Griefman (Pt. 2)

Chapter 4

Roy Mackendal did not attend the weekly meeting of World Pact that Wednesday. His absence was noted by Aerthe. It was her turn to present the news, and they had exactly one item on the docket she gauged worthy of World Pact’s attention. She stood as the other heroes filed in, glancing around, and cleared her throat.

“I think Roy’s not going to make it to the meeting, everyone. I’ve cut down our discussion today. I know we’re all busy. Nightwish is still missing. He’s not responding to any communications, not from Stellaris, not our personal line—and this video just surfaced online. I scrubbed the source, but—well, look.”

She pressed ‘play’ as the other superheroes sat down. Aldorius floated over to his seat and put something on the table. A baseball and a glove. He opened his mouth, glanced at the screen, and grimaced.

There was a lot of blood before the frightened man backed against the wall and the shadowy figure appeared. Nightwish. He was wearing his mask from the last time he’d been here nearly a month ago. It was filthy. He was covered in blood—what you could see of it on his costume—and he grabbed someone in a suit.

Seithe had pulled out a smartphone and glanced up briefly, pointing at the figure.

“Who’s that?”

Aerthe replied instantly; this was her area of expertise.

“Hoisland Tech. Front for a supervillain group. That’s their acting CEO. I’m pretty sure he just interrupted a meeting. I’d tell you who’s in the room, but it’s a fixed image. I think Nightwish failed to take it out properly.”

And it was still grainy, even in the year 2035. Heradonus grunted.

“Cheap security system. If he didn’t take it out, he wanted them to see. Or he’s getting sloppy.”

“Probably both.”

Endora watched as the screaming man clawed at a security alarm. Nightwish grabbed his arm and snapped it across his knee. Then he seized the face, headbutted it, and broke a nose. It got worse from there.

“He’s losing it. Someone needs to track him down and have him cool off. We can’t keep a lid on his actions.”

Embodiment grimaced as she tapped a finger on the table. Aerthe nodded.

“He’s been putting everyone he runs into into the intensive care units. It’s not just broken bones, it’s lacerations, brutal beatings…”

“No deaths?”

“No deaths. And all criminals.”

Aldorius was staring at a seat to the side of the central table. The rest of World Pact barely looked at the screen as Aerthe sighed.

“So are we putting a warning out to Stellaris or does anyone want to volunteer to track him down?”

Endora raised her hand.

“I’d rather slay a Jabberwock. No one finds him. We’re just going to have to wait for him to cool down. Aldorius can’t do it. If you two want to monitor every security image across sixteen cities every minute…be my guest. We have better things to do.”

Nightwish finally stopped beating a CEO’s face into the side of a wall. The rest of World Pact barely paid attention to the footage as they spoke. Not one of them looked disturbed; Seithe was in someone’s DMs. Heradonus was having a muted call with someone else about his new coffee line. Endora was staring at flowers for the wedding.

Embodiment was listening, all attention, but she was just trying to move the conversation forwards, and Aldorius was still  searching around. No one focused on the blood or the crawling man as Nightwish picked up a chair.

They’d seen worse. Aldorius opened his mouth, glancing at Nightwish. Then he changed his mind and spoke.

“Where’s Roy?”

Everyone glanced up. Aerthe paused the video.

“I don’t know. I think he’s sick. He normally texts when he’s running late for a teleporter.”

“Kidnapped? I can see it being the League of Anti-Capitalists. Or maybe he ran into something. Good old Roy, can’t stay out of trouble. Where was he last?”

Aldorius sat up and cracked his knuckles. Aerthe just shook her head.

“He’s not kidnapped. He’s in his apartment. His ring is showing he’s there. I think he’s asleep.”

She didn’t have access to his biomedical data, like some of the fancy all-inclusive packages, but they did have a tracker in there, since Roy did have a habit of getting kidnapped. Aldorius seemed disappointed.

“Sick, then. He should have asked for a curative. Don’t we have a cure for the common cold, Heradonus?”

“$118 a shot. I told him to message me if he gets ill. I’ll send him a text.”

Embodiment nodded and fiddled with her own dataslate, making a brief note.

“Well, then. Sounds like that’s that. We should put out a warning to all heroes in Nightwish’s territory. Don’t get in his way, don’t confront him—and a press release if anything hits the media centers. Let’s let the Pentagon know. He’s gone rogue. Hopefully he calms down after a month.”

Heradonus leaned over the table, muting his call for a second with a finger to his earpiece.

“If he doesn’t?”

Embodiment raised her brows.

“Then we make a task force, try to catch him, grab a shrink, toss him into the highest-security cell we’ve got, and hope it holds him for a week. I don’t feel like having him sneak up on me if he thinks we’re the enemy.”

“True. Anything else on the docket, Aerthe?”

The rest of World Pact glanced over, and Aerthe scrubbed topics from her auto-generated presentation.

“S.E.R.I cleanup, two quakes along the San Andreas fault, a request for refugees from Cthonia—I thought we could put it to a vote.”

“True. I’ve got another dinner, this time in New Delphi. I might as well patrol before I have a sit-down. If Roy’s not here, let’s cut it short and get to it, shall we?”

Aldorius floated upwards, and Seithe didn’t respond, still typing furiously with a scowl on their face, but the rest of the superheroes did. Aerthe triggered the vote, and they tapped an icon.

 

For: 1

Against: 5

Abstained: 1

 

Issue settled.

Endora scowled as she looked around.

“We could at least give it a shot.”

Aldorius grimaced.

“You can’t get space refugees past Congress, Endora. They’re still on the Earth border. Which every red-blooded American feels is important. Let ‘em in, stop them from stealing our jobs, put a forcefield up—they’re voting in two weeks, and I have fifteen senators asking where I stand.”

“The good old Aldorius vote. Where do you stand?”

Heradonus raised his brows, and the world’s mightiest superhero folded his arms, staring at the Earth below them.

“Haven’t made up my mind. I was going to toss a ball around and think it over. Anyways, I can’t stay. New Delphi. A boy’s gotta fly. You all keep things wrapped up.”

He nodded at them and was at the teleporter in an instant. Embodiment was right behind him.

“Have you seen the S.E.R.I team doing those press interviews, Aldorius? They’re taking aim at World Pact. Should we respond?”

“Stop checking your replies.”

Heradonus called out. They were gone in a blink of particles. The demigod sighed, sat back down, and then unmuted his call.

“—I am busy. Pressure our farmers one more time and we’ll see how many investigations you want on your business. How many labor laws do you think you’ve violated? Better question: how many camera-drones do you think I own?”

Aerthe was heading towards the airlock; she had work to do in Stellaris’ HQ, and she would rather spacewalk. There was a debris cloud she kept meaning to vaporize on the way over. She turned back at the door. Seithe was heading out, still on their phone, and Endora was sending flowers to her fiancée and asking if they were the right ones on her phone.

Meeting time…seven minutes? It always went like this when Roy wasn’t there. Heradonus had sent him a drone filled with a cure-all kit, one of the ones you got if you were a celebrity. Cold-cure, detox pill, Flumaster shot, iptoperantizine shot, the works. He’d show up next week.

Only, he didn’t show up next week.

Or the week after that.

 

——

 

Three weeks later.

All the headlines of the major media companies were showing one of Nightwish’s victims. Well, that and one of S.E.R.I’s top heroes, Splintershot, joining a supervillain team and publicly declaring she was going to take down her former teammates.

And there was the border bill in American news. Canadian? Towertoppler had escaped, and all of Nova Scotia was under lockdown—he was a real supervillain. If he blew up a building, hundreds or thousands might die.

World Pact discussed Roy. Or rather, his absence. The other events were on their radar, of course; they’d voted 6-0 to issue a statement about Nightwish condemning his actions. They’d have one of their public relations people draw it up.

Splintershot wasn’t really that much of a threat. If she started actually killing people, then one of them would stop her, but it looked like non-lethal superhero drama. Below their concern, except for the fact that it was dominating news cycles. No one felt like embroiling themselves in a few millions angry fans defending their favorite superheroes.

Towertoppler would be found if they could. They knew their jobs.

Roy…was different. World Pact was speculating as to the reason. The weekly meetings were transcribed onto one of Aerthe’s files. This one had gone on seventeen minutes. The last two meetings? 4 minutes, 2 minutes.

 

Aerthe: “He’s asked for another week off. I gave him a call, and he didn’t give me a codeword that he’s kidnapped.”

Endora: “Could be a doppelganger? Roy never misses the weekly meetings, and this is four weeks in a row.”

 

Aldorius said nothing; he was sitting, scowling, arms folded. The vote on the border bill had passed without any endorsement or condemnation by Aldorius. Which meant he was getting dogpiled by both Republicans and Democrats.

 

Embodiment: “Has anyone gone to see him? I went by the other day, but he barely had time for me. He didn’t look well.”

Heradonus: “Well, he’s not sick. Did he have a reason for taking a break? All the accounting work? We can put someone from the financial department on it. It’s not like he’s made any mistakes this year for him to feel guilty about.”

Aerthe: “No…well, I approved his time off. What was I supposed to do? It’s not like he’s needed.”

Seithe: “Of course not. So…why’s he gone?”

Aerthe: “Um, death in the family?”

Aldorius: “Whose? Wait…was it…?”

Heradonus: “I never know who’s passing away. Where are my notes? Roy notes, Roy notes…I have all kinds of input on the coffee project. Anyone?”

Embodiment: “His father.”

Aerthe: “Ah.”

Aldorius: “Huh.”

Endora: “I remember! He didn’t bring it up. Wasn’t that a while back?”

Aerthe: “Records show he never took a week off. Huh, he was at World Pact a day after the funeral for the meeting. I sent flowers. I think I wrote a note?”

Aldorius: “My team sent flowers.”

Heradonus: “Ah, good. Well, it could be that. Either that or he’s found someone? Aphodis’ app isn’t showing any matches, though. Last time he logged in was two years, five months, and eighteen days ago.”

Seithe: “Do you have that data on everyone?”

Heradonus: “I don’t snoop because it’s banal to me, but yes, of course.”

Seithe: “Can you send me everyone who’s hearted my profile?”

Aldorius: “So he’s not going to make it. Send me a note when he’s back?”

Embodiment: “Should we see if he needs company? Someone to talk to?”

Aerthe: “I’ve already got in touch with Stellaris’ wellbeing department. We’ll see if they can run an evaluation. Get him to a therapist or something.”

Heradonus: “Superpowered therapist or regular?”

Aerthe: “I think they have both. For civilians as well as anyone who needs it. Anyone got anything else to add?”

Aldorius: “How…broken up is he? Over the father thing?”

Aerthe: “That was his last remaining member of the family.”

Aldorius: “Rough inning. I’ll wait until he gets back. Does anyone know who ‘The Selectivist’ is? It’s a stupid name, but he might have a bunch of those Creler egg things.”

Heradonus: “That name rings absolutely no bells. Small-time villain?”

Endora: “With eggs that can turn into city-eating monsters. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Aldorius: “Thanks. Then let’s break, team. See you in a week.”

Embodiment: “I’ll send him a care package. Let me text my assistant.”

Seithe: “I’ll shout him out on Greecia. Does anyone have a picture with him? I don’t actually have a selfie.”

Heradonus: “Bacchian wine it is.”

Endora: “I hope he’s back next week. I am going crazy over the wedding. You wouldn’t believe what Derianthe is—okay, talk to you later.”

They got up and left. None of them thought any more of it. They had their problems. Aldorius was in a bad mood; Endora was preoccupied. Aerthe was already jetting out into space again.

Afterwards, if you had asked any member of World Pact why their conversation had focused around one ordinary man, an accountant, they would have given you a blank look. What do you mean, all we talked about was Roy? 

If you reminded them, pulled the transcripts out and made them read them—and that was a waste of time because they were such incredibly busy people, each one could save dozens or hundreds of lives while you wasted time on this nonsense—they would have recalled and shrugged.

Well, so what? Roy was their accountant. He sat in on these meetings. They didn’t need to discuss alien eggs or Nightwish or anything else because they knew their jobs.

Was Roy different, then? Was he special?

No, not in those ways. He was just—Roy.

Did they miss him? He was good to have around; meetings ran longer with him. But miss him? No. He’d be useful when Nightwish got back, of course. Nightwish didn’t threaten to bash Roy’s head in with a brick.

He was just…Roy. If he was absent, they kept working. They just had shorter meetings. It was arguably more efficient that way. They thought little of him except for a few moments, now and then, when one reached for a phone or remembered he was on a leave of absence.

Roy Mackendal was absent to the dismay of no one in the world; the finances department took over World Pact’s running. No one searched for him. No one knocked on his door to ask if he was well.

World Pact was just a bit more annoyed, that was all. If you asked them why, they might say it was bad sleep.

 

——

 

Every day, Roy Mackendale got up in his bed, in his apartment on the third floor of 3 Aldris Lane E. in the city of Vancouver, the most densely-populated metropolis in the Americas.

He got out of bed, body less-than-stellar from a poor night of sleeping, pacing, mind and heart empty, and checked his phone before remembering he’d told everyone he was taking a leave of absence. He fumbled for some clothes, and then he saw it.

Sitting there, across the room. Propped up on a chair it was staining blue and yellow from the cheap markers, sellotape peeling away, bits of fuzzy chenille wire sticking out crazily amidst dried glue.

A cheap cardboard plate with tears running down a face with two crude eye sockets cut out, a gap for a mouth to speak through. A mask, calling him. Taunting him.

Griefman.

Roy ignored it. He didn’t throw the mask away. He thought about it, sometimes, but never quite managed to pick it up. It was a lesson. A memory. An embarrassing reminder of what a panic attack did to you.

It didn’t mean anything.

In superhero stories, there were masks. They called to the good and bad alike. Symbiotic costumes, identities…sometimes, they literally grabbed heroes out of their mundane lives. Other times, they tortured their wearers with duty, sacrifice, urging them to return to the thing that they had to do.

This was just a mask. Roy was not a superhero. He was an accountant. He had to get back to work. He had to get to a psychiatrist, have them put him on anti-depressants or something, and then apologize to all his clients and get to World Pact’s next meeting. And he’d do that, send Aerthe a text, put on a suit and tie and start catching up on all he’d missed.

…In an hour. Roy sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the huge glass windows that always made him vaguely acrophobic, well clear from the actual windows themselves. In his underwear, Roy was exceptionally glad the windows were one-way; he could see flying cars in this area, navigating specially-designated lanes to much taller buildings where the super-wealthy lived.

Sometimes, Roy could even see a superhero flying past the window, waving at people going by; other times in hot pursuit of some criminal. If he looked down, he could see tiny people going about their lives, or the countless skyscrapers of this city, bright with reflected light by day, aglow at night like some vast, uncaring predator flashing colorful lures to passing fish in the depths of the sea.

None of it mattered to him. Roy stood and saw the sun rising, felt the warmth on his skin, felt hungry, saw a superhero with bright pink hair shooting past him, a dozen flying cop cars as reinforcement—and he didn’t feel a thing.

Empty. He was an empty man. He didn’t feel like getting dressed. He knew he had work; a living to make from talking to his clients, making sure they were cared for. Fourth quarter payments; some superheroes refused to hire an accountant, but they needed constant reminders to file quarterly taxes.

He…did not…care.

He was neither angry nor sad. Just irritated at the thought of working. He was tired; Roy could have rolled back into bed, but then he’d lie there, mind repeating words or phrases or bits of a song, and he’d be unable to sleep easy even if he took sleeping pills, and wake up with a killer headache regardless.

What to do today? Not go out. He might sit, scrolling on the internet, watching videos for thirty-second chunks before turning them off, or just watch a wall and tell himself he had to do work, he had to think of something interesting to do until he realized he’d wasted an hour trying to convince himself not to waste an hour.

This wasn’t sadness, Roy felt. It was nothing.

He did not mourn Jorrey Mackendal. He couldn’t even find the energy to pay lip service to the idea. Sadness was such a giant emotion, and Roy was such a petty, small man. He wished he could be properly sad. Like…that night.

But that hadn’t been him. Roy sat there and remembered his psychotic episode.

“Griefman.”

Had he actually gone out of Jorrey’s apartment, wearing a mask, trying to destroy the Roy Board? Evidence pointed to yes, including Roy’s memories, but it was surreal. Stupid, really. It was just Roy having a meltdown and saying meaningless things.

There was a grain of truth, maybe, to his babblings. Yes, he’d been a poor son. Yes, World Pact and the other superheroes didn’t need him. So what?

It didn’t change today. He had an excellent job. His father was months dead, now, and Roy had to get over himself. He’d dial Aerthe…

It was already four in the afternoon. When had that happened? Sometime between shuffling around his kitchen, eating leftovers from his ordered takeout, scrolling through his phone, staring out the window, at his mask, lying on the bed—

Tomorrow. It’s going to be too late to have a brief discussion with her. I’ll do it—tomorrow.

Tomorrow, maybe, this haze of apathy would pass and Roy could get back to work. And if not? He’d fake it. You felt like this, now and then, and you had to soldier on. Get through it; he wasn’t getting paid to be a burden on other people, much less World Pact. He was going to lose his job if he begged another week off.

And they’d been so kind to send flowers from Embodiment, a case of fine wine from Heradonus that Roy had drunk through, and a shoutout from Seithe. Roy could still check tens of thousands of messages every day from people wishing him well who had never met him or asking why he was so important or being jealous, and that made him feel good. For a second. He had received flowers. From Embodiment.

They were lying on the counter. Roy stared at them. Tomorrow. He’d text Aerthe tomorrow.

Doing such important work, aren’t you, Roy my boy?

It wasn’t a literal voice in the room. It was in his head. It was the same voice that Roy heard when he wasn’t listening to something or playing a game on his smartphone or trying to read a comic or sleeping.

If he drank enough, it vanished for a while. If he had good food from takeout—and there were so many restaurants—he forgot about it. If he got out of the house, ran a few laps, got the right medication, Roy was sure…

The mask sat on his chair after Roy emerged from the bathroom from an inadequate bowel movement. The mask.

“Stop it. You’re cracking up, Roy. You need a breath of fresh air.”

He put on ‘casual’ clothing, which was still a suit, just one that had old stains he’d never gotten out. Roy didn’t have much casual clothing, actually. It didn’t suit him, he felt. He didn’t make it work; superhero merchandise was a bit too pointed for him, and awkward, and he didn’t go out much except in the company of his clients.

So…he had a tie on, a scuffed pair of shoes, and studied himself in the mirror for a second. He seemed normal. He didn’t like that. He should be a wreck, and maybe he’d put on a bit of weight, but he looked like Roy.

What a terrible son. I can’t even fall apart properly. How about this? He’d go for an hour walk.

A thirty minute walk.

Ten minute walk, then he’d teleport down to Jorrey’s grave, say a few words, slap himself on the cheeks, and get to it. No, that was such a criminal waste of money…

A five-minute walk. Next month, he’d visit the grave.

He’d visit both graves at least every quarter. They were buried together, after all.

It was five PM. He should find something to order for takeout for dinner. What should he eat tonight? Indian? He’d had it two nights in a row. Sushi? Fast food was too…maybe he should explore his options. Roy began scrolling through the top-rated restaurants for one he hadn’t tried yet.

It was ten to six when he left his apartment. Not for that walk; it was late, and he wasn’t feeling it.

He was picking up his food delivery.

 

——

 

The young man actually delivered it on a bike. No wonder it took twenty minutes longer, and Roy had paid for priority delivery. He tried not to be annoyed at that as he thumbed over a 45% tip—tips, in Canada. But prices were so high in Vancouver that it was practically a crime not to, according to some people. Huge debate online.

Roy tipped because he could. Roy took the still-warm food and walked back into his apartment building. It was fairly ritzy; it had a person at a desk at all times and forty-nine floors; a small apartment, but each floor was for a single occupant, so upscale enough.

No stairs. Some days, Roy felt like it would be good exercise, but he walked into the first elevator, scanned his key, and set it to the third floor. Before he could go up, someone called out.

“Mister Mackendal? We’ve got a package for you.”

“Oh. Er…”

The first words Roy had spoken in two weeks. He shuffled away from the elevator as one of his neighbors, a woman on the 6th, took it and gave him a vague smile. He was too slow to return it and felt guilty about it as the manager of the apartment—not the owner, the manager—pulled something big out from behind the desk.

It was huge, square, and Roy stopped when he saw it.

“It didn’t have the floor number, so the delivery person didn’t drop it off at your floor.”

The manager’s voice had the faintly accusing tone suggesting this was Roy’s fault. Roy stared at the big piece of square material. It must have cost a lot to ship. He knew what it was.

The Roy Board. They’d closed Jorrey’s room after the…incident. He hadn’t known they were sending it to him.

“Thanks. I’ll, uh—”

Suddenly, he didn’t have enough hands to do more than drag it into the elevator. The manager followed Roy, not really helping, but talking.

“Let me get the elevator for you. Do you need a hand with it?”

“It’s not heavy. Let me just put my food in…it’s something from my father. He passed away.”

How naturally the words came out. The manager blinked; he was a younger man, late twenties, hired to tend to the needs of each tenant.

“My condolences, Mister Mackendal. How old was he?”

“Um…seventy-nine.”

“That’s not bad—natural causes?.”

“He smoked.”

“I see. Well, if there’s any more packages, I’ll try to send them to your floor. Have a good night, Mister Mackendal.”

Roy stood there, his dinner on one foot, holding the wrapped board in one hand as the elevator closed. He saw the manager smiling at him, a professional, polite smile.

My father is dead.

I hate you and everything in this building. Myself first and foremost.

“Thanks. You too.”

The doors closed.

 

——

 

Roy got the board into his apartment after fumbling with his keycard, and the elevator almost took his dinner to another floor with it. He brought it inside, leaned it against the kitchen counter, and ate his food while watching a recap video on Youtube about Towertoppler’s backstory. A two-hour essay that covered his childhood, events leading up to his historical attack, ties to other supervillains—very well done, 18 millions views. Deserved more.

Roy gave it a thumbs up as he ate his dinner. Decent. New restaurant; more sushi. Not his favorite, but it tasted good until he instantly forgot about it.

He…didn’t look at the board for a few hours. Then he decided to unwrap it. When he pulled away the clumsy wrapping plastic, Roy saw the Roy Board with images of him on it.

Scars from the safety scissors tearing pieces of the newspaper clippings and printouts away. Only a few gashes; he hadn’t done much to it.

Griefman hadn’t.

…Roy decided to put the Roy Board up. He had nothing else left of his father. Not the roachless fridge, not his sofa or…that was probably still in the room, or maybe they’d put it in lockup for him. He’d check his email, but this, at least, could be a kind of tribute to his father. This would be his big task for the day, Roy decided. He was unpleasantly full on dinner and tired, even if he didn’t want to sleep, but he’d do it. He walked around the mask, found a wall, and decided it would work there. He’d wake up every day and see it. Remind himself of his father and why he did what he did.

Roy began to pick up the mask to toss in the garbage. He reached for it, hesitated, and then picked up the cork board instead. It didn’t whisper his name.

“Roy. Roy…”

Roy said it out loud just to be funny. If the mask had a voice or could float, it would be extraordinary. It was just a stupid mask. He poked it once, just to prove it had no value.

It turned the tip of one finger blue. Stupid felt markers. What had he been thinking?

Griefman? What kind of a stupid name was that? There was Crocodileman, and he was literally a shapeshifting crocodile permanently high on drugs.

 

——

 

Nailing the cork board to the wall of his apartment was harder than Roy thought. For one thing, he didn’t know if he even had a hammer in the apartment. He thought he did; Jorrey had always been big on do-it-yourself stuff, and he’d told Roy to get a house.

In Vancouver, Dad? Even if I went to the suburbs, it’s like three million for a small home. 

Still, Roy had a small toolkit somewhere…

Then he realized he had no nails. And Roy was sure you did something with studs to make sure you were hitting the wrong spot. He debated ordering some nails on delivery, then decided this was something he could get on a short walk. But Roy had forgotten the one cardinal rule of apartments—

Don’t change things.

 

——

 

When the manager saw Roy walking into the lobby with a small carton of nails, he stopped Roy.

“Mister Mackendal, are you, uh, planning on nailing that board to your apartment wall?”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

A polite smile that suggested Roy was an idiot.

“Holes in the apartment aren’t allowed under the tenant lease, Mister…Mackendal. You could use a wall magnet, but no nails, screws, or sticky tack. It leaves a residue.”

“Oh…”

You have got to be kidding me. Roy half debated saying he wasn’t going to nail anything in, but the manager held out a hand. Roy did not have to give him the nails. Thetre, the lawyer of World Pact, could probably have fought for his rights to nail anything to any wall he pleased anywhere.

The manager was just doing his job. Roy handed him the nails. Then he walked upstairs and began googling wall magnets, which you apparently mounted on the wall and which held up pictures or whatnot. How times had changed.

 

——

 

Searching for the right wall magnet annoyed Roy before he began. Thirty-five minutes later, he was scrolling down the ‘top 10 best wall magnets of 2035’ search results and getting sick of this simple task.

Buy a wall magnet. But which one was best? He was about to buy a set of little wall-mounted magnets before he found a review claiming they wouldn’t hold more than two pounds of weight. The cork board was definitely more than that, but was it per magnet or would four hold eight pounds of weight?

He should have just nailed the board into the wall. Who was going to tell on him, really? He could go out, get more nails, and sneak them inside. But if the manager found out and he had to talk to the landlord…

It was a damn apartment in the year of 2035. There were wood sealants. People were making houses in space. He paid seven figures for the luxury of living in this one-floor place.

Roy bought the damn magnets. Then saw it would take fourteen days to arrive because he hadn’t checked how fast they shipped. He began to cancel the order on his phone and request a refund, and then he stopped.

The cork board was just sitting there against the wall. Roy had the urge to get up and kick it in half. He had another, specific urge, as he stared at the small claw hammer sitting next to it. And that was to take the hammer, go downstairs, find his nails, and put one through the manager’s skull.

Of course, that was not something Roy would ever do. It was a horrific act of violence against a man who was merely annoying.

Roy wanted to do it. He forced himself to calm down, to open that video again, relax, and just leave the board be until the wall magnets arrived. Or he could get nails tomorrow and smuggle them in.

Such important work you’re doing.

The accountant had an image of calling the manager up to the third floor—then throwing him out the window. Whether or not he could actually achieve that feat, he imagined the panicked scream as the man went flying. Then wondered how he’d ever fix the glass. Well, it wouldn’t matter because it would ruin his life.

He wanted to smash the cork board. It would destroy the last thing he had left of his father, the thing Jorrey was proud of.

He was furious.

Roy sat, staring at his phone, not gritting his teeth because that’s how you ruined your teeth. Wanting to hit something and knowing he’d just hurt himself or break it. Roy sat as the night grew longer, and the light from his phone illuminated his face, keeping a lid on the fury that only seemed to grow with each passing second.

Rage was in him. Rage beyond imagining. Beyond superheroes, the kind of wrath to make him pick up this hammer and walk downstairs and beat that little manager to death.

Why? What had he done?

You can’t do that.

It was still in him. People thought Roy Mackendal was a sane, well-adjusted man? He had no end to the depths of the hatred and filthy fury that wanted to come out of him. More than any superhero or villain with the power to shoot beams from his eyes.

Aldorius didn’t know rage. Aldorius could do anything. Rich and powerful people threw tantrums like children who didn’t get their way, because they had everything. Roy didn’t have that power. He didn’t have a father. His anger was built on petty embers, little slights, an entire world of shit kicked at him because he never flung it back and because everyone got away with it.

He felt like he could slaughter the entire world just with fury. He stared at the cork board and thought of Jorrey. Roy’s hand was so tight around the smartphone it was cutting into his skin. He wanted to hurl that out the window.

Embodiment had sent him flowers. She’d shown up at his door four days ago and asked if he was well. He’d said ‘I’m fine, sorry for troubling you’. She’d asked a few more questions, then left because she’d heard about Towertoppler breaking out.

She had forgotten his father died.

It wasn’t her fault. She was a busy, important woman. Did any of them remember?

Aerthe did. Aerthe wanted him to see a counselor from Stellaris.

His father was dead, and he felt nothing of sadness, just a mindless fury.

The mask sat in the chair. Roy got up, arm raised, aiming his phone at the board, at the wall, and then grabbed the mask instead. He began to rip it apart. He was breathing hard. Did it matter? Did anything matter?

The word came out of him, that name, like a psychosis, a whisper, which grew because he was afraid of shouting and having his neighbors complain.

“Griefman. Griefman.”

He raised the mask to his head in expectation of nothing at all and put it on with the bit of tape that had his old hair still stuck to it. The man stood there with a stupid mask on his face.

He was Roy Mackendal, and he was a stupid, pathetic person who felt nothing but anger and emptiness.

No—he felt it building in his chest, suddenly. A terrible power. Like so many others, hidden from mild-mannered Roy Mackendal until the moment he needed it most. He had run from this power, fled it. Now, it came out in a word. A shout that bounced around the apartment.

“GRIEFMAN.”

For a second, the costumed crusader flinched at his own voice. Then he spoke like thunder, a whisper too loud in his own ears.

“My father is dead.”

Then he was not Roy Mackendal. Gone, gone, the accountant, the empty fellow.

In his place stood Griefman.

 

——

 

Hammer in hand, Griefman stood in the dark of the apartment. Breathing heavily. He raised the hammer towards the wall of the apartment. Raised it with all the might in the world and stopped.

“The board.”

The hammer fell from his grip, clattering to the floor as Griefman picked it up and looked at it, really looked at it, illuminated by the lights of the city. All the newspaper clippings, the magazine interviews. The torn pieces of paper smoothed under his fingers as he saw with new eyes how someone had underlined a man’s name.

Roy Mackendal.

It had even corrected it when they got the name wrong, making it Mackndal or Mackendale. An outraged hand writing in neat, bold letters to fix this injustice. And Griefman, with a mind of ice-cold intelligent, superlative genius, realized something else.

“Staples. On cork?”

His fingers felt each clipping—and there were hundreds—and sure enough, each one had a staple, horizontal, in all four corners. None of this ‘diagonal stapling’ of the corners nonsense, oh no. Griefman blinked, then he had it.

“Never to be removed. Not a pin. You can take out a pin. Each one stapled in. All four corners because that’s how they lie flush.”

It was a little thing. Trivial, really. But who put up things like that? The manager? He’d put a single staple at the top of the paper and let it flop about if he even had a board, which he didn’t. Someone with, yes, admittedly, time, a functioning stapler, and the budget for the little bits of folded metal had put this board together. Over a thousand staples at least in this board. It was probably at least a pound heavier from all the metal. Or not. Griefman was not gifted in the art of weighing staples.

But he did have a power. Oh yes. In this dark apartment, Griefman looked around and felt it above him. A great, vast presence.

Sorrow. Sadness. Grief. Whatever you wanted to call it.

The enormity of it left him quiet, sitting on his bed unable to process it. Roy Mackendal couldn’t. He broke in the shadow of that unseen mountain looming over reality. He could not encompass nor imagine the ocean of grief that this mere planet was dwarfed by, which would drown the multitude of stars. He felt numb when the truth was he couldn’t handle the pain. Griefman, though, he could channel a bit of that unrelenting emotion.

It was not mere sadness. It was…his power. His superpower. The masked man’s lips moved as he hunched over the bed, laying the board flat on the mattress. He whispered.

“I think he was proud of me.”

His fingers traced the smiling man in the image. Roy Mackendal’s silly face. Griefman went on.

“I’m almost sure he loved me. And I never even walked down the hall.”

He felt his hands shaking. Then his eyes sting. Griefman’s throat was closing up. His voice wobbled as he spoke mockingly. To himself.

“Important work, Roy my boy. Important work!”

The first tears blurred his eyes. Griefman didn’t wipe them away. They ran down, behind his mask, running across his mouth, emerging as stained blue tracks down his chin. He whispered as his nose began to run.

“He’s gone.”

The tears were slowing. He was weak after weeks of absence. Griefman stumbled off the bed. He went crashing through the dark apartment. He could not be here. He had to be…had to…

He had a great mission.

Out, into the corridor, not bothering to lock the door. Damn the doors. Griefman feared no doors! He did wait for the elevator, though, and when it opened, someone made a surprised sound.

“Oh my. Hello?”

A woman in her sixties was holding her dog in her arms. The little cocker spaniel clearly needed to pee or walk, despite the late hour. She stared at the tall figure wearing the mask as he stepped into the elevator. He raised a fist, and she flinched as if she suspected he were some villainous ne’er-do-well, but he just aimed his fist skywards, standing straight and tall as it touched the ceiling of the elevator.

“Good evening, Miss Roselin.”

“Mister Mackendal? Is that you? Is there some kind of event going on?”

She stared at him, relaxing a bit; her dog did not. It yapped at the caped crusader, and he shook his head.

He was crying, Miss Roselin realized. Tears running down from behind the mask, staining the collar of his suit blue. But his voice was an eerie mix of composure, a deepening of the vocal cords, and that wobbling of tears unshed.

“Griefman, good citizen.”

The elevator was heading down. The man stood there, fist raised, staring upwards. His arm was still raised, despite how tired it was getting. Griefman felt no exhaustion. After a moment, when he sensed the woman’s eyes on him, he spoke.

“Up, up and away.”

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was slightly open. Griefman leaned over to clarify.

“I can navigate any building in the press of a button.”

“Aha?”

It was a question. The woman stared at Griefman as the doors opened to the lobby. He stepped out of it, fist still raised. He needed a cape. Or at least a costume. The suit was no good.

First things first. Griefman strode to the front desk where the security guard was looking up. Miss Roselin called out after him.

“Mister Mackendal, are you alright?”

He turned.

“No. My father is dead.”

Then he went to find the manager. Not a supervillain. He was just a manager.

Griefman wasn’t crazy.

 

——

 

“Mister Mackendal?”

“Griefman, good citizen. I have come to collect a box of nails on a matter of heroic business.”

Hands of his hips, chest puffed out, Griefman stared down at the manager. He was inspecting the desk. The man glanced around, but the security guard had decided this was not his problem and avoided the pointed looks.

“Mister Mackendal—”

“Grief. Man. Roy Mackendal is a good friend of mine. He does my taxes. He is in need of some nails.”

The superhero’s tone brooked no questions. And indeed, he seemed to have rendered the manager speechless.

The man was goggle-eyed at the costumed crusader, mask ajar, paper plates colored yellow with blue teardrops, stapled and tied together with bits of twine. He didn’t scream, but spoke.

“Mister Mackendal, are you sure you’re feeling well? Do you need me to call someone?”

The figure bent forwards. The security guard did speak, then, but Griefman didn’t place his hands on the citizen. He just spoke, meeting the manager’s eyes.

“I am…Griefman. My father is dead. You, good citizen. Do you have a family? Parents? Siblings?”

“Yes?”

Griefman nodded. He put a hand on the manager’s shoulder.

“Call them. You too, sir. And you, Miss Roselin, and you, good citizens.”

A group of people had come in, laughing and joking, but stopped when they’d seen Griefman. He raised his voice—and he was still crying. Tears running down his mask. His eyes glittering in the depths of the artificial mask he used to hide himself from the rest of the world. His secret identity.

“Tell your family you love them. Hug your dog. Before it’s too late. I am Griefman. A new superperson in Vancouver.”

“A superhero. What’s your power?”

The manager was unsure of whether to laugh or back away. He took a step backwards as Griefman turned to him again. Griefman whispered in a low, dramatic voice.

“I have the power to make you feel sad. I have the power of grief on my side. I am Griefman. My father is dead. I think he loved me. But even now, I wish I had asked him.”

He turned, and now he was the lone man in a world of frozen people. Even the dog wore a horrified, enraptured look. Such was the power of Griefman.

“Isn’t it a simple thing? I could have asked him straight out. ‘Dad, do you love me?’ But I never did, because I was ashamed. Because it never occurred to me to ask it like that. Now, I will never know.”

So saying, he picked up the box of nails and turned. Here, the manager stopped him.

“Mister Mackendal—‘Griefman’, you can’t do that. It’s against your agreement—”

He stopped as Griefman turned back. The superhero looked the man in the eyes.

“Tell me your name, good citizen.”

The man didn’t want to. But he had a nametag.

“Rodney. Call your father. Leave Mister Mackendal to me.”

His tears still dripped down his face. One second, he was tall, his full height, the next, he slumped over as if he had fought a great battle and lost. His eyes were unblinking as tears ran down them. As if he barely felt them and they merely leaked from some unseen ocean.

As if they would never reach out. Griefman drew on his great power, and it hurt. He whispered.

“Tell them—to stop smoking. Try to visit them. Before it’s too late. His name was Jorrey. What are their names, Rodney?”

Rodney didn’t answer. He was walking back, now. Griefman followed him.

“Rodney. I didn’t always love him. I don’t know if he always deserved love every single day. But I am proud he was my father. He put me through college on a single father’s salary. He made a board with all my accomplishments on it. And I still don’t know if he loved me. Why? I never gave him a single gift in return. He always told me he was proud of me.”

Rodney the manager kept backing away from Griefman. He exited the apartment building as Griefman followed, still talking.

Then he ran, like the hounds of hell were chasing him, not because Griefman was running after him, hands outstretched. But because Griefman was weeping giant, blobby tears that men didn’t weep, apparently. Because he stood like a statesman, back straight, chest puffed out, wearing his scruffy suit with tears running down his face, never prouder, never sadder.

A superhero frightened the common citizen. They feared what they didn’t understand. But he was here to save them. Griefman raised his fist skywards. He stepped into the elevator, hit the button.

And then he ascended into the skies as they stared at him.

 

——

 

No one saw Griefman after that. The apartment manager returned to work; Miss Roselin walked her dog. No police were called. It was a minor bit of superheroism.

Roy Mackendal found a cork board nailed to his apartment wall when he woke up the next day. He jerked—glanced around—and saw the mask sitting on the counter of his kitchen. He stared at it as he got up and saw his skin was stained blue in places. He wondered if anyone had gotten a clue as to Griefman’s true identity.

Roy didn’t toss the mask. He kept it and stood, surveying his city, for now he understood. This was only the first step, discovering his powers. The titular first adventure. Soon, there would come crime. He needed to go for a morning jog and eat something healthy.

For he was…

Griefman. And the city, nay, the world—

Needed him.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Vancouver in the year of 2035 was the most populated city on the continent. It was also the most technologically advanced by far and had the highest amount of superheroes per capita. Mostly thanks to Stellaris and Heradonus. When superheroes had first emerged and come out of the woodwork, they’d gone to Los Angeles, New York, posed on high on buildings in Manhattan.

Then, in between punching supervillains in the extremities, some of them had decided to use the power to magnetize objects to create batteries or applied for permits to create institutions run by superheroes. They had asked for rather generous building leases, funding, and told building inspectors they were less concerned with safety codes than whether or not their building could survive multiple kiloton impacts internally or externally. Also, to please stop tapping their phones.

—They’d moved to Vancouver partly because Stellaris had been founded by a group of Canadian superheroes like Aerthe, but partly because Canada had played ball. Congress had passed a law conscripting American-born superheroes. It had lasted two years, then been repealed.

Ten years later, Vancouver had mag-lev trains in the inner city. Flying cars were still subject to monthly laws governing their usage. There were so many skyscrapers that some parts of the city lay in shade practically every part of the day. The city was rich.

It said so right on the graph. Per capita income at $241,881, and that was with the Canadian dollar beating the US one. They had an image of Aerthe on the $20 note; they’d kicked the monarchy off for her.

Amazing wealth. Just don’t search the HDI. Or the ISEW.

What were those? Human Development Index. Or the Index of Sustainable Economic Welfare. Most of World Pact had no idea what that was. Endora’s eyes tended to roll up in her head when acronyms got past three letters.

Here was a better way to look at it that Roy had once described to Aldorius. Don’t look at how much the average household earns. Ask what percentage of people lived on food stamps—for Americans—or social assistance.

Put it another way. Superhero backed programs like Stellaris’ New Era initiative had created fission-powered generators that had dropped energy prices through the ground. They’d put up over a hundred super-apartments with large, soundproofed spaces fit for a complete family, and you could indeed buy a cure for the common cold.

For over a hundred dollars a shot, since it wasn’t deemed a necessary medicine and it was too expensive for full public healthcare. If you had an apartment and a job, great. If you had a house, it had probably gone up at least a thousand percent in value over the last decade. Ten thousand percent.

Homelessness had risen precipitously. Crime was at an all-time low in the center of the city where Stellaris heroes gathered. Head out twenty miles into the still-developing metropolis areas and you’d get off the mag-lev trains and go back to regular subways. And there you’d get petty crime.

Not superhero crime—regular robberies, murders, or just car part theft. Ten years ago, it was catalytic converters. Now, anyone stupid enough to park a brand new car in one of the shadebergs—places in shade from the super skyscrapers in the heart of the metropolis—would quickly find they were missing an Aerthe-brand battery. Not the car; it was easier to just saw it out of the hood, even if you had to crack the anti-theft cage to grab it.

This was the era of superheroes. Crime hadn’t decreased. Sure, you had Embodiment, who could mentally calculate where to fuse part of the building to keep it from collapsing, or Aldorius, who could subdue a hundred armed men in a second. But you also had supervillains. Super-crime.

Mister Olympics didn’t have time to chase after a purse snatcher. If he saw someone grab a purse, he’d stop the thief, but only a few superpeople liked to patrol for mundane crime. And even then, they were probably just livestreaming it for an audience like Seithe.

It made things harder for law enforcement, too. If a supervillain attacked, you were running cordon duty for the fight scene or helping clean up—you were highly concerned about a private bodyguard armed with space-age technology going on a rampage or what that private mercenary group was doing with powered body armor. Whenever Endora was fighting a superhero in the middle of downtown, lots of smaller crimes occurred as all the attention went to her.

The world needed more superpeople, obviously. That was the solution to all this.

 

——

 

New Vancouver was still…fresh. So many new people. So soft, especially in the inner city.

How did he know?

Griefman stood on a Translink subway connecting the heart of the city to one of the shadebergs, Conexis District. His mask was firmly anchored to his face; he had an old suit on, the same one from yesterday.

People were staring at him. Someone had already pulled out a phone and started recording.

That’s how you knew it was a weak city with fragile people and not one of the old cities with an identity and a culture and street food that had reached every corner of the world.

Go on a subway in a real city, like New York, and no one would bat an eyebrow if you had a cape, a pet rat riding on your shoulder, or you were in a mariachi band. Roy had seen all three on the same subway car once. It wasn’t even the most interesting thing he’d seen, either.

He was staring at the blinking icon of his destination. The whispering filled the train.

“Is that a new superhero?”

“I didn’t see one in the news. Maybe it’s a debut?”

“Why are they riding the subway? And that mask…I can definitely see his face.”

“He looks sort of familiar.”

Griefman ignored them. His head was clear. He knew what had to be done. He was breathing hard; jogging down to the station as people turned and stared was more difficult than he’d thought.

Or maybe he was just out of shape. It didn’t matter. Griefman was here to save the day.

Once he found something to save.

