28. Midnight Madness!

Why does everything have to be so complicated?

I never even saw Gwen for the rest of the day on Friday. I got one text from her in the afternoon, asking if I wanted to wait around for a ride home, but I just sort of forgot about it, since I knew I was going out anyway. Seriously, though, it's not as if I was actively ignoring her or anything.

So about an hour after I finished my shift, Gwen was leaving, and she saw me making small talk with Tim in his office, where Mr. Vaig - Alton - whatever - was supposed to meet us when he finished his press conference. She asked what I was still doing there, and I told her, because, look, it's not like it was some big secret. I was gonna call and let her know about it... eventually. I mean, I didn't even know what we were doing, or how late I would be. So she acts all impressed, but sort of put off by the whole thing, too, until - long story short - Tim winds up asking her if she'd like to join us.

Which... okay. Fine. It's just - the invitation coming from Tim makes me look bad. Besides, I was expecting maybe an upscale meal, a couple of drinks on the company dime, but with Gwen coming along, the whole thing would turn into an event. She even went back to her apartment for a shower and a change of clothes, which meant she started questioning why I wasn't doing the same thing. This is Denver, for chrissakes - I was wearing a button-up shirt. Tucked in, even.

An hour passed without any word from the boss-man, so I got a Westword from outside to kill a little time. When I got back to his office, Tim was getting off the phone.

"So, he's on his way. He said he had to change." He started mussing about with his shirt again, after all that time I spent talking him down. I told him not to worry about it, that I was sure we were dressed fine.

"Yeah, I guess," he said uncomfortably, "but the thing is, um... well, you're gonna need to call Gwen. Mr. Vaig just said - 'no girlfriends'."

"Aw, shit... are you kidding me?"

"I know, I know. But he sounded pretty firm. He wants us out front in ten minutes."

I spent the ride downstairs tentatively fingering my cell. Once we were out of the elevator, I got a couple yards distance from Tim so I could make my call.

"I'm really sorry. I would have figured that Tim cleared it with him first."

"Well, not your call, I guess. Tell Tim I said thanks, anyway."

Great. I made a joke that she probably wasn't missing out on much, that I was gonna be way out of my element, without a tie, or one of those shiny shirts like all the guys on "The Bachelor" wear. She told me not to worry about it, and we agreed we'd see each other the next night. I was so relieved by how cool she was with the whole thing that I had disconnected before realizing "the next night", I was supposed to be getting together with Kyle.

I was debating whether or not I should call her back when an immaculate black limo pulled up to the curb. It didn't occur to me that it was for us, until the chauffeur stepped around to open the rear door.

I didn't realize they still dressed like that. The little hat was pulled down low, but I could've sworn I recognized him. In the uniform, he looked a little like Kato, from that old masked hero drama on TV.

I figured the vehicle was just to take us to wherever our destination was - imagine my surprise when I saw Vaig himself sitting there, illuminated by the pulsating LED lights, with a half-empty tumbler in hand. He was still wearing the Nehru jacket from earlier, but it was now complimenting what were no doubt a pair of $200 jeans.

"What's up, boys? Come in, come in! Get yourselves a drink." The trademark menace in his voice was softened by a barely detectable slur.

Tim introduced me to Mr. Vaig ("Alton, please,"). It took a minute for recognition set in.

"Ah, yes, I do believe we already met; the stairwell, correct? Now, you realize that in our Manhattan office, we have a state of the art security system which recognizes each of our employee's DNA? That way, if anyone finds his way into an area which he's not authorized for, he'll be paralyzed instantly by one of the 50 million nanobots floating invisibly through the air, until he can be interrogated later by a member of my security personnel."

I nodded cautiously.

"So, why is it, that here in Denver, I can't even walk through the halls of my own company without a badge? I mean, come on! It's like a hall pass. What is this, fucking middle school?" He burst into laughter. "Am I right?"

The limo lurched forward, right as Tim was pouring his scotch and soda. And then, if I'm remembering this right - I think (think) that Alton Vaig leaned in close to me for one of those shoulder-bumping bro-hugs. I don't know, I may have dreamt that part.

"I really appreciate you being there for me, man..."

We drove around downtown for a while, Tim pointing out landmarks like a tour guide. I'm not really sure whether he was trying to match Vaig's buzz or just drown out his own nerves, but he was good and drunk within the next 30 minutes.

After we passed Coors Field, Vaig polished off his third drink since we got in the car. "Well, seeing as baseball season is over, perhaps you gentlemen would be up for some entertainment that's a bit more - shall we say - illicit?"
_______________________

As I've said before, I believe Denver's reputation as a "cow town" is unfounded. That said, if you're looking for a posh destination, where you can sit in the dark on animal-print cushions with your knees up to your chin while you drink overpriced martinis, you may be happier in an area code other than the 303. I mean, we have all that bullshit here, it's just that we never look more provincial than when we're trying to act all "big city" - more often than not, in some strip mall alongside a P.F. Chang's.

The Diamond Cabaret is Denver's premier strip-joint-steakhouse-with-a-nightclub-on-top, which means they cater to not just travelling salesmen and creepy politicians, but also the average douchebag wearing too much cologne and hair product, who can stumble downstairs for an eye full once they've figured out they bought a bad batch of roofies.

I have to admit, I felt a little bad for Tim. Sure, he had a few, but I think more than anything, the doorman - mad with the sort of power that people feel when they're wearing a bad suit and one of those secret-service earpieces - just didn't like the look of him. Regardless, Tim was told to walk around the block a few times, sober up, and come back later. I would've been more than happy to find someplace else (seeing as I didn't really want to be there at all) but Vaig had made up his mind.

So there I was, watching the drunk CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation stuff hundred dollar bills into every g-string that happened by, the "chauffeur" standing just behind us.

"Uh, thanks," I said, when paid for another round of drinks, "you sure you got these?"

"Please. What do we pay you people? Fifty, sixty thousand a year? It's the least I can do."

I recognized this as maybe the only window of opportunity I would get the whole night - opened just a crack, but there it was.

"So, uh, yeah... about that. With the hypercollider and all, I bet that's going to open up all sorts of new jobs."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, a few, I suppose."

"Oh. So, then, did you design it yourself?"

