Devious Origins

By Thad Phetteplace

It started with a chance encounter in the Student Union. She was definitely the most interesting woman Barry had met at Penbrooke College, but when she claimed to be a superhero, he realized she must be crazy. That was before he found himself being chased by drug dealers, kidnapped by gangsters, and caught in the tangled web of a global conspiracy. Maybe his new friend is crazy, or maybe she really is a superhero... Barry's not really sure anymore. He's just hoping he survives long enough to graduate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thad Phetteplace
• Release date: Oct 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370390946

Thad Phetteplace

Thad Phetteplace is a full time computer consultant and part time writer. He currently lacks the literary or financial success to be considered the 'eccentric author' he aspires to, and is instead just considered 'weird' by most people who know him.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I'm a superhero, she declared in between bites of her chicken salad sandwich. The words were delivered as casually as one might comment on the weather.

A superhero... I repeated, an unspoken question hanging in the silence that followed.

Yeah. You asked what classes I'm in, but I'm not actually a student here. I tried the college thing for a while, but it just wasn't me. Did retail for a bit but couldn't stick with it... pimping overpriced plastic crap to the consumer masses... it was damaging my soul. I quit and just drifted for a while. Then I really took a hard look at myself, what I wanted out of life, the mark I wanted to make. One day it all just snapped into focus. Superhero.

There are openings for that kind of work? I asked, my amusement clearly showing. I was more than willing to play along with the gag.

Oh it's definitely an under-served market, but you won't find any posting for it on craigslist. This is totally a freelance sort of gig. She finished the last of her sandwich and turned her attention to her papaya and wheat grass smoothie. She took a long slurp and continued. I actually made a list. All the things my dream job would have. Excitement. Adventure. The chance to do something big. Important. The chance to help people. I thought about all sorts of possibilities, but only one really seemed to fit. Superhero.

I chased the last of my three bean salad around my plate, finally getting it onto the plastic fork. I gazed across the table at her while I finished eating. She showed no sign she was joking. She either believed what she was saying or was one hell of an actress.

My eyes wandered around the Student Union, taking in the varied patrons. Some were obviously studying. Others were having lunch. Some appeared to be socializing, just chatting and laughing. A typical collection of university students engaged in the usual activities. No one really standing out. Everything normal.

My eyes found their way back to my companion.

She seemed normal enough as well, at least at first glance. The right age to be in college. Dressed with an individualistic flare that made me assume she was an art student, maybe a theater major. Her short dark hair had a few purple streaks dyed into it and some small feathers woven into it near her left ear. She wore tennis shoes, a motorcycle jacket, and cut-off jeans over black tights. On her hands she wore leather gloves with the fingers cut off. She carried a small backpack with a much larger skateboard strapped to it. She was the most interesting person in the room, though not so unusual that she didn't fit in to the wide spectrum of college persona.

I admit I was surprised when she asked to sit at my table, me being rather the opposite of the flamboyant art student I imagined her to be, but then the Union was close to full at the moment, so it was probably just the three empty seats at my table that drew her here. Making smalltalk with strangers has never been a great skill of mine, but she seemed surprisingly easy to talk to. Nevertheless, I now found myself at a loss for words. What do you say to someone who has just claimed to be a superhero?

My companion noisily slurped the last of her smoothie and finally broke the verbal deadlock.

Well, I have to get going, she said, thanks for letting me sit here.

No problem, I replied, then realized the one and only female who had shown any interest in talking to me since I started college was about to walk out of my life as quickly as she had entered it. Um... I would love hear more about this whole superhero thing... do you... like... have a phone number?

She smiled. It was not one of those 'Oh I am so glad he asked for my number' sort of smiles, more like an 'Oh god he is so clumsy at this sort of thing I think I might burst into laughter' sort of smile.

Must we really fall into such tired gender roles? she answered. What if I want to ask for your number instead?

My brain seemed to freeze up. No words came. Instead I simply opened up one of my notebooks, tore off a section of paper, and wrote my name and number on it. She smiled as I handed it to her. It was a less amused smile, more genuinely warm.

Thanks... and welcome to the team, she exclaimed, then slung her backpack on her back, turned, and headed for the door. I sat looking at the door for several minutes after she left.

It finally occurred to me that I had never learned her name.

* * *

It was three days later when I next heard from her. I was walking to my Theory of Computing lecture when my phone rang. I answered without even looking at the number.

Hey, do you own a suit? a woman's voice asked.

Um... Yes? I answered, so surprised by the unusual question that I stopped walking. Was this some sort of telemarketing call? Was I about to get a sales pitch from Men's Warehouse?

Cool. Meet me at 4:30 PM tomorrow at the Clerk of Courts office in City Hall. Wear a suit. Oh, and bring that blue three ring binder you had at lunch the other day.

Uh, what exactly... but then my question was interrupted by a loud crashing noise coming over the phone.

Sorry, gotta go, she insisted, got a thing to deal with. See you tomorrow. Then she hung up.

I stood there for another full minute as my brain chewed through the conversation, piecing together who the caller must be and what it might mean. Did I just agree to a date at City Hall? With a crazy woman who thinks she is a superhero no less? I resumed walking to my lecture, nearly overshooting the lecture hall as my mind replayed the phone call, trying to make sense of it. Taking a seat in the back row of the hall, I tried to concentrate on the lecture, but Professor Perdowski's words receded into a meaningless droning as my thoughts kept returning to the phone call and tomorrow's potential meeting.

Barry. Hey, Barry... Earth to Barry. My mind snapped back to my actual surroundings as I realized my classmate Jake Meyer was talking to me.

Jake. Yeah... Sorry, I was just... thinking about something. I finally noticed class was over. Everyone was packing up to leave.

I've been trying to ask if you are coming to the study session tomorrow. Tony says he has copies of last year's mid-term. Should be a big help.

Study session. Yes. I remember. I'll be there. Then I remembered that the study session started at 4PM. Oh crap. I think I've got something else going on then. I've got to be downtown by four thirty tomorrow.

Dude, whatever it is, blow it off, Jake insisted, We're all going out for one dollar tappers at the Brass Rail after.

No really, I've got this thing. Maybe I'll catch up with you later at the Rail. I thought about it for a moment. I really didn't know where tomorrow's activities would lead. I might even bring a friend along.

Oh I get it now, Jake answered mirthfully, you are blowing us off for a woman. Officially, I condemn this frivolous disregard of your academic responsibilities. Unofficially.... way to go dude! I was beginning to think you were some sort of monk. By all means, bring her around. The Rail could stand to have its babe to bro ratio improved.

I was about to argue that it wasn't like that, but then I realized I didn't actually know much of anything. I wasn't actually sure this meeting tomorrow was really a date. Heck, I still didn't even know her name. After saying my goodbyes to Jake, I packed up and headed back to my dorm room.

I needed to see what sort of shape my suit was in.

* * *

My two Wednesday classes passed in a blur. I managed to pay attention most of the time, but my attention kept wandering. I kept thinking about the coming mystery meeting. As my Applied Computer Architecture class drew to a close, I nearly flew from my seat and ran back to the dorms. I cleaned up and put on my suit, one I normally only wore to weddings and funerals, then headed out the door with plenty of time to catch the 4:10 bus toward downtown. I was down four flights of stairs and heading for the main exit when I remembered her instructions to bring my blue binder. Did I have time to go back and get it? Would it be better to show up on time but without the binder, or was the binder more important than punctuality? I froze for a moment at the base of the stairs before making my decision. Not wanting to wait on the dorm's ancient and painfully slow elevator, I bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Grabbing the folder from my desk, I frantically relocked my dorm and ran for the stairs again, nearly knocking over another student as I rounded the corner to the stairwell. I shouted an apology but didn't look back as I took the stairs so quickly that I nearly fell.

I ran to the bus stop, slowing down only as I approached and saw several other people sitting there. The bus had not arrived yet. I checked the time on my phone. 4:05. I still had at least five more minutes to wait. Those minutes seemed to stretch on forever, as did the twelve minute ride on the bus after it arrived two minutes late.

I walked up to the massive concrete steps of City Hall to the granite and glass facade of the building's entrance. I took a moment to check my reflection in the glass door, ran my fingers through my hair and straighten my tie a bit, then I walked in. It was 4:28PM when I found the Clerk of Courts office. A scattering of lawyers were milling about, talking, occasionally approaching the clerk's window to engage in some bureaucratic paper shuffling.

She wasn't there.

I felt like an idiot. What was I thinking? One cryptic phone call and I'm pulling out all the stops to meet up with some girl I don't even know. She was probably right now off with her friends having a big laugh about the whole thing.

Barry, thank goodness you made it. I looked up to see a smartly dressed woman gesturing at me to join her. Even then I did not immediately recognize her.

Gone was the jeans, tennis shoes, and motorcycle jacket. Instead she now wore a conservative business outfit... skirt with matching jacket, uncomfortable shoes, even a tie. The blue streaks and feathers were missing from her hair, and she now wore thick rimmed but stylish glasses. Under her arm was tucked the type of leather satchel popular with the lawyers that scurried about the court house. The biggest difference, however, was how she carried herself. She exuded a supreme confidence... an almost haughty superiority. She seemed ten years older. She looked like a lawyer. Like a high priced corporate attorney or a rock-star federal prosecutor from some late night crime drama.

I realized I was standing there with my mouth open. I closed it and walked over. She pointed at my blue binder as I approached.

Ah good, you brought the environmental inspection report, she exclaimed, I was afraid it wouldn't be ready in time. She snatched the binder from my hands and began flipping through my Theory of Computing lecture notes. Hmm... not good. Not good at all. Her brow furrowed as she turned the pages. It's a good thing you got this to me when you did, she continued, The property is a literal cesspool of toxic chemicals, and we never would have caught it without this phase two survey. It would be stupid to buy that building at any price. Whoever ends up with that old textile plant is going to be stuck with a hellacious environmental remediation bill. Good work, Barry. Thanks to you we dodged a bullet on this one.

Before she had even finished speaking, one of the lawyerish looking guys sitting at a nearby bench seemed to react. He jumped to his feet, jammed some papers back into his leather satchel, and began stabbing at his cell phone even as he started running down the hall. My companion watched with a growing grin as he grew more distant.

She turned back to me, winked, and said, Yatzee!

What the hell just happened, I replied.

You were great, Barry, she answered, but the mission isn't over yet. She turned and walked to the Clerk's window.

Is this where I drop off a sealed bid for a tax delinquent Brownfield property? she asked the woman behind the counter.

Yes, was all the woman replied. My companion pulled a large envelope from her leather satchel and handed it over. The clerk took out an immense date stamp, stabbed it down on the envelop, then flung the envelop into a plastic bin behind her. Anything else? the clerk asked.

Nope. That's it. Thanks. Then my superhero/lawyer friend spun around, grabbed my arm, and started us walking toward the exit. OK, Barry, go ahead and ask your questions.

A thousand different questions immediately charged from the cognitive areas of my brain toward the speech center, temporarily log-jamming and leaving me mute. Then the one thing I really needed to ask finally broke through and found voice.

So... um... what is your name?

CHAPTER 2

She seemed to consider my question as we made our way outside to the sidewalk.

What sort of superhero would I be if I immediately let you in on my secret identity? she playfully answered.

OK, so what is your hero name then?

I don't know.

You don't know? I responded, How can you be a superhero and not know your own hero name?

Haven't you ever read any comic books? she asked in mock incredulity, The hero never comes up with their own name. It is always someone else. Someone they rescued. A reporter. Someone like that. The hero has to earn a name. Society bestows it on them.

So you haven't earned yours yet?

