The sun was just on the horizon to the west, though mostly blocked by the various buildings that made up Red Bank, New Jersey, and the shadows were getting long on the streets. Aaron was on his way from work to a meeting with a group that called itself International Liquidity Consultants. Walking casually from the NJTransit station in Red Bank to the law offices of Jelg & Sons at Chestnut and Shrewsbury. A short enough walk, especially on a nice evening like this one. The ILC was an elite group of metahuman entrepreneurial minded thieves, job specialists, and muscle, all freelance. Jelg & Sons didn’t handle any of our legal issues, but they did host our meetings, and Myron Jelg had taken up his father’s mantle of Micrometer in the group when Gary Jelg got pinched by the Honor Society of America for stealing, and shrinking, Air Force One.
Man, I tell ya, 1997 had been a great year to be a part of The Trade.
They all called themselves “Consultants” now. It was a better term than “Villains.” Aaron made no bones about it, he was a villain. A thief of the first order. Over the last three decades Aaron had been hired by numerous crews to be their lookout, their second-story man, and even their hired muscle on occasion. And while most of the world had no idea who Aaron Blackless was, aside from a mildly successful Engineering Consultant based out of Red Bank, in Northern New Jersey, that same segment of humanity would run in abject terror if confronted by his alter ego, Nightjar.
Most people, even those in The Trade, didn’t know exactly what his power set was, and Aaron was fine with that state of affairs. The less anyone knew about his abilities, the less likely Aaron was to find himself locked up in a federal cell with a power draining collar around his neck. He had even engineered his body armor to make it look like his powers of flight, enhanced speed, and enhanced strength were solely dependent upon him being in the armor.
Most law enforcement had “Nightjar” listed as a “Tech Meta.”
But that was all bunk.
Aaron was a Natural.
It was a weird term for Aaron Blackless and the thousands of others around the globe who had been born since the early 1960s with uncanny and amazing abilities. People always went a little gaga when they met an outed Natural. There was always an expectation of that gifted person suddenly taking up the mantle of “Protector of the Innocent!” or some other trite nonsense. Most Naturals just went about their daily lives as though they didn’t have superhuman abilities.
Aaron's barber was an old man whose sole ability was to "clean" his clients. As you sat in his chair getting a haircut, all of the dirt, dead skin cells, whathaveyou, woulld fly off of you, and gather in a nearby bucket. Not exactly a Hero of the People, but it was damn refreshing.
However, most people’s abilities couldn’t be used to make money off of, for starters. The Runners, those superhumanly fast speedsters who popped up so often, always started off trying to make money doing deliveries. But anything more complex than delivering pizza for the local parlor, or working for established courier companies, got guys into trouble with national package carrier companies, and they wound up being bogged down with insurance and regulations.
Being able to run near the speed of sound was great, until you were the guy who was wanted in Garver, Kentucky, for causing the destruction of every window, and glass item in town by running through fast enough to create a ground level sonic boom.
That didn’t even take into account the wear and tear on their clothing, and damages to items one was trying to deliver. "Oh, yuo didn't want that wine glass set shaken like a chahuahua in an earthquake? Sorry..."
The villainess, Godiva, solved that problem the old fashioned way. She was the single villain that everyone knew EXACTLY what she looked like. In extreme detail. But the cops and heroes have yet to identify her.
Her name was Milliscent Tallbull. She worked as a veterinarian in Oklahoma most days, and was regularly employed as hired muscle through the offices of International Liquidity Consultants. Having long white hair in her guise as Godiva, but wearing black wigs in her daily life made a huge impact on anyone from law enforcement not recognizing her in her mundane life. Also, let's admit, there is a bit of ageism going on here. The woman looks great for a 55 year old Native veterinarian, but everyone "knows" Godiva is only in her 20s. Early 30s, max. Hilarious.
And the average citizen is always shocked to learn that people with superhuman strength have very few job prospects involving that strength, unless they also have some related ability, like telekinesis, to keep their hands from passing through whatever giant, heavy objects the poor slobs tried to carry.