"In it's present form; but the potential has been there for some time, since the invention of the original 'death ray'." he said, a faraway look crossing his face, "Make no mistake: the collider wasn't reverse engineered from technology left behind by an alien race. It wasn't brought back in time, from some far off era. It is the product of purely human ingenuity. I'll tell you something, Joel: when you dabble on the fringes of science, they call you a 'mad doctor', a 'super villain'. Oh, I know - you've heard all the viscous rumors regarding my motives. That comes with the territory for any self-made man. But if there's one thing I simply cannot abide, it's being called super... are you going to get that?"

I had been ignoring the insistent buzzing of my cellphone, reluctant to interrupt Vaig's rant. A text from Tim: he was still downstairs, arguing with the doorman, which Vaig found patently hilarious.

"Ridiculous! He's going to miss out on all the fun!" Then, to the chauffeur: "Handle it, will you?"

"I will deal with it presently, Mr. Vaig," he said, nodding... but he stood exactly where he was.

"Now, Joel, we're not here to discuss work. Besides, it seems as if one of the dancers has taken an interest in you."

I sort of appreciated the confirmation; one particular redhead, wearing a gilded, neo-Victorian mask had, in fact, been staring me down for the last few minutes. She caught my eye, motioning me to join her.

"Ah, yes," Vaig said, handing me a wad of bills, "go on now, enjoy yourself!"

Reluctantly (yes, really), I did as he said. When I approached her, she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me to a small, personal table at the other side of the stage.

She straddled me and began to dance. She looked me right in the eye, but conspicuously, there was no smile. "Joel! What the hell are you doing here?"

I was speechless... until she brushed her hand on the light fixture alongside the table, delivering a tiny electric shock to my cheek with her fingertip.

"Me? What are you doing here?"

"All part of the job," she said, more pissed than embarrassed. After all, her usual togs are no less revealing than what she was wearing. "I've been tracking his every move since he came into town. Have you found anything out?"

"Uh, not really. I don't know, he seems to be an ass man..."

"Funny. Are you going anyplace, after this?"

"It's possible, I guess. Right now, one of our 'party' can't even get in the door. The chauffeur was supposed to go down and something about it, but..." I nodded in their direction, where the chauffeur stood in place, his eyes shut, as if in deep concentration.

There was a flash of recognition in her face: she dropped from the table and up onto the stage, interrupting the dancer there, who went crawling off the side. Lilywatt bent in half, down to her tall, fetish-y boots; when she was back to her full height, the signature whips were coiled at her sides.

The chauffeur's eyes snapped open, and he smiled, viciously. Suddenly, three "clones" of him appeared, one of him standing at each corner of the stage.

(Yeah, I know. What can I say? I must've been too nervous to realize it...)

Ignoring the copies, Lilywatt flung her whips toward the originator; one caught his ankle, and sent him flipping backwards onto a table. Vaig had vanished from the room.

The chauffeur was still conscious - his three clones had made their way on stage. She grabbed onto one of their necks and rammed his head onto the pole, then threw the body into another, sending the two copies down onto the floor. Behind her, the chauffeur's fourth clone appeared (his mission downstairs completed - or just interrupted?)

She was taken by surprise, the two clones bearing down on her, kicking her weapons away. She slipped out from underneath them and grabbed on the pole, swinging around it like a professional, kicking them both from the stage.

She released the bar and dropped down in front of the chauffeur. He blocked her lightning-quick sicsor-kick, and delivered one of his own to her chin, sending her flying back a few feet from punching range.

She recovered quickly - standing up just in time to see his sweeping, deliberate arm movements, the opening and closing of his hands. The defeated clones vanished, then replaced by four more, ready to attack...

Gunshots rung out - the sound blaring over the music from the abandoned deejay booth. When I looked up from the table, the clones were all gone, and the chauffeur was lying face-down on the floor, dead.

Alton Vaig was still holding the gun as he faced Lilywatt. She looked around at the few of us who remained, glancing at me only a second longer, before shouting "All of you, out of here! NOW!"
______________________

I found Tim outside. He told me how the chauffeur had been roughing up the door man, but disappeared into thin air before doing too much damage (down there, anyway). I talked him into sneaking away with me, convincing him that we didn't want to risk being "accomplices", or saying anything that we'd have to explain to Vaig, later. He agreed, and we said our goodbyes in an alley outside the club.

I walked home to my empty apartment, threw up a couple of times, and slept until noon - ignoring the calls I got from Gwen.

She'll get the story when she picks me up to go out tonight, anyway.

27. A Very Special Guest!

Having woken up at the crack of my ass, I watched the sun come up, revealing Capitol Hill streets covered in a crisp-ity, crunch-ity layer of ice. Too cold to bike, so I caught a ride in to work with Gwen. She starts her shift about an hour after me, so we stopped off for coffee to split the difference in time. No big deal; everybody comes in late when the weather's bad.

Usually, snow days are sort of mellow - especially if its a Friday. Lots of jeans, sweatshirts, and the managers will bring in a few dozen donuts for those of us who live downtown, and can make it into work. But I could tell something was different: tense, more "buttoned up" than usual. Once we walked in the door, I didn't see Gwen all morning. Anyone higher up the food chain than us phone jockeys was being shuffled back and forth through a continuous series of meetings.

At about 9:30, I took my first unofficial break of the day. I placed my caller on hold to check on the status of their "Trouble Ticket", and snuck into the bathroom to call Kyle on my cell. No answer, just the default voice mail greeting. I didn't bother to leave a message.

I was killing a few more seconds, humping up against a urinal when Tim rushed in with a gym bag and started tugging off his shirt. No greeting, not even his usual "T.G.I.(mf'n)F.!" He was white as a sheet.

"Hey, Tim," I said, zipping up, "everything okay?"

He was stuffing a wrinkled dress shirt into a pair of jeans that still showed a of hint acid wash. I'm sure they must have fit at some point.

"All hands on deck, man. Wigs are here today."

Wigs?

"Big ones." he clarified, pushing neck fat out of his collar with a tie. "I'd get on the phones if I were you..."

I followed him out and headed back to my cube. I put a note on Mr. Davidson's file that his call dropped, and got back on the phone. I tried Kyle a few more times while I was in after-call.

I spent lunch on the net, catching up on the buzz about Dr. Macguffin. Lots of speculation on the powerrazi sites, but no official word of an investigation from the Agency; just a few quotes from random heroes who've worked with him over the years.

