Alone against the ambulance, Matt sighed as he watched her go – then groaned as another painful conversation appeared over by the barricades with a distinctive ‘pop’. Their two FBI handlers, Fiona Cree and Tom Richardson, stepped out of the sulphur and surveyed the devastation, their own teleporter and posse in tow.
Great, thought Matt; just perfect.
“Please leave me alone,” he whispered to the wind.
“Mr Callaghan!” Matt looked over to see the senior FBI man mouthing instructions to his fellow agents and pointing rapidly at their surroundings. The group he’d jumped in with began to disperse, each heading towards their respective targets; a few agents moving to talk to the cops, the plain-faced lady Fiona bustling across the road to sidle up to Giselle and Jane. Halfway across police lines, Matt saw Rana O’Reilly take quick stock of the situation and correctly assess which of her clients needed the most pressing legal counsel. Matt watched his lawyer hurry over and arrive just as the air between Jane and the FBI woman started to spark.
“Mr Callaghan.” Matt turned and looked up to see the male FBI agent standing beside him, his greying hair clashing with his tan suit, face plastered with faux concern. “Thank goodness. We came as soon as we heard.”
“Outstanding,” said Matt, dry enough to be a fire hazard. Richardson took a step closer, leaning in to rest one big fist on the ambulance, his expression pained.
“Let’s get you out of here. There’s a safe house barely-”
“Mr Richardson,” said Matt, cutting him off, “Come on. Do we have to?”
“Have to do-?”
“For Christ’s sake. Enough!” Matt interrupted, his temper flared. His voice ran roughshod over the top of Richardson before the big man could get a chance to speak. “Let me save fifteen minutes of our goddamn lives from your agonising, ham‑fisted bullcrap! I do not care what you have to say. I am never going to go with you!” Matt paused to let the last sentence sink in, glaring at the FBI agent, his tongue loose and venomous. “I know you think I’m a child,” he said, before Richardson got a word in edgeways, “Clearly that’s how I must look, to you or, you know, to everyone. But let me make one thing abundantly clear.” He pointed his fingers like he was finally snatching from the air some maddening fly. “This false friend thing? This ‘caring paternal figure’, ‘arm around my shoulder, baseball and bald eagles’ schtick that works maybe on dumbass kids from broken homes with 12 IQ? It is never-” and Matt re‑emphasised that last word, “-never, going to work on me. I am never going to fall for it. So GIVE UP! Give up, go away, leave me alone, and stop trying to… what, capitalise on a near death experience?” Matt paused, and an edge of resignation crept into his voice as he gazed away from Richardson and out over the destruction and bodies accumulated outside his home. “Save your breath. Death’s been stalking me a while now. It’s losing its impact.”
For a moment, the man said nothing; merely stared at Matt with his lips barely open, his rugged face curled into an inscrutable expression. He followed Matt’s eyes out onto the open field; up to the half‑ruined, hollow shell of the apartment; then back down and over Matt himself, scratched and bruised, yet safe.
“Alright,” the FBI agent said finally, “Serious then.”
“Oh for crying out-” Matt began, but this time it was Richardson who cut him off.
“These people are trying to kill you,” he said. The words came factually, like he was doing nothing more serious than giving a presentation on grain prices. Richardson’s back straightened, his arms moving to clasp behind him so he stood almost to attention.
“The fabled Bureau observation,” replied Matt, rolling his eyes.
“They’re not going to stop trying to kill you,” the agent continued, ignoring the jape.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Matt sighed.
“We want your blood.” A small jolt of surprise ran through Matt’s body, and he actually turned and looked up at the large FBI agent standing beside him. Richardson unclasped his hands from behind his back and crossed his arms, gazing down at Matt, his eyes devoid of emotion. “We being the American government and affiliated associations.” He waved a dismissive hand. “People whose names you don’t know, whose orders I can’t question, whose decisions have unknowingly shaped fundamental aspects of our lives. It’s irrelevant. They want your genetics. They want to study it. They want the strategic advantages it will confer. May confer.” Another contemptuous wave. “It doesn’t matter. These are the facts. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it, even if no one will say it with your lawyer around.”
“Well I appreciate the honesty,” Matt said, a little taken aback, “Not, you know, a lot, but-”
But the man in the tan suit wasn’t finished.
“Sooner or later, Mr Callaghan,” Richardson told him, holding up and examining the nails on one thick, muscled hand, “One of two things is going to happen. One: someone is going to get your blood. Maybe it’s us. Maybe it’s another player – doesn’t matter. Sooner or later, there’ll be an opening. Sooner or later you’ll slip up.”
“We’ll see,” Matt murmured.
