Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(122)
Jacob took the GWH’s warm left hand in his.
“What did you know?” the boy asked. “Was it possible you found out the truth? Is that why they blinded you?” He flexed the other man’s limp fingers. “I just wanted to say something. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I hope you one day understand that.”
The GWH’s expression registered nary a morsel.
Getting to his feet, Jacob kicked away pins-and-needles in the leg that’d been shot in Heropa — it still played up — and unbolted the door to this room. He opened it to an overgrown, flooded back yard bathed in a combination of darkness and artificial light. The rain was loud on an overhead corrugated roof, and the outside air, though hardly pristine, began to diffuse the stench in this place.
Where out there was the Big O, and was there anybody to look after his comatose body?
“The people of Heropa didn’t forget,” Jacob announced to the rain. “They gave you a right royal send-off. Enough to make a person proud.”
What was his name? Truly Lee, or was that an alias he used in Heropa? Did this matter anyway?
“Like you, I’m going to betray that faith. I know you meant to do the right thing with Louise — with Mitzi. Doesn’t mean I agree with it at all, but likewise I’m going to try to do something that rectifies matters. People’s memories will be sacrificed in the process. I know I’m being selfish. I think you did, too. Right? There’re times when idealism needs to take a back seat.”
Jacob stepped out into the rain, pushing through brittle, waist-high weeds, peered up at the sky, and got wet all over again.
“So, turns out I’m no better than you.”
THE KN0CK-0FF
#177
Jack and Midori touched down precisely where Jack had wound up on his first visit to Heropa — the busy sidewalk next to the travel agency, amidst late-afternoon pedestrian traffic. A gaily-coloured banner across the agency window read ‘Holiday in San Gusto!!’.
The sky above was a deep blue, the sun relatively low on the horizon, and temperature-wise a perfect twenty-three degrees Celsius, or seventy-three-point-four in the old Fahrenheit system.
Adding to the déjà vu, that same dizziness was there, riding shotgun with a mild sense of panic. Once again, Jack tore off his mask. Obviously in the woman’s case there was an additional touch of nausea, since she bent over and threw up into an alcove between the footpath and a brick wall.
When she recovered, Midori wiped her chin and had an embarrassed smile.
“Always the same reaction to the download,” she said in an alluring, melodious tone, rotating her shoulders and stretching her back in the black swan leotard, “but, my, it’s nice to stand up straight.”
“Well, you can turn off the charm.” Jack looked down at his chest, couldn’t quite see over the now-protruding pectoralis major — being brawny had its drawbacks. “How many stars do I have?”
“Five. One more than the last time I saw you.”
“Then the system remembers replacement costumes.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Jack. All you now need is a shield.”
“Nah, too much effort to lug around — besides, I have the Brick.”
Adjusting her mask, Prima Ballerina continued to smile. “You know, we ought to be fighting right about now.”
“Nice to take a break from that silliness.”
“Agreed.”
“You feeling okay?”
“Getting there.”
Timely Tower’s doorman Stan waltzed up to them, and he examined the two Capes with a keen eye and rascally grin.
“Here’s something to marvel at,” he announced, genuinely pleased. “An Equalizer and a Rotter arriving together — as comrades-in-arms. It’s very good to see you both.”
“Thanks, Stan. Likewise.”
“Mmm,” said Midori, suspicious. “How do you know who I am?”
“I’m Stan the Doorman. I see all.” Having clicked his heels, the man’s snow-white moustache twisted into a tighter grin. “I have to say I happen to be quite the fan — I always did have a soft-spot for the ballet, and your offensive use of the balançoire is sublime.”
“People aren’t supposed to like me. I’m a villain.”
“With a heart of gold. Always the best kind.”
“Huh.”
“I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to autograph this for me?” The elderly man reached into his starched red miliatary jacket and produced a glossy, rolled-up parchment that had a caricature on it in pencil, looking like Belle Époque poster art.
Jack laughed. “Stan, please don’t tell me you carry that around with you just for occasions like this?”