Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

2: There's No I In Hero

Even today, after two decades of research, the mechanism behind the formation of so-called “metahumans” is unclear. There is no single mutation that causes the condition, and in many cases, multiple gene loci appear to be affected. What is clear, however, is that the nuclear radiation that leads to these mutations is a danger to all mankind. Even if only one in ten thousand exposed individuals develop superpowers, the selection pressure could well be enough to drive non-powered humans to extinction. The only solution is control of the metahuman population.

—From the notes of Professor Gloria Becker

***

The outskirts of Neo-Auckland, New Zealand (sixth member country of the Asian-Australasian Union)

One month later

Niobe Ishii tapped out a Pall Mall cigarette, glanced around the dark, empty street, then rolled up the fabric of her mask to expose her mouth. That was the worst thing about a mask. She didn’t mind not eating or drinking until she got somewhere private, but sometimes she just needed a goddamn smoke. When she’d spent the last hour being interrogated by her girlfriend, she really needed a smoke. Her utility belt’s auto-lighter set the cigarette tip glowing, and she slowly inhaled.

The smoke drifted through her, and the nicotine started to calm her nerves. Gabby would’ve cooled off by the time she got back. The woman just worried too much, that was all. But Niobe had work to do. It was time to get moving.

She set off down the dark street. While she walked, she pulled her goggles over her eyes and put her bowler hat on. The goggles and utility belt were Gabby’s work, along with the heavily modified .455 Webley revolver in her shoulder holster. The rest of Niobe’s costume was already in place: a black and grey bodysuit, full-face mask, gloves, combat boots. A trench coat went over the whole thing. She could never pull off spandex alone, and she liked that the trench coat hid her shape. Anything that helped her stay anonymous was worth it.

The night was scattered with clouds. A breeze cut through the air, washing an old newspaper down the street. To the south, a police dirigible floated. She doubted they’d be able to see anything with their spotlight off. She turned her back on it and made her way through what used to be the suburb of Epsom.

The occasional light shone in a window, but she was the only one on the streets. She expected that. You weren’t likely to get mugged in the Old City, not with the police dirigibles and the curfews. But people here had grown afraid of the dark.

She made her way through the shadows, passing a yowling pack of stray cats clinging to a fence. A one-eyed tortoiseshell tom twitched his ears as she slid past. She was already beginning to breathe easier. Walking the streets at night was calming. She was invisible here, just the way she liked it.

Most of the apartment buildings she passed were simple and clean in design, just rectangles with white or grey walls. The blackened shell of a townhouse stood on the corner next to a stop sign. A long time ago, she’d known the people who lived there. The boy was her age, a friend from school. Most of her friends were boys. But his parents stopped him from seeing her because she was Japanese. It was okay. That was just the way things were in those days. Now the boy and his parents were all dead, and their house was home to rats.

She paused for a moment, then dropped her cigarette to the concrete, stamped it out, and walked on. She didn’t want to think about the bomb, or the fire that consumed her city. Not tonight.

Niobe stopped outside a townhouse in a cul-de-sac. In the narrow yard outside was one of the only gardens anywhere in the Old City. Even in the darkness, she could make out the tangle of wild flowers leading up the short path. A morepork called its own name twice before falling silent. She caught a glimpse of the owl’s eyes high in the tree, and then they disappeared.