Not yet I guess. But that's OK. It isn't about making a name for yourself. It's not about getting recognition. It has to be all about the mission, or you are not a true hero. She seemed to be totally sincere. So here we are.

We had arrived at a classic yellow Vespa scooter parked only a block from the court house. My companion plucked a shiny black helmet from the seat. It was small, form fitting, and lacked any sort of eye protection.

Here, wear this, she said as she handed it to me.

Shouldn't you wear it? I answered.

What sort of hero would I be if I let my passenger go unprotected, she insisted, Don't worry, I'll keep the stunt driving to a minimum. She then proceeded to take a pair of tennis shoes and a set of aviator goggles out the storage compartment of the Vespa. She changed shoes, put on the goggles, and climbed on the scooter. Well don't just stand there, get on.

I climbed on and cautiously put my hands on her waist to steady myself.

Don't be shy, she insisted, make sure you've got a good grip. I don't want to be scooping you off the pavement. I put my arms around her and laced my fingers together. Suddenly the Vespa roared to life and nearly shot out from under us. We rocketed into traffic, flew down the street, then screeched to a stop at a red light.

I didn't realize these could go that fast, I commented once the motor had quieted to a idling purr. Somehow I managed to keep the edge of hysteria out of my voice.

They don't normally, she answered, I've been doing a bit of tinkering on him.

This got the engineering student in me rather curious, and I was about to ask what sort of modifications she had made, but then the light changed. I was reduced to silence and hanging on for dear life as we again careened down the road. I survived several more minutes of that before we finally screeched to a stop at our destination.

She hopped off the scooter, pulled down the goggles and let them dangle around her neck. I took off the helmet and set it on the seat. She was already walking up to the door of the enormous brick building we had parked in front of. I hurried to catch up.

So this is it, Barry, she stated, This is what it was all about.

I took a good look at the building. It appeared to be abandoned. The main door was chained shut. Many of the windows were boarded up. A faded sign over the door declared it to be Chamberlain Textiles, The Home of American Quality. Given the building's dilapidated state, that was not lacking in irony.

An abandoned factory?

My secret lair, she countered, Every hero needs one. You want to look inside?

I looked at the No Trespassing sign affixed to the door. Are you sure that's a good idea?

Oh its fine. I've been inside a bunch of times. Beside, it is basically mine now... or at least it will be when the gears of bureaucracy finish grinding.

Before I could answer, she was slipping out of her skirt and suit jacket. What I had assumed was black nylons was actually just the legs of a black and gray spandex body stocking, the sort of thing a dancer might wear. She handed me the garments, slipped her goggles back over her eyes, and then proceeded to climb up the side of the building.

Now I'm not saying she went up that wall like Spiderman. She grabbed hold of a rain gutter and used part of a windowsill and basically obeyed the laws of physics... but she still got up the side of that building faster than I would have believed possible. And here is the thing... She really did look a bit like a superhero doing it.

Maybe it was just the combination of that spandex outfit and the mask-like goggles. Maybe it was the way her muscles and tendons stood out so clearly as she worked her way up that wall, so much like a scene a comic book artist might depict. Maybe it was just the power of suggestion... her constant claims to superheroism... but for a moment I almost believed. Then she disappeared onto the roof, and I snapped back to reality.

I was being pulled along in the wake of a crazy woman. Beautiful. Exciting. But definitely crazy. If I was smart I would cut my losses and slip away fast. Find a cab, get back to my dorm, and turn off my cell phone.

I wasn't feeling particularly smart at that moment.

While I stood there considering who I might call for bail money after the night wound down to its inevitable conclusion, a side door popped open and my companion poked her head out.

Hey, over here, she called. I trotted over to where she held the door open.

How did you... I began to ask.

Fire code... doors in commercial properties are not allowed to lock from the inside. They always have to open easily to let people out in an emergency. The main doors are chained only because the lock was busted, probably by someone trying to rob the place of scrap metal. Her response answered only one of a