The hero, Swamp-Ape, Miami’s own Man-like Thing of Action, wouldn’t be able to save anyone with his inhuman strength, if not for his ability to shift his size, so that his feet weren’t driven through the concrete when he tried to lift a bus. Physics is not always your friend, ask Physics at a party and they will deny even knowing who you are.
And the super fast healers, those poor bastards, had metabolisms that would beggar them in a matter of weeks. You had to replace that lost mass, and close those wounds, and regrow bones… Not a pleasant thing, in an of itself, but also murder on the grocery bill.
Get shot? Ouch!
But wait, it’s healing almost instantly! Yay!
Oh, no! Crazed Weasel just passed out from hunger, and the bank robbers are getting away with millions!
Aaron had been in on that job. And the elder Micrometer was the one who had shot Weasel. After the job they had asked Micrometer why he had shot Weasel rather than shrinking him, and Mic had looked at them all like they were children before he explained not wanting a fast moving, homicidal, clawed, madman chasing them at full size was bad enough, but at one inch tall, it would be like fighting an enraged bullet.
Most “Tech” heroes were people blessed with the “Advanced Mind” power set, and had an educational lean towards engineering. Though some went chemistry... those were usually the villains. Or the pharma CEOs.
Hordes of copyright lawyers kept most of those people from becoming tech moguls. Not all of them were kept from building some kind of business off of their ability to design and innovate, but most were sidelined by mad capitalists with more lawyers on retainer than all the gods themselves.
Nightjar’s mentor, Carburetor, had been what they used to call a tech villain. The older man had owned and operated a donut shop, almost fully automated, for years until lung cancer had taken the old man out. Aaron missed Karl’s advice now and then. But, he tried not to dwell on Karl’s death too often.
Karl’s daughter, Kassandra, had her father’s same advanced mind abilities. But she made her money by supplying and upgrading the tech of other tech based metahumans. She never pulled a bank job in her life, but she made seven figures most years. She had seen her father get in trouble because of his ego, and didn’t want any of that smoke. She also refused to date anyone in The Trade.
…Good for her… we’re all disasters… Aaron thought.
Up ahead, Aaron saw the little barber shop, and the pizza place across the street where he usually grabbed a hoagie or a greek salad on his way home after the meetings. He had no sooner noticed the landmark, than he was suddenly taken over by intense cold, and the light was leaching from the world around him as tendrils of inky blackness swarmed up from the sidewalk, the street, and the side of the compact little house he had been passing.
Aaron found himself standing inside of a dome of obsidian darkness. Absolute blackout conditions to his eyes, but his enhanced senses told him he was standing on the concrete sidewalk, and surrounded by a smooth, hard hemisphere.
…shitshitshit! I know this… this is Shadow-Dragon’s Misery Cage… Aaron thought in a panic.
He was in his civvies, and Shadow-Dragon usually hung out in and around Manhattan. He didn’t want to give too much away, and so swiveled his head back and forth, while wrapping his arms ineffectually about his body.
It was cold, though, he would admit. That part wasn’t much of an act.
“WHAT’S GOING ON!?” Aaron put a little effort into his voice, to sound like a man who was trying to not sound too scared in the face of the unknown. “What the hell? Hello?!”
A voice, lazy and deep, answered Aaron from out of the black abyss. “Hello, Mister Blackless…”
Aaron swiveled where he stood, trying to look more scared and confused. “Hello? Who’s there?”
“Don’t play games, Mister Blackless.” The voice, coming at him from all directions, replied. “You know who I am. We have met before. Would you prefer I called you ‘Nightjar?’”
Cold sweat broke out on Aaron’s brow for real now.
“What? I don’t understand!”
There was a definite pause, and then a reverberating sigh that Nightjar’s sonar picked up as it dopplered around the inside of the chamber in which he stood. “I don’t have time for this…” He could hear a strain of anger and sadness in the voice.
And suddenly, a shape pushed itself through the rounded wall of the prison. It was blurry and indistinct at first, as the oddly not-quite humanoid form oozed its way through the formerly impenetrable wall.