“Scenario two,” Agent Richardson continued, undeterred, “Is that one of these people-” he gestured broadly around at the debris, at the bodies lying on the pavement, “‑is going to get you. Put a bullet through your skull. Burn your corpse. That’s not even a threat. It’s inevitable.” The tall man shook his head, staring down at Matt with cold, emotionless eyes. “You are special, Mr Callaghan, but not unique. I don’t mean your powers, I mean how you’re viewed by marginal society. You are the subject of conspiracy. You have stirred into agitation a small, yet pervasive crust of America for whom reason does not enter into their worldview. They have fixated on you, in a way in which they periodically fixate, and they will remain fixated on you until you die, and then possibly after. And you will die.” He paused and let out a short, humourless bark of laughter. “This is not some organisation, some cohesive group trying to kill you; this is a plague. An incurable infestation of vermin spawning from fringe stupidity, a lingering madness at the bottom of the bell‑curve. And they will keep coming, and coming, and coming, until they see you dead.” The FBI agent shrugged, nonchalant. “I’ve seen it before. You’re a fixture for them now, the idea of you, and it will keep spreading, indefinitely. All it takes is one mistake from your fledgling Legion – from your little girlfriend – now, a week from now, ten years. One slip‑up, and you’re done.”
Matt said nothing; merely continued looking out at the crowd, at Jane and the Legionnaires now rapidly appearing. Striding, barking orders, sweeping and setting the perimeter, making their rounds.
“These people are hunting you,” Richardson said, quiet yet unrelenting, “Because they think you’re with us. No amount of evidence – nothing you can say – will convince them otherwise. That’s the nature of conspiracy.” He paused. “And if that’s the case, then what’s the point? Why suffer the detriment of their beliefs, while refusing the benefits we offer? You’re a rational man.” The agent gazed down at him with dark, indifferent eyes. “Don’t make an irrational trade. Make it better. Take the protection. Live out your days free from this endless danger, and let what’s going to inevitably happen come.”
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“Inevitable,” Matt snorted. But the word rang hollow and solitary.
“We can hide you,” the FBI agent promised. He leaned in. “Really hide you. A new face, new name, fake powers. There are things we can do that aren’t known to the public. Technologies.”
“I’m fine where I am,” Matt lied.
“You could be useful to us Matt Callaghan,” Richardson pressed on, “Not just for your blood. Really, actually useful. I’m not making this offer to her-” his eyes flicked over at Jane, “-I’m making it to you. Because you’re realistic.” He leaned in closer, just a fraction of an inch. “You’re a voice in her ear. A calming voice. Perhaps the only one. How long before she makes too many enemies? How long before it isn’t just the fringe you’re fighting, but entire countries, special forces?” His dark eyes gleamed. “You can steer her away from that. You can guide her into diplomacy, even caution. We can show you how. And in return, we’ll give you anonymity. A proper career. The life you always wanted. You, your family. Anyone.”
There washed between the two of them a few moments of silence, before Matt finally managed to find his voice. “I’m going to start saying very rude things now,” he told the FBI agent. He kept his face blank and stared straight ahead, refusing to meet the grey man’s eyes. “About you and all the people you work for. It probably would be better if you moved on before that happens.”
Richardson’s only response was an empty smile. “The offer’s open Mr Callaghan,” he said, “Until it isn’t. Until it’s too late to play that card.” The man stood back up to his full height. “Make the rational call.”
“Kill yourself,” said Matt, borrowing one of Jane’s. The agent didn’t reply, but instead with an uncharacteristically compassionless smirk stepped over to one of the nearby assailants, laying handcuffed on the ground.
“So you don’t get lonely,” Richardson said, and with a single strong movement jerked the man to his knees. The assassin yelped – his shoulder clearly broken, or some other part of his arms – and stayed kneeling, swaying as his pained gaze flickered from the FBI agent to Matt. There were cuts and bruising to his torso and forehead, and his hands and feet were bound. Matt recognised the soft face and fluffy coffee‑coloured hair. The younger man who’d come close to killing him in the spare room. Lionel.
Richardson looked on in amusement as Matt and his assailant stared at each other, then without another word strode off, strolling with only a brief backwards glance towards his companions, who were engaged in an animated three-way discussion between themselves, the police and the Legion of Heroes. Matt watched him go in silence; then indulged in the aforementioned barrage of swearing anyway.
“Well said,” Lionel murmured.
Matt turned to his attacker, kneeling hog-tied like Christmas ham not three feet away.
“Oh so now you feel like talking?”
The black-clad man sucked in air between his teeth. “Doesn’t feel like I’m going anywhere.”
“Yeah, well, that’ll be the sedatives or whatever they’ve injected you with. Plus the broken bones.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Lionel murmured.
“Yep, that’s Giselle Pixus. 50ccs.” Matt folded his arms, scrutinising the ass-assin with an imperious eye and making no move to approach. “I suppose this is the part where you say ‘come closer’, so you can telekinetically slit my throat.”
“My head hurts. Hard to see.” A bead of blood was trickling down his forehead. “Was never good at body parts.”
