Collateral Damage Read online

  Suffice it to say: I saw things differently. So, I had my license revoked—which is okay since I don’t don a cape any longer.

  As I sat down at my desk, my mind reverted to earlier years. Sure, they were fun times, but there’s a reason you don’t see pictures of my loving family in my office. I don’t have a family. You can’t afford to have family in this line of work. You can’t have anyone you care about.

  A buzz sounded from my intercom.

  “Yes, Mary?”

  “There’s a fresh one out here to see you.”

  “I don’t have any appointments today, do I? I was just sitting down to work on my book.”

  I was writing a book. I’d been told that non-fiction is where the money was. So I decided I’d write down some of my more fantastical moments in crime fighting. I suggest you wait eagerly for that book to hit the shelves. It’ll change your world.

  “No, sir. He’s a walk-in. Says his name is Spencer Groves.”

  “Okay, send him back.”

  What came next I couldn’t have expected unless I’d been Mezmer. I recognized him right away—how could I have forgotten? He was the reason I’d been drinking bad coffee for nearly a month now.

  There was fire in his eyes—no, I mean literally fire in his eyes. I dove out of the way to avoid the burst of heat as it slammed against my desk. Instantly, the sprinklers went off and the fire alarm began singing songs of victory as they successfully extinguished the flames.

  “Whoa, whoa!” I shouted from behind my somewhat charred desk. “You don’t want to do this, kid!”

  “You don’t even understand just how much I want to do this, Mocha Macchiato Man!”

  “It was a White Mocha, you inbred fool!”

  “Whatever!” he shouted as more flames erupted around me.

  I told you, this city was so full of villains you could never begin to pick them all out. Who’d have thought the pockmarked little brat behind the counter at MoonMoney would have dragon eyes?

  I planted my feet firmly on my carpet—my precious, now ruined carpet… sadness— and pushed hard. My back against the desk, it went airborne and connected with the young man. I knew because I heard his shrieking. I feared for the reality of what might have just occurred. That desk was solid oak. To those of you who are less cultured in the quality of woods—oak is heavy and expensive.

  When I turned, I saw him beneath the large piece of furniture. He was still alive, which was something, but he was clearly unconscious.

  Just then, the door opened, hitting the desk.

  “Mr. Steel, are you okay in there?”

  “Fine, Mary,” I said with a hint of sarcasm. “Call cleanup? Tell them there’s a villain here in need of a cell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Mary?”

  She turned back and stuck her head through the crack in the doorway.

  “Sir?”

  “Next time, could you make sure my walk-ins aren’t villainous psychopaths?”

  • • •

  The next day I woke up early, deciding to take a trip to the MoonMoney before taking a special trip the see the Guild.

  I’d barely stepped a foot through the front doors when Ginormo (which I’m sure would have been his superhero name, had he been one) rushed toward me.

  “You’re not welcome here,” he said. “At all.”

  He bowed up to me—that is, he shoved his enormous pectorals in my face.

  “I’d like to speak to your manager,” I said. “Little blonde. Cute in a chihuahua kind of way. You know her, right?”

  He pushed against me. Ooooo intimidating. I lifted my hand, stuck out one finger, place it against his chest and applied the minutest amount of pressure. He reeled backward as if he’d been hit by a Mack truck.

  Several hipsters screamed, grabbing their Apple products and clearing out the door. It wasn’t long before the place was empty other than the employees and yours truly.

  “Vanessa?” I said, trying to remember what her name tag said nearly a month ago. “Veronica?”

  “It’s Valerie, and you’re going to have to pay for that,” she said, pointing to the damaged goods where her friend struggled to get up.

  “Put it on my tab along with a medium White Mocha Macchiato.”

  “You’re out of your mind if you think we are going to serve you anything, man.”

  I took a step forward and she backed up. “I believe that is the least you could do after your employee attacked me at my place of business just last evening.”

  “Who did what?”

  “Your barista, Spencer, frolicked into my office and nearly burned the place to the ground with me and my employees inside. You could imagine how my insurance premiums have increased.”

  “Spencer hasn’t worked here in two weeks, man. This has nothing to do with us.”

  “Pray tell, why did the young whippersnapper lose this prestigious position?”

  “Drop the act, old man,” she said. “We know you went to corporate and reported him.”

  Old Man?

  “Reported him? Me? Absolutely not. I have far better things to do with my time than fret over the future condition of a minimum wage employee.”

  Just then, a young man came out of the bathroom, still zipping his pants.

  “Whoa,” he shouted. “You’re Baron Steel!”

  I swore and sighed. Every now and then, some hero chaser still recognizes me. It’s not as if I ever had a secret identity—I’m pretty much indestructible and, as I’ve said, I don’t maintain relationships in such a way to put anyone in any kind of real danger.

  “You’re Baron Steel?” the manager said.

  “At your service,” I said, with only a twinge of sarcasm.

  “Geez, man. I didn’t think you’d be such a dick.”

  “I am only being a dick because I was so wronged in this establishment. I have been a faithful, paying customer for neigh a decade, yet since that arsonist you call Spencer came around, I haven’t been able to get a decent cup.”

