IT TAKES TWENTY minutes before I corner the new girl.

Imogen Davies resembles an Irish milk-maid with her long dark hair, dark blue eyes and fair skin, just a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose dark enough that I can see them by the streetlights once emergency services gets the power back up on the street. Possibly number one on my top ten, at least this week. Away from the camera crew and without her microphone she’s just a teenager, nervous and adorable and I can’t help falling into the smug, confident, all-powerful role she expects and will probably fantasise about later tonight. Or that’s what I imagine. She’s new to the job, but she’s quick to remind me she’s not fresh out of college, which isn’t something I really want to hear with what I have in mind. But I’m reassuring her that the night news shift is when all the cool stuff happens just as It’s Raining Men starts emanating from my lower back, and if I look horrified, Imogen Davies looks completely gobsmacked. I make a pained face and mutter something about having to change that ring-tone and then I back the hell out of there.

On the phone, it’s my wife.

“Where are you?” She sounds sleepy. “It’s 2am.”

“Downtown, honey. Playing the hero.”

“Are you OK? Are you safe?” These questions are rehearsed. I think the fear wore away long ago. I think she’s forgotten I’m risking my life out here. I guess that’s what I get for being too good at my job.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. A bank went on a rampage, nothing major.”

“Oh.” She’s vaguely interested and I can hear her switch on the TV and mute the sound.

“It should be on NBN.”

“They have a helicopter view . . . and an interview with Nightwind.”

“That fucking. . . .”

I want to crush the phone, but the Enercom people were surprisingly firm when they had to replace the last one. It occurs to me I should get them to change the ring-tone.

“Are you coming home soon?”

“It’s my job, honey –”

“Your job doesn’t pay the bills, Joey,” Elisabeth says.

I shut my mouth and grind out my annoyance on my teeth.

“I’ll be home soon,” I hear myself eventually say. “Go back to bed, Beth.”

NBN and the radio reporters have gone by the time I tuck the phone away and turn at the sound of the White Nine van arriving. “Van” isn’t really the word. If the armour was just on the outside you would call it a tank, though it is that and so much, much more. Along with a crack squad of five SWAT officers, the enormous six-wheeled van disgorges several technicians in coveralls and an honest-to-God scientist in a white coat. She’s about sixty and appears to have a goatee so I’m not that interested, though I do drift close enough to where Vulcana is watching them strap Earth-boy down to his stretcher, an awkward metal thing that will slot into a cabinet within the van’s insides.

“Is he still out?”

“Yeah, you zapped him good and proper.” Vulcana turns and acknowledges me with something akin to a smile.

“Well, you know, just wanted to make sure he was down for the count.”

“I think I had it handled,” she shrugs.

“Hmmm, where’s Chamber?”

“Where does he ever go?” Vulcana asks. “I don’t think we ever really settled that one.”

“It was creepy, being absorbed into his chest like that. I was never comfortable with it.”

As I say it, I know it seems like a moment’s true confession and I guess it is. I sense rather than watch Vulcana regarding me for a long moment.

“Me too,” she says slowly. “Still, we had to get around.”

“I guess,” I reply, thinking about our many trips shrinking down into the N-space void that filled Chamber’s torso and reputedly fuelled his powered armour. I shiver. How the fuck did we survive that and why were we so calm about it at the time? I blame the inevitable nihilism that accompanies any fin de siecle.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She starts crouching to do her “spring into the sky” trick and I hold out a hand.

“Wait, what do you mean, tomorrow?”

“The mayor’s thing,” she replies.

“Oh, that Eros Foundation . . . uh . . . thing?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a get-together of the old gang. I’ll see you there, OK?”

I’m still grappling with this concept when Vulcana does her trick and flings herself into the night with the vague noise of a tyre being depressed. I’m left surrounded by the technicians for the prison van and cops and a few late-night spectators and TV crews filming the scene for additional footage “just in case” before they go back to their soy frappuccinos and file their reports. There doesn’t seem to be anything else for me to do except I don’t really want to go home.

Although I didn’t see him standing there, Nightwind appears out of the shadows, but I still refuse to believe it is due to any “ability” he might possess. I secretly imagine luring him to a rooftop and teaching him to fly. He’s grinning as he comes across the buckled street to me. The smug cut of his mouth is all I can see.

“How do you think they’re gonna get rid of this building? It’s kinda in the way, don’t you think?”

“Man, I could care less. . . .”

“Do you wanna get a drink? I hear Chloe Severigny’s at De Lux.”

“It’s Sevigny, man. And no I don’t wanna. Sheesh. If maybe I needed a fucking blowjob then I would go to De Lux to see Chloe Sevigny thanks very much, Ass-wind.”

“Wow, you’re such a jerk, it actually hurts,” the other guy responds.

“You want a slugfest, motherfucker?”

“A slugfest? What the hell does that mean?”

“In the comic books, that’s when two dudes go at it and wreck a few city blocks,” I snap.

“Christ, you’re wasted.”

Nightwind then has the gall to turn his back on me and walk off. There’s a few too many cops around for me to do something stupid so I turn away as well. I’m just thinking about my reply, but after a few moments, Nightwind is nowhere to be seen.

“This is such a pile of balls. I’m going home.”

I take to the air.

 

EXCEPT I DON’T go home. God knows, I know I should. My internal pedant, who I have pretty much strangled to fucking fuck my whole life, is waggling the stumps of his fingers about my appointments in the morning, the thought of re-uniting with the Southside Sentinels making my asshole completely tighten up, not to mention knowing I’m now past that time where I can actually get a full night’s sleep anyway. It sucks, and the whole aftermath of the Terraformer thing is bumming me out and I don’t have any drugs that I can actually metabolise. I fly aimlessly over the city until I realise my unconscious has been nudging me towards the islands.

I’m hovering over Twilight’s pad. The tennis court and the twin swimming pools forming the yin-yang symbol are still lit up even though it’s now well after two. I think Twilight normally likes guests to alight at the helipad, but for some reason it’s not illuminated, so I descend among the spruce trees lining the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea.

There’s a guy in a charcoal suit holding an Uzi and I crackle loudly, tracers of light running over my body as a courtesy to let him know I’m there. He recovers pretty admirably from being spooked and I recover from being spooked when three more guys with laser sights on their various weapons emerge from the bushes nearby.

“You’re Zepha?”

They’re all Italian Americans, heavyset but well-built, their suits Armani or Louis Vuitton, cut-down versions of Twilight himself. Keeping it in the family, I guess. You can’t really accuse the Mob of nepotism. That’s the nature of the beast. These aren’t Sicilians though, small, dark and murderous. Twilight told me where the family came from, but I’m never able to remember. They’re northerners, anyway. I can only wave a hand as the sentries appear.

“Is the big guy around?”

The one who spoke before shakes his Rolex from under his cuff and then looks at me.

“It’s half-past two in the morning.”

“Uh, so?”

“He’s in the sanctum.”

“OK.”

I stand there a moment more feeling stupid, which is weird since if I was invading some villain’s base I fancy I’d wipe the floor with these guys. Reminding myself of this, I clear my throat to avoid an imminent falsetto and ask them to tell Twilight that I’m here. Reluctantly, one of the younger guards peels off from the others to do as asked.

The remaining trio escort me to the edge of the pool. There are a few deck chairs around, which seems odd given the cold night. There’s nothing as tardy as wet towels or empty glasses to suggest the area’s been recently used, nevertheless I get that sense. The water is heated, steam curling off it like a giant mug of warm milk. The goons don’t waste the effort trying to make conversation and I don’t bother either. Mafia and heroes don’t normally mix. Or not normally, anyway.

“Zephyr.”

Twilight mostly has the diction of a well-educated New Englander and if you didn’t know his background, you at least wouldn’t guess he was Italian mafia through and through. He looks more like a Greek god, which is to say he looks like the Anglo idea of such a god, something over six-and-a-half feet tall with a lantern jaw, dark blue eyes and impeccably groomed blonde hair tending ashen. He is possibly the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life and I don’t mean that in a queer way. Lift your head above your belt-line (or while you’re down there, make yourself useful). Twilight is the best of us, that’s all. As a hero, he is perhaps the best. As for the rest of it, especially the mafia thing, it all gets a little murky. Oh, and let’s not mention the consorting with demons part.

He appears at the other end of the pool wearing a Chanel robe unbelted over his work costume, a dark grey bodysuit that imperceptibly turns black in the upper body, going into a high collar like a Star Trek uniform or something. Normally there are gloves, but these are removed, though the face mask, larger than the simple domino I wear, remains in place. He’s well turned out as always, though I have a sense one or two hairs are out of place. The man’s sheer physical presence conceals any signs of wear or tear or the lateness of the hour. In the body and shoulders he is enormous, possibly even deformed. I have to turn away after a moment because I feel like a midget or something compared to him. I’m in awe. It’s embarrassing and gay.

“Hey, I thought I’d see you at Mechano’s tonight, or Halogen.”

“Is that where you were?”

He strolls down the edge of the pool and crouches to dip his fingers in the warm water before running them through his hair. Then we shake hands, mine with his other one and he grins, teeth practically sparkling.

“It’s late, I’m sorry,” says I.

Twilight keeps grinning though he turns and gestures for me to walk with him. There’s no fence around his pool. Across a hundred yards of immaculate lawn the French doors at the rear of his enormous house are open and light spills from them suggesting warmth in the form of a large snifter of brandy if not a log fire. I note the path that wends away to the right, splitting off from the way back to the house and ending at a cold, grey-looking stone building, octagonal perhaps, and with a domed roof. Twilight’s sanctorum. He steers me towards the house with a hand on my elbow.

“I’m Twilight,” he says gently. “You know my time is the night.”

I realise he’s making a joke. “My time is the night” is the phrase his action figure repeats if you press the button in the middle of his back. At that moment I can’t remember mine, but I remember the PA’s face when I suggested: “How do you like your ass? Deep fried or crispy?” After regaining her composure she politely suggested mothers might not be so cool with their kids repeating that line.

Mothers! Reminds me I need to ring mine. Both of ‘em.

Oh I remember. In the end my figurine phrase was “Electric, baby,” I swear, in what sounds like Austin Powers’ voice. I think it may have been a cost-cutting exercise.

I mutter something conciliatory to Twilight and thank him again for seeing me. You would never guess we were friends. I’m stammering something about how dead it was at Halogen, repressed feelings of walking to school with my neighbour’s dad coming back to me I guess because of mine and Twilight’s height difference, and I vaguely wonder if this is what most women feel, always having to look up. If I had had a father of my own perhaps I would be better prepared or might feel otherwise. The emasculation doesn’t grow on me.

“Zephyr, what’s going on?” Twilight asks. “This isn’t like you.”

We pass indoors. The back room has a library, a rosewood grand piano, a drinks cabinet, a big slab of woodwork that conceals a widescreen TV though it is open now and gently playing a football game, Lions versus Jets. I always went for the Jets because that was Flash Gordon’s team. Pity they’re losing. Maybe they need another Flash, though they test pretty hard for supers these days.

“I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’m a little down.” I shrug and try not to bob my head or do that Joe Pesci voice I always have to resist around Twilight, like I’m trying to get myself into trouble with the Cosa Nostra or something.

Twilight moves to the cabinet, dwarfing it, and nods for me to go on. I’m suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation and once he hands me the expected snifter, I tip it up gratefully and indicate towards the outside bunker.

“Forget about me, anyway. Me and my mortal concerns. What’s been shaking, Twilight?”

“Oh, it’s been very quiet. . . .”

“It must’ve been. No adventures. . . ?”

“Actually no, just some . . . personal research.”

“And uh, how are the family? You know, the Family, these days?”

“I think my uncle and I have finally come to an agreement,” Twilight smiles. “You leave me alone and I won’t interrupt your sordid little drug deals by summoning Dimensional Shamblers.”

I laugh, though I have no idea of what a Dimensional Shambler is. I can only gather it is some mystical kook of the sort Twilight is usually mixed up with. Despite the heroic stature, he’s more Dr Strange than Superman, as I sometimes like to put it. I did ask him once that, if he was a sorcerer, why he had superhuman strength, could fly and reflect bullets off his bare skin. His answer was a good one.

“Because I’m a sorcerer . . . and because I can.”

I reflect on this as we sit down to drink. The brandy is warm, but that’s about all it does for me. I gather we’re not quite the same, Twilight and I. He has that satisfied look on his face I’ve only seen on housewives trying to wean off chocolate and enjoying their failure.

“So what has been happening?” I ask.

“No,” Twilight replies. “Tell me about you.”

And he waves a hand and possibly says something, a spell or an oath or something, and then I’m spilling my guts like Woody Allen, telling him things I didn’t even realise I was thinking, about how I don’t think I can balance my life and my secrets any more, that I feel trapped inside my own body, that my wife seems to want me dead and home feels like a jail and that even though I would never want to take back the fateful day I was struck by lightning climbing the wind farm fan, I hope to dear God my daughter Tessa has the chance for an ordinary life.

“It’s just such a pressure,” I hear myself whine, vaguely aware the spell’s effects are winding down. “I’ve had my powers twenty years next March and I sometimes feel like there’s two of me, and I almost wish there was, it would be so much simpler, and so much kinder to my family.”

Twilight sits back with his fingers steepled. I lean and wipe sweat from the back of my neck and exhale heavily.

“Whew, what the fuck was that?”

“Just a little trick I’ve been learning, Togamon’s Tantric Expression. It normally only works on fairly simple minds, but I guess my magic is more powerful here in my home.”

He smiles that elusive charismatic smile of his that convinces me to take no offence, though there’s genuine chagrin there that he just slugged me with a mickey without even asking. Unless his family ties have done their research, he doesn’t know my secret identity or too much about my private life. We’re friends, yeah, but we’re not exactly swapping spit.

“I might have an answer for you,” he says eventually. “If you aren’t put off by the solution being . . . esoteric? Leave it with me. I have to think, and consult my books.”

I stand up because it might not sound like a dismissal, but I am at once strangely keen to get out of there. In fact, I’m not quite sure why I’ve come. Perhaps it’s the magic in the air or maybe just a little belated common sense. Beyond the French doors a red laser sight sweeps over the hedgerows in the garden.

“Are you coming to this thing tomorrow?” I ask, shielding my eyes against light that seems too bright.

“The mayor’s reception? No. They don’t like people like me at City Hall.”

“That’s a shame, dude.”

“Not really, as I think you’ll find out.”

“Hmmm,” I nod. “OK.”

“Just remember, Zephyr: I’m an anti-hero, OK?”

“Sure, Twilight. Sure. Why are you telling me this?”

I’m frowning at him and he seems to be doing the same to himself.

“I’m not sure. Just . . . go home to your wife.”

I nod and move out into the garden, and thence to home.

Zephyr 1.4 “Spilling My Guts” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose