Henry took a deep breath and entered the conference call. His name—‘Player of Games’—appeared next to a short list of other pseudonyms.
These past few days had been an ordeal. The media had reveled in the bad news. The people complained of the complacency of the heroes as crime rates climbed. The talk had begun to turn to whether or not heroes were effective at all. In the short months since the M.A.G.E Annual, people had forgotten why this had started at all. Not even the inviolable proof that psychic coercion was involved with the Awakening mattered. If anything it only made ungifted more fearful of their genetic brothers. And while tensions were at their highest, Whitworth just put an entire movement of people to sleep in one great exertion of his power. This would inspire true change. There was no more talk to be had.
It had not been easy. Their operatives have had far too many close calls with M.A.G.E costumes. Henry had told them all to retreat. Their work was done.
“It’s done,” he said evenly. A professional, calm demeanor lent credence to one’s cause, not emotional highs and impassioned behavior. “He finally did it.”
“Well done,” the boss’s voice spoke. “We’ll be monitoring the fallout of Whitworth’s transgression. He wouldn’t do this lightly. This is our battle. Let’s make it our war as well.”
“Understood.”
“How many did he send to sleep?”
“Thousands.”
“Hm…”
“Don’t worry sir. Much greater outrage had been triggered from much less before. People are fickle and changeable.”
“People were made that way, young man. Take a step back for now. Your role is done. We will be rewarded.”
“Thank you.”
“One small point.”
“Yes?”
“Send your associate my regards.”
“Sir. I am watching over him. If he shows signs of reluctance I will-”
“He was never one of us. Check your door in six seconds.”
“I… yes sir.”
Henry left the call. The machine routing the call would be destroyed. If more needed to be said, another avenue of communication would be sent his way by some analog means. Which meant he would have to wait until then to convince the boss to change his mind.
It was an excuse, of course. The boss would not change his mind. This whole operation existed because his mind had been made up.
He headed to the door of the room. A package had been laid there. Looking down the hall, he saw the tail end of a courier leaving through the elevator. Henry took the box inside and unwrapped it.
Resting in a bed of wrapping materials, a triple-barreled device laid heavily on his dining table. Two magazines sat beside eight rounds, ready to be loaded. A battery sat disconnected to the stock of the gun. It was as heavy as lead. Henry assembled it himself. He would not be strong enough to fire it. But if he had to do this, he would at least be the one to put the weapon together.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Viktor would be the marksman. Henry called their group’s teleporter to bring the weapon to the man.
Two rings passed. Then three. Then the default voice mail. He frowned. He called Oscar’s number. No answer.
“Shit,” he said. He wrapped the weapon inside a golf bag and for the first time in days, he left the safety of his nest.
--
Lycosidae’s tracker had led them to Victorious Stadium. It had been built to seat over two hundred thousand people, an architectural island surrounded by buildings of greenhouses and brick. Every season, dozens of games called hundreds of thousands of patrons to come and watch gifted youngsters with a short shelf life kick a ball around. New roads were built to accommodate the sheer flux of vehicles. A massive lot surrounded the bowl-shaped structure like an asphalt moat. The place probably cost around two billion. Millions in yearly overhead.
The closer Lyssa walked towards it, the stronger the smell of the city became. She ought to be used to it, having lived here so long, but she had never been to such a place. The smell of exhaust and tires permeated the lot. Every step came with a slight sense of resistance, as if the ground was reluctant to let her walk. There was a fine layer of processed sugars and cleaning chemicals on the asphalt. Generations of it.
The stadium had been built before Victory’s rise to fame. Nevertheless people likened the two together, and on occasion the hero was moved to make an appearance before a big game, no doubt pushed along by Whitworth for image’s sake. The Langshir Lions won far more than they lost in that steel bowl. It became synonymous to victory, and was the heart of the city. In a decade it would be decommissioned; its construction would have been tested to the limits, stretched by the constant entrance and egress of so many people. A new multi-billion dollar bowl would be built elsewhere. Perhaps, serendipitously, it would accompany the rise of another great hero.
Or perhaps it had a few more hours left to stand.
“What a turnout,” Ace Pilot said. While everyone walked, he maintained about a foot off the ground.
Lyssa looked around. Other costumed teams were arriving on scene, ones she had only seen in pictures. Some she had never seen before.
“Why do we need so many?” Lyssa asked.
“You’re just a small part of the plot, kiddo,” Hawktress said. “We’ve been working this case for a while under Jackson’s leadership while Whitworth danced like a monkey, pretending to not know how to deal with this attack.”
“The enemy has been hiding in plain sight,” Ace Pilot said. “We just needed a little more confirmation before we headed in to clear out the rat’s nest. Lycosidae’s tracker was it.”
“Here,” Lycosidae said, handing a small earpiece to her.
“What is it?”
“Jackson will guide you. You’ve a part to play, remember?”
Lyssa eyed it pensively before slotting it into her ear.
“Hello?” She whispered.
“Ms. Unas,” Jackson said. “I have to apologize in advance for the haste with which you have been deployed. Honestly, we did not expect you to actually find them, and we certainly did not plan for Whitworth to spring their trap so quickly.”
“I don’t understand,” Lyssa said.
“You’ll read about it later. The point is, there is a reason there has been such a reduced hero presence in the city these past couple of months. All this moral outrage over M.A.G.E events and teenage ‘gladiatorial’ nonsense. The games have been going on for years. Why would this year be the one that caused such unrest? We’ve done nothing different.
“We’ve spent all that time chasing down their network of operatives, missing every time on purpose, corralling them. They’ve led us to false bases of operation and we’ve let them. Until Sokolov and the FBI captured one of their operatives. Whitworth unfolded that man’s mind and found the last piece of the puzzle. We’re positive they’ve been working out from under the stadium, and over these past few days we’ve been flushing them out of their holes and watching them run back here. You and Lycosidae found the last unit.”
“I see,” Lyssa said. “But what do you want me to do?”
“You’re a powerful telepath on top of all your other gifts. While New Langshir’s finest handle the bulk of their forces, you need to find the kingpin of their operations. I know you haven’t spent much time training for Clandestine, but try your best. Look for patterns, find who doesn’t fit.”
Lyssa grit her teeth. She wasn’t prepared. She had barely begun a career as a student. She had gone from pushing pencils to this, urged here by forces she could not picture.
“Why me?” She asked. “I’m not powerful. I have almost no training, and my gifts are barely mine.”
“We’re all stronger than we know,” Jackson said.
With a click, the line went dead.