In the afternoon, for my second unscheduled break, I snuck into the stairwell between four and the corporate offices on five, and called Kyle, again: shitty reception, but great for privacy, because, hey, as long as the building keeps from going up in a ball of flames, who's gonna use the stairs?

"Hello?" a woman's voice. I check to make sure I hit the right number, before hearing a male on the other end.

"Gimme that... yeah, what's up?"

"Hey, Kyle? Dude, this is Joel," I'm not sure, but I could've sworn I heard two distinct female laughs, "I guess I don't have to ask how you're doing..."

"Hey, man... long time no see. What's goin' on?"

I had this totally crazy dream last night, and You Were In It. Yeah. "Uh, nothing much. I just... I don't know, haven't talked in a while, and wanted to get together with you."

"Yeah, I've been out and about. What's your excu..." Stupid cement walls, "hey, this call may drop... you wanna meet up tonight?"

"Ah, I don't know, I was up pretty late last... me and Spliff are... drinks tomor... want in?"

From up the steps, behind me, I heard a door open. Great.

"Uh, yeah, I guess that'll work. Look, I'll call you tomorrow." I disconnected the call, standing to let the person behind me pass, prepared to avoid any eye contact - but by the time I turned, we were face-to-face.

Or "eyes-to-chin", is more like it.

Exquisitely tailored suit, Nehru jacket hugging against dense muscle. And that window's peak, high above a craggy, furrowed brow. Practically a Mohawk. Anyone else would've just shaved it off. Too cliche, I guess.

I knew I had to say something, just to cut the tension, keep me from falling to my knees.

"Fuck,"

"May I pass?" he said, in his mannered baritone.

"Yah! Yes. Alton Vaig... Mr. Vaig. Yes. Sir!"

He moved past, sending me stumbling back down onto a step. I waited, catching my breath before I went back to my floor. The last thing I needed was for him to think I was following him. But when I got to my door, he just stood there, with his back to me. I considered running back up the steps.

He mumbled something about retinal scan units, then: "I don't suppose you have your badge. I seem to have forgotten mine."

I moved awkwardly around him in order to beep the door. He grabbed the knob before I could get it for him.

The entire floor was dark. More-or-less, anyway. As dark as you can get by covering ceiling-to-floor windows with cheap industrial blinds, anyway. Across the room, Gwen stood awkwardly among the "wigs", in her casual Friday-wear. Tim was on a P.A. system - swaggering around like it was a karaoke machine at happy hour.

"... alright, boys and girls, as you read in your Corporate Communications email this morning, we do have a very special guest here today. So without any further ado..."

Et cetera. I just barely dodged the spotlight when it dropped down onto him.

Wild cheers from the audience. Yeah, even me. You just get swept up in it. I figured something out, too: you don't get to be an all-powerful, super-criminal mastermind by being a total dick, y'know? Not on the surface, anyway. Even though though he was all business - discussing the future of his multi-million dollar empire - he was, without a doubt, downright genial.
_____________________

So: as pretty much everyone knows by now, the world wide hypernet has evolved in pretty much the same way as the Internet before it. Made up of the individual users from around the world, using a series of interconnected computer networks. But apparently, the quantum particles that transmit the various signals - they're unstable, "too random", resulting in the "temporal seepage" of signals from other eras. Vaig says that research and development has figured out a way to manage all the rouge particles, with an enormous Hypercollider, a sort of hyper-hypeport unit, that will be located in a centralized hub that's being set up over the next two weeks.

In Denver.

In an secure, underground facility. Located four stories directly below my office.
_______________________________

The meeting broke up, Vaig leaving with a bunch of other suits for a press junket to make the official announcement. Probably the same spiel, "Creating new jobs, cutting edge technology". When he left, it was like you were breaking away from orbit, no longer under the influence of this mighty gravity well.

I had to make a call. I headed for the stairwell, but thought better of it - just in case. Seriously? I was gonna have to call a high profile super heroine from the men's room? And, once again, what was I gonna say? What could I possibly tell her that she wasn't about to find out from the 5 pm news?

I checked the floor for shoes, and saw someone in the stall. A robust, wet sniff, and out stepped Tim, all red around the eyes.

"Joel! Oh, man... I'm so glad you're here. What am I gonna do?"

"What? What's going on?"

"I am not ready for this. No way. Having these guys around here all the time? No way."

"Don't worry about it," I said casually - for his sake - to avoid the fact that he had obviously been crying, "Look, we're still a call center, here. I pretty sure Alton Vaig is gonna be more focused on his little science project down in the basement."

"No, man. You don't understand. Denver's always been small potatoes in the operation. When it comes to local management, the guys who're expected to wine and dine," he spread his arms out, wide-eyed. "Mr. Vaig, he cornered me today, he wants me to take him 'on the town'. I don't know what a millionaire CEO likes to do in their off hours... what am I supposed to do?"
______________________

Huh. Looks like I'm going out tonight after all.

Anything I can do to help out a friend.

26. Dream Sequence!

“Alright, ha ha. Very funny. Now put that shit down, already, will you?"

Spliff and I are standing at Black and Read, this little record shop / book store out in the suburbs (which is pretty weird in and of itself, seeing as we haven’t really hung out there since high school). Across a crate of records, Spliff holds out a battered "Sister Christian" 12-inch single. He actually waves it around above his head, where basically everyone can see.

So then this little prick, maybe 18 years old, says from over my shoulder, “Yeah, I’ve seen that fucking poseur around. Gimme a break.”

...and suddenly, it occurs to me that I'm wearing what, at night, serves as my uniform.

But Spliff, he's not laughing. It's like he doesn't even notice the gallery of record shop snobs and community college intellectuals hovering all around us: “Seriously, though, Joel – Night Ranger or, say, Green Lama? -Who you got?”

The kid spouts something off in newsweekly music critic speak: "unapologetic grindcore"... "shakes the very foundations of the hell realms", etc. I couldn't really make it out, over the music in the store. Then I just sort of forgot about him altogether, because the room becomes bathed in this thick, green glow, growing brighter, brighter, until finally, it congeals into this humanoid figure, all wrapped up in a radiant, emerald cloak. Which is when things start to get weird...




