Project Northwoods (15 page)

Which is why
, Morgan Severson thought as she scanned her copy of
Cosmo-Hero
,
I hate this job so much
.

Sitting on the rooftop, clad in a red shirt and blue jeans, she looked fairly run-of-the-mill: short-cropped wavy blond hair, pale skin, brown eyes, standard height and an athletic build from teen years spent in track. A black wireless earpiece was visible as she brushed hair out of her face, the device blinking occasionally but hardly abuzz with activity. She sighed, a puff of steam jetting from her mouth as she turned a page. The one visible sign of rebelliousness – a small nose stud – was now an icon so ubiquitous it lost much of its allure. In her early twenties, her appearance betrayed nothing of any sort except complete, unequivocal averageness.

That is until it became apparent that, despite standing on the roof in a thunderstorm and not having any apparent means to shield herself other than the magazine she stubbornly read as opposed to using as a makeshift umbrella, Morgan remained bone dry.

She stirred in her chair near an improvised shelter she had made when she was hired by the Heroes’ Guild earlier that year. Her mother, a model super hero, had barely hidden her disappointment in her daughter’s lack of Bestowed ability as the girl grew to adolescence. Morgan was surprised and dismayed to learn at sixteen that she, like her mother, was Bestowed. Late development of an ability was exceedingly rare and not much of a benefit to a socially awkward teen. Whereas most abilities manifested in some small way within two to three years, those who developed their abilities during or immediately post-puberty had a much harder time harnessing their powers. Her sudden ability to manipulate water was unwanted and, at least once, terrifying.

Her doctor informed her, after she had nearly drowned her boyfriend during a mid-fight drink, that it was like suddenly developing a third arm: whereas a younger child had an almost innate talent to use the extra appendage, a new limb in a teenager had no naturalized context with which to control it.

“That simple, eh?” Morgan had muttered when the doctor had flashed an insincere smile afterwards.

Despite what she hoped was her fellow heroes’ overly sympathetic understanding and not, as she feared, their pity-fueled condescension, she entered the Academy. Morgan trained and studied half-heartedly, focusing enough to allow her to be able to manipulate water away from her in about a three foot radius as well as a number of skills rated between situationally useful and utterly trite. It would be a neat parlor trick if she wasn’t jokingly referred to as ‘The Human Umbrella’ and used primarily for document transportation or patrol work on rainy days. Every time a storm rolled in, she was called out of her desk job at the Guild and forced on duty in the actionless part of town. Her superiors and mother insisted it was due to her inexperience; she suspected it had more to do with her inability to truly harness all that she could.

It wasn’t like she even wanted to be a hero. She had wanted to be a dancer.

She sat on the rooftop in the pouring rain, completely dry and reading an insipid article about the latest super hero fashions from Gaga when she was suddenly dimly aware of her ear-piece vibrating. Her heart skipped at the insistent buzzing, a burst of fear making her go rigid. She was out of uniform, on duty, and definitely not prepared for any official business, especially because there was never any official business to do.

Morgan tapped the earpiece and waited for the hiss of the line to connect. “Aquaria reporting.”

The line remained quiet for a moment, giving her the hope that the call was a mistake. Then, a voice that was definitely not the creepy, synthesized voice of the Guild computer she was expecting startled her. “We have received notification of possible unauthorized villain activity in your area. Find, intercept, and nullify if necessary.”

“Wh-what?” she asked. “Where? I mean… hello?” The voice did not respond. “Damn it,” she muttered. She threw the magazine into the shelter and stood up. This was probably some stupid prank or a scheduled fight with some goon that she had forgotten about. She wasn’t even hooked up with a villain yet, so this may be one of those warm-ups that some of the newer heroes got to introduce them to the public. Even if it was in the middle of heroic territory and there was no legitimacy to the theatrics… she supposed it made some sense.

She walked to the edge of the building and looked out over the street. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, trying to remember how her various instructors had coached her. Ever since the incident when she was sixteen, she had always been more acutely aware of water when it was around her. This, unfortunately, made initial visits to the pool or an errant rainstorm a headache-inducing experience. Showering was initially out of the question, a luxury she had to train herself to endure again. With practice, she felt water more as a part of her own body, only dimly aware of it unless she needed it. Kind of like hair.

In an instant, she was inundated with sensation. She became receptive to the falling rain, letting its presence fill her head as it splattered on rooftops, antennae, lamps, cars, pedestrians, awnings, glass, concrete… the list went on. It was painful, in a way, to suddenly ‘see’ the world like this, as though millions of voices whispered all at once. Although she couldn’t focus enough on any one specific thing, she detected an aberration almost immediately. On a different building, somewhere behind her, someone was running across the roofs, toward the Heroes’ Guild. At least, that’s what she guessed based on how the rain fed her information.

Morgan turned on her heel and sprinted across the roof. There was no time to change into appropriate attire. She had to either head the target off or at least catch up to him. She hoped that this was a mistake, that just some punk neutral had decided to do something incredibly stupid, that the term ‘nullify’ was just thrown in for dramatic effect.

Yes, that had to be it.

