The Syndicate - 8. Chapter 8 - Taran

“Nicely done, everyone, your hand to hand combat is improving! Hit the showers!” Taran dismissed the group of sweaty trainees, and started to stuff gear into a duffle bag. He checked his watch. There were still several hours before he was scheduled to go on patrol. Enough time to fill out his trainee reports and maybe even catch up on some sleep. He finished packing the gym bag and was headed for the door when his communicator beeped. He put a finger to his ear and activated it. “Silver Cyclone,”

“My boy, it’s good to hear your voice!” A voice boomed on the other end.

“Sir!” Taran stammered awkwardly “I didn’t realize you would be back so early.” A grimace crossed his face. He hated how talking to his father made him sound like such a child. No matter how old he got, the man’s presence still intimidated him.

“I want to see you. Meet me in the Command Room. Cosmonaut, out!” the communicator clicked off.

Taran sighed. So much for getting any down time. “I wonder how I’ll disappoint him today,” he thought. He found the main elevator and called a car down. The door opened and he stepped inside, pushing the button that would bring him to the very top of the building. There was a hum and a jolt, and the elevator shot upwards. Taran sat quietly with his thoughts and tried to steel himself for the coming reunion.

Taran’s relationship with his father was a complicated one. Though he supposed that just came with the territory when your father was Crimson Cosmonaut, the world’s most powerful — and most famous — superhero. A hero who was, quite literally, the human definition of perfection, and therefore expected perfection from his children. Taran had been the child that always seemed to disappoint him in some way. Not quite fast enough, not quite strong enough. Not quite like Collin enough. Taran pushed the thought of his brother aside, but his mood had already soured.

The elevator slowed as it reached the top of the headquarters, and the doors slid open. Taran stepped out into the Command Center, a vast room that held computer stations where the highest ranking Syndicate Support members worked. Some stood before translucent screens, swiping sonar readings away with their hands before pulling up aerial surveillance footage. Others hunched over smaller monitors, keeping an eye on data from satellites that spanned the globe. From here they could monitor cosmic activity, weather patterns, and disturbances from deep within the ocean. If any worldwide threat were to emerge, this is where it would be identified.

In the center of the room stood a powerfully large man, six and a half feet tall, with extremely broad shoulders and massive arms. He wore a deep red uniform that was accented in silver and gold, his long cape draped over his back and nearly touched the floor. A red leather cowl swooped over the top of his face, leaving a strong chin and jawline exposed, fair skin glowing like the sun. Crimson Cosmonaut was the symbol of peace throughout the free world. A hero who had saved mankind from extinction countless times, and whose mere presence had stopped global conflict just by appearing on the battlefield. At the moment however, he appeared to be having an argument with a small man in a navy blue Syndicate Support uniform. Taran focused on them, letting the air currents in the room carry the sound of their voices towards him.

“Run these again,” Cosmonaut boomed. He held a tablet that looked tiny in his impossibly large hands. “Are you sure these numbers are correct?”

“I’ve run them twice sir, we’re getting significant seismic activity off the coast of Tokyo. I understand that it’s unusual, that volcanoes usually build up to this kind of pressure. But this has happened practically overnight. The local Chapter has been alerted.” The man’s voice squeaked and he tried to stay composed. Taran recognized him, a senior scientist experienced in his work, but unaccustomed to being questioned by such an imposing presence.

“Iron Dragon is good, but if that volcano blows, he’ll need more than just the local Chapter.” Crimson Cosmonaut set his jaw, and looked up from the tablet. He saw Taran standing outside the elevator. “My Boy!” he cried, voice ringing across the massive room.

Every head turned to look his way for just a moment before snapping back to work. Taran sighed, “Always such a spectacle.”

His father leapt from his spot at the center of the room and in two strides made it to the elevator. He gripped Taran by the shoulder. “How are you, son?”

Taran wasn’t exactly small, but he had to look up a lot to meet his father’s gaze. The man had more than five inches on him and he seemed twice as wide. He sometimes wondered how they could possibly be related, as they looked so little alike. “Got your looks from your mother, thank God,” his father would always say with a booming laugh. It was just another way that their differences were obvious.

“I’m good, Dad. How was your trip to the UN Headquarters?.”

“A giant waste of time, as usual.” He replied with a pompous grin. “Those politicians are trying to block Syndicate’s efforts in securing a treaty with Mars. As if any of them are going to be making the trip themselves! What have you been up to, son?” His voice was carrying, loud enough for the Support analysts to overhear.

“Everything’s a performance to him. Gotta keep up the image of a perfect, happy family,” Taran thought, once again embarrassed to be the center of attention. Did he have to do this every time? “Advanced hand to hand with the senior trainees,” he replied, trying to bring the voice level down to a normal level. “You should look at the reports, some of them are really quite impressive.”

“Ahh, all of those classes are a waste of your talents!” Cosmonaut waved his hand, dismissively. “You should be out on the streets, not spending your time cooped up here with the greenhorns! When I was your age, we didn’t need formal training!”

“When you were my age, a lot more heroes got themselves killed,” Taran thought to himself. “I patrol with everyone else,” he said, trying and failing to not let his father’s attitude get the better of him. This was their typical interaction: his father would get a rise out of him, and Taran got defensive, sounding less like a full Syndicate member and more like a whiny teenager. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Wonderful! It’s a good way to get yourself out there, develop a reputation. Who knows, you stop enough runaway trains you might even get a pretty reporter to start doting on you, writing special interviews. Maybe then you’d be ready to start a family.”