As it stood off to Aaron’s left, coming in from the direction of the street, he noted, the overall shape coalesced into that of a tall, whip-thin figure with elongated arms that Aaron knew had extra joints. The folded wings of Shadow-Dragon were notable features that every NYC villain learned to recognise and flee from at a moment’s notice. Seeing them this close, even with just his sonar sense, Aaron was impressed by how delicate they looked.
He knew they could not only be used to make the lanky hero fly with almost unmatched grace, the wings were somehow strong enough to shatter bricks, and skulls, when needed.
Aaron didn’t turn to face Shadow-Dragon, but instead stared ahead, with fear etched onto his face. It was less an act now than it had been moments ago.
“Look,” the voice now shed of its inhuman resonance sounded almost reasonable. Certainly more reasonable than it had moments ago as it echoed and reverberated about the Misery Cage. “I have a limited amount of time tonight. So, let’s have all this out in the open, shall we? Knock off the bullshit. You know who I am, and you can even ‘see’ where I am. I can hear your sonar pinging around inside the chamber. Cards on the table, Mister Aaron Backless, mechanical engineer with Freeman Consultants Agency, you’re also Nightjar, criminal thief and thug. One of the best non affiliated agents on the East Coast. You last worked for the Tyrant three months ago as a bagman and guard to ensure his delivery of stolen materials lifted from a vault owned by Deutsche Financial USA’s New York City branch, and you evaded every member of the Five Boroughs without missing the drop to CycloMan’s henchmen. That was brilliantly done, by the way. Brownstone of Five Boroughs had no idea you could move that fast, and didn’t see you drop the case into that crate in the alley as he chased you. Well done.” The tall silhouette let out a chuckling laugh. “I doubt Liberty will ever let him forget that blunder. Was that the planned drop point, or just an improv that you told CycloMan’s thugs to pick up after the fact?”
Aaron turned to where Shadow-Dragon, the “Night Terror of Justice,” stood. He knew way too much about Aaron’s last paid gig. He looked right at where Shadow-Dragon stood, still as a statue in the utter void he had created to confine Aaron.
Aaron remained silent now, seeing no reason to talk yet.
The dragon themed hero bent his inhumanly long arm placing a hand to his side, just above his hip, shifting his weight to the opposite leg, and altered his pose to one Aaron had seen mostly in paintings, sculptures, and 80s clothing advertisements. The pose was called “contrapposto” and was both a little saucy and quite sassy in this confined space.
“I’m not here to bring you in.” He said. “This time.”
Aaron’s eyebrows rose.
“We, and by ‘we’ I mean those of us on the side of the Angels, don’t have anything on you at this time. No video. No fingerprints. Even on your last job, there are no witness statements that a half decent lawyer couldn’t pick apart in a courtroom.” There was a pause. “Besides, Deutsche Financial is a worse criminal that you could ever be. I would be happy to spend a lazy Saturday night tearing them down brick by brick, and crushing any of their upper level management who might object to a fine paste.”
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The aura of menace about the tall hero was thick enough to cut with a knife, but then, suddenly, turning on a metaphorical emotional dime, Dragon paused. He leaned forward just slightly. The pose was now… odd. Not inhuman, just decidedly wrong. It went from threateningly masculine and decidedly “macho” to… something else. The body language didn’t fit with what Aaron knew of the terrifying hero who would regularly leave his prisoners in the hospital as often as in police custody.
“What is all of this about?” Aaron ventured.
“FINALLY! He speaks!” The relief in Dragon’s voice was palpable. As was a trace of a Jew Jersey accent. Everyone in the Trade had always assumed Shadow-Dragon was a native Manhattanite, but this accent he was now hearing made Nightjar think… Teaneck? Maybe Hackensack?
“Look, I’m not going to admit to anything here. And if, I’m saying a big IF here, IF I was actually Nightjar, I don’t have any of the jetpack, jetboots, power gauntlets, or helmet that that guy’s always wearing. It’s not like those things would fit under my suit, or even in my briefcase. So, if I am that guy, you got me helpless here…”
Laughter peeled around the black dome as Shadow-Dragon threw back their head in raucous mirth. There were some bell chiming higher notes in that laugh that Aaron had not been expecting to hear. If he hadn’t had a sonar sense, he wondered if he would have been able to perceive them.
