So…”

“Is there an issue with the space? Privacy concerns? I can make a private call and have the place closed down if you need.”

“No. It’s…”

He struggled for words, staring through Roy’s head. At last, Nightwish spoke.

“Flowers. It’s always…flowers. Should I get something else? What’s—appropriate?”

Roy stood there and thought. He scratched at his balding head—well, mostly balding. He had a thin combover. Roy glanced down. Nightwish waited in perfect silence, unmoving. At last, Roy looked up and coughed weakly.

“…I leave something my mother used to buy now and then. Favorite flowers are favorite flowers. Perhaps you could…freshen up the site?”

“You mean replace the tombstone?”

Nightwish was trying to bore a hole into Roy’s brain with his glare. The accountant raised his hands hurriedly.

“No! No, perish the thought! I meant…sometimes the graves aren’t perfectly tended. It’s a custom some families do, I think. You weed, dust the place. Plant flowers. Clean up the site. Put something she would have wanted there.”

“Weed. Dust. Plant flowers and clean. Something she wanted.”

Nightwish repeated slowly. He sounded…ominously deadpan until Roy realized he was making a verbal note. Nightwish’s head slowly dipped.

“Fine. I’ll think about it. I’m late.”

He turned and was moving for the teleporters so fast that the mortal man was out of Roy’s sight almost as quickly as Aerthe. Roy actually lost track of him, so good was Nightwish at vanishing—until he saw a masked head poke back in.

A monster that lurked in the nightmares of criminals across the world, supervillain or mortal, especially in his home city of Chicago, stared at Roy.

“Don’t stay in headquarters. It always gets blasted in the first attack waves.”

Roy nodded. Nightwish vanished without a word, and Roy packed up his papers, walked out as the automatic lights turned off, and headed for the teleporter.

 

——

 

The world didn’t end that day. It turned out to be just a false alarm. Seithe had taken some friends on a joyride through space and triggered the alarms. Roy Mackendal took the rest of the day off. He didn’t really need multiple clients aside from superheroes, but he kept up a few friends while refusing to discuss the business at all. He was fairly rich, even for someone living in Vancouver, where the price of living—much less superhero insurance—was the world’s premium.

One more thing happened that week. Roy Mackendal watched as Aldorius gave a speech to angry campaigners including PETAA—People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals and Aliens, whether they liked it or not—who wanted answers as to why World Pact had killed off an entire species, alien invaders or not.

Aldorius floated downwards, a smile on his face. He swept at his hair and glanced up.

“Sure hope it’s not going to rain. The Titans are playing tonight.”

He grinned, then took the first question about the invading species people were referring to as ‘Crealers’. Aldorius leaned on the podium and spoke, resting casually on one arm, in a conversational tone of voice that still managed to project.

“First off, they’re not exactly endangered, folks. It’s another bit of fake news. They’re some kinda spore-like creature that’s as common as cockroaches out in space, and they kill everything they get ahold of. As for containment? I asked Aerthe about it, and she said she’d have to have a week’s prep to make an enclosure she’d have trusted—and even then, she didn’t know if it would hold! The things sliced up good heroes. If it meant just one of the brave men and women serving the world and the good old US of A, I would have done it again. I’m sorry if some of you thought they looked cute, but they were pretty darn terrifying to me, I’ll tell you what.”

He grinned, and Roy felt a leap in his chest when he heard the words, almost exactly as he’d suggested them. Aldorius winked at the camera, and maybe it was to everyone. Or maybe it was to Roy. The accountant didn’t bring it up to anyone. After all—Aldorius had just listened to his rambling. That was all he did.

He wasn’t a hero.

 

——

 

The next week, Roy gave his talk, this time about the precipitous drop in their solar investments since Lightbeam’s tech wasn’t actually as good as they had claimed to their investors from the start, even the prototypes. Seithe was there, and even Endora in person.

They took exactly ten minutes on his report and then started their discussion, which began with unauthorized interstellar vehicles violating Earth’s airspace and how to address it without starting an interstellar war, and ended with the superhero drama all over the tabloids.

Roy sat in a corner and listened. Twice, someone asked what he thought, but he wasn’t qualified. But it thrilled his blood to see Seithe arguing with glittering eyes, staring down Embodiment, and to know what they said would become news—if it even reached the news.

Two hours, and Roy was packing up when Embodiment stopped him. Seithe was already out of there, and Aldorius had to run—he had a charity gala in another timezone. But he slowed down as Embodiment stopped Roy.

“Roy, can you make it to next week, Wednesday?”

The accountant frowned. He checked his personal scheduler and grimaced.

“I may be unavailable. I’m taking a personal vacation to see my father…”

Embodiment blinked.

“Your father?”

Aldorius lifted a finger.

“Good thing to do. I should call the old man up myself. We’d hate to bother you, Roy, but—you heard us talking about the drama? Young heroes, talking about infighting—”

He rolled his eyes.

“It’s the S.E.R.I. thing. We’re juggling numbers, and they’re airing all kinds of laundry. Who slept with who, petty things—”

Embodiment narrowed her eyes dangerously. Her ice-gold form sparked with internal lightning.

“Sexual assault, Aldorius. Worse, they’re fighting over their base, funding—and the tabloids are all over it. The media too. Two of our people have already been leaking news to the press…”

Heradonus scowled from his seat as he leaned into the conversation, fingers tapping on his own personal computer.

“Five. All fired, all backtraced thanks to Aerthe. I had all five recommended to me—and those recommenders are now blacklisted too. It’s a disappointment.”

“Even the League of Extraordinary People? They’re always aboveboard.”

They were the ones supposedly adjudicating the entire mess, but it seemed even well-respected heroes were in the thick of the Drama. Roy was surprised World Pact was even part of it. Endora passed by and made a face.

“Evergreen made the mistake of discussing the issue—now the League of Extraordinary People is in the crosshairs as well. S.E.R.I are hugely popular. Someone blabbed, and now everyone knows exactly who bought a private bungalow for their love affair. It’s getting ugly.”

Aldorius nodded. He checked his old-fashioned watch and then looked up.

“We need you, Roy. No one’s more trustworthy. Just until this one blows over—we can double the vacation…but we’re tired of having every single person who’s part of it talk. Accountants, even superheroes. Just because half of New Hollywood is involved…”

“Too many big names. Roy, I know family’s important, but we could use you.”

Embodiment smiled, looking slightly guilty, and her face shifted to her human features. Flesh and bone looking Roy in the eyes. Some people thought she was a goddess, despite Heradonus being right there.

A mortal man with an actual demigod, a champion with a magic sword, the mightiest superhero and superheroine looking at him. What else could he say?

“Of course. I’m happy to help.”

“Thattaguy.”

Aldorius slapped Roy on the shoulder. Embodiment looked relieved as Roy staggered slightly. Aldorius saluted the others.

“I have to fly. Until next week! Unless you want to join me in Munich, Roy? It’s four hours and good eating—no?”

“You’ll have to take a new visit to Stellaris’ space station sometime soon, Roy. We’ve renovated the place.”

Aerthe commented. Roy nodded, and Embodiment smiled.

“Thank you, Roy. I know it’s not your exact purview, but if there were anyone who could stay out of the drama and be impartial and trustworthy, it’s you. I’ll see you next week—one of us will have to work with you, and it’ll be me unless something comes up. Thank you.”

She left along with Heradonus and Endora. Nightwish passed by without a word. Roy called out.

“Nightwish.”

The man turned. Nightwish had a new face. It looked like someone had removed all his flesh and left it to rot. It even smelled—he’d activated the scent glands now that the meeting was over. Roy hesitated.

“The anniversary?”

“It happened.”

Nightwish turned away. He looked back once as he strode towards his teleporter.

“Good idea.”

They were gone again. It had been a longer session than most. Roy stood there, bouncing on his heels for a few seconds…then grimaced. He hesitated and pulled out his cellphone before remembering he was in World Pact’s headquarters.

No reception for cellular data. So he walked out through the teleporter and appeared in Vancouver. He was instantly ignored; the teleporter spat him out of a restroom door, and people bustling through a busy metro didn’t look twice at him. Now and then, someone recognized him, but even with his face on three magazine covers—he was just Roy.

Roy, who was going to be taking the S.E.R.I case being projected onto the largest news bulletin from one of the skyscrapers. A holo-display was shining down into the plaza as Roy emerged from the subway.

He stared up into the tower with grav lifts and a hololithic screen paid for by Heradonus and emblazoned with his sigil. A baseball stadium-sized screen projected onto the air—no need for LEDs, capable of X²HDPI pixel density, whatever that meant, showing the image of a superhero caught in a very compromising position in bed.

Gossip never changed, but the technology did. If Roy so chose, he could instantly link up to Heradonus’ network, Greecia, and connect to a VR (virtual reality) display of some of the fights that had been recreated or recorded, join the ‘discussion’ around who was in the right, a war of upvotes, downvotes, likes, possibly hearts, and memes, or follow any one of the heroes as they went on patrol or addressed the controversy on private video-streams to their audiences.

Not all heroes had those, but the younger ones had everything from live-feeds of them fighting crime to fan-groups that even did things like monitor their heart rate. Not for everyone, but the news story itself was an international headline. And he…Roy…was invisibly part of it.

What did that make him feel like? Well, Roy’s face wouldn’t tell anyone walking past him anything. He could have been smiling at something else as he adjusted his tie and walked forwards. Only then did the purring tone in his ear pick up with a familiar click. The accountant touched his earpiece, and that pleased smile faltered. Roy spoke.

“Dad? It’s me, your son, Roy. Yes, the only one.”

His lips didn’t twitch at the old joke. He paused, took a deep breath. And for once, the smooth, even bland tones of a man who spoke to superheroes without blinking—faltered. Roy licked his lips and spoke awkwardly.

“I’m sorry. I have to push back our vacation. It’s work. I…”

He paused.

“Yes.”

Another pause, and the tone was more excited, but Roy’s tone wearied. He tried to interject.

“No, it’s—I can’t—I can’t talk about it. It’s confidential. Dad. You know—that’s all I can say. They asked me to work, and I think my week will be filled.”

A pause. Roy listened, slowing, people passing by.

“I’m sorry. Thank you for understanding. I’ll take a longer break. Thanks, Dad. No, I can’t talk about…oh. The rest of it?”

He ran a hand through his balding pate.

“I…it’s going well. No one…no one new, no. I’m kept busy by managing it all, you know.”

He glanced up, bit his tongue.

“I have to go. Listen, Dad, thank you for understanding, and I’ll talk to you soon. Thank you. L—you too.”

The accountant stopped. He stared at his phone.

“Yeah, bye.”

Then he hung up. Roy Mackendal stood there for a second, then he stowed his cellphone and began googling the S.E.R.I situation. Wednesday? He’d have to look up all the files, double-check the work, and Embodiment would have to work around her schedule if they were going to report by then…

He hurried off, busy already. He was often busy, but he’d visit the week after next. They said you could just hop in a teleporter these days and visit anyone you wanted, but that wasn’t true unless you were a multi-millionaire at least, and these days, it looked like only the billionaires or emerging trillionaires could afford it.

Of course, Roy could have asked Aerthe to calibrate World Pact’s teleporters, but he didn’t because that was private life. Besides. He visited once a month, and it worked. His father kept asking about World Pact, and Roy couldn’t tell him. That was why they trusted him. It would be bad enough having to downplay the tackle. Roy was, of course, proud of it, but his father wouldn’t let it rest. Anyways, next month.

That was all Roy thought about it.

 

——

 

“Thanks for doing this, Roy. Coffee?”

He was neck-deep in the mismanaged S.E.R.I files when Embodiment stopped by and offered him a coffee. With Heradonus, no less.

The world’s most powerful woman and the richest superhero. They were walking around the headquarters of the superhero team in hot water.

It was, Roy understood, something of a fad in other countries to treat superheroes like pop stars. Of course, the same applied anywhere in the world; Mister Olympics had his own toy line, his personal fitness drink, sneakers, and so much more.

But there was a difference with S.E.R.I. They live-updated fans on everything, like Seithe, had meetups and publicly shared edited clips of fights against their enemies, breakups, and arguments.

Like reality television all the time. So when they had a breakup, everyone wanted to know everything. You could sell the information about S.E.R.I for millions, which was why Roy had been called in. Not many people even realized he was the person going over the messy documents of affairs and money and favors being traded around. And if they did, what were they going to do, bribe him?

Roy didn’t even look at the figure anymore before refusing. And it was good work; Embodiment and Heradonus didn’t want to waste time doing this. But they had stopped by…why?

It was good coffee. Roy took a sip, and his brows rose.

“What is this? Stellaris doesn’t have anything as good.”

“Stellaris buys theirs from a coffee manufacturing plant that pays its workers pennies. I’m not going to name names; just look at their logos. I’ve told Aerthe, but she says it’s not her call. This is from Fairway Beans. Good?”

“Very. A bit…nutty?”

Roy tried to be honest, and Embodiment flipped open a notepad and wrote it down.

“As long as it’s good. I can’t tell you how much I’ve paid to get a unique, delicious taste out of the beans.”

“With my help. Ethical growing of beans doesn’t make it taste that good. And morality doesn’t pay.”

Heradonus added. The Greek god relaxed on one of S.E.R.I’s chairs made out of floating water, paused, and then rose.

“Blacklight scan the room. Full illumination, fifteen seconds.”

Roy had been working in the living room and open kitchen of the superhero’s headquarters. He paused, mid-sip from his coffee, as the light turned purple and illuminated various…splotches…of pale white. Roy looked down at his seat as Heradonus wiped at his designer pants. Embodiment changed her feet to whirling air and lifted off the ground. The demigod looked around in mild horror as Roy shot to his feet.

“Olympus, it’s everywhere.”

Embodiment just sighed.

“Tell me they don’t have that leaked, Roy. It’s bad enough we’re having to hold their hands and reconcile them fighting with each other.”

“I…think it’s behind a paywall.”

Roy had found some things in S.E.R.I’s files that were, uh, well—he had circled a lot of things for World Pact to look at. If they wanted to.

“Unbelievable. We should just make another group deal with this. But even people in Stellaris are taking sides. It’s like they can’t see past the fame. I almost put it to them before I heard Mister Olympics had the young one, Jackrabbit, on his podcast?”

Embodiment sighed. Heradonus nodded and flicked something with a finger; Roy checked his phone and saw a screenshot of the two having a discussion on the Champions podcast.

“It’s to be expected, Embodiment. You had heroes squabbling and sleeping with each other when I was still a traditional god. Siege of Troy? Poor Hellen slept with the wrong man. If you want to get technical, it was also the golden apple, but Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite hated each other long before that.”

He spoke so casually, as one might expect of someone who claimed to have been alive since before the world had formed. Embodiment gave him a patient look.

“It must all be so boring to you. One wonders why you make such an effort to run a business and help with World Pact, let alone S.E.R.I.”

A calm smile from that bronze face was her only reply. Heradonus sat—after some kind of protective film was deployed from one of the devices hovering around him. A technological god sitting cross-legged and sipping from a coffee cup with ‘Bacchus Beans’ stamped on it.

“I’ve been a low-ranking god for ages. No real power, scrabbling to survive when the big gods war, for all my existence, Embodiment, Roy. Right now? I’m richer than Mount Olympus. When Zeus wants someone to remind people he’s still around, he comes to me for a favor. Lightning bolts from the sky? I have Canada’s power grid at my disposal. I’m a superhero. I like the job. I like being important. But stuff like this? Not exactly fascinating.”

Roy gave up on doing any more paperwork. He cleared his throat.

“Did you two need something?”

“Lunch. We’re taking you out. You’ve been working like a madman, Roy. Aldorius was going to drag you to a baseball game, but we called dibs.”

—And like that, Roy found himself exiting the headquarters, out a back door as people queued up, taking pictures, livestreaming the headquarters, and one of the heroes, 거미검—or ‘Spiderswords’ he believed her English name was—live-protested and spilled the metaphorical tea on her former teammates.

No one saw the trio leave. Cloaking field. And when they sat down at an outdoor cafe, the other two were in disguises.

Roy had no disguise. Even with fake identities, both of them looked better than he did. You couldn’t hide Embodiment’s poise when she ordered from the menu, or Heradonus’ aura. Fight off an alien navy and you were changed.

…And again, Roy. Embodiment frowned at her grilled cheese sandwich. Heradonus took a sip of coffee and instantly replaced it with more of his own.

“We’re beating the local stuff. I say we undercut prices and show everyone with working taste buds what we’ve got. It’s $4 CAD for a cup at your lowest. Sell at $3.50?”

“Not now, Heradonus—yes. Find anything interesting, Roy?”

He shrugged, mind flashing to a bunch of very vivid videos filmed in high quality. With an olfactory channel too, though he hadn’t plugged one in.

“Nothing worth stating. It’s a mess. You’ll have to decide how to break them up. They’ve got more than one incident you could prosecute over. I’m not sure what the law is in Singapore, but it’s not good.”

“Wonderful. But nothing standout?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself.”

Why was that funny? Both of them smiled, and Heradonus held out a hand. Embodiment snapped a finger off and handed it to him; it regrew instantly. Roy hesitated.

“Was there a bet of some kind…?”

“Just to see whether you’d say anything about them. I should have known better, Roy; you never gossip.”

Embodiment sighed. Then gave him a dazzling smile. She looked around and grimaced.

“Oops.”

The waitress had seen her ripping her finger off. Heradonus passed her a card.

“Read this, miss. A quiet meal and I’ll tip you. Handsomely.”

He winked, and then they sat back. Embodiment glanced at Roy.

“You really don’t. It’s why we put the S.E.R.I thing in your hands. It’s not even about secret identities. Say something bad about Mister Olympics.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You see? I could, especially about how he presents himself or runs his Champions podcast or the people he has on, how much he’s make the Olympics his thing—”

“He raises millions for cancer research every year.”

Heradonus grinned and raised his brows. A silent ‘you see?’. After a moment, Embodiment changed the subject.

“How are things with you, Roy, anything interesting?”

“Not really. Not many new clients.”

He’d been looking into the costs of getting hair insta-transplanted, then wondered what World Pact would say about it. His father had called, and Roy had apologized again about missing the monthly meetup. He couldn’t get into the details, which hadn’t made his father exactly happy. But Roy didn’t bring that up because it wasn’t something you told Heradonus or Embodiment.

“And you two?”

Embodiment exhaled a plume of frost, despite it being well above freezing.

“Alright, fine, S.E.R.I was getting on my nerves well before this. Half of their team decided it was time to cancel me for my position on hiring women to work at my companies. Which are, I might add, private companies. My organization paid for Splintershot’s scholarship in college.”

“Feeling a bit like they’re biting the hand that fed them?”

Heradonus’ tone was neutral as he received his snack—and a flustered request for an autograph. He rose to sign it, and Embodiment lowered her voice.

“I’m not trying to get any self aggrandizement out of all of it. But that’s why I pushed us to interfere with this. They’re causing a mess, and for what? Do you think that’s petty, Roy? There have been assaults on fellow superheroes. Nevermind who has which powers. They’re drunk. Consent was not given. But am I making it personal?”

Roy had been following the allegations, and from the videos he’d uncovered…he hesitated. Embodiment was changing her elemental compositions; the air was heating up.

“Isn’t your policy holding everyone to account? Superheroes or politicians? You’re being consistent.”

Embodiment pulled a face.

“I’m prejudiced.”

“You’re not wrong. I’m sure that no one in World Pact will be making any prosecutions. There were allegations, and I’ve found proof. I can show you—”

“I don’t want to see it. At least I’m right. Some days, I feel like Aldorius. But he’s—”

She broke off, glanced at Roy, and smiled.

“You don’t play favorites either. So you think it’s fine how we’re doing this?”

“Smoke and fire. If you think you’re being biased, you could let the rest of World Pact vote without you? But I think you’re right.”

She exhaled, no smoke this time, and no frost. Embodiment sat back as Heradonus returned, and she relaxed visibly. She took a bite from her sandwich.

“Thank you, Roy. Hearing that from you helps.”

“I don’t know about that.”

He busied himself with some squid ink noodles, embarrassed, but Embodiment just laughed tiredly and massaged her temples.

“You think so? I trust it when it comes from you. I’ve been talking with other super people, reading all my replies on Greecia—”

“Terrible. Don’t do that. It’s a cesspool.”

Heradonus commented, and Embodiment snapped.

“You designed it.”

“And I never read replies.”

The two bickered, and then Embodiment turned to Roy.

“I can trust your opinion. I will excuse myself from the World Pact vote. And I’ll think no more of it. Sorry, I do have to finalize this coffee thing with Heradonus. I just asked to stop by to chat.”

She rose, and Heradonus was summoning a flying cab to take them to a teleporter. He’d taken one bite of a donut; Embodiment had eaten half her sandwich. Heradonus got the bill and probably paid for the waitress’ college. Roy rose.

“Just for that? Don’t you talk to Felicia Fortune or—”

Anyone else?

The demigod smiled. Embodiment turned, a look of genuine surprise on her face, and then she grinned.

“Roy. Felicia’s a colleague. I came here to get away from politics.”

Then she lifted her hand, shed her disguise, and took off into the sky as Heradonus got into the cab. People whirled, began taking video and pictures, and Roy sat there. Forgotten even by the waitress, who began taking a video of herself showing people the tip and relating her encounter with Heradonus.

Roy finished his spaghetti, then he got back to work.

 

——

 

Two weeks later, Roy Mackendal stood in World Pact and listened as Aldorius spoke.

“—and it could be war. Frankly, it could be. I’m saying we stay out of it, but we support the Cthonians.”

“That risks us being drawn in. Hey, I’m for it.”

“Seithe.”

Embodiment half-rose. Seithe put their feet up defiantly and wiggled all their toes. Embodiment looked around for more support.

“They have world-crackers, and even if they’re wary of us, this isn’t a binary conflict. Cthonia isn’t bloodless.”

Someone slapped his knee with a sound like a firecracker going off. Guess who.

“They’re the underdog. We can’t let anyone bully us into being silent. They’re the underdog, and if the Ivocrin Empirate wants to scare everyone into submission, well, they need to understand we’re going to speak. If they push…it’s free speech.”

“There’s no American constitution in space, Aldorius.”

Heradonus rubbed at his brow. Aldorius folded his arms.

