Just To Prove I'm Doing It
New and improved! This is chapter one of my NaNoWriMo novel from 2007. The rest is under a custom friendslock; if you'd like to read the rest, just comment and I'll add you to the filter.
Link to all chapters ("Hench" tag)
Chapter One
The Citadel of Evil, the one on Fourth and Maple, was ticking down toward self-destruction.
Chaos shook the skyscraper from sidewalk to roof. Above, Doctor Maniac was fighting off the Watchman, outclassed in strength, speed, and general charm; below, Maniac's robot army was putting up a poor showing against the local riot squad. I'd warned him the robots weren't ready. And then there was me, one man in a disheveled business suit, running around the penthouse office with a flamethrower, doing what I do best: cleaning up the good doctor's mess.
I checked my watch against the huge red numbers on the wall. 14:48. 14:47. 14:46. Ten minutes slow. A personal touch. Through the gas mask's smoky visor I spotted a purple lunch bag half-trapped under someone's overturned chair. One long spurt from the flamethrower and the bag, chair, and residual genetic evidence went up in flames.
It always pays to be thorough.
14:11. I took a good long look around the office. There wasn't a desk left standing. Anything incriminating had either been shredded, set on fire, or stuffed into my suit pockets. We'd gutted the workshops already; the sprinkler system in the lunchroom was still raining acid onto the abandoned traces of anyone who'd been involved in Doctor Maniac's operation. The blast would take care of the rest.
Thank God for gas masks, I was thinking, as another heap of plastic melted down into noxious smoke. I gave the trash can one last blast and shrugged out of the flame-thrower. 13:42. 13:41. Evidence destroyed, minions evacuated, data protected, and all that lovely money good and laundered in safe accounts the world over. That would do for now. I pressed down on the radio clipped to the gas mask.
"Mark, is everyone out?"
The radio buzzed like a trapped insect. "Far as I know, Hench. How's the Doc holding up?"
I checked the closed-circuit television screens that broadcast the view from the roof. Doctor Maniac was flat on his back, screaming at the Watchman--threats or promises, I couldn't tell. The usual, I'm sure. "Won't be long now. And the building's coming down in three minutes."
Mark laughed. "Just make sure you don't come down with it."
"No worries. See you at Lamprey's."
"I'll order you a pint."
I grinned, though he couldn't see it. "Roger that."
"Hey, watch out for those vidges, all right?"
"Thanks," I said, "but they don't even know I'm here."
I had no sooner gotten the words out than someone in a black body suit burst through the window.
Shattered glass rained across the upturned furniture; the whoosh of fresh air sent the fires blazing higher, and sucked the smoke out the window. I did the old duck-and-cover as the man in black made a deft flip and landed on his feet.
It wasn't the Watchman. This guy was smaller, a sinewy bantamweight, with freckles on the exposed skin at his wrist. And he was fast. I backed off into a crouch, praying I wouldn't have to fight him, but before I could even swear he had made it across the room toward me. A split-second later, I was on the ground, and was digging his knees into my gut.
I hate vigilantes.
He tore aside my gas mask. The rush of foul air hit my face like a soiled pillow, rank and smothering, and I gasped for breath. For being such a little guy, he had me pinned. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. Right where he wants me, I thought, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Doctor Maniac, in the same sorry position one story above me.
The vidge cocked his head at me. His black ski mask bulged around the eyes, froglike, and I thought I saw the outline of a pair of goggles beneath it. I couldn't see his eyes, but it looked like he was examining me right back. Know thy enemy. Then, swift as a bird, he grabbed the gold stud in my left ear and tore it right out of my head.
I have been shot, stabbed, poisoned (and cured), demolecularized on the cellular level, and surgically fitted with gills. I have never experienced that kind of pain. I screamed like a girl. Through my watering eyes I saw the guy hover his open palm over my face. He wore a ringcam on his middle finger. He flicked his second and third fingers together.
Click.
This time I did manage to get a curse out. He hit me, which I expected, and then twisted around to take a long look at the digital clock on the wall. He leapt off of me. As I was curling into a fetal position I could just see him dart for the window and hurl himself into open air.
"Show off," I croaked. I rolled to my hands and knees. I couldn't see the countdown through my tears, but I knew I didn't have long. Get out. Get out. I crawled across the floor; shards of glass, hunks of steaming plastic, burnt paper, and jagged bits of metal went out of their way to get under my hands and into my kneecaps. My ear throbbed in agony. I dragged myself to the corner by the file cabinets, groping around the debris. Come on, come on...aha. My hand closed around a metal strap.
I dashed the water from my eyes and the world came back into focus. Get a grip, Harry. I looked at the clock. 10:45. Forty-five seconds. Just about enough.
Fifteen seconds to drag on the fireproof jumpsuit. Ten to shrug into the harness. Ten to get to the window, three to open it, one to light up the rockets. Blue fire streamed out behind me, annihilating two computer chairs and a Ziggy mug. I wasted two seconds looking over my shoulder at the countdown clock. 10:02. "Why does it always come down to the last second?" I demanded to no one. Then there was no more time for rhetorical philosophy. I clutched the controls of my jetpack and leapt from the fifteenth floor.
The Citadel of Evil imploded.
The rush of wind caught me in midair, jerking me around--turbulence without an airplane. I juiced the jetpack and leaned away from the demolition. Poofs of smoke and dust billowed up and then reversed themselves, sucked back into the vacuum. Ash pelted the back of my head and stuck in my hair. I'd smell like a smoker for days. With a roar like a lion, the building crumbled into itself--taking the robotics lab, the barracks, and a great-paying job along with it.
I figured the Watchman had made it out all right, and probably taken Doctor Maniac with him--the vidges are picky about that kind of thing. I didn't look back to check. Grateful to be alive, I veered toward the seedier parts of town and flew as far away from the Watchman, his sidekick with the goggles, the cops, the robot army, and the demolished building as I could get.
Besides. Once you've seen your office go down in smoke a few times, you pretty much know what it looks like.
Chapter One
The Citadel of Evil, the one on Fourth and Maple, was ticking down toward self-destruction.
Chaos shook the skyscraper from sidewalk to roof. Above, Doctor Maniac was fighting off the Watchman, outclassed in strength, speed, and general charm; below, Maniac's robot army was putting up a poor showing against the local riot squad. I'd warned him the robots weren't ready. And then there was me, one man in a disheveled business suit, running around the penthouse office with a flamethrower, doing what I do best: cleaning up the good doctor's mess.
I checked my watch against the huge red numbers on the wall. 14:48. 14:47. 14:46. Ten minutes slow. A personal touch. Through the gas mask's smoky visor I spotted a purple lunch bag half-trapped under someone's overturned chair. One long spurt from the flamethrower and the bag, chair, and residual genetic evidence went up in flames.
It always pays to be thorough.
14:11. I took a good long look around the office. There wasn't a desk left standing. Anything incriminating had either been shredded, set on fire, or stuffed into my suit pockets. We'd gutted the workshops already; the sprinkler system in the lunchroom was still raining acid onto the abandoned traces of anyone who'd been involved in Doctor Maniac's operation. The blast would take care of the rest.
Thank God for gas masks, I was thinking, as another heap of plastic melted down into noxious smoke. I gave the trash can one last blast and shrugged out of the flame-thrower. 13:42. 13:41. Evidence destroyed, minions evacuated, data protected, and all that lovely money good and laundered in safe accounts the world over. That would do for now. I pressed down on the radio clipped to the gas mask.
"Mark, is everyone out?"
The radio buzzed like a trapped insect. "Far as I know, Hench. How's the Doc holding up?"
I checked the closed-circuit television screens that broadcast the view from the roof. Doctor Maniac was flat on his back, screaming at the Watchman--threats or promises, I couldn't tell. The usual, I'm sure. "Won't be long now. And the building's coming down in three minutes."
Mark laughed. "Just make sure you don't come down with it."
"No worries. See you at Lamprey's."
"I'll order you a pint."
I grinned, though he couldn't see it. "Roger that."
"Hey, watch out for those vidges, all right?"
"Thanks," I said, "but they don't even know I'm here."
I had no sooner gotten the words out than someone in a black body suit burst through the window.
Shattered glass rained across the upturned furniture; the whoosh of fresh air sent the fires blazing higher, and sucked the smoke out the window. I did the old duck-and-cover as the man in black made a deft flip and landed on his feet.
It wasn't the Watchman. This guy was smaller, a sinewy bantamweight, with freckles on the exposed skin at his wrist. And he was fast. I backed off into a crouch, praying I wouldn't have to fight him, but before I could even swear he had made it across the room toward me. A split-second later, I was on the ground, and was digging his knees into my gut.
I hate vigilantes.
He tore aside my gas mask. The rush of foul air hit my face like a soiled pillow, rank and smothering, and I gasped for breath. For being such a little guy, he had me pinned. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. Right where he wants me, I thought, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Doctor Maniac, in the same sorry position one story above me.
The vidge cocked his head at me. His black ski mask bulged around the eyes, froglike, and I thought I saw the outline of a pair of goggles beneath it. I couldn't see his eyes, but it looked like he was examining me right back. Know thy enemy. Then, swift as a bird, he grabbed the gold stud in my left ear and tore it right out of my head.
I have been shot, stabbed, poisoned (and cured), demolecularized on the cellular level, and surgically fitted with gills. I have never experienced that kind of pain. I screamed like a girl. Through my watering eyes I saw the guy hover his open palm over my face. He wore a ringcam on his middle finger. He flicked his second and third fingers together.
Click.
This time I did manage to get a curse out. He hit me, which I expected, and then twisted around to take a long look at the digital clock on the wall. He leapt off of me. As I was curling into a fetal position I could just see him dart for the window and hurl himself into open air.
"Show off," I croaked. I rolled to my hands and knees. I couldn't see the countdown through my tears, but I knew I didn't have long. Get out. Get out. I crawled across the floor; shards of glass, hunks of steaming plastic, burnt paper, and jagged bits of metal went out of their way to get under my hands and into my kneecaps. My ear throbbed in agony. I dragged myself to the corner by the file cabinets, groping around the debris. Come on, come on...aha. My hand closed around a metal strap.
I dashed the water from my eyes and the world came back into focus. Get a grip, Harry. I looked at the clock. 10:45. Forty-five seconds. Just about enough.
Fifteen seconds to drag on the fireproof jumpsuit. Ten to shrug into the harness. Ten to get to the window, three to open it, one to light up the rockets. Blue fire streamed out behind me, annihilating two computer chairs and a Ziggy mug. I wasted two seconds looking over my shoulder at the countdown clock. 10:02. "Why does it always come down to the last second?" I demanded to no one. Then there was no more time for rhetorical philosophy. I clutched the controls of my jetpack and leapt from the fifteenth floor.
The Citadel of Evil imploded.
The rush of wind caught me in midair, jerking me around--turbulence without an airplane. I juiced the jetpack and leaned away from the demolition. Poofs of smoke and dust billowed up and then reversed themselves, sucked back into the vacuum. Ash pelted the back of my head and stuck in my hair. I'd smell like a smoker for days. With a roar like a lion, the building crumbled into itself--taking the robotics lab, the barracks, and a great-paying job along with it.
I figured the Watchman had made it out all right, and probably taken Doctor Maniac with him--the vidges are picky about that kind of thing. I didn't look back to check. Grateful to be alive, I veered toward the seedier parts of town and flew as far away from the Watchman, his sidekick with the goggles, the cops, the robot army, and the demolished building as I could get.
Besides. Once you've seen your office go down in smoke a few times, you pretty much know what it looks like.