Green Lama (Artist's Rendition)




The figure hovers towards me. I can't see a face, but there's a voice calling out from within the cloak, like it's being transmitted through a radio from some far away continent. It's not like it's threatening, necessarily, but I'm not really sure what to expect next. Every nerve in my body vibrates like a struck tuning fork, focusing my mind acutely on the stranger. I'm like an animal, ready to pounce. Confident. Natural.

I look at my arms, at my waterproof hoodie. It's shrunk, molding itself to my body, like it's part of my skin. Tight, but comfortable, like it's not really there at all. But it is... and it gives me power. Not like bulky body armor, but I don't really think of it as having been "mystical" in origin, either. I was thinking, like, maybe it was designed by ancient astronauts, or something. Anyway, that's not important. What's important is that I could actually feel the green radiating off the figure as it moves into my space. I lash out, executing this flawless, masterful right hook, to right where the figure's chin should be.

And I made contact, too. I absolutely, most definitely hit something, solid and jaw-like. But then, the cloak unravels itself from the shoulder, like a mummy's bandages, or the snakes atop Medusa's head, swooping down and binding my wrists together.

"Om Mami Padme Hum... Om Mani Padme Hum..."

The chant echoes inside my mind, radiating calm over my body, but I'm neither sedate nor lethargic - there's this innate strength, right at the center of the calm. The bands dissolve into my skin, trumping my need, or even desire, to resist.

"Darkstreak... Where Is Darkstreak?"

Visions of a handful of watering holes float through my mind before I realize that I really don't know... it's been weeks since I've last seen Kyle.

"You must find Kyle Tyler..."

From some other channel in my brain, a thought pours down into the empty vessel: He knows Kyle's secret identity! The glow, that same energy that was so reassuring just a moment before, it shifts with my perception of it. More thoughts flood my consciousness, and the binds re-materialize, tighter, around my limbs. Beyond my opponent, I see Spliff beside that queasy little punk, both of them watching me, critically. Spliff reaches into a pockets and produces a handful of bills.

And then - but of course! - I'm laying contorted in my bed, a twisted bed sheet, damp with sweat, snaking around my body. Alongside me, Gwen mumbles a question; just a reflex. She pecks at the air and is fast asleep again before I can even tell her I'm okay.

I logged onto the Internet about a half hour ago, to search Google News for any small bit of info pertaining to the Green Llama.

Nothing.

Damn it. I knew I shouldn't have said anything to Spliff - but I was stuck. He caught me with the mysterious woman, witnessed her little display of power. If I had left it to his imagination, he only would have come up with something that much worse. Instead, he knows the truth. Of course, he totally freaked out. I told him that it was no big deal, that I'm really just an informant, and just barely that. I may never hear anything from the Agency again. He promised he wouldn't say anything to Kyle (which sort of surprised me, until he mentioned that Kyle got pissed at him the other night for pestering him about his "active duty" days). I was relieved, but I'm more concerned about Gwen, if I'm being completely honest. I'm not sure why, but I even told Spliff about my "premonition". He said my future self "sounds like kind of a dick."

No, really, don't hold back.

Hopefully, my typing is quiet enough that she stays asleep. In the other room, but here, her presence is comforting. It's almost enough to convince me that my call from "future me" was just my imagination. A mirage, like my visit from the Lama. But all that changes if she finds me sitting here, awake, at three in the morning; throwing me instantly back into a barrage of questions. I managed to convince her that she should wait until her roommate finds somebody new to take her place, that it'll give me a chance to get the place ready. She's giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I know the questions are lingering there, just beneath the surface.

Interestingly enough, I didn't need to worry about Spliff. He's barely said a word to me since I told him. Like Morrissey says, "We Hate it When Our Friends Become Successful". Or even so much as take a crack at it, I suppose.
___________________________

Holy. Shit.

From Associated Press, 10 minutes ago...

Controversal Scientist Hugh Macguffin found dead in Laboratory

ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO - Local authorities have confirmed that a body found late last night in a private rural laboratory is that of noted scientist Dr. Hugh Macguffin.

Macguffin, the controversial author of the hotly contested 1960 book Foundations of Malphysics, has used the laboratory as his primary residence for the last twelve years. Nearby landowners, who state they've rarely seen the reclusive scientist, called police to report a disturbance from the location.

"For ten minutes, all you could hear was these loud, terrified screams," said one neighbor, who wished to remain anonymous.

The case remains open, and the exact cause of death is yet to be determined. Early reports suggest that a wild animal may have found it's way into the residence.

The coroner's office is "unsure" of the victim's age. He has no known family.
_____

Well, that ought to knock that UFO hoax in Fort Collins from the headlines, at least.

What a way to go. What kind of "wild animals" do they have in New Mexico, anyway?

Quarter to four. Why do I have the feeling my day's not going to get any less strange?

25. The Adventures of Night Ranger

It was only a few minutes after 10 pm when I rode over the highway into the north side of the city, past the carnicerias and bakeries and Italian restaurants that had all closed up shop, hours before. I locked my bike up on one of the better-lit streets a couple blocks away from the bar. It's hard to maintain superhero cred when you're rockin' a 7 speed.

Off my bike, the night air no longer rushing over me, I was beginning to overheat. I wore a variation of my uniform from the other night - lightweight military pants, windbreaker (hood up, natch), and orange-tinted goggles instead of the infra reds, which were bulging in the pocket on my thigh. I thought it was best to be ready for action, in case Lilywatt decided we needed to do some impromptu detective work.

The bar was this nameless, dive-y little hole in the wall that Spliff and I came across on a bender one night; a neon "Coors" sign in the barred window the only thing to indicate it's there at all. Walking up the street, I stared to panic, worried that maybe it boarded up since last year. Instead, I found a group of men in bathtub-sized cowboy hats and enormous belt buckles sitting along the tiny bar, mesmerized by the television.

Shit - the big El Blanco match - "High Noon at Midnight", they were billing it. I wasn't counting on the immigrant version of Jackson's Hole.

The patrons all eyed me suspiciously, but at least the bartender didn't say anything about my outfit. Not to me directly, or in English, anyway.

At the corner of bar, the dull glow of an open laptop illuminated a sickly-thin Caucasian man, looking only a little less out of place than myself. A tenth of a second worth of eye contact, and he was hiding his clutch of bills beneath the counter.