‘You’re not known for being so… jolly.” He had searched for some word to suit before he settled on “jolly.”
“Sorry.” Dragon gasped through the laughter. “Sorry. It’s just, Condoria told me you would try that. Bring up your ‘equipment.’ HA!” And there it was again, the higher pitched register of sound overlaid on the laughter. It was almost as if two different people were speaking.
“She has a bit of a crush on you, I hope you know. Condoria does. She has tried to capture you after at least six of your last jobs, and she is very competitive. Your ability to evade her just feeds her infatuation with you. Make no mistake, if she ever catches you during one of these heists, she will beat you senseless and then toss you into a jail cell. But, she still thinks you're absolutely dreamy.” Shadow-Dragon in the news, and through tales told in meetings with other Consultants always came off as a nightmare. Justice served fast, harsh, and with lots of pain to those of Aaron’s fellow Consultants who had crossed their path.
“There are many of us on My Side who know you’re a Natural flier. Several more of us know you have a sonar sense that allows you to ‘see’ all around yourself at all times. A few of us know you have enhanced strength and speed. And,” Dragon then pointed to themself. “I know all of these things about you, as well as about your other two, hidden abilities. And I finally learned your mundane identity. Which brings me here.” He sounded way too pleased with himself at that.
Aaron was shocked. He had been so careful to keep everything about himself hidden. Even from other Consultants in The Trade. He always wore the boots, gauntlets, helmet, and jetpack, though none of them were “REAL” in the sense that the jetpack and the boots were window dressing to make him look like a tech villain. The helmet and gauntlets were functional only in protecting his face and skull, hiding his identity, and keeping him from leaving fingerprints at crime scenes, and skin and blood samples from people he had to punch. The gauntlets also housed his “talons,” which he used for slashing attacks, but he rarely used those; he had made the choice years back to avoid fatalities whenever possible. That was just common sense. Avoiding killing would keep any sentencing from having the word “Life” in it.
The rest was just window dressing, as they said.
Shadow-Dragon had figured all of those red herrings out, and had seen through the display. It was a ton of effort on his part to haul all those things around, and it had been more effort to develop the “boots and jetpack” light and sound effects to make them look plausible. He thanked his lucky stars that his mentor, Karl, who had helped him develop these things had passed away some years ago. He would have been completely livid.
But, standing in this small prison with this hero who was known for their brutality wasn’t nearly as threatening as he had supposed such an encounter would otherwise be. This person standing in front of him in complete blackness was… oddly approachable? Even likable? It was disarming how quickly Aaron felt like sitting down with Shadow-Dragon in a bar and talking about The Trade over a plate of fries and some beers.
“Condoria has never seen me out of costume.” He said. “She’s never seen my face. At least I hope she hasn’t.”
“HA!” Shadow-Dragon practically cackled now. “Oh, GODS, no! She doesn’t know I’m on this little trip to see you today. Otherwise she would have insisted on joining me. Also, she’s not looking at your face.”
Aaron blushed slightly at that. He could hear the smirk implied in their comment, and didn’t quite know if he should feel complimented, or afraid.
“I had asked her, and a few others I know who have regularly tangled with you for all of the information I could get on you. Putting all of those pieces together is why I am here this evening. You are NOT an easy man to trace, Mister Blackless. Figuring out your real power set was much easier than tracing the alter-ego of Nightjar down.”
Deadpan, he said, “That’s the point.”
His hearing, again, had detected higher registers in the hero's voice that he usually never heard out on the streets. Dragon rarely spoke on the job anyway, it fed the mystique.
“Well, yes.” Dragon conceded. “Those of us on both sides of these lines... we all need our privacy to remain private. But, now I need a favor from you. So, I had to burn the midnight oil for these last two weeks to trace your movements, and finally tracked you down. It’s not a big deal, overall, but it would mean the absolute world to someone if I could convince you to help us out here.”
“Condoria?”
“No. Thankfully, she doesn't know about any of this. If she were here you might wind up with all your limbs broken. Or you may have gotten lucky. Maybe both, she’s unpredictable. No. This is about the Final Wish Foundation. Have you heard about it?”
His eyes went wide in surprise, he had. It was a fairly common occurrence to read in the news about how a sick child had petitioned the Final Wish Foundation for a chance to meet some celebrity, or to go to someplace a child might want to go, a theme park, or a movie studio. Some of these wishes, granted mostly through the generosity of public donations, would involve the child being able to meet a hero.
Splendiferous was a regular request. The big purple clad hero had been a favorite of the world’s children since Aaron had been in his early teens. More recently, he had seen articles with pics of sickly kids, their faces lit with unimaginable joy, as they clung on to the arms of men like Calamity, the Plaid Menace, as he bounded about the city in super-leaps, telling the children jokes, and taking them out to get shakes.
“Okay. I still don’t see what this has to do with me possibly being Nightjar.”
Dragon laughed again. “Okay,” they mirrored him. “Here’s the deal. There is a little girl who is terminal. She wants to meet you.”
‘WHAT?!” Aaron was caught flat footed by this. “What the actual hell?”
“I KNOW!” Dragon matched his energy. “She has it in her head that she wants to meet THE Nightjar. She thinks that she would have grown up to use her advanced mind power to invent tech that would catch your attention. And then she would ask to be your sidekick.”
“What…?”
“Yeah. The kid is brilliant. Absolutely, no doubt. And she has pictures and drawings of you all over her hospital room. She even made a set of wings so amazing, that some other tech-heads have tried to buy their patent from her. She won't budge.”
Nightjar was reeling now, his cold sweats returning and his thoughts swimming. “What?”
“Ooooh, you’re just sooo articulate!” Dragon was enjoying this now. Any other time, Aaron would be laughing too. “If everyone knew this was the way to take you down, you would have had overtures of fandom lavished upon you years ago!”
The laughter in his voice was definitely higher pitched now, and more rounded, though still overlaid upon deeper, more masculine tones.
“Uhm. Okay. Sure.” Nightjar was trying to get his feet back under himself and straighten out his thoughts. “How would this even work? I’m literally a wanted man.”
“HA! So you admit it!”
“IF! If I were this Nightjar, I would be a wanted man, so how would this work? And, I hate to bring this up, but what do I get out of this?”
The silence from the other side of the dome was rife with a hostility that was suddenly palpable. In a voice deep again with suppressed rage, “And what would you WANT? What price would you put on fulfilling the dying wish of a ten year old child who wants nothing more than to meet the Infamous Nightjar? Diamonds? Gold bars? The combination to a bank vault?”
Aaron held up his hands; a pleading gesture. “Hey, hey! Hey, hey, hey! Woah!” He had to get this conversation back onto a friendly road.
“I am just asking for guarantees and possibly a little consideration. I’m not angling for any lucre, or bank vault codes. Calm the fuck down.”
The silhouette of Shadow-Dragon moved a quick step closer to him, and he threw his hands up again in surrender and conciliation. “DON’T tell me to CALM DOWN!” The dragon’s long tail moved sinuously back and forth behind the tall attenuated frame, sweeping in graceful curves. Frills along the long, almost delicate looking equine neck flared out to either side.
…holySHIT…! He thought.
Aaron had hit a nerve here. He needed to reassess, and approach from a different direction.
“Look, If I come to the hospital to visit this kid dressed as a well known villain, I would be arrested. I would at the very least be attacked and driven off by some of your people. I’m just asking ‘What guarantees are you willing to offer me that this won't happen?’ I don’t want to be the guy who gets blamed for not showing up when I was actually there, but got run off. Or worse yet, got busted by some hero who saw an opportunity.”
Shadow-Dragon was, once again, as still as a statue, They had stopped. They had listened, which was a nice change from his usual encounter with the hero types.
With a physical movement that was almost a shudder, the dark hero got themselves under control. A final shake, and they began walking in a ring around where Aaron stood, his sonar sense telling him where the hero was at all times, and even tracing the smooth, oddly hip-swaying walk Dragon used as they circled around him.
“I have spoken with a few members of my team.” They said, their voice back to its calmer, more rational tenor. “None of them know everything I know. I’m the only one who knows your identity.”
That made Aaron perk up slightly. But, there was also an implied threat there.
“And, I can guarantee you that if you come to the hospital, in your full uniform, and spend an hour or so with Winnie, you will be able to leave completely unmolested by any of us. We will also ensure that no other heroes try to interfere.”
The lean frame of the draconic humanoid shape now stood in front of Nightjar and he had the feeling they were trying to not loom over him physically, but having difficulty not doing so.
“This seems important to you.” He reached up, and ran his hand over the tight brown curls of his hair. He remembered that he would have to pick up more of the “Stage Gray” hair coloring to touch up his sideburns and temples. Being in his sixties but looking thirty could cause problems. In the next decade, he would have to either “retire to Florida or Arizona,” or he would have to create a new identity. He might do that anyway. Now that at least one hero knew his secret. Too many of his secrets.
…oof…
“Okay. I’ll need some way to contact you…” He had barely gotten that out when Dragon interrupted.
“Here’s my card, the number is to a burner phone. It will work this week only. We can work out the details in the next few days!”
The joy and relief in their voice was palpable.
“This is going to be weird. For me, at least. I’m not used to this role. I’m not a nurturer.” Aaron said. “I have an ask if I agree to do this. A simple one.”
The Dragon’s tail began to make agitated sweeps. Angry.
“Nothing big! I promise. I just want a guarantee that your friends won't drop in on me in my living room once this is over.”
Dragon paused. “You’re cautious, I get it. I said, I’m the only one who knows. And I will only chase you ‘in the field.’ As they say.”
Aaron looked at the imposing, inhuman figure with skepticism currently surrounding him in a void of light and heat. “When I put on the suit, I don’t really do warm and fuzzy.”
“LOOK, she wanted to meet her personal hero. Not A hero. Show up as the villain you are, and she will be blown away.” Shadow-Dragon’s tail was lashing from side to side again, but this time the long graceful sweeps were… happy? He guessed.
“And whatever you do, look at her sketchbook and her diagrams of her inventions. She wanted to grow up to be your sidekick so bad, this will be the happiest moment of her life. She drives the hospital staff crazy with suggestions for improving their tech. Constantly. Just be her hero for one hour. Can you do that?”
Aaron looked at the imposing presence of Shadow-Dragon, and thought about all of the oddities of their conversation.
“I have one more request. A simple thing. A simple thing.”
“What is it?” They were going back onto the defensive again.
“Do you have a human form? When you’re not ‘on duty?’” He asked.
“I don’t see…”
“After I do this, I would like to meet you for lunch. Sometime next week. Me in my civvies, and you in your human form, if you have one. I think you do. In fact, I’m almost certain of it. And I bet a nice Jersey Girl like you would enjoy a good meal. At whatever spot you choose. My treat.”
“WHAT?!”
“Look, I’m not suggesting a date, or anything like that. Just a pleasant lunch. You and me. No Nightjar, no Shadow-Dragon. Just the two of us. Two people. Talking about nothing and everything over some good food.” He let a smile creep into his voice as he spoke. He was certain of it now. Dragon was definitely a woman.
The body language had shifted, and while she was trying to maintain “man!” in her stance, it was plain to Nightjar now that he had it right.
“What if I say no?”
“Then my visit to Winnie this weekend will be the last time you ever see me. No strings.”
There was a pause.
"I get it. It cannot be easy to be a woman in the hero game with a BRUTAL set of powers, and an equally brutal set of motivations. I bet guys like Splendiferous, Crave, and Street Streak are all a bit much for any woman to put up with. It can't be any easier being a woman trying to take down villains like Slake." He shuddered at that, and noticed Dragon hugged herself selfconsciously as he said it.
And the pause grew some more.
"Just lunch. What do ya say?"
Light slowly returned as the hemisphere of darkness surrounding the two evaporated. Evening had turned to night, but night out on the street was as good as daylight compared to the lightless void he had just been encased in.
The lanky form of Shadow-Dragon, slowly faded into the shadows of the house to the right side of the sidewalk.
A very feminine voice came to him from the shadows as her shape faded from view. ‘Call me tomorrow. And I like Asian food. GOOD Asian”