“Let’s put it to a vote.”

“Let’s discuss it first. Nightwish—where is he?”

Everyone glanced towards his seat. Endora muttered.

“Probably out cracking heads and breaking bones. He’s losing it.”

Aerthe checked something in her helmet, switching from the displays of the two interstellar empires. The monitor on the far wall changed.

“It was just the anniversary of his mother’s death, and his father’s is in two weeks.”

“Oh. Nightwish…I forget—he’s always like this.”

Embodiment closed her eyes. Aldorius nodded.

“He’ll come round. For now, we’re odd. Let’s vote.”

“Aldorius!”

“Fine, we let Nightwish vote. I’ll ping him, but if we’re even—Roy.”

All heads turned. Roy jumped. Aldorius looked at him.

“What do you think about all this? We have to say something, don’t we?”

“I, er—it’s an interstellar war—”

Embodiment called out from her seat.

“Don’t put him on the spot, Aldorius.”

“I just want to know his opinion. Would you risk it, Roy? It’s Stellaris and our space-oriented teams that will do the fighting. I’d even ask Haoran to back us—although, knowing them, they might condemn Cthonia too. What’s your take?”

Roy hesitated. Then he rose. Seithe looked at him, slightly disbelievingly, but Endora broke off texting with her fiancée, and Heradonus glanced up.

“I think…it is something about the world’s affairs. Haoran would have to fight if it came to war. Does it make sense to ask them to unify on the issue?”

For Seithe, a new member of World Pact, it was a strange thing to see. There stood Roy, balding, with such a boring answer. He had never been to space—well, he had been, but only because he’d been kidnapped! Sure, he was convenient with stuff like if your card bounced, but he was Roy. He was no 200 IQ wizard-savant, yet when he spoke, the demigod who’d been staying quiet instantly nodded. Heradonus typed on a keyboard, and all of World Pact began receiving files.

“It’s a fair point. Haoran might not like it—let me check our internal files and see what their membership thinks. Having them on board means we’re united.”

Heradonus was pulling contact details for their counterparts in Haoran. Aldorius grimaced, but Embodiment beat him to the next question.

“What about speaking itself, Roy? This isn’t something we can simply judge with Earth-morality. These are alien cultures, and what looks like a war has roots I’m not sure any of us grasp, even Endora’s fiancée to hear it.”

Seithe’s head swung back to Roy in disbelief. But before they could, Aldorius raised his voice.

“Can’t apply Earth-morality to it? Don’t Wonder Woman the situation, Embodiment. This isn’t about peace, it’s about not being afraid to say what we believe, right or wrong! That’s the American way!”

Embodiment scowled at him, and her face turned into flickering flames for a second.

“Let Roy speak, Aldorius! You’ve made your point. Roy!”

Both turned to him. The accountant hesitated as Seithe leaned forwards with the others to listen—

And his phone rang. Instantly, unconsciously, Roy slapped a hand to his side. World Pact stared at his phone as he turned red.

“I’m sorry. It shouldn’t even ring here—”

“I added cellular data last week when you mentioned it.”

“Go ahead and answer it, Roy. I want to pull up the history again.”

Aldorius waved a hand, and he and Embodiment sat back. Still embarrassed, Roy lifted the phone to his ear and spoke as he walked back, lowering his voice. He recognized the caller ID and had a moment’s pang.

“Dad. I’m sorry, I forgot, but I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you—”

An unfamiliar voice interrupted him. A stranger’s tone. A woman’s voice. There was a faint…strain in it that cut Roy off.

“Is this Roy Mackendal?”

He hesitated. Checked the phone caller ID again. It read…

‘Dad’.

Roy frowned and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Yes…yes. I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—who is this?”

The number. It was definitely the same. He was fiddling with his phone, and his stomach did an odd little jolt. The woman on the other end spoke.

“I’m the on-duty nurse for the Easement Center. Mr. Mackendal, are you able to step away from anything urgent at the moment?”

He hesitated. Looked at the superheroes who were staring at a projection with an alien language’s captions on the wall. Endora was eying him.

“I…what is this about, please? Is it in regards to my father? Did he have a—another fall?”

“Mister Mackendal, perhaps it’s better if you sit down. Could you sit down for me?”

Roy hesitated. He walked over to the chair and sat. Aldorius glanced at him, and Embodiment waved a hand, and the projection lowered in volume.

“Yes? I’m—I’m sitting.”

The polite woman paused.

“Mister Mackendal, we found Jorrey collapsed in the shower this morning when we went to check on him. The doctor on duty and paramedics found his heart was stopped and were doing chest compressions when he got to the emergency room. Despite everything the team did, he was declared dead this morning.”

Roy Mackendal sat there. Aldorius lifted a hand, and the projection stopped. His head slowly moved towards Roy, and the other superheroes broke off their discussion.

What did they see? Roy Mackendal’s lips moved. He smiled. Not smiled, but he made that face.

“I…what? Are you sure?”

Are you sure? Why was he smiling? His face froze. He began to speak.

“Th—”

Then he stopped. He sat there. Roy Mackendal’s heart was beating so calmly. He heard it. Beat. Beat. Beat…

“Mister Mackendal, I am so sorry for your loss. We were all exceptionally fond of Jorrey, and I know he had been looking f…”

Roy kept listening, but he didn’t hear a thing. He sat there as Embodiment turned, concern on her face.

“Roy?”

He didn’t answer her. He sat there, an incredulous smile on his face, staring at the table.

Are you sure? Roy’s hand felt weak, unable to grip the phone properly. He could see Seithe leaning over to whisper to Heradonus.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The demigod didn’t answer. He had an old, tired look in his eyes. Aldorius was glancing around. His face was so carefully blank as his eyes flicked to Roy. Away. He could hear. Aerthe and Endora were glancing at each other and Roy.

“Mister Mackendal?”

“I—what?”

“Do you have any questions?”

He fumbled for words.

“I—no—no questions. I—when should I—arrive? Where is he? I, uh—”

She was very soothing.

“Whenever is convenient, Mister Mackendal. Please don’t worry about the arrangements. We can discuss everything when you arrive. I’d like you to take a deep breath, take a moment…please call me back if you have any questions.”

“I will. Thank you. You’re s…I will be there by tonight. I’ll be there—I have to book a teleporter. I’ll arrive and see you then?”

“Yes, Mister Mackendal. I might not be there, but the manager of the center…”

“Right. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Not at all, Mister Mackendal. Do you have any more questions?”

Now they were all watching him. Roy fumbled with his phone.

“No? Thank you. I…goodbye.”

He hung up as she was saying something. Then he just sat there. Roy gazed around.

World Pact peered at him. Aldorius shifted in his chair. Embodiment murmured.

“Ah. Roy. Has something happened?”

The accountant looked at her blankly. He stood up.

“Something has. Yes. I’m sorry to interrupt the meeting, everyone, but I think—I think I have to go.”

“Why?”

Roy halted. He was halfway towards the teleporter. He turned back. Now Embodiment was on her feet. Aldorius stood up and walked around the table. He patted Roy, gingerly, on the shoulders, so lightly, as if he was afraid the man would crumble. But Roy didn’t. He was fine. Why was he fine?

“Roy, sit down a second. Aerthe can calibrate the teleporters.”

“Of course. Where to?”

Roy didn’t answer. He trailed back a second. The person who’d asked ‘why’ was Endora. She sat up.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, no. I’m sorry to disturb you all…it’s not a war. It’s—”

Roy hesitated.

It’s nothing? His mouth stayed open as he failed ot finish the sentence. Endora blinked. Roy’s lips moved soundlessly. Someone else said the rest of the words. It sounded like him, and it came from his mouth, but it wasn’t him.

“My father passed away. I…I just got the call. It was a heart attack.”

World Pact said nothing. Seithe sat up in their chair and overbalanced and fell back with a crash. Embodiment spoke at the same time as Heradonus.

“I am so sorry—”

“That is terrible news. My condolenc—”

They glanced at each other. Heradonus opened his mouth, then gestured. Embodiment spoke quickly, her face changing back to her human one.

“I am so sorry, Roy. Is he in the hospital? We can call a team—”

“No. No, he was pronounced dead already.”

Aerthe’s blank helmet showed him nothing of her face; her fingers were tapping on her wrist computer, delicate dance as images flashed up on her internal screens. Aldorius glanced at Roy, then floated over to Aerthe.

“Aerthe, the Easement Center.”

“The western branch.”

Roy muttered in reply to the querying looks.

“The western branch. In Idaho. The city—it’s the new capital. The city’s…”

He was blanking on the name. Aerthe nodded.

“I can look it up. We can have you teleported there in a moment.”

“Thank you. I don’t want to…I’ll be going. I will be taking a leave of absence. I should call Thetre and tell her I need a replacement for the briefings.”

Roy touched an app on his phone and began dialing her. The other superheroes stared at him. Aldorius walked back and lifted the phone out of Roy’s hands. He turned off the call.

“Roy. We’ll sort it out. I’m—terribly sorry for your loss. It’s a tragedy. Con—confer my respects to your family”

He met Roy’s eyes and offered a smile. Then it winked out and became a contrite expression. The man craned his head up at the giant superhero made in man’s image and nodded.

“Thank you.”

“I want you to take all the time off. We’ll make sure we’re covered. You just sit down, rest…”

“Roy, I am so sorry. Again.”

Embodiment watched him, her face anguished. Seithe just stared at Roy. He rotated in a circle. Aldorius patted him on the shoulders.

“Don’t worry about work. I’ll call Thetre. Aerthe, is that teleporter ready?”

“All set. It’ll drop you off right in front of the center. Let me know if you need transport, Roy. I’m sorry for your loss too.”

The woman in the space suit peered at Roy. He nodded. He shuffled towards the teleporter. World Pact stared at him as he stepped over into the marked zone. He glanced over his shoulder once. Never had he seen their faces quite like that. He saw Aldorius begin to sit down and realized the superhero still had his smartphone.

Then he vanished.

 

——

 

Jorrey Mackendal died age seventy-nine on a Wednesday morning. He was buried exactly four days after his death. He left behind a will that bequeathed all his possessions to his son, and his family were notified of his passing.

His extended family, that was. His wife was deceased, and his son already knew. He had no sons or daughters besides one Roy Mackendal.

Six relatives flew to the funeral and stayed for two days for the funeral and wake; his sister and her two daughters, uncle, and two distant relatives. Eight friends also attended the wake, although the funeral was for the family.

These were the facts. Roy Mackendal called each member of the family. He spoke briefly, said something, and put the phone down; Aldorius had sent it over.

Aldorius did not attend the funeral or wake. Nor did any of World Pact. Nightwish was MIA. The rest sent letters, and Embodiment even called Roy.

He didn’t remember what they said.

No hero attended the funeral. Felicia Fortune called to ask whether he would make it to their quarterly meeting in a rare moment of bad luck. A few heroes knew and sent flowers.

Flowers. The Mackendal family were astonished to find that the grave site marked for Jorrey Mackendal was not marked by the plain coffin he had once reserved, but one made of marble. Aldorius had footed the bill. He also wrote Roy a handwritten note.

