WITH MY FAVOURITE ex-teammate having pipped me in the hostage-rescuing stakes, I figure that leaves me with the madman. I yell again, wordlessly this time, since he seemed pretty on top of his game when last I made a noise and this should make him come again. And I’m not wrong. Office dividers fly out of the path of a wall of dirt and boxes of photocopy paper and busted underground cables and suddenly second-hand computers. It’s all I can do to jet out of the way as the mini-avalanche slams past.

In the vague hope I might be able to track my prey, I jog through the third floor of the bank in the wake of the debris, pebbles and grit leaving a path across the carpet like the skid mark of the world’s biggest itchy-assed dog. Then I’m at the row of back windows, saw-toothed with glass now, looking out the back of the building like I am in a slow-moving car, sienna’d automobiles trampled in the bank’s wake.

There’s a bunch of cops on the street corner so I jump down from the building and land in a pose in front of them. The policeman I’d seen before, Benjamin De Freitas, comes out of the crowd. I probably know a few hundred cops in the city by now, not that I actually remember all their names or anything, but they remember me and feel like the feeling’s mutual. It’s a good thing. I used to call cops “pigs” and a bunch of other names I’ve recently forgotten, but now I kinda feel like one of them, and I like to entertain the fantasy that that feeling’s mutual. They go out with nothing but their badge and gun (oh and flak jackets, tear gas, pepper spray, those neat batons, yadda yadda yadda) and I have the power of six million light bulbs or whatever the fuck it is. Still.

I don’t know what I was trying to say. Kinda drifted off there.

At least they get paid, which is what my wife says.

“Zephyr, what’s the deal?” De Freitas asks (don’t ask me how an Afro-American winds up with a Dutch name, but that would be because it’s Portuguese, so go figure), removing his cap and wiping dust from his forehead.

“I think my colleague’s freed the bank manager –”

“What the fuck was the bank manager doing in there? It’s past midnight.”

“Well I’m just about to go back onto the roof and rescue his secretary, so maybe you’ll get to ask your questions from someone who knows what’s going on, officer. All I know is there’s a person inside with earth-controlling powers. That’s how come your bank’s suddenly sprung legs and decided to go on a little holiday.”

De Freitas nods grimly like that sort of explanation is a walk in the park for him, though he is a beat cop in the world’s biggest city, so perhaps it really is no surprise. He motions weakly across the street, drawing my attention to the first camera crew setting up for a shot. I notice Imogen Davies frantically brushing her hair and hurrying through her voice warm-up.

“You got time to explain that to them, Zeph?”

“I think I have to stop the bad guy first, right?” I don’t let him know I’m sorely tempted. The delectable Miss Davies is the new kid on NBN’s graveyard shift and we haven’t yet had the acquaintance.

“Well, it’s not like it’s in your contract.”

Me and the cops share a nice long laugh and I pat De Freitas on the shoulder and he stops laughing and looks vaguely disturbed, though the others don’t seem to notice a thing wrong.

“Let me get back to you on this one.”

I turn around and Nightwind is coming down the rubble-strewn street with the bank manager in tow.

“What are you doing with him?”

“Hello?” the cloaked kid replies irritatingly. “Rescuing him?”

“I saw Vulcana carry him out of there. . . .”

“Yeah and she asked me to escort him to safety. Big deal, right?”

I’m just shaking my head as Nightwind actually says, “Oh goody, cameras,” and moves off in the cute reporter’s direction adjusting his cloak and cowl.

“Bastard.”

I almost break the sound barrier on my way back to the bank roof. Sure enough, Mr Severin’s mousy secretary is crouched up near the air-conditioning, the so-called ground all around her crumbling with the disturbance to the building. Hovering, I offer her a hand, and then I float back down to deposit the lady beside her employer, who already has a paramedic fitting him out for a blanket and hot chocolate.

“Save some for me, alright?”

I wink at the cute young blonde medic and she gets all red faced, which you’ve gotta admit is kind of adorable. Very much a Minnesota farm girl, which is right up there on my top ten. Then I shoot back around the front of the building.

Yes I have a top ten.

The bank’s marching inexorably on. Vulcana watches the front while walking steadily backwards keeping pace with it.

“What do you think?” I shout from overhead.

She glances up and shrugs, “Second floor, somewhere near the front.”

“OK. Let me have a try.”

There’s not much left in the way of actual windows any more. I crouch and then fly in through one of the sagging frames and almost straight away spot the dude standing with his legs wide apart and his hands waving megalomaniacally, as these fucking guys tend to do. He doesn’t have the decency to wear an actual costume. Instead, he wears these god-awful brown slacks, a Brooks Brothers t-shirt and a wrestling mask.

“Dude, give it up,” I say loud and clear.

Earth-boy snaps his head in my direction. He’s solidly built tending to heavy, though he’s probably not as tall as me, which is a nice change. I’m a respectable five-eleven – a figure frequently eclipsed in the superhero world.

“Man, go away, alright?”

“Go away?” I make a show of clearing my ears and walk a few steps closer. As I drop my right hand, it fills with a nimbus of blue-white power.

The tough guy’s stance reminds me of the captain on the deck of a ship and I almost laugh. Earth-boy drops his chin and repeats himself.

“Yes, go away.”

I actually am about to laugh when the whole world turns brown. Like a flushed turd, forces beyond my control vacate me from the building, and like, to continue the metaphor, down through the bowels of the bank I go, slamming and smashing through walls, floor and furniture beneath a gigantic tidal wave of torn up city street, until suddenly I hit something hard enough it doesn’t want to give way. I’m crucified, bent backwards over the solid metal arch of the bank vault, and the crushing earth washes over and off me. Battered but not bruised, I drop from the top of the recently exposed vault and onto what remains of the bank floor. There are massive gaps in the stone and wooden supports, the churning earth passing by beneath me. Whatever clever architecture once kept the vault concealed from prying eyes has now been reduced to so much kindling. The enormous circular door as well as its stainless steel chamber sit like an uncomfortable passenger in the bank’s ship’s hold.

Vulcana tumbles in thanks to her unusual body chemistry, unharmed after flinging herself curled in a ball through the bank’s oncoming doors and doing the human pinball thing. She springs up straight and clasps me on the upper arm.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, now you give a shit?”

“Jesus, give it a rest, Zeph. I just saw you swallow a ton of dirt.”

“I’m not a kid in a swimming pool, Connie.”

“Don’t call me by my fucking name, Zephyr!”

“Sorry,” I mince. “Old habits die hard. I haven’t seen you for . . . ages.”

“I’ve been away,” she concedes.

Exhausted of speech, we turn and regard the vault.

“Do you think this is what he wants?” she asks.

“Well, I don’t know,” I admit. “Why else do you hijack a bank?”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Not a lot.”

She turns away. “Calls himself the Terraformer.”

“Terraformer?” I don’t get it and she’s not about to explain.

“Maybe we can get him to leave the bank behind and just take the vault?”

“He needs the bank,” I reply with rare insight. “Vault’s metal. He’s an earth-controller. . . ?” I shrug.

“Seems reasonable.” Vulcana nods. “OK, plan B: we kick his ass.”

I can’t help but grin and it almost feels like old times when Connie turns to me and holds out her arm like a lady and asks, “Fancy giving me a lift?”

 

WE DON’T EXACTLY catch the Terraformer napping, but he’s distracted by flashes of light out the front of the bank.

At first I think the cops have called in the National Guard or something and a whole platoon is taking pot-shots at the bank – and then I hear the harsh, amplified, mechanised voice that really takes me back to the old days.

“Stop the bank and come out with your hands up!”

“Jesus, it’s Chamber,” Vulcana says, voicing my thoughts precisely.

“Jeez, this really is getting like This Is Your Life or something.”

The flashes of light are actually streams of densified laser coming from the rotating cannons on Chamber’s forearms. I get a glimpse of the bulky former Sentinel hovering out the front of the bank, his torso that big characteristic metal box thing with the panel in the front, and that’s all I have time for. Vulcana whispers in my ear for a “slingshot” and I sort of have to comply. It would be rude, otherwise, and sort of ruin the moment, so grasping her opposite wrists and spinning around several times extremely fast, I hurl her at the distracted villain.

For a woman made of rubber, she hits him pretty hard. The moment the guy goes down, Vulcana starts pummelling him with her big blue fists. He’s gasping and shrieking and the bank grinds to a treacherous stop, the back catching up to the front in the worst way possible, the whole thing pitching forward on its axis, collapse imminent. Although I am mildly worried about being buried alive, I’m not going to miss my shot to unload on our shit-eating villain, especially since Vulcana and I always had this neat understanding that, being rubber, she was mostly immune to my electrical powers. So I jog up and grab one of the Terraformer’s flailing joggers and cram a few volts up his ass.

“Jesus, I think you broke him,” Vulcana says, standing as smoke comes gently off her, or maybe from him.

I don’t say anything, though the idea of tyres burning springs to mind. I don’t think she has any sense of smell in her rubber form so I guess I can relax as long as the smoke dissipates. I look down at the guy on the ground, and mostly out of irritation, lean down and snatch off his mask. Of course I don’t recognise the lightly-bearded blonde guy unconscious at my feet. He could be anyone, as long as you would use the word “ratty” – a friend, a work colleague, an actor on TV, some guy at college, some twink on the Internet.

There is a sizzling noise and the brick wall in front of us basically vanishes. Chamber hovers slowly in and comes to a rest.

“Zephyr. Vulcana.”

“Long time no see, Chambermaid. How’s it hanging?”

“Um, fine?”

I laugh and wait for the wisecracks, but none come. The familiar mechanised voice of the man inside the powered suit clears its throat and then says, “I think this building is probably going to collapse. You should consider coming out.” Then he leans down and picks up the unconscious Terraformer in his arms and retreats from the building.

“Is he allowed to do that?”

“It does seem like a . . . lapse in etiquette,” Vulcana concedes.

It’s not like we’re going to do anything about it. There are cameras outside and the world is watching. Vulcana and I make a few adjustments to out costumes and she fusses with what’s left of her hair.

“I liked it short,” I smile. “You remember when you had that bob? It was sexy.”

“Jesus, Zephyr,” she smiles tiredly, just a trace of genuine irritation. “When haven’t I had a fucking bob?”

Holding hands like in days of yore, we jump from the second floor and into the camera lights.

Zephyr 1.3 “Days Of Yore” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose