Chapter 8

Roger gets some things done.

Ear pounding, headache inducing music filled the air in the laboratory room and moved through the ventilation shafts like blood through a circulatory system. It vibrated walls, shook windows, and violated every noise ordinance ever conceived by mankind. It was filled with screeching guitar solos and thumping double-pedaled drums and growling, guttural vocals that managed to be both unintelligible and threatening at the same time.

The door rattled on its hinges like it was going to jump out of its frame at any moment. Streak stood outside of it, watching the door as if it might suddenly grow fangs and bite her. Hesitantly, she raised her hand and knocked.

The only response was the continued quivering of the door as it was bombarded with the musical equivalent of a battering ram. She knocked again, louder this time. The wood quaked underneath her fist, and the vocals in the music rose from a low growl to a loud, hoarse shriek which made Streak’s skin crawl.

Streak raised her arm above her head and hammered on the door, making her knocks sound like one long, continuous drum roll. After a moment, the door swung open ominously and there, like a mad scientist emerging from a lab wherein took place untold blasphemous and inadvisable experiments, stood Roger.

He opened his mouth and said something, but Streak couldn’t hear him over the cacophonous din.

“What?” Streak shouted, and noticed that she couldn’t hear herself, either.

Roger said something again, then pursed his lips with an expression of minor irritation and turned around to go back into the room. Streak watched him walk to a marble counter, on which sat a ridiculously large boombox. He turned a dial on it and the music switched off, leaving a ringing in Streak’s ears.

“There we go,” said Roger. “Come on in.”

“Ranvier, I can explain-” started Streak, before he cut her off.

“Whaddaya think of my lab, eh?” He said, motioning around the room. “Pretty sweet, right?”

Streak looked around. There were desks, tables, and counters on practically every part of the floor, and every square inch of said items was covered in random odds and ends: dismantled electronics, deconstructed appliances, even rust-covered automobile parts. Every bit of spare space was filled in with bolts, screws, nuts, screwdrivers, wrenches, wires, and an assortment of other mechanical pieces. It was a mechanical engineer hoarder’s dream.

“It’s...crowded,” Streak said.

“I know, it’s great!” Roger said enthusiastically. “This is where I make all my gadgets! Well, a lot of my gadgets. I’ve got some other rooms like this in the lair. I’m still trying to sort everything that I pulled out of storage. I’ve been away for a long time, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Streak had not been aware of this at all, but she felt it was prudent not to comment on it. “What are you working on?” She hazarded.

Roger laughed. “More like what am I not working on! ‘Cause let me tell ya, I’ve got a lot cooking up in here.” He pointed to the side of his head. “I’ve got ray guns, ice guns, flamethrowers, guns that shoot ninja stars, guns that shoot knives, guns that shoot smaller guns that shoot knives, guns that shoot smaller guns that shoot knives that explode…”

Streak opened her mouth to interrupt, but Roger kept talking. “Over here I’ve got a device that lets you talk to plants, antigrav boots, extragrav boots, regular boots that are particularly stylish, a watch that is actually a hand grenade, a hand grenade that’s actually a watch, a hand grenade that actually is a hand grenade, a sonic wave emitter that makes people confused, a sonic wave emitter that makes people soil their pants...I call that one the ‘brown note box’,” he nudged Streak with his elbow and she thought he was done, but he continued on. “Then I’ve got some experimental battle armor, goggles that shoot laser beams, a helmet that gives dolphins the ability to communicate telepathically, a blender you can use to make smoothies, a pen that shoots venomous barbs, and a phone that has a malicious AI which calls all of your exes at three in the morning.”

Streak looked at him to see if he was finished.

“But at the moment, I’m working on an amplifier,” he said.

“Like for a guitar?”

Roger laughed again, and Streak felt that familiar feeling she got in his presence; like she was prey.

“No, no,” Roger said. “Although I do consider myself pretty good on the ol’ six string. What I’m making now,” he continued. “Is a power amplifier. Whatever you can do now, strap yourself into this baby and boom! Suddenly you’re a hundred times stronger than you were.”

