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OSAIR Report 4351:
Subject: “Calamity Jane”
Known Abilities: Phenomenal ability to target with one-handed projectile weapons.
Physical Characteristics: Ht__5”10___ Wt__110 lbs___
Identity: Known Unknown
If Known: Jane Cobb [No M.I. on record]
Affiliations: Cadre of Crime {aka Mothman, Snowman, Mr. Monocle, Queen Bee, Scarlet Swami}, various small-time carnival operations.
Current Ideological Orientations:
America: Pro Anti Unknown
Law/Order: Pro Anti Unknown
Threat/Influence Assessment:
Jane “Calamity Jane” Cobb does not appear to present a threat to the interests or aims of the United Sates Government. Though she touts herself as a patriot, she is not adverse to stealing from institutions that identify themselves as American, i.e. National Banks. Said animosity to public financial institutions may have more to do with her family farm being held under a relatively heavy mortgage by a currently nationalized / previously privately held financial institution, which may have played a factor in the heavy domestic strife during her formative years. She has nonetheless been observed engaging in fisticuffs and pistol-battles with Soviet/Leftist themed SAIs such as the duo Hammer & Sickle and The Feminist.
Subject has amassed a devoted following among young men enamoured with her comeliness and young women wishing to model themselves after her independent nature. She is rumored to be the de-facto leader of her group of SAI-Criminals, having been observed verbally directing accomplices during several of their heists and physically abusing one of them on at least one occasion [“SNOWMAN”, see entry for details] in order to gain compliance and maintain team cohesion under significant stress.
Though her identity is known, subject’s current lack of contactable friends, relatives or associates makes it difficult to either locate or manipulate her.
Subject has also demonstrated a canny business sense. She is rumored to be directing and/or investing in a line of toys based upon her likeness and that of her comic-book based heroic nemesis, the cowboy-themed hero Aces & Eights. Said toy line has been ably marketed, with royalties paid to Miss Cobb through a number of shell companies. Nothing in Cobb’s background suggests this business sense is the result of her own life-experiences, as records of her schooling do not exist past the 3rd grade. This suggests either an innate ability to learn complex concepts quickly or a mentor acting in her life that is heretofore unknown to this office.
Subject is best handled by local authorities, but ought to be monitored by this office. If her leadership potential results in a group of like-minded SAIs whose influence could extend past the city’s boundaries or over state lines, the FBI and it’s Meta-Human unit will need to be informed and activated.
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MIGUEL
“Quit leading with your chin, Sanchez! You’re gonna get-”
I watched as the skinny kid got drilled by the husky white boy and hit the mat, writhing like a kitten that had just been hit by a car.
“Told you, Sanchez. No feeling sorry for you now.” Caramba, I thought, what’s it gonna take? I’d come out’ve nowhere when poor, skinny Sanchez was getting his ass beaten by a bunch of local hoods as he’d walked out’ve the library. Offered to help him out here at the gym, teach him how to fight. Gave him the first month free, even. His madre only could pay half, but I let her make up the rest by putting my intentions in her rosary prayers every day.
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Sad, though; the boy was making slow progress. And by slow, I meant ‘almost going nowhere.’ Sanchez was no boxing version of the Karate Kid.
To be fair, I was no Mr. Miyagi either.
Sanchez, though, was learning something; he’d gotten up on his own the last three times he’d been knocked down. And he’d done it without help or any cajoling. He wasn’t going to be ready in time for the tournament, but maybe next year? ¿Quién sabe?
“Alright, Sanchez. Back into it. This time stop trying to be Rocky and just be Emillio Sanchez. Sanchez is smart. Sanchez is cunning! Sanchez knows when to make a move right when his opponent-”
Sanchez did a move I’d taught him the first day. Showed it to him in the first minute or two after I’d taken down the bullies hassling him, in fact. Classic fake-out; make your opponent think you’re swinging right when you’re swinging left. He drops his guard and-
Boom! Punch to the gut. Sanchez’ opponent, a stupid lunkhead named. . . damn, I couldn’t remember it. The lunkhead winced, though, and tried a power punch at Sanchez. And another, and another, and . . .
Sanchez got scared when he saw fury in the matón’s eyes, and flinched.
The third punch landed on his right cheek, damn. He went down again.
But he got back up. Sprang up, really! Yes! Si! Excelente! “a toda madre, Emilio! A.T.M.!”
I ended the fight, gave each boy some encouraging words over their performance. Lunkhead stared at me with glass eyes; I could tell he wouldn’t be here much longer. I’d seen him come and go in a hundred different ways, shapes and forms. Fantasmas, walking ghosts who drifted in and out of my gym, staying for a few days to a few months, learning a few tricks, then disappearing when they think they know everything. Disappearing into the world of the barrio, to kill time in high school or get a job right away, frying chicken or making tacos or running numbers for some local lacra until they weren’t useful any more. Their stories ended with them getting either fired or killed as an expendable footsoldier in the neverending gang-fight turf wars out here.
Yeah, I encouraged the lunkhead a bit more, until he saw the tiniest light go off in his eyes. Maybe he’d come back and stay. Maybe.
“Emilio, hit the showers. You lost, but you lost good.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Emilio, you’re fifteen years old. Maybe one-twenty, soaking wet. You lasted three rounds with a guy bigger, older and tougher than you. And you got up right after. You know what that means?”
“Que perdi.”
“Yes, you lost the fight, but you won the war, a bigger fight. You got back up, ready to fight on. That is the trick, Emilio! So many men who could be good fighters, maybe great ones, quit after they fail. One failure, and they give up. Half my vatos in their twenties haven’t figured that out yet, but you figured it out when you were fifteen! You see why I’m so happy? All the tricks and punches in the world can’t help you if you don’t have it right up here,” I say, poking him in the forehead. “And you had it today! Now you go home, and you think on that!”
Emilio’s back straightens while I talk to him. It’s slow, and it’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s listening to what the wrinkled old man with white hair, a slight limp, a battered pork-pie hat and a dirty wife-beater shirt is saying to him.
And unlike Mr. Thug Life a few minutes ago, it’s sinking in.
Emilio nods, smiles. I give him a playful smack upside the head and head over to the next fight. And then . . .
One of the boys, a kid half-way between a bully and a shining star like Emilio, taps me on the shoulder. His face got the glow, something teenage boys get when something’s got their hormones kicked into such high gear they’re scared instead of giggling. What the heck, I knew the look, but you didn’t see it so much in a gym . . .
Someone wants to see you, boss, he says. I turn and . . .
My God.
She’s in the doorway.
She’s beautiful, like she always was.