Project Northwoods (69 page)

Claymore’s eyes were hazy, and in his entire life he had never felt more like mere Dylan York than he did now. Ever since childhood, when his father had given him a practice sword, he knew he was special. He trained, avoided embarrassment, fought, and won. At the Academy, he was nothing short of perfect in all his physical activities, proving time and time again his devotion to himself and his fitness. Even when he had tracked down Zombress with Arbiter and the Enforcers, he had performed admirably despite feeling challenged for the first time in years.

Now he slouched in a hospital bed, feeling less like a man and more like a shell. When he was able to slur that he felt shattered, the doctors told him not to worry. Thanks to Maelstrom’s notes, they could create a new hand and foot in a matter of days. He’d be at work again shortly, and he would quickly acclimatize to his bio-feedback appendages. After all, Erich Constantine reported great success with his.

Even as he physically felt torn apart, his mind was turning against itself. He had too long to think, to remember in every lurid detail, the blood of the Enforcer splashing down on him. The bullets that should have been meant for him splattering into that degenerate… no… that girl’s father.

Sleep was no respite. His fevered brain just played out the entire scene before punctuating his nightmare with that long, lying word drawn out to infinity.

Rogue
.

Catalina Capone watched over the assembled villains from her seat on the stage. Having grown tired of the incessant arguing, she had pulled up an old chair from the back and plopped down on it. The bickering, raging conversations continued, offering no real solution to the mountain of horror they all faced. There wasn’t a whole lot of point. One by one, they would slip out, disappear. One by one, they would be captured and point the heroes right here.

She drummed her fingers on the armrest. That was definitely one scenario she couldn’t let come to pass. Not when there was so much life left to be lived. Her hand drifted up to activate her earpiece.

“This is Catalina,” she said, watching the crowd. She noticed that the remaining mobsters all brought their hands to their ears, cupping the sound inward in an effort to drown out the noise. “Prepare for evacuation.”

“Shall we start informing the guests?” someone asked.

Her eyebrow arched as she watched the crowd. Arthur had disappeared, much to her annoyance. The only high-tiered villain she recognized had been Aeschylus, and he had faded into the crowd after his daughter’s embarrassing meltdown.

No matter.

“No.”

Arbiter sat at his desk, the mid-afternoon sun hazy as it illuminated the latest financial files in a brilliant orange. In a few short hours, a ceremony would name him High Consul for life.
And why? Because I foretold a war which came to pass? A war which, without me, may never have happened? Am I only here because of the goodwill Dante Lovelass’s life imparted? Or, perhaps, it is the fear of death which sparked this sudden loyalty. Lovers have been irrevocably parted, children orphaned and parents rendered childless. All thanks to me.

Yet, the chorus of voices was unanimous, carrying him into an office for the foreseeable future.

Talia had promised a flash drive containing key members of the conspiracy and details on their knowledge of Project Northwoods, that ancient relic of a bygone era which haunted his every action. Instead, she murdered, in cold blood, six heroes and fled. Despite her best efforts, Gunslinger hadn’t been able to track down the runaway. Zombress was not among the dead or captured, nor was Aquaria. More and more, it was looking like the tendrils of corruption were as embedded in the villain community as he had always believed. The men and women… even the children… were nothing but animals.

He reached forward and picked up a sheet of paper that caught his eye. Dante, in his infinite wisdom, had given him the tool to finish what the villains started. The funds were allocated, the prototype already under construction. It would soon be in position to rain down retribution on the scum of the earth. The nagging suspicion of doubt had grown softer. The time until the final piece was ready would be more than enough to rout the conspirators.

The soft voice hoped it would be the ultimate deterrent… but his heart told him it would only truly end in annihilation.

THE HANGED MAN

July 4
th
, 2011

Nearing Midnight

WENDY “ELECTRONICA” SEVERSON SAT
in the large recliner in her pictureless apartment, the white walls bearing the dustless outlines of where frames had once been carefully placed. The late night infomercials had started after the final July 4
th
movie had run its credits, but she lacked the strength to change the channel or put in a movie. It wasn’t like she was watching the television, or even something as idiosyncratic as staring out the window at her neighbors. Cheap vodka had sapped the will to do anything but wallow in self-pity and rage.