“Cool,” said Streak, who was wondering what the point of all this was.

“You bet your a*s it’s cool,” Roger said. “Although it’s not very portable right now. It’s pretty much seventy pounds of wires, electrodes, and other s**t that just gets in the way. Not very useful for more intense applications.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Streak asked.

Roger flashed his perfect smile at her. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”

Streak balled her hands into fists. She had killed people for less than that.

“Instead,” Roger continued. “Let’s talk about the reason that I called you up here.”

Streak tensed up as Roger began to pace back and forth, his white leather shoes squeaking on the floor tiles.

“So, I broke you out of prison at great personal risk to myself,” Roger said, his tone becoming increasingly professorial. “I gave you one of my extremely expensive and incredibly hard to manufacture power pills, and let me tell you,” he added. “Super speed is an absolute b***h to make. Like, ten times harder than practically any other power. You have to get all the physiological s**t perfectly balanced, or else you take one step and your leg is across the room while the rest of you stays in place, and you’ve suddenly got the worst case of friction burns on your thighs. Anyway,” he smiled again. “I let you live in my super secret lair of awesomeness, I give you a very generous salary, I provide you with physical training and entertainment so you don’t get bored, and I only really ask one thing of you.”

Streak raised her hand to protest, and Roger continued to talk. “So not only have you not accomplished that thing that I asked you to do, you also decide to go out into the city without telling me and have a pissing contest with your little friend to see who’s better at running.”

“He slighted me!” Streak said loudly, unable to contain herself. “Nobody slights me and gets away with it!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, pump your brakes, kiddo,” Roger said, holding his hands up. “That attitude just isn’t healthy. You let all that anger build up inside you, it’s only gonna hurt you in the end.”

Streak looked at him incredulously.

“My therapist always said, ‘you have to rise above. Just let go of all those negative emotions, and you’ll be the best you that you can be’.”

This was the guy that she had been so afraid of? Right now he might as well have been talking about painting happy little trees, or organizing a group hug.

“If you’re feeling hurt and you need to vent, you go ahead and vent.”

Streak shook her head slightly. She must have been crazy to be intimidated by this clown.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” Roger said. “We’re gonna take a deep breath and count to ten. Okay?”

Streak narrowed her eyes. There were any number of sharp metal objects in this room, and she was exponentially faster than he was. It would be a piece of cake to kill him, and then she could take her money and be out of here in a matter of minutes with a new life, a small fortune, and a godlike super power.

“One,” Roger lowered the dark sunglasses that he always wore, revealing his disturbingly blue eyes. “Two.” Streak began to feel slightly air-headed. “Three.” Streak wanted to run, to get away as fast as possible, but she was glued to the spot. “Four.” She was having trouble thinking, as if someone had filled her head full of cotton balls. “Five. Six. Seven.” Streak counted along, her lips moving of their own accord. Ranvier’s eyes weren’t unsettling anymore; now they were beautiful, welcoming. “Eight. Nine.” Streak wondered why she had ever been uncomfortable around Roger. He was the nicest person she had ever met. “Ten.”

“Ten…” mumbled Streak, swaying slightly on her feet.

“Feel better?” Roger asked, the porcelain smile still invading his face.

“Mm-hm,” Streak said and tried to nod, but stopped when it felt like her head would fall off.

“Ok, so let’s take it down a notch. Go after Meteor again. I don’t have a lot confidence that you’ll get him, but hope springs eternal. First, though, I want you to find some people for me.” Ranvier held up two grainy pictures. The quality made them seem like they had been pulled from a CCTV recording. Ranvier held the pictures close to Streak’s face. The first was of a man, far away but not so much that she couldn’t tell that he was wearing a costume made entirely of garish blue fabric. The second was a little clearer, of a slender blonde woman wearing a horrible emo-like costume. “I want you to take Knuckle and Faultline and find these two. Bring them to me. Don’t hurt them, at least not much, and definitely don’t kill them. Just bring them here. Can you do that for me, pumpkin?”

