Kingdom of Heroes (36 page)

“You should beat the guard up,” said the lovely voice from his head. “Just to send The Agent a message.”

The Detective looked around just to confirm that he and the guard were the only ones on the outside of the building. They were. “I could take him if I wanted to.”

“I know you could,” she replied, a mock tone of sarcasm in her ethereal voice. “You could beat him up real good.”

The Detective smiled. It wasn’t a smirk or a half smile; it wasn’t for anyone else’s benefit. It was a genuine, honest to God, real smile, but it came with the same sense of finality as everything else he was currently doing. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, that was the last real smile, the last real moment of happiness he was ever going to feel. He hoped not, but things weren’t exactly looking good. And there was, deep inside, just below the surface of the things he knew and the things he felt, that nagging feeling that he wasn’t walking away from this building with all of his limbs intact, if at all.

“I could if I wanted to,” he replied, resuming the conversation. “In a fair fight, I could totally win.”

“What if he cheats?”

“Then I guess I’m fucked.” He waved toward the guard. “I’m The Detective,” he said once he was close enough for the other man to hear him through the still driving rain. “I believe I have an appointment.”

“I have been anticipating your arrival, Mr. Detective,“ the guard said in the most pleasant of tones from behind the safety glass blast shield built into the front of his helmet. Without another word, he held out a hand for The Detective to shake.

Yet again, it wasn’t what The Detective had expected, and for the briefest of moments, he found himself entirely unsure what to do. Did he take the hand? Really? He was walking into a despot’s private sanctum, and there was a solitary guard holding a clipboard and offering a hand out for him to shake.

The Detective did the only thing he could think of at the time, and he reached out and shook the guard’s hand. The grip was firm but gentle, with the guard seeming to know there was little point in trying to overpower the grasp of a man with superpowers.

The guard released his hand, lifted the clipboard up, and looked down at it, trying his best to use his head to block the rain away from the paper. “My name is Peterson. I am Chancellor Rogers’ personal assistant. If we can head inside, he is expecting you.”

A personal assistant. Not an armada of soldiers, not a single tank, not even a crack head with a knife, nope, they sent him a personal assistant.

“You could still beat this guy up,” Emily interjected from his thoughts.

He ignored her. “Where does he want this meeting?”

Peterson motioned his head toward the building‘s higher levels. “In his penthouse on the top floor. As I said, Mr. Detective, he has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“Well, that makes one of us.” The Detective replied. He thought about correcting the whole mister thing, but at that exact moment, he kind of liked it. He and Peterson, despite all of the good times they’d had so far, weren’t exactly on a first name basis yet.

Peterson motioned toward the front door. “If you will follow me, we don’t want to keep the Chancellor waiting.”

“We might want to. You know, just to keep him on his toes.”

Peterson didn’t react to The Detective’s admittedly somewhat lame attempt at humor; he just kept motioning toward the door with the same blank expression on his face, which was just slightly kept out of view due to the helmet and its attached face shield. From what The Detective could see, Peterson was male, somewhere in his late thirties to mid-forties, average height, average weight, just standing in the rain like an idiot with a clipboard in his hand, in other words, nothing special. On top of his nothingness, a scent emanated from him. The Detective could pick it up through the rain and across the distance between them. He was drenched in the scent of fear; it rolled off of him as if he had bathed in a tub filled with fear flavored cologne. The man in the swat team armor was scared to death.

So why would The Agent send this man, this Peterson, to be his all inclusive welcoming committee? It quickly occurred to The Detective what made this man so special: he wasn’t in the least bit threatening. The Detective had no qualms whatsoever about following this man into the building. After all, like he had told Emily earlier, he could beat him up if he wanted to. There was nothing special about this guy, no reason at all to believe this man held any danger or threat in any form.

In other words, this was all an obvious trap. The Agent needed him in the building, and he sent the most non-threatening individual he could find. He might as well have sent a little kid out there. Probably, The Detective thought to himself, The Agent didn’t have a child readily available. They were all too busy working the overnight shift in the factories.

“You don’t have to go in,” Emily said from his thoughts. “It’s obviously a trap. The Agent wants you---no, he needs you to come to him. By coming here, by coming after me, you’re just giving him exactly what he’s after. You’re just playing into his hands. I‘m not worth it.”

The Detective shook his head from side-to-side. “I know what I’m doing, and yes, you are worth it. Besides, nobody has tried to kill me in like thirty minutes. I am well past due.”

Peterson, with a puzzled expression on his face, stopped motioning toward the building and looked at The Detective. “What?”

“Not talking to you, Petey,” The Detective answered, as he began walking toward the front doors. He looked back at Peterson, who just stood there as The Detective walked past. “Well, Petey, are you just going to stand there in the rain like a moron, or are you going to take me to your boss?”

Peterson woke from his momentary stupor and guided the two of them toward the building’s entrance.

_______________________________________________

Journal Entry

[Found on page 42]

Note: The following is a newspaper article published in a Canadian paper, The Toronto Report. The article was published almost a year after the war and approximately four years before The Agent’s failed takeover of our northern neighbors.

In an unsurprising and predicted move, the United Nations has disbanded. The move comes after the United States was involuntarily removed from UN membership and asked to relinquish any role the country had formerly played in world affairs. Following The Seven’s takeover of the government, the United States was deemed a dangerous state now controlled by a terrorist level entity.