  “Dude, is this seriously all about a freaking coffee?”

  “Victoria—may I call you Victoria?”

  “Well, my name is Valerie…”

  “This is about respect,” I said, unconcerned. “This is about receiving the service a paying customer deserves. This is about—”

  “Holy hell, man. Someone make this guy a White Mocha Macchiato so he’ll shut up.”

  “Thank you!” I said.

  They quickly made me my espresso and I left several one hundred dollar bills to cover the cost of the damage.

  The location of the Guild was pretty well known. It wasn’t some secret base in the Alps or anything crazy like that. It was in Washington, D.C. and that meant I needed to take the jet. Yes, I have a jet. Actually, I have several jets. To quote the great philosopher Ron Burgundy, “I’m kind of a big deal.”

  The flight was smooth, so I won’t bother you with details other than I watched a movie on board about a man who went from farm to space in a few days. The science was pretty wonky, but the story was fun—even if the end made no sense.

  I was still pretty friendly with most of the Guild, so using their runway was no problem at all—which was nice, since I didn’t have all day.

  I approached the arched entry and the doors opened for me. Stepping into the lobby was like entering a museum. As a matter of fact, it sort of was one. This section was completely open to the public and displayed some of the most recognizable costumes of retired supers. Black Harrier had a few of his on display even though he wasn’t technically retired.

  How people didn’t notice the distinct difference in the build of Frank’s body when compared with Alex was silliness. It’s all a lot of silliness to me, honestly. It’s almost worse than the NFL—men dressing up like boys, playing a game and being practically worshiped by the public.

  A young lady manned the front desk—wait, that’s probably a sexist term. She womanned the front desk. That might not work either
—she personed the front desk. Much better. This is D.C. after all. I wouldn’t want to melt any snowflakes. Oh, I’m sorry, are you offended? I digress.

  “Hello, my name is Maeve. Welcome to the Hall of Ju—I mean the Guild Headquarters. I’m sorry, I’m new. Just transferred.”

  “It’s okay, Maeve,” I said. “Beautiful name. Do you know where it comes from?”

  “Shakespeare I think, right?”

  “Yes, in fact! She was said to be the Queen of all Fae, and very beautiful. You wear her name well, my dear.”

  I really can be a nice guy if you’re not serving me the wrong drink. It’s been a rough month. I’m a hero, remember?

  She blushed. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “Do you recognize me?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Like I said, I’m new.”

  To the world? I can’t imagine how she’d worked for at least two different superhero bases and hadn’t recognized me from my pictures. I looked at the large mirror behind her and realized how much older I’d gotten. Maybe I couldn’t blame her. Even if she had seen me in pictures, there’s no way I could expect her to think that dashing, handsome young man was me. Sure I was still good looking, but I was gray on the sides and a lot more wrinkled.

  “No need to apologize. My name is Paul Steel—the Baron.”

  “Oh! Sir. Yes sir, how can I help you, sir?”

  Another suck up. And this one was gorgeous…but probably young enough to be my daughter or my daughter’s daughter.

  “I need to speak with The Ward, please.”

  “Yes, sir. As you know, I will need to get proper clearance. Would you mind?” She motioned to a waiting area just behind me.

  “Of course not. If the Guild was good for anything it’s protocol.”

  She smiled sheepishly and motioned toward the chairs again. I saw her pick up the phone as I was turning.

  I took a seat and rifled through some magazines. Everything was direly out of date. Time magazine from when one of the Bush’s was president, Highlights for the children or young at heart. I picked up a Travel Magazine. I loved traveling. It was one of the reasons I quit superheroing. There was a spread about Alaska. Not a lot of crime there—perhaps next year.

  “Mr. Steel?”

  I spun around and saw Maeve motioning toward me. I followed her to a set of glass doors.

  “Three doors down, on the right.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  The door was frosted, and I didn’t have to be a genius to know it was made of material so strong even I couldn’t damage it. I knocked three times and saw a figure moving toward the door.

  I was greeted by The Ward. I didn’t know his real name. I didn’t know what he looked like, outside of his dark skin and bald head. He wore a mask that literally blurred his face like I was watching an old episode of COPS. It was a bit disconcerting. When he spoke, I heard his voice, but couldn’t see his mouth moving.

  “Paul, it is good to see you again.”

  “I wish I could say the same, blur man.”

  We shared a laugh and he sat down behind his desk. They were all incredibly business-minded around this place. Which, normally I could respect, but sometimes it got tedious.

  “How can I help you today?”

  “Ward—” which is what we all called him, thankfully dropping the word “the”—“do you remember a few years ago when we fought Clover King?” And yes, that was really his moniker. You’d be shocked what people come up with when there are so many villains and such fear of stepping on one another’s toes by naming yourself the same thing as another super.

  “In Ireland?” he asked.

  “Where else?” We laughed again. “He had that guy with him with the magnification armor. Remember?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Well, would you do me a favor and see if his armor is in Acquisitions? I’d like to purchase a piece of it.”

  “Purchase? Paul, you know these things aren’t for sale.”

  “I only need a glove. Just the right one. No big deal between friends, right?”