His pulse was in his ears, and he was lightheaded. Griefman swayed slightly, then jerked upright as someone talked to him.

“Um. Excuse me, sir? Are you alright?”

“Absolutely, good citizen. Can I help you? I am Griefman.”

The superhero turned, puffed out his chest, and saw an earnest young woman nervously holding up a phone. Was she recording?

“Grief…man? Are you a new superhero?”

“That’s right.”

“Riding the subway?”

“Griefman believes in public transport. My power is not moving quickly from place to place.”

Someone laughed at that, and Griefman smiled. He swept his gaze over the crowd and saw disconcerted faces, concerned expressions. The young woman hesitated. She was, Griefman realized, actually fairly poised. Good articulation.

“Actually, Griefman, I’m an intern at the Vancouver Daily. Normally, we cover new superheroes—”

“Congratulations, Miss…?”

“Analie Harper. So what’s your power, Griefman?”

He paused dramatically as everyone leaned forward.

“My power is the ability to make anyone cripplingly sad. To weep. To emotionally harm anyone I meet with the power of grief.”

He thrust his chest outwards a bit more, and the would-be reporter stepped back. She glanced at someone else recording Griefman with a phone.

“Um. Right. Can you demonstrate that power?”

“Certainly, good citizen. But I must warn you, Griefman’s powers are not for the lighthearted. Ahem.”

Griefman looked around the subway car and spoke.

“My father is dead.”

His eyes shone like bright beacons. His suit, stained with soy sauce on one sleeve, crinkled and battered, sagged much like his stomach. His bald spot reflected the morning’s light from the skyscrapers, and his mask kept slipping despite his attempts to tape it back up.

—But his words provoked a silence. Mere words sank every heart, caused the crowd to draw back from him in fear, to murmur and look at him. Griefman heard the words like thunder in his head. And then came the tears. They ran from his mask, soaking already soggy paper.

“My father…is dead.”

Oh yes, they drew back from him. Griefman gazed around and spoke.

“Call your family. Hug your friends. Pet your dog. And beware, for I am Griefman. My tragedy is your tragedy.”

There was still six minutes to his stop. He swept around…and stared out the window. After a moment of whispering, Griefman heard a voice.

“It’s another vigilante. Should we call the police? He doesn’t have any powers.”

“I think he’s having a mental breakdown.”

“There’s a hotline you call for wannabe superheroes. Let me find it…”

Griefman ignored the whispers. He stood with his back straight, peering ahead. Justice would come to Vancouver. The city needed him. He had forgotten all about Miss Analie Harper until she tapped him on the back.

“Sir? Griefman? Can I have another word?”

“Yes, good citizen?”

When he turned, tears still ran down his eyes. The reporter eyed him, then lifted her phone higher. She spoke, trying to include herself in the live video.

“This is Analie Harper, reporting for Vancouver Daily. I’m here with Griefman, a new, self-proclaimed vigilante—”

“Superhero, Miss.”

“—Self-proclaimed superperson appearing in public for the first time. My question to you, Griefman, is…are you really a superhero with powers? You know the Civilian Vigilante Act forbids private citizens from masquerading as superheroes except with special dispensation, like Nightwish?”

“I have a superpower. The power to make anyone feel—”

This time, there was a louder laugh in the audience, but Griefman was undeterred. Let them laugh. He had five minutes to his stop. Ooh, four now. He stared past Analie Harper—right until she interrupted.

“So you’re not Roy Mackendal, the world’s luckiest man, accountant for Stellaris and World Pact?”

Griefman froze. He glanced down, and the reporter had a shine to her expression. That, say, of an intern realizing she definitely had a story and a slot on the morning’s news cycle.

“Roy who? I’m sorry, you’re speaking to Griefman, good citizen. Why would you—think otherwise?”

Griefman kept his smile up and adjusted his mask, but the young woman just held up her smartphone.

“Facial recognition app. It works on all celebrities and public people of interest. Mister Mackendal, have you suffered a loss in the family?”

“My name…is Griefman.”

His breathing was suddenly very hard. His eyes flicked around in his mask, and the people in the subway reacted to his name in—a different way.

 

Roy? Roy Mackendal? Where do I know…oh, him! Isn’t he famous?

Having a meltdown. His father’s dead?

Off his rocker. Someone should call an ambulance before he hurts himself.

Poor man. Do you think someone from Stellaris will show up?

 

Whispers. Conversations. Now they were taking pictures, videos. Griefman raised his arms.

“I am…Griefman. I have a job to do!”

The subway. Now the reporter was pursuing him, asking him questions. Didn’t she have a code of ethics? Griefman stumbled off the subway. Then he began to run.

He was—Griefman. He had to find crime. With the power of grief—

“My father is dead. Dead. He died, and I couldn’t shed a tear at his funeral. I couldn’t even walk in his room for months. I am alone.”

Then they backed away from him, a man in costume, stumbling out of the subway, tripping, falling to his knees, clawing at his face and the mask. Then he saw them look away in fear, in terror, hiding from the raw emotions.

Griefman. Griefman—

More grief than man, now.

 

——

 

The video of Roy Mackendal running through the subway in Conexis Station was playing on every major media outlet on the west coast; it was a slow news day. Or rather…he had enough fame from his associations, and it was hard to look away.

Griefman.

It was early morning, at least, for members of Stellaris, who lost track of time when they were on a literal space station. The circular ring had lots of dorm rooms that any member could use and a central living area and a lot of other rooms lower in the station.

Right now, it was noisy with voices. Laughter, groans, and from Mister Olympics, eating the Breakfast of Champions™, spoon raised with a bunch of the multivitamin, nutrient-rich oats halfway towards his mouth—silence. Until he put down the spoon.

They were showing Roy’s face, his driver’s license image, next to Griefman’s mask, running an overlay showing the similarities in his jawline, eyes, nose, etc, and side-profiles. They really didn’t need to; it was an obvious match.

“Oh fuck. He’s lost it. That’s the accountant guy, right?”

That came from Spellcaster, young new superhero in her early twenties with a generic witch’s hat, robes, a magic staff, and for reasons of trademark, a personal logo on her back with her name on it. She’d had another name before she’d been taken to court about her likeness imitating far more important and popular fictional characters.

Thirty-six million dollar lawsuits were why she was having frozen waffles and needed to stay at Stellaris HQ. She had one hand on the microwave and a bottle of cheap maple syrup in the other hand.

She didn’t know Roy personally. But she’d heard of him, and Mister Olympics muttered out of the side of his mouth as he felt for his phone.

“He does my taxes. Hold on. I have to…make a call.”

He rang up his assistant to make sure they were good—financially—and get someone else to check his books. Because one glance at the news report and Mister Olympics knew, with the mind of an Olympic chess player—a new sport added in 2028—Roy might not be able to file taxes for the upcoming fiscal year.

“You know him, Mister Olympics? What’s going on?”

Every eye turned to Mister Olympics, and the ‘older’ superhero realized he was in the spotlight. He put down his smartphone, cleared his throat, and realized whatever he said was going on Greecia in seconds.

“I, uh, well, of course I know him. Everyone knows Roy. His father passed away? Tragic. I didn’t hear about it. Seems like he needs someone to check in on him. When was this taken?”

“Looks like an hour or two ago?”

Mister Olympics stopped levering himself out of his chair and sat back and inserted his spoon into his mouth and chewed.

“Oh, well, shame. I’m no good at tracking people down, and I’ve got to search for Towertoppler. But I’ll definitely check in on Roy—a darned shame. A good man. I’ve seen people crack like that. I knew this one sprinter—her mother passed away, and she just could not run. But I told her, right before her event, I pulled her aside and said—”

He was just warming up into an anecdote when he realized all the superpeople in the room had stopped paying attention to him, writing on their phones or were staring past Mister Olympics.

Over his shoulder. He turned—and Aerthe, the founder of Stellaris, greatest superperson in space, member of World Pact, was standing behind him. Staring at the screen.

She was brushing her teeth. Her helmet was shining bright blue beams into her mouth, and she had a mini toothbrush she had been manipulating across her teeth—right up until she’d seen Roy on television and froze.

“Aerthe! Morning. Seen the news? Shame about Roy, isn’t it?”

Mister Olympics stood up instantly with a smile on his face. He was angling to get on Stellaris’ Primary Response Team, which handled the biggest threats. Or just get her endorsement for his cereal.

She ignored him. Her eyes were locked on the screen—until she noticed everyone watching her. Instantly, her helmet polarized, but her speakers still carried her voice as she raised a wrist.

“Aerthe to World Pact. I just found Roy. Check the news. Meeting in one minute, all members. Teleporter? World Pact. Systems, ping Roy’s ring now.”

“Aerthe, come on, I’m sure someone’s found Roy. Hey, about Nightwish. Do you th—”

Aerthe ignored Mister Olympics and vanished in a blip of light. He stood there, blinking, and then stared at the screen.

Wait, World Pact meeting in one minute? For him? Mister Olympics couldn’t believe it. He saw someone on screen.

“—and now we’re with Felicia Fortunes herself. Felicia, what do you think about this?”

The world’s luckiest woman smiled into the camera, but with a pained expression.

“I can’t say if that’s actually Roy, Marthene, and I hope people will stop starting rumors. But I can say that I was aware of Roy’s father passing. Roy is, of course, a trusted friend, and I wish him all the privacy he needs during this time. If anyone does see Griefman, I hope they’ll give this superperson space and call in their whereabouts to the hotline.” 

“Tell us about his father.”

“Mm. I really won’t comment on personal affairs, Marthene. But I told him to take as much time as he needed.”

“Do you think he’s taking it badly? Because every facial recognition software we have is saying that’s him dressed up as a superhero in downtown Vancouver.”

“Again, Marthene, I’m not going to speculate. I trust Roy. He’s my accountant, and that’s not going to change. Roy’s done my taxes for ages, and I wouldn’t trust just anyone with…”

Mister Olympics peered at the screen. Then he fumbled for his phone. He dialed his public relations specialist and whispered into the phone.

“Hey, it’s me. See if you can get me a spot on a news segment for an interview.”

Then he tapped on his phone with the speed of an Olympic e-sports veteran.

“Dear…Roy…so sad to hear about the tragic news…hope you got my flowers and card. Your friend…”

He began searching up Roy on his phone, wishing the news articles on him and his Wikipedia page had more details. Father, father…he could have really used Roy’s father’s name. Had Roy ever mentioned it?

 

——

 

Griefman stopped running after twenty minutes, mostly because he couldn’t breathe. He clutched at his side. His days of being a college football player were long behind him.

Now for crime. He looked around, ignoring people staring at him. Crime. Roy began half-jogging, wheezing, searching for a ne’er-do-well to beat down with the power of grief.

His phone kept ringing; Griefman threw it into the first trash can he came to. He didn’t have his ring on. Griefman didn’t need a phone. Or a ring!

—After two blocks, he remembered he needed his phone so he could ride the metro and doubled back for it. But in principle, Griefman needed none of these things.

He…

What am I doing?

A voice that sounded like Roy spoke in Griefman’s mind. Griefman slapped the side of his head.

What was he doing? He was saving the day, of course! He’d find a criminal and give them the excoriating agony of facing their loved one’s mortality.

This isn’t right. This isn’t what I should be doing. I don’t have powers to stop carjackers. They don’t need stopping. Am I going to tackle some poor kid and lock them up for years? Ruin their life?

Ignore the voice. Griefman was getting away from the populated areas. He needed a backstreet. Someone lifting a car’s hood. Hassling some poor old woman. Then he’d hit them with grief powers.

That’s not how it works. I’m not Griefman right now, I’m Roy Mackendal. Griefman is needed for higher things. Like nailing that board to the wall. 

The superhero in costume had to pause and swing down an alleyway for two reasons. One, he was sweating profusely and panting for air. Two—he’d heard a siren. He stood there as it blazed past, wondering if they were searching for him. Surely not.

His hands were sweating. He was breathing so hard…he was lightheaded. Roy glanced around, then pulled out his smartphone. He stared at his image in the dull reflection of the plexiglass and pulled his most heroic grin.

“Time to save the day.”

His reflection stared back at him. An unsmiling face with eyes that pierced the soul. A truly haunted voice, and a whisper in his head.

You’re not Griefman. I am.

Roy Mackendal jerked. He recoiled from the smartphone. His mask nearly slipped off his face, and he fumbled to keep it on. He stood there, swaying, not certain what was going on with his head. For a moment, his resolve faltered, and Roy—no, Griefman—almost turned back.

Then, like a miracle, like a call straight out of a comic book, Roy heard a bang, a shout, and poked his head out of an alleyway.

Two men in masks were rushing out of a small chain supermarket, holding cash and what seemed like a bag of goods. One had a gun. He hadn’t fired it; the bang was that of the door slamming against the wall.

“Come on, go, go, go!”

They took off running. Roy—Griefman—hesitated, then began to shout.

“Halt, villainous scum!”

Only, the words lodged in his throat. He managed ‘halt’ in a slightly louder-than-average tone of voice, but ‘villainous scum’ didn’t roll off the tongue.

‘Halt, criminals!’, was probably better. Roy had just worked that out as he skidded around the corner, saw the two figures fleeing, and glanced in the shop.

He expected—feared—blood. But all he saw was a shaken store clerk pressing a button under the counter. The man recoiled when he saw Griefman.

“Anyone hurt, good citizen?”

“What? No. They just took the money.”

“Good. I’ll get it back. I’m Grief—”

Roy was already past the shop and running after the two robbers before he finished. Then he needed all his breath because the other two were fast. They were sprinting away, fueled by adrenaline, and Roy had to hurtle after them to even see them turning down one street, then an alleyway—

His lungs hurt. His legs were screaming to stop, filled with lactic acid, and that voice in his head was calmly speaking.

You are not Griefman.

For a moment, the man’s legs faltered, then he heard a voice in his head.

Doing good work, Roy, my boy?

—It didn’t make his legs faster. He didn’t manage more breath. But maybe he cared a bit less so that when he came to a stumbling stop, he was still following the two men. One of whom had a gun.

They’d sprinted down an alleyway and one had a mask half-off when the other saw Roy standing there, grabbed his arm, and pointed.

“Shit. It’s a superhero! Wait—”

Their hands half went up as the other turned, and then they looked Roy up and down. The panting superhero raised his voice.

“Halt, villain—halt, criminals! Throw down that bag and the money! And surrender! Or I’ll be forced to apprehend you with my powers.”

The two robbers glanced at each other. Neither was that imposing; Roy was taller than both, though one of them was barely an inch shorter. They had on plain jackets that hid their arms, gloves, worn shoes, and long jeans…

And the gun. One aimed it at Roy, and he half-flinched, but the other spoke.

“Wait a second. It’s that idiot on Greecia. He’s not a real hero.”

“I am Griefman. Put down that gun unless you want to face the full force of Grief.”

His voice trembled a bit. He still couldn’t…quite breathe. The robber with the gun lowered it.

“He’s going to get us caught.”

“I know, but he doesn’t have any powers.”

“Right. So fucking—”

The masked man dropped the gun. Roy straightened. He put his hands on his hips and began to thrust his chest out, searching for another witty remark as his brain shrilled an alarm at him. Such as…it was hard to get guns, right? This wasn’t America.

It was probably a prop. Also, if they were going to surrender to him, why was the one who’d dropped the gun running at him—

Roy jerked back and tried to leap out of the way of the running punch. Which he did, stumbling, and then he saw the second man to his right with a fist raised.

 

——

 

The first punch didn’t start the fight, but rather, ended it. Roy had been in fights, of course; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thrown or caught a punch.

He ate one now, and he was staggering and remembering to raise his guard when the second man kicked his legs out. And once you were on the ground?

Well, Roy had done wrestling in high school. Won a small tournament for it. If you had the other fellow on the ground, you could pin him or get out—or get up.

If it was a boxing match or something. In practice, once you were on the ground, you were being kicked. Or stomped on. Or—

Someone kicked Roy in the face, and Roy heard a crunch. The entire world flashed with pain, and he recoiled, then tried to curl up as more blows rained down. Each one was agonizing to his face, his stomach—the panting of the two men only stopped when Roy lay there, unmoving.

“He’s not a superhero. Or if he is, he’s fucking useless. Is he carrying anything?”

Hands felt Roy roughly. When he groaned, a fist punched his head into the ground.

“Phone—wallet—what the hell is this?”

They found the ring and inspected it; it didn’t have a gemstone and seemed futuristic; it had Stellaris written on the inside. The second robber was taking out Roy’s wallet; in disgust, he tossed it down. Aside from the driver’s license and some receipts, it was empty. Everyone had digital funds on their phones these days.

“He might have seen your face. Come on—”

The first man was picking something up, and Roy knew he had to move. But the second man, the one with the ring, began freaking out.

“Oh shit. Oh shit, we’re dead. Dude, do you know who this is?”

“What? Is he an actual super?”

“No! He’s—that guy! This is a Stellaris ring! He’s like a super accountant or something! I looked him up. See? He’s on the news!”

They were on their phones. Roy was fading out, but he heard the voices now, urgent.

“We’ve got to kill him. If he saw your—”

“We have to get out of here! Now! This fucking ring is like a biometric scanner. And a location tracker! I saw it on the news—someone from Stellaris is going to get here! Drop the phone! Come on!”

“Oh shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

The two of them dropped Roy’s possessions and ran for the bags. Some of the contents had spilled out in the fight. It was just petty cash from the register. Energy drinks, snacks…whatever they could swipe. They seized their stolen goods, turned to go—and froze.

A man stood in the alleyway, a broken mask dangling from his face. Blood ran down his chin; his suit was a mess, but he had two fists on his hips. A grin on his bloody face.

A voice that boomed.

“I…am Griefman.”

They hesitated. One clenched a fist, but this was not the man posing as Griefman. The superhero’s body was battered, but he stood there, without swaying.

Silently, one of them flicked a knife out of their pocket. Griefman held out a hand. Pointed at the blade.

“Do you have a child?”

Hesitation. One of the robbers moved left. Griefman ignored the one with the blade and the one picking up a brick.

“Manslaughter under criminal code 236 is imprisonment for life. Under the revised Superpersons Act of 2026, any individual in reasonable fear for their life may receive a lesser sentence. It is still four years to life, at the judge’s discretion. Theft under $5000 is up to two years in prison.”

That stopped them. One of the two dropped the brick.

“Just back off and let us go.”

The smiling superhero stood in the alleyway, blood staining his teeth. And he unnerved the two far more than Roy Mackendal in a silly costume.

“I will. But before I do—do you have a child? A wife? A father or mother? A sibling? A pet? Anyone who depends on you? Two years is a long time, good citizens. Let alone longer.”

He met each’s eyes, faintly blue and a cloudy grey-brown through the mask. One spat as they stepped forwards.

“Fuck you.”

They were moving now, urgently, and Griefman knew his biometrics had to be calling in someone to this spot. A siren was wailing in the distance, but all Griefman did was turn as they rushed past him, as if expecting a blow.

None came, except perhaps the final words that followed them out.

“I am sure, gentlemen, someone loves you and is waiting for you to come home. Don’t make them wait forever. Or one day they won’t be there.”

He saw one of them turn at the mouth of the alley and stride back. The grinning superhero waited; this time, the punch hit him squarely in the teeth. He tasted blood; his and from the fist that had been cut on his teeth. There was an oath; the fist drew back—and the man with the black ski mask on stared at the superhero’s unblinking eyes.

Bloody mask. Tears running down his face.

The second punch never came. The two ran. Griefman stood there, smiling, then gently removed the mask. Roy Mackendal stared down at it as it fell to the ground, covered in snot and blood and tears. Then he felt the agonizing, sharp pain in his ribs, his twice-broken nose—he sagged against a wall because falling would be too much pain.

He blacked out before the pair of boots landed and the first ambulance came screeching to a halt.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Roy Mackendal did not wake up in a bed. Beds were such a last-century concept. When you had a patient lying down, the worst injury they could do to themselves (assuming they were still alive from the other injuries), was lying there.

They were called pressure injuries; the weight of the body pressing down on skin, muscle, and bone and could lead to intense damage if people were not moved into different positions regularly.

Beds of the future solved that by not being beds, but gravity fields that could be programmed to relieve that issue or just maneuver patients without the need for manual overrides.

Roy woke up, feeling as if he were lying on something neither soft nor flat, then sat up. He was able to do so, but the instant he saw he was floating, he got disoriented, and a holographic bed made of light appeared and kept him from tumbling around in a panic.

He could breathe again. His nose was…fixed? He put a hand to it and felt his nose, unsmashed, and then his ribs, his side—he knew he’d been cut up from being kicked with boots, had definitely fractured a rib at least—

Nothing. He was completely fine. He felt great, actually. Roy checked a glowing light by the side of the bed.

11:44 AM. Sunday, June 16th, 2035.

The same day he’d gone out as Griefman, barely a few hours later.

That was modern medicine for you.

No…that was superhero medical care for you. Ordinary people did not go into a hospital and come out in moments. But for Roy Mackendal, friend of Stellaris, anything was possible.

He sat there a second, staring at his hands, remembering the blood covering them, remembering the agony—and then the other man standing up.

Griefman. It really had been like someone else. An alter ego. Roy had thought he could put on the mask and become Griefman. No.

Griefman became him. Roy was the idiot who’d gone on the subway and made a laughing stock of himself on the news and tried to stop two robbers of a convenience store and nearly gotten killed.

Idiot. He could guess what had happened; his ring had sent out a distress signal. Even if he wasn’t wearing it, it had probably picked up on his condition, or Aerthe or someone had pinged its location. Then they’d gotten him to Stellaris HQ and patched him up.

I’ve made an idiot of myself and my life. I’m an embarrassment. No one in World Pact will want to talk to me. The best I can hope for is that they make me seek therapy. Roy’s thoughts ran together, but a deeper, quieter voice spoke amidst it all.

I am Griefman. No one needs me to stop someone from stealing a hundred dollars from a supermarket. I do not have the power to catch bullets or leap a building in a single bound. When I am needed, I shall appear.

It was such a confident voice, so distinct from Roy, that the accountant hesitated.

“I am crazy.”

What did that mean? It meant something, he knew. It was some realization in his mind the real Roy Mackendal had not come to, yet, but he couldn’t think.

My father is dead.

He did not weep. When he thought of that, all the pain and suffering he’d put himself through, the embarrassment—all of it faded away. Then he was just tired and uncaring of what he did to his damned life. He rolled over in the bed, wishing he still had his broken bones and that he’d have to recover each painful part of the process. He deserved that pain.

The sound of boots and the hiss of a door opening made Roy look up. He was ashamed to see that figure in the iconic spacesuit halt.

Another presence turned Roy, sat him up, and made him smile.

“Aerthe.”

The space superhero hesitated as Roy gave her a smile and a nod, like that of an equal. Then his face grew confused, and she put it down to her imagination or the recovery process.

“Did I hear you calling yourself crazy? You might be, Roy. I have you scheduled for Stellaris’ inhouse psychiatrist, Dr. Whevra, later today. You had six broken bones, your nose was destroyed, and you chipped a tooth along with a lot of lacerations and bruises. It’s not exactly bad given what we see in here, but you’re an accountant. Are you feeling better, now? We gave you something for the panic attack you were having as well.”

“The what?”

She pulled a glowing screen off her helmet somehow and ‘pasted’ it in there air where it scrolled down an alarming list of readouts.

“From the ring. Elevated heart rate, high blood pressure—it wasn’t working because you took it off, but it was already trying to call for help before you got hurt. Lucky one of the robbers put it on and it triggered a distress signal. I have a warning set up for when the ring comes off your finger, but not for if it’s out of your possession. I’ll patch that next update. You’re supposed to keep it on.”

She was all business, and Roy felt the gravity fields lowering him to the ground as she spoke. He stood up, still feeling off—

“Thank you for picking me up, Aerthe. I’m…sorry about this morning. Am I on the news?”

She peeled something off her visor, and Roy saw an image of himself in the subway.

“Headline story—no, wait, Towertoppler just blew up a warehouse. Damn. You’ll be out of the news cycle’s headlines in twenty-four hours. After nine days, the last ‘Roy Mackendal had a breakdown, it could happen to all of us’ and ‘what wearing a mask and pretending to be a superhero means about your mental state’ articles will stop getting posted. Then you’ll be mostly forgotten. Unless you become a meme. I’ll put Stellaris’ marketing team on stopping that.”

The words were washing over Roy, too fast for him in this slow state of mind. Roy stretched and realized he was in plain, white clothing with a red stripe and ‘Stellaris’ written on it.

“The mask.”

“The what? Oh—that? Probably disposed of. Roy, what were you thinking? Even if you had the ring on, the forcefield doesn’t make you invulnerable. And attacking someone with a ring like that on would be a felony under the vigilante act.”

Aerthe’s voice was concerned. She was walking around him, scanning him, before stepping back.

“Okay, you’re actually clear. I’m qualified to let you out; we’d have a medical expert here, but since you weren’t exposed to anything other than mundane injuries, the suit works fine.”

“Thank you, Aerthe.”

Roy bowed his head, and she fidgeted uncomfortably, tapping on her wrist and sending colored projections zipping away. His medical files or something.

“Don’t thank me. Seithe was closest. They got you up here and did it without broadcasting how you looked or letting the news crews get to you.”

“They did?”

“Everyone was worried about you. We were just about to track you down when the ring went off. If you can handle it, we’ll meet in four days like usual, Roy. I know none of us really mentioned your father…I’m sorry. I am, and we want to see you back when you’re ready.”

“Despite me making a fool of myself on the news?”

Aerthe’s voice sounded surprised as she stepped back. Roy awkwardly followed her out of the medical room and into a white hallway; he felt that odd sensation of lowered gravity that Stellaris liked as they walked straight, which was actually curving around the space station.

“Roy, we like having you around, and we were all concerned when you went missing. I blame…well, I blame us for not realizing how affected you were. We’ll try better, really. Everyone wanted me to say they were glad you’re well, but they had to run. Maybe one or two are hanging around World Pact, but you know how it is…”

Aerthe was walking so fast that Roy had to jog to keep up. They were always busy. Fighting a supervillain, preventing a catastrophe from coming up…

“If I’m keeping you…”

Roy felt tired. And ashamed. Aerthe glanced at a display that popped up.

“I’ve got time. It’s just—scrubbing the atmosphere. More of those eggs are getting through, and an asteroid’s coming our way that won’t burn up on re-entry.”

“A dinosaur-killing kind?”

“No, no. Just one that destroys New Orleans. What’s weird is that we had a day’s notice, not years. It’s got some kind of stealth pattern. Might be—”

She cut herself off and turned to him. A smiley-face appeared on the screen of her helmet.

“Listen, Roy. We’re here for you, and I’m sorry we haven’t been good friends.”

They need me. They don’t need me.

Roy’s breakdown in his father’s apartment came back to him. For a moment, he wanted to shout at Aerthe, to tell her to stop pretending. And at the same time, he knew it was more than anyone else got.

Five minutes walking with Aerthe? CEOs jockeyed and fought and booked those five minutes well in advance, and they sweated trying to keep her focused on them that long.

It was more than anyone should want.

It wasn’t enough.

The despair and emptiness and pointlessness of it all welled up in Roy, and he leaned against one of the walls of Stellaris’ space base as Aerthe turned.

“Can I drop you back at your apartment? In your rooms? That’ll save you from the paparazzi. Just don’t go out if you can. Or…you could walk around here? Some of the superfolk might make a snide comment, but they get it. We’ve seen it before, and every one of them knows it could be them next. Or World Pact’s HQ? Yeah, how about there? I’ll be in and out, and the others can say something. Especially Aldorius. He just left the moment he heard you were safe. For America’s most beloved hero…”

She made a grumbling sound in her helmet that translated into faint static, and Roy felt like an empty man. He knew he should say yes, thank you, and for her to not worry. She was a busy woman.

Important. Work.

That unseen force, that screaming man inside his head, the one who could cry and rage and weep—spoke through Roy.

“Of course Aldorius doesn’t have anything to say to me, Aerthe. He hates his father.”

The founder of Stellaris stopped tapping on her wrist display. She reached up, and her speakers made a blrting sound as they coughed out a bit of space dust.

“What was that? I misheard you.”

“Aldorius hates his father.”

Aerthe stopped. The displays and colorful windows flashed across her visor, but for once, the woman inside didn’t pay attention to them. That semi-translucent dome swung towards Roy.

“Roy, are you well? Aldorius loves his dad. He talks about him nonstop. Just the other day, he was thinking of flying to Tokyo to get him some sushi. He’s the all-American hero. He loves baseball, the flag or whatever, drinking a beer that tastes like bark, and family.”

She ran a thin beam of blue light over Roy’s face as a stranger smiled back. Once again, that voice replied, with a certainty that made Aerthe hesitate. For he knew what he was saying was correct, just as much as she could tell you the position of the stars or how the earth turned in space.

“That’s just what Aldorius says. Look at what he does, Aerthe. Have you ever seen him actually take a meal back to his home? You’ve been to a thousand Met Galas and dinners with royalty and celebrities. How many times has he gotten something signed for his father? When has Aldorius invited his beloved dad to an event? What’s his name?”

“…”

She was searching it up. Roy spoke for her.

“You don’t know it. It’s not in Stellaris’ files. He emergency contacts list for friends and family has no one under immediate family. No hotline for his father to call if a supervillain abducts him. He doesn’t have a Stellaris Ring, the League of Extraordinary People don’t have him on an alert system. Justice Watch doesn’t have him in their entries, and they have everyone. He. Hates. His. Father. And he never had a mother.”

The world’s greatest astronaut, the Superheroine of the Stars, Aerthe, stood there as he seemed taller. All her scans were telling her this was Roy Mackendal, that there was no discrepancy any scientific readouts could tell her.

But she was a superhero. Aerthe’s voice was quiet.

“Roy? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m not Roy. I am Griefman. My father is dead. And I know everything, Aerthe. I’ve seen it all. I’ve put it together. You don’t know me because I never talked about myself, but I know you all.”

“Okay…Griefman. And what have you done with Roy? Are you going to destroy World Pact?”

Aerthe’s voice was deceptively calm. She probably had a hundred ways of neutralizing him and subatomic rays or something ready to knock him out. Griefman looked her in the eye and bent forwards. He smiled at his reflection.

“Me? Aerthe, you think I’m a supervillain? I’m a superhero. The one no one asked for and everyone needs. I’m here to save you, good citizen.”

She was lost for words. Aerthe stood there as Griefman stepped back and glanced around.

“Do you have any paper plates? Blue marker? You know what—I’ll improvise. A hero needs a mask. Until later, Miss. Up, up and—”

He did a flying leap into the air, fist raised, and began running down the corridor. The spacesuited hero stood there, frozen, wrist raised. After a moment, she squeaked.

“…What? Me?”

 

——

 

Roy slapped himself after he came back to his senses. He stared down at the half-made mask, slapped himself again, then caught his wrist.

“What is wrong with you?”

He was insane. For one thing—Spellcaster was staring at Roy, half-watching a reality TV show of four superheroes on a literal island arguing over who was next to leave…The Super Island!

Seeing an accountant feverishly making a mask by coloring it with blue and yellow markers wasn’t something even a Superhero of Stellaris saw every day. Nor was it normal to see someone hissing at himself.

“Stop it!”

“Don’t touch the mask, good citizen.”

“I’m insane!”

“You may be. I am Griefman.”

“You can’t tell Aldorius’ secrets to everyone!”

“He’s as broken as you, Roy my boy. Like everyone.”

Roy tried to throw the mask away. He ended up waving it from one hand; sellotape was all over it. After a moment, he and Griefman stopped fighting when they saw Spellcaster staring at them.

“Uh. Hey. You’re that accountant, right? I saw you on the news. Spellcaster. Is it Roy?”

She blinked as a hand seized hers and a pearly-white smile filled his face.

“Griefman. I mean, Roy. Sorry. Griefman. I’m sorry, I think I’m having a—my father is dead.”

“Uh.”

She got her hand clear and leaned back slightly from Roy’s face, which kept flickering back and forth—Spellcaster pointed at the television, which was now showcasing two superheroes making out ahead of the big vote.

“It said. Sorry about that.”

It wasn’t really an invitation for more discussion. Stellaris superheroes needed a break, and the space base was a place for them to let down their hair, not worry about cameras, and relax, argue, be people. It had been her home for the last few months while a certain company sued her for all the money she had for infringing upon the likeness of a popular wizarding franchise.

Civilians lucky enough to be up here minded their own business. Except, suddenly, the accountant was sitting on the couch next to her.

“Spellcaster. Formerly Miss Ravencl—”

“Shh!”

She looked around, paranoid, because one wrong camera and litigation might start again. But the man just continued.

“Voted top upcoming superhero of 2033. Magic-themed powers; you can levitate entire buildings, conjure fire, create portals, polymorph your foes. Sued in 2034 for trademark infringement. Settled for thirty-six million dollars instead of a lawsuit for two hundred million.”

“How do you know that?”

She was furious. Even the worst tabloids hadn’t gotten the exact figure! The figure was trying on his mask.

“Roy Mackendal is an accountant. Stellaris helped cover the costs.”

“You can’t say that out loud! What if someone hears?”

A raised eyebrow.

“So what if they do?”

Then she’d have another run of news stories printed about her, more fellow superpeople talking behind her back, and she had just won some silence. Spellcaster nearly pulled out a wand, but the man, Roy Mackendal or…Griefman…spoke.

“My father passed away months ago, now. I never said how much I appreciated everything he did for me. Do you have family you still care about, Spellcaster?”

“That’s private. Superhero rules. Don’t involve the family.”

He ignored that.

“Go visit them, Spellcaster.”

“My parents testified against me in court. My brother sold off some of my stuff—including my clothing—for a quick buck.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she spat a tongue of green flames. Griefman didn’t flinch. He fixed her with an uncanny, wide stare.

“I hated my father, sometimes. I wish he and I were still fighting. Go visit them, Spellcaster. If they don’t deserve another chance, don’t give them one ever again. Throw away their number, never talk to them, never speak about them. I believe…that’s what some superheroes do for those that deserve it. If they deserve one chance, though, if they can ever redeem themselves, go visit them. You don’t know how long you have.”

On the television, the timer was ticking down to the final vote on Superhero Island. It was a vacuous show, fake, produced; half the people on it weren’t real superheroes, just people with minor powers that wouldn’t qualify them for special training as law enforcement. Spellcaster had gotten an eight figure offer to appear on it and had been thinking it over.

“…Don’t lecture me on my family. You don’t know them.”

She bit that reply off after a second, leaving a world of unsaid things. Griefman turned his head and smiled behind the mask. Tears were running from his eyes.

“No. I don’t. Sorry, that’s my superpower.”

“What?”

“I make you feel bad about anything you’ve lost or you can ever lose. Look: with all your magic and all your spells—I apologize, Miss Spellcaster. Sometimes, my powers are too great.”

With that, he rose. He gave her a two-finger salute and strode out of the room as she watched him, mouth open. Someone else walked into the rec room, peered at Griefman, then then hit a wall. Griefman continued on his journey until Roy Mackendal snatched his mask off and practically ran down the corridor.

Another day, another person mortally distressed by Griefman! But that was just advice; it might not have gone across as Griefman intended. He didn’t know Spellcaster; she was a new hero and, frankly, one of the ones who should have had an accountant.

He knew the others.

 

——

 

Roy Mackendal didn’t go to his 2 o’clock session with the therapist. He was at Coal Harbour, along the extended waterfront that had been built out nearly a mile into the sea for a far fancier boardwalk, holding the mask in his hands.

Not many people had recognized him, even with the news. He wasn’t exactly that memorable a face. Nor had Roy cared.

Griefman. It really wasn’t leaving him. The mask or the sense of…purpose here. He was an empty man. When he put on the mask, tears ran from his eyes, and he felt the agony, overwhelming, tearing out his insides.

He couldn’t throw the mask into the sea; the empty man was far more terrible, far more pitiful. But Griefman scared Roy.

He had some purpose. He didn’t understand it yet, but the realization he had come to was dawning ever greater, now. Roy had thought he should go out and be a superhero; that was the fool talking, the man having a panic attack and a crisis.

Yet the sense of purpose remained.

So what was it that he needed? The answer came to Roy as he stood on the pier. Not at first. At first—it was only Aldorius.

He arrived with a gust of wind, a gasp from people nearby, and a grin like the sun. When Roy felt the light on his skin, he glanced up and saw the dazzling hair, the smile that you could mint—and Aldorius was angling for himself on one of the dollar bills—and a physique that was herculean.

He seemed more like a god than Heradonus. Or more like how people thought they should look like. Truly, a superman.

“Roy, I heard someone missed their two o’clock. Aerthe put a bee in my ear and my bonnet—come on, let’s get you back to Stellaris.”

Aldorius held out his hand, and Roy half shook his head.

“I don’t…want therapy right now, Aldorius. I’m fine.”

“Come on, Roy. Everyone has a bad moment. You strike out at bat, you have a bad one, and the coach pulls you aside, gives you a pep talk, and you get out there and win the game. Put her there, and let’s get you the help you need. We’re missing you at World Pact! I’ve got no one to throw the ball around with.”

Aldorius laughed, and Roy listened. He gazed up at that dazzling smile that so many were blown away by, like the people on the boardwalk taking pictures and completely missing the man…but Roy knew that face well.

“You’ve dropped your accent.”

It came out when Aldorius was in Tennessee or talking to people for the first time. The man faltered, then appeared, leaning on the railing next to Roy.

Faster than thought. Stronger than anything. 

“Nice mask. Different from the one this morning. Griefman? Not the name I’d pick.”

“How’d you pick Aldorius?”

Hesitation, again, so imperceptible that if you didn’t see it, you wouldn’t know it. Then Aldorius swept his hair back.

“Every boy’s got a superhero name and costume in a book somewhere. Aldorius was my dream. How about you?”

“Royman.”

A laugh, huge and hearty. Fake. Aldorius didn’t laugh like that when you surprised him. He slapped his chest, and the waves rocked, then Aldorius held out a hand.

“You don’t need that. You’d be a fine hero, Roy, but you’re a super accountant. And a friend. Here, I’ll take that. Let’s go see Dr. Whevra. Splendid woman. Talks to half of Stellaris.”

He put a hand out for the mask, and Roy spoke, staring at the sloshing sea.

“How would you know? You’ve never gone to a therapist, Aldorius. No one in World Pact has, except for Embodiment, and she goes as a civilian.”

Once more, a fraction of silence—but this time, Aldorius didn’t like that. He tore something between his hands casually. Griefman’s mask. Roy hadn’t even felt it leave his own grip.

“Roy, I appreciate this is a hard time for you. But I really do think you need to talk to someone about all this. As your friend, I’m telling you that if I have to drag you to the psychiatrist—argh. Don’t make this hard! I like you, Roy. If I don’t have you to jaw with at the meetings, who am I going to have a drink with or throw the old ball around with? Heradonus? Aerthe? It’d get lost in space!”

He flashed a quick grin to show he was joking, and Roy stared across the sea. He was not Griefman…not yet. But there was a bit of that in him.

“If you didn’t have me, you wouldn’t have anyone, Aldorius. Not anyone else in World Pact, not your father. No one. If I go to Dr. Whevra, will you go in there with me? Of course not; you don’t trust her. You don’t trust anyone. Even me.”

Dead silence now. Roy counted the seconds. After eight, Aldorius chuckled.

“Roy. Roy. You’re an irreplaceable friend, but I can’t let you get a big head. I’ve tossed the old ball around with the Tennessee Titans more times than I can count. I’ve gone down to the old bar and had a drink with friends, oh—”

Roy didn’t turn his head or he might get scared. He just saw the glowing hair out of the corner of his eyes, the impossibly perfect man—and spoke.

“Aldorius. Have you ever gotten drunk in your life? You can push the moon out of orbit, and you sleep every four days for three hours. Those space aliens had poisonous fangs, and you took twenty minutes to heal up before doing a press circuit. You can’t have a beer at the bar. It’s like me drinking water.”

This time, the quiet lasted longer than ten seconds. And if Roy had an internal danger-meter, it would have probably been going off.

“A lad’s got to do things traditionally, Roy. Work up a sweat, swing the bat, crack open a cold one.”

“Truth, justice, and the American way.”

“…I never said that.”

“No. People just think you’re corny, or if they know better, they think you’re putting on a show to maintain a wholesome image. The smart ones think you’re acting. But you’re not, are you, Aldorius? You always talk about going down to the bar to have a drink, watching your favorite baseball team, or driving down the highway, because you think that’s what regular Americans do. To you, it tastes like nothing. You can see each ball in slow motion. And you can walk faster than a car drives. But you fake it because you think that’s what normal people like.”

Roy’s head turned slowly, and he saw Aldorius standing there, frozen against the wharf, wind trying to blow his glowing, dyed hair, his face trying to keep up that brilliant smile. When the truth was—Roy stared at half a mask floating in the surf.

“My father’s dead. I didn’t always like him, Aldorius. I wish I could cry for him more. I don’t know how to feel. You hate your father.”

This time, the superhero stopped floating a bit off the earth. He landed, put his arms on the railing, clasped his hands together, and stared out into the sea like Roy.

“…I love my old man.”

Roy exhaled, and he was tired and empty and nothing mattered…but this conversation had been in him, waiting, for ages. So he had it, patient.

“No, you don’t, Aldrorius. I know you. I know all of World Pact. You say you’ll go down and swing a bat around with him or bring him food or take him to an event or get him a signature—but you never do. Remember when I did your taxes the first year you were a hero?”

“Filing quarterly returns and fighting the IRS off from auditing me. Good old Roy.”

They both smiled at that. Then Roy spoke.

“—I was doing all kinds of work for you, back then. Figuring out how to accept sponsorships, making banks take your superhero name and no identification, helping find your costume—”

“Damned stuff kept ripping in a fight.”

“—I asked you who you wanted to send gifts to for Christmas. You made up a list over two hundred names long. Most of them anonymous. You sent your nursery school teacher twenty thousand dollars that first year. How much have you given her now? Two million? She donates it, you know.”

“The woman earned it.”

Suddenly, Aldorius’ voice was husky. He glanced down, and he had the two pieces of the mask in his hand. They had been wet, drowning in the water. Suddenly, Aldorius was meshing them together with his fingers.

“Forget the therapy. Let’s just see you in World Pact on Saturday, huh, Roy? I did my part; Aerthe can kick up a fuss, but I don’t have time for this.”

He put the mask against the railing, and Roy called out as Aldorius turned.

“Aldorius, he wasn’t on the list. He was never on the list. He’ll never be on that Christmas list, will he? Or emergency services for the family of Stellaris superheroes. You don’t send him money—does he even have healthcare?”

Any registered superhero and their families got it, regardless of country, along with any number of perks. Aldorius could have asked for anything. But the broad-shouldered figure hovered in the air—

His finger was suddenly pressing into Roy’s chest, and he was leaning forwards, whispering in a gravelly tone.

“He can rot in his house for the rest of his life. He doesn’t deserve a penny.”

