Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(21)
Jack bounced a few times, collected a couple more souvenirs, brushed himself down, and took the elevator to the penthouse — after commiserating words in the lobby from Stan the Doorman. “It won’t always be like this,” he said. “You can do some genuine good in the world, but you need to hold onto your beliefs. Now, go patch yourself up.”
Pretty Amazonia must’ve woken with the racket he made coming in the front door. He was surprised he didn’t wake the entire building. The woman appeared on the balcony above the shared living quarters, dressed in a boudoir gown of gold lamé that was remarkably homely. She shook her head, descended, and then whisked him to a brightly lit bathroom.
“No one bothered teaching you to use your hands to protect your face?” she muttered, while she bent over and dabbed antiseptic on swollen abrasions.
“My hands were tied down at my waist.”
“Excuses.”
Jack couldn’t see out of his right eye, but attempted a grin. This hurt more than the effort was worth.
“You really are tall, aren’t you?” he remarked.
“The Brick says two hundred and thirteen centimetres of man-eating, gut-crunching terror. So, you met the Rotters, huh?”
“Charming fellows.”
“They do have their moments.” PA acted like an old hand with the treatment as she gently checked each wound on his face. “Strip,” she then commanded.
“Do I have to?”
“Don’t worry, even I wouldn’t attack you in this state.”
Very carefully, with a barely repressed groan or three, Jack unbuttoned his shredded suit, and then yanked off the costume. While doing so he got dizzy again and almost collided with the white porcelain sink. He was so close, he could read the royal blue brand name: HILLMAN.
“Isn’t Hillman an old clothesline manufacturer?” Jack muttered, just as Pretty Amazonia’s firm grip on his arm ensured he didn’t receive additional head injuries.
“I have no idea. Are you delirious?”
More swabbing ensued.
“Stand up straight and stop slouching — anyone would think you’d never before been in the nud in front of a girl. Okay. There. Most of these contusions will heal overnight — part of the charm of this place. Your brain, however, will take a while longer to let go of the pain.”
“You were a nurse back in Melbourne?”
“Who’s to say I wasn’t a doctor?” Jack was surprised to see a grim look on her face. “You’ve got to learn you can’t ask me questions like that, not here.”
“I can’t ask your real name?”
“You know it already, hon. Pretty Amazonia. PA to my friends.” He winced as she dabbed a deep cut on his chest. “Ouch.”
“You could’ve saved yourself this grief by using your password. Why didn’t you?”
“I thought we needed intel on the Rotters.”
“Liar.”
Jack stupidly smiled again. “Okay. I forgot I could do that.”
PA rolled her eyes. “Oh, my Lordy. So what did you find out from your accidental incursion into enemy territory?”
“Not much, but I think they’re clueless about the deaths of Sir Omphalos and the Aerialist — they weren’t even aware of what happened to Iffy Bizness.”
Pretty Amazonia tossed a final cotton swab into Jack’s friend the Hillman sink, and gave him the once over.
“There. Done. Now, SC, get to bed — doctor’s orders.”
#109
The next morning, Jack scrutinized his reflection in the sparkling, full-length mirror of another bathroom upstairs.
This was an art-deco looking glass, styled like a huge triangular shield with bevelled edges. The good-looking face returning same scrutiny was about twenty-five: chiselled features, neat blond hair, blue eyes. Nary a freckle nor blemish in evidence. Not a bruise in sight from the previous day’s fun and games with the Rotters.
A perfect façade with white, straight teeth and a heroically dimpled chin.
Below that was a strong, stable neck, further down the blue costume riding atop sinewy musculature. Jack held up his right arm, flexed the bicep, and was so impressed he was tempted to go fetch a tape measure. This was like getting cosmetic enhancements without breaking the bank.
All up? A living, breathing dead-ringer for Jack Kirby’s late 1960s drawings of Steve Rogers — a.k.a. Captain America — which was, anyway, what the original Southern Cross illustration had aped.
The flag emblem sitting on his hearty chest was pretty much the same one used at the Eureka Stockade fight north-west of Melbourne in 1854 — where the rebellious gold miners had stitched together five eight-pointed stars representing the Crux Australis, better known as the constellation Southern Cross. They’d joined these via a white cross on a dark blue background, one star at each end of the cross and a single star in the centre.