Streak made an unintelligible noise of confirmation.

“Good!” Roger handed the picture to Streak and pulled away from her. “But first you’re gonna want to stop, drop, and roll, because you are just covered in flames.”

Streak felt her head clear and looked down as she felt a sudden, uncomfortable heat. Bright blue and green fire licked around her body, wreathing her legs and climbing her torso toward her face. She dropped to the ground, and her screams of panic and agony were barely audible over the noisy racket once again blaring from Roger’s boombox.

Thumpathumpathumpathumpa went the punching bag as Streak’s fists hammered it, sending little clouds of fabric and sand into the air. The white, sterile-looking room was silent except for the blows and her grunts of exertion.

With a little whoosh of inrushing air, the door behind her opened and Knuckle entered.

“Ainsley?” He said. “Me and Mary have been looking for you all over.”

“Go away, I’m training,” came the short reply.

“We was wondering if you wanted to have some subs. They’re Italian style.” He held up a little tray with sandwiches on it.

“Go away!”

“Are you okay? We haven’t seen you for a-”

“I’m fine! I said go away!”

Knuckle put his hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around. Grimy trails of mascara ran down her face, and her cheeks were flushed and puffy.

“Ainsley, what happened?” Knuckle asked.

“Nothing happened, I’m fine!” She said, violently wiping her nose with one forearm. “And the name isn’t Ainsley, it’s Streak!”

Knuckle glanced down at her fists. The sparring bandages wrapped around her hands were wet and stained crimson with blood. Despite his size and strength, Knuckle suddenly felt very afraid.

“We’ve got new orders,” Streak barked. “We get one more shot at those two losers. But before we bring in Meteor,” She punched one fist into her other hand, and Knuckle felt a small spatter of blood hit his face. “We have to track someone else down and bring them here.”

“What do we do if Meteor escapes again?” Knuckle asked.

“We’re going to get him!” Streak said angrily. In a movement too fast for Knuckle to follow, she swiped a sandwich from the tray and took a big bite. “And I’m going to kill Quickdraw.”

“This is him, huh? This is the guy?” Roger scratched the white stubble on the side of his face. He looked like he needed sleep.

Streak nodded and said nothing.

“Huh,” Roger said. He looked at the man tied to the chair. He was wearing  a pair of pajamas the color of bread mold and fuzzy white bunny slippers on his feet. His pajamas had little duckies on them. In the chair next to him was a woman wearing pajama shorts and a tank top.  “Ainsley, I could kiss you. I won’t, because I have a feeling you’re a biter, but I could. Now run along and play with your friends. I’ve got a little talking to do.”

Wordlessly, Streak left the room.

Roger grabbed the burlap sacks that were over their heads and whipped them off. Confused and a little battered, they blinked in the sudden harsh light. The man struggled against the zipties which bound his wrists to the arms of the chair.

“D-don’t...don’t kill me!” He stuttered.

“Oh god,” muttered the woman disgustedly.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay,” Roger reassured. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Please don’t kill me!” The other man pleaded.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, buddy,” Roger straightened up. “I just wanted to have a little chat with you guys, is all.”

The other man started to shake like a tree in a gale. He gasped in and out with shallow, ragged breaths.

“Come on, now you’re just embarrassing yourself.” Roger folded his arms across his chest.

Heaving sobs racked the man’s body. He stuttered and mumbled imploringly.

“Dude,” said Roger. He looked at the woman, who rolled her eyes and looked away in embarrassment.

“I...I can’t stop…” sobbed the man.

Roger drew his hand back and slapped the man across the face. The man stopped crying immediately, but the slap tipped his chair over and he fell onto the floor, his cheek squished against the tiles.

“Better?” Roger asked, amused.

“’Esh,” came the man’s muffled reply.

Roger took hold of one of the man’s arms and hauled him and the chair upright with a loud thump. “It’s DeLuge, right? You call yourself DeLuge?”

DeLuge nodded.

“And that’s your sidekick?” Roger gestured to the woman.