“Well that’s nice.”
Lionel’s voice faded. His eyes wandered over to where the FBI, the police and the Legion were clustered, then back towards Matt. His tongue moved gingerly over cracked lips. “I didn’t… you were lying,” he said, as though that was some hard-fought revelation.
“Yeah, well, sort of the only thing I’ve got left,” Matt said with a scowl. He sighed, resigned. The assassin shook his head.
“All that stuff about them already having it. A secret facility. All lies.”
“Absolute nonsense.”
His assailant lapsed back into silence for a moment. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said.
“I did fool you,” replied Matt, “And before you ask, no, I don’t feel bad about it. You were trying to kill me. All morality is off.”
Even with his hands bound behind his back, Lionel’s shoulder slumped. “I didn’t want to kill you.”
Matt shook his head, staring off at Jane and Amy arguing in the distance. “Even if I believed you Lionel, and I don’t, I don’t care about your internal dilemma. All that matters are your actions. You feeling bad doesn’t change the fact that you tried to put a bullet through my skull, and it sure as heck didn’t stop you blowing up my house.”
The wind whipped between them, blowing silence and dust. Lionel once more dragged his tongue across chapped lips.
“I heard you guys talking.”
“Good for you.”
“They don’t have your blood.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No Lionel,” Matt sighed, still not turning to look at him, “They don’t. They never have.” He shook his head, gazing out over the carnage. “Not that you or anyone with your level of inbreeding even remotely cares.”
The two fell silent, their words giving way to the whispering air, the hum of voices, the wail of distant sirens. There came the sound of someone far off moaning, an injured person, their screams piercing up against the sunset. Matt closed his eyes, trying to let the sounds slide off him. He would’ve given anything just to curl up into a ball and sleep.
“Wrong,” Lionel murmured beside him, “I was wrong.”
“Hooray for you,” said Matt, who genuinely didn’t care.
“I think I was set up.”
Suddenly, the hair on Matt’s neck stood on end. He opened his eyes and for the first time turned to look at his assailant directly. The man stared at him, unwavering, his words a bare whisper beneath the wind.
“What did you say?”
The attacker gave the barest shake of his head. “All along, I wondered,” he whispered, “Something don’t feel right. Something felt off. It was all too good to be true. And then it wasn’t.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The intel. You. The drop.” His head turned, and his gaze moved blankly out over the bodies of his companions. “They knew exactly where you were. What Lady Dawn was doing. The gap in the basement. All perfect, on a platter. But nothing about the landmines? Your defences? And no mention of the speedster. No word that she could get in.”
“What’re you saying?” said Matt.
Lionel looked back at him, and despite the pain swimming in his eyes, beneath it lay focus. “False flag,” he whispered, “I think this was a false flag.”
“By who?” But then Matt followed the assassin’s eyes over to where the FBI agents were standing – over to Richardson and Fiona.
“They used us,” the man who’d tried to kill him murmured.
Matt didn’t respond.
“You can’t say yes to them.” A plea.
“I’m not going to.” Matt turned back to face his bound attacker. “I know I’m pissing into the wind here, but listen to me, genuinely – I’m not with them. I’m never going to be with them. I will be dead in my cold, unmarked grave before I voluntarily give them my blood. I’ve lived my life as a useless human and I don’t intend to inflict that on the world. The government can eat me.” He fixed his eyes on the back of Richardson’s tan jacket with a cold and bitter stare. “The Chinese can eat me. All those private corporations can eat me. Everyone I love has superpowers. And if they think I’m going to help make that a privilege they can suck my pale white balls.”
“I believe you,” Lionel murmured. He bent his head, glancing slowly around – then suddenly, with a grunt of pain, he twisted his shoulder towards Matt.
“Here,” he urged him, “Quick. Before they realise. I’ve still got a little juice.”
“What, you gonna hurl a rock at me?” Matt said with a frown. But the jab fell short and hollow, because as he watched, the attacker’s face clenched. Lionel’s teeth gritted and the tendons in his neck strained, droplets of sweat beading across his forehead. His skin reddened; his whole body began to tremble. And then slowly, slowly, with the smallest, most infinitesimal movement – the top pocket of his vest pocket peeled open.
And slowly, like a splinter being extracted, there crawled out a thumb drive.
“I don’t… like… being… lied to,” Lionel panted, and as his shoulders shook and his chest heaved the drive inched up and out of his pocket, before suddenly tumbling down into the dirt. Slowly, the bound man’s eyes boring into it, the USB scraped along the ground between them, a pebble tugged along by the wind, almost unnoticeable, until the edge brushed against Matt’s shoe. Abruptly Lionel’s shoulders sagged; his head drooped and he let out a low groan, his forehead slick with sweat. Silently, as though in a dream, Matt bent and wrapped his cold fingers around the USB.
“Figure… it…” the man who had tried to kill him whispered, and a moment later he passed out.