Project Northwoods (66 page)

“I already lead,” Arbiter chuffed. “In case you hadn’t noticed the debacle of the Fort.”

His colleague bent slightly downward, offering his hands upward in a display of apology. “I mean no disrespect. But you are too hard on yourself.” He straightened. “Where you see failure, our fellow heroes see only strength. Foresight.” The tight-lipped smile that crossed his face was invigorating. “Decisive action against a violent foe hidden in plain sight.”

Arbiter grew impatient with the rhetoric. “And?”

“And…” Archetype trailed off as he took another long step toward Arbiter. He brought his hand up to gesture toward him. “They wish to make you High Consul… for life.”

The words hit Arbiter, making his knees buckle. He hadn’t prepared himself for his heroes to rally around him so quickly… and so emphatically. Their support was equally unsettling. They were willing to have one man guide them and their decisions for the foreseeable future. He had saved them, acted preventatively in stopping a war which could have been far worse if the villains had remained outside the Fort walls, and uncovered evidence of a conspiracy which had fronds in the Heroes’ Guild itself…
democracy be damned if there is one better suited than I.

High Consul for life… such action, such title, couldn’t be taken lightly.

He swallowed, knowing he could find the resolve to do the job should they ask. Clearing his throat, he walked around the table. “Of course they seek my guidance. I have warned them for decades of this looming threat.”

“Indeed you have, Lord of Justice.” Archetype gently chuckled. “They would be wise to follow through.”

Arbiter nodded slowly. He looked into the cool eyes of his companion. “I fear that the conspirators know of Project Northwoods.”

Archetype flinched subtly at the words. “Only three of us… know about this anymore. The others have…” He paused, considering his euphemism. “… Departed for what lay beyond.”

“We need to be sure.” He headed to the door. “We cannot risk this escaping.”

The blow struck Talia’s cheek much harder than she expected. She fell backward onto a chair before momentum carried her to the floor. The zip-tie binding her hands behind her back dug into her skin, wetting it with blood as she inadvertently struggled against it. A sickly iron taste momentarily flitted across her tongue before she squirmed to her side and spat on Zealot’s boot. She cast a glance up at his impassive face and smiled. “Beating a defenseless victim really gets you off, doesn’t it?” The early morning sun’s reflection through the conference room window offered him a soft glow, a dreamlike contrast to his behavior.

He sneered and leaned down, one hand braced on the table as the other snaked into her hair. In one violent jerk, he brought her upright. His hot breath washed over her as he pulled her close, but she didn’t wince, didn’t break eye contact. “This is merely interrogation.” He looked over at James, slouched in the corner. Both his kneecaps had been broken and his wrists were bound just as Talia’s were. He whimpered as Zealot’s gaze fell to him. “Is that not right, Flea?”

While he was distracted, she tried to work the armor, to age it. But the minute vibrations along it made it hard to focus on anything, let alone the alloy shell. Even when she gave up and focused on the zip-tie, there was something about Zealot’s suit making her brain fuzzy, making it much harder to manipulate the molecules.

She merely gave up after he turned his attention back to her. “Call it what you will you murdering son of a bitch.” Her vision went black, and it took a moment to realize that he had headbutted her. The world swam lazily as she was forced backward into a chair.

The muffled sound of knocking made her concentrate, focusing on the blob that was Zealot as he retreated toward the door and opened it with a salute. From the outer corridor, a splatter of color which grew to be Arbiter appeared in the doorway and marched halfway toward her. Several paces behind him, another man, tall, lanky to the point of skeletal, with a brown ponytail and an immaculate white suit, kept pace. This new man pulled out a golden pocket watch, flicked it open, and closed it before returning it to his vest. There was something mentally draining about his presence, but she couldn’t focus enough to isolate the sensation.

Arbiter surveyed her and James, then turned to Zealot. “What happened?”

“They tried to escape,” Zealot offered.

The Lord of Justice regarded his former sidekick, then turned to Talia. “Miss Illyanovich.”

“For fuck’s sake, Arbiter,” she said, almost laughing. “I think we’re beyond the point of formality.”

If he had been a man inclined to find joy in anything, he might have laughed. Instead, he nodded somberly. “The attack on the Fort… was it a part of a greater scheme?”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “What are you talking about?”

“Were you a part of the larger conspiracy?” He took a step forward. “Your compliance is important for your continued well-being.”

Talia swallowed, eyes not leaving his. “I have nothing to say about whatever paranoid bullshit you think is going on.” He turned ninety degrees to the side, staring out of the window and sighing deeply. Talia continued, “We were trying to use the Fortress to show the outside world what was going on.” She felt like spitting for emphasis. “Other than airing your dirty laundry, there was no larger plan.”

“She’s lying,” Zealot said, taking an angry step toward her. Arbiter stopped him with a firm palm on his chest. The younger man backed off immediately, glaring daggers at Talia as he shook his head gently.

Arbiter turned back toward her. “Where are Zombress and the traitor?”

Talia smirked. “Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

With a heavy sigh, he turned and took a few steps away. The strange, skinny man stepped forward and spoke, his voice soothing yet pointed, “Villainous wretch…” Talia instinctively backed up in her chair. “I am Archetype. I assure you… there are no secrets that you can hide from me.”

“Secrets are for the weak,” she said dismissively. “I have nothing to hide.”

He smiled politely before his eyes flicked toward James. Her head felt foggy for a moment, then became clearer. “And what of James?”

Talia stood up to stop him. “He doesn’t know anything!” she shouted as Archetype pushed her forcefully back into the chair.

James straightened but still appeared to be mentally absent. Long strides took Archetype to her assistant, too lost in his own world to notice the approach. Archetype stretched out his spindly arm, then flexed his hand. The effect was instantaneous: James went rigid, his breathing labored. He tried to stand on his feet, but the broken knees buckled under him; he collapsed to the floor.