 

Dear Roy. I am truly sorry for your loss. Please hold off on work for as long as it takes. We’re all here for you. Your friend,

         —Aldorius

He had also paid for so many flowers the wake’s rooms were filled with them, and they were piled outside of Jorrey’s apartment when Roy left the wake.

Eight groups of flowers. Eight heroes had paid for them, with Aldorius’ being the largest contribution by far.

Eight heroes. Not all from World Pact. Seithe hadn’t sent anything. Posted a thoughts and feelings scroll on Greecia. Felicia Fortune had sent him a bunch of flowers. Endora had sent a single, strange yellow flower. Aldorius a truckload’s worth—

Nightwish a single bouquet of roses. Roy stared at it, unadorned by any note. He had wondered when Nightwish got back. Then he’d stopped caring.

Someone had begun calling Roy during the funeral. He’d forgotten to switch his phone off.

He stared at it. It lay dead in his hand. Normally it was on, even in the middle of the night, in case someone needed something. He began to hold down the power button to turn it on and stopped.

 

——

 

Roy Mackendal stood outside his father’s apartment for a long time. The door to the shared nursing home was similar to an apartment’s door. It was a fine facility. Roy saw someone coming down the hallway.

One of his father’s friends. He saw Roy and began walking towards him, using a cane. Roy lifted a hand. He peered at the man—then opened the door. Roy walked inside, paused for a moment, then walked out.

“Roy? I am very sorry—Jorrey was a fine man. It’s a sad thing. I’m Reen.”

The unknown man held out a hand. Roy vaguely recalled seeing him before. He shook the hand gingerly.

“Thank you. I, ah…I have to go.”

“Of course.”

Roy backed away. He glanced at Reen, the apartment, and then walked off. He turned on his phone and saw three text messages and a missed call. Roy stared at them, then began to type a reply. He walked towards the hotel he’d booked a room at.

 

——

 

Three days later, Roy appeared at the World Pact meeting and gave a report on share prices during the Cthonian-Ivocrin war. He told everyone he was fine and thanked them for the flowers. Nightwish said nothing when Roy thanked him. He looked at Roy and nodded when someone gave their condolences. Roy assured Embodiment he was well and would take time off if he needed it.

That evening, he went with Aldorius to the Met Gala. Aldorius had to circulate, but he clapped his hand on Roy’s shoulder and smiled as the cameras blinded Roy.

“To my great friend Roy! The most trustworthy accountant in the world!”

The luckiest mortal man in the world. Roy saw a picture of him looking slightly mystified, standing next to Aldorius’ perfect smile, on a tabloid that evening. He bought it as the store clerk stared at him and paged through it.

Roy Mackendal, the luckiest man, appears on the Met Gala floor with Aldorius, who refused to say whether or not he was dating Felicia Fortune…

Roy flipped through the magazine. It said nothing about any recent loss. Roy Mackendal tossed it in the trash on the way home. He went back to work and saw someone had left a call during the gala asking whether he would like to clear out his father’s possessions himself and that the room would have to be cleared by the end of the week. He stared at the message, then went to sleep.

 

——

 

Empty of grief. And no one in World Pact mentioned it after the second week.

His father’s death. Of course, they had bigger fish to fry. They didn’t need him. And still, after one of the weekly meetups, Aerthe called Roy over.

First citizen of space. Astronaut, another technological genius, in the most advanced spacesuit humanity had ever dreamed of.

It was pink today.

“Roy, do you have an hour or two? I’m going to my cousin’s wedding. Not as a plus one. Just for someone to talk to.”

As if he’d assume he was a plus one with her. Nightwish still was MIA, but Roy broke off from Aldorius describing a pitching showdown with the Tennessee Titans to answer.

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I didn’t know where to turn.”

You couldn’t see Aerthe’s face behind her darkened helmet unless she wanted you to, but she made a smiley-face appear on the display. She had exited her suit three times in Roy’s memory of being around her, twice because she’d needed to perform emergency maintenance after a big battle.

She walked over with him to the teleporter as Aldorius called out.

“Save some appetite for later, Roy. I might have a word with you over a brew. I’ve got to address the United Nations tomorrow, and something’s bugging me about my speech…”

“Sure, Aldorius, any time.”

They stepped on the pad, teleported in a blink to an open prairie…filled with a state-of-the-art bounce castle. Roy saw a boy flying into the sky, screaming in delight and fear as blasts of air lifted him high up. Aerthe muttered to Roy.

“Does Aldorius always just eat in pubs?”

“He likes to. He’s very down-to-earth. Either that or he’s at a baseball game.”

Their entrance had instantly drawn heads—and a shriek of joy from several people. Aerthe’s helmet swiveled slowly. In the distance, Roy saw a forcefield keeping back a ton of photographers. Guests were being admitted with security passes through a gate.

“Huh. Well—here’s the wedding. My cousin’s the one screaming over there. I provided the bounce castle. And the food synthesizers, I guess. They’re not going to enjoy it; they can cook better food than we can replicate right now.”

“Do you, uh, should I introduce myself?”

“Sure, Roy. Hey, Maxy! You’re looking beautiful! Where’s…Johnson?”

Aerthe was instantly surrounded by a gaggle of bridesmaids and the bride herself. Roy stood there, and eventually someone came over to ask who he was, and he introduced himself as Roy.

“Oh…do I know you from something? Television?”

“I do accounting.”

“Huh. Then where…?”

Conversations with him tended to run like that. Sometimes people asked questions. Like…how much money did he see moving around? What did he think of the Fed cutting interest rates? How was Vancouver? Nice? Pricey?

Roy Mackendal was not someone you went to for scintillating conversation, which was a bit of a shame because he had more stories about superheroes than the entire gathering put together, including Aerthe. But he could tell so few of them…

What was surprising was that Aerthe was as good as her word. He didn’t realize she’d come back until she spoke.

“Roy. Sorry, we got here early. The vows aren’t for another hour. I think I can have another hour at the reception then I’ll beg off. Of all the times not to have an emergency, huh?”

She was invisible; Roy got punch all over his suit, and Aerthe apologized.

“Sorry. I snuck away. I have a timer for fifteen before Maxy gets nervous. So, what did you think of those Crealers?”

“Them? Nasty things if they took a chunk out of Aldorius himself.”

“Eh…he was putting himself in harm’s way to get other heroes out of it. It was a bad scramble. We really should have made them form a battle line until we realized those horrors were balls of razors. Stellaris is getting overconfident, especially the rookies. I designed a training room, and it’s mincing them up. They say it’s too hard. I say I’m not taking a single one on a mission with me until they can prove they can dodge.”

“That sounds tough. But fair. Any information on what the Crealer things are?”

They were watching adults and children play in the super-bouncy castle. Roy sort of wanted to join in himself, but Aerthe didn’t seem to want to reappear or have refreshments or mingle with the guests. There were some important people here. Maxy and Johnson’s employers, the CEOs of their company, and…lots of people that probably had heard Aerthe might show up.

The space woman hmmed softly.

“Funny you should say that. Endora’s fiancée claims we’re getting the name wrong. But she’s a handful and a half. Even Heradonus says she’s difficult, and he’s a god. She says ‘Crelers’. Without the ‘a’. No clue why. She told us they shouldn’t be here and they’re new. But the Cthonians say they’ve been infesting space rocks for eight thousand years. One of space’s galactic horrors.”

“Can’t both be true?”

“Argh, I hate magic laws. Damnit—wait, Maxy’s looking for me. Be right back.”

Aerthe reappeared coming out of an outhouse after a few seconds and was once again surrounded. Roy was just working up the courage to get to the bounce castle when she appeared again. Invisibly, of course.

“Okay. So how bad is Nightwish doing this time?”

“Uh…it seems bad. If anyone could find him, we could talk to him. But you see the reports.”

“Thugs and kingpins getting beaten black and blue? He’s breaking a lot of bones.”

“It’s the anniversary.”

“True…next time he comes back, mind if I ping you? He talks to you more than us, sometimes. Probably because he knows we’re looking over his shoulder.”

And Roy had about as much a chance of making Nightwish stop what he was doing as he did doing a double standing backflip. He agreed, of course, and Aerthe fell silent.

“If I’m bothering you, I could jump on that bounce castle thing.”

She made a surprised noise from her helmet.

“What? Go ahead if you want. I’d do it, but nothing feels the same after zero-gravity maneuvers. Sorry; if I’m bothering you, just say so. But thanks for coming. Otherwise I’d be stuck talking to people for an hour.”

“They’re interested in talking to you.”

A noncommittal grunt from the invisible superhero.

“They want something. I like Maxy, but I can’t talk to her, not here. It’s hard to have a conversation with anyone, Roy.”

“From Aerthe? They’re just intimidated.”

Roy meant it, but she just paused, and her speakers made a faint static sound as she cleared her throat.

“Roy…you haven’t heard civilians talk to us in a while. Even the ones who aren’t stammering. Why do you think we hang around after the weekly meeting? It isn’t for the view. Even looking at the Earth gets old.”

To that, he didn’t know what to say. He just stood there, chatting with her until the vows came, and then waiting for her to slip away from the crowd and chat with him about this or that or the S.E.R.I prosecutions and what he’d seen, until Aerthe could finally claim she was busy and flee. And she thanked him for accompanying her. He assumed she’d buttered him up about the comment about the meetings, of course. Or that he was just trusted because he kept his mouth shut.

Only when he got back to his apartment did Roy realize he’d missed two calls from his father. He sighed, called back after half an hour, but he only reached voicemail. Roy was guiltily relieved about that.

Some days he just…didn’t want to have to talk. To his father.

Then Roy stared at his phone and remembered. His father was gone. It was the Easement Center calling about the room.

Roy stood on the balcony and stared at the stars, and the space station of Stellaris high overhead. And he wondered what would happen if he asked if Aerthe wanted to talk more. But then he shook himself. She was building spaceships and technology up there for humanity’s future.

Roy sat on his bed and stared out the window until the sky brightened. Then he tried to get some sleep.

He still did not feel sad.

What was wrong with him?

Roy had one last thought as he was drifting off.

Aerthe had forgotten his father had passed away when she asked how his family was doing.

His eyes opened. The accountant stared at the wall.

He failed to sleep.

 

——

 

Six weeks later, Roy Mackendal took a break from work to go to the Easement Center, the Idaho branch, to clear out his father’s room after thirty-two calls and over a hundred text messages.

After seven weeks all told since Jorrey Mackendal had passed, his son once again stood in front of the apartment door. He stared at the plain wooden door and held the magnetic card-key in his hands.

Roy Mackendal realized he had never cried for his father once.

He stood there, face blank, for four hours.

When he opened the door at last, the room smelled of dust and emptiness. It was too loud for the emptiness. The quiet echoed.

He was too late. Too delayed. Roy knew it well. It didn’t matter. He walked in, head bowed low, two months too late.

It would not have mattered. Not if it had been two years or two decades.

He was already too late, and nothing would change that.

Roy had been too late from the start.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

When Roy was nineteen, his mother had passed away in a car accident. This was before superheroes. Before Confluence.

That had hurt. It had also been…unreal to get a call in the middle of playing pick-up basketball, stop, and feel the world change. It hadn’t been real, even when he’d driven back home, even when he saw his father’s tear-stained face.

