“So,” Flatfoot says. “You’re saying that you, and by ‘you’ you mean ‘me,’ were killed when Kid Flatfoot went rogue and tried to take over the city.”
Deadfoot nods. “Me and Synapse were the first to die.”
“That figures,” Blue Steel adds under his breath. Flatfoot, Teckstyle and Blue Steel are all camped outside of Deadfoot’s cell. Each is sitting on a metal chair, drinking coffee. Flatfoot’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. They’ve been here for a while.
“And you say you were…‘revived’ by Crey as a last ditch effort to save the city from him?” Flat asks.
“That’s right. And it worked. Kid Flatfoot was killed before the doomsday device could be activated, but not before most of the city was leveled in the process.”
“Sounds like quite an apocalyptic age,” Teck says, trying to stay awake. “Were there giant mutant-hunting robots too?”
“Finally! Someone remembers!” Deadfoot exclaims.
“Nope, I was just guessing there.”
“Right, anyway,” Flat says, rubbing his eyes. “Going with that, and the fact that you don’t seem to know about Lord Recluse and Arachnos…”
“Who’s Lord Recluse?” Deadfoot asks.
“Just the biggest villain since Sliced Bread Man almost killed Statesman in the 20s.”
“Sliced Bread Man?” Blue Steel asks Teck. The blaster only shrugs in response.
“AND the fact that Kid Flatfoot is still alive, despite the efforts of not a few villain groups,” Flat adds. “I’m going to guess that you’re not from around here.”
“What, you mean like another dimension?” Teck asks.
“Um. Yes. Yes, uh, that’s exactly what I mean. Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Flat says.
“Oh great, a dimensional fugitive,” Blue Steel groans. “Portal Corp. is gonna have a fit. The phone calls I’ll get…”
“Well then,” Teck says, standing up and stretching. “We take this guy over to Portal Corp. and let them figure out which gate to send him through and everybody’s happy.”
“It’ll take some time,” Blue Steel says. “Portal Corp.’s going to have to run some tests on him to figure out just which dimension’s his, and there’s no way after what he did that I’m letting him back on the streets.”
A few hours later, Tina Macintyre arrived with a team of scientists and conducted some tests on a suitably restrained Deadfoot. Now, in another room, she confers with Flat and Teck.
“Well, we’ve got very few guesses where he’s from,” she says. “Its very hard to do with non-living matter, and your friend in there is very much dead.”
“Then how’s he still moving, talking and being stupid?” Teck asks.
“Well, we found some kind of kinetic energy generator imbedded in his chest. It keeps pumping…something through him that’s keeping him active, but there’s no pulse, no heart rate.” She pauses to push up her glasses. “But whatever that energy is, it leaks out of him, making some kind of aura around him that’s tough to get past, that and, well, he keeps collecting it in his hands to attack his cell.”
“Great,” Flat says. “More pink glowy fists.”
“So he doesn’t know how he got here?” Teck asks.
Tina Macintyre shakes her head. “I took the liberty of looking up Flatfoot’s medical files for any insight, but all I could find is this.” She puts a file down on the table in front of Flat. “Apparently you have an acute allergy to quantum energy.”
“What? Get out,” Flat says, waving dismissively. “I’ve been hit plenty of times, always feel fine afterwards.”
“Its not quite like that. Your body has some kind of susceptibility to quantum energy. Not like Kheldians, they just fall over dead, but something different.” She pushes up her glasses again. “Whenever you get hit with it, it disrupts the space-time continuum for a brief instant, bringing down the boundaries between random dimensions. Who knows what could get through in those seconds.”
“And you think this Deadfoot came here that way?” Teck asks.
She nods. “If I were you, Flatfoot, I’d stay clear of anything carrying quantum weaponry, just in case you got hit.” Flat looks uncomfortable. “You’ve been hit before, haven’t you?”
Flat nods.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. After the fifth time I sort of lost count. I just felt a little dizziness and that was it.”
“Earlier you said you felt fine after being hit.”
“Well, I, er, embellished the truth in order to sound more manly and tough to impress people. Did it work?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Ms. Macintyre rubs her temples. “So there’s possibly any number of dimensional anomalies running around Paragon City, and we have no idea where they could be or who they are.”
“So this would be the point where you give us a gadget to help find these dupes?” Teck asks hopefully.
“No,” Macintyre says. “We still need to lock down the energy signature on Deadfoot and run it through our database of possible realities. The Zig’s the only place capable of holding him until we can get that finished. Until then, keep your eyes open.”
Thursday, February 7, 2008
20 - Are You Not Entertained?!
Deep inside an abandoned warehouse, somewhere in Paragon City, the sounds of movement are heard. A door slides open and three Outcasts enter, holding baseball bats and knives. They look around, and wait.
Across the room, another door slides open and three trolls enter the room, then stand in a line, and glare at the outcasts.
Then, as if on cue, the Outcasts all begin snapping their fingers rhythmically and start forward. The Trolls, after a few false starts, manage to do the same. The two gangs start circling each other.
“When you a troll, yeah you troll, uh…don’t you know,” says a Caliban.
“Get cool, crazy boy,” an Outcast says to a blue comrade, who nods and starts flinging ice at the Trolls. Then the two gangs rush at each other, stabbing and dodging, all while still snapping their fingers in time…
“That was awesome!” Teckstyle says, raising his arms in triumph. “I still can’t believe they agreed to it.”
“Hmp,” Flatfoot grumbles. “Only because you won.” The Outcasts didn’t do as well as he’d hoped.
“Oh, what are you complaining about? It was your idea.”
Flat frowns for a moment. “Rematch!”
“What?”
“I said rematch. Council vs. Freakshow. Let’s go. I pick Council.”
“All right, your funeral,” Teck says.
“Not this time, buddy,” Flat says. “Bismark finally came back from…well wherever it is he was. I’m entering him, and another warwolf I saved from the kennel.”
“Wait, you’ve got two warwolves now?” Teck asks.
“Yeah. The one in the black fur and brown shorts is Garibaldi.”
“You’ve named your warwolves after 19th Century European nationalists?”
Flatfoot shrugs. “I figure if I get a third I’ll call him Disrali, although that one’s a bit of a stretch since he was 18th Century.” The scrapper’s phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says, answering it. “Hello?…Yes…Yes, that’s right…No…Never heard of that…All right, fine, be that way!”
“Who was that?” Teckstyle asks.
“It was the Commissioner. He says they’ve got someone in custody that was impersonating me and want us to come down to the station to talk to him. Guess Garibaldi doesn’t get to taste Freakshow blood today after all.”
Down at the station, Flatfoot and Teckstyle are following Blue Steel down a corridor to the holding cells.
“And this guy just showed up in Talos using excessive force and saying he was Flatfoot, but died and became Deadfoot. It took five whole SWAT teams to hold him down long enough for Citadel to clock him,” Steel says, handing Flat a data folder. “We’ve been keeping him under a protective force field until we can process him at the Zig.”
The three walk up to a cell, where Deadfoot is busy hammering away at the force field surrounding him with his fists.
“Give it up, Dead,” Steel says. “You’re only wasting your breath.”
“Ha, that’s where I’ve got you!” Deadfoot says, taking a pause from his pummeling. “I stopped breathing years ago! Wait, who’s this?” he asks, seeing Flatfoot. “Ohhh. Real slick, Nemesis. Digging out my old costume and putting it on one of your automatons and sending it over to mess with me.”
“What’s he talking about?” Teck asks.
“We were hoping you’d know.” Blue Steel answers.
Flat stares at Deadfoot. “Its not an old costume, I just bought a new mask. Who are you?”
“I’m you! Well, I mean, me. You’re the one who looks like me, only not, since you’re wearing my old outfit, from back when I was alive,” Deadfoot says.
“He sounds like you,” Teck says.
“Look buddy,” Flat says. “I think if I were dead, I’d be the first to know about it.”
“Great,” Teck says. “First Kid Flatfoot, now this.”
