Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

9: It's Too Late For Me

Future Girl

Real name: Carla Owens

Powers: Able to change the speed of her personal timeline.

Notes: Only female member of the Manhattan Eight. Disputes between her and Iron Justice were well publicized. After Dr Atomic retired, Owens claimed that Iron Justice made unwanted sexual advances towards her, but she never pressed charges. Shortly after the Manhattan Eight disbanded, she was trapped in a time loop by the supercriminal Chronoburner. Chronoburner was later captured and sentenced to death, but Future Girl was never recovered.

—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0007]

***

Morgan did his best thinking when he was staring into space, and now was no exception. To anyone else he would seem to be studying the map fixed to the wall of the office, but he’d memorised it weeks ago. Everything was ready. Well, almost everything. He didn’t relish the thought of the coming days, but he couldn’t pretend his heart didn’t quicken when he ran through the plan in his head. Once again, he rubbed his forehead with a white-gloved hand. His head ached a little—it hadn’t let up since Bangkok—but everything was on track. Just a few more days, and he’d be done.

A muffled crack brought him out of his thoughts. His chair squeaked as he swivelled to look through the office window. In the abandoned warehouse below, his people went through drills amongst the old machinery and shipping crates. They moved swiftly, and they were learning to complement one another. The first team would advance and secure cover under the protection of Haze’s smokescreen, while Screecher probed for hidden enemies. Obsidian had set up several of Navigatron’s target drones throughout the warehouse to try to ambush the metas.

Morgan’s man had sourced this warehouse to act as a base while they were in Neo-Auckland. Neo-Auckland. A stupid name for a city. The New Zealanders should have given the newly constructed city its own name, instead of basing it on the crumbling husk of the old bombed city. If it weren’t for the name, no one would know they were even related. He’d never visited New Zealand before the bomb hit, but he’d seen photographs of old Auckland—a city clinging to its English roots, embarrassed by its youth.

Neo-Auckland, by contrast, was like a tacky American theme park. It abandoned the narrow gardens and English villas to fully embrace modern suburbanism and technology. His flight over the city in Hyperion had revealed street after street lined by freshly-mown lawns and trimmed hedges. The old city’s tangled road networks had been replaced by swooping highways, monorail tracks, and grid-like street layouts. Shopping malls and department stores were the new churches. Not that this was a bad thing in itself. At least the civilians he’d seen had improved their dull English fashion sense.

According to Morgan’s man, the warehouse had been used as a front by a trio of minor supercriminals back in the late ’50s. It explained the row of prison cells downstairs behind a false wall. His operative said the supercriminals who built it were trying to run a kidnapping racket, but they’d got picked up by the police. It didn’t sound like they were experts. The trio managed to get ambushed when they were out collecting a ransom. After the trial, the warehouse was sold at police auction for a steal. And the owner had been keeping it for just such an occasion ever since.

Two of the cells in the basement were occupied now. The boy was already there when Morgan arrived, and they secured Iron Justice in the cell he’d had specially prepared. Morgan hadn’t looked in on the boy. What he had arranged for Sam was necessary, but that didn’t make it pleasant. He preferred not to think about what Doll Face was doing.