Only when he’d gone to the morgue to see her and identify her—then Roy Mackendal at nineteen years had realized it did hurt. He was in pain. It was just that until he saw her and it came home to him…he hadn’t realized he’d been bleeding out. In shock.

To Roy of over two decades later, he recalled those days and remembered the kind of agony he’d been in, but his mind didn’t retain the feelings, just the memory of having had them. He would have gone mad if he’d had to bear the emotions as sharp as they’d been. He had buried her. Grieved. And then lost himself in daydreams of her. Waited by the door to see if she’d come back. Every time he saw a blue SUV for years afterwards, he’d stopped.

Waiting for her to walk out of the car.

The loss had shaken Roy so badly he’d dropped out of college for two years. He hadn’t been sure of what he was doing or what any of it had meant for a while. He had just…existed for two years. His father had helped and not.

Jorrey wanted to go for a hike. Or head on one of those vacations they’d always talked about. Climb a mountain. Raft a river. He never wanted to sit. Never wanted to have a beer at the bar. Once, Roy had come flat out and said it. Jorrey didn’t want to sit in any moment quiet enough to hear themselves think.

At the same time, he’d paid for Roy’s food, utilities, everything, while Roy didn’t do much of anything for two years. Helped and not. Helped and not.

Roy remembered the friends who’d pulled him through, even a professor who’d checked up on him. Roy had gone to therapy and remembered that day for ten years. Superheroes had been a great distraction. Everything had become unreal after Confluence, and…time had helped.

Roy’s mother’s name was Jennifer. He did visit her grave at least half a dozen times per year, on holidays, on her birthday. Even now.

The advent of faster-than-air travel had made it easier, with teleportation. He still missed her, but a younger Roy had lived through those terrible days.

Jorrey Mackendal was different. He had been dying for a long time.

Not just aging. Dying. He smoked.

Had smoked.

It was in the very room where he lived. Roy saw an ashtray with too many cigarette butts. It had taken a lot of doing to find him a retirement home that would take him in. Twice, Jorrey’s homes had burned or partly burned due to fires. Not from the cigarettes, but because he uninstalled smoke alarms so he could smoke in peace.

Cancer. They still hadn’t figured out how to cure cancer. Diabetes? Gone. Kidney stones? A simple oral medicine. They were close to the cancer cure, that was what Aerthe told Roy. There was this issue that meant the cure became worse than the disease. Chemotherapy was very effective these days. Completely eradicated cancer in many cases. Cures were hard. Give them another five years and they’d have one rolling out across the world in trials. She said that every year. Another three years. Then she upped it to six…

It was one of the things Roy regretted telling Jorrey. Because his father refused to stop smoking.

“If it’s something you can cure, I’ll keep on, thanks. You can’t change an old dog’s ways, and I’ve done this for sixty years. Leave off.”

The thing about Jorrey was that he could make you hate him so fast. Then you’d stew in something he said or did…until you remembered him taking out loans to pay for Roy’s college tuition. Never asked for a dime back until Roy brought it up.

He still made it hard in the moment, so often.

Had.

Had made it hard.

Roy looked around Jorrey’s apartment. It was much the same as the last time he’d been here.

A big sofa with a small foot-table pulled up in front of two televisions, placed side-by-side against the far wall. So Jorrey could check the news and watch a show at the same time.

The ashtray sat on the sofa, not the foot-table, which was reserved for snacks. An indentation told Roy where Jorrey sat. If he turned his back, he could almost imagine he was there. But Jorrey was never silent. Nothing had changed about this room.

A refrigerator was still humming in the background. It was old, inefficient, and, Roy suspected, moldy on the back side he had never seen. He cleaned his kitchen once a year and could stand to clean more often. Jorrey didn’t ever clean. He was too old, anyways.

Had not.

Had…the words were bouncing around Roy’s head, refusing to stick. The fridge. Focus on the fridge.

Roy walked over to it. This fridge had been there when he left for college. Somehow, it was still running, and Jorrey had insisted they ship it into his apartment, despite it being cheaper to buy a new fridge.

“Don’t break what isn’t busted. Like me.”

But it was actively running up his electricity bills, dirty, and…Roy’s lips moved.

“This thing has to have roaches. They have to be laying their eggs somewhere on it. It has…”

He stared at it, then wondered what he’d find when he opened it. Seven weeks. How many things might have germinated, scuttled around or infested…?

He shuddered, hand on the fridge handle. Roy took his hand away; better to leave things undiscovered. That was what Endora had told him. There were things out there that even Aldorius couldn’t fight. Horrors from every story haunting Humanity’s primordial mind…and she fought them. No—she survived them and tried to make sure Earth never had a chance to see what was out there.

Don’t open the box. The world’s greatest superhero in all things unordinary, eldritch, fae, and fable had told him that.

Roy took his hand away from the refrigerator and went to sit down. The couch was faux Italian leather and worn, exposing the cheap foam within. Jorrey liked to lie there with his feet up against one armrest; his guests got one of the armchairs. Not uncomfortable, but you essentially had to talk to him as he lay on his back, half-watching the two televisions, neither one with subtitles on. He’d be fiddling with a remote or a cigarette and half-listening to you.

No, he was listening. And then you’d get annoyed until Jorrey looked at you and asked a question that cut to the heart of what was bothering you.

He was good like that. He’d done construction and worked his way up to supervisor because he knew people. He had bad habits, but he had good qualities. Roy was his son. It was his responsibility to know the bad habits, in a way.

It got on his nerves so much, the lying down. Can’t you sit up and…? But Jorrey had a bad back.

But he could sit up all night long at a Michelin-star restaurant, like he had served in the military, posture perfect, eyes dancing with enjoyment.

He would lie right there…Roy could see the indentation where his head would rest.

The accountant stood up abruptly.

Endora. Now, Endora had had Roy over with her partner, Derianthe, Lady Derianthe of the Tuatha De.

Faeries. So beautiful and endlessly clever it took his breath away. Not in private, of course, but he’d had a dinner with her, Derianthe, and Heradonus at the finest restaurant in all of Tokyo. Roy had mostly listened to the two immortals banter and Endora eating more sushi than he could dream was possible for the Human stomach.

She was a friend. She’d sent flowers—beautiful ones. They didn’t come from Earth, and Roy had seen his aunt spiriting them away once she learned Endora had sent them.

It made him angry. They should have planted them at Jorrey’s grave. Until someone probably dug them up.

So it was better they went with Suszane. But—a dead man’s flowers? Really?

Jorrey would have laughed. He didn’t like Aunt Suszane, who added the ‘z’ since she liked how it sounded in her head. He didn’t try to be nice. Completely unlike his son. Roy was professional, and Jorrey was…personable.

“You’ve got to say what you mean. Maybe it’s different with rich clients, but no one respects you if you’re Mr. Political, Roy, my boy.”

Roy, my boy. Another of his many catchphrases. Roy almost smiled. Then he stared blankly at the couch.

Jorrey had wanted to meet Endora so badly. No, he’d wanted to meet all of them so badly. Not just World Pact. Felicia Fortune who…Roy glanced around.

Where was that damned pinup? Jorrey had had a huge argument with his son over it and took it down when Roy said—offhandedly—that Felicia would never meet someone with one of her risqué pinups.

Which was a lie, but the poster had disappeared after that. Despite the moment, Jorrey had never met Felicia Fortune. He’d never met Endora, and she hadn’t even known his name, only that Roy had a father.

Had he ever mentioned Jorrey’s name to anyone? No—Roy had had conversations, but he’d say ‘my father’. And his father had never met them.

Not once. He wanted it. He had begged Roy, and Jorrey had never begged anyone. Just one conversation at a dinner, a phone call. An autograph.

No. It had never happened.

There used to be a pattern. Like the strange, spiral-curve blanket on the wall, eaten through by moths, made with interlocking blocks of color—there used to be a way it happened. He’d come over, they’d get along perfectly well at first until…

Until. Until?

That day will never come again.

Roy Mackendal felt the thought hit him like a pillow. It bounced off his face, and he recalled when his bedridden father had tossed it straight into his face.

“One autograph. Come on. I see them signing everything. You have hundreds of those Super Citizen coins. Just get me something I can buy, Roy!”

Like then and now. It didn’t hurt. How could it? It was a pillow. But it did hurt. Had hurt.

Every time that bastard. His father. That bastard badgered him, brought up meeting heroes, having Aldorius sign a baseball, Heradonus send the latest smartphone…

“You don’t get it. You never understand!”

The words came out, loud in the empty room. For a second, Roy liked feeling angry. Then he realized he’d never say those words to the person they were meant for.

No, had he ever properly explained it to his father? He had. He had, but he had never said it properly.

“Roy, my boy. It’s one signature. It’s not going to break the bank. I see those superhero meetups, conventions—every person they meet gets a signature! I’m no world leader, or even a businessman with a billion dollars to back them, but my son, my boy, he does Aldorius’ taxes. That has to count for something. Now, why don’t you make your old man proud?”

Guilt. Guilt and pride in Roy. It was that last bit that hurt, though. That vague, pained befuddlement. The question.

‘Don’t you love me?’ Then—the last time, before Roy was scheduled to visit, Jorrey had burst out in a rare moment.

“If it was your mother, would you keep running her around like that or—”

Then he fell silent. Jorrey Mackendal sat back. His son’s eyes were wide, but it was Jorrey who turned dead white, mouth open. As if he were the one who had been hurt.

He never apologized. That was what Roy remembered. Just the silence. For fifteen minutes straight, neither one staring quite at the other until Jorrey turned on the news. They watched two entire news cycles without speaking, then Roy got up and went to his apartment for the day.

He left the day after on business, getting back to work.

That was the thing.

“I never even stayed here, Dad. Because you snore. Because you snore and there are bugs. I never got you an autograph because it’s unprofessional! Because—”

Roy felt himself arguing with—he stared at the grimace on Jorrey’s face.

The indentation on the couch.

There was no one there. Again, the pillow bounced off Roy’s face, and he blinked.

He’s not coming back from the hospital. He’s not on vacation.

You idiot. You fucking fool. You…his brain tried to come up with something worse. Damn you. Cry. You didn’t cry. He’s never coming back and he’s dead and you missed your last meeting with him.

So cry. Roy removed his glasses. He put a finger and thumb to his eyes, lowering his head. But it only looked like he was crying.

Not a drop escaped his eyes. Cry. He’s your father. You didn’t hate him. So cry. Cry…

Cry. Please?

Something was wrong. Why couldn’t he weep? He didn’t even feel sad. Not sad like when his mother died. There was just…

Roy stood back up. Jorrey wasn’t a man’s man. He had worked, but he had never hit Roy and told him something like ‘men don’t cry’. Roy had heard it enough, but Jorrey? He hadn’t…

He’d hit Roy. But not over that. Roy had hit him—knocked him down. He remembered that too, twenty-five years old, staring down at his father and realizing he was stronger.

You’re distracting yourself. Focus. You’re not sad. What’s wrong with you?

Roy stood there, breathing in and out. The room was musty. It had never smelled good, but it was often hidden by the smell of pine from scents Jorrey hung up. Now? It smelled empty. Not even of bugs…

The accountant found himself standing in front of the refrigerator. He hesitated, hand on the door handle. Keep it closed.

This wasn’t some kind of special box made by dead gods. It wasn’t a nest filled with adders. The worst?

Filled with roaches that’ll scuttle out. Or maggots in half-opened tupperware.

Roy could just picture it. His father had had roach problems before, and it was—

He was dead.

Roy could have gotten him an autograph.

Six years. Seventy-nine wasn’t old. Ten more years and they’d have youth treatments. They already had it, but it was literally a billionaire’s club. That lot would get richer. They were saying someone would become a trillionaire, soon. They’d never die unless a supervillain blew half the world apart. And soon they’d have cybernetic brains, magic phylacteries…they probably did.

Roy hadn’t known how to bring it up to his father. He was rich from his job, managing superhero’s fortunes. Dad, I’ll pay for you to live forever.

He’d thought—how miserable that might be, doing this every few months? Now?

Roy opened the fridge.

There was nothing inside. He stared blankly at the empty shelves, not even a Budweiser in sight. No food, no leftovers, and Jorrey had them all the time from takeout…

“Oh. They must have cleaned it out at some point.”

He felt like a fool, expecting…

It was so empty. Splotched in places. Not clean, but full of nothing. Not just ‘empty’ as in there were only nearly-empty bottles and a single cheese slice and some stale food, but completely emptied out.

What had it looked like, before? Suddenly, Roy regretted not coming earlier. He’d thought they’d keep this place the same. He turned around, and suddenly he was striding around the small apartment, searching for something.

No bugs or mice. In fact, the floors looked fine. There were only a few rooms in the apartment complex for a bachelor.

Bedroom. Bathroom with shower. Bathroom with bath. Jorrey never took showers if he could. Baths…

“Baths are a luxury for someone with an hour. And I’ve got all the hours, now.”

Roy stopped in the bathroom and realized there was a toothbrush in a little pedestal, a bubblegum-flavored toothpaste Jorrey used exclusively. He stared at it.

That was the same. His bedroom was the same—neat and spic and span. The bed was perfectly made, and it wasn’t the nurses who would have done that. Jorrey’s father, Roy’s grandfather, had been a military man, and you learned how to make your bed in the military. Among other things.

There was a pile of magazines on the dresser. Heroes Weekly, a magazine. You could get the e-versions with a subscription, but Jorrey paid extra for the physical copies. He liked to hold them in his hands.

He and Roy both. Roy picked them up and paged through them. He’d asked his father if it was because he was sometimes mentioned in them, if he was kidnapped or spotted in public with a superhero. Jorrey had chuckled and told him ‘not to get a big head’.

He did know when Roy was in a magazine, even a tabloid. But he never had the actual issue. It was okay. It was fine.

No…was it? Roy did tell his father about that. He could, and Jorrey would listen to Roy describing the encounters.

The first time someone had put him in a chair and held a gun to his head and demanded to know who Embodiment really was, Roy had been terrified. The second time, he’d begged for his life. The third? He’d tried to escape, and they’d broken his nose—or rather, he had when he tripped down the stairs. He’d let the media think it was him being beaten up, but he’d hesitated, and his father had ferreted out the true story.

But he hadn’t laughed. Heradonus still chuckled over it; that was the first time they’d met as the demigod made his public entrance by saving Roy. Some of the other heroes laughed over stories like that. Mister Olympics loved to tell the one about Roy dangling off a skyscraper.

Jorrey never laughed. His father had sat there, making so few comments, dual-watching television…

No, he turned them off when Roy told him the stories of when he was kidnapped or trying to survive a superhero battleground. He’d sit there, listening, and when Roy was done, he’d ask a few questions. Then he’d say—

“Well, that’s Roy, my boy. Tough as any nail I’ve ever hammered, eh?”

And Roy would smile because Jorrey hated hammerwork. Nor did he actually do much of it; you didn’t use a hammer when you were making skyscrapers.

He never laughed. He listened to the stories Roy would tell him. But he wanted an autograph. He never understood why Roy wouldn’t get him one.

And he understood the rest—or he never asked Roy why he kept doing his job when he was kidnapped sometimes once a month, held hostage, often photographed as ‘plain, lucky Roy’, mocked and envied. There were hate-threads online devoted to talking about how Roy was an idiot who didn’t deserve his job.

“One autograph, Son. I am begging you. Just one. Not a fucking purchasable one. One, from someone who knows my name. Is it that hard?”

Roy’s ears burned. He was angry. His father was dead, and he was still angry. He clung to it. Because he was still wrong. He was dead and still…

The accountant was sitting in a chair. He’d dragged it over to the couch. Now, he looked at the vague shape of a body there.

“I told you. I’m an accountant. I don’t ask my clients for favors. You’d never ask a famous employer for…”

His words trailed off. Roy looked around. It wasn’t framed, but his father had a scrapbook. And he had…a few signatures. A handkerchief someone had left behind. Business cards.

“Maybe some people do. Maybe it’s normal. It’s not the same. Listen. Dad. Dad…”

He closed his eyes and said the things he only said in his head. The secrets he was embarrassed to tell anyone because it would reveal too much. The truth?

The truth was that he knew World Pact didn’t need an accountant. They didn’t need Roy Mackendal. So why did he do their taxes? Why did he go there every week and hang out for an hour, and why did they suffer his presence? Roy believed it was more than being lucky.

A lucky man…he wasn’t that lucky. He had met lucky people, like Felicia and Man Thief, whose real name was Thomal. They walked around like the sky would fall and miss them.

Roy didn’t have that. What he had? The only thing he had, the only reason they tolerated him, no, invited him to their gatherings, took him aside like Aldorius? Roy told Jorrey, too late, the thing he had never voiced aloud.

“It’s because they’re so lonely. They can’t trust anyone. It’s not just my job, Dad. I can’t get you one autograph. Because the reason they keep me around? It’s…trust.”

What would Jorrey say? Would he roll his eyes and turn up the volume on one of his televisions? Or would he sit up and excitedly ask what Roy wanted to eat; he was ordering, and it was his treat, never mind that Roy could order any food he wanted and never want for money? It was his treat—

Or would he sit there, listening, eyes fixed on Roy? The accountant took a shuddering breath. Why was he scared?

“I’m afraid they’ll leave me. It was just a coincidence I got saved in that bus one time and Aldorius said, ‘I need an accountant I can trust’. That was all the luck in my life. Dad, I’m not special. I’m not even that good compared to the best; I’ve made mistakes. I’m sure Heradonus double checks my work and fixes it if I make a mistake.”

His ears burned with the admission. He was competent, but he had to store all the data in his head or nowhere at all except the computers Aerthe could isolate from any network. It was why Embodiment used a notepad. No one could double-check his numbers except a superhero.

Roy gulped. He went on, coughing slightly at the dust, a lump in his throat.

“They’re lonely people, Dad. Aldorius. Embodiment. Even Endora—even—especially Nightwish. He’s the best at it because he wants to be alone. That’s the irony. The rest of them? They—they—they can’t trust anyone. You don’t know what that means.”

“Don’t I?”

Roy shook his head.

“You don’t. I can’t, and I’ve seen it. It’s not celebrity, Dad. It’s beyond celebrity. Anything they say, anything, gets shared or reblogged or posted by their fans. They can’t have opinions. You know there’s a negative article about Embodiment posted almost every other hour? That’s one thing. But they—they really can’t trust. Not one person.”

Examples. A silent, piercing stare. There should have been a humming sound. Sucking on teeth. Anything to fill the silence. Jorrey hated silence. So did Roy. Examples…Roy tried to elaborate.

“You see…you see, every one of them has a story. Their best friend before they became a superhero talked about them to a journalist. They didn’t mean to, but suddenly everything they ever said is being posted online and they’re cancelled. That’s one thing. You can forgive that—but everyone who meets them is so tempted. Just one picture. Just a signature. They talk. They talk to their best friends or coworkers, and everyone knows Endora’s got a STI because her obstetrician told her husband, and he told…you see?”

Secrets. Secrets. Roy knew all of them. Names. Incomes. Family feuds and even things that were illegal. He said nothing.

“I never said anything. I nearly did—and if I did, they’d never trust me. But I didn’t, because they told me how much it hurts. How they can’t trust each other. They can’t talk to themselves in public, they can’t trust their spouses sometimes…you know something? Mr. Ohio, the superhero? He’s been separated from his wife for the last two years. They only meet for photo shoots.”

Mr. Ohio was one of the most wholesome, family-friendly superheroes representing his beloved state. Roy shook his head.

“They trust no one. No one but…me. Because I never ask them for anything. I don’t ask Aerthe to calibrate the teleporters, I don’t go to Endora if I’m hurt—and I refuse to. It’s not because I’m an accountant, it’s because I’m…their friend.”

You could. Roy felt himself growing angry. His father—he stared ahead and blankly felt the anger draining out of his feet. There was no one to grow angry at. He’d never know what his father said.

Why hadn’t he said it? Just because it was embarrassing? No…

Because this was their secret. Maybe it was obvious to other people, but this, like everything else they told him, was a sacred trust. And his father? Would he have trusted Jorrey Mackendal to keep quiet?

Roy would have said every secret he knew if…that was obvious. Everyone would. They had put a gun to his head, they had tortured him—never badly, thank god. But he had been dangled above a vat of actual leeches, 90% of whom turned out to be dead from suffocation, and he hadn’t said anything. They gave him forcefields and emergency buttons, but he didn’t do it because he was an accountant. Who would do that? That was just what he said.

He did it because they trusted him, and he wanted to be Roy, the luckiest man in the world because he was the friend of giants.

“…They trust me. So I wouldn’t ask them for anything. I could. I know I could. I could bring you up and how you bothered me and bothered me and it would probably be fine. But I don’t want to risk it. So…”

I never got you an autograph. And now you’re dead. I skipped our last meeting for them. To do taxes and sort out a stupid drama between young superheroes sleeping with each other because I wanted them to like me.

Roy was breathing faster. The couch was empty. He waited, imagining that he’d hear the toilet flush any moment and Jorrey would walk out and ask why the lights were out.

I’ve touched a wishing paw before. I could—I could find another one. There are ones all over. Some even grant wishes properly. He’ll walk in and…

Could he ask Endora to make a deal with the fair folk and get his father revived? Could he ask—they’d buried him. Why didn’t he ask for Jorrey’s body to be put on ice?

It doesn’t work like that. Aerthe told me.

Wasn’t Heradonus a demi-god? Couldn’t he…? Couldn’t he—

He was breathing hard. The room felt suffocating. Roy was just here to find anything he wanted. There was nothing here he wanted. It was just his father’s keepsakes, and Jorrey had nothing—the scrap book? Maybe. A few pictures?

This place is a tomb. He died in the bathroom. A shower? He never showers unless he was going out—

He died in the bathroom.

Roy’s eyes lifted slowly. He stared at the little hallway and that dark door.

Slowly, Roy Mackendal got up. He walked to the door and thrust it open. He stepped into the hallway, closed the door, and put his back to the plain wall. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled—

It was late. He’d come at midday; somehow it was already past dinner. Roy didn’t feel the visceral horror or unease he should have, at remembering where…

He just didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be here, dealing with this. He didn’t…

He didn’t want to be here. But he didn’t want to be home. He didn’t want anything.

Roy realized what the problem was. He just didn’t want this reality, that was all. And he still…

 

Could.

 

Not.

 

Cry.

