Project Northwoods (4 page)

“Do you know why I’m called the Lord of Justice?” Arbiter held his hand out, palm down, and Desecrator’s body seized rigid before convulsing. The hero watched Desecrator’s eyes bulge and water, his optical nerves now reprogrammed to process pain more than sight. Motes slowly lifted free of the earth and wafted against the force of gravity. He grunted and gasped in front of Arbiter, swallowing his urge to scream.

“Or why I take my name from a judicator?” Arbiter asked calmly, firmly, knowing his voice cut through the torment ripping through his foe. Desecrator’s eyes locked onto the hero as the blood vessels within popped, drowning the blue in deep red wells. Arbiter circled the paralyzed form predatorily. “My power… to return the pain inflicted on me ten times on the owner. Your nerves are burning with the same blows you dealt me, even wrapped in your tin can. You should have run. Pain has a time limit, especially for someone such as myself.”

The war criminal’s silence remained resolute, infuriating the hero. Arbiter released his hold, allowing the other man to go lax for a moment before leaping at him. With a shattering uppercut, the body went airborne. Spurred by adrenaline and the natural rush of using his power, Arbiter flung a vicious series of blows about Desecrator’s form, keeping him aloft as each strike hammered home.

He arched back, reeling his fist for one final, knockout punch. Arbiter growled, focusing his Bestowed ability into his tightened hand, preparing to give one final blast of nerve-searing pain to Desecrator. “
Judgement
!” he roared as his hand surged forward, exploding into the other man’s chest. The blond super-soldier was thrown away from Arbiter and into a ruined storefront, throwing up a blinding cloud of dust.

Gasping for air, Arbiter became dimly aware of the newfound silence. He took a step toward the prone form of Desecrator and stumbled, failing to catch himself until he fell to his knees. With a great deal of effort, he rose to his feet and limped forward. No amount of healing in the world could stop Arbiter’s nerve endings from throbbing after the brutality of the past hours.

Each scuff of gravel beneath his feet sounded like a peal of thunder. The few figures appearing from the settling dust were silent, staring without comment as he strode through the street. Their ghostly forms did not approach for fear that this was a mere ruse, and the terror would resume in a moment.

In the time it took for Arbiter to reach Desecrator, the latter did not move. Arbiter, the remaining strands of his cape fluttering in the wind, prodded the form with his foot. Desecrator slumped to his side, eyes staring and blood dribbling from his mouth. His chest did not move, his thick neck did not pulse with life.

One of the greatest fiends of all time, the man who Roosevelt described as ‘irredeemable’, was dead, killed by Arbiter, Lord of Justice. His heartbeat would have quickened if the adrenaline in his system hadn’t stopped flowing. Falling to his knees, Arbiter looked up at the sky, suddenly blinded by its brilliance. He fell backward, welcomed by the darkness.

TALIA

June 17
th
, 2011

Morning

THE MOVIE THEATER,
abuzz with hushed voices, was surprisingly still. Bodies reclined in the rows of seats as conversation hovered around the topics of lunch and whether or not the guest would show. Two chairs, trapped in the overlap of numerous lights, were vacant of their intended hosts. The theater itself was merely rented for the time, deemed the most suitable location for an interview dealing with an actor and his newest movie. The older style allowed for the use of the aisle between the back row and the rear wall, a large space useful for the tangle of wires to go un-tripped. Occasionally, a grip would double-check his work and make sure the cords were appropriately taped down before returning to the ongoing discussion in the aisles. Everything had been set up in an hour, and that was rapidly approaching three hours ago. The hum of voices grew decidedly more resentful to any target of opportunity.

A lone woman in a tailor-made charcoal business suit sat in a folding chair, ankles crossed. Green eyes flitted listlessly over nothing as she took a long drag off a cigarette. Her bright-red lipstick dazzled against her pale skin. A strand of brown hair fell across her face, her disregard of its presence betraying her mental absence from anything around her.

A shadow appeared in her peripheral vision, distracting her from her daydreaming. She looked upward and cocked an eyebrow. The man, the new assistant her employer had provided, sheepishly handed her a stack of note cards. “More questions from the producer, Talia… I mean, Miss Illyanovich.”

Talia caught the stray bit of hair across her cheek and swept it behind her ear. She took another pull from the cigarette, drawing the burning ember closer to the filter. Reaching with her free hand, she took the cards and set them on her lap. Her assistant stood, awkwardly, as she swiveled in the chair, shaking her head in annoyance.

“This,” she announced as she threw down the cards on a nearby table, “is utter crap.” The drawl of her Russian accent, in combination with her disappointment, made the man take a step backward. “What does he honestly expect if he gives me garbage like this to work with?” She looked up at her assistant, examining him. He gave a little jerk as though resenting his appearance as she scrutinized him.

The scrawny man wore a short-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans. Poorly dyed blond hair betrayed his brunette roots, and patches of stubble dirtied his face. Dull azure eyes peeked out from what amounted to a mishmash of fairly nondescript features. After a moment, he started to say something before faltering. He scratched nervously at his hair. “Do you want me to call the producer? I think there’s time to get it changed.”

Before she could stop him, he reached for his cell phone, a task made more difficult by his refusal to drop the clipboard he was holding. Talia placed her hand gently on his wrist, the act of pacification seeming to send a jolt through his body. “What’s your name?”