DeLuge nodded again.

“I understand you’ve been horning in on my game,” Roger said, dusting off his palms.

“What?” DeLuge asked. He had a ridiculous cowlick on the side of his combed-over hair.

“Meteor,” said Roger matter-of-factly. “You’ve been trying to get Meteor. That’s a problem because, you see, Meteor’s mine. So what gives?”

“I...I...I-I-I-I-” the DeLuge stammered, and started shaking again. Roger raised his hand for another slap, and DeLuge shouted “Wait!”

“I’m listening,” Roger said impatiently.

“That night...I was at the diner,” the DeLuge started.

“I knew it!” Roger crowed. “I knew your face looked familiar! You’re that chubby schmuck that knocked me on my a*s and stole two of my pills! And don’t think I didn’t notice.” Roger leaned down until their faces were inches apart. “I counted them.”

“I heard your conversation!” DeLuge explained hurriedly. “I wanted only to acquire Meteor and bring him to you before those three buffoons could! I assure you, I’m much smarter and more capable than they are!”

Roger stood up straight again, his arms crossed. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve always been powerless in life; just a nobody. But I knew I deserved so much more! I deserved fame, notoriety! Infamy, even! So when I overheard you talking that night, I knew it was my chance. I would find this Meteor and take him to you, and then I would reap the rewards.”

“How did you expect to find me?”

“Well, it couldn’t be all that difficult. You’re the famous Ranvier.”

Roger cocked an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Where do I start? You were responsible for the blackout that took half the city’s electricity in ‘56, and then there was the rampage of convicts through the streets in ‘59 which I know that you organized even though nobody could prove it, and then a year later there was the missile threat combined with the army of mutant mosquitoes...”

“Not my best work,” said Roger. “Mutant armored battle mosquitoes with weaponized ebola...like something out of a damn comic book.”

“Not to mention countless other deeds like the robot fighting ring and the underground casinos. And then of course, holding hostage the daughter of the president of Mexico in ‘64...which is when Meteor got you.”

Roger pursed his lips and said nothing.

“You’ve been in prison for eight years,” DeLuge said quietly. “I knew whoever brought you Meteor would be handsomely rewarded. You must want revenge terribly.”

“Oh, I want so much more than revenge…” Roger said. Holding his chin in his hand, he turned around a paced wordlessly for a few minutes. After that, he turned back to the man in the chair. “Okay. I was originally gonna kill you, but you’re off the hook.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt me?” DeLuge protested.

“It wouldn’t have hurt,” Roger said. “But now I have a new plan. Meteor has a sidekick. He’s fast, and he’s ruining my plans and distracting my star player. I want him dead.”

“You want me to kill a speedy?” DeLuge asked.

“He’s a huge pain in my a*s,” Roger said. “So is Meteor, but I can handle Meteor myself. Kill the sidekick.”

DeLuge looked uncertain. “How-”

“I don’t know,” said Roger. “Figure it out. I’ve got something that’s gonna make it easier for you, but you need to do it. Have your little lightning sidekick here kill him, hire someone to kill him, kill him yourself, I don’t care. Just do it. If you can bring me Meteor on top of that, that’s great, but priority numero uno is to ice the speedy. Capisci?”

“Capisci,” DeLuge agreed.

Roger sighed irritatedly. “Capisco,” he said. “It’s capisco. Tu capisci, Io capisco. I hate it when people get that wrong.”

DeLuge gave him a puzzled look, and Roger sighed again, pulled a knife out from his pockets, and deftly cut the zipties that bound DeLuge’s wrists.

“Just...have somebody show you out,” he said, walking away. “I need to get some food; I’m getting hangry.” He turned around suddenly and said in an off hand manner: “Oh, and if you tell anyone where this place is, I’ll have you kill each other, and then I’ll drop the survivor into the harbor with some concrete overshoes. Toodles.”

Teravolt and DeLuge exchanged a fearful look as the door closed with a heavy thud.

Author's Note

Improper Italian is one of Roger's pet peeves.