Authors: Alex Ziebart
Lady Superior
Lady Superior
By Alex Ziebart
Contents
Chapter 1
The twelve o’clock news played the same clip for the sixth time in an hour. A security camera, its footage a grainy VHS recording in a digital age, gazed down over a cubicle farm. Only slivers of prone bodies were visible over low dividers. Six armed men clad in riot gear and armed with assault rifles walked circuits through the cubicles. Windows offered a glimpse of an overcast sky.
Tempered glass sprayed into the camera’s line of sight. The armed men jerked in the direction of the blast, bringing their rifles to bear. A new figure emerged from the deluge of aerial glass. Gunfire tore through flimsy cubicle walls, filling the air with bullets, dust, and detritus. Undeterred, the figure leapt clear over a bank of cubicles, crashing down on a gunman with an elbow. A helmet made to withstand hammer blows shattered, its wearer collapsing in a heap. Another inhuman leap put the figure's fist through a reinforced visor. The figure flashed among the gunfire and took hold of a third gunman, lifting him off of the ground like a doll and hurling him at a fourth. The flurry of action bled off-camera, obscuring the fate of the remaining gunmen. Eventually the figure dragged a group of unconscious bodies stripped of firearms within clear view of the camera and cuffed with zip ties from their own belts. The figure’s motions no longer blurred, the dramatic silhouette of a woman in a black catsuit came into focus.
The footage cut to a middle-aged newscaster. “Once again, you just watched security footage from yesterday’s hostage situation on the thirteenth floor of the Temple Financial building. After six hours of tension, with the Milwaukee Police Department making no move against the gunmen, the woman people are calling Milwaukee’s very own superhero made her third appearance in as many months, dispatching the gunmen in only seconds. This as-yet-unidentified woman has become Internet famous. Some call her the Brew City Bruiser. Others, the Cream City Crusader. A local movement refers to her simply as Maiden Milwaukee. Police Chief Tillman, however, refers to her only as a vigilante. We take you now to the police chief’s press conference in progress.”
The feed cut to a lanky, grey-haired man in a crisp blue uniform behind a podium. He spoke with the hard voice of a man more suited to the military than public relations. “There’s no doubt in my mind she acted with good intentions. But good intentions are worth nothing. The fact of it is this: she put countless lives in danger, both the lives of ordinary citizens and officers of the law. The Milwaukee Police Department, and supporting federal officers, received a bomb threat we believed to be credible at the moment these gunmen seized the thirteenth story of Temple Financial. We were in the process of verifying the threat of any such explosive device when this woman crashed through a window like a lunatic. Had there been a bomb, everyone in that building—and everyone in the surrounding area—could have been killed.”
He paused in his speech. A young journalist pounced on the silence. “Is it possible she had more accurate intelligence than the police?”
The Chief shook his head. “Doubtful. It’s more likely she acted without any intelligence at all. She got lucky. Again, I want to caution the people of this city—particularly the media—against glorifying this woman as some sort of hero. She’s a dangerous vigilante. If we put her on a pedestal, it’s only a matter of time before someone—maybe our own children—try imitating her. She could have been killed today. She could have gotten others killed.”
Another shot to their feet. “Chief Tillman, we’ve heard this question a lot: is it possible she can deflect bullets?”
“That’s a ridiculous notion. No. She’s just a woman. No one can deflect bullets. Next question.”
“Could she be a speedster?”
“I don’t even know what is.”
“It’s a classification of superheroes with superhuman speed. In the security footage…”
Chief Tillman interrupted. “Does anyone have a real question? Anyone at all?”
“Is this woman the hero our city needs or the one it deserves?”
The chief strode away from the podium to the sound of a chuckling audience. The television snapped to black with the clatter of a remote control.
Life returned to Otherworlds Comics and Games. The small crowd that had been glued to the television shuffled back to the comic racks and shelves of plastic miniatures. The middle of a weekday was far from peak business hours. With Otherworlds claiming ten thousand square feet of floor space, the handful of people easily faded into nerd Valhalla, perhaps never to return. Only three lingered at the counter near the television. Joel, the man behind the counter, had a thick, squat build and a beard the size of an extra head. He snorted and shoved the remote in a drawer. “I still think it’s a bunch of bullshit.”
“Seriously?” Bernice asked. Tall and thin with olive skin, she towered over Joel. Her narrow face was framed by a dark blue pixie cut. “You think it’s what—a hoax? The police had a press conference.”
“Yeah, it’s a fucking hoax. It’s cool as hell, but it’s still fake. It’s marketing, that’s what it is. Marketers can’t sell shit with advertisement on TV anymore, so they spend millions of dollars trying to make things go viral. This is going viral. I bet ten bucks we’ll see a trailer for a Cream City Crusader or Whatever-the-Fuck movie at the next big convention.”
“Can we not call her that?” asked Kristen, the third. Short, blonde, blue-eyed, and solidly built, her baggy hoodie hid her pronounced figure poorly. “I don’t think anyone has called Milwaukee Cream City since like, 1910.”
Joel shrugged. “All her names suck.”
Bernice pursed her lips. The expression made her mouth seem to move to one side of her face. “I don’t know. The pun in Maiden Milwaukee is pretty good.”
“Pun?”
“Yeah. Say it.”
“Maiden Milwaukee?” He paused, face twisting as if tasting something rancid. “Oh. Oh, that’s just corny. Anyway, there’s no way this shit is real. Nobody ever actually gets hurt when this chick shows up. And she looks way too Hollywood.”