She had been a hero…
the best damn hero
… for years. Volunteered for patrols that no one else wanted, perfected the art of banter to best entertain the television crews and witnesses, dedicated her life to preserving justice in the face of chaos. And this, this was how the universe decided to thank her.

That lousy scum-sucker Zealot… half-rate hero and half-man… had called her into a conference room with Arbiter and three others she didn’t recognize. He sat, smiling, as one told her that, upon review, it had become apparent that she may have allegiances other than to her fellow heroes. After all, her daughter was one of the handful who managed to not only escape, but evade recapture. A formal review would be conducted in five days, which required her presence to defend herself. She could tell by Zealot’s barely contained glee that she would never be reinstated. Even the cold comfort offered by countless others being subjected to ‘loyalty tests’ as well was but an insult to her dedication.

All around her, heroes whispered and avoided eye contact as she had retreated to her office to collect the handful of personal items she kept there. No one comforted her, no one even offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. Only whispers and suppositions followed her after all those years of dedicated service. And the only one to blame, the only one she could blame, was her daughter, her insolence and ineptitude corrupting what legacy Wendy had tried so hard to build.

And yet… she could not bring herself to blame Morgan. The direction that the Heroes’ Guild was heading was far more draconian than when she had begun working for them in the Silver Age. It was regressing back further, to a time of unbridled conflict. Maybe she was right to side with Zombress, with those who offered a more chaotic world. It was becoming more apparent that the greater power the forces of order had, the stricter their definition of justice became.

Tomorrow…
well, later today
… would be the review, probably the last chance she would ever have of being reinstated as a hero now that Arbiter was High Consul for life. Maybe she wouldn’t accept it, even if they begged her to return. A smile cracked her chapped lips.
They will beg me, won’t they?
She was, perhaps, their best shot at bringing her daughter to justice. Julia, the girl she had fought alongside at the Fort,
she’d
back her up, say that she was ten times the hero than anyone she’d ever met. She would demand they reinstate her, and they would be forced to agree. Then, to prove a point, she would turn them down and opt to sit this little fight out. Or, better yet, maybe she’d find her daughter, ask for her forgiveness, and join her in whatever crazy plan she had. Not that Morgan was much of a planner… or anything, really, but it was better than hunting her down.

She laughed, a small haughty thing, before her unfocused eyes fell back to the television. The infomercial number was tempting as always, as though it would unlock the secrets to productivity beyond anything anyone had ever known. Wendy secretly loved them, the over-acting, the voiceover, the cheap sets, everything. She just imagined every one of them began with ‘Do simple tasks confuse you? Does your IQ begin with a decimal point?’ and watched, allured by the world of the easily baffled.

Senses dulled by vodka and distracted by the overly-enthusiastic man selling an automatic turkey carver, she didn’t notice the glint of a scope on the rooftop across the street.

Four days, eleven hours. That’s how long it had been since Arthur and Stair returned to their apartment building. Almost everything had been ransacked by villainous remnants of the population or, more than likely, petty neutral criminals. The graffiti that had tagged numerous surfaces threatened anyone returning to the villain zone that, in essence, New York City belonged to the heroes and neutrals. Arthur and Stair ignored the warnings: the apartments had been their home for so long, it seemed positively negligent to leave.

Bankers and real estate agents trolled the area almost every hour of every day, vocalizing their plans to gut the buildings and turn them into one thing or another. The greedy vultures were almost always escorted by a hero or two, looking as bored as anyone possibly could. Arthur and Stair watched them come and go from the old apartment, careful not to give any indication of movement. That was how they spent their days, waiting and watching. When night fell on the villain quarter, and only the faint sounds of an Enforcer’s vehicle rumbled in the distance, they left the safety of the apartment and traveled down roads and back alleys for supplies.