“Kid Flatfoot?” Deadfoot asks. “What’d your sidekick say about Kid Flatfoot?”
“Sidekick!? Why you!!” Teck shouts, lunging for the cell, only to be stopped by the force field.
“Kid Flatfoot, some kid who tries to hang out with me all the time, thinks he’s my sidekick. Why do you care?”
“Because Kid Flatfoot’s the man who killed me!!”
Across the room, another door slides open and three trolls enter the room, then stand in a line, and glare at the outcasts.
Then, as if on cue, the Outcasts all begin snapping their fingers rhythmically and start forward. The Trolls, after a few false starts, manage to do the same. The two gangs start circling each other.
“When you a troll, yeah you troll, uh…don’t you know,” says a Caliban.
“Get cool, crazy boy,” an Outcast says to a blue comrade, who nods and starts flinging ice at the Trolls. Then the two gangs rush at each other, stabbing and dodging, all while still snapping their fingers in time…
“That was awesome!” Teckstyle says, raising his arms in triumph. “I still can’t believe they agreed to it.”
“Hmp,” Flatfoot grumbles. “Only because you won.” The Outcasts didn’t do as well as he’d hoped.
“Oh, what are you complaining about? It was your idea.”
Flat frowns for a moment. “Rematch!”
“What?”
“I said rematch. Council vs. Freakshow. Let’s go. I pick Council.”
“All right, your funeral,” Teck says.
“Not this time, buddy,” Flat says. “Bismark finally came back from…well wherever it is he was. I’m entering him, and another warwolf I saved from the kennel.”
“Wait, you’ve got two warwolves now?” Teck asks.
“Yeah. The one in the black fur and brown shorts is Garibaldi.”
“You’ve named your warwolves after 19th Century European nationalists?”
Flatfoot shrugs. “I figure if I get a third I’ll call him Disrali, although that one’s a bit of a stretch since he was 18th Century.” The scrapper’s phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says, answering it. “Hello?…Yes…Yes, that’s right…No…Never heard of that…All right, fine, be that way!”
“Who was that?” Teckstyle asks.
“It was the Commissioner. He says they’ve got someone in custody that was impersonating me and want us to come down to the station to talk to him. Guess Garibaldi doesn’t get to taste Freakshow blood today after all.”
Down at the station, Flatfoot and Teckstyle are following Blue Steel down a corridor to the holding cells.
“And this guy just showed up in Talos using excessive force and saying he was Flatfoot, but died and became Deadfoot. It took five whole SWAT teams to hold him down long enough for Citadel to clock him,” Steel says, handing Flat a data folder. “We’ve been keeping him under a protective force field until we can process him at the Zig.”
The three walk up to a cell, where Deadfoot is busy hammering away at the force field surrounding him with his fists.
“Give it up, Dead,” Steel says. “You’re only wasting your breath.”
“Ha, that’s where I’ve got you!” Deadfoot says, taking a pause from his pummeling. “I stopped breathing years ago! Wait, who’s this?” he asks, seeing Flatfoot. “Ohhh. Real slick, Nemesis. Digging out my old costume and putting it on one of your automatons and sending it over to mess with me.”
“What’s he talking about?” Teck asks.
“We were hoping you’d know.” Blue Steel answers.
Flat stares at Deadfoot. “Its not an old costume, I just bought a new mask. Who are you?”
“I’m you! Well, I mean, me. You’re the one who looks like me, only not, since you’re wearing my old outfit, from back when I was alive,” Deadfoot says.
“He sounds like you,” Teck says.
“Look buddy,” Flat says. “I think if I were dead, I’d be the first to know about it.”
“Great,” Teck says. “First Kid Flatfoot, now this.”
“Kid Flatfoot?” Deadfoot asks. “What’d your sidekick say about Kid Flatfoot?”
“Sidekick!? Why you!!” Teck shouts, lunging for the cell, only to be stopped by the force field.
“Kid Flatfoot, some kid who tries to hang out with me all the time, thinks he’s my sidekick. Why do you care?”