I sat in a corner booth with my cervesa and a bowl of peanuts, the volume gradually returning to what it must have been before my entrance. On the TV, the masked wrestler entered the ring and sent his robe out into the far reaches of the auditorium with a telekinetic shove.

"Viva El Blanco!" ... "Ole!"

I finished my drink, deciding it was best to just wait outside.

Striding confidently up the street was this gorgeous woman, dressed like she had just come from a funeral for a French new wave film director. Jet-black bob, black heels, black seam up the back of her stockings (I guessed; she was facing me). Just some art school girl heading back to her apartment.

She stopped directly in my path, like was waiting for me to say something. "Night Ranger, I presume?"

After the initial surprise, her cheap shot sunk in. "Huh? I... wait, I specifically said I wanted to meet with Lilywatt herself..."

She did one of those facepalm things. Idiot. What can I say? She took me off guard.

"Oh, right. It's a little busier in there than I expected. Maybe we should find someplace..." I said to the door, as it swung shut.

She waited for her drink at the bar (she was too quick for me to buy it for her) and watched as the enormous, domino-masked Sumo wrestler on TV lumbered up to the ring. "Ooh, that's right. 'Midnight in Mexico City'. This ought to be a good one."

I searched behind the glasses that were surely part of her disguise, for something in her eyes that would indicate sarcasm; I came up empty. "Are you serious? You follow the Powered Wrestling Federation?"

She broke her gaze from the TV, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room, "You have a problem with that?"

"Uh, I guess not" I said, motioning her to a booth. "You do realize it's all fake, though, right?"

"I went up against The Mass in Osaka three years ago, back before he reformed," she made little quotation marks with her hands around the last word, "Six-hundred fifty pounds of hyper-viscous molecules. You're gonna talk to me about 'real'?"

I decided to change the subject. "Well, thanks for meeting with me here tonight."

"Not my idea, but I'll be sure to send your regards to AVI. He's the brains of our little operation - or so I'm told. When he did a background check on you, and found out where you work - he decided it would be worthwhile to follow up. So, then... what is it, exactly, that you think you know?"

Good question. I told her about my experience with my future self, which she no doubt had already been briefed on. I couldn't tell whether she was even listening; when I finished, we just sat there, watching the wrestlers prowl around one another on the screen.

"Hmm. We're working on the time travel angle. So far, the research hasn't really turned up anything, other than the fact that your future self is a petty, self-involved jerk. Interesting, but I don't see how you're so sure it has anything to do with my case."

I took her abuse in stride; I've made it too far to let her get to me now. "For one thing, I heard you mention Vaig in the warehouse the other night."

El Blanco's telekinetic jabs splashed against his opponent's giant torso. "Oh, you did, did you? So you just jumped to the logical conclusion, based on that. Do you figure that maybe Alton Vaig himself is trying to split you and your girlfriend up, so your progeny won't be able save the future?"

"I didn't say that...where are you going?"

She headed for the bar. Surprisingly, she had two glasses when she returned.

"Drink this. You're gonna need it. I know I am." She took a long pull from her own. "Joel, I do believe - against my better judgement - I'm about to make your night. You can decide later whether you want to thank me. AVI thinks it would be a good idea if you could keep your eyes and ears open at work."

"Wait... seriously?" She nodded, cautiously. I'm sure my eyes must have glazed over.

"Whoa, there, 'Ranger', don't get too excited. Nobody's expecting an in-depth investigation. Just let us know if you come across anything suspicious. You can go ahead and leave your uniform at home."

Up to that point, I was thinking about at least pulling off my hood, but I wasn't about to admit defeat, now - body temperature be damned. "Alright, yeah, I get it. But never discount the little guy, right?" I pointed to the TV; the Mass was pressed up against the ropes, like a shar pei in a high powered wind tunnel. "Maybe you should let me know what we're up against. Like our friends from the other night."

She gave this more serious consideration that I expected. "As far as I'm concerned, you already know way more than you should. But if it'll convince you to keep your distance... the older guy is the world's preeminent authority on genetic manipulation - and a known kaiju wrangler. Dr. Fang - his real name, if you can believe that. The makeshift hideout he recently vacated is owned by the Vaig corporation, but we haven't yet established a connection beyond that."

"And his bodyguard, the suit - he's Yakuza?"

"Chinese Triad, if anything - but we don't have an official dossier on him. Fang's been exiled from Japan, so he's had to outsource his muscle."

"But I don't get it. Why here? Why Manitou Springs?"

She shrugged. It seemed like less of a brush off, and more that she just really didn't know, herself. She nodded toward the screen. "Hey, you might want to take a look at your 'little guy'."

Gravity was reasserting it's hold on the Mass's mass, his layers of skin shifting slowly back downward. The luchador fought to keep his invisible hold, but the strain was apparent. Finally, El Blanco went flying backwards from the telekinetic kick-back.

Lilywatt shuddered. "Uh oh. See, that's bad... with the Mass, your only advantage is if you're a distance fighter. Beyond that, your only hope is if you've got better superpowers."

I felt my heart break, just a little. "You're one of those? Seriously? C'mon, Blanco's a way better fighter than this guy."

El Blanco struggled to his feet; his desperate punch sunk deep into his challenger's pliant flesh. The crowd at the bar was becoming restless. Shouts; hands slamming against tables. The local favorite was about to lose them a lot of money.

"Trust me," she mused, "it's all about the powers."

"I don't know. I've got a friend who used to be a superhero - he doesn't have any powers at all..."

"Yeah? Who's that - White Lion?"

I was calculating a pithy comeback when the volume in the room dropped again, unexpectedly. I turned just in time to see the door swing shut...

"Hola! Coma Esta?"

Shit! I turned back to Lilywatt, slouching down in my seat. She asked if there was a problem.

"No, no. I'm good."

Jesus, stop hanging out with a guy for a few week and there's no telling what they'll get up to.

"So, how's the fight going, amigos?" Spliff slurred, loudly. "Oh, hey! Look at that!"

The Mass lifted Blanco high above his head, then slammed him hard to the mat.

"Ha! Hey, bartender - make that a Grey Goose and tonic, huh?"

Lilywatt straightened up in her seat. "Oh, this guy's a genius..."

"Tell me about it," I mumbled, turning in my seat to watch.

