Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(27)
“So, what shall it be?” Gonzo inquired.
“Here.” Jacob took out an old pink satin purse that had belonged to his mum.
“Kinky,” the Rat decided.
Jacob scowled. “Not the purse. Jeez. This.”
He extracted a twice-folded sheet of yellowed A4 paper and carefully flattened it out on the scratched and beaten coffee table between them.
This was a lead pencil drawing of an upside-down superhero without a cape, with little details written in blue ink, arrows pointing this way and that. It said ‘Southern Cross’ in bigger letters on the upper right-hand side of the page, next to more detailing in cerulean blue: two boxes that showed a stars-and-stripes logo for the front of the costume, and a boomerang motif of the hero’s initials, SC, supposed to go on the back.
“Swanky.” That was the Rat again.
“Any special name?” Gonzo asked, wiping green wisps away from his eyes.
“Like it says there.” The boy pointed at handwritten text at the top of the picture. “Southern Cross.”
“Southern Cross? That’s a bit tacky, isn’t it?”
“Think it’s been done before too, boss,” the Rat piped up — to which Gonzo hung his head.
“I’m not your boss. How many times do I have to hammer that into your oblivious skull? Boss, no. See? Easy.” The man lifted his eyes back to Jacob. “And you want this exact costume?”
“Pretty much.”
Now raising his eyebrows, Gonzo pushed surprised. “Even the ’80s boomerang-style font for the back of the duds?”
“Passé,” the Rat agreed.
“Well, we can ditch that. The flag’ll do — unless you think it’s dated too.”
“Flags are always old hat, which is why they work. And I think we’ll go for cerulean blue instead of navy.” Gonzo squinted as he turned the piece of paper over. “There’s no mention here of powers.”
“Hadn’t thought about that.” Jacob shuffled nervously on the sofa, Brave New World still in his field of vision. “Listen, this is the real deal, right? Not some sort of cult that preys on losers like me?”
“It’s real enough, buster,” Gonzo said, all prickly.
“Better quality than the flyer?”
“Depends which one.” Settling back on his crate, the green-haired man looked Jacob over. “Tell you what, let’s give you plasma blasts. The last Cape using them, the Faceless Phantom, quit six months ago. Arsehole was a beer-killer, and no one will notice. Anyway, he used his eyes.”
“If this person was faceless,” Jacob piped up, “how could he have eyes?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that,” Gonzo replied. “We’ll endow this power to the right hand. In your hour of need, all you need do is aim at a target, think about unleashing the power, and—”
“Hey, presto!” announced the Rat. “Va-voom!”
“Right,” Gonzo agreed, even if his expression betrayed annoyance that some thunder had been stolen.
“Can I have any power?”
“Within reason, yes. But only one. And each has its Achilles’ heel. Yours is the fact that plasma blasts can go through anything, except for bombastium.”
Jacob felt his left eyebrow raise itself. “Bombastium? Something like adamantium, I’m guessing.”
“Stronger. Nothing beats it for elasticity and strength, since this is a vibranium/adamantium mix. Also, did I tell you no one can fly in Heropa? Nup? It’s one of the golden rules — no Cloak of Levitation here. Unless you sneak past that rule with the available technology, which some unruly people have done.”
“Can I opt instead for invulnerability?”
The Rat shook his head. “Nobody gets invulnerability.”
“Mate, you won’t be needing it where you’re going,” added Gonzo. “Capes never die. Only the Blandos give up the ghost.”
“Only the stupid Blandos!” came a squeaky echo.
“In Heropa?”
“Heee-bloody-ropaaa!” The Rat pumped his fist.
TWILIGHT 0VER H0B0KEN
#116
Jack went back to the Warbucks & Erewhon union Trust Bank, on Fawcett Avenue, a couple of days after his unplanned rendezvous with Bulkhead.
The incentives for doing so were to pass on his gratitude to the teller, Miss Starkwell, and make sure she was okay. A Blando she may’ve been, but Jack kept remembering the girl’s eyes and her heroics with the typewriter.
In fact, the eyes were the real reason for this visit — thanks be damned.
He wore something new, a grey wool suit with red and ivory pinstripes that he’d been fitted with by a tailor in the suites of Equalizers HQ. On the back of his head Jack had a gun-grey felt fedora.