“Because Kid Flatfoot’s the man who killed me!!”
19 - Outsourcing
A warehouse in Independence Port shakes with the sounds of battle. A Tsoo sorcerer crashes through the loading doors and lands near the street. Teckstyle steps out, armored fists glowing.
“How’d you do that?” Flatfoot asks. “I mean, you just jumped up and then walloped the guy.”
“I can focus the energy of my suit into a concentrated aura around my fists and hit stuff with it,” Teck says.
“Ah,” Flat says, thinking. “So…is that why it looks different than your ranged attacks?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well when you shoot people, its…blue.”
“Right.”
“And when you punch people, its…pink.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“What’s up with that? Why the two colors?”
“Well, see, when I fire off blasts of energy, the air cools them down somewhat, and that’s why they look blue, and when I focus them around me, it glows, er, pink with the heat.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Flat says.
“Boy there sure were a lot of Tsoo in that warehouse, weren’t there?” Teck asks, changing the subject.
“…Yeah. It was one of their safe houses.” The scrapper shakes his head. “Man, there were more tattoos in there than the city of Sturgis has ever seen.”
“What?”
“They hold an annual biker rally? Bikers have…ah, forget it,” Flat says, shaking his head again. “They sure didn’t take well to the destruction of their priceless ancient relics.”
“Was it me who set them up on undersized pedestals without Plexiglas?” Teck asks. “No it was not. They’ve only got themselves to blame. By the way, what was going on with you and those ninjas?”
“Oh that? We were trading insults,” Flat says.
“You weren’t saying anything.”
“Ah,” Flat says, pressing his hands together wisely. “We were speaking the language of violence.”
“The what of the what?”
“It is an ancient way of communicating much older than spoken words. Hitting someone with a rock is the equivalent of hello, only without bothering about syllables and spelling.”
“…And you learned this where?”
“I had a ninja for a roommate for a while.”
“And he…taught it to you?”
“Nah,” Flat says. “We didn’t get along very well. I cribbed some of his notes when he wasn’t around though.”
“And…this ninja. What happened to him?” Teck asks.
“Oh, he failed to assassinate the head of a zaibatsu and had to commit seppuku.”
“You don’t say.”
“Made a hell of a mess too. I had to get new a new carpet after that. Man, that rug really tied the room together, too.” Flat says. “Well, that’s my ninja story.”
“Hey, wait,” Teck interrupts. “I just realized something. Aren’t ninjas Japanese?”
“Yeah.”
“But I thought the Tsoo were Chinese. Where’d they get the ninjas?”
“Outsourcing, maybe? It is a global economy after all. Trained ninjas are a valuable commodity in today’s crime syndicate world. I mean, I’d want some.”
“What’re you going to do with ninjas?” Teck demands. “I mean, other than speak your made up language?”
“Well…They could help with…chores and…if I ever wanted to learn Bridge, I’d have a team ready to go. Things of that nature.”
A shuriken flies past the two and imbeds itself in a wall. A group of Ink Men materialize out of the shadows.
“Look out, more of them!” Teck says, blasting at one of them.
“Their tattoos are moving…” Flat says, staring.
“Yeah, I know, they’re magical,” Teck says. “Now give me a hand!”
“Its like a screen saver…The one with the pipes…”
“All right, fine, be that way. I’ll take them myself.”
One zone away, a black and yellow clad figure stalks the streets of Talos Island. From the shadows, he sees a gang of Freakshow beating up a pair of cowering warriors.
A pair of glowing fists illuminate the alley next to the gangers. “Hiya boys, see these two glowing fists about to knock your teeth out? I call ‘em the molar express.” The figure then leaps out at the surprised Freakshow.
In the ensuing fracas, the warriors manage to beat a hasty retreat while the Freakshow aren’t so lucky. A crowd of horrified onlookers gathers, including some law enforcement members.
“What-what did you do to them?” a SWAT member yells. “You-you…brute you!”
