Doc Masterson and the Prisoner of Time, Chapter 11
Doc Masterson’s been in the superhero game for most of his life. But his powers are more dependable than his mental health. Now that he’s back in New York, Masterson has a meeting with the Apparatus..
An Unassuming BuildingWhen I woke up the next morning it was raining. I could hear the steady tapping against the windows and maudlin, gray light grimaced through the cracks in my blinds. I was scheduled that day to meet with some top brass at the Apparatus – apparently dealing only with Paul wasn’t going to work anymore. I was too apathetic to put up a fuss about it. It wasn’t a big deal. I knew these people. Though I wished I didn’t.
I climbed out of bed, clicked on the coffee machine, took a bong hit, ate a weed brownie in preparation for the bullshit I anticipated later that day, and washed it down with the thick coffee that was a bit of a superhero itself. It jumped into the shower, where I almost forgot my plans for the rest of the day for a few glorious minutes, and then into the most wrinkled suit I could find, which was easy because I had never ironed anything in my life. When the bell rang announcing the driver had arrived, I had been ready for five minutes.
Outside it was pouring. I was picked up by the same Nordic driver I had been escorted by before. I still didn’t think to ask him his name. He said very little. I stared at the back of his head and his elaborate trellis of golden blond hair. He didn’t listen to the radio or make small talk. I had to struggle to detect his breath. He was stoic as hell. He had a bruise on his forehead from that punch from Stomper Blukowski though.
I stared out at the rain and the New Yorkers hustling through it in their own personal rat races. This was what we were supposed to be protecting – a life most people hated. You have to remember, there had been super humans in every age of the Earth, but they were commonly remembered as only folk tales or myths. Gilgamesh, Heracles, Joan of Arc. I’m not kidding. Some people put Jesus and Buddha on that list. Super powers have always been ambiguous, sometimes obvious, sometimes not, sometimes obedient, sometimes the opposite. In my own age there had been the Marvelous Four, The Strangers, the ever-independent Violet Russel (who even eschewed a codename), the Dysfunctionalists, America’s Super People, etc. Super humans were either born or made, and sometimes in some gray area in between. And like the rest of humanity, they fell in a wide variety of extremes ranging from those willing to sacrifice their lives to save the lives of others, to the opposite side with people who were hellbent on destroying everything good in the world.
But like any other war in history, most of the casualties were civilians. Sure, superheroes died. But while chaos and order battled it out in the sky and the streets of Manhattan, suffering people were more invisible and unheard than ever. Violet might have been able to lift an M1 Abrams tank in one hand, but that didn’t solve institutional racism, or government corruption, or environmental collapse.
The Apparatus had tried it the other way, letting superheroes be autonomous. It had worked at first – but what if someone who had the power to incinerate the Earth in a flash of thought – like Jenny – suddenly decided she was no longer going to accept the intractable injustices of the world that those in power relied upon? Have no doubt, there was a cabal that controlled Earth, and while its members seldomly agreed on most things, they were unanimous in their view that THEY should remain in control of the world.
And there were more super humans on Earth than anyone could guess. Most kept themselves secret. A few of us were stupid enough to try to become heroes. Almost all were driven by insane compulsions. I guess I fell into that category. I didn’t do what I did for any sort of rational reason. I was just trying to satisfy the hours each day provided me with. Did I like the danger? Yes. But only because the nature of my powers usually keep me OUT of danger.
Jenny loved the danger. Nothing was dangerous enough, not until the day she died. For most of the time I knew her, boredom drove most of her actions. But… in the end… she believed in what she was doing. For the first time, she had clarity. She knew what to do. She had to save the world. That’s the ironic tragedy of Jenny Clifford – she was murdered by the people she was trying to save.
Of course, the aftermath of the near-Apocalypse of Jenny Clifford, Nova Girl, finally gave the Apparatus (disguised as the fed-up governments of the world) the power to put an iron clamp on the super beings of the Earth. Really it was about two things: money and resolve. Now that the Powers That Be realized someone like Jenny could come and destroy everything they’ve been protecting since civilization began at any moment in time, they were suddenly a lot more amiable to consensus.
And me? I worked for them. When people asked, I said “it was very unfortunate,” about Jenny. I gave them a look of grief painted in capitalist realism.
So, when I tell you that in south Midtown there is a certain unassuming Art Deco building, a building which our Nordic chauffeur glided the black SUV to a stop in front of in the torrential rain, I assure you, I am not changing the subject. In fact, this unassuming building, and its history, are very integral to this story.
The Nordic chauffeur double-parked and pushed his door open, slipping into the rain in his black suit. He walked around the car, expanding an umbrella as he opened my door. All this even though I could dematerialize and remain completely dry. Of course, the Nordic chauffeur knew this.
“What is your name?” I asked him.
“I am Thor,” he said.
“It’s nice to meet you, Thor,” I told him. I felt briefly ecstatic in the rain at the ridiculous nobility of our introduction.
Water was dripping down his big, pale nose. “The honor is mine, John Masterson.”
I took the umbrella and maneuvered through the pedestrians on the sidewalk – all of us in our own personal rat race – to the building’s front door. I pulled open the heavy glass – the cold air conditioning inside the beginning whipped out into me, and every drop of moisture on my body shivered in unison. I headed to the front desk.
“I’m here to see Anderson Delorio on the 4th floor,” I told the receptionist.
“Mercury Consulting?” he asked me.
“That’s right.”
“One moment. The elevator is coming up now. First on the left.”
The first on the left. A mysterious elevator, that on certain days only appeared to be in use. Yes, you could press the button to call it, but another elevator would always arrive before it did (and quickly.)
The elevator doors dinged open. I stepped on board. A woman made to follow me, but I raised my hand to stop her. “This one’s going down,” I told her.
“Oh!” she laughed. “My mistake.” She stepped back.
The doors closed behind me. A thick purple laser shot out of the ceiling, accompanied by another on the floor, scanning me at the atomic level for god knows what. I could only imagine what the defense protocol would be if I wasn’t who I said I was.
The elevator glided down for a minute, maybe two. Perhaps three. Gently it slowed its descent, a white light shined briefly at the base of the doors, and the doors slid open, revealing a wide, golden reception area with black leather furniture, an attendant at a desk, and four men in black masks with futuristic machine guns.
I sighed as I stepped out of the elevator. So this was it. The forbidden sanctum. Well, not really – that was a couple miles deeper under the Hudson. But I was at the front door.
The receptionist smiled. “Welcome to the Apparatus,” she said.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 129/16/2021Hey everybody, I’m sorry there was no blog yesterday. The thing is… I’m not a corporation, or a machine, or an algorithm. I’m a human artist, and a mercurial one at that. I can’t hold to a regimented schedule of posting the same thing every day at the same time. It’s also another reason I jump around to different stories. That’s just how my mind works.
The Mortal Feelings of W. Somerset Maugham
I posted this on Substack, but I’m putting in on medium with a few changes before I archive it on WordPress.
The Mortal Feelings of W. Somerset Maugham Part 1
The Mortal Feelings of W. Somerset Maugham Part 2
A Great AssemblyI’m taking this short story of two boys in love at summer camp in Pennsylvania in 1957 and turning it into a comic. Really crazy about it so far.
And that’s it. I hope to get a new chapter up of the Stephen King comic. That’s today’s job.
Thanks for reading,
Matt
