30: Accounts Closed (Donovan Price)

Donovan went to the wall and stopped in front of the portrait of his great-grandfather, Archibald Price. He carefully took it down, revealing a hidden safe with a small camera. He held still until the camera finished scanning his iris, and the safe popped open.

He reached inside and removed a very large, very old ledger, and set it on his desk. Donovan carefully leafed through it, taking note of all the items that had been struck out with red lines. At long last, he came to a page with an unmarked item. “Xian Street Shelter Fire,” it read.

Donovan turned back to his computer screen and checked the spreadsheet. Eventually he found a listing for “Father Xian Missions,” with an outstanding balance of $472.59--well under this month's donation, he thought. He took a red pen from his desk and carefully struck through the corresponding line on the ledger.

He flipped through a few more pages, but didn't find any more unmarked items before coming across a thick, black line that divided a page horizontally. The last listed item before that line was in 1942, the year of Archibald Price's death.

Price touched a button on his desk phone. “Sandra?” he said, not waiting for an answer. “Phase out the donation to the Father Xian Missions, and keep it quiet. Start one up in the same amount for the Educational Renovation Project.” He pressed the button again to hang up, then returned the ledger to its place in the safe.

Once the safe closed, he did not return the portrait of his great-grandfather to its original place. Instead Donovan carried it to a closet, where he switched it with another, somewhat more recent portrait in a thick frame. This one he hung on the wall over the safe, and he found himself staring into the iron-gray eyes of his grandmother, Virginia Price.

Donovan sighed as he stared at her. She seemed more domineering in the portrait than she had in life, if such a thing was possible. Her hard face would be keeping watch over the office for a long time.

After her, there were still three more portraits in that closet. If he lived long enough, he could pay for all their sins.

Then he would have to find a way to pay for his own...

29: Shining a Light (Donegan Lighthouse)

DONEGAN LIGHTHOUSE

Built in 1855, the Donegan Lighthouse has been a key point in Northern California coastal navigation. In 1856, its warnings saved two ships from disaster during a storm, and summoned the townspeople to provide aid for a third that was unable to avoid the rocks. No lives were lost, and the event fostered a sense of unity among the original Chinese and Irish settlers.

Today, it is one of only two manned lighthouses in the nation.

California Registered Historical Landmark No. 121

Plaque placed by the State Department of Parks and Recreation in cooperation with the Price County Historical Society, August 20, 1976.

Arthur Donegan frowned a little whenever he walked past that plaque. He knew he should be proud of it, but there were three things that always bothered him.

First, it really should be a national landmark by now.

Second, there was no mention of his ancestor Brian Donegan, who built the lighthouse and operated it for thirty years.

Third was the glaring factual error. Yes, there had been a terrible storm; yes, two of the three ships were saved by his great-great-great-grandfather's actions; yes, he was also able to summon the others to provide aid to the third ship's victims.

In 1853. Two years before the lighthouse was built.

28: Cry For Help (Dr. Walter Hausfeld)

Dr. Walter Hausfeld scratched a few words onto his notepad. October 12, afternoon session. Carlisle, Dwight. He looked up at his patient, a scowling thirty-year-old man in prison grays, seated in a folding chair. For some reason, Dwight refused to even sit on the couch.

“Dwight, I'd like to start with--” he began, before Carlisle interrupted.

“It's Loudmouth.”

“...of course. Loudmouth, I'd like to start with a question. Why are you so angry?”

“I dunno. Probably because you're such a dipshit.”

Dr. Hausfeld sighed. His sessions with Carlisle were always difficult—Dwight tended to start with insults, and then stay there. Worse was that he seemed to do it reflexively, as if he didn't need to think about it at all. The doctor once asked Dwight about his preference for abuse over conversation, and Dwight told him to “take the train to Fuck You Junction.”

“I want you to listen to something.” Dr. Hausfeld pulled up an audio file on his computer. “I trust you're familiar with Signora Soprano?”

“Yeah, I watch the news.”

“Recently, someone was able to record her sonic cry in action without completely destroying their equipment. With careful editing, they managed to filter out its destructive qualities, as well as reducing the volume and pitch to something the human ear can handle.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Loudmouth making the “jerk off” hand gesture. “Anyway,” he said, “let's take a listen.”

The doctor played the clip, which was a female voice hitting a high C note and holding it for almost a minute. While there were slight vibrato flourishes, it was otherwise pitch perfect. Dr. Hausfeld, being a fan of the opera, had to wipe away a tear, and even Loudmouth was impressed (though of course he'd never say so.)

“Impressive, no? Now, here's another recording.” He pulled up a second file and played it.

The difference was like night and day. This new voice was guttural, jagged, and ugly in every sense. The pitch fluctuated wildly, completely out of control, and even though it was nowhere near the edges of vocal range, it was still painful to listen to.

Whereas the first voice was singing...this one was screaming.

“What the fuck was that?” Loudmouth asked.

“That,” the doctor replied, “was you.”

Loudmouth sat back down in his chair, a look of shock on his face. Walter Hausfeld leaned forward over his desk, his fingers steepled.

“So I'll ask you again, Mr. Carlisle. Why are you so angry?”