“Yeah, that’s great, you’re welcome and everything,” the man in black says, tossing aside the remnants of a Swiper’s arm. “Look, screaming SWAT guy, why don’t you go call in a paddy wagon for these guys, ok? Or a garbage truck.” He turns and addresses the crowd. “All right people, I’ve got some bad news for you. The Flatfoot you’ve all known and loved is dead.” A few gasps are drowned out by people asking ‘who?’ “But the good news is, even in death I still serve the citizens of Paragon City, just call me Deadfoot from now on and we’ll get along fine.”
A few more police officers have gathered around, talking with themselves.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” one officer says. “Flatfoot just phoned in to a contact reporting another completed job, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us…”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Deadfoot asks. “I’ve saved this city more times than I can count. I gave my life for Paragon!! Is everyone here crazy? Did Nemesis work some kind of mind control mojo?!”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable answer for this, but you’ll have to come down to the station…”
Deadfoot readies himself for combat. “Oh, Nemesis is gonna get it for turnin’ this town against me. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t be responsible if you leave me no choice!”
Soon, the stranger known as Deadfoot is covered in pile of police officers, but manages to throw them off. Just as quickly they pile on again.
“I don’t care! Anyone! Some police drones or something!” An officer yells into a walkie-talkie. A few more police are flung past him. “Better send Citadel too, just to make sure.”
“How’d you do that?” Flatfoot asks. “I mean, you just jumped up and then walloped the guy.”
“I can focus the energy of my suit into a concentrated aura around my fists and hit stuff with it,” Teck says.
“Ah,” Flat says, thinking. “So…is that why it looks different than your ranged attacks?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well when you shoot people, its…blue.”
“Right.”
“And when you punch people, its…pink.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“What’s up with that? Why the two colors?”
“Well, see, when I fire off blasts of energy, the air cools them down somewhat, and that’s why they look blue, and when I focus them around me, it glows, er, pink with the heat.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Flat says.
“Boy there sure were a lot of Tsoo in that warehouse, weren’t there?” Teck asks, changing the subject.
“…Yeah. It was one of their safe houses.” The scrapper shakes his head. “Man, there were more tattoos in there than the city of Sturgis has ever seen.”
“What?”
“They hold an annual biker rally? Bikers have…ah, forget it,” Flat says, shaking his head again. “They sure didn’t take well to the destruction of their priceless ancient relics.”
“Was it me who set them up on undersized pedestals without Plexiglas?” Teck asks. “No it was not. They’ve only got themselves to blame. By the way, what was going on with you and those ninjas?”
“Oh that? We were trading insults,” Flat says.
“You weren’t saying anything.”
“Ah,” Flat says, pressing his hands together wisely. “We were speaking the language of violence.”
“The what of the what?”
“It is an ancient way of communicating much older than spoken words. Hitting someone with a rock is the equivalent of hello, only without bothering about syllables and spelling.”
“…And you learned this where?”
“I had a ninja for a roommate for a while.”
“And he…taught it to you?”
“Nah,” Flat says. “We didn’t get along very well. I cribbed some of his notes when he wasn’t around though.”
“And…this ninja. What happened to him?” Teck asks.
“Oh, he failed to assassinate the head of a zaibatsu and had to commit seppuku.”
“You don’t say.”
“Made a hell of a mess too. I had to get new a new carpet after that. Man, that rug really tied the room together, too.” Flat says. “Well, that’s my ninja story.”
“Hey, wait,” Teck interrupts. “I just realized something. Aren’t ninjas Japanese?”
“Yeah.”
“But I thought the Tsoo were Chinese. Where’d they get the ninjas?”
“Outsourcing, maybe? It is a global economy after all. Trained ninjas are a valuable commodity in today’s crime syndicate world. I mean, I’d want some.”
“What’re you going to do with ninjas?” Teck demands. “I mean, other than speak your made up language?”
“Well…They could help with…chores and…if I ever wanted to learn Bridge, I’d have a team ready to go. Things of that nature.”
A shuriken flies past the two and imbeds itself in a wall. A group of Ink Men materialize out of the shadows.
“Look out, more of them!” Teck says, blasting at one of them.