  The was a sudden banging on the door and I nearly jumped from my seat. I heard a beep and the door slammed open.

  Eaglestar hovered before me, eyes all aglow.

  “Paul Steel, you have been accused of performing superheroics without a license. How do you plead?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Were you responsible for the capture of one: Spencer Groves?”

  I swore.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you are under arrest.”

  • • •

  “Surely, you jest,” I said. “The villain—who was barely a villain—broke into my office and threatened the lives of everyone within. What do you propose I should have done?”

  “You know the rules, Paul. There’re reasons for our rules.”

  “Do you mean like when your friend, Frank, decided to not only kill Pierrot but savagely beat him to death? Or do those rules only apply to some?”

  “You know full-well what Frank did was in self-defense.”

  “Oh, surely after the fifteen punch—you know, the one which was responsible for the caving in of the clown’s face—he could have stopped and allowed proper law enforcement to take over. I know I always feel my life is threatened while I am straddling a villain and ground and pounding him like we were in a cage.”

  “That is enough, Paul. You willfully gave up your license to practice heroics when you decided to capitalize on our profession.”

  “You realize all you’ll be doing is setting the Guild back to my time when we were feared by the public? I won’t get a fair trial. Plus, it’s not like I killed the kid!”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, glowing eyes narrowing, “you did.”

  • • •

  I didn’t know how to respond to the information I’d just received. Turns out Spencer had never woken up after leaving my office. He wasn’t dead-dead, but he had zero brain activity. The news had been kept off of mainstream media, but the social channels were already buzzing with rumors and speculations. The employees at MoonMoney were going public with the events of the previous month, which made me look like an animal.

  I was currently aboard my jet heading home where I would have to face the music, so to speak. Eaglestar was flying outside, refusing to put himself in another “metal casket” as he liked to refer to them as. He hadn’t had good experiences with planes back in the war.

  I was on, what I believed to be, my sixth glass of whiskey. I’m not sure showing up to court inebriated was the best idea, but I introduced caution to the wind a long time ago.

  We touched down on my private runway just an hour or so later and Eaglestar was waiting outside to escort me. He informed me that a jury was already waiting and my lawyer had been contacted as well.

  I’d been on trial once before. In the late ’90s, the lines were blurred regarding hero regulations. I’d been charged with millions of dollars of what they labeled “collateral damage.” That meant I destroyed an entire city block defeating a guy who called himself The Lux. He didn’t have any powers, but he’d produced a veritable army of robotic soldiers. I never understood how these guys got ahold of military grade lasers and rocket launchers, but the robots were decked to the gills with them.

  I put him down, permanently. The “do not kill” rule hadn’t been implemented then, and although I value human life, I don’t consider these vermin to be human. They are a pestilence and deserved to be treated as such.

  I was convicted, so to speak. I had to pay the city for its loses—which wasn’t difficult, I own several businesses which are very lucrative. Additionally, one of the buildings which had suffered the most damage belonged to me. Along with the financial penalty, I was suspended—prohibited from fighting crime for a year. It was during that time when I’d first conceived the idea for the agency even though I wouldn’t implement it for another few years.

  Black Harrier and E
aglestar come to my aid in a manner of speaking, giving me a role within the Guild. Even though I couldn’t fight crime with my hands, I could do so with my business mind. Little did I know, business would be the death of the whole thing. It won’t be long before bureaucracy’s red fingers wrap around the throat of the Guild and snuff it out for good.

  How are we supposed to fight crime if we aren’t allowed to actually fight crime? We get sued if someone gets injured, even if they’d just destroyed the entire city.

  When we arrived at the courthouse, it became apparent the media had found out about things. News vans from every outlet lined the streets. Cameramen jogged toward us, dragging long, thick cables and women in high heels rushed us with microphones held out in front of them.

  “Mr. Steel,” one started.

  “Baron,” I said, wondering why no one was capable of respecting the man who’d saved this city thrice a dozen times.

  “Do not speak with them,” Eaglestar said.

  “You put me in this position. Don’t presume to tell me how to handle it.”

  “Ma’am,” I said to the anchorwoman, “this is all a misunderstanding and will be cleared up before the day is through.”

  We pushed through the growing crowds and walked up the stairs to the courthouse. Doors swung wide before us and more vultures waited inside. These I ignored and Eaglestar conducted me toward a room labeled “Courtroom B.”

  “Do I not deserve ’A’?” I asked with a smirk.

  As I walked through the doors, my ears we met with the murmurs of a large mass of people. On my left stood nigh on one hundred masked vigilantes. On my right, civilians carrying protest signs and jeering at me using words I had thought went obsolete years ago.

  I took my seat at the defense table and endured the din while we awaited the honorable judge to arrive. It was incredible that a session like this could be perpetrated in just a matter of hours. I used the word perpetrated on purpose. This was an absolute crime against justice.

  “Please rise.”

  A shuffling behind me gave way to complete silence.

  “The Court of the Second Judicial Circuit, Criminal Division, is now in session, the Honorable Judge Bristol presiding.”

  Judge Bristol took his place atop a tall podium, slammed his gavel and said, “Everyone but the jury may be seated.”