Harold Daly sprinted across the rooftop, his vision clouded by the pouring rain. In any other circumstance, he would have gladly been a little more cautious, but desperate times made him reckless. His work for the Italian Mob made him aware of the layout of the buildings, and even if a fall would turn him into a smear on the pavement, it was safer and faster than going by road. The water pattered loudly against his leather trench coat and trilby hat as he neared the edge of the roof, hopped onto the lip, and leapt across the gap.

The next building was a touch shorter than he anticipated, but his stumble went into a roll against the gravelly surface and he popped right back up into running. He needed to rest, as the burning in his muscles was overpowering the cold wetness of his pinstriped pants. But he couldn’t stop, not now, not…

Someone was on the next rooftop and heading right toward him.

Shit
, he thought as he skidded to a stop. She was much faster than him, and had reached the edge of the neighboring roof in the moment he had noticed her. Gracefully, she leapt across the alley and landed right in his path as his own forward momentum ceased.

The woman rose and, for a brief instant, Harold relaxed. She was in plain clothes, and although he was instantly aware of how incredibly dry she looked for such awful weather, she didn’t look like she was doing anything except going for a run. Her physicality wasn’t that much different from his own and didn’t lend much to any kind of fear. Then he noticed the earpiece, the black headset-phone combo that was standard issue for the Heroes’ Guild. He slowly reached for the bottom button of his coat.

“Let’s see your paperwork.” She had the tone of a bored clerk, apparently more interested in the greenhouse next to her than him. Despite her exertion to reach him, she wasn’t out of breath.

“Who sent you?” he asked briskly.

She made a face. “The Heroes’ Guild,” she said, irritated at the question.

Harold shook his head. “Unless you’re here to stop me, I need you to step aside.” He undid the button on his coat.

She approached him casually and he took a step back. “This is official business, right?”

He wasn’t listening as his hand went into his coat. “You need to get out of my way,” he simply stated.

The force of his tone startled her. She stopped her advance. “Look, buddy, I don’t care. Rules are rules.” Her posture straightened. “Did you leave the forms at home? It’ll be less paperwork for both of us if you turn around and leave.” The woman took a step toward him, and a bubble of dry air pushed in on him.

“I can’t do that.”

She hadn’t been paying attention. Otherwise, she would have been aware of him reaching for a weapon, would have been aware of his overly defensive posture. He couldn’t be too critical: he, too, should have been less focused on fighting so he could have possibly talked his way out of it. He was definitely scared, and there was no time for taking a chance that could still devolve into violence.

His hand tightened around the rubber grip of the stun rod he had hitched to his belt. The muscle movement must have been obvious, because the woman’s eyes flicked downward. The realization was immediate, and she took a step back as he yanked out the baton.

“Rogue!” she tried to shout. With a violent upward arc, the now-sparking baton cracked across her face. A bright burst of light marked the moment of contact, and she fell, hard, to the ground.

The world seemed blurred and dangerously white. Morgan didn’t have time to focus on what happened, not when she was busy collapsing to the gravel in a convulsive fit. She probably would have passed out, and gratefully so, had she not been so acutely aware of the fact that she felt rain all over her body. It had been so long since she had felt natural precipitation against her skin. It was a curious feeling – sharp, cold, like thousands of tiny slaps across her. It wasn’t the chemically-purified water of the modern world – grit and other variants in the moisture’s make-up made the drops unique, almost painful against her nerves. It forced her to keep her eyes open, to fight the almost uncontrollable urge to vomit, and just stay awake.

She felt someone push her onto her side… the goon, it was the goon who just shocked her… and then there were fingers pushing into her neck. What was he doing? Did she die? Was she going to die?

He muttered something to her, something she couldn’t catch. The rain itself was muffled, drowned by a high-pitched hum that started the moment the world had turned white. Although the hum was fading as her body fought off the effects of the jolt of electricity, it seemed determined to linger as long as it could.

The goon was running toward the edge of the building. Her arm flailed out, barely under her command. “Stop,” she tried to shout, but it came as a hoarse whisper. She blinked her eyes shut, trying to focus, keeping her arm out. When she opened them, she willed the rain, as hard as she could, to fence him in.

It seemed too late to stop him. He leapt just as he reached the edge of the roof. But something changed in the rain: the nearby environment had gone suspiciously dry while the partition between rooftops thickened dramatically. The wall of water he was jumping into was almost a solid mass, and he struck it as firmly as if he had leapt into a concrete wall.

The goon rebounded and fell, rolling on the ground. He looked at the wall of water, then back at Morgan. She rose to her feet, shaking and thoroughly pissed off.

“I told you to stop!” she shouted. Her world was still blurry, but fury was doing a good job of keeping it level. Her heart was beating incredibly hard, adrenaline fueling the fight response of her instincts. Morgan was dimly aware of the fact that she had exhibited more control over her ability than ever before, but that thought hardly registered once the reptilian brain’s drive to survive clicked on.

The goon got up, grabbing his trilby hat from the ground and resting it on his head. He laughed bitterly. “That was a mistake!” He leaned forward and sprinted, reaching for the stun rod again.

Immediately, Morgan spun around, arms outstretched, gathering water in her hands. Once she completed her 360, she fast-balled one of the globes at the mobster. He struck out with his baton, and the device connected with a fantastic shower of sparks. The liquid mass had been solid enough to warp the baton, breaking it.