Chicago Wildlife - 19. What Are We, Some Kind Of...(Part 6)

Mega Chapter 14: What Are We, Some Kind Of... (Part 6)

You walk calmly down the street. You are confident that no one will shoot you in the back as you make your way to the site of the explosion. After all, how anti-climatic and unsatisfying would it be to the Readers if one of the main characters was simply gunned down as plainly as that?

“Awww, look at that. Little baby’s learning to walk all on his own,” said a new, yet familiar voice.

So, she had hijacked your brain to give herself a means to have more screen time. A new character to the story had to have their inclusion justified somehow, you suppose. You keep walking.

“Yeah, you’re da smart one of da bunch, not giving me any lip. Even da mime couldn’t learn dat lesson quick enough. So listen here, honey, ‘cause I got a proposition for you. You see, I was reading da newspaper yesterday, and dey had a poll on da back, “Best Villain of da Decade,” and what do chu know? Yo name wasn’t on it at all! You know what dis tells me, love?”

She gives the appropriate amount of silence before continuing.

“It tells me…that people are starting to forget you.”

For the briefest of moments, you freeze. You know she is probably lying…but what if there is a kernel of truth to it? She did, after all, just drop her speech impediment for a second there.

“I like chu,” she continues, “Easier to understand dan da others, and a heck of a lot more entertaining to watch, but maybe I’m just in da minority here. So how’s about I help chu out here, as a personal favor? Now don’t go misunderstanding me. You still gotta kill Ditto Perfect. But how about going ahead wit’ what I’m guessing was yo original plan, and killing da rest of da group as well? And in return, I have my guys filming da whole thing. Welcome to da modern era, baby! We’re talking live-streaming! All da young and cool kids watching you…and dat’s a whole new, long-term target audience, isn’t it.”

You think about her plan. True, you were going to kill at least one teammate tonight. You don’t see much of a downside to her idea, and you had everything to gain.

“So how about it, my little killing machine? Sound fun?”

“Deal.”

#

“I can’t believe they both left me to fend for myself! They know I can’t do anything fancy like they can, right? I mean, I know my magnetic personality is on a whole ‘nother level, practically a super power onto itself, but that doesn’t help me bring down a giant who can shoot lightning bolts outta his ass if he wants.”

“That’s nice, sir. Did you want mustard on your Chicago dog?”

“Yeah, the works. I’m having a bad day, you know?”

“I’m sure, sir.”

“Well look at chu. Hard at work. I’m assuming the job’s already done?”

“Wha-? Who said that?”

“Didn’t say anything, sir.”

“You shitfaced grease stain! I’m right over here! No, here. Oh ho, now I’m over here. Ha HA, now I’m right behind chu! Look at chu go! You dumbass! I’m all up inside yo head!”

“What?!”

“I said I didn’t say anything, sir.”

“Are chu really more retarded dan I already dought chu were? Asshole, I said I was right inside yo head! I’m all da devils on yo shoulder manifest.”

“You’re that bitch who sent me out on this suicide quest to begin with!”

“Ah ah ah…Mama don’t take no lip from her floor babies, lest she slip and hit dis detonator button…”

“No! Don’t do that!”

“I already put mustard on the Chicago dog, sir.”

“Yeah, dat’s what I dought. So listen up, shit fo’ brains. Da others are already almost at Ditto Perfect’s location, and chu aren’t. And if dey succeed in stopping him without chu, dat means you’re out of da prize money.”

“What? We’re getting paid for this?”

“They are getting paid fo’ dis. Why should chu, if you ain’t doin’ nothin’? But lemme guess: you’d rather stay off to da side and save yo sorry hide dan have a crack at da five million dollars up fo’ grabs.”

“Five million?”

“Try to keep up. It might just save yo life. Now, I know you may think of yo’self as Mr. Popularity, but da truth is, ain’t none of dese men owe you any loyalty. Dey’d sooner shoot chu in da back dan suck yo cock, and dat’s without da monetary incentive. In fact, didn’t two of dose men just drop you like a sack of potatoes? Don’t waste yo breath answering dat. Dat was a rhetorical question. Da truth is, dey’re all trying to be da sole recipient to da five million cash, and all of dem have powers and you don’t. If dey’re acting like dey’re on your good side, den it’s only because dey dink you’re too stupid to be a threat to dem later down da line. One way or another, each of dose men will make an attempt on yo life.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’ll be $6.99, sir.”

“But chu know, dere is a way out of it.”

“Huh?!”

“It’ll be $6.99, sir.”

“How do I get out of this mess?!”

“You’re supposed to be ‘Da Liaison Between Da Supes and Normal Folk,’ right? Surely you haven’t burnt down ALL yo bridges yet, have ya?”

“I’ve still got a rolodex of people who are in deep debt with me!”

“Now’s not da time to be funny with me, Bozo. If you’ve got such a list, I’d start calling, data plan be damned. Or else you’re gonna spend tomorrow morning in da morgue…if you’re lucky.”

“Hey wait! What if no one answers? Ms. Marks? Persephone?”