The finger hurt. It had pushed Roy’s entire ribcage back a bit. Aldorius yanked his finger back as Roy grabbed at his chest. The two peered at each other, then Roy touched at the white uniform. Blood was oozing out of a hole, not deep, but poked into his skin. Aldorius gaped at it.

“Goddamnit.”

He glanced around for cameras, anyone watching too closely, then grabbed Roy and vanished.

 

——

 

Sometimes, Roy forgot the effect Aldorius and World Pact had on people other than him or fellow superheroes.

When you appeared in the middle of Vancouver General Hospital—not the emergency room, but the literal hospital—and demanded someone take a look at a weird, circular puncture hole in your friend’s chest, most people might say something.

Like…‘get out’ or ‘use the front door’ or ‘make an appointment’ or ‘how’d he get that injury’?

Aldorius got results. Someone was flash cloning a tissue graft just in case he needed it, but he insisted he was fine, so they just produced this weird glue-like substance they filled the wound with, the same thing they used on bullet wounds.

It stopped the bleeding, and after a bandage and some kind of injection to speed up recovery, Roy was good to go. The injury was already scabbed over; along with the anesthesia, they’d applied some kind of instant-platelet substance.

Modern medicine. And this was still way below Stellaris’ level.

It took about eight minutes with Aldorius there, shaking hands and smiling, and only after the frenzy of people were gone did Roy find himself standing in a patient’s room where the doctor had left, because he could stay as long as he wanted.

If he wanted, he could probably get a bed, sleep here all night, and no one would dream of billing him. Roy just stared out the window at the city beyond, and after a moment, Aldorius opened the door and walked in.

“Sorry about that. I usually know my own strength.”

His voice was less full, and he sat on the bed as Roy rested on the window.

“It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it. Nothing hurts worse than…no, that’s not true. I don’t feel terrible my dad’s died, Aldorius. I feel empty. I feel guilty I’m not broken up inside. I’m not…normal. I can tell that. But where I should be sad, I’m just empty. Like someone scooped out my heart.”

“Bad inning.”

Aldorius’ comment made no sense. It sort of did—but if you thought about it like a human being for five seconds, it didn’t. Roy turned his head.

“If I told you your father was dead tomorrow, what would you do? Seriously, not what you’d tell other people.”

Aldorius looked at the door. He could probably hear listening devices, and see anyone except for Nightwish sneaking up on them. Even so, he checked the door, the window, then sat back on the bed for a long moment before he replied.

“What would I do? Once I gave a statement and made sure they got enough pictures of me looking sad? I’d go to a distillery. Or home; I have enough damn beer brands in the basement. Then I’d have a drink. I’m not sure how much beer it’d be. A liquid ton? I drank nineteen bottles of vodka one time and I swore I felt something…I’d just keep pouring them, Roy. Drinking to that bastard being in the ground and how happy I am. You’d catch me racing comets for months after.”

He smiled at the thought. Two green eyes staring at nothing, illuminated by his softly glowing hair. Roy knew that was the answer, but hearing it?

It made Aldorius twitch, his eyes sweep the room, then fix on Roy. He seemed relieved to say it, and nervous. He stood up suddenly.

“Roy, the luckiest man in the world. You know what? You’re the only person who’s never taken an interview and said something about me. When I saw that Times interview, I thought…‘well, it’s fine’. Everyone wants their time in the spotlight and you deserve it. They weren’t even bad questions. Nothing personal. But you didn’t give those rats a single crumb. You never have. Everyone else. Lawyers, friends, fellow superheroes—they can’t help it. You either have the FBI breathing down their necks or someone waving cash in their face. Not Roy. Then Aerthe says you mentioned my old man.”

“You have to tell someone.”

“Who? World Pact? We’re not friends. Aldorius doesn’t have friends. He goes down to the bar with a politician or finds someone and has a drink. Listens to them talk. Grins, loses a game of darts…I could hit any target in the world and they think I miss a bullseye after three beers. America’s superhero.”

“Why keep up the pretense?”

Aldorius folded his hands as he stared out a window.

“Because they buy it. Just a little bit. They see at me and say that I’m pretending, that I’m not as nice or humble or down-to-earth as all that, and they’re right. But they think I’m trying to be a Superman. They think I’m copying all this, making myself the all-American man. Have a beer at the bar? Swing a bat around? I never did that as a kid. Not even once. The closest I got was my old man throwing one through the window at me. I have no idea what the average American does.”

He sounded like he were chewing on bitter liquorice, spitting out something into the city beyond, full of sound but no one to hear them. Roy scratched at his neck.

“You don’t have a mother.”

“Everyone thinks she’s dead. Not that she ran off because she couldn’t bear being under the same roof as him. I wish she’d taken me, but…maybe she couldn’t. I’ve hired sixteen private detectives, dug through all the records, and she’s never appeared. Some days, I stare out the window, Roy, and I think ‘maybe she couldn’t get me’. Maybe she didn’t run off, like he always shouted at me. Maybe she tried, or maybe he lost his temper and she didn’t have skin like steel.”

Aldorius rested his hands, gently, on the windowsill, and Roy watched Aldorius’ hands rest on the stone mantle. It didn’t flex or move, and Aldorius’ voice was so contained.

“Then I think how fast I could fly back home. I’ll never know. I’ve held him up by the throat and asked him, and he swears she’s gone. But I could make sure. It would take me…ten seconds? I’d be gone. You’d blink, take a breath, and I’d be back, and then it’d be over.”

“Aldorius…”

The world’s greatest superhero took a breath, then turned and smiled at Roy, but there was nothing fake in it.

“—That would be too quick. He doesn’t deserve it. Whenever someone says ‘my brother passed away’ or ‘my father died’, I try to get it. Especially for you, Roy. But I don’t, really. He’s the only person I ever knew. And boy, oh boy. He wasn’t Superman’s dad.”

“Johnathan Kent.”

Aldorius frowned.

“Who?”

“Johnathan Kent. That’s who it is. From the comics.”

“Oh. I never read those, growing up. Never liked superhero books, actually. I’d sit after school, and the librarian would let me stay until she had to close up. Never told me off. I think she called protective services a few times, but it never worked. I was too scared to say a word.”

There was an aching pain in Roy’s chest right now, completely different from the numbness he felt. He croaked.

“Aldorius…you don’t have to…”

“I didn’t come here on a rocket ship from Aldovas, Roy. You probably knew that. Aldovas. I made it up because I’d watched Star Wars the previous week. I like being the alien. I’m good at being an alien. Sometimes, someone says something normal about being on the playground or hanging out with their family and I get to say ‘that? I never did that.’ And it’s true.”

“So your father was abusive?”

“I can’t remember when he wasn’t. I assume my mom vanished when I was a kid—it’s hazy. I didn’t have my powers, either. I was just tougher than normal, I think. I think he knew I had something because he’d chase me around when he was drunk. I got out of the house at fourteen. Technically lived there, but I stayed at friends’ houses and worked. That was pretty much it. Then I turned twenty-one years old, five months, two days. First thing I did was fly around the globe. Second thing I did was fly down there and tell him if he ever told anyone who I was, I’d kill him.”

Even Roy hadn’t known…the accountant still had the mask, folded twice and slipped into a pocket. He took it out, but it didn’t say anything to him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I don’t tell anyone, and no one knows anything like you, Roy. Because if they did, then Aldorius doesn’t matter. But here I am, tossing a ball around, asking you for advice on speeches. I never went to college. Aldorius should be liked, but I don’t know what the hell I should say about the border. I don’t know what to say when someone’s father dies. Congratulations.”

The windowsill and mantle cracked as it came up. Aldorius peered at the mess of plaster and stone and pulled his hands away.

“There. That’s what happens when I get stressed. I should be having dinner. Peru, this time. Everyone invites me, and I can’t cook, so I go. But there I am, standing around, and they’re all as fake as I am. Everyone wants Aldorius. No one knows me. Except for Roy. Roy never says a thing. But every Christmas, Roy sends me a bottle of the finest, most flavorful grape juice he can. Because at some point, he realized I can’t drink. I have an entire room devoted to me at the Pentagon, and they can’t even tell what my favorite drink is.”

He laughed at that, and when he leaned against the window again, he seemed as bitter and tired as Roy felt. And the mask was silent. Aldorius didn’t need Griefman.

“Aldorius. I didn’t—shouldn’t have said anything to Aerthe. I just—Griefman is this voice in my head. I can’t keep doing this.”

“You don’t have to. Just go to the meetings. I’ll pay your salary myself. I’ll triple it.”

“Not that, Aldorius. I can’t keep…being the same Roy. The one that keeps listening and says nothing.”

The superman was glancing at Roy, warily, but nodding.

“You want to go on adventures? I can give you a ring. Maybe even get one to make you strong or—”

“No. Not that either. I’m just tired of being…Roy. Not talking with Aldorius about his family. Not—”

Roy was trying to explain it. Feeling something rising in his chest. This was right. This was what he needed. But it wasn’t enough. If Aldorius flew off into the distance, trusting Roy with the only secret in his life, it wouldn’t be what either one needed. Roy had to—

Aldorius was turning, a confused light in his eyes, breathing hard, as if he’d run a mile. Roy scratched at the scab on his chest, then frowned. There was no light on in the room; the window was damaged, letting a bit of the chill night air and the sound of the city beyond into the room.

But there was a faint light now, on his back. Bright and…Roy turned.

“Who opened the door?”

Aldorius whirled and was at the door in an instant. Reflexes faster than lightning and he had missed it. He glanced, right, left, vanished—

And Roy felt something wet and strong grip his shoulder. A voice spoke in his ear, grating.

“Roy.”

Nightwish was behind Roy. One second, he wasn’t there, the next, he was. The world’s greatest infiltrator stepped back as Roy leapt, heart in his mouth.

“Nightwish!”

Aldorius was back in a second, floating in the air, eyes flashing with alarm, anger, and then faint relief.

“Nightwish, you scared the bejeezus out of us. Didn’t your mom ever teach you to knock? How long have you been standing there?”

His eyes flicked to Roy, but Nightwish just growled.

“I just arrived. Heard about this morning. Stay out of a costume, Roy. You’re no superhero.”

“I know. I—where have you been, Nightwish?”

Now that Roy took him in, the caped crusader looked…awful. He wore the same monstrous headpiece and the night-black armor that Roy had seen before, but it was filthy. Faint rips in the costume, dirt, blood, all crusted the costume in layers. But eerily, Nightwish didn’t smell. That would have given him away.

Roy felt dampness on his shoulder. When he reached up and felt the place Nightwish had gripped him, he jerked.

Blood. Aldorius’ eyes flickered to Roy, and he spoke.

“You’ve been going rogue, Nightwish. We could use you at World Pact.”

“I’m fine. Don’t look for me.”

Nightwish wasn’t facing Roy or Aldorius. He just eyed a wall, then out at the city.

“I’m going back to work. I came to…”

He stopped, looked back, and then met Roy’s eyes.

“Got the two that jumped you, Roy. They won’t hurt anyone again.”

Roy had been relieved, even gratified by Nightwish appearing. Now? He froze, and Aldorius’ eyes opened fractionally. He vanished, then returned.

“Nightwish, you need to report to Stellaris HQ with me. Give it one hour and I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

“No. Don’t push me, Aldorius. You won’t like it.”

The superhero had a window open. It was a multi-story drop, but he ducked under the windowsill as Aldorius hesitated. Roy was staring at Aldorius and then the blood on his shoulder.

“What did you do? They were just convenience store robbers. Nightwish? Nightwish!”

Aldorius moved. He must have tried to grab Nightwish, but something exploded with a bang that shook the fillings in Roy’s teeth. When he could see again, Aldorius was swatting at the air, coughing, and black fumes were rising around them.

Nightwish was gone; Roy rushed to the window but, predictably, saw nothing amiss below. When he turned, Aldorius cursed.

“Lost him. No one can find him. I’ll call it in anyways. Aerthe? I’m at Vancouver General Hospital with Roy. Nightwish just showed. We’re fine. Can you sweep the area? I know it’s a long shot, but we need to convene a team to find him.”

“He said he took care of the two who got me. Are they here? Aldorius?”

The superhero was all business again, but Roy grabbed his arm. It didn’t move of course; but Aldorius just turned.

“I’m going to try and find Nightwish. If I comb every section of ground for ten miles, I might have a chance. They’re two floors down. Operating room. It’s bad, Roy. Don’t blame yourself. It’s Nightwish.”

His parents’ anniversary. Aldorius vanished, and Roy stumbled. He stood there—blood thundering in his veins. Two men. Two men who’d beaten him up, but just two men robbing a convenience store.

How bad was—?

Do you have anyone who loves you?

The mask whispered a word as Roy stared at it, lying on the ground. He bent to pick it up. Then he went to see what Nightwish had done.

Then he saw what he had to do.

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Superhero brutality was a theme that Embodiment heard more and more, much like their law enforcement counterparts. How much force was acceptable when you had beings with the power to bend steel arresting ordinary Humans?

It was a tricky subject, and a lot of legal loopholes had been carved out to keep superheroes from spending every hour in court. Not a lot of people protested when someone hit a real monster through a building.

But Nightwish was different. He’d always been sort of a mundane specialist; he didn’t fight aliens or mythical monsters or other super-beings. He went after people who broke the law. And it had been largely fair.

Mugging? The assailants got a broken arm or a chipped tooth. Robbery? Bruises from being taken down hard. Someone was choked unconscious.

Gunshot wounds also occurred, if Nightwish was moving fast, but he was a hand-to-hand specialist and expert in, well, the Human body. He didn’t kill. But it was obvious that he knew exactly how far you could take the body up to death, and he was escalating. Going rabid.

It wasn’t how many bones were broken, it was how many bones weren’t broken. Embodiment had seen a lot of injuries, and even she found the pictures hard to credit. She put the images down, shaking her head.

“He broke every tooth they had. Down to the gums.”

Aerthe was reading a report.

“They won’t walk again. Not without metal bars in their legs or—they’ll be in rehabilitation forever. No one knows how to begin with this.”

“It’s modern medicine’s fault.”

That came from Heradonus. Everyone in World Pact looked at him; they had gathered, sans Roy, for a meeting the night after Nightwish had appeared in the hospital. Aldorius hadn’t talked Roy into attending the therapy, but he said Roy was ‘good’. Embodiment didn’t trust that, but they had bigger fish to fry.

“How, exactly?”

Heradonus was waving a latte around as he put down his data slate.

“He knows that any hospital can keep someone alive. Repair bones—if you have millions, you can be walking around after a broken leg in a day. Stellaris has that kind of tech. So Nightwish gets creative. Don’t just break a bone—pulverize it. Break their teeth. Put bone shards into their arms—he knows how good medicine is, so he doesn’t need to hold back.”

Aerthe snapped back through her helmet, sounding vaguely queasy.

“These two aren’t heads of the mafia or multimillionaires. They’re two petty criminals, and he’s crippled them for life.”

“Because of Roy.”

Embodiment knew it for certain. Vancouver wasn’t one of Nightwish’s regular hunting grounds. He’d come all this way to track down the two people Roy had run into. He probably thought he was doing Roy a favor.

“How did Roy take it? I hope he’s not blaming himself. Aldorius? Aldorius?”

For once, the superhero wasn’t listening. He was tossing a ball up and down and staring out the window. He blinked, sat upright.

“What? No, I didn’t find Nightwish, and I tried. Roy? He’s…he was shaken up. I got him to his apartment. Told him to take a rest, consider visiting the therapist.”

“You should have taken him to Stellaris HQ.”

Aerthe gave Aldorius a pointed glance. The man muttered.

“Yes, well. Nightwish was more pressing. We can put out a notice, even bounties. Make a team from Stellaris or whomever we want. We’ll never find him.”

World Pact fell silent. It was true. No one could find Nightwish. Each member of World Pact was supreme at what they did.

Technological mastery—Aerthe. Superhuman…everything. Aldorius. Infinite adaptability, Embodiment, and so on. Nightwish was the best at hiding.

“So we’re just to going to let a bunch of people get every bone in their body broken? Great. That’s going to look good on us.”

Seithe folded their arms as Endora raised a hand.

“What if we set a trap…?”

“Everyone’s tried a trap. Let’s just—”

Embodiment put the images away. They were actually distracting her. She steepled her fingers and sighed.

“Let’s work on a statement first. Then we’ll have to at least try to find him. Show we’re trying.”

They got to work, and Embodiment reminded herself to ask Aerthe if Roy was going to attend the next meeting. They went far better with him around, and besides, if he showed up, Nightwish might actually appear, and they’d have a chance of talking with him.

Roy was one of the few people Nightwish had time for. He wasn’t exactly an Alfred, let alone a Robin or Commissioner Gordan to Nighwish’s Batman…

He was all three if there was anyone.

Embodiment missed Aerthe because there was a red alert about the stupid stealth comet, so she just went down to Roy’s apartment after the meeting. She slipped through the small group of paparazzi, but when she got to Roy’s apartment—

He was gone. There was only a bunch of office supplies. Embodiment took one look at the dozen of paper plates, the blue and yellow markers, smelling the faint scent of paint thinner in the air, at all the sticky tape and dozens of trial masks and the word scrawled on the wall.

Griefman.

“Uh oh.”

 

——

 

Nightwish had to be stopped. This was a fact. The punisher of evildoers, the camouflaged crusader, had become a menace. Someone who beat his victims to the very edge of life and death regardless of their crime. A torturer running around in the name of justice.

A…suffering man.

Who was Nightwish? There were three documentaries out about him, two movies, one mini-series—every superperson on the level of World Pact had those, though.

Mr. Olympics, for reference, had a movie he had paid for and had featured in two documentaries about heroes: Champions of America and Brave New World: First in Boots. 

—But Nightwish captured the imagination. He was a parallel, a mysterious symbol, an inspiration for many. People read into Nightwish. Many claimed to know him. A victim would say they had seen Nightwish pause and they would meet the eyes behind the terrifying mask that saw them. When he appeared, his mirthless glower and that square of flesh, his chin and mouth, would betray something Human they read into. Through the people he went after and the enemies he made, people read Nightwish like a horoscope.

Roy knew Nightwish through sandwiches.

Peanut butter and jelly. You throw that at any self-respecting, red-blooded American and they’d…maybe eat it? If you were giving it for free, sure. For lunch. If this was something at a buffet, were there better options around? And if it was like, say, a party or a corporate lunch, that was sort of a bad offering. If you were bringing a sandwich around, it was still honestly a pretty mediocre move; were you really sure no one had a nut allergy? And it was peanut butter and jelly.

The point was, when you had the world’s greatest superheroes, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was not the kind of thing you served World Pact. But when World Pact sometimes had a late dinner, one of the superheroes would cater or get something. Aldorius would, without fail, get bar food or snatch something from one of the events he went to. So he either had yellowtail tuna sushi or a burger and fries with a light beer. Crab legs or waffles.

Heradonus brought something from a Michelin-star restaurant each time. Embodiment tended to try to get everyone to eat something vegetarian. Seithe was a wildcard; Endora would bring something ‘her wife had cooked’; she was banned from doing that again after the third incident where the dinner had walked off the plate when no one was looking.

Aerthe stole from Stellaris’ cafeteria, which was actually a pretty good pick. And Nightwish?

He brought sandwiches.

Legit sandwiches. White sliced bread, with the crust on, from a grocery store. No specific named brand; you got the impression Nightwish had picked the first bread he came across on the vague assumption all bread was bread.

In the same way, the peanut butter changed, as did the jelly. You had two layers; peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other. He slapped it together without making the bread line up, and no, he didn’t cut it in half. The sandwiches appeared in plastic baggies, and that was the only time you could see a demigod of Greek mythology reluctantly chewing on a sandwich and taking big sips of water.

The first three times Nightwish had brought sandwiches, no one had said anything. It was, you had to admit, surprising and not, given what you’d expect of his cooking prowess. But in the back of everyone’s minds, they’d wondered if Nightwish had some secret culinary talent—he did not.

He just made sandwiches. He’d eat anything the others brought without complaint. But after the third time, Aldorius, Embodiment, Heradonus, Seithe—okay, everyone had taken Roy aside and suggested he help Nightwish procure meals. Therein began a problem.

Roy was no great chef himself, but he had the ability to order on an app just like everyone else. When he’d floated the idea to Nightwish, the superhero had replied in that voice like someone grating nails—

“I don’t have a smartphone. Too easy to track.”

“Right. Of course. So—you’re a fan of sandwiches?”

“Easy to make. Carry well.”

The image that had occurred to Roy was of Nightwish munching on a sandwich as he hung from the ceiling, stalking some supervillain. Roy asked about fancy protein shakes or energy pastes, but Nightwish had just folded his arms.

“I can make the sandwiches. Unless no one wants to eat them?”

“No, no! I was just thinking…well, do you have anything that would be more convenient for you? We can absolutely do sandwiches. Unless you want something else? I could order—?”

Nightwish never said when he was annoyed or upset. He’d just vanish on you. But the clue was when you asked him and got that deafening silence.

In this case, Nightwish just liked…sandwiches. So Roy, mindful that feelings might be hurt, had gone off and done some thinking. When Nightwish’s turn had come around next, Roy had appeared, and everyone in World Pact had held their breath as he unveiled—

Beef sandwiches and onion dipping sauce. Well, a variety of condiments and a vegetable sandwich for Embodiment. Roy had stolen a glance at Nightwish and seen that mask—a giant insect at the time—turning his way. Nightwish hadn’t said a word, but as the other superheroes had eaten the sandwiches with more gusto than before, he’d gotten up, pulled a sandwich over, and begun drinking the French onion soup before he realized it was for dipping your sandwich in. Roy had seen him hesitate, sandwich in hand, and then cautiously dip it in the brown liquid, take a bite—

Nightwish had finished three sandwiches that day. From that day on, each time it was Nightwish’s turn to cater, Roy would walk over the week before and suggest a sandwich.

 

“BLT today, Nightwish?”

“Monte Cristo? This week?”

“You know, there’s this sandwich I saw online called a mufuletta. Looks nice, and there’s a vegetarian option…”

 

It wasn’t much. Nightwish would eye a picture and grunt his approval or go silent until Roy suggested a backup. The more complex and less obviously sandwich-like it was, the less likely the superhero was to go for it. But he’d try sandwiches—

And at some point, Roy had found himself coming by with a sandwich to get Nightwish’s approval the week before it was his turn. Then he was bringing one every single meeting. Then he was bringing six.

Why? Nightwish could have literally stolen or gotten a meal at any restaurant in the world. But he didn’t do that—when Roy had brought it up, the superhero had given him one of those slow looks and smiled. An awkward, fake smile with too many bared teeth.

When he realized it wasn’t a joke, he’d stopped and spoken.

“Eating out makes me and the place a target. Don’t be silly, Roy.”

“So you never eat out?”

“No.”

“What about World Pact events?”

“You can put poison or microchips in the water, Roy. Don’t tell me you eat at those events? The CIA has your location. I’ll tell Aerthe to get you a detox.”

When Roy had pressed more, Nightwish had admitted that yes, perhaps his diet consisted mostly of sandwiches. Homemade. Even in ‘civilian’ outfits, he didn’t like to eat out. He randomized which supermarkets he walked into and bought basic ingredients. Very hard to track his movements, you see?

“So…Nightwish. Is your diet all peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

“No.”

“Is it…above ninety percent peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

“I’m having those beef sandwiches with the onion soup. And I eat eggs.”

In the comic books, you had superheroes who didn’t exactly cook for themselves, but you assumed they were getting food or had a personal butler making them a nutritious meal. In Nightwish’s case, the world’s most feared cape might have been suffering from mild scurvy as he fought supervillains.

Hence: sandwiches. Roy would bring six, more sometimes, and Nightwish would try one or pack them away. Roy suspected the rest found their way into a lonely fridge to be devoured one by one in the dark of midnight by a hunched shadow plotting how to bring justice to this craven world.

That was the Nightwish that Roy Mackendal knew. A terrifying man behind a cape. A sandwich-eating superhero. A man who left flowers on his parents grave every week—but didn’t know what else you did for them.

Some weeks, Roy suspected Nightwish’s only words ever spoken were to World Pact. And sometimes, Nightwish would say ‘thanks for the sandwiches’. Then vanish into his world of shadows and violence.

Some days, he’d talk more, even stand silently with World Pact as much as an hour before departing. But each year come November, without fail, he would withdraw into himself. The people he brought in would be progressively more beaten down. He would say nothing, hunch over in his chair, and watch you as if he wanted to beat your face in. He never did—he reserved that for people who’d committed a crime.

But he’d gone too far.

He had to be stopped. And mild-mannered Roy Mackendal knew there was only one superperson for the job.

Griefman.

No one else could do it. Everyone else feared Nightwish. No one could catch him when he hid.

But Griefman—

Griefman could do it.

 

——

 

In his guise as innocuous Roy Mackendal, Griefman visited a trade expo reserved for superhero and adjacent ‘supporters’. In practice, if you were worth over $50 million, you could get in as well.

He flashed his Stellaris credentials to a security checkpoint and saw the people in line staring at him in recognition. Someone in line laughed; someone else took a picture.

“Having a good morning, Mister Mackendal?”

The man letting people pass through a security scanner couldn’t resist a knowing look and a grin. But he was surprised by Roy’s polite smile.

“A fine one, sir. Thank you.”

Roy passed through the scanner, and someone came up to him.

“Hey, Griefman. Are you in your secret identity? Getting some gadgets to fight crime?”

It was an excited young man with a camera and, probably, his parent’s bank account. He had a smartphone out and was recording; Roy held out a hand.

“Griefman? Not me. Roy Mackendal. Are you here for the trade expo?”

The young man hesitated. He danced back, holding the camera up, and tried to search for a crack in that bland expression. But the accountant was pulling out a business card.

“I mostly do superheroes, but I might know your parents. Are you Ricky Males’ son? PostHuman Defence Industries?”

“I, uh—nevermind.”

The camera winked off. The rest of the people surreptitiously photographing or recording Roy took only one or two more pictures, half-heartedly posted on Greecia, and left. Roy Mackendal had no glasses to adjust, but he did pull out his smartphone to check the time.

The trade expo in Vancouver was for superheroes or civilians who felt like they needed an edge. Scared of super-powered home invaders or that you’ll be attacked while at the office? Buy a PostHuman Strength Enhancer 2.6! The strength of an elephant for 23 minutes*!

 

*Strength is proportional to the user’s personal body weight and exact enhancement times may vary. User caution is advised when using any enhancement drugs without the requisite Durability PostHuman EnhancementsTM. PostHuman Defence Industries is not responsible for any personal injury or side effects, which may include nausea, death, muscular torsion, detached nerves, detached ligaments, cancer, rashes, temporary psychosis, etc. This supplement has not been approved by any federal agency.

 

…Most of what you could buy was highly situational. Enhanced tasers that could knock out a rhino, mind- or body-boosting pills, and self-defense weapons galore. The items on display were being regulated by the government, and if you used any of it on a regular civilian, jail time was a certainty—unless you had a good lawyer.

Everyone here had a good lawyer, and every month, Roy would see an article about some CEO or family-member of a superhero going on a rampage with a strength-enhancer in their veins, or firing off a quake-in-a-bottle in self defense and collapsing half a city block.

He’d never bought anything from this place. The ring Aerthe had given him was beyond the tech of the ‘Personal Shield Systems’, which ranged from force-field rings that deactivated if you sneezed really hard, to unfoldable bulletproof shields that would stop a single super-powered punch and turn the person behind the shield to jelly.

—Still, Griefman needed an edge against Nightwish. Didn’t he? Roy browsed through booth after booth, eying a mechanical gauntlet that made you twice as strong, a bow that automatically loaded itself so you just had to aim and pluck the string…essentially a slower gun.

All the vendors were after him today. They’d come out from behind their displays and offer Roy a free sample. Roy was approached by a smiling woman in a suit.

“Can we offer you a free Taser Net launcher, Mister Mackendal? It’s lightweight enough to carry, and it can immobilize up to sixteen attackers in any self-defense situation you might run into. No collateral damage, and we have a subscription service that refills all your cartridges per month.”

Just the thing for you, eh? Roy imagined using it on a bunch of grocery store robbers. Or punching one of them in full power armor. He half shook his head.

Nightwish. Suddenly, he felt like he’d made a mistake coming here.

“I’m not in the market for anything right now, thank you.”

He backed away as the vendor tried to get him to accept a free Taser Net launcher. Roy was so busy trying to escape he nearly bowled over a short man eying a Shieldself Ring.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“Not at all, not at all—”

The short man brushed himself off, peered at Roy, then backed up as Roy hurried away. He had a familiar goatee on, but Roy didn’t pay attention; the man pulled out his phone and spoke into it as Roy left the convention hall.

 

——

 

Roy eyed himself in the bathroom mirror and swore he saw Griefman staring back.

What am I doing? Am I going to fight Nightwish in a battle suit with a taser net?

He was afraid. But Griefman just stared back—waiting. Saying nothing. Roy took a deep breath.

“I don’t even know where he is. He might still be in Vancouver from last night. But finding him…”

He’d have to send a message. Or…or…no, Aerthe couldn’t track Nightwish. It would have to be Griefman, but Roy didn’t know how to do it. The mask—well, masks—folded up in his pockets were waiting. Now was not the time.

Roy wandered out of the bathroom, hands in his pockets. Maybe there was some mobility device? What he really needed was a way to get on top of a roof without using the stairs. That was where Nightwish liked to hang out. But not something showy like the grappling hooks. Something covert.

A personal teleporter? Roy doubted he could afford even a cheap one. He was checking his bank account and wincing as he searched for prices of market-grade teleporters when someone spoke in his ear.

“Roy Mackendal?”

Ah, someone who didn’t want to poke fun at him about the Griefman news coverage. Roy turned, hand raising.

“That’s me. Hell—”

He caught sight of a masked man in high boots a second before Towertoppler raised a Super Stun GunTM, and Roy’s honed reflexes gave him just enough time to flinch and raise his hands.

“Oh n—”

Then the world went black.

 

——

 

Roy woke up when someone banged his head on the seat of a car. People were screaming. Someone was firing a gun; the popping sounded like thunder in his ears.

“Whuh?”

He tried to say that, but his head was all foggy. There was a curse, that familiar voice.

“Get him in.”

“He’s heavy! I need a hand—”

“Oh, for god’s sake—you, lift him, I need to finish setting charges! We have two minutes before someone from Stellaris gets here!”

“Halt, villains.”

Roy croaked. He saw a jumble of masked figures running around before someone pulling him into the van dropped him. As they had been trying to wrestle him into the van, this meant Roy landed on his head.

Out went the world again.

 

——

 

The second time Roy awoke, he was tied to a chair, blindfolded, and he had to pee. In most circumstances like this, it would have been reasonable to panic. But Roy Mackendal, despite his less-than-stellar career as an actual accountant, superhero, or son—he had some experience at this.

Kidnapping, that was. He’d been kidnapped sixty-six times; he wasn’t the most-kidnapped man ever, but he was up in the top twenty. Top fifty. Some eligible and attractive bachelors and bachelorettes had kind of made a thing of it. Over a thousand kidnappings; it was a type of fad.

With them, Roy assumed it was all pretty chivalrous. With him? He had a lump and what he assumed was dried blood on the back of his head. His chest hurt bad—at least the Super Taser hadn’t been calibrated for superhuman physique. And he had to pee.

All fairly standard, really. Let’s see. Arms and legs duck taped together. Sturdy; I’m not breaking free or cutting myself loose. No chance of wiggling an arm free, but what was this?

They’d made a rookie mistake; Roy wiggled, and the chair, which was just a wooden chair or something, rocked a bit. Aha. And his feet were on the ground. Now, if you moved just right…

By throwing himself back and forth, Roy got enough rocking momentum to judder forwards, and he could balance on the balls of his feet. His legs were still strapped to the chair, but Roy could, with great practice and experience, ‘stand’ and then hop forwards in little motions. Of course, he’d inevitably overbalance and either land on his head or fall backwards—and he couldn’t see where he was going—

 

——

 

At some point, someone noticed the sounds and came to investigate. They found Roy leaning with his face against the wall of wherever he was being held captive, energetically wiggling as he tried to rotate his chair.

Their first response was not to beat Roy into a pulp, which was, again, reassuring. Then again, it was the League of Anti-Capitalists. They didn’t go for beating prisoners or Roy wouldn’t have tried it. There was a muted conversation between two young people.

“Hey. Hey Sidn—Socialist 23. It’s the prisoner.”

“What? What’s wr—oh. Is he—trying to escape?”

“Mfpgh! Mfm!”

Roy was gagged, but he made encouraging sounds as one of them grabbed his chair.

“Hey, cut it out or we’ll have to get nasty. Or call Towertoppler.”

“Mffm!”

“What’s he saying? No funny business.”

One of them freed Roy’s gag and pulled his blindfold up; another rookie mistake. Roy’s eyes were dazzled by a single bright light, and he found himself in a big warehouse, the faint sounds of machinery in the background, huge storage shelves looming; he was in the back, clearly, but the walls were open. He thought he heard a familiar, strident tone coming from further inside the warehouse.

Rather than memorize where he was, or enact some cunning plan, Roy, the veteran of too many kidnappings, cleared his throat and spat to get rid of the taste.

“Thank you. May I use your bathroom? I was trying to find one.”

He saw the two masked figures stare at each other; they had on purple-and-green uniforms and the badge that marked them as lesser members of the League of Anti-Capitalists. Socialist Supporters, he thought they were called.

“What? The bathroom?”

“That’s right. I really need to go.”

However long it had been since Towertoppler knocked him out, Roy felt the urge of his bladder returning; he could probably hold it two hours if he really had to, but it was one of those things that got super annoying. And from Roy’s experience, you never knew when you’d get a chance next.

“Fat chance. You’ll just try to escape or signal for help.”

Roy couldn’t feel at his pockets, but he’d left his Stellaris ring in his apartment, and he didn’t have anything other than his cell phone.

“You’ve already searched me. You can watch if you want. Otherwise, I’ll have to pee right here. Or you could give me a water bottle. Or a bucket. You’ll have to get rid of that, though.”

The two flunkies in the League of Anti-Captialists were young. They had an age demographic younger than most henchpeople attracted to work for supervillainous organizations. One of them had a look of mild horror on her face.

“You want a—we are not letting you out. You’re our prisoner, Roy Mackendal, and if World Pact or Stellaris tries anything funny, you’re the one getting hurt.”

“So that’s a ‘no’ on the water bottle? I can just pee on the floor if that helps. Though I’m going to stink afterwards.”

Roy closed his eyes with a resigned expression. Instantly, the two henchpeople panicked.

“What—stop, stop! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Roy cracked one eye open.

“I have to pee. Didn’t they cover that in your henchman training? Kidnapping victims always have to use the toilet.”

“It’s henchpeople. Also, what training?”

Roy gave the first Socialist Supporter a friendly, calm smile.

“Most organizations train their henchpeople. It’s usually a sign of how expendable you’re considered. Are you being paid?”

“Paid? We’re getting rid of the capitalist ideals that are pervading this world—”

“So that’s a no? You should be, even if it’s just a stipend. Stellaris passed a mandatory stipend for all interns. Does the League of Anti-Capitalists have a union? That’s very anti-capitalist.”

“A—what are you talking about?”

Roy wiggled; his right foot was getting numb before the left one. It always did for some reason.

“I’m an accountant. I’ve audited criminal organizations. One time, I was even kidnapped to sort out their payroll. Let me pee and I’ll explain. There’s some kind of site on the dark web that you go to—it’s a kind of community for henchpeople. You can even submit workplace harassment claims, though it’s all unofficial. A lot of supervillainous groups don’t have regulations, but the League of Anti-Capitalists probably would have to pay attention if an anonymous complaint was filed; their membership has multiple associations with other supervillain groups.”

The two henchpeople exchanged a glance, and one of them muttered.

“Floridaman is pretty crazy. He threatened to eat Socialist 11 last week. How much do people get paid? Don’t move—we’ve got Super Tasers, and if you run for it, we’ll just shock you. Where are the scissors?”

“If you do my legs, I think I can use a urinal. I can’t exactly run with my hands bound. Though I’ll need help with my pants.”

Roy was the spirit of helpfulness as, in the end, the two Socialist Supporters decided they didn’t want to help Roy with his underwear and let him use the urinal unbound—albeit with several imposing henchmen watching him. Then, after he’d washed his hands, they put him in the chair and re-duck taped him to his seat. But less tightly, and about a dozen of them hung around.

They were moving something in the background; explosives or stolen goods from the sound of it. Roy heard forklifts, raised voices, and, once, a crash followed by loud shouting. He was more focused on the group around him and spoke in a very polite, helpful way.

“So no one here has forklift certification and they’re making you operate them? That’s a serious workplace violation.”

“There are no workplace violations! We’re the League of Anti-Capitalists!”

“There are if they’ve registered in Vancouver. Which I assume they had to do in order to rent the forklifts and this warehouse. It might not sound like much to supervillains facing life sentences, but if you file a workplace complaint, they have to resolve it under their fake company or they’ll be held liable for any misdemeanors committed under the Superpersons Accountability Act of 2031.”

“So? They’ll just break out of jail. It doesn’t matter if anyone gets fined.”

Henchperson 1, the one who’d first found Roy, folded her arms, sounding a bit discontented with the status quo in this organization allegedly designed to overthrow unfair working conditions. Roy cleared his throat.

“True…but most supervillains have offshore banking accounts. The Superpersons Accountability Act was passed so that the offshore accounts that governments couldn’t touch could still be found liable for any commercial misdemeanors or felonies. In other words, Towertoppler can blow up a skyscraper, and that’s a supervillain act. But if he rents a bunch of forklifts and damages them, he can still be blocked from buying any more until he clears his debts. The same with workplace violations.”

The masked group muttered to themselves, mostly in disbelief.

“Wait, so why did anyone pass the act? So a company can get money even if superheroes have a brawl that levels half of Vancouver? That’s why? That’s the most capitalist…”

Roy shrugged. His shoulders hurt, so he tried to relax them against his chair.

“Well. It passed across a hundred and seventy countries. And it caused a 24% rise in the S&P 500 after years of superpeople-related damages. You can blow up any megaskyscraper you want, but it’s insured; some companies make properties hoping they get destroyed in a superpowered brawl.”

This wasn’t exactly making the League of Anti-Captialists very happy. But as Roy pointed out to the dismayed workers, not being paid for their labor was exceptionally against their organization.

“But we’re dismantling the system of—why should we be paid?”

“I’m not sure about the others, but Masterclass earns over forty million per year. I think he can pay for healthcare, especially if you’re standing between Aldorius’ fist and him. Let me put it another way: why shouldn’t you be paid?”

That provoked an argument between the group, and several of them went away and came back with other members, who could indeed confirm that they hadn’t been paid and could cite a lot of injuries—mostly Floridaman related—and not a lot of medical bills paid. They found a laptop and, with Roy’s help, were signing up for the henchpeople site when someone finally realized Roy was awake.

“What is going on with the prisoner?”

The masked henchpeople ran for it as a villain came striding into the back rooms wielding a laserwhip, which he cracked into the air. Roy sighed as he recognized the masked man in his tuxedo, sharp black eye-mask, and curled mustache.

“Masterclass.”

So he’d made it out of the brawl as well as Towertoppler. Masterclass halted with a sneer on his face.

“Roy Mackendal. I should have known World Pact’s pet accountant was trying to stir up trouble. Trying to talk your way out of here? Forget it; Silant Tower is a pile of rubble. We just levelled the entire building and have all the trade expo’s goods. If anyone comes after us, you’re a dead man. You’ll have half of the League to get past even if you get out of your chair.”

Roy winced.

“I liked Silant Tower. How many people died?”

“None; they evacuated it before we blew it. We’re the League of Anti-Capitalists. Not monsters. What insurrection are you trying to stir up?”

“Just wondering if you’re paying your henchpeople. For a group that endorses opposing capitalism, you don’t seem to treat your workers well.”

Masterclass’ face went slack for a second before he rallied and cracked the laser-whip just past Roy’s right ear. It was millimeters away from Roy’s flesh, but the accountant didn’t flinch. Partly because his reactions weren’t that good, but partly because he knew Masterclass wouldn’t miss. He was a gifted marksman, acrobat, juggler, sword fighter…sort of Mister Olympics’ supervillain counterpart. But both of them disliked being paired off against one another; they both thought they deserved better.

“We’re a villainous league, Roy. You might not understand, but we don’t operate in your pretty world of capitalist ideals.”

Roy glanced over Masterclass’ shoulder as the supervillain sneered at him, and he saw several figures shifting their feet.

“The Society of Dread has a pension plan for every henchperson they work with. Even a single mission.”

“They have a what? What are you—I don’t have time for this. We have a schedule to keep. Everyone, get back to work!”

Masterclass cracked his whip, and the Socialist Supporters scurried away. But not before Roy called out.

“Isn’t the whip a bit too on-the-nose, Masterclass? ‘History repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce!’”

The masked man pivoted, gave Roy a blank, annoyed stare, then tossed a knife from his waistband. Roy jerked; he felt a hot flash of pain on his cheek and realized it had been cut open.

He’d probably pushed Masterclass too far, but the point had been a good one. At least one of the workers marching back to work had at least taken a history class…or could search that quote up on the internet.

In truth, Roy wasn’t too worried about Masterclass. The man was dangerous, but he was actually pretty tame as supervillains went. He was also almost definitely against the ideals of the League of Anti-Capitalists as it was founded; Roy was pretty sure Masterclass was just in it for the publicity.

And the sponsorships; that throwing knife came from an Austrian knife-making company who weren’t above getting publicity any way they could.

The other supervillains, though…they made Roy actually try to get himself out of his bindings, but it was no use. Dubious commitment to their stated ideals or not—the League of Anti-Capitalists had a mix of your casual, corporate villains like Masterclass, who’d do a lot of damage, and the real psychopaths with kill counts in the thousands.

Towertoppler and Floridaman were in the latter category. Floridaman had eaten a lot of his victims, and the giant crocodile villain was a loose cannon. As for Towertoppler…

He killed people. Dubai had just been his first incident. Shineforce, Queen of Cards, Maledrixa—all superpeople he had killed. King Carlous had been public, on live television. A superhero turning and seeing the explosive tossed straight in his face, then—

There was a reason Roy had tackled Towertoppler what felt like a year ago. It was actually a mixup on who he wanted to see less; Floridaman on a ketamine high or Towertoppler as he was.

Roy was wiggling his right leg and wondering if the bindings were any looser when a supervillain came back to check on him.

It was Towertoppler.

 

——

 

Some people were good at intimidation. Some were just acceptable; they played into tropes. Masterclass was acceptable. He’d threaten to kill you in that ‘I have you now, Mister Bond’ kind of way, and he could hold a knife to your throat, but you could still imagine saying something vaguely brave-sounding or even Aldorius busting through the ceiling at the last minute.

Towertoppler, in his high heels, flashy outfit, and goatee, walked over with a thundercloud on his face. He had a huge cut up his cheek reaching across to his ear—and a detonator switch in one hand. When Roy saw him, he opened his mouth.