"Dude, I knew I shouldn't have left the last bar. Hey, you wanna just pay me tomorrow, that's cool..." The bookie was shutting down his laptop, shrugging Spliff's arm from his shoulder.

Halfway down the bar, a man called out, "Hey, idiot, shut your mouth!"

The crowd went silent. "Okay. I gotcha," Spliff said. The man was bigger, stronger - while Spliff, on the other hand, was drunker. "But, I mean, when I thought my guy was losing, you didn't see me gettin' all upset..."

The man walked down the length of the bar and shoved Spliff off his stool. Suddenly, Lilywatt was up from the booth to intercept them. So what was I supposed to do - just sit there?

She touched the man on the shoulder. "All right, sir, let's just settle down. Maybe our lucky winner here would like to buy you a drink..."

Spiff got to his feet and dusted himself off, "Yeah, man, sure. Just be cool..."

Exactly. That's exactly how that should've gone. It would've played out just like that had there been no interference at all. But now, there was a woman involved - the lone attractive woman in a bar full of men who just spent their evening drinking and watching a sporting event.

The man reached into his jacket pocket and produced an especially nasty-looking fish gutting knife. I seriously doubt he would really have used it, but I'm betting super heroines don't find themselves in that situation very often.

The man seized, his head jerking back. A flicker of St. Elmo's fire licked across his body before it dropped finally to the floor.

Lilywatt moved her fingertips away from the back of the neon Coors sign and looked in my eyes. "If you find anything interesting, you can reach me through AVI." Then, to Spliff "Maybe you should call it a night." She spun and stormed out of the bar.

I seriously thought he was going to chase her out of the bar, until I saw his glassy eyes straining to pull me into focus.

"Joel? Dude, is that you?... What're you doing here?"

I really need to do something about my costume.

24. Life on Hold

Can't sleep. Can't even think of sleeping. I just keep going over the conversation in my head, trying to recall it, word for word.

I'm alone. I told Gwen that I'm not feeling well. On the very night that she was going to "bring some stuff over", in effect, starting to move her things in. Just great. Great timing, really. Now, I'm the bad guy.

But I'm not really, right? Not yet, anyway.

I page through my copy of Malphysics for Dummies, re-reading the chapter on time paradoxes. No answers, just more questions: does time travel prove there's no such thing as fate? or: if somebody changes history, was history predestined to play out like that in the first place? Blah blah blah.

It could be, like, an alternate timeline, couldn't it? Or maybe a "mirror universe", where the Nazis won World War II, and Alphamale is a brutal dictator, and I'm... still a louse.

On the Agency's website, the "Hypeport Anomalies" aren't even on the front page anymore. They're old news, pushed off by the Druid's attack on Big Ben. They've "been assured that Vaig Industries should have all their technical issues fixed by the end of third quarter". Well, thank goodness that's settled. The anomalies have been officially classified as "low bandwidth", not strong enough to allow anyone to physically slip through into the timestream.

And then there's this -

"At this time, there's no evidence that the anomalies can be used to transmit willful, direct messages to other eras, but we will continue to monitor the situation."

That seals it. I scroll down to the very bottom of the screen and dial the number.

The male voice is articulate and deliberate, but purposely not too friendly, to avoid sounding ridiculous.

Thank you for calling the Agency's 24 hour, International Emergency Hotline! You are hearby advised that any knowingly fraudulent calls or claims made to this line are a Federal offence, punishable by international law. Your call may be recorded for review purposes. If you are in need of immediate assistance, and your emergency can be handled by local authorities, please hang up and dial 911. For all media inquiries, visit our website. Para espanol, oprima numero dos...

Fucking seriously? Good thing I don't have a giant gorilla trying to break through my window.

Please listen closely to the following options, and state aloud your answer. Are you calling about: a natural disaster? A crime in progress? A UFO sighting? A terrorist attack? A kaiju attack? A giant mecha attack? A space/time anomaly?

"Yes, damnit...!" I catch myself too late.

I'm sorry you're having trouble. Please repeat your selection -

"Space/time anomaly," I say, trying to match the tempo of the automated voice.

On a scale of one through ten, how immediate do you perceive the threat to be?

Well, that just depends, doesn't it? "Seven and three quarters," I say, enunciating every word.

Is this threat directly towards you, or is it -

"Customer service." I bark. "Please. Can I just talk to somebody?"

I am the Agency's Virtual Intelligence unit - AVI. I'm sure I'll be able to help you with your concerns today. Please explain the nature of your emergency.

I just sit for second, expecting to be transferred before it sinks in. "Wait a minute. I'm supposed to talk to... you?"

I'm sure I'll be able to help you out. What is your name and location?

"Joel Wyatt, Denv - wait, I could have just been talking to you, all this all this time?"

Yes, sir. Please re-state your location.

"Denver, Colorado. So, you can actually - engage with me, in a conversation, over the phone?" I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm over-tired, I guess. But I mean, come on.

Yes, sir.

"So what's up with all that automated phone tree crap?"

I am programmed to follow a particular set of protocols, in order to best address citizen concerns.

"Who wrote 'I think, therefore I am'"?

Rene Descartes, in part one of "Principals of Philosophy". Please explain the nature of your emergency.

"Right. And all that 'how may I help you' stuff, that doesn't bother -"

Sir, may I remind you that tying up the Agency's emergency hotline is a federal-

"Okay, okay," no reason to push it.

After I explained everything that happened this morning, AVI said I'm sure I'll be able to help you out with that today. Like I've never used that one, myself.

According to the research from the Agency's Temporal Division, the anomalies are incapable of the sort of effects you're stating.

"Well, it happened."

Back to automated recording-mode: You do realize that making changes to the existing timeline is a crime?

"What? Are you serious? It wasn't... me." The voice knew what I meant.

Would you please hold while I do some additional research into the matter?

Five; ten minutes pass. It was the Descartes thing. I swear - swear - I heard a change in his tone. The line comes alive:

Mr. Wyatt?

"Yo."

Thank you for holding. Because this is our first indication of a problem, I'm going to send a note to our Temporal Unit, for further research.

"So, what... is somebody going to contact me?"

Possibly, if there are any further questions.

"And... that's it?"

Unless you have anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Wyatt.