“Their tattoos are moving…” Flat says, staring.
“Yeah, I know, they’re magical,” Teck says. “Now give me a hand!”
“Its like a screen saver…The one with the pipes…”
“All right, fine, be that way. I’ll take them myself.”
One zone away, a black and yellow clad figure stalks the streets of Talos Island. From the shadows, he sees a gang of Freakshow beating up a pair of cowering warriors.
A pair of glowing fists illuminate the alley next to the gangers. “Hiya boys, see these two glowing fists about to knock your teeth out? I call ‘em the molar express.” The figure then leaps out at the surprised Freakshow.
In the ensuing fracas, the warriors manage to beat a hasty retreat while the Freakshow aren’t so lucky. A crowd of horrified onlookers gathers, including some law enforcement members.
“What-what did you do to them?” a SWAT member yells. “You-you…brute you!”
“Yeah, that’s great, you’re welcome and everything,” the man in black says, tossing aside the remnants of a Swiper’s arm. “Look, screaming SWAT guy, why don’t you go call in a paddy wagon for these guys, ok? Or a garbage truck.” He turns and addresses the crowd. “All right people, I’ve got some bad news for you. The Flatfoot you’ve all known and loved is dead.” A few gasps are drowned out by people asking ‘who?’ “But the good news is, even in death I still serve the citizens of Paragon City, just call me Deadfoot from now on and we’ll get along fine.”
A few more police officers have gathered around, talking with themselves.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” one officer says. “Flatfoot just phoned in to a contact reporting another completed job, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us…”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Deadfoot asks. “I’ve saved this city more times than I can count. I gave my life for Paragon!! Is everyone here crazy? Did Nemesis work some kind of mind control mojo?!”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable answer for this, but you’ll have to come down to the station…”
Deadfoot readies himself for combat. “Oh, Nemesis is gonna get it for turnin’ this town against me. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t be responsible if you leave me no choice!”
Soon, the stranger known as Deadfoot is covered in pile of police officers, but manages to throw them off. Just as quickly they pile on again.
“I don’t care! Anyone! Some police drones or something!” An officer yells into a walkie-talkie. A few more police are flung past him. “Better send Citadel too, just to make sure.”
18 - No Baby, You're Money
“So…what’re you gonna do with that jetpack?” Teckstyle asks.
Flatfoot is seated on a rooftop overlooking Peregrine Island. He’s currently cradling it like a child. “I will love it, and pet it, and call it George.”
“Right, you do that, just-just in your own free time, ok?” Teck says uncomfortably. “Focus on the job at hand.”
“You know,” Flat says, looking up from cooing at the jetpack. “This isn’t what I imagined when I signed onto this gig.”
“What do you mean?”
“Its just…well, stakeouts just seem beneath heroes of our caliber,” Flat says. “I mean, we teamed up with Santa. I’d say that qualifies us for the big leagues. This seems like a job for a brooding vigilante with daddy issues.”
“You’re just being impatient,” Teck says.
“Easy for you to say, you’ve got Pong in your helmet.”
“And now I’ve got the entire library of Atari games, thanks to the big S,” Teck says smugly. “Came with the helmet.”
“Get out of here.”
“I’m serious. I’m scrolling through the library now. Oh wow, its even got Custer’s Revenge and E.T.”
“You’re not well, Teck,” Flat says, scooting away a few feet. “Seen any Carnies yet?”
“Not yet. It weird, usually they like recruiting in this neighborhood.”
“Yeah, about those Carnies. They don’t look like any I’ve ever seen before.”
“Ah,” Teck says. “You mean gap-toothed, misshapen mutants with mysterious stains on their clothes? Those are the strongmen.”
“I guess. Those masks give me the willies,” Flat says, shuddering.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Teck says, pointing down to an alley where a Master Illusionist hovers in the shadows. “Found one.”
“Though I gotta admit, that whole jester thing they’ve got going is pretty hot,” Flat says. “Does that make me some kind of freak?”
“No baby, you’re money.”
“You think I should go down there?”
