a supervillain writing experiment (4)

The world of telepathic crime is a lot less dramatic than you might think. Stock markets and banks tend to have scramblers in place, or their own telepathic security team to detect intrusions. These days, guns and locks don’t have to be physical to keep things safe, they might as well be mental or mystical. If you want to rob a bank, the sad truth is that the simplest path is still to go in and blow things up, and be ready to deal with the consequences. That is why I stick to skimming. I know that people look down on it, and few true villains ever admit to it, but frankly, for day to day living it suffices. Little things add up to bigger things, and nobody will be the wiser.

Stand behind a man in an ATM line and gently suggest that he’ll forget to take the money when he leaves. You can pick it up with no trouble, he will curse himself for being stupid, and if you do it at a place without cameras, there will be no trace at all. Take a walk down Manhattan looking suitably down on your luck and ask people for a dollar for a cup of coffee. Then, when they pull out their wallet have them mistakenly give you a hundred dollar bill instead. Since most bills look similar, they will once again feel foolish, but never guess there was a crime committed. Same with buying things for cash, it is so easy for a cashier to give you back the wrong kind of bill, and if you spread your attentions, nobody will ever catch on. I usually spend two days or so each month skimming, ending up with enough cash for the rent for two apartments, food and clothes. I could make a comfortable living this way, but I want more than comfort.

So I pull bigger scores. Like with Lady Argent, though that was a calculated risk. What I needed was in the Quartet’s headquarter, and nobody could get in there as easily as one of them. I hope I have scrambled her mind enough that she won’t remember me, and I wore a disguise when I slipped into her mind, but it still make me nervous dealing with heroes. I used to work with these people for crying out loud, I know how they work. I know they won’t quit. Hence the butterflies in my stomach. The best thing to do is to keep up my daily routine and change nothing. Sweating at the gym. Lunch at the local café. Pretend to be normal. Be nobody.

“Cyr?” The voice startles me enough to spill my coffee,

“Who?” I manage to sputter out as I look up. I had not sensed anybody approach, and the voice sounds oddly familiar. Who around here still knew me as Cyrus anyway? I hadn’t used that name for five years.

“Don’t you remember me?” The man is oddly familiar now that he mentions it, but I always was better with mental impressions than faces, and this man is blank. A blank slate in the form of a middle-aged man with a straight jaw, and startlingly blue eyes in the tanned face. The hair is blond as well, but then I pick up the low level static hum and remember.

“Of course I do Rick” I manage to say, still looking as if I had seen a ghost. “I just… God, what has it been? Fifteen years and change?” Fredrick Niva, known to the public as Static Discharge. One of the good guys who still stuck around doing his job. Fifteen years ago we used to work together, the veteran and the rookie. Back then I always liked teaming up with him, because what most people don’t know about Static is that he is an epileptic. And, like most epileptics, he is immune to telepathy. I could relax my guard around him and not feel a thing. It has something to do with the electrical storms in the brain that causes the seizures, there is enough static in there to make it nearly impossible to pick up thoughts. Thus epileptics are very sought after in high security occupations, even with the health problems.

“That’s about right” he nods, and takes a seat without an invitation. “Looking good there Cyr, I had hoped you made it through the Incursion intact.” Those eyes are as sharp as ever, and their intensity is focused directly on me. I can almost smell the ozone. I’d saved his life once, after he collapsed from a seizure in the middle of a fight. He’d saved mine four times. God I was stupid back in the day.

“More or less” I said evasively, mopping up coffee from the table with one of the napkins. It turned a slushy brown, like dirty snow. “The decade after it was tougher.” What do you say to someone who used to be your friend? Everything is suddenly fraught with risk. I didn’t dare open too many cans of worms.

“I’m sad to hear that.” And he sounds like he means it too, his forehead laced with worry wrinkles. I find myself worrying how I look to him. Do I look like a failure? A has-been? A former superhero who just couldn’t take the heat? I’ve tried to keep in shape, but I know I am nowhere near what I used to be. Now I’m just a normal guy, especially since I can’t even pick up his thoughts. “Remembering was tough for us all.”

“That’s why I walked away from it” I fill in without having been asked. “I just couldn’t go back. Not after what I saw.” I let my eyes shift down; even though I don’t have Yasmin’s lashes, I am a lot more aware of my body language than I was before.

“The Incursion was horrible for everybody.” Rick jumps to the conclusion I hoped he would, little does he know that those three days scarred me less than the awakening five years ago. I knew monsters would be monsters; I was not prepared for the darkness inside normal men and women. What I would see when my shields were down.

“I am just living a quiet life now.” I take the chance to order more coffee for Rick and me when the waitress comes around. Café mocha, just how he used to like it. “Sidestep is dead.” It was just as well, the name was a stupid pun from the start, to let people think that my powers were based around martial arts rather than predicting my opponents actions. But it is easier that way, if it is common knowledge that you are a telepath they take steps to defend against it. Just like almost nobody knows about Rick’s epilepsy.

“Do you still have your powers?” The question hangs silently in the air as he sips his mocha. I have an almost overwhelming urge to jostle the table so he would spill some on his immaculate white suit. Who wears a white suit these days anyway, apart from people wanting to challenge fate itself?

“I do” I confess, because to say anything else would mean making up things. And the truth always seemed simpler. “But it’s a long road from having talents to having the guts to use them. These days they mostly save me from getting jostled when someone hurries through a crowd." I laugh; the joviality false even to my ears.

“I’m glad.” Rick laughs as well, and for a moment I feel a sudden urge to give up. To tell him everything. To ask for help. To go straight. I’ve missed this, I’ve missed him, and since I can’t read his mind to see what he really thinks of me I can still allow myself some illusions of friendship and trust. “I could really use your help” he finally admits.

That makes me startle visibly, and my mouth stops working for a moment before I manage to get out a confused “What?”

“I know you are retired, but I just don’t know who else to trust.” Suddenly Rick looks his age, a man of power pushing towards fifty. That’s not an age for a superhero, in many cases the power we have keeps us younger and fitter than is fair, and for the rest, there is always money and technology to wipe away any traces of aging.

“Why me?” I manage to get out, paranoia wrapping around my spine as I try to process this. Was it a trap? Did he suspect? What was he up to? Had he followed me here? My heartbeat quickens and I have to busy myself with the coffee to stay in my seat.

“Because I trust you.” Rick looks straight at me, the words so simple and honest that I want to call the bluff. But the man in front of me looks so tired and frail that before I can help myself, the words slip out:

“Tell me all about it.”