27: Man Down (Jane Haddix)

Jane Haddix stood up from her desk and looked through the glass door of her office. She saw a sea of blue uniforms—far more than usual, and probably more than were on duty—clustered around a television set.

She silently opened the door and found a place where she could observe. The other officers were watching a news broadcast.

“The dust is starting to clear,” the reporter said. “It looks like—yes! It's down! The monstrosity is down!”

A cheer went through the station house; every voice in the room contributing...except one. Haddix was too busy thinking about what it was like before the Cowboy showed up. Back when the police were expected to handle everything...and they could. When the biggest threats were the gangs...and the Poolhall Gang hadn't started using powers yet.

“I can't see the Cowboy yet, but it does all our hearts good to know that he has stepped up once again when the city needed him...”

Not that you asked us for help, Haddix thought. To be fair, maybe a twenty-foot-tall alien monster wasn't the best test of the police force. But it was also the kind of thing they wouldn't have to deal with if this were a normal city. Normal cities also didn't have people like Hooligan or Clockwise or the Black Hats...

She knew she wasn't being fair, but it wasn't a fair situation. In her time as chief of police, Haddix had seen the BCPD go from one of the best in the country to obsolete and complacent. They were still highly trained, but they hadn't had a real test in years. They just expected the hick in the stupid hat to do everything for them.

“Hold on, I'm just getting word that...oh...oh, no...Tracy, can you get a shot of this?” The news camera focused on some EMTs picking through the rubble, and a man lying on the ground. What energy there had been in the room quickly vanished.

“Early reports state tell us that the Cowboy is seriously injured, bleeding heavily, and may not--” The reporter's voice cracked. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, it's just...please, not this...”

Jane Haddix looked around the station house, and saw disbelief and despair on the faces of her fellow officers. One of the rookies looked like he was about to cry.

“What does this mean?” one of them whispered. Finally, Haddix spoke up.

“It means you're going to have to learn how to be cops again,” she said dryly. “Get back to work.”

26: Walk Through (Inside Man)

“Make a shot, dammit!” Larry Green yelled at the screen--the only one in the room not related to his job. “If the Yellowjackets cost me money again...”

Aaron McReynolds glanced at the clock. “It's seven. Time to make the rounds.”

“Is it?” Larry looked up from the basketball game. “Shit. Game'll be over by the time we get back.”

Aaron shrugged. “Last set was quiet. Why don't I just go solo?”

Larry raised an eyebrow. Aaron never offered to do that—usually, it was Larry who had to do it by himself. But he wasn't about to pass this up. “Knock yourself out, man.”

Aaron left the security room, making sure he had his badge, flashlight, and radio handy. Then, he headed straight to the elevator.

---

On the third floor, Amanda Friedman rubbed her eyes and walked to her office. She was almost there when a voice called to her.

“Burning the midnight oil again, Friedman?” It was Bill Jorgenson, from accounting. He was leaning against the doorway across the hall.

“Something like that,” Amanda called back. “How about you?”

“Money never sleeps,” he replied.

“Neither does our boss, it seems.”

“Maybe if you didn't spend so much time hitting on that redhead in Sales, you'd get your work done by five.”

Amanda smiled. “Maybe. But then I wouldn't be taking her for drinks on Friday.”

“Touché,” Bill said, and saluted her with his coffee mug. “Have a good one.”

“You too,” Amanda tapped her badge against the security panel on her office door. Once inside, she turned on her computer and plugged a flash drive into a USB port.

She left the room, and saw that Bill was still there. “Done already?” he asked.

“Just forgot something in the car.” She went back to the elevator.

---

On the fifth floor, Jacob Cassuto poked at his tablet as he entered the server room. He came across one of his coworkers, who was napping. “Dude, it's, like...after seven.”

Jim Cooper snorted and woke up. “Wha?”

“Go home, man.”

“Can't. Wife kicked me out again. Why are you here?”

Jacob shook his head. “One of the suits downstairs is having some kind of connection problem.”

“Just download Adobe Reader. That's what I always do.”

“I think they're onto us with that one, man. Anyway, I can fix it. Shouldn't take long.”

Jacob plugged his tablet into a server and did some tapping and swiping. After about ten minutes, he was done.

“Got it. See you later, Jim. Get a hotel...and a shower.”

“Mrff,” Jim said as he rolled over. Jacob shook his head and walked away.

---

A man left the elevator and walked into the parking garage, smiling at a job well done. The information he acquired would command a large paycheck. Sure, the company might find out that Aaron, Amanda, and Jacob were part of the theft, but that didn't matter.

They didn't really exist.

25: Get Along, Go Along (Lester Malloy)

Lester Malloy was just finishing up the day's paperwork when he heard a knock on the door. “Open,” he said, not looking up.

The door opened, and a guard named Sharon Brennan stepped into the room. She was out of uniform—she'd just finished her shift and was almost ready to head home when she got the call. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yeah.” Malloy signed a document, and stood up. “Working D Block tomorrow night, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Need you to do something for me. Know how, when the cells close at lights out, there's warning lights for any that don't lock?”

“...yeah?”

“If one goes of for Hiram Jenkins tomorrow night, just ignore it.”

Brennan couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Ignore it, sir?”

“What I said.”

“For Buckshot?”

