Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Oran was pretty certain trying be a teenager was a mistake. Two hours into the museum visit accompanied by three real teens and he was ready to run screaming, or to do grievous bodily harm to one or more of his companions.

"Guys, I really don't like Bricks." Alex's nasal voice was surprisingly grating, especially when he was whining.

Which seemed to be more often than not, Pope thought quietly.

"Well where do you want to go?" Hester demanded.

"How about Pepe's," Alex offered. "You love their burnt crust."

"And Oran doesn't," Hester reminded the tall, gangly youth.

"It doesn't always have to be about Oran, you know," Alex said quietly, while offering the shorter boy a guilty look. The tall blond was the oldest of the group, but was possibly the most socially awkward.

Originally Oran probably held that distinction, but Pope had decades of leadership, sales, and public speaking under his belt. While nominally an introvert, or so the tests at the various military staff and war colleges had claimed, he had long ago mastered techniques for overcoming any reticence in social situations. He wondered just how out of character he had been that day. Each of the others had given him odd looks at least once during the morning.

"Not at all," Oran offered in a conciliatory tone. "I'm sure I can find something there."

"Good!" their fourth friend, Alona Reuven, chimed in. She was a chubby eastern European girl with braces and curly black hair who had proved to be even more introverted than the others, which was saying something. For most of the morning she was engaged with the music playing on her headphone while she kept a half an ear on what the others were saying. "There are over 750 eateries within a quarter-mile of the museum. I'd hate to argue over each one."

They all stood on the street looking at each other, waiting for someone to make the final decision. Pope deliberately held back his natural reflex to take up the mantle of leadership. Oran would not have done so. Seconds ticked by as each of the four looked at the others for some hint of disagreement or dissention. They were standing on Columbus Ave., creating a shoal around with the pedestrian traffic flowed.

Before any decision was made two men jumped out of the side doors of a light blue catering van. They dropped a bag over Oran's head and pulled him in to the van. The doors slammed shut and a voice yelled "Go! Go! Go!"

Two stun guns were pressed against Oran's back and he felt the voltage surge into him. Instead of causing paralyzing muscle constrictions and debilitating pain, the flow seemed to energize him instead. It wiped away his lingering fatigue and foot-soreness from the morning wandering the museum. Pope decided to play possum to see what was going on and possibly get some idea of who was behind it. He clenched Oran's body as if the stun gun had had it normal effect. While he was "paralyzed", the abductors quickly fitted him with cuffs and leg shackles. I guess they don't want me going anywhere.

A hand slipped his wallet and phone from his pants. "The ID checks," a man's voice said.

Oran found that he was able to shift his sight so that he could see through the bag over his head. He allowed his head to flop around so that he could get a look at all four of the men in the van. The first thing he saw was his phone being tossed out of a window.

The man examining his wallet was an African American in his late twenties with a shaved head. The driver was a Caucasian in his forties. The other two were Hispanics in their early twenties, one with a flat top and the other with his long hair and sharply styled goatee dyed a flamboyant electric blue. All but the driver were fit and carried tattoos that led Pope to believe they were former military. He could also see they were armed with pistols of some sort and two carried knives as well as the stun guns.

The layout of the van, including the foam pallet on the floor, several tie points which they attached his restraints to, and the cage around the driver, all pointed to a custom refit with kidnapping in mind. The fact that the men were almost silent during the drive marked them as either very nervous, or professionals used to the job. My money is on the latter. The question is, who wants Oran and why? Pope pondered.

Concerned that he may have waited too long, Oran took the opportunity when none of the men had their eyes on him to test the cuffs holding his wrists behind his back. He had been shown a trick to wriggling out of cuffs by an old spook once. While he tried to see if he could make Oran's hands small enough to pull through, he found that the part with the ratchet teeth pulled free of the locked part.

What the hell?

Moving slowly so as not to draw attention, he felt the metal of the cuffs and found it to be soft under his fingers. He realized he could break free of them any time he wanted. But he did not want to do so yet. He needed the captors to think him subdued if he was going to find out what was behind this abduction. He decided that if it got too bad he could use his energy powers to escape. He careful reinserted the metal strand back into the locking mechanism. He relaxed and started looking though the walls of the van.

Oran was able to keep track of where they were going. Over many years of scouting and piloting Pope had developed a natural sense of direction, altitude, and velocity. He was pleased to find that talent had made the transition into Oran's body with him. Between that and Oran's eidetic memory of the street map of Manhattan, it was like he had a GPS with him. When they crossed through the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey, Oran's memories became useless. He had not bothered studying the area across the Hudson. After almost an hour of careful driving, stickling mostly to surface roads, the van pulled into a small chemical warehouse.

Oran could smell a sulfurous stench overlaying the caustic odors of bleach, chlorine, and other less familiar scents. He played along as the men maneuvered him, still carefully shackled, out of the van and into a sturdy chair. Once again the chains were attached to blots in the concrete floor. He carefully looked around, noting the pallets of barrel, each labeled with the chemical identification sheet - Sodium Carbonate, Hydrochloric Acid, Sulfuric Acid, Hydrogen Peroxide, Calcium Hypochlorite, and others. Several bore some pretty ominous warnings. Even more ominous to Pope was that there were no workers in the building. In the distance, across a truck yard, there was a larger warehouse which was busy with people loading and unloading similar pallets. But he and his captors were the only one in their building.

"So now what?" the driver asked.

"The client said we are to wait. He's not available until six," answered the African American man.

"Does that mean we are going to wait until we contact him to ..." the short-cropped Hispanic, possibly the broadest of the four men, trailed off without finishing his question. He was prepping a large metal barrel, pouring in bottles of sulfuric acid and other chemicals. A mask kept the fumes out of the man's face.

That doesn't bode well, Pope thought.

"Not necessary," the bald leader answered. "The first act is top priority, so we move forward with it. The ransom demand is iffy at best." Oran saw him remove a syringe from a padded container. He checked that it was already loaded and there was no blockage in the needle.

As the dark man with the ominous injector approached, Oran decided he needed to do something. "Hey, what do you want? Why are you doing this?"

"You'd be horrified if you knew," drawled the driver. "Better to save you the heartbreak."

The dark man moved faster than Oran expected and jabbed the needle towards his neck. "Nothing personal, kid. Just business."

Much to everyone's surprise, the needle snapped on Oran's skin. "Super! We've got a super!" the leader called.

Immediately, two of the men Oran could see took three quick steps back and drew their pistols. The third, the man working with the chemicals, grabbed a five-gallon bottle of sulfuric acid and took a throwing stance. The man behind the chair reached around and slammed his stun gun into Oran's chest. The charge flooded his body, offering a quick recharge.

The leader saw the stunner was not working so called "Seven, seven, seven!"

Oran heard the man behind him dive away just before the two pistols opened fire. Old combat reflexes came to the fore. Moving faster than he thought possible, he wrenched his arms, snapping the chains and cuffs, and lunged out of the chair. Both shots struck the back of the seat.

"Left!" barked the bald man. Oran dodged as the man behind him opened fire with his .45.

What happened to the stun gun! Pope complained. Unfortunately, Oran's evasion took him closer to the man with the acid bottle. The kidnapper swung the bottle, unleashing an arc of caustic liquid that splashed Oran from shoulder to knee.

"Arrgh!" Oran cried out. It had been years since Pope had been wounded and Oran had no experience with this kind of pain. He felt the pulsing energy inside of him trying to flare but concentrated on pushing it down. He was not ready to give up his secret yet.

More shots cracked close by. One slug slammed into his shoulder. It hurt, but not like previous gunshots had. More importantly it had not crippled his limb. Pope knew he had to move.

Using every bit of training he remembered from his days in special forces, he dodged the incoming fire and struck the blue haired man in the chest. He had been trained to punch though the target. This time it was almost literal. Oran could feel the man's sternum crack before he flew back a dozen feet to crash into a pallet of barrels.

Well, that's new, he thought, looking at his fist as if he'd never seen it before. The impact of another slug in his back reminded him to keep his head in the game.

He dodged behind a pillar as another bottle of acid flew his way. Then he kicked off and bounded across the warehouse floor to smash into the brawny attacker. They grappled. At first the larger man resisted, but Oran's inexorable pressure pressed the man face first into the open barrel of acid he had been preparing for Oran's remains.

The other two men took off in different directions. The driver took off in the van while the leader slipped out a side door and was running towards the larger warehouse. Pope knew that if he pursued the bald man, the miscreant would inevitably try to take one of the warehouse workers hostage to forestall any attack. Deciding it was not worth risking bystanders, he chose not to pursue.

As the rush of battle receded, Oran could feel the sharp pains of his acid burns and dull throbbing of the bullet wounds. His clothes were in tatters and his blood dripped to the floor. He forced himself to check the two he had taken out, disarming them and checking for ID. Both were alive, but in bad shape. Considering if he wanted to be there when the authorities arrived, Oran realized he was still wearing the bag over his head. At least any cameras there might be in the building would not give away his identity.

I've got to get out of here, he decided. But where should I go? Away from here first. Then I can decide. And I don't think I am up to walking.

Oran reached inside and felt for the pulse energy. It flashed, surrounding him with a nimbus of deep purple as he rose into the air. His skin shifted to its dark blue shade and he knew his hair and eyes were likely white under the bag. He left it on as a further disguise. If I am going to keep doing this, I really need to come up with a real costume.

He quickly flew through the bay door the fleeing driver had left open. He headed straight up, pushing through the high clouds until there was no possibility of him being tracked from the ground.

Now where am I going? Showing up at home with bullet holes will not make Mariela a happy lady. This is the third time in two weeks something potentially deadly has happened to this kid. I think we can write off the tussle with Amok as bad luck, but the lab explosion and this flat-out murder attempt ... What the hell is going on? And what about what that guy said. Heart-break? Does that imply betrayal? Who is close enough to Oran to betray him? Family or friends.

I don't think the kids I was hanging with today are up to this, despite their proximity to the snatch. And they had nothing to do with the lab. Wait ... "He's not available until six." ... It has to be Jock. He's out of town and due back this evening. And he was the one that organized the lab tour. I know we don't get along but arranging fatal accidents and faux kidnappings seems a bit overboard.

We're back to the question of where do I go. Pope searched Oran's memories for any free clinics for supers. They existed, but required the individual to register with DEMA, something he was not yet ready to do. The three kids from school were his only close friends, and he wasn't ready to share with them either.

What about Mom? Oran recalled the numerous times he had approached her with complaint or concerns about Jock behavior and Eric's abuses. She'd listened, then let herself be talked around by Jock. Oran had often wondered why a strong woman would subjugate herself to such a Neanderthal. Pope suspected it was a combination of her traditional upbringing and his targeted charisma. He saw that the man was capable of a powerful charm offensive when he wanted something, and he seemed to want Mariela's happiness. She's not going to be able to see through him unless I bring a lot more evidence or he does something in front of her.

Who does that leave? Grandpa! Carl Warren was the seventy-year-old former head of PowerSource. He lived in a converted factory in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, alone since his Venezuelan beauty pageant wife died ten years ago. Pope could see where Oran's mother got her looks. Best of all, the old man had never liked Jock and has always supported Oran. He could also pacify Mariela if Oran had to stay a few days to recover. I was due to visit him Saturday anyway. This could work. As long as he doesn't freak out at the blood.

Maintaining his altitude, Oran searched for Carl's building. Once he found it he floated down as far as he could while staying in the cloud cover. He watched for a moment when he thought no one was looking and dropped as fast as he could to the roof. Once down he switched back to his normal form and found the door. He entered his code on the keypad. The door opened. Once inside he removed the bag from his head and started down the stairs.

"Oren? Is that you?" Carl's voice came up from below.

"Yeah, Grandpa. It's me."

"Well get down here and tell me what the hell you are doing on my roof."

Carl met Oran at the base of the stairs on the building's third floor. Seeing the state of the teen, the older man rushed to offer him an arm and led him into the nearest bathroom. "What the hell happened to you? That's a gunshot wound."

"Two of them. Left shoulder and lower back, right side I think."

Carl took of the remnants of Oran's shirt and examined both wounds. "Still not telling me how this happened. And what the hell is this?" He looked closely at the acid burns up and down the teen's torso.

"I think it was sulfuric acid, but I'm not positive."

Carl stepped back and looked into Oran's eyes for several seconds. Then he sighed and shook his head. His expression drifted somewhere between sad and resigned. "I'm guessing that lab accident was your emergence event."

"Um..." Oran still was not certain how much he wanted to share with this familiar stranger.

Reaching into his pocket, Carl pulled out what looked like an electric demolitions trigger. Oran tensed as the old man squeezed the handle. A spark flashed blue and Carl transformed into a seven-foot-tall blue metal man. "Welcome to the family."

"What. The. Fuck!"

"You didn't think you were the first super in the family, did you? I doubt you've heard of me, but I made my super debut as Kid Cobalt way back in 1955." He held his hand out palm up and a blue light shot up to illuminate the ceiling. He closed his fist and started to shrink. A moment later the old man had returned. "Whew...that takes it out of me these days. But I heroed for twenty years before I retired when your mom was born. Not a bad run."

"I never knew."

"Your mom has a few powers as well though she never fully emerged."

"Really?"

"Mostly just the passive energy absorption, and not a lot of that. But it explains how she can dance for hours and never get tired. But enough about us. What about you? Did you go chasing the wrong people or happen upon a crime in progress and just had to get involved?"

"Neither," Oran laid the hood on the counter. "I was kidnapped. Only it wasn't for ransom. Once they had me at their preferred location, they were just going to kill me."

"Shit. At least you got away. Good job with that."

"Yeah, took down two of them too, but two more got away."

Carl shook his head and stepped forward to examine the wounds more closely. "Not much penetration. Looks like you got some enhanced durability. Maybe even some regeneration as these wounds seem to be healing more quickly than I would expect. If we get the bullet out, they're not in too deep, these might heal by morning."

He stepped out of the bathroom and returned with a robe. "Throw this on and come downstairs. I've got better stuff in the basement."

Oren complied, and his grandfather led the way to a freight elevator that descended to the basement. Carl had to use a key before the door would open. "This was my old base. Not very fancy, but it suited my needs. Might have some stuff fin here for you, if you're getting into the life. Even got a little medical area where we should be able to get you fixed up. I'll admit I'm not quite up to my little Diamante's standard with my stiches, but scars never hurt anyone."

As Oren jumped up on to a treatment table, Carl started preparing his gear. "So, tell your old pappy all about it. We're going to be here a while."