“Stop it!” Talia screamed.

Writhing, James crawled to the table. Although Archetype didn’t seem to take pleasure in what he was doing, he gave no indication of discomfort. “I am a puppeteer, Miss Illyanovich. Just one of my many talents.” James now pulled himself up to a chair, a difficult task with bound hands and broken legs. “Of course, my ability
only
affects the living. But that makes me a useful interrogator.” He flicked his hand, and James arced his head back and threw it forward, hard, on the table.

Talia jumped at the sound. “There’s nothing to say.” Her heart was beating wildly. “Please. Just stop this.”

“Tell us what we want to know.” Archetype flicked his wrist again, and James snapped backward and slammed his head into the table. Blood splattered out from the impact.

“What you want to know?” She stood up, trying to lean dangerously toward him. “What you want is something that doesn’t fucking exist!” Archetype cocked an eyebrow, gently waving his hand backward. James weakly straightened in compliance. “Please, don’t do this…” She was pleading, desperate.

The interrogator collapsed his hand into a fist and yanked downward. James snapped forward and brought his head crashing into the table. The heavy wood splintered from the blow. Archetype commanded James to bring his head up again, shards of wood protruding from his skin. He was oblivious to the blood working its way into his glazed eyes. Talia felt tears streak down her cheeks as he looked dumbly at her. “You can stop this, Talia,” gurgled James, speaking Archetype’s desires.

She couldn’t bear it. The sight of this poor kid who, weeks ago, had just been an assistant was too much. Her eyes closed as she heard the disgusted grunt from the interrogator. A final thump followed by the loud collapse of something heavy hitting the ground made her wince. She inhaled, bitterly, as the footsteps of Archetype grew dimmer, then closer, as he walked around the table. “I’m so sorry, James,” she said.

A hand snapped onto her throat, pushing her back down to the chair. Archetype’s eyes were glaring, burning into her. “You would watch a compatriot die rather than reveal your plans?”

“Fuck you,” she spat.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he snarled, the first sign of any kind of real emotion he had given since he entered the room.

The room faded, growing grey as some kind of unseen fog filled the chamber. She became aware that Arbiter and Zealot and even James were no longer in the room. The pressure on her throat subsided, and Archetype vanished into the ether. Talia was alone in the conference room, but it wasn’t the conference room anymore… just a vast field of grey clouds. She stood up, and even the chair vanished when it was no longer being used.

What was he doing? Where am I?

“Hello?” she shouted.

And suddenly, she was in the mob’s vault, talking to Arthur. The quadruplets were there, too… and Stair… was this a memory?

“Where are we?” someone asked. She spun around to find James by her side. She tried to concentrate… there was something about James… something that she should remember… but everything seemed so difficult to focus on. “What are they talking about?” he probed.

Talia tried to think.
I shouldn’t be talking about this. People might be listening in. But he’s my assistant… and I can trust him, right? James… James-James-James… there’s something wrong with James.

She choked on her words before managing to say, “We’re talking about… the Fortress. It… needed to be taken.”

“For what purpose?” His voice was silky, smooth, with a strange edge to it.

“Villains were trapped inside. We needed to…”

“Strike back?” James offered.

“No.” She shook her head.

“Find a way to destroy the heroes?”

“No!” She spun toward him. “We just wanted to save people!”

James’s face shifted, became darker. Menacing. “Save your people… by turning Northwoods on its masters?”

Talia swallowed and took a defensive step backward. “Northwoods? I don’t…”

James buckled in on himself before she could finish, warping and distorting, becoming Archetype. A wave of horror washed over her as the world faded back into the grey swirling mist. “Tell me what you know!” He bellowed. Talia turned and ran, leaving the stationary interloper behind. “Your entire life is an open book to me.” Images of her past flashed by her, images of her father dead. Fleeing across Europe. Being turned down for jobs in the United States. It skipped ahead to that morning, leaving in the ambulance. “You left Zombress to lead the remaining villains on foot.” The ambulance, rocking back and forth as Mat tried to escape Spark. “After that, no contact.”

She stopped, looking around. The world was a churning, grey mist. “Leave me alone!” Talia turned, and Archetype swept from the shadows, latching onto her.

“Project Northwoods… you know of it, don’t you?” he hissed.

“Let me go!”

He sneered. The man palmed her face, smothering her. “Disappointing.” Pulling his hand away, Talia started to cough, gasping at air. “But you’re not as useless as you’re making yourself out to be.” He bared his teeth in animalistic pleasure.

The world went fuzzy, hazy. Talia was dimly aware of her surroundings, the conference room, a hallway, a car, a building, but all sounds felt as though they were in another room and muffled with pillows. There were others, officers, leading her about. Her limbs were moving, but hardly at her request. It was autonomous, but not guided. If she tried to control her body, rein it in, a sharp pain would wrack her brain. She wanted to cry out, but even her throat was unwilling to cooperate.

A series of six pops, each no more than three seconds apart, shattered the shell of muffled noise. They were crystalline, clear, and decidedly painful. Talia panicked, recognizing the thunder as gunshots. It was a dream, a nightmare, where only the dimmest of sensations were present. Everything had been replaced by a half-tone version of itself. Everything, except for the dangerous knowledge that the gunfire was real and very close. She tasted metal, the cold, dirty sensation filling her mouth and making her panic even more. She had to move, to wake up.

Wake up wake up wake up…

Her eyes opened, blinking away tears even though she didn’t feel like crying. She was on her knees, horribly disoriented, kneeling in something warm and wet. Her eyes were unfocused, facing upwards at familiar studio lights.
The sound stage? At VWN? When did I get here?