The world’s remaining superpowers, including Canada, have formed a new collective of sovereign states. Deeming itself The League of Nations, this new organization has come together to safeguard themselves and other smaller countries from the expected invasions of the United States.

The League is expected to announce a recruiting process for super powered individuals in the hopes of providing each member nation with a defense force to counter The Seven and their collective of similarly powered soldiers. Details on the recruiting process, including age limits and service times, will be provided within the coming weeks.

_______________________________________________

The Detective followed Peterson to the building’s front doors, two giant doors that were at least a story high by themselves. The building was colored entirely white, and all of the windows were mirrored, reflecting the outside world and showing nothing of the building’s inside. Peterson walked to the right of the giant doors, where an electronic keypad waited for his numbers. He looked over his shoulder, just to make sure The Detective wasn’t peeking, and he put his number into the system with a flurry of tones and beeps.

“I hear that retinal scans are a lot more effective,” The Detective said while still peering over Peterson’s shoulders. Ignoring the comment, Peterson continued with his digits. “Damn man, that is one hell of a long code. How do you remember it? Do you have to write it down on your hand? Both hands? Your hands and feet?”

“You are going to totally piss him off,” Emily commented from inside his head.

“I hope so,” The Detective said in return. “Maybe then, I can finally prove that I can beat this guy up.”

“Are you still going on about that?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not a running joke if you don’t keep it going. Do I have to teach you everything?”

“I know of a few things you could teach me. I’ve seen a few snippets from those stray thoughts you keep warning me about.”

“Now quit that. You’re going to make me blush right here in front of Petey, and nobody wants that to happen.”

Peterson turned away from the keypad and stared at the Detective, a look of complete confusion mixed with a tinge of terror covering the man’s face.

“Sorry about that, Pete,” The Detective said, knowing he must sound like a lunatic to anyone else, going back and forth from asinine comments and talking to himself. Though in the end, he really could have cared less what this man thought of him. “I’m having a private conversation with my imaginary friend, and she likes to argue.”

“Do not,” Emily replied from his thoughts.

“Do too.”

“Well,” Peterson said, removing himself from the keypad and turning towards the two giant doors. “If you will follow me, I will escort you to your meeting with the Chancellor.”

“Chancellor?” The Detective asked as he too walked toward the doors. “Do I have to be so formal? Can I call him Brucie?”

Peterson opened the two giant doors, and The Detective followed him through them. He stopped in mid-step after he crossed the doorframe and stared at the sight in front of him. He had walked into a giant room; the ceiling had to be at least fifty feet high. Desks were scattered throughout, each covered by several monitors, all showing various cameras throughout the building. Every desk was manned by at least three armed guards, each one wearing the same armor that Peterson sported, and each guard had an automatic rifle slung around his shoulder and a large pistol strapped firmly to their hip.

The Detective looked away from the desks and to the surrounding walls, where at least a hundred of these guards, each decked out in the same armor and carrying the same firepower, lined the room’s interior, each and every one with their gazes firmly planted on the new visitor and the guard showing him into the building.

“Mr. Detective,” Peterson began, “if you will follow me.”

The Detective shook himself awake. “Sorry about that, Petey. I was a little distracted by your army. I take it they are to keep me from leaving?”

“That is the plan,” Peterson answered without turning around.

They walked across the giant room; a path in-between all of the desks and the guards was available in the center of the room. The Detective fought the urge to introduce himself and shake the hand of everyone he passed. He assumed he was pushing his luck as much as it was. On the other side of the room, an elevator rested in the outer wall. There were no stairs that he could see, just the lift. Peterson guided him to it and stopped. The doors were already open and waiting for them to walk in.

A thought occurred to The Detective, and him being who he was, he had to ask: “You know Pete, I just realized that you haven’t searched me. I could be carrying all kinds of concealed weapons up to your boss.”

Peterson laughed. “Mr. Detective, you have our purpose here all wrong. We are here to protect the Chancellor’s many assets, not the Chancellor himself. Even if you brought enough guns to outfit a battalion of men, there would be nothing you could do to harm the Chancellor. Now…” Peterson pointed to the inside of the elevator. “If you would be so kind.”

The Detective walked into the brightly lit lift. Two cameras rested on the ceiling, one pointed at the large row of buttons, marked from one to one hundred; the other was pointed directly at The Detective and seemed to move when he did, following his every little motion.

Peterson reached over and pressed the button for the one hundredth floor, the button lighting up after his touch. The elevator began to move with only the slightest bit of a lurch. The Detective looked down at himself, seeing himself in actual light for the first time in a while. His once white shirt, the one Fire had given him some twenty-four hours ago, was now stained red, soaked in the blood that still flowed from his bleeding shoulder. Even his tie had a red tint to it. And that was a shame, he loved that tie.

“So, beautiful,” The Detective began to ask the girl in his head, “which floor are you on?”

“The ninety-ninth,” she answered, the slightest bit of optimism present where strain and tension had been earlier. “Are you really coming to get me?”

“About to,” he answered.

“What about Peterson?”

“Petey is about to take a long nap.”

Peterson turned toward him, the man’s now trademark expression of confusion covering his face. “Excuse me?” he asked.

But before he could barely utter his last syllable, The Detective reached over with his left hand and ripped the helmet from Peterson’s head. With his free right hand balled into a fist, The Detective slammed it into Peterson’s face. Once. Twice. Three times, each blow landing harder than the one before. An unconscious Peterson slid down the wall, his face broken and bleeding from several different spots.