 

“Roy?”

The accountant turned. He saw an old man, hunched over on a walker, staring at him. He was familiar. It had been a long time, but Roy remembered him.

“Ah…”

“Reen.”

“Good morning. Good evening. I’m just, ah—”

Roy nodded at the room.

“It’s been a while, and I have to clean it out. I’m a bit delayed, and the center told me this was the deadline. I just stopped by to…”

He trailed off. The old man looked at him.

“Right.”

That was all he said. Right. Roy realized he didn‘t need to explain. This man—Reen—had seen it before. Roy closed his mouth. Reen went on.

“It’s been a long time. A record. No one’s been able to keep them from clearing out the rooms for seven weeks.”

Roy blushed slightly.

“I—convinced them to extend the deadlines a few times.”

Mainly by citing his busy job—then the galactic war. And then just telling them he worked for World Pact. However, the manager for the Easement Center hadn’t given up. Reen smiled slightly.

“It’s the talk of the center. You know, there was betting on when you’d come back?”

“Really? Did you win anything?”

“Not me, but Isabel, a few doors down…”

Roy smiled politely as Reen explained that Isabel had bet on this time slot and wouldn’t she collect the winnings, which wasn’t much more than the credibility of the thing. He’d put Roy at three weeks and…

The accountant wished Reen would disappear. He didn’t need this. He didn’t like the man because he was friendly and sympathetic and he had…known Jorrey. He didn’t want to talk to Reen, so he hated him.

Maybe Reen sensed it, because he trailed off. They stood there, and Roy cleared his throat.

“I’ll…I should have the room cleaned up. There’s not much to take, really. It’s in good condition, but there’s not much I can use. Like the fridge.”

“Oh, god. The fridge. How’s it look now they cleaned it out?”

Reen chuckled. Roy stood there blankly.

“It’s fine. You know my f—Jorrey’s fridge?”

Reen smiled. He had a toothy smile, and he stood a bit straighter when he did, though the crook never disappeared from his back.

“He had me over a few times. Worst fridge I’ve ever seen. Always filled with something, so I was afraid to open it. I was the one who sounded the alarm after a week and had them clean it out.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

You bastard. Roy knew it was the right call. He smiled at Reen.

“Just to make sure nothing spoiled?”

“No, for the bugs. The cleaners came out screaming, and the center had to disinfect it; covered in roaches.”

“Really? What was in it?”

Roy had a terrible morbid curiosity. Reen described the mayonnaise jar from hell, without a lid so that…he shuddered and found himself waving at people as they walked back to their rooms. Many recognized him and wanted to stop.

“You’re Jorrey’s son, Roy. Roy Mackendal…”

“I saw you on the news the other day. I’m sorry about Jorrey. He was a good man.”

Roy had heard it all the same. Some of the others wanted to talk, but Reen was an unexpected boon. He’d hurry the others along with language that even the most polite speakers couldn’t ignore.

“Roy’s about to go, so he can’t stand around and talk. I’ll catch you later, Isabel—”

And he’d block them off until they walked off. Roy was grateful for it, though he suspected it was just Reen wanting to monopolize the conversation. But that wasn’t the case, because after the dinner crowd finished, Reen indicated the door.

“You’re taking Jorrey’s possessions?”

“Yes, just a few things.”

The old man nodded.

“I’m glad I caught you. Do you want the Roy Wall? That is—his bulletin board?”

“…His what?”

Reen gazed up at Roy, genuinely surprised. Then he smiled.

“It’s just down the hall. Have you never seen it? Jorrey never bought it up?”

Roy felt a pang in his chest.

“No…no, we didn’t walk around here. We’d go out, but—what’s this?”

For answer, Reen slowly walked down the hallway. Roy followed him, feeling as if he were wasting his time. But it was really just down the hall and around the corner. Then…Roy looked up and found an answer to a question he’d always sort of had.

His face was posted in the center of a cork bulletin board. It was labeled ‘The Roy Wall’, and it had every clipping, every magazine article and tabloid picture of him, so many articles overlapping that it was practically a wallpaper.

He stared up at himself in silence as Reen turned to look at him.

Roy Mackendal saved again! Embodiment versus The Final Solution; condemns hateful rhetoric and neo-Nazi groups.

Who is Roy Mackendal? The World’s Luckiest Man’s Interview and 10 Facts about Aldorius You’ve Never Heard Before!

There weren’t ten facts from him. They just included that tagline after he refused to talk about Aldorius for nearly an hour. Roy stared at his face, captured as flatteringly as they could—no, they had angled it to make him look…

Ordinary.

But there he was.

Reen cleared his throat a few times.

“Jorrey used to show it to everyone. It was so popular he put it up and kept adding to it. We’d tell him whenever we saw something new. Everyone was very proud of it. Of you. He’d tell us all the stories about you being kidnapped or escaping supervillains. I’ve never known anyone prouder.”

“He was…I mean, he never mentioned this to me. It’s…”

Roy stared up at it. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Reen watched him.

“The stories when you got attacked in your office or caught up in a war—see how they’re all half-covered by the articles? He hated them. They never mentioned how you were doing, so he’d come out and pace about. I’d tell him to call that night, but he’d say you were probably sleeping off healing.”

I told him that Aerthe had medical treatments that put you to sleep. So he’d stop calling me all night.

Roy was lost for words. He studied the board and saw all the articles about his real close calls were buried along the corners and edges.

“He worried about me?”

Of course he did. But he’d always just call to make sure Roy was well, and Roy would say he’d visit soon and tell him about it. Reen gave Roy a slow nod.

“Terrified. We’d all have a late night watching the news.”

“Really?”

“Well, what father isn’t worried? Entem—he’s down the hall—he has a grandson who’s one of those super-police. Super crime division. He’s always worried when there’s trouble where his son is posted.”

“Which city?”

“Montréal.”

“Oh…it’s not too bad, I think; Nightwish and the Association of America patrols there.”

Reen nodded. Roy kept staring at the board. After a while, Reen spoke.

“I just wanted to say that Jorrey was extremely proud of you. He’d always talk about how busy you were helping the superheroes with their taxes.”

Roy stirred. He gazed wordlessly at Reen, and the man smiled sadly.

“He was a good man.”

“Yes. He was. Thank you for showing me this. I might take it if it’s alright…?”

Roy replied after a moment. There was so much he could have said. But he didn’t. Not to a stranger. After all, he had never managed to say it to his father.

 

——

 

A conversation came back to Roy as he stood in the empty apartment. The Roy Wall was still where it had been hung; he’d discovered it was screwed into place, and he’d told Reen he’d come back later.

It was just like Jorrey to make something incredibly hard to remove. Roy knew there was a screwdriver somewhere around here; even now, Jorrey had a toolset, but Roy didn’t bother to find it.

He sat there at the rarely-used dinner table. It was actually the breakfast table, because Jorrey would only have breakfast there.

Proud. That wasn’t a revelation to Roy. Jorrey had been proud. He said so at least once a visit.

“Roy, my boy, you did it. Just like when you were a kid. I remember you loved those Superman comics. You always wanted to be Superman. Not anyone else. I said—Spiderman? And you’d say, ‘no, Superman!’ Batman? ‘No, Superman!’ Wonder Woman? Captain America? And you’d give me your ‘Super Punch’—”

Roy remembered. He had always loved comic books. Super heroes, stories like that—when Confluence had happened, it had seemed like a dream. But he had never become a hero, and that was alright.

“You did it. You’re Jimmy Olsen—all you have to do is wait until Aldorius needs to transfer his powers to you for a day or find a magical stone, eh?”

Roy was happy. He really was. His friends were heroes, and he was the one person they could talk to. He had a lot of money. He didn’t have a wife or anyone he was seeing, but that was alright; he rubbed shoulders with stories.

Jorrey Mackendal could rest easy knowing his son would be happy and safe…until his luck ran out. But World Pact would do their best, and Roy would do his best.

He would…

A conversation played itself in that quiet room. A cracked voice, dismayed, Roy’s distracted tone.

 

——

 

“Hello? Roy, my boy, is it my son calling? Or the other one?”

“Dad? It’s me, your son Roy. Yes, the only one.”

“Aha. Right—”

“I’m sorry. I have to push back our vacation. It’s work. I…”

“Oh…that’s too bad. Wait, is it super-stuff? Again? They keep you running about. They asked you to take the day off and it’s important?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones? Aldorius? World Pact? You present today, don’t you? Do they need you for something? It’s that S.E.R.I. thing, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s—I can’t—I can’t talk about it. It’s confidential. Dad. You know—that’s all I can say. They asked me to work, and I think my week will be filled.”

“Ah…right. Well, if they’re asking you, you’ve got to do it, right? We can do it next week or something, huh? Say, how’s it going besides that?”

“I’m sorry. Thank you for understanding. I’ll take a longer break. Thanks, Dad. No, I can’t talk about…oh. The rest of it?”

“Yeah.”

“I…it’s going well. No one…no one new, no. I’m kept busy by managing it all, you know.”

“I see. So nothing new at the office? You know, the other day I saw an article about—”

“I have to go. Listen, Dad, thank you for understanding, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Oh—right. No problem. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

“Thank you. L—you too.”

“Don’t worry about the vacation if they need you. You are doing such important work, aren’t you?”

 

——

 

Roy’s lips moved in the darkness.

“Yeah, bye.”

There was something wrong. He sat there, imagining how Jorrey had taken the news. Disappointed, but maybe he’d go out and tell Reen and the others his son was working for World Pact and speculate.

And maybe he was happy, proud of his son. Maybe he understood and was looking forward to the next visit, never mind their fight.

It was a lovely picture. Roy, the son with his father, who had been prouder of him than he knew.

His father, who had flowers sent from Aldorius, who had sort of gotten his wish.

If you looked at it like that, you could ignore how much Roy had let his father down. If he tried, he could almost convince himself he hadn’t been a bad son.

There was no one there to argue. But Roy sat there and thought.

“I could teleport here any day of the week.”

His hand clenched aimlessly on the ashtray.

“I could have gotten him autographs.”

Roy looked around the dingy apartment. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t the best place in the world, the Easement Center.

“I could have afforded better and made him take it. I could have asked Aerthe for a treatment for his lungs. I could have…”

Jorrey wasn’t easy. He and Roy fought. He could be stubborn, irascible, annoying.

And now he was dead, and he’d never bother Roy again.

Well done. Now you can stop pretending you care, can’t you?

Roy picked up the ashtray. He turned to hurl it against the wall as if it would silence the voice in his head. Then he just stared at it.

My father is dead.

It happened to everyone. But—Roy wasn’t crying. He wasn’t a good son.

He had not been a good son.

He didn’t stay at his father’s room, even though there was a guest bed that Jorrey had bought and never pulled out. He didn’t stay long. Sometimes, he’d leave early, when his father pressed him.

He was never free to chat. He was deliberately not free to chat. Yes, he had a call or a text and he had to take it, because his clients were superheroes.

But Roy had made his life like that. He…

There were things he had never said to his father. Things that bothered him. A conversation about his mother that he had never had.

And now never would. It didn’t matter if someone invented a way to talk to the dead. Jorrey Mackendal was dead. In his heart of hearts, Roy knew there was no magic trinket. Death was one of those things that superheroes could dance with. Some came back from the dead with dark deals or miracles. Some reversed time or faked their deaths.