“Payment came through today. Oh—make sure you got your armor on, just in case he wants to make a show. Blasts'll still sting a bit, but won't do real damage.”

“But sir, this is...”

Malloy held up a hand, then grabbed a brown envelope from his desk and handed it to her. “Your share. Oughtta help with your dad's cancer treatment.”

Brennan reeled a little, overwhelmed by what was happening. “Why me? What about the others on the shift?”

“Already taken care of. You're a new transfer, so I'm handling this one personally—after this, you'll get paid with the rest of 'em.”

Sharon Brennan fell silent. She couldn't believe what she was hearing, and just looking at the warden was starting to make her angry.

“Don't look at me like that,” Malloy snapped. “Last guy had my job is still in the hospital, 'cause he didn't want to play ball.”

The guard cast her eyes down at her feet. She clearly didn't care for his answer...but she also knew that she needed her job. And the bills were piling up...

“Learn to pick your battles, Brennan. Being a martyr doesn't pay for shit.”

24: Behind the Music (Countdown)

Sgt. Aiden Hines nodded to his team. They were tense, but ready. After days of chasing their target, they finally had a solid lead, and they were determined to bring him down.

They made their way through the mostly abandoned warehouse. Movement was a little slow, as random detritus littered the floor, but soon they made it to the center of the room, which featured some complicated equipment and a high-end laptop...but their man was nowhere to be found.

Hines was about to curse a blue streak when his radio crackled to life, and someone spoke—it was a member of another team, who were infiltrating from the opposite side of the building.

“We've got something! He's making another broadcast!”

Their radios gave a weird squawk, and a new voice came through. Rather than the gruff, serious tone of a police officer, this voice was full of slickness and forced charm.

“HELLLOOOOO Beacon City! It's everyone's favorite rambunctious radio rebel once again, bringing you the absolutely can't-miss, must-listen show of ALLLLL time! There's a slight change in the format, so if you think you've missed our big Number Three hit, don't worry—that's still to come! But right now we've got a special request from yours truly that we just GOTTA play! We're going alllllll the way back to 1991 for this one, and it is dedicated to the men and women of Beacon City's finest, who have finally gotten the upper hand...or have they?”

A simple guitar riff started playing. Hines turned to his team. “It isn't Iron Maiden, so I don't have a clue. Zhang? You know this one?”

Officer Jillian Zhang thought for a moment. “Sounds like Euro indie. Oh...dammit, this should be easy.” The instrumentals filled in, and Zhang's eyes went wide. “Jesus Jones! It's gotta—oh, shit. Sir, we need to get out. Now.”

Sergeant Hines grabbed his radio, hoping that he could cut in over the pirated signal. “Everyone out! Move it!”

A woman on the radio talked about revolution
when it's already passed her by

The other team hadn't gone very far into the building, but Hines's group had a long way to go. Zhang was the first out, as she had all but bolted for the door.

Bob Dylan didn't have this to sing about
you know it feels good to be alive

Foy and Kowalczyk made it out next, and Hines could see them break into a full run as soon as they got outside. Hines stepped up his pace, but tripped on something and cracked his knee hard on the cement. The searing pain told him that standing would not be possible, let alone running.

I was alive and I waited, waited

He heard Zhang's voice through his radio. “Sarge? Where are you?”

I was alive and I waited for this

He pressed the button so he could tell her, “You get this son of a bitch for me, understand?”

But he never made it that far.

Right here, right now...

23: Oliver Twisted (Head)

For the first time in two years, Oliver Chastain set foot outside the Llewellyn Price Rehabilitation Facility. Dr. Rabten was standing next to him, smiling warmly.

“I'm very proud of you, Oliver,” he said. “You've made so much progress.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” Oliver replied. “Thanks...for everything.”

A bus pulled up to the curb. “Well...there you are,” the doctor said. He held out his hand, which Oliver accepted. Then, Chastain picked up his duffel bag and walked toward the street.

He got on the bus, and saw that most of it was occupied. They all seemed to be preoccupied with something—their phones, newspapers, or just staring out the window.

Oliver sat down in the one remaining seat. He was nervous—a little scared, even—but excited. This was his chance to start over, and he wasn't about--

“Hey, buddy,” said the man sitting next to him. His voice sounded very familiar.

“T...Troy?” Oliver asked.

“You got it,” Troy said, and folded his paper. “How you been, dude? You look great, gotta say. No homo.”

Oliver folded his arms, as if he were trying to maximize the distance between himself and his old friend. “I'm...not supposed to talk to you anymore.”

“What? Is that any way to talk to an old friend? And we came all this way just to pick you up!”

Chastain turned away from Troy, and found that the other patrons of the bus were looking at him.

They were all Troy.

“We're getting the band back together,” one of them said.

Another chimed in, “We're on a mission from God.”

They high fived over a sweet movie reference, then grabbed Oliver's arms and pinned them to the seat, while the copy in the seat in front of him opened a small silver case. It revealed a length of rubber tubing, a syringe, and a small bottle.

Oliver recognized it instantly. “No! Please...Troy, don't do it!”

“Orders is orders, chief,” a Troy said, and wrapped the tube around Oliver's right arm. Another one prepared the drug and needle. Oliver kept trying to escape, but the others had him held tight.

“Hey, just be thankful the veins in that arm haven't collapsed. Otherwise we'd have to take off your pants. Now quit moving; you're gonna make me miss.” Troy turned to one of the others. “This is the right way to do it, right?”

The other one shrugged. “Sure.”

“No! Please! I was clean! I WAS CLE--”

Troy stuck the needle into Oliver's arm, and pushed down the plunger. Oliver felt a familiar rush, and soon his tears turned to broken laughter. A yellow glowing field surrounded his body, and he slowly rose up out of his seat and into the air.

“Feelin' better, buddy?” asked one of the Crowd.

“Yeeeesssssss...”

22: Expedition (Hannah Livingstone)

Hannah Livingstone reached into her pocket and pulled out her trusty compass. “Yep. Looks like we're on the right course.”

“Your phone has the Map App; we could just use that,” said her travel companion, Stan Morton. “And while you're at it, we could call my mom and tell her to come and pick us up.”

“Nobody ever became a great explorer by calling their mom,” Hannah said, as she folded the compass and slipped it back into her pocket. “Let's keep going—it's only another block.” She started walking again at a brisk pace, with Stan struggling to follow.

They turned onto Hayes Street at the corner, then turned into the next alley. Hannah smiled when she saw the ladder to the fire escape; it was still lowered from yesterday's excursion. “All right, Stan. Up we go!” She started climbing the ladder.

“God, we've been doing this for hours,” he whined. “Can't we just go up on Donegan Lighthouse again?”

“Everyone knows that one,” she said. She was starting to regret bringing him along. “This one's new—I just found it yesterday.”

It took some time, but eventually they made it to the roof of the apartment building. Hannah went straight for the ledge—she would pick a spot, step up onto the ledge, and stay there for a few seconds, then hop off and find another spot. Stan took this opportunity to catch his breath.

“This had better be at least as cool as when we watched the 3 O'clock Elephant, start to finish,” he said. Hannah paid no attention, focused as she was on her exploring.

“Here! Stand right here!” she shouted, practically pulling Stanley to the edge of the building.

“Hey! Stop it!” Stan yelled. “That's dangerous!”

“It's supposed to be dangerous, you goober. Now stand right here and shut up.”

Stan resigned himself to his fate and stepped up on the ledge. Hannah was practically shoving him up there, but she also had a hand on his belt, to make sure he wouldn't fall. When Stan was finally in the right place, he felt...nothing.

“Now what?”

“Shut up and listen. May have to wait for it.”

“What am I listenin--” Then the wind picked up, and Stan fell silent. Leaves rustled, but underneath that, Stan could hear the branches creak as they swayed in the breeze. Power lines vibrated, pushed by the wind even as they were held tight to the poles. Birds landed on them and took off at random, changing the pitch as they did so. A steady, but not constant, parade of cars rolled by, their engines and tires adding to the effect. A strong gust came in, and the vibrations from the wires grew more intense...it started to sound like human voices.

It sounded like singing.

When the air was calm again, Stan stepped down from the ledge. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“I know,” Hannah said, smiling.

art by Trinity Goeman

21: Peer Review (Critical Mass)

The commissary at PriceTech Labs got pretty lively around lunchtime...well, as lively as scientists get. Patricia Kohlenberg carried her vegetable soup, mixed fruit, and water to a table where two of her colleagues were already seated.

Michael Schmidt wiped mayonnaise from his mouth. “Doctor,” he said, then took another bite of his chicken salad sandwich. Carl Reilly gave a half-hearted wave with his fork, then went back to poking at his salad.

Patricia nodded and sat down. “I've seen you in better moods, Carl.”

Carl sighed heavily. Michael cut in, “Don't mind him; he just got his last project back from Rothschild.”

“Tore me a new one,” Carl muttered.

“Yeah, he did. What was the best line?”

“Something like, 'Your greatest contribution to science will be in two years, when you get hit by a bus because you're too stupid to notice that the lights had changed.'”

Michael grinned. “That's the one. He once told me that if you took a hundred monkeys and made them fling their shit at a keyboard, they'd come up with a better paper than mine in twenty minutes.”

Patricia winced a little. Her own project was going under review, and Dr. Rothschild had a reputation for brutality. She'd seen grown men reduced to tears after riding with him in an elevator for three floors.

“I heard he once drew a red X on someone's forehead, using permanent marker,” Michael added. “Said it was to save time.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Patricia said. Her concern was growing, though—she'd spent days going over her proposal, checking for any possible mistakes in logic or procedure, and her nerves were still frayed.

“Yeah, he probably gave them a tattoo. Oh, speak of the devil.”

Carl whipped his head around, like a frightened squirrel, and saw Isaac Rothschild enter the commissary. He looked like he wanted to duck under the table, but it was already too late—he was approaching.

“Hello, morons,” Dr. Rothschild said, barely looking at Schmidt and Reilly. It wasn't the insult, so much as the way he said it—as if it was an indisputable fact. He then turned to (sort of) face Patricia.

“Doctor Kohlenberg. I've finished reviewing your project.” He dropped a folder on the table, which nearly landed in her soup. “Two of the errors would kill everyone in the entire building. Also, you need to learn how semicolons work.”

Patricia tensed up, preparing for a wave of abuse. Strangely, there didn't seem to be any more coming. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

“No. As it turns out, you might not be a complete idiot.” He then turned and left, on his way to terrorize the commissary staff.

Patricia Kohlenberg turned to the other two, who had dumbfounded looks on their faces. “I'm not sure if I've just been insulted or complimented,” she said.

“Insulted?” Michael sputtered. “That's the nicest thing I've ever heard him say.”

20: Twelve Disciples, One Christ, No Kangaroos (Emmett Blankenship)

Emmett Blankenship walked into the lab, doing his best not to step into the fresh oil puddles. He couldn't see anyone else, but he knew his client was here somewhere, judging by the symphonic blend of power tools and Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers.)

“Danny? Are you in here?”

“That's Doctor Loomis to you!” a voice shouted, from somewhere above.

Emmett looked up at a tangle of wires and pistons, but couldn't see anyone. “I apologize. Doctor Loomis, may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Just a moment, I'm almost—ah! There.” A young man suddenly dropped into Blankenship's view, hanging upside down and secured by a harness. His face and clothes were covered in grease and the occasional burn mark.

“What are you working on, Doctor?”

“This? Fifty-foot-tall robot.”

“I see that. Any reason why it looks like Henry Kissinger?”

Doctor Loomis shrugged. “Not really sure. It just kind of...happened.”

“And what is the purpose of this robot?”

“Rampaging. That's generally what giant robots are for.”

“I trust this rampage will entail a lot of property damage, widespread panic, and people getting hurt?”

“I hope so. It'd be a poor rampage if it didn't.”

Emmett shook his head. “Now, Danforth...what do we say about people getting hurt?”

“That it's a small price to pay in the name of scientific advancement?”

“No, Doctor Loomis. That's what you say. Try again.”

The doctor thought a while. “That it's...bad?” He seemed unsure of his answer, as if there was no way it could possibly be right.

“That's correct. People getting hurt is bad.”

“I still don't understand how you get to that conclusion.”

“For now, just know that as your ethics advisor, I have final approval on your projects. If they don't meet my standards, they won't get funding.”

Doctor Loomis folded his arms and tried to look cross, which is difficult when you're upside-down. “You are stifling my creativity.”

“I'm sorry about that, Doctor, but those are the rules. You might want to think about modifying this project. I would suggest something smaller, maybe give it some kind of non-destructive function...and for the last time, no missiles.”

“No missiles?! You go too far, sir!” In a fit of anger, Doctor Loomis reached into his lab coat and pulled out a death ray. He aimed at Blankenship and fired...only instead of fiery destruction, the only thing that came from the barrel was a spray of brightly-colored candy.

“Apparently you've forgotten again that we've replaced the power cell in your death ray with packages of Professor Widmark's Silly Beans.” He picked a pink one out of his hand and popped it in his mouth. “Mmm. Chocolate.”

19: Interpretation (Claire Blackpool)

The moment she stepped through the veil, she was encountered with howling winds that threatened to knock her back. She leaned forward and kept moving.

The wind died down, and she suddenly found herself in a theater. She walked down the aisle, noting the sticky splash of mud on the floor as she walked. She stopped and looked around, noticing a man sitting in the fourth row. He hadn't noticed her; he was completely engrossed in the film.

When it ended, he stood up and noticed that his arm was on fire. He patted it out, then picked a few items from a nearby table—a phone, a wallet, and keys. He also picked up a bookend, which he slipped under the seat. He walked for the exit, and the table—which, she noticed, still held his wedding band—collapsed to the floor.

She followed out the same exit, and spied him standing next to a tree on an old country road. He was idly staring at the fruit—not quite blackberries, but something close.

She chuckled; she knew what they were. The man heard it, but when he had turned to look, she had vanished.

# # #

Claire Blackpool opened her eyes, and sat up with a jolt. “He's guilty. He killed her with a marble bookend and hid it. It should be close by, probably still in the house.”

“Let's roll!” one of the officers in the room shouted, and several of them went for their cars.

Detective Alan Vire grabbed his coat, as well as Claire's. “I don't pretend to understand, but you haven't been wrong yet. Hurry up so we can catch this guy.”

“We will,” Claire said, remembering the mulberries.

18: Clearing the Table (Poolhall Gang)

Things were getting tense in the Elevens' headquarters. With their top member in the hospital after their last job, it was only a matter of time before one of them took the reins. Most of the heavy hitters had gathered in the common area, and were eyeing each other.

One of them, a large man known as Big R, made the first move. “The man's gonna be here in a couple minutes!” he shouted. “Anyone says they deserve it more than me, better say so now!”

Another man, Shadow, stood up from the crate he'd been sitting on. “I'm sayin' so,” he answered, and strolled confidently to the other man. Big R took a swing, but Shadow ducked and struck back with body blows.

While the fight went on, another man slipped into the room. He wore a light blue suit, and carried a briefcase that was handcuffed to his wrist. He took up a spot in the back and watched the rest of the fight.

He didn't have to wait long. Big R got in a lucky shot, then punished Shadow with repeated punches, finally knocking him out with an elbow strike. He stood up and wiped the blood from his mouth, though some had already spilled onto his red and white shirt.

“Very impressive,” the man in the suit said. “Looks like I picked the right time to show up.”

Big R turned to face the speaker. “Damn right you did, English. Now gimme what I earned.”

Mr. English gave an insincere sigh, like you get from bad customer service. “It's not that easy, friend. Fistfights don't decide who's in charge. Our boss does, and he has his eye on someone else.”

“What?! That's bullshit, man!” Big R got up in English's face, almost shoving him.

“Well, if you have a complaint, I suppose I can get you a word with the boss. Of course, you'd have to get through Eight first...”

Big R's will to fight vanished almost instantly. Nobody wanted any part of Eight. That guy was bad news.

“I thought not. Now then...which one of you is Natalie Pierce?”

A woman with long black-and-red hair stepped forward. “Call me Nat.”

English smiled as he opened the case. Inside was an ornate medallion on a golden chain. “If it's any consolation, Big R...as soon as you took a rest from the fight, she was going to steal it. That was why she talked you two into fighting in the first place.”

Big R said nothing, but he did stare daggers at Nat. She stared them right back.

“That's the kind of creative problem solving that impresses the man in charge. Your reward is this—a medallion of Xiuhtecuhtli, taken directly from a temple in southern Mexico.” He held it out and, when Nat bent her head down, hung the chain around her neck.

“How does it--” she started to ask, then went silent as power surged into her. Balls of flame formed in her hands, burning her gloves and singing the sleeves of her red and white jacket.

“I'll pay you back for this, Nat,” Big R growled.

“If you're going to issue idle threats,” English shot back, “at least get her name right. She's called Eleven now.”

17: Zero. Point. Zero. (Zeta House)

Billy Gorman woke up with the most blinding headache he'd ever felt. Jesus, I musta overdid it last night, he thought.

Billy tried to piece together what had happened the night before. There had been a party...and he must have crashed here overnight...wherever here was...and woke up on a filthy sofa.

“Breakfast, bitches!” someone called from the kitchen. Billy rolled off the couch, felt relief that the floor did not contain fresh vomit, and stumbled across the room.

In the kitchen, he found a man who was way too functional this early in the day. He had a bright red mohawk, red boxer shorts, and a gray sweater with Greek letters on it. Right, Billy thought. The initiation party. He remembered having a few beers, then repeating some stuff, then being taken to a secret room, then...not much after that.

“You look like hell, new kid. Here, get you some eggs and bacon. Fixes everything.” The mohawk guy—Ross or something, Billy recalled—handed him a paper plate with breakfast food piled on top of it. Billy wasn't sure if he could handle eating at first, but once he got a taste, he started wolfing it down.

“Eat while you can, before Hip wakes up,” Ross(?) said. “He's probably passed out on the lawn again. How you holding up?”

“Ugh,” Billy mumbled. His brain had conjured up the image of an enormous shirtless man, laying face-up in a kiddie pool and snoring. Billy did not appreciate it.

“Yeah, that'll happen. We do our parties right in Zeta, but you feel it for a while. Here, let me fix you a new plate.”

Mohawk guy grabbed a new paper plate. Billy was going to hand him his old one, but when he picked it up, he saw half of it was gone. “Wha--?”

They heard a stomping noise from above their heads. “That'd be Buzz,” Ross or something said. “How dude sleeps on the roof without falling off, I'll never know.” Billy nodded, and absentmindedly tore another piece from the plate and stuck it in his mouth.

They were joined by a new member—a shorter boy with buck teeth, shifty eyes, and a backpack—which, Billy remembered, he always had with him. “Mornin', Rooster. Mornin', Goat.”

Ross—no, Rooster—waved a spatula. “Mornin', Packrat.”

Goat? Billy thought. Who the fuck is Goat? He put his hands on his head; all this confusion was not helping his headache.

That's when he felt the horns.

16: Sweet Nothings (Professor Phineas Widmark)

Phineas Widmark stood just inside the entrance of Professor Widmark's Confectionery Emporium, just as he had every day for the last ten years. As security opened the doors, he raised his arms to greet the people waiting outside.

“Here's the secret of my success! Hellooo, children!” he shouted in his best Ed Wynn voice, as kids poured into store, their parents in tow. They scattered around the store, and the Professor would approach them at random, performing a merry jig and addressing the customers.

“Hello, youngster. Going after the Silly Beans, I see.”

A little boy nodded. “I like the green ones best!”

“The orange flavor? I like them too...of course, I like them all.”

“Which is your favorite, perfessor?”

Widmark made a show of thinking hard about such a difficult question. “I want to say tan is the greatest—you think it might be cream soda, but it turns out to be cherry!”

He gave a goofy wave, and then walked over to a group of kids who had clustered around the display of Professor Widmark's Tippy-Top Tasting Yummerific Bars.

“Excellent choice, boys and girls! I love the Devil's Food ones, personally...but don't miss out on our new flavors this year! There's Triple-Chocolate Butterscotch Bonanza, Caramel Almond Explosion—careful of that one if you have any nut allergies—and Super Duper Marshmallow Surprise!”

The kids oohed and aahed over the new additions to the Yummerific lineup, allowing Widmark to sneak over to the Soda Shoppe Drops display. They were creamy candies that tasted just like an ice cream sundae—a new item, barely tested, but the smiling faces by the free samples told him that it would be another successful item.

It would be a good day. Plenty of candy sold, plenty of happy children, and three public tributes to the Dark Lord, satisfying his contract for another year.

15: This Machine Kills Fascists (The Troubadour)

Flyboy watched the train pull in, just before midnight, and kept an eye on the passengers who were getting out. He needed an easy target—something he could pull off alone. He'd score a few bucks and maybe increase his standing in the gang at the same time.

The last two were perfect—an old man in a wheelchair, and a skinny guy pushing him around. They wouldn't make any trouble.

Flyboy followed from a distance, then started to close the gap once they got away from the station. The old man had some kind of instrument case with him; something like a guitar, but with a different shape. Maybe that was worth some money too.

About a block or so before the bus station, Flyboy caught up with them, and pulled a revolver out of his pocket. “'Scuse me, folks,” he said. “Wonderin' if you'd like ta make a...whatchacallit, charitable donation.”

The young man looked very nervous; Flyboy wasn't sure if the old timer noticed at all. “Please, mister. My grandfather and I just got into town, and he's very sick.”

“I don't want your life story; I want your money. And whatever's in that case.”

The young man started openly pleading. “Not that, please. It's all he has left.”

Flyboy pointed at the patch on his maroon jacket. “See this? This means I'm part of the Sevens, and that means I run this part of town. I do what I want, and if you wanna make it to breakfast tomorrow, you do what I want too. Now let's see what's in that case.”

The old man obliged, his hands shaking, although Flyboy suspect that wasn't so much from fear as from being a thousand years old. When the case opened, Flyboy looked down on a well-traveled banjo that had definitely seen better days. The rim was dented in several places, and it looked like several repairs had been made to the neck. Something was written on the head, but Flyboy couldn't make it out for all the stains. “Oh, man. What the fuck did you do to this thing?”

“I'll show you.” With astounding speed—especially for such an old man—he leaped out of his chair and swung the banjo at Flyboy's head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

It took some effort, but the old man finally dislodged his banjo from the gang member's skull, then collapsed back into his chair, coughing.

The young man sighed. “Grandpa, you can't be doing that kind of stuff anymore. Remember your condition.”

“Never been one to take shit; ain't about to start now,” the old man grumbled. He put the banjo back in its case, while his grandson covered him with the blanket. “Reminds me of those days in Chicago...”

14: House Call (Witch Doctor)

Dr. Randolph Turay had been napping on the couch when the phone rang.

“Hello?” An excited voice came from the other end.

“Good evening, Mrs. Swan. How may I help you?”

“I see. He hasn't been bothering that old Romani woman with one ear again, has he?”

Randolph rolled to his feet, his middle-aged joints complaining all the while, and cradled the phone between his head and shoulder while he went to the closet.

“And this...'goo'...”--he scowled at using such an unscientific term--“...coming from his eyes, what color is it? Please be specific.”

He opened the door and grabbed a few things, setting them aside as he did so. A black garment bag, a hat box, a black medical bag, and an album sleeve.

“No blue streaks? Good. Normally, I'd have you bring your son down to the clinic for this, Mrs. Swan, but circumstances being what they are, I think I'll just come to see you directly.”

“I should be there within the hour. In the meantime, if you could acquire a live chicken, I would be very grateful. Do you or any of your neighbors have a black cat?”

“It's all right, I can make do. I'll see you soon. Goodbye.”

Randolph hung up the phone. He sent a quick text to his partner--making a house call, will be late for dinner, taking Mr. Sparks--and then began his preparations.

He removed a record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. Soon, the house was filled with horns and screaming. Randolph secretly preferred the Creedence Clearwater Revival version, but it wasn't right for the situation. In his line of work, appearances were important and rituals even more so.

“I put a spell on you...”

He sat down in front of a mirror and opened a small jar of makeup, and started applying it to his face, the white coloring contrasting his dark skin. Before long, it would start to take the shape of a skull.

“Because you're mine...”

13: The Big Break (Gremlin)

Gavin Murphy walked into the convenience store, barely able to contain his excitement. In one hand, he held the fortune from the Chinese restaurant where he had lunch.

In the other, he held the lottery ticket he bought two days ago.

Gavin handed the ticket to the cashier, who could not have looked more bored. While the cashier took the ticket to the lottery machine's scanner, Gavin fantasized about all the ways he could spend the money. Two hundred million dollar jackpot! he thought, over and over. That's the house, the college loans, a new car for mom, a trip to--

“Says the ticket's not valid.”

Gavin Murphy snapped out of his daydream. “What?” he asked, not really believing what he'd heard.

“Looks like the time stamp is wrong—see, it says 2004. We've been having this problem all day--our regular machine was out for a couple of days for repairs, and the replacement printed a bunch of these. We only just found out yesterday, when the real machine came back.”

“But...but I had all the numbers...I even got the Red Ball!”

“Sorry, man. Nothing we can do.”

The bottom fell out of Gavin's world, and he buried his head in his hands. Bad luck had cost him millions of dollars...nothing but bad luck.

Just like when he ripped the pants of his suit, right before a job interview. Or when he broke his leg during the first game of the regional basketball tournament, with college scouts in attendance. Or when he got food poisoning during the prom dinner, and he spent all night in the bathroom while his date danced with his best friend. A hundred breaks that broke against him; a thousand chances where he never had a chance.

