Zephyr 15.6 “Yet Another Paradox”

FOR WHATEVER REASON we are safe for now. Tessa, or I should say Belle, has some supplies in the refrigerator downstairs and while the power is off, I am able to do a halfway decent job of getting the electric range up and running, somewhat reminiscent of me crouched milking a mechanical cow while Belle quickly cooks eggs and fries toast and we eat on the back patio with a view over the land sweeping away magnificently, trees like fingers emerging through the seasonal fog as we discuss my incorrect use of the word milquetoast and I realise whatever she might have been in another life, there is everything to like about this curious, spritely, lively, opinionated young woman.

“What did you do in theMidwest, you know, before?” I ask.

“I read books, hid from boys, hid from my parents, tried to focus on the singing when we were at church. I don’t know. What else does anyone do growing up?”

I nod at that and we eat in silence, my sensing her incomprehension at the vast quantities I digest, misunderstanding refuelling for gluttony until I explain to her how my system works and she relaxes, eyeing me up in that frank, quizzical way I have only ever experienced before from my mothers – women who have absolutely no interest in whether I am handsome or ripped or hung or any number of those other terms by which the gentler sex somehow still manages to label and categorise us and then think we men are the only ones who do it, victims as we all are of the great sausage factory of thought.

“Have you put it all together yet, how to find Arsenal?”

“No.”

“He wants to wipe out the rest of the Twelve, right?”

“I checked Google,” I say and waggle my phone. “He got Suzuki four weeks ago and there’s no one else left who hasn’t died by his hand or by natural causes.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

I stare at her a moment. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t fall in love with me, Zephyr,” Belle mocks me in a serious voice.

I sit up in my chair and scowl and try to throw down some defensive blocks in my mind, all the while the thought that maybe I am gravid with yet another paradox in being a slut who sometimes falls in love too easily – the more out of reach the woman the better, it occurs to me just as rapidly.

“I’m not. I’m just saying. . . .”

“You want to find Arsenal? We have to lure him into the open.”

And again with the damned nod.

 

 

 

THE NEXT DAY or two we talk it over, kicking around ideas and throwing most of them out. We are, I realise belatedly, playing house – a weirdly platonic, eerily satisfying game sequestered away inside a dead celebrity’s mansion, pretending the world we plot against doesn’t exist.

At night I sleep in another of the luxurious bedrooms with their bedding intact, waking up once from a fervid nightmare of the Dreamtime hemming in on me, my companions reduced to skeletons and husks by the misanthropic environment. At least I haven’t flash-fried the sheets, I think, slipping back comatose as if those thoughts never occurred at all.

The girl designs her Bellwether costume, neither of us quite able to fathom the exact reason behind her name other than the odd sense of clairvoyance it lends her. Like the day we met, she prefers a long sleeveless tee that extends down past her bike shorts and black halter bra, the curious leather boots and, for some reason, Indian war paint she daubs on her face in a moment’s playfulness. I tell her that will never disguise her from prying eyes and Belle replies she doesn’t care if her parents see her now, and since our idea involves becoming discovered, hiding her identity is a redundant ploy I can’t really refute.

In the yard where horses once roamed, we practice some basic moves. It’s pure theatre. Albeit a telepath, she has some physical resilience as well as flight. Her combat skills are completely lacking, but the only thing that matters is how long she can survive.

We don’t even talk about what we’ll do if Arsenal takes the lure.

 

 

 

FINALLY WE LEAVE our recluse. The flags are at half-mast overAtlantic Citybecause apparently the latest Pope has died, though I am sure they’ll soon replace him unless the cardinals vote to just end the sham already, split up their loot like a band of adventurers after a good day in the dungeon and each make their own way off into the distance. And so I put the matter out of my head pretty much the instant it passes through, eyes picking over the cityscape as Bellwether and I alight on a certain rooftop downtown.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” she asks.

I shrug, looking up, pleased at the distraction because gadgetry was never really my thing. I inhale a deep toke of the city, ages it feels since I used to do this – just like going on patrol, as we used to call it – kidding ourselves there was some kind of pulse or beat or rhythm or feeling or intuition we had for when and where crime might be happening. Not knowing it was luck, though the real luck was in how lucky we were.

Thankfully before I can expose the shallow depths of my wisdom, the rooftop elevator outcrop chimes open and a befuddled and angry-looking Hallory O’Hagan marches out with a bunch of manila folders and clipboards I’m pretty sure are just part of the performance to underscore she has more important things to deal with than me.

“I thought you were dead,” she snaps like a woman who’s forgotten people have feelings and I might have somewhat more affection to my life than she. “And what did you do with my underwear model? He’s not answering calls.”

“You called Travis already? You didn’t even call me back.”

“You shafted me out of a big contract with the Pal-mart people, Zephyr,” Hallory says, stops herself, trouble changing gears as she takes in Belle. I can practically hear the cogs grinding. “Who’s she?”

“You’re right,” Belle says drolly. “She’s hot.”

“I told you.”

“Fiery too,” Belle says.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why does she talk like a 1940s movie star?”

“You can start directing your questions to her now,” I say, making vague introduction motions with one hand. “Hallory O’Hagan, meet Bellwether.”

“Bellwether,” Hallory says like she’s tasting a strange new fruit. Her pale dainty hand shakes Belle’s, who tries to lock her into eye contact to which the feisty agent is far too wary to succumb. By way of distraction, she releases Belle’s hand and eyes me up again.

“You lost a few pounds.”

“No, it’s a new costume.”

“I know it’s a new costume. But you’ve lost a few pounds. Trust me.”

I flick a look to Belle. “So much for the impunity of the male gaze.”

“Where’d you read that? Online?”

“Something from a long time ago,” I say and shrug, memories of night school not where I left them. I reorient to Hallory. Hands on hips. “Did you bring it?”

“I am busy, Zephyr,” she replies.

On cue, the lift shaft opens again and a hurried-looking young mixed race intern bustles out trying to balance a cardboard box, pushing her glasses back up her aquiline nose, and not completely losing her mind seeing a Real Life Superhero™ standing before her.

“Misty? Drop the box and go back to your work,” Hallory snaps.

Ah, Misty, I never knew you.

The girl goes and Hallory indicates the box with a look of malevolent disdain.

“It’s all yours.”

“Think of it as an investment,” I tell her.

“Go on?”

I pull a strange helmet and a bunch of bright red lacquered belts from the box.

“What’s with these people and bandoliers?” I muse aloud.

“Zephyr?” Hallory actually taps her toes.

I fish out the rest of the costume the marketing people designed for the fixed match-up between me and the Punisher. The red jerkin slips over my body stocking easily enough, and call me lazy, but I don’t worry about the rest, keeping my nondescript and slightly now vinyl-looking black leggings and motorcycle boots. The helmet goes on over the top and I even sling on the weird criss-crossing gun belts.

“Didn’t they think it might look odd a hero and villain clashing in coordinated costumes with matching accessories?”

“Punisher was mainly yellow,” Hallory says.

I blow out a long pent-up breath and make a face at Bellwether, us sharing an immediate chemistry I see makes Hallory’s pretty nose crinkle to witness.

“Zephyr,” she says. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Let me just put it this way,” I answer her. “Next time you have to stage a match against a client, your bad guy’s gonna have a track record.”

I fit the helmet snug and grin and cackle in my best melodramatic Saturday morning serial voice.

“Bow down before the Human Tornado!”

Zephyr 15.6 “Yet Another Paradox” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose