In theory, surveillance could not be performed alone, at. least not well. Guess that means I've been doing a lousy job of it for the last two weeks, she mused. Times like this she regretted taking the no-faced guy's money. That was my first mistake.
Two weeks so far, and nothing to show for it. She hadn't seen anything that would explain her faceless employer's interest in the old building. Outside, a stray cat crossed the street beneath the flickering light of a malfunctioning streetlamp. A junked car, parked a little further down the block, had already been pretty much stripped to its bare chassis. No one stirred upon the trash-covered sidewalks. As far as she could tell, the only person paying any attention to 520 Kane was her.
She lifted a pair of binoculars off the passenger seat beside her. Peering through the telescopic lenses, she took a closer look at the building. Was there anything going on over there?
Nope. Paint was peeling. That was abotit it.
Sighing wearily, she pulled a notepad off the dashboard and scribbled a terse notation to the effect that there was absolutely nothing to report. She glanced over the previous nights' entries:
Day 9: Nothing.
Day 10: Nothing.
Day 11: Wino urinated on wall. (Wow!)
Day 12: Nothing. ,
Day 13: Nothing.
Abundant doodles attested to her continuing boredom. She found herself wishing the wino would come back, just to break the monotony. I'm going stir-crazy in here. She started to light up a fresh cigarette.
"How many packs a day?" a voice asked her from behind.
"Jeez!" Renee jumped in her seat, smacking her head into the roof of the car. "Ow!" she exclaimed, almost dropping the lit cigarette. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw No-Face sitting in the backseat. "I hate you."
He leaned forward and plucked the notebook from the dashboard. His eyeless face glanced over the notes. "Nice doodles."
"Bite me," Renee replied.
He pointed at his lack of face. "Can't. No mouth."
Ha-ha, she thought sourly. By now, she was almost used to her nameless employer's bizarrely blank countenance, although she still couldn't make up her mind as to whether he was,wearing some sort of incredibly sophisticated mask, or if he was just a meta-human freak like Clayface or the Man-Bat. Either way, she had no idea how he could see or breathe.
But apparently that wasn't a problem for him.
"You didn't answer," he reminded her. "How many packs a day?"
She gave him a dirty look. "What're you, my mother?"
"You know, there's cyanide gas in cigarette smoke." His disapproving tone made up for his lack of facial expressions. She took a drag on the cigarette anyway. "That's the same stuff they use in gas chambers."
She blew a puff of smoke in his (non) face.
"Very mature," he commented.
"I thought so," she said, enjoying the moment. Too bad the smoke couldn't make him cough.
He lobbed the notebook back onto the dashboard. She heard the back door open. "Keep up the good work."
"Hey! Wait a minute!" she protested. They hadn't even discussed the pointlessness of her assignment yet. "You saw my notes. There's nothing going on here."
"Not yet. But there will be. I'm sure of it." He got out of the sedan and started to walk away. "We'll talk again later."
"Don't hold your breath!" Renee shouted from the car, not caring if anyone heard her or not. This whole gig was a waste of time anyway. "Four more days, buddy! That's it! Four more days...."
He disappeared into one of his damn smoky question marks. She supposed she should be grateful that he didn't set off his portable fog bank inside the car. And he gives me a hard time about smoking? She didn't know what kind of chemicals were involved in his vanishing act, but she doubted that they were good for the lungs.
Four more days, she reminded herself.
"Then I'm done."
Four nights later, Renee started to drift off into sleep.
It was the rain's fault. A spring shower had started up sometime after midnight, and the persistent beating of the raindrops against the car roof was like a lullaby. Like a gentle, soothing lullaby ...
Her head drooped back against the driver's seat. Too many late nights and not enough caffeine, along with the muggy atmosphere, made it hard to stay awake. Her eyelids sagged. A black tank top and shorts made up her evening's attire, along with the gun holstered over her shoulder. Dozing behind the wheel, she barely registered the sound of heavy footsteps splashing through the puddles outside.
Footsteps?
She awoke with a start, just in time to see a hulking figure in a heavy overcoat step inside 520 Kane Street. The front door swung shut behind him
"Dammit!" she cursed. She couldn't believe her carelessness and bad timing. Two weeks of waiting for something to happen and she almost slept right through it. Good job, Renee. Way to earn your money!
She threw open the car door and dashed toward the building. A raised arm shielded her eyes from the rain. Arriving at the front door, she spotted broken two-by-fours lying upon the sidewalk; the building's mysterious visitor had apparently torn down the boards nailed up over the door. She pressed her back against the front of the building, in order to avoid presenting an easy target, then reached out and gave the door a gentle shove. To her surprise, it swung open easily.
Unlocked, she realized. So whoever's paying a visit isn't planning on staying long. ■
She stepped warily into the darkened interior of the building, which turned out to be an old warehouse after all. Empty crates and wooden pallets cluttered the corners. Broken loading equipment was rusting away. Dust and cobwebs shrouded an abandoned fork) i ft.,Rat droppings sprinkled the rough concrete floor. From the looks of things, the deserted warehouse hadn't been a going concern for some time. The glow from the street outside filtered through the filthy windows, giving Renee barely enough light to see by. She kicked herself for not bringing a flashlight.
The one thing she didn’t see was the big guy in the overcoat. She looked around in confusion. I couldn't have been more than thirty seconds behind him, she thought, so where the hell did he go? Wiping her wet hair away from her face, she peered into the murky recesses of the warehouse. She listened intently for the man's heavy footsteps. Water dripped onto the floor behind her.
"Don't even think about it," she whispered.
Her faceless employer spoke up softly. "How'd you know it was me?''
"Guy who came in was in front of me," she explained, keeping her voice low. "You're the one who likes to sneak up on people."
"Touche." He came up beside her and extracted a flashlight from his trench coat. A glowing white beam lit up the darkness.
"Question is," she said, "where'd he go?"
"Take a look." He shone the light onto the floor in front of them, revealing wet shoe prints leading toward a brick wall at the rear of the warehouse. The prints were surprisingly large, size triple-E at least. Renee whistled softly. The guy they were looking for was one big customer.
So where was he anyway?
"Curious," her companion observed. The beam from the flashlight fell upon a solid brick wall. A dead end?
"He didn't just vanish," she assumed, thinking out loud. "There's got to be a secret door or something like that."
"A secret door?" He sounded skeptical. "What is this, Dungeons & Dragons?" ■
"Got a better idea?" She noted a light switch upon the wall. "Let's see if, there's still power to these lights," She flipped the switch—and a trapdoor opened up beneath them.
She yelped out loud as gravity seized them. They plunged through the trapdoor into the basement. No-Face hit the floor first, landing flat on his back. He cushioned her fall as she smacked d own on top of him. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the hidden basement. She caught a glimpse of wooden crates piled high against the walls. The flashlight, jolted free from No-Face's grip, rolled across a scuffed steel floor.
Fie gasped beneath her weight. "Elf ne
eds food badly," he murmured, sounding dazed by the fall. "Seriously, Renee, you've got to get off of me...
She wasn't listening. Lifting her head, one hand on the floor, the other splayed across his blank face, she stared in shock at the basement's other inhabitant.
"Oh hell," she muttered.
Green scales glittered beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. For a second, she thought it might be Killer Croc, but even Waylon Jones had never looked so inhuman as the hideous monstrosity standing a few yards away, still cloaked in that same heavy overcoat. Over seven feet tall, and at least four hundred pounds, the creature looked part human, part reptile, and part insect. A chitinous, jade-colored exoskeleton covered its gorilla-sized frame. Bony knobs protruded from its misshapen skull. Multifaceted black eyes were sunken deep into its armored sockets. Segmented claws emerged from the sleeves of its soggy overcoat. Fleavy work boots concealed its undoubtedly freakish feet. Saliva dripped from its massive jaws.
"Finn?" the creature emitted an inarticulate grunt. It looked just as surprised at the humans' abrupt arrival as they were. It turned toward them, clutching a heavy crate in its scaly talons.
Renee rolled off No-Face and jumped to her feet. She drew her Smith & Wesson from its holster. "What the hell is that thing?"
"How should I know?" her employer said. Still stunned from the fall, not to mention providing a cushioned landing pad for Renee, he struggled to get up. A groan escaped his nonexistent mouth.
Roaring like an enraged animal, the monster hurled the crate at Renee. She dived out of the way so that the box smashed into the wall behind her. The crate came apart, spilling out a supply of high-tech guns and rifles that looked like they had been shipped straight from outer space. At least fifty pounds of metal firearms crashed onto the floor, missing her by inches. She fired her gun at the charging monster. •
"You wanted me to watch this place!" she reminded No-Face, shouting over the blare of the gunshots. "I figured you knew what was going on!"
Silly me.
The muzzle of her weapon flared as she gripped the weapon with both hands. Two double-taps, four bullets. All good hits, but they didn't even slow the creature down. Angry growls assailed her eardrums. Moving with unexpected speed, the monster was on top of her in a blur. She didn't even have time to squeeze off another shot. A powerful hand seized her right arm. Sharp claws dug into her skin, drawing blood. She heard bone shatter and knew it was hers from her scream. Excruciating pain raced up her fractured arm. The Smith & Wesson went flying.
A swipe of the monster's arm cracked her ribs and sent her tumbling across the room. The titanic blow knocked the breath from her. She crashed down onto the hard steel floor, landing amidst the jumble of futuristic weapons.
Out of the comer of her eye, she saw No-Face enter the fray. He gave the monster a kung fu kick to the gut, but that only seemed to make the creature more angry. Growling ferociously, the monster grabbed No-Face by the throat and slammed him into the floor. Renee heard his head bang against the steel tiles.
She looked about frantically for her pistol, but all she saw were the weirdo ray guns scattered all around her. They looked like nothing she had ever seen before, outside of movies and television. Were these even for real? For all she knew, the alien ordnance were just props for some new sci-fi blockbuster, but they were the only weapons at hand. She snatched up the nearest firearm and prayed that a trigger was still a trigger....
The monster's claws remained wrapped around No-Face's throat as it yanked the stunned human from the floor. The man's feet dangled in the air, his blank countenance only inches away from the creature's snapping jaws. The monster snarled at the intruder. Drool dripped from its jagged fangs. The inhuman beast was only seconds away from biting the man's head off.
"But how do you really feel?" No-Face quipped.
Skzam! Energy crackled loudly as an incandescent golden beam struck the monster in the back. The shimmering ray instantly vaporized the creature, leaving nothing but a slimy green stain on the floor. No longer held aloft by the monster, No-Face crashed to the ground. He looked up to see Renee standing nearby, the futuristic pistol in her left hand. Her right arm dangled limply against her chest. Glowing white plasma flickered around the ray gun's muzzle. She stared at the weapon, impressed.
"Damn," she murmured. 1
WEEK 5
WEEK 12
WEEK IB
1MEEK 24
WEEK 32
OOLONG ISLAND.
NAIMDA PARBAT.
WEEK 43
WEEK 5
METROPOLIS.
"Curse you, Booster Gold!"
The armored villain known only as Manthrax shook his fist at the hero before cowardly escaping down a murky subway tunnel. Booster glared at the fleeing terrorist, but stayed behind to finish deactivating Manthrax's insidious bio-bomb. The safety of countless commuters, watching anxiously from a nearby subway platform, obviously took priority.
Or so the televised video footage made it appear.
"We're coming to you live from the Midtown train station," the TV news-woman announced after airing the video clip. Claudia Lanpher stood outside the station speaking into her mike as she faced the camera. "Where Booster Gold just saved thousands of Metropolis citizens from a brand-new masked marauder, as seen in the amateur cam-phone footage you just saw. The exclusive footage vividly captures the villain's attempt to unleash a biological weapon inside the city's busiest subway terminal."
A levitating golden sphere entered the frame. "With us now is Skeets, Booster's robotic sidekick." She turned her mike toward the robot. "Skeets, fill us in. I'm told that Booster abruptly left a crucial endorsement meeting with Promethium Razors when he heard about this crisis. Will that sour your negotiations with Promethium?"
“we hope not, ms. uanpher.” Skeets tilted toward the mike, “but
PRIORITIES ARE PRIORITIES. THE THINGS BOOSTER DOES ARE NOT ABOUT DOLLAR FIGURES.”
The reporter nodded approvingly. "Skeets, will Manthrax be brought to justice?"
“you bet,” the robot replied, “if this antisocial miscreant ever
SHOWS HIS MASK IN METROPOLIS AGAIN, HE’LL ANSWER TO BOOSTER
golds” His polished exterior reflected the lights of the camera, “you may
QUOTE ME.”
" 'Curse you, Booster Gold?' "
Booster rolled his eyes. Talk about cheesy dialogue!
Manthrax, aka Bob Somebody, shrugged. "I ad-libbed. That's what actors do." He removed his armored helmet, revealing a face that Booster vaguely recognized from bit parts in movies and the occasional late-night TV commercial. Booster also thought he might have seen Bob in a Law & Order rerun once. Just another out-of-work actor, in other words.
The two men stood on the tracks of an abandoned subway tunnel. Skeets hovered above Booster, projecting enough light to see by. Security cameras were conspicuously absent. The nearby platform was deserted. Nervous rats kept their distance. •
Booster wrote out a check and handed it over to Bob. Foam rubber padding bulked up the actor's physique beneath his metallic green and white armor. Flashing lights and circuitry were just for show.
"I teach a Saturday morning improv class at the Learning Annex," Bob mentioned as he accepted the check. "You should stop by."
"This Saturday?" Booster asked. "Love to."
Bob smiled, obviously pleased at the notion of recruiting a genuine super hero. "Really?"
"Absolutely," Booster said sarcastically. "We can make brownies after. Maybe braid each other's hair." Bob scowled as he realized that Booster was making fun of him. "Or, alternatively, Bob—"
"Bill," the disgruntled actor corrected him.
Whatever, Booster thought. "You can go find a horse to choke with the money you just made, then vanish back into the same obscure talent agency where I found you." He reached out for Manthrax's forbidding metal countenance. "I'll take the helmet. Drop the suit off at the same storage locker you picked it up from. Manthrax disap
pears forever as suddenly as he appeared. We never had this conversation. Everyone wins."
Despite his callous tone, Booster felt a twinge from his conscience. He had never faked a super-heroic stunt before, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't depend on Skeets' predictions anymore. How else could he nurture his lucrative career unless he manufactured the occasional incident to enhance his reputation? The public had a short memory. He couldn't coast on his past triumphs for long.
Everyone wins, he told himself again. And nobody gets hurt.
"Capisce," Bob said, getting the message. A change of clothes waited in the gym bag at his feet. Booster intended to hang onto the "Manthrax" costume just in case he needed to stage an encore someday. Maybe with an actor less fond of ad-libs.
"Curse you, Booster Gold?"
Booster decided to cut the guy a break anyway. "Just because I'm a generous soul, let me give you a tip. I'd turn that dough into Promethium Razors stock before the markets close today." Today's heroic headlines were bound to seal the deal with Promethium, and get Booster a much fatter contract than he might have pried out of the stingy company otherwise. And Booster's endorsement was sure to send Promethium's sales through the roof, now that he had famously saved thousand of lives from Manthrax's diabolical plan. My popularity rating must be in the stratosphere right now.
He started down the empty tunnel. "Coast clear above, Skeets?"
“affirmative, si r;” the robot reported, “an d promethium wishes
TO RESCHEDULE. I TOLD THEM TOMORROW.”
He gave Skeets a quizzical look. "Why tomorrow?"
“THIS AFTERNOON WE TRAVEL TO ARIZONA. I FINALLY LOCATED, AS YOU REQUESTED, THE LAST KNOWN ADDRESS FOR DR. RIP HUNTER.”
At last! Booster thought. If anybody could get to the bottom of Skeets' recent spate of inaccurate predictions, it was Rip Hunter, this era's leading authority on time-travel. For all his bravado, Booster desperately needed to know whether it was the robot that was broken—or history itself. Maybe Hunter can straighten this out, he hoped, so I won't have to fake any more rescues. The sooner he got back to genuine super-heroing, the better he would feel.