“I could use the, uh, bathroom ag—”

Towertoppler placed a stick of C4, shaped like dynamite, under Roy’s chair. It began to fizz and the fake tip crackled, sparks shooting off the end and striking Roy’s legs.

That was effective intimidation. No notes. Towertoppler stepped back, then pulled something out and placed it on the ground.

A Modumous ForceshieldTM activated, a one-way barrier that definitely didn’t look like any other sci-fi inventions. It was blast-rated against, well, explosions, and Towertoppler stood behind it as he regarded Roy with a blank expression on his face.

Again—no notes.

“I, uh—I wasn’t trying to escape.”

Roy really needed the restroom now, but he was resolved, in this moment, not to ask for help with that. Towertoppler’s voice was flat.

“Cute tackle the other day. I’ve been meaning to pay you back for months. If Aldorius flies into this warehouse, he can knock me out—that’s going off the moment I faint. Endora teleports in with her magic powers? It explodes. Seithe hits the speed of sound? You’d better hope a supersonic jet doesn’t fly overhead, because it’ll detonate if it senses anything breaking the speed of sound in a thousand meters. Or if I press this.”

His finger rested on the detonator trigger, and Roy swallowed hard. Okay, this was a serious kidnapping. He’d survived fourteen real kidnappings where he hadn’t been sure if he was going to make it out. He had scars from most of them, even with modern medicine.

He wanted to laugh; it was that hysterical impulse that bubbled up in you at the worst moment. Roy suppressed it, but it tried to come out of his chest.

“I—uh—it was nothing personal, Towertoppler. I just didn’t want to see anyone die.”

“Nothing personal. I get tackled by Roy Mackendal and have my ribs cracked before Aldorius punches me in the face, and it’s not personal? I could have rid the world of Mister Olympics. Tell you what; this isn’t personal either.”

Towertoppler’s finger twitched on the detonator. A terrified laugh escaped Roy’s throat. Oh no. He could feel himself shaking now, shaking, and something else was bubbling up within him.

Not now—but of course, he couldn’t help it.

“I heard from Masterclass you’re trying to get all the henchpeople to rebel. Roy the rabble rouser. Roy the superhero. You must have forgotten what your role is. I saw that news story. Do you think you’re one of World Pact? Come on, Roy. Look me in the eyes.”

Towertoppler tilted his head, staring at Roy with a piercing glare from behind the shimmering forcefield. And to his surprise, a man did look back. A huge smile on his face, chin jutted, teeth shining white with the cleanliness of a man who brushed his teeth for two minutes twice a day.

“The name, Towertoppler, is Griefman. Today’s your lucky day. I’m not after you. Let me go and we’ll call it quits. Keep up the sass and you’ll regret it. Aldorius can break every bone in your body with a single punch. You will never heal from what I can do to you.”

Dead silence. Towertoppler’s brows were raised into his hairline. He eyed the figure sitting in the chair, and two men sat there.

One was Roy Mackendal, terrified at the words coming out of his mouth. The other was a calm figure. Griefman.

“Nice trick. Fair enough—I can see you’re not messing around. Let me just get you out of this tape. Sorry for the trouble, Griefman.”

Towertoppler walked out from behind the forcefield, around the chair, as if he were going to cut the bonds, and then turned. He backhanded Roy in the side of the head so hard the world flashed.

Roy landed with a muffled sound of pain as the chair crashed over. Towertoppler stood over him as the door opened.

“Is everything alright, s—I’ll be going.”

The door shut. Towertoppler kicked Roy over as blood trickled down a cut caused by the gloves. He got that huge smile in return.

“You may have me on the ground, but we’ll see who’s laughing soon, Towertoppler.”

The masked man stopped and gave Roy a long look.

“That’s pretty good. Maybe you have snapped. I heard your dad’s dead. Did Roy go off the deep end? Is that why I caught him wandering around that stupid trade expo? A month later, will I see a headline: Roy Mackendal kills five in a kindergarten with Super Taser device?”

“Aha. So you think it’s stupid too.”

Griefman lay on his side, twisting his neck to watch Towertoppler. After a second, the supervillain whistled, and someone entered the room.

“Get him up. Tell Masterclass he’s in charge of loading everything. Seems like ‘Griefman’ wants to have a conversation.”

It took four people to drag Roy back upright, then they retreated. Towertoppler found another chair and sat, again, behind the forcefield.

“Alright, Griefman. What’s the plan? Did we foil your preparations before you took out the League of Anti-Capitalists all on your own? Good luck. Silant Tower was just the start. How many ‘self-defense weapons’ do you think we just acquired? Let’s see how confident Stellaris is when every member of the League is backed up by a dozen ‘non-lethal’ devices.”

Get hit by one of those taser nets and even Mister Olympics would have a bad, bad day. Even if there was a taser-endurance event at the Olympics—which Roy very much doubted—how many could the world’s most amazing Human withstand? Two? Three?

And that wasn’t even the nasty stuff. Griefman spat a bit of blood from his cut mouth.

“I’m not after you or the League, Towertoppler. Aldorius, Aerthe, Embodiment—any one of them can deal with you. I’m after Nightwish. Seen him around?”

One of the Socialist Supporters stirred; more were watching from the door, peeking in from outside in the way of people hoping for entertainment, to skive off work, or who suspected they were about to see a lot of violence they weren’t quite sure they wanted to see, but couldn’t tear themselves away from.

Towertoppler’s eyes were calm and cold—he hadn’t always been like that. The wild-eyed look from the supervillain on his debut had metamorphosed over his long career.

“Nightwish? You’re trying to team up with him?”

“Team up? Don’t make me laugh. I’m going to stop him. Let me out; no one can stop him but me. Not you, not World Pact. No one.”

Griefman wiggled in his chair, and Towertoppler’s lips twitched. He almost laughed.

“You are mad. I’m almost tempted to let you out, but you’re our hostage until we get things shipped out. Then we’ll see how mad I am at you, Griefman. If I’m in a good mood, we’ll let your rescuers untie you, and you can go on your merry way.”

“Oh? That simple, is it? I hope you’re not trying to send the stolen goods out by boat or car.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’re teleporting them to secure spots. The League will be armed and ready for our next encounter.”

“Armed, ready, and underpaid. Strange game plan, but what do I know? If you’re arming your supporters with weapons, you might as well give them healthcare.”

Griefman shot back, trying to rock his way out of the chair. Towertoppler raised one eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

Huh? Roy Mackendal and Griefman glanced up as a sudden idea percolated into their minds. Maybe…

The superhero studied Towertoppler, not as a regular person or even a superhero—but through a lens only Griefman knew.

Nightwish eats a sandwich. What does this man eat? Don’t think of him just as Towertoppler, supervillain who’d destroyed lives and towers. Roy…knew him.

And what he saw was a man who was probably five foot four on a good day who wore an old-fashioned cape and a mask like a bank robber, but who was self-aware enough to make it a look. A cartoon villain who threw actual explosives around…who’d stop in the middle of a fight and peer at you and say ‘are you real?’

—As if this was all a kind of game they were playing. Only, he couldn’t keep the act up all the time.

Towertoppler could kill. Griefman knew him; he’d read Towertoppler’s files. But what he didn’t know was…

“My ‘escape attempt’ was just Roy telling your workers to unite. They are the means of production in no small way, but they’re treated like the cogs of a machine that the League of Anti-Capitalists rails against.”

Towertoppler gave Roy a long, flat look, then replied.

“I, myself, am no Marxist, Griefman. Quoting him isn’t exactly going to win anyone over. Speak in plain English or I will teach you what we think of the bourgeoisie.”

Griefman saw a few nods from behind Towertoppler, but the fellow didn’t realize the trump card was in Griefman’s hands.

“Ah, then you’re fine without enrolling your henchpeople in a medical program? No pension plan, no dental for the teeth you lose whenever Aldorius punches you—not even a stipend. The League of Anti-Capitalists should watch out or they’ll be facing unions from within and without!”

I really need to pee. Towertoppler didn’t exactly lament or cringe away from the hard-hitting accusations Griefman was throwing his way. Nor was Griefman in a position to tell some intrepid reporter about this story—nor did he think it would really generate much buzz.

But at his words, the explosives expert frowned.

“What do you mean they don’t have medical care? Don’t play games with me, Roy.”

“Griefman. Actually, I have a mask in my back pocket. Can someone put it on for me?”

Towertoppler ignored that. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Every organization enrolls in HFEW. You there—Socialist Supporter 14. How much do we pay you?”

“Uh—nothing, Towertoppler, sir?”

Griefman had no ability to fold his arms, so he gave Towertoppler a smug smile as his back fingers messed with his pocket. No one had even taken his mask from him. He pulled it onto the floor as Towertoppler’s face went slack. The supervillain got up.

“We don’t? Where’s Masterclass? He was one of the founders of this league—he even pulled in psychopaths like Floridaman.”

He was getting angry. Griefman’s ears perked up, and he called out as Towertoppler began to stride out of the back room.

“Aha. So the League of Anti-Capitalists aren’t so principled. I always thought the name was suspect. Maybe that applies to your crime spree as well; it never seemed that anti-capitalist to me. So that’s why you hit the Silant Tower, perhaps? And the trade expo?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? We nearly took down that tower in Halifax; we destroyed the Silant Tower and looted the expo.”

Towertoppler whirled, finger on the detonator, but his snarl was betrayed by his wary expression. He listened as Griefman smiled knowingly at him.

“Both skyscrapers were insured, Towertoppler. This isn’t like the old days; rebuilding from superperson damage is a multi-billion dollar industry. You just hit two of the most expensive buildings in two major Canadian cities. And robbed a trade expo full of valuable technologies. How much money do you think it makes the companies involved? They’re not shedding any tears today.”

If anything, they’d be presenting this in board meetings as a good thing to investors; a sign their technology was valuable as well as recouping the losses. And if they were used by supervillains? Free publicity.

Towertoppler’s brows snapped together.

“We hit the trade expo to arm the League.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure that’s where the technology’s going? All of it? It’s teleporting out, right? If you didn’t know about the workers’ pay—how many crates of tech go to your people? It only takes one or two to go missing…who suggested the Silant Tower anyways?”

It was just a guess, but Griefman felt like he was cooking with fire. Aerthe had always said the League of Anti-Capitalists seemed more property damage-focused; everyone had just put it down to their stated goals not matching with the actual intent.

But it seemed like at least one member wasn’t on the same page, because Towertoppler stopped and clenched his fists. Since he was holding the detonator, Griefman squirmed—but then Towertoppler’s face went blank.

“Interesting. Give me a second, would you? You and you, follow me. The rest of you, keep an eye on ‘Griefman’.”

“And put my mask on! Respect the mask!”

Griefman hollered after them. Rather to his surprise, someone did come over after a second and put Griefman’s mask on. It was badly crinkled and slipped instantly, but Socialist Supporter 44 gave Griefman a thumbs up. He gave her a grin and sat back.

And now, with the League of Anti-Capitalists in disarray, Griefman will…negotiate going to the bathroom a second time. Then, maybe if I—

Wumph.

The sound was an explosion, but it was more a feeling that went through Griefman’s legs and left him dizzy. He jumped slightly, and his heartbeat spiked. But it hadn’t come from under him. An alarm began ringing, and Griefman smelled smoke—then sprinklers overhead began spitting water. Gallons and gallons of it, drenching him in an instant. The henchpeople shouted and ran for cover, thinking it was a superhero attack, but there was just a single roar—raised voices—

Then silence. The sprinklers stopped after half a minute, and drenched, his mask running with markers, Griefman gazed up as a figure walked back into the back rooms.

Towertoppler was dusting off his suit. He seemed…miffed. Miffed, upset, betrayed, lost. A blank expression on his face of someone who’d been tricked and was hurt—until his eyes rose and he saw Griefman. Then his expression hardened into that callousness, and the cold light shone out of his gaze. His voice was steady as he sat down, conversational. More respect in it—but he chilled Griefman to the core as he spoke.

“You were right, Griefman. Good job. Got anything else to say?”

He swiveled his seat around and stradled it, facing Griefman. The superhero paused.

“That sound. What was it?”

“C5. It’s hard to make. I save it for when it matters. Don’t worry; the water won’t set your device off. The fire’s out.”

A pause. Towertoppler brushed some ash off his suit.

“Masterclass is dead.”

Silence. The henchpeople were at the door; Griefman glanced past Towertoppler and saw pale faces, big eyes behind their masks. Towertoppler stretched with a sigh, then spoke.

“I’m serious about it. He tricked us. I thought he was being conscientious when he insisted we evacuate the buildings before taking them down. I don’t kill civilians.”

He gave Griefman a quick smile, and the collapsing weight of a falling building was reflected in that gaze, the dead buried under millions of tonnes of rubble.

“I kill superpeople. So tell me, Griefman. How does it feel to be one of us?”

And once more, Towertoppler expected something else—but what he saw was only water trickling down that slightly pudgy face. A cut and bruised cheek leaking blood—and water running from brown eyes.

Not the sprinklers.

Tears. But the voice said, in kindly tones like someone laying down a heavy sentence, like a friend who knew your open, wounded soul—

“I see now. First you. Then Nightwish.”

Towertoppler blinked—then he sat up straighter, a sneer on his lips, his finger twitching just once on the detonator.

Griefman wept.

 

——

 

The League of Anti-Capitalist’s temporary base was emptying of its supervillains. Floridaman was still prowling around, and The Living Sand was also on sentry-duty along with Sancukiller and Timefreezer—but the rest of the League had left.

The giant pit where Masterclass had been had chased away a number of the League’s members, who had realized that things were a lot more serious than they’d thought. Or they had known what the League’s actual purpose was from the start and were making tracks before Towertoppler decided he was going to continue cleaning house—with more explosives.

The henchpeople had also vacated—there were about thirty-six left in the warehouse. So that was…five supervillains, thirty-six henchpeople, one superhero.

Griefman reckoned he could take Towertoppler, even if he hadn’t managed to get out of his chair.

“Go on. Isn’t your power the ability to make people feel sad?”

“It is. My father is dead.”

Would there ever come a time when it didn’t hurt? When it didn’t sound like a lie? He wept for that, for the numbness, for the guilt he carried, rightly or wrongly. Towertoppler shed no tears. His suit wasn’t even wet. Barrier tech or it was just water repellant.

“Nice try. Next?”

Griefman’s tears continued. But his voice was steady.

“Do you feel bad about Masterclass, Towertoppler?”

Towertoppler sat there casually, resting his head on his hands.

“Him? I never liked him. He was always pretentious. He always liked money. But I thought I could work with him. He wasted my time. All our time. I’m glad he’s dead. If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, Griefman—it’s not going to work. I’m afraid I’m immune to your powers.”

He smiled, then, a perfect supervillain’s smile. But not a real smile—not one Griefman believed. The poise, the mask, the contempt—it was all too good.

What kind of sandwich does this man eat?

“Shineforce. Queen of Cards. Maledrixa—no regrets?”

“None. I mean—‘oh no, you’ve got me’! I feel terrible! Their poor children. I forgot they had families when I blew them up.”

Towertoppler raised his hands and waved them, pretending to be shocked and horrified. And Griefman felt the gears turning in his head. Towertoppler leaned over his chair, rocking it forwards and steadying it with his legs.

“Give it up, Griefman. I’ll respect your stupid-looking mask. I’ll even let you go once I figure out where to put the technology—maybe I’ll let you enroll us in HFEW.”

“…I don’t actually know what that is.”

“Henchmen For Equal Work. You put them on the right site.”

“Oh.”

Towertoppler nodded, agreeable, but his eyes were so cold.

“We’ll part ways, but don’t try to guilt-trip me. Reporters, other superpeople, therapists, everyone has tried. You cannot make the mask weep. I’m Towertoppler.”

He got up and whirled his cape as he turned to go—and Griefman spoke.

“And I am Griefman. Roy Mackendal is in here, Towertoppler. He knows your name. He’s read your file. He knows you.”

—The safety case came off the detonator as Towertoppler swung around theatrically, but he lowered the device.

“The world knows my name, Roy. Albrec Brauman. Age 39, Blood Type O Negative, Sagittarius. Killer of Shineforce, Queen of Cards, Maledixtra, murderer of tens of thousands. Dubai, 2028. Everyone knows me.”

He spread his arms, raising his voice, and Griefman spoke quietly, slipping into the gap in that armor.

“Shineforce was under investigation for illicit conversations with a minor at the time of his death, wasn’t he? They swept it under the rug when he was killed.”

A stir from the back of the room. The two had an audience; most of the thirty-five Socialist Supporters, who were peeking in or listening over the roofless wall in the back of the warehouse.

Towertoppler stopped. Griefman pressed on, digging into Roy’s memories, making sudden connections.

“Queen of Cards—that’s public knowledge. She had a very public gambling site and organization. Tens of thousands lost everything. Everything above-board, but she ruined lives despite being a beloved superhero. Maledixtra, domestic abuse charges with her wife. Again, covered up. Stellaris had records. Roy had a bad day when he found that out. King Carlous…I don’t know.”

“Oh, you don’t want to know. He was a good ‘king’ in every sense of the word.”

“Hence no regrets. I see you, Towertoppler. I’m onto you.”

Towertoppler hesitated, glancing towards the door, but Griefman was sitting up now.

“Go ahead and run, villainous scum. It may be your only chance.”

For a moment, the man’s face twisted in a rueful grin.

“God, you love it. You’re like a kid—one of the original capes, reciting lines out of a comic book at me. These days, they’re all speaking for the camera. Go on, tell me everything I did was justified. I killed tens of thousands in Dubai. Figured that one out?”

He returned to the chair, but this time, dragged another one over and put his feet up. Nonchalantly, but his posture was more rigid. Tenser. Alert.

Griefman replied slowly, frowning.

“I’m working that one out. How, uh, anti-Muslim are you? Racist?”

“I don’t like the Irish.”

“Really?”

“No, I don’t care. I did a walking tour of Ireland. Very lovely pubs.”

“Hm. Then…there’s a reason. Because despite your sentence, and the fact you use bombs, Towertoppler has a lower kill count than you’d expect. Contrary to his reputation, he doesn’t kill indiscriminately.”

“You’re so certain, Griefman. Finding the best in me?”

Glittering eyes, a contemptuous expression. But Griefman was close.

“Yes. I am. You throw C4 laced with ball bearings, but not a single person in the Halifax convention center had more than bruises or injuries from falling debris. I did hear several superpeople needed bandaging up, but they’re tough. You’re one of the world’s greatest demolition experts. You can shape a charge; if you wanted people dead, no civilian would have survived that brawl without a Stellaris ring.”

Towertoppler spread his hands.

“What’s the point of killing people who’ve done nothing wrong? The CEO of PostHuman Industries, now…I have a grenade with his name on it.”

Griefman was nodding.

“You don’t kill without reasons. Towertoppler. World’s most wanted supervillain. #6—”

“#7. Splintershot hit #2 and forced me down the list. Damn popularity polls.”

“He’ll kill Masterclass without batting an eyelid. He’ll kill Mister Olympics, or try, because he believes Mister Olympics deserves it. For…covering up doping claims? For promoting something within the games? What is it? Abuse by a coach? Hazing?”

Towertoppler stared at his tall boots, his voice lazy. And tired.

“Who can say? I’m not that nice, Griefman. And you won’t get me to repent and quit my wicked ways. Ask me about my father. Go on.”

“Is your father—?”

“Happily alive. Proud of me. Well, mostly. He’s all about making something of yourself. They had an interview with him—you should listen to it. ‘If he’s in the history books, well, he got there somehow, didn’t he?’ I can’t ring him up or visit, of course, but he’s proud. My mother posts on Greecia nonstop. Four million followers from denouncing me. She got me a card last Christmas when I was in the Lockbox.”

Towertoppler was getting into it, smirking at Griefman, and the superhero’s tears had stopped, but he was watching his opponent, now. And there was a calm, sad part of Griefman for what he was about to do, but when he struck, he hit Towertoppler with all the force of a speeding, hypothetical locomotive.

“True. You’ve always been popular despite Dubai. You even got married to Counterwatch, a supervillain. She died six years ago. Tell me about her.”

The other man froze. Then he swung his legs off his chair.

“You really do know everything, Roy. I’d drop it there, if I were you.”

Griefman didn’t stop.

“Counterwatch. Former spec ops military, United Kingdoms. Some kind of superpeople task force. Perished during the Raginet Crisis along with fifteen other superpeople.”

Space invaders. One of Earth’s first attacks when Endora had first appeared wielding her magic sword. Towertoppler had blown one of the capital spaceships out of the sky—they were still finding pieces in Australia’s outback.

“Drop it. No—you know what? You’re right.”

First, he was tense, tendons standing out, voice low—then he relaxed. With an effort. Towertoppler put his legs back up.

“Love of my life. There was a woman who understood explosives. Feeds into your narrative about me being such a good man, doesn’t it? Stopping space aliens. Put a statue up to me—Towertoppler, man of the people. Destroying the symbols of capitalist ideology one by one.”

His grin was empty. Griefman narrowed his eyes.

“I think that’s close to the real Towertoppler. Only, he made a mistake, didn’t he? Dubai. The same Towertoppler that avoids killing civilians murdered hundreds of thousands in the collapse. Even if he’s fine with killing other superpeople, the ones he kills deserve it. Towertoppler believes some people should die. Dubai—was a mistake.”

It was the only thing that made sense. Towertoppler half sat up. He paused, and that smooth voice gave way to an edge. He hesitated, warring with himself, then spat it out.

“They were supposed to be empty.”

“Empty?”