“Me?” he asked with a startling amount of shock.

“No, your clipboard.” She took her hand away and gave him a sideways stare as she took another drag of her smoke. He made eye contact, albeit briefly, before returning his gaze to the floor. Talia rolled her eyes.

“James. James Pomroy.”

Talia offered a smile, mostly as a conciliatory gesture. “James…”

He cut her off. “B-but my official villain name is Flea.” She stared at him. “So… you can call me that if you want.” She continued to stare. He fidgeted nervously. “I jump really far.”

“Thrilling.” She spun in her chair, grabbing the cards off the table before standing up. She gestured with them, pointing a corner at James’s chest. “James, I take it you’ve seen me interview?”

He smiled at this, a question he could answer honestly and suck up with at the same time. “Of course, Tal… Miss Illyanovich. You’re…” He trailed off, an almost-dreamy smile on his face. “There’s no words to describe it.”

Talia smiled insincerely, a look bordering on openly hostile. “I believe the popular phrase is ‘a bit bitchy’.”

James pursed his lips before opening his mouth and working it around words unspoken. Clearly, he had anticipated neither her brashness nor contradiction. “I wouldn’t…”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” She put the cigarette lovingly in her mouth and inhaled. Making sure to exhale away from James, she plucked the cylinder from her lips and shook her head. “You don’t hang out very much with anyone but other villains, do you?”

James shook his head. “My second cousin is a hero… but he’s no longer invited to Thanksgiving.”

“The reaction to my personality outside of my fans is… tepid… at best.” Without warning, she moved toward a table set with what remained of the pastries and a slurry of black grit someone had once convinced others was coffee. She glared disapprovingly at the sight. She continued onward, knowing full well that James followed her like a loyal mutt. “The reason my interviews are so favorable with villains and so poorly received elsewhere is because the producer… for better or worse… knows how to push people’s buttons.” She turned to face James and the man jumped in place.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I don’t like liars, James. These questions,” she gestured with the note cards for effect, “are precisely the garbage which allows them to set up their own versions of the truth and think they can get away with some great PR stunt.” She sighed. “And if it were anyone else, they’d smile and let them get away with it.” Talia shrugged. “Water?”

She stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and walked toward another table where half consumed bottles mingled among the unopened. Talia picked a fresh one and tossed it to James. Her assistant didn’t notice as it sailed past him. “No offense, but why would anyone want to be interviewed by you, then?”

Twisting the cap off a bottle, she smiled wryly. “What can I say?” She brought the bottle up to her lips and snagged the almost finished cig with her free hand. “I’m famous.”

James watched her drink for a moment before gesturing to the smoking stick releasing curling wisps of miasma. “Those things will kill you, ma’am.” Talia laughed, the sound of which immediately made James feel incredibly sheepish. “Why are you laughing?”

She threw the empty bottle in a nearby trash bin and strode toward him. “Don’t give me advice.”

“Well, I mean, cancer is always worse…”

She patted him on the chest. “Don’t worry.” Talia showed him the cigarette, whole and free of embers. “It’s not even lit.” Depositing it in an interior jacket pocket, she brushed past him as his mouth worked silently for a moment.

“Bu…”

“Alright, people!” she yelled, cutting him off. Everyone stopped and gave her their full attention. “If this chump doesn’t show up in five, we’re striking. I have to get back to the station at some point today.” Murmurs of understanding broke out.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” James interjected.

“And if you were paid to think, that would mean something.” He shuffled backward before clearing his throat.

“I’m just… coffee… find the coffee.” He offered a tight smile before disappearing amidst his muttering peers.

Talia, free of her escort, walked toward where the interview was supposed to take place. A cardboard set up, propped up behind her guest’s seat, showed the Golden Age Arbiter standing atop a pile of rubble as the city of New York stretched behind him. Standing just past his shoulder, the simpering actress hired to play One Shot gaped forward with dull eyes and a jaw just slack enough to reveal her teeth. Further in the background, an actor with a passable resemblance to the former president of the United States stood, apparently lost in thought. At the base of the display, the title of the piece blazed a shiny yellow:
The Dawn of the Silver Age
. Talia snorted derisively, in an excellent imitation of the first time she had seen the poster for the film.

“I didn’t like the title myself,” came a slick-as-oil voice from behind her. She turned to face the owner, Weston Marsh, the aggressively unshaven star of the film. He removed his shades, brown eyes flickering over his two-dimensional cut out. Placing one of the stems in his mouth, he frowned contemplatively. “Wanted something a little ballsier. You know. Like…
Death to Desecrator
or something like that.” He stuck his hand out and, grinning, gave her a wink. “Weston Marsh, Miss Illyanovich.”

She looked at his winsome smile, then his hand. With slight hesitation, she took it and shook it once. “Delighted.” His hand free, he opened his blazer pocket and deposited his shades inside. “You were supposed to be here three and a half hours ago.” She raised her hand to get the attention of the crew.

“Sorry. Had breakfast with a friend of mine. Just got kind of carried away.” The smell of alcohol on his breath betrayed that his meal came entirely from a bottle. Talia immediately suspected that the only friend involved with Marsh was a smiling pirate captain. He gestured to his seat and Talia nodded. In a smooth motion, he took a step toward it and plopped down, ending up in a forced-relaxed position. “You… sound different in person.”