Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

25: There's Always A Way

Omegaman

Real name: Frank Oppenheimer

Powers: Enhanced reflexes, able to phase-shift through stationary or slow-moving objects.

Notes: Younger brother of Dr Atomic and second-in-command of the Manhattan Eight. Despite his pacifist tendencies, he acted as the supergroup’s assassin during World War II. Brought before the House Un-American Activities Committee for alleged Communist ties. Later acquitted. Whereabouts unknown following the death of Dr Atomic.

—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0002]

***

For thirty-six hours, they kept Morgan in darkness. Not what usually passes for darkness, where after a while your eyes adjust enough to make out shapes and movement. This darkness was so thick he could almost feel it drowning him with each breath.

He had the cell memorised by now. Six foot by eight, thick concrete all around, with an approximately six inch thick steel door. If he stretched while lying on the mattress, he could touch one wall with the top of his head and reach the other with his feet. A metal toilet and basin were the only other fixtures in the cell.

He pressed his palm against the cool wall. He’d known it would be hard if he got caught, but he hadn’t known how hard. They brought him food and drink, but that wasn’t what he needed. It was light that sustained him, that gave him his power, and they gave him none of that. Granted, it would have been immensely foolish for them to do so, but that knowledge did nothing to quench the hunger in him. They’d even used some Unity Corporation tech to drain him of his reserves after they captured him. The hypocrisy annoyed him. Most of that technology had been developed by metas. Now the authorities sought to use it against them.

At least his headaches had dulled in here. It was the quiet, he thought. The only sounds here were the ones he made himself. It was peaceful, in a way. I’ll miss that if they grant me bail. The ludicrousness of the thought made him smile into the darkness. The Senior Sergeant said he wouldn’t be taken to the courthouse for his hearing. A telephone system would be set up to allow him to give statements and hear the case against him from the comfort of his cell. A gross breach of his legal rights, of course, but the Chief Justice, the Prime Minister, and the heads of the AAU had all agreed that it was for the best.

No matter. If it came to trial, he had no hope of ever being acquitted, whether he was physically in court or not.

His lunch had arrived an hour ago, but it lay beside him uneaten. It was decent fare; most meals came with potatoes or bread, and a good range of fruits and vegetables: tomatoes, peas, apples, bananas. He was having trouble summoning an appetite, but he knew he should eat. The winds of fate could change quickly, and you had to be ready to put up sails. He prodded a tender spot in his top gum with his tongue, and reached for the tray.

It wasn’t a noise that alerted him, so much as a feeling of presence. He smiled. “My dear Dr Oppenheimer, I was beginning to think you had forgotten me. You never write, you never visit.”

Something struck his cheek, and his head snapped around. Purple spots swam through the darkness, accompanied by lightning bolts of pain shooting through his bones. He tried to reach out, and realised he’d fallen onto his side. Blood filled his mouth. He pushed himself up on shaky arms. A hand closed around his throat and pulled him the rest of the way.

“Where is my nephew?” Frank Oppenheimer’s voice hissed in his ear.

Morgan couldn’t speak if he wanted to. His windpipe screamed in agony as Frank’s palm crushed it, and his lungs started to burn. The purple spots returned, the only colour in a room of black. For a moment, his confidence slipped, and doubt entered his mind. He’ll kill me if I’m not careful.