“Are you taking the Chicago dog or not, sir. You’re starting to hold up the line.”

“Yeah fine I’ll take it! Here’s your overcharged pay.”

“You have a wonderful day, sir.”

“Eeeeeh, whatever.”

‘Now who do I have that I can use…’

#

A near infinite amount of possibilities. That’s what Cid had to ponder as he trekked towards tonight’s earlier display of combust. Mister Michaels’ miraculous mirror matching manipulation made for multiple mulling-overs in Cid’s mind. Cid could not possibly predict every conceivable combination of superpowers that Mister Michaels could possess. The notion was certainly disconcerting to him.

However, based on his prior knowledge of Mister Michaels, there were alternative methods to dealing with such an individual. Namely, going with the psychological approach. He would bet that Robin would gravitate towards that route as well, assuming he was still alive and willing to continue this forced act of charity. But how could Cid be certain that Robin would not try to rub everyone else out for the cash reward?

Cid waited until the light turned green before crossing the crosswalk. Somehow, he had managed to lose his lethal pursuers, though he doubted they would believe the falsified testament stating his fiery demise for very long. He could only bank on his own, carefully constructed anonymity, in order to continue with his mission. In other words, hope that his assassins did not know what he really looked like, and he could safely walk around on the ground level with no one recognizing him. He would just have to hide the fact that his left sleeve was clearly burnt down past the elbow. Thankfully, in large metropolitan locales such as Chicago, people generally did not accost other people unless the situation was life or death, and Cid’s outward situation did not subscribe to that category.

Finally, he got to the cite of the explosion. It seemed as if a gorilla had tried to rip an electrical substation off its foundation. A plumage of smoke was still emanating from the remains of the structure. However, the primary culprit was not still within the vicinity. Drawing upon his knowledge gained from reading numerous hunting manuals, Cid knew to look for tracks. The concrete flooring surrounding the substation obviously would not leave any footprints for him to follow, but perhaps where the dirt began would reveal Michaels’ movements. Cid circled around the infrastructure and eventually found the proof he was looking for.

A shot rang out, much closer to Cid’s location than he would prefer. He quickly ducked behind the smoldering ruins, his internal body temperature rising. He peered from behind the corner, half expecting to see the mime reloading his sniper rifle. Instead, he saw armed troops, four or five of them, marching towards the wreckage, scanning the area for something, perhaps bodies.

“Sweep the area. The boss said one of them might’ve already gotten here.”

Cid fully ignited himself, perfectly blending in with the flames coming from the substation. A platoon of this size should not be too difficult to overcome, though the firepower they were packing could pose a threat to him. It would not occur to Cid to make a “fire power of his own” joke then and there.

“Yaaaaahoooooo!!!” came the ever-excitable voice of Fred. He came flying off the overhead highway, fully transformed in his frigid form, riding what Cid could only surmise as a skateboard made of ice. He then kicked the skateboard at one of the men.

“What is up, muddafukkas?!” Fred asked, giving the troops what Fred told Cid was “the two bird salute.”

“Open fire!” barked presumably the leader of the bunch.

By the time the men had raised their weapons, Fred had, in one smooth motion, waved one hand to freeze and jam the guns, and waved the other to erect a wall of ice between him and the men.

“Too slow! Glacially slow. Like an iceberg,” Fred commented.

One of the men dropped their firearm and brought a second one up. Cid stepped out from his hiding spot and hurled a fireball at the man before he could get out a shot.

“Fred, that’s redundant,” Cid said.

From behind the icy barrier, Cid knew Fred was grinning.

“Cid! I found you! I knew you’d be smart enough to find a way here before anybody else. Where’d that Ditto guy go?”

The other men were procuring their alternative sidearms as well.

“I would highly advise maintaining our attentions on the interlopers standing before us.”

“Twister time!”

The gunners started firing, but Cid was already in the air, banking a hard left while emitting streams of fire at the men facing him, streams that to anyone with a working brain would look and feel like the ferocity of a real flamethrower. Meanwhile, Fred was creating his roller track of ice to slide around on, banking his left and shooting tiny, but incredibly sharp icicles at the men focused on him. The result was the aforementioned, albeit crudely constructed, twister. The two were too fast for the soldiers.

‘Not exactly highly trained military soldiers,’ Cid ruminated. ‘More likely thugs picked up off the street and handed a gun.’

Said thugs kept shooting, but the pair of metahumans were too quick, too experienced with gun-toting persons such as police officers to be troubled by the likes of bullets. Cid reformatted the fire around himself so that it resembled a massive, fiery dragon, using any sounds created by doing so to best imitate a dragon’s roar. For however foolish these men were to try to fight them, they were at least smart enough to allow only a few of themselves to focus on Cid and his dragon.

“What the fuck is that?!” one of them cried out.

As Cid expected, the psychological effects of facing off against a mammoth dragon made of fire provided just the right amount of hesitation in the men to give a momentary reprieve to Cid from all the bullets. He used that opportunity to send the dragon at his foes. They cried out in surprise, shielding their faces with their hands as if that would somehow spare them from the first degree burns they were about to be inflicted with.

