Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone (6 page)

Ardette considered her answer before saying, “I think ... that you are describing a very noble, very laudable goal, and I do not doubt for a second that you really mean it. But, Steve, I can’t help feeling that you’re also hiding behind it, that there’s something more you’re avoiding talking about. Am I wrong? If I’m wrong, just say so.”

Steve was quiet for a while, long enough for Ardette to decide she wasn’t going to get anything else. She was on the verge of patting his leg and stepping away from the table when he finally spoke up.

“I ... I sometimes think that maybe I’m sort of ‘addicted’ to being Vortex. Between running the company (with tons of help from you and Alan) and putting down dangerous rogues ...”

He fell silent again, but this time Ardette knew to wait.

After close to a minute, he continued in a voice heavy with emotion. “Vortex keeps me from thinking about my family. Mom and Dad, Jonathan, Dan, Aunt Carol, Uncle Del ... every one of them ... all dead, all
murdered
. Goddamn it, my brother was incinerated
beyond recognition
, so he’s still technically ‘missing’ — we didn’t even have a body to bury.”

A tear trickled down his left cheek; he wiped it away with an irritated jerk. It was an odd sight, Ardette thought — his crying without the slightest hint of bloodshot in his artificial eyes.

“Then, to top it all off,” Steve continued, “I had McLane within my grasp, I was hellbent on executing him ... and it turned out that I’d already
accidentally
turned him into a brain dead vegetable while I was fighting his stupid pawn?” He released a bitter guffaw. “I’m still processing that cruel twist of fate — I got my revenge without even knowing it. By the time I laid hands on him, it was already done. He was already gone, lights on but nobody home.” He glanced at her. “How screwed up is that?”

Ardette had been mostly unmoved by his “inspiring hero” explanation — admiring of his dream, but dubious of his inner motives — but this ... this private admission, a more detailed confession than he’d ever before offered ...

Placing a gentle hand on his knee, she said, “Steve, if you ever need to talk about this ...”

He chuckled as he wiped his cheek again. “I thought that’s what we’re doing.”

She smiled with him. “Okay, granted. But you’ve been holding on to this for a year now. You’re not alone, Steve. I’m here for you, and I don’t mean because I can pop your shoulder back into its socket.”

Steve laughed. “I know. Tell you what—”

But the nearest training center door opened again, revealing a demoralized Alan. The older man hustled over to them, while managing to look like he didn’t really want to do so.

Ardette glanced at Steve, but because of his implants, his wiping the tears away removed all signs that he had just been crying.

“Against my better judgement,” Alan said as he reached them, “I have some news to share with you, Steve. But if I didn’t know you’d chew my ass out later if I kept my mouth shut about it ...”

“Alan,” Steve said with equal parts humor and fatigue, “you look constipated when you get like this. Just spit it out.”

Ardette barely held back her laughter —
Dead God, that’s so true! —
which earned her a glare from Alan. He pressed on, “Another rogue is on the loose, tearing up a low-income apartment complex a few miles from here. The regular police are already on the scene, but they’re not having any luck. The PCA’s been notified, but ... I knew you’d want to know.”

Steve considered this; he also considered his injuries. For a moment, it looked to Alan and Ardette as though he might actually let this one slide ...

Vortex hopped off the table. “Get my uniform.”

SHOCKWAVE AND TAKAYASU

“Pull up ... come on, you asshole, pull up ... if you hit that billboard, I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your ass ...”

Mark Westmore, known to the greater public as Shockwave of the PCA, continued his whispered rant, nagging and cajoling but usually berating. And the recipient never talked back, because the target of his harangue was himself.

Mark had been flying for a year now, a trick he’d figured out by shooting his kinetic shockwaves from his feet. But his flying was erratic back then, and he would guess he’d gotten maybe, oh ...
ten
percent better since. It drove him nuts! Other paranormals could fly without zig-zagging like a drunken fly, so why couldn’t he?

Flying isn’t your native ability,
Michael Takayasu, his partner, had told him more than once.
You’ve taken one paranormal gift and figured out a way to use it for something else entirely. That’s awesome and rare. So don’t be too hard on yourself.

Shockwave had his share of fans, and even the haters were just jealous of what he could do. So he’d cut himself slack for a while ... until some asshole at work forwarded him a link to a blog, wherein some dumbass geek compared his flying to that blond guy’s from the old TV series,
The Greatest American Hero
.

“The character on the show lost the instructions to his power suit,” the blogger commented. “That’s why Ralph Hinkley couldn’t fly straight. Does
Shockwave
have the same excuse, or does he just suck at it?”

After that, Mark was bound and determined to figure this flying shit out, and it irked him that he hadn’t made more progress.

The point illustrated itself when he careened so far to the left, he nearly lost his shoes. He couldn’t fire shockwaves through his feet without shredding his socks and knocking his shoes off, so when possible, he’d tie his sneakers’ laces together and sling them around his neck. He’d been left red-faced more than once having to fetch the dropped sneakers out of traffic or someone’s tree or ...

Blessedly, he reached the PCA regional headquarters before he could ponder those moments further. He was supposed to have the afternoon off, but he’d gotten bored, so ... here he was to brighten everyone’s day!

After signing into the building — “signing” these days entailing a retina scan, a voice-print verification, and some weird sci-fi doodad from
Davison Electronics
 that read frontal brainwaves, to try and catch shapeshifters (he hadn’t paid too much attention during the briefing about that one) — Mark made his way upstairs to the office he shared with Michael. He popped his head inside with a simultaneous knock and quipped with a mischievous smile, “Company computers ain’t for porn, young’n.”

His wit, sadly, was wasted on an empty room. He glanced at the wall clock to confirm the time; Michael would normally still be here. Weird. If he’d gone off rogue-hunting, he would’ve called ...

As he was turning to leave, something caught his eye. By his own admission, Mark wasn’t normally the most observant fellow in the world, but a lone, unopened envelope addressed to his partner in an otherwise empty wastepaper basket was hard to miss. Cocking a curious eyebrow, he bent to retrieve the envelope, but he already had a gut feeling about what he would find.

He checked the return address. His gut was right.

Shit ... Christine again
.

Christine White was that damn waitress who Michael hooked up with a year ago. Turned out she was a mole or whatever for that asshole Richard McLane. Michael personally arrested her ass, and Christine got locked away like the rest of those terrorists. Good riddance ... except that she had written to Michael at least a dozen times, addressing her letters to the PCA headquarters since he had moved apartments.

As far as Mark knew, his partner had only opened one of them, the first one — when Mark expressed his “morbid curiosity” about what she had to say, Michael had tossed the letter onto Mark’s desk without a word. The girl wrote about how she had made a mistake, she was paying for her crime, she really cared for him, blah, blah, blah. Mark had openly scoffed at the notion, badmouthing the backstabbing bitch in top “bros-before-hoes” form.

But as the months passed and Michael withdrew, stewing about the whole ordeal almost nonstop, or so it seemed ... now Mark wasn’t so sure that had been the right approach anymore.

I guess maybe it’s time for a Plan B.

Mark stepped out of the office and looked around for any available agent, but who he found instead was way more pleasing to the eye.

“Hey, Density!” he called.

The dark and beautiful woman turned at the sound of his voice. Density was another paranormal agent who could alter the solidity of matter upon contact, increasing wood until it was tougher than diamond or decreasing steel until it could be crushed like aluminum.

“Hello, Shockwave,” she replied with an attractive smile. She was holding a cartonful of office supplies that she was hefting pretty easily for such a petite woman.

“Have you seen my partner around this afternoon? He ain’t in our office.”

She thought for a moment. “You know, I think he might be in the gym — he was carrying his bag when I saw him. It wasn’t that long ago, he’s probably still there.”

“Thanks.” Mark moved in that direction, walking backward as he asked, “The Captain got you chasin’ any rogues today?”

Captain Brunn was the late Captain Jarrah’s replacement as regional commander; Mark was indifferent to him for the most part, as he was neither a nice guy nor an asshole, just a typical penpusher who got drafted over from the CIA.

“Not today,” Density said with a smile. “Captain Brunn’s been over in the testing vault with Powerhouse.”

The way her voice went all dreamy when she mentioned the PCA’s new golden boy turned Mark’s stomach; the rumor mill suggested that Density had a crush on him — as if enough people around here didn’t already have their heads up Lincoln Roberts’ butt. Still ... Mark bit his tongue against any smartass remarks, and settled for a friendly nod and a wave before turning back around and going about his business.

See? He really had picked up some of Michael’s good habits.

PCA

True to Density’s word, Mark found his partner in the PCA gym, but Michael had already finished with the weights, treadmill, and Taekwondo practice. Instead, Mark found him sitting on a bench by the locker rooms, working a pair of heavy-duty handgrips — he didn’t just squeeze them, but also curled his wrists inward toward his body with each compression. Judging by the tension on Michael’s face, Mark guessed the handgrips were built for maximum resistance.

Deciding to put a spin on his lost porn joke from before, Mark commented as he approached his partner, “Huh. You sure you should be doin’ that in here? Looks like an exercise for better masturbation.”

Sounding neither offended nor amused, Michael replied, “It’s part of my never-ending physical therapy for my burn scars. If I don’t keep it up, the tissue hardens.”

Mark glanced down at Michael’s hands again — he had gotten so used to the scars that covered them past the wrists, he didn’t really see them anymore. Michael had gotten them trying to save a friend; he’d failed, but the experience changed his life and drove him to join the first graduating class of the PCA Academy.

While Mark was glad that Michael had grown more comfortable talking about the scars than he used to be (at least with his partner), Michael’s dismissive retort was another example of his growing stoicism. Michael Takayasu had never been what Mark could call “jolly,” but these days he could be downright cold.

Snatching up a pair of 25-pound dumbbells from a nearby rack, Mark joined his partner, squatting upon the other end of the bench. Working alternate arm curls, he struggled to think of a casual way to bring up the letter he’d found in the trash; he didn’t have what anyone could call a “subtle” personality. Finally, he decided to just spit it out.

“I saw that Christine wrote you. Again.”

Michael just shrugged. If he was at all surprised or irritated by Mark’s statement, he didn’t show it.

Mark hesitated, wondering if he should maybe drop it, but look what little good that approach had done so far. “Have, uh ... have you ever considered, you know, maybe ... just
maybe
, I mean
... payin’ her a visit?”

Michael tossed his handgrips aside, pulled the sweat-towel from around his neck to wipe his face, then started rooting through his gym bag — all without saying a word.

Mark continued with his curls, waiting.

Michael located his Gatorade and took a long swig, not stopping until he’d finished off the entire bottle. Mark was about two seconds from apologizing for bringing it up when Michael finally said, “Why the fu—?” He stopped, cleared his throat, and rephrased his question. “Why would I do that, Mark?”

Mark offered a theatrical shrug.  “I don’t know.  If we switched places, I’ll admit, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to see her.  But ... I get the feelin’ that you could maybe use some closure on the whole thing, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I don’t need ‘closure’, Mark. The matter’s been ‘closed’ for a year. I screwed up, royally. I let myself fall for a doe-eyed-girl act that, in hindsight, was painfully obvious. As far as I know, it was
my
information about the synod that led to McLane’s setting off his C4 that day.”

Mark dropped the dumbbells to the floor. “Hey, man, we’ve talked about
this
before.
All
of McLane’s accomplices stated that the bombing had been in the works for months. Your ‘information’ was — at worst! — a confirmation of what McLane already knew.”

Michael shrugged again, sullen once more.

Mark stood to face his partner. “Look, Mike, I ain’t sayin’ you should ever trust the lying bitch ever again — personally, I hope she gets shanked in the shower or somethin’, you know what I’m sayin’? I’m just worried that you been stewin’ bout this too hard for too long. If you go see her, or maybe call her, or even just answer one of her letters ... well, then, maybe you can tell her, in detail, how she can rot in hell, ya know? Really let her have it! Blow off some steam. I just ...”

He faltered for a moment, squirming without wanting to look like he was squirming. All this heart-on-your-sleeve, “bromance” stuff was pretty uncomfortable for the badass known to the world as Shockwave. His eyes drifted to the floor as he continued.