“Whoa, hold on there. If you’re gonna go down there, I don’t want you going over there like the superheroes you see in the movies, like the guys who always ask nicely and say things like “for the good of the city.” That never works. I want you to go over there and be like the supervillains you see in the movies. I want you to go over there like you’re trying to conquer the earth like you’ve got a doomsday death laser and you ain’t afraid to use it.” Teck pats Flat on the shoulder pads. “You’re a bad man, a bad man.”
“Right,” Flat says, strapping on the jetpack and leaping into the air. He gets a few feet away from the building when the pack beeps and a digitized feminine voice says “Batteries low.”
The scrapper drops like a rock to the city streets below. Flat desperately pumps his legs at inhuman speed, trying to slow his fall. It doesn’t, but he manages to get his feet close to the wall of the building. By some miracle, he gets some traction and grins. Flat speeds up, dodging ledges and windows on his way to the ground.
“Slick,” Teckstyle says approvingly, watching this from above. Flat can’t hear him from all the wind rushing past his ears. As he reaches street level, Flat touches down in the alley, but a miscalculation in his speed doesn’t slow him down enough when he gets there and he streaks across the alley and up the wall of the next building. A few seconds later, Flat’s speed has gone down enough that gravity does the rest, and he crashes into a pile of garbage bags.
Flatfoot stands up and dusts himself off. He turns around to stare directly into the mask of the Illusionist. He jumps a little, but rallies. “Hi. What’s a nice lady like you doing in Peregrine Island?”
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Um. Super speed, heightened reflexes, that sort of thing.”
“No. I mean what do you do?”
“Oh. That. I’m an…archvillain. Yeah. Truth and justice can suck it,” Flat says.
“You look familiar…” the Illusionist says slowly.
“No way, I guarantee I’m new in town. I’m, uh, from another dimension. In space. And I want to conquer the world. Definitely want to do that.”
“What’s your faction?”
“The, uh, let’s see. The-” Think, Flat! Think! You’re a member of the Bikini Patrol, come up with something opposite of that! “The…Panty…Raiders. We’re new. Want to conquer the world. From space.” Flat winces.
“Oh that’s right!” the Illusionist says, recognition in her voice. “You already told me that the first time you met me!”
“Oh, well that’s--what?”
The Master Illusionist slaps him across the face. “And you haven’t called all week! I’ve been waiting by the phone day and night, but you never even remembered my name, I’ll bet!”
“N-no way lady, I’m totally new in town. Brand new. I’ve never met you.”
“Don’t play dumb with me Deadfoot! Changing your costume isn’t going to fool me!” The Illusionist hovers higher and begins casting phantoms.
All Teck can see from his perch are a few bright flashes of light, followed by an “Aaarrrgh!” He shakes his head and flies down. There’s no sign of Flatfoot in the alley. “Flat?” Teck asks.
“Mmmmphh!” The sound comes from a trashcan against a wall. Teck goes over to it and lifts the lid.
“So how’d it go?”
“She thought I met her already! And that my name was Deadfoot! Then I got beat up by illusions.”
“No shame in that…” Teck says, trying to brighten things up.
“Teck, I was beaten up by things that aren’t even real!”
Teckstyle grabs the handles of the trashcan and starts to fly away. “Come on, let’s get you back to base. I’m sure someone’s got a welding torch or the jaws of life or something.”
“This is degrading.”
“Quiet you, or I put the lid back on.”
Elsewhere, in a modest house in the suburbs, a man pulls a car into his garage and shuts the engine down. Its late at night, and he tries to wrestle a large bag out of his trunk as quietly as possible. Not with much success. He manages to carry the bag into the house and is stopped in the kitchen when the light flicks on.
“And what are you doing out this late at night?” his wife demands.
“Nothing, dear,” he says.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing…” he says.
The wife glares at him.
“Its just some RC car parts!”
She shakes her head. “You and your stupid toys.
The man begins carrying the bag down to the basement. “You’ll see, my dear. One day, you’ll see just what these stupid little toys can do!”
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