I don't know what got into me. It's been a weird, weird day. Time travel, sentient answering machines. I guess I just lost my head. "Yeah, all right, I'll tell you what else, AVI. You can get this into your 'practically intelligent' processors: I know that Lilywatt is in town, on assignment. And I know that Alton Vaig has to have something to do with it. Unless she meets me, tomorrow night at 11 p.m. - I'm going to go to the powerazzi with everything I know."

I give the address of the most out of the way bar I can think of, and slam down the phone. And that is that.

It was a risky move, for sure, acting like I know something I most definitely don't. But it was the only way to be sure that I could meet with Lilywatt, face to face, and get to the bottom of this.

Unless, of course, the Argo Jet is hovering above my apartment in a few hours, to take me away in handcuffs.

23. Note to Self...

So Gwen kept me on the ropes there for a while, left me wondering what, exactly, the other night amounted to. Sometimes, she'd smile and say hi when she walked past my desk. But other times, when she'd be chatting with her friends in the break room, no doubt engaging in one of those girly-girl conversations about who they're interested in, or breaking up with, or sleeping with on the side - the sort of times you'd really like a little encouragement - she'd barely acknowledge me at all.

Then, the other night, we had a dinner date to "talk some things over". It was mostly me, speaking over a plate of untouched linguine, listing off everything I've done wrong. Enough detail to show how seriously I was taking it, but not so much as to yank the scab from the wound altogether. She'd sort of help me along if she thought I was glossing over anything. It was annoying, but I suppose I owed her at least that.

When she mentioned Norah by name, I took it as my opportunity to bring up Mike. Which of course pissed her off, because we weren't together when she hooked up with him. Which meant more apologies from me. It was a risky move for someone in my position, but at least I got an answer to those lingering questions, i.e., did "The Deed", but no orgasm, and I didn't get the impression that they got around to anything too crazy. I figured on pressing for more details once we got back to the regularly scheduled arguing stage.

An hour or so, and we wound up back at my place... and That. Was. That.

And it's incredible, right? I mean, all of it. Secure, and solid, and sweet, just like you want a long-term relationship to feel; but also exciting, and new. Not like a brand-new relationship, but closer than I'd ever have gotten again, if we never broke up. We can't wait to see each other every day, and we don't care who knows. Which, of course, is everyone: Gwen's mom, my parents, even Team-Leader-Tim knows (and I swear if he doesn't stop with the "thumbs-up" crap every time I see him, I'm going to kick his ass.)

72 hours of happily ever after. Right up until work this morning...

_____________________________

The call volume has tapered off a little lately. Gwen's "Corporate Communications" would have you believe that our techs are getting a handle on the anomalies, but I sort of suspect our customers have given up trying.

I'm on a call with an angry cell phone customer, stranded out on 36. Her phone's been shut off for past due bills, so she can only dial 911, and us.

"...well, ma'am, I suppose if you really feel like it's an emergency, you could give them a call..."

That upset her: she's halfway through her diatribe when the sound of her voice starts to stretch into the telltale "warp" mode. I'm thinking, awesome; all these dropped calls have been a real boon for my "calls-per-hour" average.

Then it happens - before she even falls off altogether, the signal gets all choppy. Suddenly, the tube lighting above my workstation flickers. Stranger still, my computer screen goes all... wonky.

"...hear me now? Is this better? Who is this?" A male voice. Familiar.

"Uh, thank you for calling Vaig Communications, how may I help you?"

"Jesus, that's depressing. I'm trying a visual hack... are you getting it?"

I am; my desktop freezes, about a sixth of my screen is hijacked by a slow moving, streaming video image on some platform I've never seen before.

"Uh... what the hell's going on?" I try to pull my eyes away, to look around my desk for the camera that's capturing... me - displaying my face on the monitor.

"All right, Joel. Just listen to me." The voice is out-of-sync with his lips. My lips. "I don't have much time. I could get in big trouble for this. Unless you listen to me. I'm you..."

...Ten years in the future. He didn't even have to say it; somehow, I just knew.

I've always dreamt of this: a future me, traveling back in time to give myself advice, to help me avoid all those stupid mistakes I've made up to now. Like, preemptive retrospection. I hoped to keep off those last 10 pounds, figured maybe I'd have an eye patch... but, whatever.

"Why are you doing this?" I say, hovering close enough to the screen to block the image from anyone who happens by.

"Tell me now... are you back together with Gwen, or not?"

I tell him I am. "Damn it! Are you serious? She was right about the date." Then, with a grim smile, "She's always right."

"Wait... what is it? What's the problem?"

"Alright, just listen to me. You gotta get out of it. You can't be with Gwen."

I look up from my desk, to see if she's anywhere around. I laugh nervously, just because... what else can I do? "What are you taking about? Everything is great. Are you gonna tell me she's like, a super-villain or something?"

"Yeah, you wish." My 38 year-old eyes roll - am I really like this? "It's worse than that. The fights, man, about money, and sex, and everything. It sucks, sitting there in that chair, dealing with the constant calls, doesn't it? Well you can either heed my advice," he presses his face in close to the monitor, and I flinch back from mine, even though I doubt he can see me, "or you can get used to it. Just get up, tell Tim to fuck off - please - and move on."

He looks away. "Shit. She's coming. Just... trust me, okay?"

The image starts to "tile" as he calls off screen, "Yeah, almost done. Just hold on, alright?" One last plea, and the image starts to tile, finally disappearing altogether. Just as suddenly, Gwen is over my computer, outside of my cubicle.

"Hey, babe, you coming or what?"

"Yeah, almost done. Just hold..." I cringe.
___________________________

Even now, his last words before the call broke up ring in my ears. A prophecy. A curse.

"Hindsight is 20/20."

Yeah, and foresight is a bitch.

22. That Old Black Magic

Yesterday, magician and “mystical warrior” Dr. Hex cancelled all performances of his San Francisco stage show for the remainder of the week. Rumors are swirling that the good Doctor is in the midst of a deep trance (read: coma), his astral form engaged in psychic battle against some necromancing evildoer.

Is it just me, or do magic (okay, “magick” – yeesh) based powers seem like they'd be a real pain in the ass? Too unpredictable, no easily defined parameters. One day, Count Aeon nearly destroys Ultraphenomenon; the next, he’s taken down by an ancient artifact, readily available from an "ancient artifacts" exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. Something else I've never been able to get my meat-based mind around: is Dr. Hex’s witchcraft derived from the same source as Ms. Mage's Sumerian sorcery? If so, how come the latter can teleport, while the former has to levitate himself from location to location?