“It's not fair,” he growled, as frustration overtook his despair. “It's just not fair!” Gavin slammed his fist on the antiquated cash register, which gave off a series of strange clangs.

“Hey!” the cashier snapped. “If that thing's broken, you're in deep shit.” He pressed the 'cash out' button, and the drawer ejected...notably faster than it normally did. So fast, in fact, that it tore loose of the register and embedded itself into the cashier's abdomen. He gurgled and choked for a few seconds, then fell to the floor.

When the shock wore off, Gavin bolted for the door. Somewhere along the way he dropped his fortune, which landed in one of the blood spatters.

“Today is your lucky day.”

12: The Devil's Music, and He Can Keep It (Anna, Marco, y Miguel)

The emcee looked strangely nervous as he approached the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that tonight's featured act is unable to perform, owing to a...family emergency."

Ray Brooks, head music critic for the Herald, frowned. Inconsiderate of them to have an emergency when I have a deadline, he wrote in his Moleskin. He tended to write down whatever he was thinking; he was funny like that.

"We have managed to find a replacement, and we hope you enjoy them. Please give a warm welcome to La Familia Mariachi!"

The crowd applauded and the host walked--almost ran--off the stage. Quickly, his place was taken by two men and one women in charro suits, sombreros, and ridiculous mustaches. Even the woman.

If these three are actually Mexican, he wrote, I'll eat my hat. I'll eat their hats.
"Buenos noches," one of them said in an obviously fake accent. "Me llamo es Miguel, y...umm..."

Probably forgotten the words in Spanish already.
"...and this is my brother Marco, and our sister Anna! We hope you enjoy the show. Here is our first song, 'Jarave Tapatio!'"

Their rendition of the song was only half as brutal as Ray's review of it.

Why the hell is there a French Horn in a mariachi band? Not the right sound. Not at all.

What Miguel lacks in talent on guitar, he makes up in enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it's a lot to make up.

The middle one--that must be Marco--clearly doesn't want to be there. He and I agree on that, at least.

If I'm lucky, I'll get a call about a family emergency, so I can leave too.
The song finished, and a few people clapped politely. Some stood up to leave--not soon enough, as Miguel had stepped back up to the microphone.

"Gracias! Our next song has no Spanish translation, so we use its English name."

Oh God, they're doing another one, Ray wrote.

"We call it...WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER!"

"Wait, what?" Ray looked up to see that the three performers had discarded their instruments in favor of firearms. Anna wielded a pair of pistols, Miguel had a machine gun, and Marco held a tactical shotgun, which he showed far more skill and interest in than the guitarrón.

Screams filled the club as they opened fire. Some tried to hide under the tables; others ran around screaming until they were picked off. Ray ducked behind his chair and looked for the exit. He saw one man try to make a run for it, and had almost reached the door when an explosion went off, sending the runner flying back into the room.

Ray was pretty sure he heard Anna giggle.

"No one leaves until we finish our set!" Miguel cackled, having completely abandoned his accent. Resigned to his fate, Ray could think of nothing else but to pick up his notepad.

The good news is that Miguel is only a slightly better shot than he is a guitar pla

11: The Man in Charge (Quentin September)

Mayor September was all smiles as he entered the room. He was campaigning, after all, and had to put his best face forward. "Thank you for coming out today, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, I recently announced my intention to run for re-election. I'm here today to let you and the good people of this city know what they can expect in my second term."

A sea of hands shot up. Quentin September pointed at the most familiar face.

"Gabe Norris, KBCN News. Some of your decisions have proven to be controversial. Are you fully prepared to debate your policies in a public forum?"

"I'll say this much; it'll be a welcome change from the last election." Laughter rippled through the crowd, then faded away. The mayor pointed again, acknowledging a woman with a hand-held recorder.

"Resmi Sanders, Beacon City Herald. How do you respond to allegations of collusion with the Henchman's Union? There are people who feel your dealings with them are essentially giving political power to criminals."

The mayor thought a moment. He knew he'd have to word his answer carefully--Sanders didn't miss a trick. "Please remember, the country was in a recession when that deal was made, and henching was almost the only growth industry. Those deals helped a lot of families keep food on the table, while at the same time allowing our police force and district attorney to focus their efforts on the real criminals. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have one Critical Mass in prison than two dozen underlings."

"But Critical Mass isn't in--"

September quickly pointed out another reporter, though the look on Resmi's face told him that he hadn't heard the end of that topic.

"Andrew Riesen, the Voice of Riesen."

Shit, the mayor thought, not this clown. But he kept on smiling.

"How do you address the controversy around your surgery?" Riesen asked.

"It was eight years ago; I don't think there's much need to address it at all." Before Riesen could ask a follow-up, Quentin launched into one of his speeches. "It comes down to this. In the last four years, the city has become cleaner, safer, and more productive. The economy never bottomed out like it did elsewhere, and continues to grow. If I am re-elected, I will spend the next four years making Beacon City an even greater place to live."

Riesen--much like Resmi Sanders--was not let one to let go. "So, you don't think the fact that you used to be a woman bothers the voters?"

Mayor Quentin September allowed himself a bit of a smirk. "I think that, regardless of the operation, I've proven I'm the right man for the job."