A few minutes passed and the scanner-lock beeped, the door swung open and Jane strode into the apartment covered in blood.
“Not on the carpet!” Matt immediately objected, launching to his feet and pointing at his gore‑splattered girlfriend. Jane slid to a stop and glared at him, but Matt unflinchingly held his ground.
“Fly,” he commanded, “Slowly. Straight to the bathroom. Straight to the shower.” He paused. “I’m assuming none of that is yours.”
“No,” Jane glowered.
“Good. Levitation, shower, laundry. You look like Carrie gone to prom.”
“Who?” Jane grumbled, but she nevertheless bit back any further complaining and floated ignobly past him into their bedroom, mud-slicked golden boots trailing a few inches from the ground. Matt watched her go with an expression of incredulity.
“What’d she do, massacre an entire village?” he asked Will, who’d closed the door after following in behind her. The teleporter, Matt noted, was wearing a hundred percent less blood.
“Renegade super-monkeys,” replied Will. He gave Giselle a friendly wave, which the speedster returned.
“Super-monkeys, of course,” replied Matt, not even bothering to ask.
The three of them descended onto the couch, Giselle and Will chatting happily about the day’s events while they waited for Jane to shower in preparation for their upcoming Legion meeting. Matt idly checked his phone, half‑listening, and noticed he had a missed videocall from Taylor. He called him back.
“Hey,” his old Northridge friend answered after a few rings. From his background he looked to be in a Starbucks somewhere. “Yo. How are you?”
“Hanging in there baby,” Matt replied, “You know. Got you Kevin Eubanks.”
“My man.” The copper‑transmuter paused, though Matt noticed his smile was slightly strained. “Congrats on, you know, living.”
“You know me. Born lucky.”
“Born ugly more like. Can’t believe they let you on TV.”
“Screw you, I looked good.”
“Yeah, nah, I’m just messing with you.” On the cramped box of the phone screen, Matt saw Taylor pause. “Really though man, how you doing? You alright?”
“I’m okay,” Matt sighed, “I mean no, I’m not okay, I was freaking terrified, but I’m fine now. I’m home, and Jane’s here, the apartment’s safe, and-”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Matt twisted around in the couch to find Jane looming over him. She had emerged from the bedroom, her hair damp and free from chunks of monkey viscera, having reverted to her usual jeans and black hoodie. Her wide eyes bored into him like she’d just caught him taking a dump on the carpet, and her mouth hung half‑open in an incredulous scowl.
“What,” said Matt, stupefied by her furious expression, “I’m talking to Taylor.”
“Hey Ja-!”
Jane didn’t say a word. Instead, with a single ferocious movement she leaned down, snatched the phone from Matt’s hand and hit ‘End Call’. Matt sprang to his feet.
“Hey!” he cried, incredulous, “What the hell?”
“Don’t you what the hell me!” Jane snapped back at him, her expression thunderous, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, I was just talking!”
“Just talking? On a videocall? To some outsider, from our secure apartment, who-”
“Who, what, I’ve been friends with for seven years? What, do you think Taylor’s going to be betray me?”
“We don’t know!” Jane exclaimed, throwing up her hands, her rough fingers still gripping tight to Matt’s phone. Across from the couple Giselle and Will had ceased their conversation and turned blankly towards the pair. “You didn’t ask me! All calls, unless they’re securely made-”
“Oh, so now I’m not even allowed to talk to people without-”
“Maybe, if you keep showing off our house to your random-”
“He’s not some-”
“Hey!” Giselle’s sharp whistle rang out over the top of their argument. Both Matt and Jane fell abruptly silent. They turned to face the speedster, who fixed them both with a hard gaze. “Enough!”
“He shouldn’t be-” Jane began to argue, but the words spluttered and faded as Giselle’s eyebrows raised, if possible, even higher. Jane retreated into scowling silence.
“Thank you,” said the head of the Legion. She looked between the two of them, though her gaze lingered on Jane. “You finished? We good? You want to domestic a little more or can we have this meeting?”
Matt kept his arms crossed and said nothing. Jane rolled her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said, “We’re fine. It’s nothing. Let’s just go.”
Her expression unwavering, Giselle gestured over to the dining room table where she’d set up hers and two other laptops, the webcams facing towards four empty chairs. Will rose from his armchair, maintaining a pointed silence, and the four of them began heading over. As they crossed the room, Matt eyed Jane’s jumper.
“There’s a toothpaste stain,” he told her.
“So?” his girlfriend scowled.
“So, shouldn’t you dress more formal?”
“Why?” Jane replied, staring at him with a mixture of irritation and genuine stupidity. Outside the apartment, the sun was just beginning to set.
“I don’t know – professionalism? Gravitas? Position of-”
“Jane honey, you look great,” Giselle interrupted, cutting Matt off with a glare, “Let’s go, people are waiting, chop-chop.” The couple fell silent. Matt rolled his eyes, then sat down in one of the two chairs positioned in front of one of the laptops. A moment later Jane sank down next to him, her arms crossed, simmering. A few seconds of silence passed, before Matt sighed and begrudgingly leaned over and logged onto Jane’s computer for her. His girlfriend muttered something that lesser men might have mistaken for thanks, remaining as allergic to remembering passwords as she was to personal hygiene.