Fred skated right in and punched out two of the men. He zipped away from the men and, in their confusion, Cid swooped in and clocked an additional man in the back of his head. Cid then emitted an intense wave of heat to further disorientate the foes before jolting out of the way. Fred popped back in, wielding a bat made of ice, and smacked the remaining men across the head. Cid noticed that the downed men were starting to get back on their feet.

“Immobilize our attackers. Then we must depart so that we may chance a rendezvous with Ditto Perfect.”

“First copsicles, now mobsicles,” Fred said, shooting pure ice out of his hands at the would-be attackers, encasing them completely in a solid chunk of ice. Cid knew that it was not really “pure ice” coming out of Fred’s hands, but he had yet to identify what, exactly, was the true nature of the phenomenon that Fred possessed.

With the bandits disposed of, Cid and Fred met up at the site of the flaming wreckage.

“So, which way did he go, Eisenhower?” asked Fred.

Cid sighed. This was unfunny.

“You are fully cognizant of the fact that I realize you intended to refer to me as Einstein, due to the intellectual nature of the two of us, but instead deliberately chose to refer to me as someone with a similar sounding name,” Cid responded.

“I dozed off about halfway through that. Where’s the big guy, Eisenberg?”

The human body starts to recognize that something is wrong when the body temperature reaches around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. A dangerous fever is achieved at 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Lethal temperature precisely at 111.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Due to Fred’s peculiar composition, his average body temperature rounds to about 94.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Cid knew because he tested Fred’s body temperature numerous times, for the sake of scientific curiosity. It stands to reason, then, that Fred would require much less heat to suffer an unpleasant fate. How much less, Cid was seriously considering finding out.

“He proceeded to amble towards the hospital,” Cid said instead.

“Then let’s kick it!” Fred yelled, and started flying the way only a being made of ice could towards the hospital.

Cid sighed, letting the chaos that was tonight momentarily consume him, before flying after Fred.

#

Pierre signed to Clementine his unfortunate circumstance…in that, in his rush, he had forgotten his wallet. Clementine brushed off his concern, letting him know that the espresso he was holding was on the house. Pierre tried to make a counteroffer, that he’ll pay her back when he can, but she was a steel wall. Warm steel, that is. The kind he was well familiar with. He would have to somehow sneak the amount owed into the night register before the night was over.

Pierre spent a few more minutes inside the café, chatting with Clementine. He walked out of the store a little wiser for it. The assassins had been no problem. Nothing compared to the likes of he. But between hopping all around, trying to gain vantage points on roofs, he had become discombobulated, and he wasn’t familiar with this area of Chicago as well as the others. Luckily, he knew a charming little barista in a quaint, local café shop who he could talk to. As he was a familiar at this particular store, Pierre and Clementine had built up quite a rapport. Clementine showed Pierre where he needed to go to see if his son is alright. The very specific hospital. Pierre wished that he felt horrible for lying to Clementine, but those kinds of emotions are stripped off with one gale of near death after another, and he had been stripped to his core a long time ago. Speaking off…

Pierre rounded over to the side of the café, picking up his duffle bag full of goodies that he’d hidden in the bush. He still had enough ammo to take out all of those freaks who would stand between him and Francesca. He started running towards the hospital.

#

You will kill the twins separately, to show how truly weak they are as individualists. The brainy one is most likely to figure you out, the most likely to set a complex trap to stop you. The dumb one is, surprisingly enough, the team’s powerhouse player/the fun-loving one. Probably the one most likely to stop you through sheer will of force, maybe even kill you. Break them apart, expose their weaknesses, and strike. When in human form, they’re just as vulnerable to a gun or a knife like anyone else.

You will kill the mime. The Readers will love seeing the silent assassin being taken down by an even more silent assassin. The mime is older than the rest of you. Perhaps he has a family? Mayhap one will grow up to become a superhero just to fight you as an archnemesis? You feel a fleeting moment of hope scrape past your heart before disappearing in the wind.

You will kill the comic relief. You have come to an impasse as to his fate. On the one hand, gutting him and pulling his entrails out would be decidedly not funny according to the Readers, which would be ever more ironic, considering the man’s comedic purpose in life. On the other hand, to make best use of his comedic ways, you thought about making his death darkly humorous. You must entertain all Readers, after all, not just your own. The most obvious method you can think of is dropping a 10-ton anvil on his head, but you are so far away from the nearest anvil. You could perhaps rig a baby grand piano on a rope and drop it on him, but do you have the time? Which would the Readers prefer more? The ironic, or the thematic?

After you kill them all, you will go after the woman. She thinks herself to be the dreaded force, an invisible foe that strikes fear with her very name. A gimmick you have claimed as your own for years now. You will not be usurped. You will not be replaced. You will remind the Readers who the worst human being is, who makes even the Devil himself flinch, who cannot be bought, directed, chained, or overcome. She is but a throwaway character for a special issue, expected to drive the plot along but not to last for decades to come. You will remind her of that. And then you will carve her up.