That was their luxury.

It did not come for mortal men and women.

Roy Mackendal found himself standing in front of a mirror. Not in the bathroom, but a truer mirror. The black screen of one of the televisions reflected his face back.

I never cried.

I am a successful man. I am the world’s luckiest man.

I visited him as often as my job allowed. I made sure he had a good place to live.

I never got him an autograph.

I didn’t speak with him and, now, never will.

I am World Pact’s accountant. Aldorius is my friend.

Am I happy?

His hands shook as they rested on the top of the television. Now—now this was the stuff of comic books. I always wanted to be a hero.

“It was at this instant mild-mannered Roy Mackendal was struck by a bolt of cosmic lightning that surged through the television, turning him into Television Man!”

No bolt of lightning struck. It was a cloudless night sky. Roy let his hands drop to his sides.

Am I happy? He didn’t have love, but he was…

Roy looked around the room. He realized he didn’t want to take anything. He didn’t want to take anything. He wanted to leave it all here.

He stood up and reached for the ashtray. Hesitated. Roy searched around the room again, for something, anything. He began to walk to the bedroom to find the scrap album. Then he just stood there. Roy stared around the room, then backed out the front door and locked it.

“Mister Mackendal? Are you finished…?”

The manager of the retirement home had somehow gotten word of Roy being here.

He had a screwdriver. He looked at Roy, and the accountant mumbled.

“No…no, I’ll come back another day.”

The helpful, sympathetic expression on the man’s face twisted slightly. He took a deep breath.

“Mister Mackendal. I don’t want to be pushy, especially in light of—but we do need to open a new room. We have a waiting list, and we have been very accommodating. But if you don’t decide to remove anything, we will regretfully have to empty it. We will place anything in storage and—”

“No. I’ll keep paying for the room. No…no, thank you.”

The manager gave Roy a pained look, but took another huge breath, squaring himself.

“Mister Mackendal, that’s not acceptable. This home is for—”

“I will pay four times the regular price. Five times. How much? I will put down a hundred thousand dollar’s deposit. A million.”

The manager stared at Roy.

“Mister Mackendal—”

Roy shoved his checkbook in the man’s face. He waved a black credit card at him, a genuine, exclusive, less-than-one-thousand membership that superheroes couldn’t get onto. He shouted and was shouting as Reen opened his door.

“I’m Roy Mackendal. I work for World Pact. Give me another week! I—”

He gazed around. The accountant’s lips moved. He stared at the shocked manager, the residents, and the closed door behind him.

Jorrey Mackendal. He heard his father’s voice.

It followed him as he booked an immediate teleporter back to his Vancouver apartment in one of the neo-city skyscrapers. As he stood in the doorway of his home. As he washed his face. As he poured himself a cup of something to knock himself out.

Into tomorrow. Into waking and sleep. A question. An encouraging tone.

“You are doing such important work, aren’t you?”

 

——

 

Roy Mackendal sat there on the sofa, the ashtray cutting into his hand. He glanced up and realized he hadn’t moved for an hour.

He had never left the room.

He’d made up the encounter with the manager. In truth, Roy couldn’t imagine himself actually saying ‘I’m Roy Mackendal’, not like that.

He had imagined it—just as he imagined going back to work. Those words echoed in his head.

Important work. His father…his father was gone. And Roy hadn’t done anything.

Roy sat there, an accountant in name only. More like…employed friend.

Employed friend. Yes. He shuddered and felt something shift in his mind. His conversation came back to him.

“They’re so lonely.”

And what he really meant was…

“They need me.”

But did they? How much did Roy matter? Roy, the man in distress. Roy, who they were happy to save. But…Roy searched around.

How many of them knew Jorrey’s name? Roy had never told them. But had they ever asked? He told them his father was dead.

No one came. Eight sent flowers.

Roy knew hundreds of superheroes. He had the cards of all of them in his own scrapbook. Aldorius had given him an autographed football he had received from the Tennessee Titans. He had clapped Roy on the shoulder.

My great friend.

You patted dogs on the head. You never asked the dog if they missed their parents. Roy the Friend. Roy the Accountant.

Roy the Pet.

Not one had shown up. In his hour of grief and despair, no one called. Roy pulled out the phone, and he had eight messages. Work.

Can you consult with me on…?

Looking to chat in—

If you’re busy—

“How are you?”

No one asked. No one ever asked him that, not really. They never expected an answer that mattered.

Roy scrolled through his text messages. He opened up the Greecia social app and swept through the feeds of the superheroes. Some, most, were managed by the superhero’s marketing teams, but they always wrote their own messages when they wanted, chatted with each other, started petty fights.

Seithe was most active, but all of them had one, except Nightwish.

Nothing. Not one mention of Roy Mackendal except once. Aldorius had retweeted Roy with an image of them at the gala. Roy had it saved and liked.

Nothing about his father. He had never written anything; he rarely posted. So there was nothing to retweet. Nothing to remind them about…

He went to work, and Embodiment had taken him aside that first day and asked if he were well. After that?

Roy Mackendal was shaking. He sat there. Important work. Was he?

“I never asked you anything. I never…”

An autograph. Years of asking and not one. All for his pride. For his friendships. Roy stared at the phone. He saw an article pop up about Nighwish ending a crime syndicate in a bloody but somehow nonlethal battle.

He asked me about how to honor his mother. He never asked me about mine.

Roy’s hands were shaking. He stared at his smartphone. Then he seized it and tried to snap it between his hands.

It didn’t break. Roy grunted; he had been a football player in…he still sometimes worked out in…

He brought his knee up and tried to snap it with that as a lever. No good. Roy slapped it on the foot table, and the foot table collapsed.

Only then did he remember it was Aerthe’s latest-gen smartphone. She’d given him one of the models before it came out as a birthday present this year. You could block armor piercing rounds with it.

He put his face in his hands. There he sat. He could not cry. He wanted to. Roy clawed at his face, but gently.

“I’m such a coward.”

He didn’t have the…the force in him to throw the ashtray at the wall. Because what good would it do? He’d just have to pay damages, it wouldn’t vent his anger, and he’d probably have to tell someone what that sound was.

He couldn’t storm out there and demand they keep this room this way forever. He’d probably make a back-deal and pay for the lease along with a huge down payment.

When Roy left, he would go back to work. Maybe he’d visit this place six times a year at least, and his father’s grave. He’d walk into World Pact tomorrow, and Aldorius would ask him his opinion on a breaking event. Embodiment would invite him to a dinner where movie stars and supermodels and superheroes would smile at Roy because he was Roy, friend to the important people. Not a threat.

No one would ever love him. No one would ever know his father was dead unless he told them.

At last, Roy understood. He was an accountant who did taxes no one needed to. Aerthe probably had an automated program. They had artificial intelligence, and he worked on World Pact’s taxes by hand.

The luckiest mortal man in the world sat there. He began to giggle. Because, at last, he saw it. This was the hour every person faced.

This dark hour in the night, in this dusty, empty apartment that smelled like smoke. Only, there would be no bolt of light, no magical storm, no chance encounter in an alleyway. There was nothing for him.

Roy Mackendal fell to his knees. He knelt there, legs aching, and looked up at the ceiling. His father was dead. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t mourn him or rage for him or…

He could not. He had wasted it all. So Roy closed his eyes and took his life. He picked himself up, walked out the room, walked down the hall, walked back, locked the door, and then went to the nearest 24/7 Olympia Mart. Another Heradonus subsidiary after he bought 7/11 and most local chains.

He bought a few items from the clerk at the register, who was so tired she didn’t even notice who he was. Not that many people did. She saw him pay with the card, then walk off. It was only a fancy card if you noticed it, and you had to show it off to matter.

To no one’s attention, Roy Mackendal took his life back to the apartment. He sat on the stained, carpeted floor that probably had roach eggs, even with vacuuming, and put something on the ground. It was…paper. Well, cheap, disposable paper plates since paper was at another store.

A marker. Blue, black, and yellow, which turned out to be more orange. Stello tape. Scissors.

Roy Mackendal worked. Roy died.

Not in the physical sense, but a metaphorical one. For didn’t they all die? He had heard them speaking of it.

Some treated it like a game. Others like a calling. A few called it chance; others fate. Yet they all spoke of the moment when it struck them. It called to them all.

An encounter in the rain. A bolt from the blue. A visitor in the night. They died there. It called to them all, even if they wore no physical version.

Slowly, the man lifted it in his hands. It was crude, made of markers and tape, smudging his hands with ink. Barely worthy of it—and yet it was complete.

It called to them all. These great legends and warriors of a new era. Heroes of the modern day. To fight, to serve, to protect, and just to live. Whether they wore it or not, it was theirs.

A mask.

A cape.

A costume.

And, yes, a name. Slowly, as Roy Mackendal lay dying in his father’s empty room, the figure donned the mask, with a bit of tape to hold it in place, which caught his hair.

It did not matter the pain. Nor the late hour.

Some had no powers but those they gained. Some were chosen from distant stars to deliver this Earth to justice. Others paid great prices for their strength.

He found his powers in that dark place. But he needed a name. A name. So he thought, and the most obvious answer came to his mind.

The masked man uttered it aloud. Then he collapsed. Weeping. He clawed at the ground. He threw the ashtray through one of the thin walls and overturned the sofa. Then he shouted it.

 

——

 

The night manager for the Easement Center had been hunting for a screwdriver for the last hour to no avail when alarms began to ring from multiple rooms. She came hurrying over to the site of the disturbance.

In truth, the actual board of the Easement Center had told her that if Roy Mackendal wanted to keep that room forever, he could. Perhaps if World Pact mentioned it? Or just a hero? Or he could just pay and…

She arrived to find chaos. The residents were out of their rooms. They had all hit their call buttons, and so nurses, staff—

“What’s going on? What’s happening?”

She passed by the room Jorrey Mackendal had lived in and stopped. Someone had overturned the sofa. There was a fridge lying in the kitchen, cracking the tiles, and—she searched around and saw the crowd gathered around the intersection in the hallway.

“Roy, Roy! Stop! What are you doing?”

Reen, one of their oldest members, was trying to stop someone, but the others were holding back. The night manager pushed forwards, and there he stood. She stopped.

A figure in a mask turned from the shredded bulletin board. He had…a pair of cheap safety scissors in one hand.

Nevertheless, the others kept back. They stared at him. The night manager quavered. She saw his rounded belly, his plain, office clothing, and the balding patch on his head.

Then the mask on his face and the tape hanging askew.

“Mister Mackendal? Roy Mackendal?”

He turned and shook his head.

“I am not Roy Mackendal.”

The woman started at that voice…trying to be deeper than it was. His strange pose, like someone trying to imitate a Greek statue of an olympian figure, only half-remembered, arms and legs straining with the effort. She swallowed.

“Then…who are you?”

The figure turned his head. The superhero cried into the night. Behind his mask, he wept. His tears ran with the ink down into his shirt. Snot ran down both nostrils, but they couldn’t see it. He shouted, reborn. The hero of our times. The hero they needed, but never wanted. His terrible power, given to him. All granted in a moment. In a name.

“GRIEFMAN.”

 

 

---

Previous Chapter Next Chapter