“Hello, Giselle, can you- can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” the speedster answered as Wally’s voice echoed out of the computers’ speakers. Matt leaned over again and muted Jane’s microphone to stop reverb. “I can hear you, can you see me?”
The preliminary back-and-forth continued as more participants from the Academy and members of the Legion joined the call from across the globe. Apart from occasionally prodding Jane to sit up straighter and stop scowling, the response to which was sullen and muted at best, Matt soon found himself zoning out.
“First and foremost, of course, I’d like to acknowledge our heroic dead…”
There were probably a great number of people around the world who would have killed to sit in on a Legion of Heroes internal conference. If Matt had had to have guessed, pre-Academy, what a meeting of the world’s foremost superheroes would look like, he would have imagined a lot of dramatic speeches, fiery denouncements, fists banging on tables. But it turned out, having now sat in a on a few of them, that meetings between people with the power to change the world were pretty much the same as meetings between anyone. The Legion might’ve been a super organisation, but it was still a human one. And now that there was officially an active membership, and with so many of the Ashes – trainees from the original Legion – gone and the institution no longer beholden to the fake Captain Dawn, Giselle and the others were the organisation. There were rules to enliven. Strategy to discuss. Minutes to take.
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“I think, personally, if we’re going to provide an official response…”
Engaged, generously, in about five percent of what was going on, Matt took the opportunity to send Taylor a quick apology text and then to check his email. It wasn’t that his opinion wasn’t listened to at these meetings, it was just that he was sort of… unqualified. Superhero-ing had never been his speciality, nor his interest. He had no particular powers, everybody knew now, nor any real insights worth adding. He was part of the Legion, sure, and beloved in his own special way, but sometimes Matt felt more like a mascot – the team’s earnest little puppy that everyone was constantly concerned might wander in front of a truck. Then there was his unofficial, yet no less widely known status as Jane’s romantic partner (marital bickering aside) which carried with it its own license to speak. Everyone shut up and stayed silent when he said something, because if they didn’t the power of Dawn glared gold daggers at them – but that didn’t mean Matt really received anything more than polite attention. A boyfriend or a dog. It was good to have a choice.
“It’s not as one-sided as that-”
“I’m not trying to be disingenuous-”
There were unread messages in his mailbox. Quite a few of them, which was hardly unusual these days. Matt the Human had fanboys, fangirls, extensive legal battles and merchandising contracts. Most got filtered through their agent. His inbox still needed clearing several times a day.
“…been a very effective program…”
An email from Azleena, Morningstar’s new resident genius, caught his eye, a forward from the police to Legion forensics. Standard information exchange, a simple file-sharing link. Though he’d already heard the key points Matt opened it anyway, scanning over the attachments with an impassive eye.
“Maybe if we put together a memorandum…”
Arrest report. Fingerprints. The perpetrator had, once he got an attorney present, consented to controlled psychic interrogation. The transcripts of those were always a bit trippy, being chain‑of‑thought auto‑generated by a computer. There was a verbal record too, which was much more procedural.
- Did you talk to anyone before you did it?
- I just knew it was right.
- Where did you get the firearm?
- Liberty Arms gun store. Near the Taco Bell.
- And the bullets?
- Same place.
- How much did you pay?
- $8,999.90.
Nine thousand dollars for a freaking gun, Matt mentally whistled. Around him, the Legion’s conversation had turned to a chemical spill in Mongolia. Despite her initial slouching, beside him Jane was now riled up and actively involved, arguing loudly for Legion intervention. Others on the call pushed back. Matt read on.
- How did you know where to find them?
- Who?
- Mr Callaghan. Ms Walker.
- I don’t… I plead the Fifth.
- You’re not on trial here Mr Louch. You’re not in the witness stand. Are you saying your answer would incriminate you?
- I believe my client seeks to exercise his Miranda Right.
- He’s welcome to. Except I was under the impression Mr Louch was cooperating. That’s the only way you’re getting any time off this sentence.
- You don’t have to answer that Stuart.
- [PAUSE ON TAPE]
- I had a hunch.
- You had a hunch?
- I was reading some people on Bluin, and they were saying-
- Bluin?
- It’s a message board. A news-sharing site. You can join groups according to what you’re interested in. For like fishing, or TV shows, or political...
- Continue.
Matt’s ears pricked up as his family were mentioned, but it turned out they were just talking about getting age-appropriate tutors for his sister Sarah’s schooling. They’d covered this ground before, it was down to considering CVs. He turned back to the transcript.
- Someone on the NeverSurrender BluBoard was posting speculation about where they were going to be. Because we knew they were going to have to come in for filming. Someone said their aunt was in the crowd. The studio audience. So we knew it was the usual building in New York.
- And someone knew the security arrangements?
- Just speculation. People talking about what they thought. What they’d do. Making plans. Theories. Someone wrote that they’d try to sneak out the back. I don’t know. I thought it made sense.
- You flew five hundred miles on a hunch?
- Wouldn’t you? If you knew your liberty was in danger? Patriots act.
- What my client means to say is that this was his mindset at the time.
- Of course.
- What happened when you arrived?
- I waited. There was a crowd. I kept myself cloaked, and then, I don’t know. I took a shot, but she stopped me.
- Jane Walker?
- Who I’d like to point out, violently assaulted my client.
- You’re welcome to make sympathy your defence.
Coincidence. It all came down to goddamn coincidence. A million idiots typing on a million keyboards and eventually one of them struck truth. Matt rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and tried to zone back into what the Legion were saying. They’d moved onto admissions grading. He zoned back out.
As he continued to sit there though, Matt realised that something was bothering him. Not the gunman’s words or his explanations. Not his demeanour, which even through the emotionless pages of a typescript Matt thought seemed to contain a little bit of remorse. He didn’t know for sure, but Matt had read a few of these things by now and felt like he could decently interpret. No, it was… something different. Something about the whole thing. Something just felt… incongruous. He scrolled back to the top of the document.
- State your name for the record.
- Stuart Milton Louch.
- Occupation?
- Vacuum repairman, Great Lakes Vacuum and Electrical.
A vacuum repairman. A divorced vacuum repairman, with a home loan and two teenage kids. Matt felt himself frown. Vacuum repairman; and he’d gone out and paid nine thousand dollars for a gun, plus airfares? Was vacuum repair that much of a lucrative profession that between a mortgage, child support, living expenses and alimony, a repairman would have nearly ten thousand dollars just laying around?
He flicked through to the police’s subpoenaed financial records. One bank account, no credit cards. No new loan applications either. He’s a fanatic, Matt reminded himself. He travelled halfway across the country to kill you. Surely it made sense that if someone believed enough to commit murder, they believed enough to empty out their savings account.
Yet it wasn’t the belief that niggled at him. No, it was the… organisation. The way this guy looked last night, and now the police photos of him… he just didn’t strike Matt as the sort of man who was good with money. If Matt had been walking down the street and seen Stuart Louch pass him, he would have pegged him as a man who lived pay-check to pay-check, not from any empirical evidence, but just… he had that look. Call it years of people watching. Call it gut instinct.
“…to better identify our needs moving forward…”
Matt flicked over to the telepathic auto-script. There was an art to reading these, he’d found – you had to sort of un-focus your eyes and read not so much the words on the page but the vague direction they were heading. It was important not to get bogged down in any particular rambling phrase or detail; one rode the waves of echoing internalisation and drifted where they seemed to go.
- Gunmetal bullet. The man walks into the shop and he’s nervous though he tells himself there is no reason to be afraid, there’s no way they can know. Pen on the line, inked blue dark intentions. I will wait fourteen days.
- Did you wait?
- I saw it on a billboard. How could I not know, my heart raced, herein lies my opportunity. A when, a where, and I am refraction, pure and glass. Let never my conscience find me. He is but a boy barely older than my son. Put it away, drown it.
- Regretting then the purchase.
- No, not to water blood to liberty. Of tyrants, heroes, even innocent to the slaughter. It cannot wait it must be done. Unfortunate. Thoughts as I cannot think them, he is a good boy. Bluin board, PreserveHumanity, ‘what if he had a disease’? ‘One for the many.’ One day my children will thank me. They would. Will they?
A long stretch of thought then – a long and winding diatribe about his children, a sense of purpose, a sense of loss. These things went on for dozens of pages, at times quite in depth. Matt continued to hold his mind loose and kept scanning.
And then there, at the bottom of the page, he saw it.
- Providence then. The lottery ticket.
Matt’s heart skipped a beat.
He clicked back into the gunman’s bank records. There; three months ago. He had cashed a lottery ticket, twenty thousand, four-hundred-and-thirty-two dollars, a week after it had been bought. Nobody in the police had thought anything of it. It was a coincidence. He’d just so happened to have the cash.
Except-
Except-
Matt’s heart raced.
Suddenly alert, suddenly awake, he pulled up the man’s bank statements, racing line by line through transactions, fingers trembling, feeling like his eyes were going to burn into the screen. Around him, the sound of the meeting blurred completely into white noise, distant words, irrelevant. All irrelevant, until he knew- until he found-
No. There was nothing there. Matt searched again, scrolling up through weeks, months, years. Nothing. Nothing again, and nothing. No odd deposits. No withdrawals at casinos or transactions with the special code given by banks for gambling purchases.
In the last two years, Stuart Louch had only bought and cashed one lottery ticket. One ticket, and he had won twenty thousand dollars. Enough to buy a gun and a plane ticket. Enough to get in place to kill him.
Matt’s heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest.
Who did they know that used the lottery?