“That’s not going to--”

“Fine, not a reporter then. Wouldn’t understand the work schedule, anyway. Get in touch with one of the ladies in the Syndicate, they’d be able to keep up. What about that nice girl with the soul powers you’re always hanging out with? You’ve been friends for years, she must be fond of you.”

Taran‘s complexion was beginning to turn even darker. This was humiliating. “I can assure you that Maya is nothing more than a friend. And anyway, I’m too busy to be thinking about starting a family, Dad.”

“Well you have to be thinking of these things. Your mother and I are overdue some grandkids. Gotta keep the family legacy going, son!”

One of the analysts nearby snickered. Taran caught her eye, and she quickly ducked behind her monitor.

Taran did his best to brush off the comments. His father had lately been very preoccupied with the family lineage, as if he was aware that his days as a hero may soon start to wane. It didn’t make any sense to Taran, as Crimson Cosmonaut was just as heroic as ever and didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Even still, his father had become fixated with the idea of preserving the future, which meant Taran needed to settle down and start a family. He had pushed Taran’s brother like this for years and now his gaze shifted to the younger son. Taran supposed his father couldn’t be faulted for that.

“Now listen, I want to have dinner with you and your mother tonight, at the house,”

“Oh really?!” Taran was surprised. His family never seemed to have a moment together these days. Dinner might be nice, even. Maybe he’d finally get a chance to have a real conversation with his parents about life. About how he was feeling about his future.

“Indeed! It’s time you got out of this place and came back home for a --”

Wooooooooooop Wooooooooooop

An alert rang through the Command Hall, as the main viewing screen on the front wall lit up. A map highlighted coordinates somewhere off the western coast of Japan.

“Sir!” The Support official from earlier called out, “We’re getting another spike in activity. This volcano is going to blow!”

Crimson Cosmonaut whirled around to the main screen. “Tell the Tokyo Chapter I’ll be there in 12 minutes.” he announced. “Open the roof!” A support tech pressed a button on their console, and an alarm bell rang out in two short bursts. The glass ceiling above them began to slowly open up at its highest point. He said and put a hand on Taran’s shoulder. “I guess dinner will have to wait. You should still meet with your mother.”

“Ok, be safe,” Taran said as his father kicked off from the floor and launched himself through the open ceiling. How many moments of his childhood had been just like this? His parents rushing away in the middle of a family discussion because of some urgent threat, plans being altered at the last minute because of Syndicate business. Taran had spent a lot of time angry at them when he was much younger, before his powers. Back when he was the only ordinary member of the family. How dare they spend all of their time worrying about others, while they abandoned him! As he got older, he came to understand that he had to share his parents with the world. After all, they were the best.

Even so, Taran’s inability to have any sort of connection with his father deeply frustrated him. The alarm bell rang once more and the roof closed shut with a thud. He turned around to see a support tech staring up at the ceiling where his father had just flown away. He turned to look at Taran.

“Wow. He’s so awesome”

“He’s something, alright,” he replied stomping back towards the elevator.

Taran headed to his apartment within the Syndicate headquarters. It was on a different wing from the trainees, grouped with other full time members. He approached his door and placed a hand on the metallic panel next to it. A blue light scanned his palm.

The door opened up to the living room of Taran’s one bedroom suite. Sanctioned Syndicate members were given the option to live full time at the facility, and as a result were afforded more expansive living quarters than trainees. The room was smartly decorated, furnished in soothing colors and textures. A large TV was mounted on the wall. Around it, framed news clippings were also hung. Taran’s headline collection. They read things like “Zephyr and Weather Boy Save the Day Again!” and “Silver Cyclone Stops Runaway Bus: Orphans Grateful!”

Taran sighed as he pulled out his earpiece and slumped onto the couch. He felt like he needed to scream his frustrations into a pillow. It always surprised him how even the briefest conversations with his father could end up killing a good mood. Things had been going so well lately: The trainees were advancing in their studies, and the new patrol procedures he had helped implement were helping out law enforcement in key areas of the city. But as usual, Crimson Cosmonaut had to stop by and minimize all of it. Every time Taran felt like he started to emerge from the shadow of his parents, something was sure to remind him that he would never be more than the baby of the family. And that wasn’t even mentioning the constant pressure to get hitched and produce an heir to the family name.

But enough brooding. Taran was in too restless of a mood to sit around his apartment. He walked to the bedroom, another comfortable space that held a large bed and a dresser, as well as a closet for street clothes. He approached the far wall and typed a code into the keypad in the center. As he finished punching in the last number, the panel slid into the floor. The metal rack holding his Silver Cyclone uniform pushed out of the wall with a mechanical hum. He undressed in the darkness, and began to put on his suit. It was made of a flexible carbon fiber weave, which was light but extremely durable. It protected vital areas from most gun fire, but didn’t hinder his flying ability. The silver tornado emblem glinted off the lights from the closet as he zipped up the chest piece. He took his mask off the shelf, and slowly put it on. Taran Weber fell away, while Silver Cyclone remained.

He placed his Syndicate communicator in his left ear and switched it on. “Silver Cyclone to Control,” he called out.

“Control here.” The voice on the other end was cool and neutral.

“I’m heading out on patrol a little early.”

“Switching your patrol status to active, Silver Cyclone. Be safe out there”

On his way out of the bedroom, he paused to touch the edge of a photo that was mounted on the wall. Four people stood in the center of the frame, their smiling faces squinting in the bright sun. A picture of Taran, his parents, and his brother. It was from years ago when they were on a vacation in Greece. Taran was smaller but beaming brightly, as his older brother wrapped his large arm around his shoulder and held him tight. Everyone in the photo looked so happy. Taran touched the photo at the start of every patrol, a quiet ritual before heading into the line of fire.