Kristen scrunched her nose. “What’s that supposed to mean? You could barely see her.”
“You’re actually buying this? Come on. Skintight spandex, huge tits… Kris, you have big tits. You think you could move the way that chick does?”
Bernice shot him a look of irritation; Kris glowered. “No, Joel. A helicarrier airlifted me here to get my pull list. And she wears Under Armour, not spandex.”
“How do you know?”
Kristen’s chest tightened in momentary panic. How did she know? “Because you could see the logo last time she was on TV.”
Joel hopped onto a stool behind the counter. He crossed his arms, eyes darting between Kristen and Bernice. “You two look pissed. Did I say something stupid again?”
Bernice snorted. “Do you ever stop? How about instead of talking about Kristen’s tits, you talk about how fucking awesome it was when Mystery Woman beat the hell out of six guys with riot gear?”
Kristen tilted her head toward the back of the store. “Actually, can I just get my pull list? I’ve got someone meeting me here in a bit.”
Joel nodded. “Yeah, no problem. I’ve got the new guy putting them together, but he’s pretty slow. I’ll go see if he’s got yours. Go have a smoke. Grab a soda or whatever if you want, Kris.”
He slid off his stool and wandered toward the back, shouting. “Jack! Man, you done yet?”
Bernice and Kristen exchanged a glance and shrugged in unison. Bernice circled around the counter and grabbed a black messenger bag, slinging it over her shoulders and pulling a pack of cigarettes from the front pouch. The two walked together for the front door, Kristen nabbing a can of Diet Coke from a refrigerator on the way. Stepping out into the summer heat, they moved to the edge of the store front’s canvas overhang to lean against Otherworlds’ orange brick in the shade. Bernice lit her cigarette and pulled a shallow drag while Kristen cracked open her Coke.
Smoke trailed from Bernice’s lips as she spoke. “Sorry about Joel. He’s a douche.”
Kristen set her Coke on the ground just long enough to pull off her hoodie and tie it around her waist. Joel kept Otherworlds’ thermostat at subarctic temperatures, but the humidity outside was enough to drown a fish. When she picked up her can, it was already dripping condensation. “I’ve known him longer than you have.”
“Yeah, but you don’t spend all day with him.”
“I grew up with him, though. I’ve been hearing stuff like that from him since I was twelve. He only does it with me because we’re friends.”
“And that makes it cool?”
Kristen took a drink of her soda and instantly regretted the condensation dripping from the can to speckle her t-shirt. She took a breath to stifle an irritated sigh. “No, it’s not cool. I just don’t have the energy to call him out on it every single time. It’s exhausting, you know?”
“That’s why you let me do it. I’ll call him on it all day long if I have to. What’s he gonna do, fire me? I own half the store.”
Kristen sat on the cracked concrete, staring out into the lazy midday traffic. Shimmering heat waves rose from the asphalt. She couldn’t decide whose words she found more exhausting: Joel’s or Chief Tillman’s. Equally exhausting in entirely different ways, she supposed. Since puberty, it felt like every conversation inevitably veered toward her chest. The sheer relentlessness of it simply ran her down. She couldn’t find the energy to be angry about it anymore. No frustration. No embarrassment. Just another comment, another joke, another
are they real?,
another unwelcome, wandering hand.
She’s a dangerous vigilante.
The Chief’s words repeated themselves in her head.
She could have gotten herself killed. She could have gotten others killed.
A bomb threat we believed credible.
A bomb.
Kristen took a drink of Coke to busy her hands, hoping to mask her unease lest Bernice notice.
What the hell was I thinking?
Bernice tapped ash from her cigarette and cursed. Concern washed over her face. She looked down at Kristen. “Oh, shit. You just started working at Temple Financial, didn’t you? Is that why you’re so worked up?”
“Yeah, I did. But…” Kris held her tongue. She
had
just started working for Temple Financial, but at a branch location—an actual bank—not their downtown headquarters. She wondered which would be the better lie: yes, she was shaken up because she was there, or no, she wasn’t shaken up at all, because she was nowhere near it. “I don’t work in that building. I work at a south-side branch.”
“Teller?”
“Security.”
“Oh, fuck that. You should quit.”
“What? Quit? Why?”
Bernice looked at Kris as if she’d grown an extra limb. “Why? Because of what we just saw on TV, that’s why. Seems like a pretty stupid job to have right now. I know you’re tough as hell, but you saw those guys.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
Kristen fought the urge to crush her Coke between her fingers. She had to tell someone, right? Eventually? No. Absolutely not. Not yet, at least. “It’s kind of an overreaction, don’t you think? They don’t even know what those guys wanted yet. It probably wasn’t money. If they had expensive weapons and armor, they’d probably know the Temple Financial building doesn’t have any cash on-site. So if they don’t want cash, they’re not going to go after a branch. I basically just sit at a desk, watch a camera feed, and play games on the Internet.”
“So what happens if something goes wrong?”
“I push the button that calls the cops.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“How much does it pay?”
“Twenty-five an hour.”
“Holy shit. Yeah, I think I’d get shot at for twenty-five an hour, too.”
Kristen giggled. “I know, right?”
Bernice bent down and rubbed her cigarette out on the concrete. She took a breath to clear her lungs, chewed her lip, and lit a new one. “You don’t lie to me. We’re not like that. Right?”