“Empty. It was supposed to be—the same thing Masterclass was pulling. Insurance fraud. I get hired to blow up a few buildings, the investors get paid insurance money. I get my cut. They told me the towers would be closed due to a gas leak. Instead, I saw people going in and out. And then someone found one of the bombs and instead of calling in a squad, they must have—”

Falling buildings. Roy saw it all. Nearly finished super skyscrapers, a fortune in invested money—destroyed by a supervillain. But you had to make it seem real; if everyone got out, it’d be suspicious. But if you sacrificed the workers—

Now, Towertoppler was sitting there. He was fighting something, trying to keep his composure. He breathed in and out, hard.

“Well…you got me. Good job. I’m still not going to amend my wicked ways, but you can say you scored a point, Griefman. I’m Towertoppler to the end. Remember that whenever I kill one of your beloved Stellaris Superheroes. Some of them have it coming.”

He tried to stand, but now the mask of tears was fixing him in place. Griefman’s voice was quiet, but he pressed down on Towertoppler with his terrible power.

“Oh, I know. I know them so well. Some deserve it. None of them are perfect. Not a one. I know them, and I judge them just like you, Towertoppler. They need Roy. They need Griefman. Perhaps some of them need you. But you won’t stop?”

“For who or what in this world? Who’s left to stop for?”

Towertoppler stood and spread his arms like a performer on stage, and Griefman struck him again, below the belt.

“What about your daughter?”

This time, Towertoppler reeled, disbelieving. There was a gasp from the thirty-two Socialist Supporters. Roy kept speaking as Towertoppler’s hand jerked towards the detonator.

“Oh yes. I know. Don’t lie to me, Towertoppler. Don’t lie. Counterwatch had a daughter before she married you. How old is she? Nine? She has to be in protective services. You must know where she is. But you can’t talk to her. You can’t write her a letter. Funny. Towertoppler doesn’t make that much money compared to how much Masterclass made—I think he lost the appetite for it. But I wonder where some of it goes?”

“Stop talking.”

Towertoppler’s voice was calm. Griefman kept going.

“Are you going to stop for her, Towertoppler? It doesn’t matter how young she was—I bet she knows who Counterwatch married. Is this what you want her to see? Do you think she understands why you’re doing—”

He saw the punch coming this time and tilted his head. Griefman wasn’t prepared for the second one. Or the kick to his face that sent him off the chair—or for Towertoppler to leap on him on the floor and kick and stomp and then punch until his gloves were bloody. Blow after blow until the Socialist Supporters finally dragged him off Griefman.

Panting, the supervillain shook himself free, catching himself, staring down at the busted lip, the blood on Griefman’s face—and that insane smile.

“Now I have you against the wall, Towertoppler. Don’t make me get serious.”

Griefman muttered around his swelling lips as his cheek pressed against the floor. Towertoppler drew back his foot, then caught himself again.

“You really do have a superpower, Griefman. Talking too much.”

He adjusted his suit and turned. Towertoppler stalked past the Socialist Supporters, who drew back from him, all twenty-seven of them. Griefman spoke quietly to his back.

“Towertoppler, there’s a way to see her again.”

Towertoppler was removing his gloves, staring at the blood on them.

“If you say I can redeem myself in society’s eyes, I will blow you up. There is a death sentence for me in several countries; back-to-back life sentences in others. I am not going to sit in a cell and hope she decides to visit.”

“And what are you going to do when she’s sixteen? Eighteen? Visit her, even if you have to fight past half of Stellaris?”

Silence. Griefman felt the Socialist Supporters pulling him back upright; someone dabbed some new MedigelTM on his lips, and he felt the pain decrease. He continued.

“She’ll never know the full story, just what she reads.”

“So I turn myself in, that’s the solution? What a joke—”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

Griefman broke free of his bindings and stood. It was less impressive than you might think; his chair was mostly shattered from being kicked, but he was still bound in duck tape, so pieces of the chair stretched and clattered to the floor as he got mostly upright. The Socialist Supporters tensed for battle, all twenty of them, but Griefman needed no fists.

“Pentagon Ordnance 3314—Shadowforce Army. Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t come up with the name. Forgiveness and anonymity for every super person who enrolls for five years. I don’t necessarily trust it, but it’s there. I know at least four other nations with similar programs on their black books. Say you don’t like that—have you ever told anyone what you thought happened at Dubai? Ever addressed it?”

“Oh, I addressed it. Straight to the mailboxes of the people who were responsible.”

Towertoppler spoke quietly, but his back was still turned, and he hadn’t moved. Griefman spoke.

“There are ways. I’m sure you know someone who sells top-of-the-line disguise tech. I’m sure you’ve thought about how to make contact. But you haven’t. Why? Because Towertoppler’s a monster. If anyone else made that connection—she’d be in danger. You can do it; Towertoppler can’t.”

The man’s voice rasped. Griefman couldn’t see his face.

“Great pitch. You almost nailed it. But there’s work to be done. No one needs a monster in their life.”

“So she’s going to meet you when she’s seventeen then? Wearing Counterforce’s backup suit, trying to figure out who she is? Or as a new member of the United Kingdom’s anti-super taskforce? You know they’ll remember. And she’s her mother’s daughter.”

Flinch. Griefman could have beat Towertoppler down from behind. The rest of the Socialist Supporters were all staring, twelve men and women, three supervillains in the whole safehouse. But Griefman didn’t need to.

He didn’t need to beat down that man. There were no shaking shoulders; no sobs or protestations of grief. Just a silent figure with a bowed head in too-tall boots. Griefman’s finishing blow was this:

“Towertoppler. You said the mask doesn’t weep. You fool. You pathetic worm. You insipid goat.”

Towertoppler half-turned, blinking at Griefman. He saw the masked man break free of the strand of duck tape he’d been slowly unwrapping in a single motion, a goliath freed of his chains, in bad need of urination. Griefman pointed a finger at Towertoppler.

“The mask is the tears.”

He and Towertoppler stood alone, facing each other, one man white as a sheet, swaying, about to fall flat on his face, at the end of his rope—the other Towertoppler. But Griefman had won. He waited for Towertoppler to say something, anything…and then Towertoppler glanced around.

“Wait a second. Where did all the henchpeople go?”

There were six of them standing around. At his words, Griefman hesitated. Right, there had been more. He’d assumed they’d gone off to work or something, as riveting as his showdown with Towertoppler had been. But the other masked individuals turned.

“Wait a second. Floridaman? Come in.”

Towertoppler raised a watch to his mouth in sudden alarm. He got only silence from the other end. Then Griefman felt a prickling on his back.

Only one person could take out so many people without being noticed. It wasn’t super-speed. It was—

He eyed the three remaining henchpeople just in time to see something leap off of one of the shelving units and sweep one of the figures off their feet and into the shadows without a sound. Roy saw two wide eyes, a flailing hand—Towertoppler spun, sticks of C4 in hand.

“Nightwish!”

The two remaining Socialist Supporters whirled. One was Number 44, who screamed.

“It’s him! W-what do we do?”

“Get back! Get back out of the—”

Too late. Nightwish materialized through the wall of the room Griefman had been imprisoned in and dragged Number 44 out. Phasing tech—Griefman had forgotten he had that. Towertoppler hesitated, about to throw an explosive, then began scattering them around him.

“Socialist Supporter 15, stay with me. Try to radio the League for backup. Henchman, don’t run—”

Too late. A horrific shriek blasted everyone straight from overhead, and the lights in the warehouse went out as one. Griefman froze, searching around, blind, and then he sensed Socialist Supporter 15 lose his nerve.

The screaming man went plunging away from the two of them, running, panicking. He made it all of a dozen steps—then the sound cut off with an ulp.

“Nightwish?”

Griefman fumbled forward, blind. He couldn’t see, and he didn’t have his smartphone. He sensed a figure ahead of him, reached out—

Towertoppler slapped Griefman.

“It’s me you idiot. Get away! I’ve armed landmines!”

“Oh, sorry.”

Griefman hurried back and fell over his chair. He got up as glowing red lights appeared—crisscrossing the darkness. When he focused on them, Towertoppler stood enshrouded in a network of glowing red lights. Angled charges—explosives he’d stuck to walls, even the ceiling of the warehouse.

He was scanning the area, ready to detonate any part of the warehouse in a second. But Nightwish was invisible.

“Come out, Nightwish! You want me? Let’s see if you can hide when I blow this warehouse to rubble.”

It was a bluff. It had to be. Griefman looked up as Towertoppler glanced around, a sneer on his face, but—there was no way for Towertoppler to know where the League of Anti-Capitalists were. If he took out the warehouse, he’d endanger them.

Yet the ploy worked. A figure detached itself from a support beam two hundred meters away, and Towertoppler aimed a throwing disc at Nightwish. There was no explosive near the caped avenger; he had something in his hands.

“I have Griefman—I mean, Roy Mackendal as a hostage. Surrender or I’ll—”

Bang.

The bullet blew Towertoppler’s hand off. Roy saw a flash of red, a cloud of blood—and then Towertoppler screamed. He reached for his belt with his other hand, somehow, as blood spurted from his wrist, and a second bullet hit his kneecap.

He went down as Nightwish lowered the rifle he’d been carrying. Unlike Batman, he carried guns. But he didn’t—kill—

Griefman was staring at Towertoppler, writhing on the ground, as Nightwish hurled something towards Towertoppler. All the proximity lights on the C4 went out; then Nightwish leapt forwards.

“Nightwish—”

Towertoppler tried to get up. He couldn’t and threw a kick from the ground, punching with his hand—a filthy, armored boot blocked the kick. Nightwish caught the hand. Then he grabbed Towertoppler’s fingers and snapped them.

Three times. Once at the knuckles, then he yanked the fingers back, then twisted them until the bones cracked a third time and hung limply, the wrong way round. Towertoppler screamed—clawing at his belt for dead explosives, kicking, trying to headbutt—then Nightwish broke his wrist. Then his arm. He kicked Towertoppler in the kneecap in a spray of blood and mounted his chest, punching his face into the ground.

“Nightwish. Stop.”

Griefman was on his feet. Towertoppler wasn’t moving. Nightwish was so fast—his fists were covered in blood, and he was still punching the motionless supervillain.

“Nightwish!”

Griefman grabbed an armored shoulder. A hand moved—Griefman felt the world rotate, and he hit the ground on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there a second—heard a bang, and sat up.

Now, Nightwish stood over the unconscious Towertoppler. He was taking aim; he had fired a single round through Towertoppler’s other kneecap. He was aiming at his broken hand.

He doesn’t kill.

Medical technology is so advanced—

Griefman saw in a moment what he was going to do. Anything. How did you stop Towertoppler short of killing him? He’d break out of any jail cell. He could make explosives out of anything in a kitchen. If he had working hands. If he wasn’t healing for—

“Nightwish!”

This time, the tackle to his legs made Nightwish stumble, but he pivoted, threw Griefman to the side. Took aim. Griefman hit the ground and rolled and knew he’d never stop Nightwish with a punch. He screamed.

“Rosalin and Jeremy West would be ashamed of you.”

The figure froze, his finger on the trigger. The mask turned, and two glowing eyes stared at the shaking, pudgy figure covered in Towertoppler’s blood. He had no cape, no costume save his suit, and yet Griefman rose.

“I am ashamed of you. Put the gun down, Nightwish.”

The figure studied him, then raised the rifle, sighting down it. Griefman spoke.

“Andrew West. You are no superhero today. Put that gun down and call an ambulance. Fire that gun and I swear, you will regret it.”

Andrew West. A name maybe three people in the world knew or still yet remembered—including the man himself. Nightwish slowly turned as Griefman stumbled forwards.

“One’s already coming. He’ll live. What are you doing, Roy? I told you to stop doing this. Never use my name. Never say—”

Griefman grabbed the rifle. For a second, it didn’t move, and he lurched—then Nightwish let go, and Griefman hurled the gun away.

Blam.

Both men flinched as the gun went off. Griefman lowered his arms after checking to make sure he wasn’t shot. Then he pointed a finger.

“You’ve gone too far, Nightwish. Put your hands in the air. I’m taking you in.”

“Roy…what are you doing?”

“My name is Griefman.”

Nightwish stood there, and the crimson eyes of his battered monster mask blinked. His voice was almost conversational as he stood in Towertoppler’s blood. As if they were at a meeting in World Pact. Griefman stared down, and to his relief, he saw the stump wasn’t gushing blood, nor were the kneecaps.

Nightwish must have applied some kind of coagulating gel. Even so—Towertoppler. Griefman’s eyes rose.

“Raise your hands, Nightwish. Don’t make this hard.”

“Roy. Is this a bit? I’m not in the mood for games. I saw you had been kidnapped. Again. Take the mask off. This isn’t a joke.”

“I am Griefman. My father is dead.”

The figure in front of Griefman twitched.

“I know. I sent flowers. Roy…go home.”

“I don’t need flowers, Nightwish. I needed you. You’ve lost your senses. Put. Your. Hands. Up.”

Griefman grabbed one of Nightwish’s arms and couldn’t move it. It trembled a bit as he tried to use both hands, then Nightwish grabbed one of Roy’s arms and prised it loose. Gently, effortlessly.

He might not have had super-strength, but he had strength on par with Mister Olympics—super enough for Roy, who hadn’t lifted weights since college.

“Stop doing that voice, Roy. It sounds ridiculous. And don’t ever—”

“What? Bring up your parents? Rosalin and Jeremy, Nightwish. They sent me. They want you to stop.”

A hand was grabbing Griefman’s collar in an instant and hauled him forwards. He watched the monstrous mask, the mandibles covered in blood. It reeked almost as much as Nighwish’s breath.

“Never use their names against me again. Do you understand?”

That was a voice. Griefman’s heart and legs trembled, despite his resolve. For a moment, he wavered—and then he smelled something on Nightwish’s breath, underneath the blood and sweat and grime and gunpowder and, yes, sewer stench.

Peanut butter. And probably jelly.

Griefman seized that hand.

“I can speak to the dead, Nightwish. I—kahght—sorry. I know them. They don’t want this. Come with me and I won’t have to hurt you.”

“Hurt me. You. Hurt me?”

Nightwish was like a man in a trance. His voice was gravelly; he might not have spoken for months, aside from at the hospital. He seemed to finally take in what Griefman was saying.

He almost laughed. Instead, a mocking smile came over his face.

“Roy.”

“Griefman.”

A word screamed into Nightwish’s face. An expression of surprise—as the first sirens began to grow in the distance. Nightwish let go, and Griefman stumbled. Nightwish turned back to Towertoppler. Stopped.

“Roy. I’m going to get angry. Let go of my shoulder. I understand you’re hurting. I…know what it’s like. Let go of me now and we’ll forget this happened.”

He turned back like a demon of vengeance, and he met a brilliant, bloody smile. White tombstones of teeth, a jutting jaw, eyes blazing, and a voice as booming as the sound of salvation. As terrible as the hush before the hurricane.

“That’s my line, foul felon. Don’t make me get mean. You wouldn’t like me when I’m tetchy, either. Didn’t you hear the name? I’m Griefman. I have the power of unlimited grief and tears on my side. I came here to stop you, and buddy, I’m out of tissues. This is no joke, Nightwish. This is good, old-fashioned superhero on superhero combat. Special, crossover edition. If you don’t stop now, I’ll do it, and believe me—it’s going to hurt.”

Nightwish stared at Griefman, then took a step backwards. Griefman stumbled with him. And didn’t let go. The sirens were getting louder; Vancouver SPD (Superperson Police Department) had a fast response time.

“You need help, Roy.”

“You need help, Nightwish.”

“Enough—”

Nighwish broke free and strode away. Then he saw Griefman trying to grab his shoulder again. He leapt up, caught a steel girder, swung himself up, and began to vanish.

Griefman’s head rose over the edge of the steel beam as he tried to do a pullup and mostly failed. He scrabbled for purchase, panting.

“The arm of the law…is going to catch up with you, Nightwish. And that law is me!”

“Enough.”

Nightwish vanished so completely and utterly that Griefman couldn’t detect him. The more mundane superhero landed on the floor and spun around.

“That’s right, run, Nightwish! Run, but I will find you! I will hunt you down wherever you go—”

“Roy.”

A hand on the back of his neck, then an arm around his windpipe in a moment. Nightwish had Griefman in a sleeper hold. Griefman gurgled—then whispered.

“I am the shadow stalking you in the dark, Nightwish. You can run, but you can’t hide from me. I’m your worst fear. I am the white elephant in the room. I am the specter leaning on your shoulder at the cafe while you’re third in line. I am Griefman.”

The choking pressure increased, and Griefman gurgled. He reached up—and as his vision faded, gently patted the arms. Patted, not flailed with his strength.

—Nightwish let go. He leapt back, as if he’d been tasered or shot, and Griefman heard voices, now, in the storehouse. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, and saw the figure standing there.

“Don’t run, Nightwish. I’m coming for you—”

The masked figure wobbled in his vision as Griefman collapsed onto the ground. Once again, the world went dark. But this time, Griefman just sank into the darkness, waiting.

Next time, he’d win.

 

 

Chapter 8

The media was all over the scene. Towertoppler, brought down at last and brutally beaten within an inch of his life. Not that anyone was crying, but the deed was the latest in a string of Nightwish attacks.

The League of Anti-Capitalists…disbanded? Strife within the ranks that had led to Masterclass’ death? Unionizing workers?

You could get statements from Stellaris and World Pact on Nightwish, interviews with the henchpeople and the captured supervillains, a retrospective on Masterclass’ death, commentary from his superhero adversaries and other supervillains alike—

And Roy Mackendal had been both rescued and found in his mask as Griefman. The content…you couldn’t beat this content. Even S.E.R.I drama wasn’t a candle to this—Splintershot had actually joined the League of Anti-Capitalists but had left when she saw Towertoppler murdering Masterclass, and it was making her reconsider her supervillain arc, because she had signed up for supervillainy, but not common murder.

Live broadcasts, multiple channels, interviews, Greecia posts exploding by the minute—engagement—but the prize was obviously Roy Mackendal.

He was actually on his feet, with some very nasty seeming bruises and cuts, giving an interview to a reporter. Still wearing his mask. They were all standing on one end of the warehouse; bomb squads were defusing Towertoppler’s deactivated C4 very carefully. All except the stick that had been under Roy’s chair. That had been a fake, apparently.

What a disaster. What a comedy. What a…the reporter asking questions was trying to keep a straight face.

“You said you had a draw with Nightwish?”

“That’s right. I had him on the ropes until the last moment when he got away. I’ll bring him to justice next time.”

“So you’re saying, Mister—”

“Griefman.”

The name was said loudly into the reporter’s ear, and the man winced.

“—Griefman. You’re saying Nightwish fled the scene because of you?”

“Correct. He is a cowardly, superstitious sort who fears what he does not understand. He’s gone too far this time. Upon this mask—”

It slipped slightly—as Griefman pointed at it.

“I will bring him in. Even if I have to get rough.”

Despite the best training at journalist school—which was mostly how to keep a stoic, serious face, these days, instead of journalistic standards—there was still a snrk of laughter from the audience. The reporter bit his lip hard.

“—Forgive me if this is somewhat rude, but I don’t think you’re a registered superperson, Griefman. Nor do you have any actual powers. Do you think this may all be some kind of—manic episode? Do we have a paramedic around here?”

He glanced around, spurred by the camera and millions of eyes to do something altruistic—and a hand reached out and pulled him forwards. The reporter jerked, and Griefman pulled him forwards until his mask smudged the man’s face.

“I don’t see you rushing to stop Nightwish. I don’t see you mourning Masterclass.”

“Please let go of—”

The man extricated himself from Griefman’s grip and gave Griefman a pained smile. He’d gotten what he wanted—now, Griefman was becoming a problem. The accusation made the reporter hesitate.

“Obviously, what happened to Masterclass was tragic and abhorrent. No one would condone Towertoppler’s murder—”

“Really? You don’t even know why he was killed.”

Griefman’s eyes narrowed, and the reporter hesitated with that faint air of paranoia.

“Well, of course not. We are reporting only the facts as they appear—”

“Your reporting is a disgrace. You’re holding a camera up. You don’t know the League of Anti-Capitalists. You don’t know why Masterclass betrayed their ideals. No…you do know, don’t you? You just never reported it, once. You could have found out who’s backing Masterclass. But you didn’t. Now, you’re just reporting ‘Towertoppler killed Masterclass in a petty dispute, more details at eleven’. And someday, a real journalist will do your job for you, and it’ll be breaking news.”

Griefman’s finger pointed at the reporter, who was now trying to exit stage left. Griefman swung around, and the people queuing up for an interview ducked back, aware that the energy of the social media grid was suddenly on Roy’s side.

People loved drama. They loved callouts. This was all part of the cycle—and one reporter was about to have a bad day, take his Greecia account offline for a few months, and maybe even lose his job.

It was all—Griefman stared into the cameras and knew Heradonus was watching. Aerthe. Perhaps all of World Pact. Including Nightwish.

“I’m coming for you, Nightwish. I won’t stop. Run from me. Fear me. Hide as long as you want, but I will drag you into the light.”

Then he turned and walked into a bathroom. It was certainly a viral clip; it went trending on Greecia instantly, and there were memes about it within seconds. Griefman became an instant internet sensation, a subject of parody, discussion, psychoanalysis by concerned personalities online.

He read or noticed none of it. There were only eight people in the world who needed to see that message. Who knew what it meant.

 

——

 

Roy Mackendal emerged from the bathroom eight minutes later, adjusting his belt, with no idea what anyone was talking about when they shoved cameras in his face. He kept demanding to be let go despite the multiple groups, news, law enforcement, and more trying to get at him.

Only when someone cleared her throat did everyone look up and see a spotlight from overhead. Aerthe, flying with her jet boosters. They let Roy go, and he vanished.

 

 

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