On the other hand - feeling the purplish-black bruise on my shoulder pulsate - the idea of a battle waged on some ethereal, non-physical plane sounds pretty good, right about now.

I've been feeling ambivalent about my own super-heroic aspirations, lately. I suppose staring down the glowing muzzle of a death ray will do that to a guy.

So I get to thinking: maybe my plain-old, vanilla life really isn't so bad after all. I like having my weekends off, and my free time all to myself. Besides, between "customer service agent" and "masked adventurer", there's a whole host of other career options that I haven't even considered yet. Right now, I've got an article about "bubble tea" shops that I'm passing around to a couple of different newsweeklies. If somebody picks that thing up, there's nothing I can't do.

These were the idle thoughts that were floating through my head as I sat at my desk - when Tim dropped his chubby paw down onto my shoulder. I flinched, but somehow managed to censor a string of expletives.

"What's up, buddy? You got a sunburn or something?"

"Yeah, I don't know. I think I maybe... pulled it at the gym." I reached under my shirt to sooth the discolored tendrils creeping off the edges of the wound.

"A couple drinks at happy hour tonight ought to ease the pain, huh? Are you in?"

For his 12 + years of dedicated service, Tim has been rewarded with an ill-defined promotion. He'll still be in the Denver office, but he'll be reporting directly to the corporate bigwigs. The whole thing will probably result in little more than a pay differential, and a few more of those shirts with the company logo embroidered on them. Nevertheless, he's been planning a party for himself all week.

I assured him that I would most definitely drop by. And I wasn't lying, either. After all, I overheard Gwen saying she would be there.
________________________________

The whole "happy hour with co-workers" thing is a mixed bag. It's probably a completely different experience if you're all architects, or, I don't know, a team of brain surgeons. But when you're a bunch of call center employees, with nothing more in common than the need for a paycheck, and the fact that you're unqualified to do anything else - the prospect of drinking margaritas with a group of complete strangers (more or less) can be a little jarring. At best, you'll be swapping war stories about the last time you were drunk (which for most of my coworkers was at the last happy hour we organized); at worst, you'll find out that the middle-aged woman who sits in the cubicle next to you, with the photocopied transcript of the "Our Father" hanging on her computer, is having an affair with her neighbor.

Even so, I actually managed to enjoy myself last night. Maybe I was just happy to connect with people over something completely trivial, to bask in the mundane, for a change. It's the only reason I can think of that I stayed until nearly everyone else took off.

Tim, Corrine, Gwen and I sat around a table at Benny's, our last pitcher of frozen margarita melting down to alcoholic Kool-Aid. The bussers swarmed around us, making a show of the fact that they were trying to clean up, but Tim just continued on with stories of his glory days as the lead singer of a heavy metal band. Finally, Gwen stood up.

"I better hit the bathroom before they kick us out of here."

Corrine grabbed her purse. "Wait up for me."

Tim smiled at them, all the way until the bathroom door shut. Then: "Okay, here's how this is gonna go. You offer to give Gwen a ride home, and then I can see if Corrine wants to come over to my place to hear some of my old recordings."

I fidgeted with the half-empty basket of chips on the table. "I can think of a couple reasons Gwen's not gonna go for that, not the least of which is the fact that I don't have a car."

"Oh, dude, you're killing me. Too bad for you..."

"What're you talking about?"

"Are you kidding? Please, I see the way you're always checking her out, man. You and Gwen have been a foregone conclusion since before you were on my team. It's totally obvious."

Totally. "Yeah, I don't know."

"Seriously; and I think she likes you, too."

The girls returned, saving me from continuing the awkward exchange. Corrine was trying to talk us in to finding a place for one last drink. I was actually considering it, but Gwen asked me if I'd be willing to walk her home.

A few quick goodbyes and a wink from Tim later, and I was pushing my bike alongside Gwen, through the quiet, weeknight streets of Capitol Hill.

"Thanks for walking with me, Joel. She was planning on staying the night at my place, which meant she might have invited him over..." she shuddered. "I'm surprised you made it as long as you did. I figured you'd be gone as soon as Tim brought up Jokester."

"Hey, who am I to question the Aurora Weekly's pick for best metal band of 1989?"

"I'm mean it. You seem different. More patient. Maybe even a little more serious."

I mulled that over for a minute. Ever since Lilywatt's comment, I've been thinking that maybe, deep down, the whole superhero thing was just a big joke, nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to my breakup with Gwen. Hearing that I've changed, and hearing it from her... it was weird.

I told her about Manitou Springs, the kaiju, about staring death right in the face. It was nice to couch it in terms other than "Whoa, that was so cool...", to have a sympathetic ear. But I stopped short of telling her the rest; the training, and Kyle, and the other night. I don't know, I'm just not ready for that, yet. But maybe I should've, instead of what I did say, as we stood outside her building.

"...so, I guess I have changed. I'm still changing. Thinking about what's really important. But some things will never change."

Nothing. She just continued digging for her keys, which meant I'd have to keep talking. "I don't expect this to change anything, of course. This isn't about that. But I want you to know, that I know I've made big, huge mistakes. But I still love you."

I didn't expect her to drop into my arms. I figured maybe surprise, or anger. Instead, she had a look that just sort of said "Uh huh."

"Uh huh," She said, "Well. That's sort of a problem, then."

"Oh. Is it?"

She was holding her keys, but didn't move for the door. "It's a problem, because if you didn't, I'd just have to figure out a way to deal with that. And if I felt differently, then I could be all smug and aloof about it, because I'm still feeling that vindictive. But as it is, now I know how you feel, and I've got to deal with the fact that I still don't know if I can trust you."

I would've told her she could, if it would have meant anything at all. Instead, I just said, "I'm sorry."

She leaned in and kissed me on my jaw, in that space right between my cheek and my neck. Just below my ear. Left side. And she said "Thank you".

She went to unlock the door, but stopped herself, turning back like she forgot something. She walked over to punch me on the shoulder - the bad one. Maybe a love pat, but still, there was some anger behind it. Then she went inside.

Ow.