migraine.
Nate jabs a handful of French fries into the congealing dab of ketchup on the plate, happily fed and watered, no matter the cold clammy look of the food. Nate is easy to please like that, and always has been. Buying him off is a breeze if you can locate a genuine steakhouse with fresh sawdust on the floor and no qualms about turning out a slab of beef so rare they might as well just yell “Boo!” at a particularly skittish cow.
However, when a decent steakhouse is unavailable, a deserted greasy spoon will have to do.
“Are they sure it's Morris?” I ask.
Nate pauses in mid-chew to groan around a mouthful of half-masticated potato, realization slowly dawning in those gorgeous bottle-green eyes of his. “Tell me you didn't ask me to bring --”
“Damn straight I did.”
He frowns, the expression not sitting well on his perpetually good-humored face. “I told you not to tell me, damn it,” he says, digging absently through the pockets of his jeans with his free hand. He darts a quick glance around the diner, taking in with blatant relief the disinterested waitresses and the unoccupied chef smoking outside the front door. It doesn't stop him from leaning close, though, lowering his voice so he can't be heard even if the waitresses are faking their bored fixation with the level of salt and pepper in the diner's multitude of shakers. “Vera, I ain't got time for this. I've got to be back in the city in an hour for overtime with the Brigade. They're throwing a ticker tape parade tomorrow, you know that? They're so glad to be rid of the Quiz Master, it's like they completely forgot about the damn robots. And the SLB is about ready to have Graham released from the clink just for kicking Morris's ass to the curb whether Graham did it or not.”
I cock an eyebrow. “A ticker tape parade? How classy.”
“Yeah, well, leave it to you city folk to celebrate when a supervillain gets bumped off,” he says with a shrug.
I want to argue that, but instead I drum my nails on my arm as he licks the grease from his fingertips so he can rummage around in the pockets on the other side of his body. Two weeks before I left the city, the Brotherhood of Bravery finally took down Commodore Electro in a tempestuous explosion that took out four city blocks and left behind only a few singed protruding appendages the Commodore wouldn't get much use out of anymore. (Oh, and dozens of innocent humans were left injured or dead, but it's not as if that really mattered, right?) Two days later, the Brotherhood used up a vacation day to go to the memorial service and egg the Commodore's hearse. Superheroes have more limits on their pity than any person with a lick of sense would presumably prefer. I don't know about anyone else, but I considered that one incident enough of a turn-off to add it to the list of reasons I'd suddenly begun to contemplate extremely early retirement.
“And they're just going to let Graham go?” I ask. “No trial, no investigation, nothing at all?”
Nate shoots me an odd look as he finally wriggles the item he's looking for out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “Hell, after the grief that son of a bitch put your family through, I'll bet my last dollar they'll handwave it as self-defense even if Kemp was just dumb enough to cut in front of your brother at the damn post office.”
“Morris never even hurt anyone,” I protest, feeling a bit stupid even as the words tumble from my lips.
“That's a bullshit argument and you know it, peaches.”
Sadly, I do.
The Quiz Master never killed anyone. It's a standout record among the supervillain ranks. He never harmed a hair on anyone's head, kept his hostages well-fed and entertained, and held his stereotypical mutant menagerie on a short leash. As far as supervillain records went, Morris's is almost tame. No matter how the media may portray him, Morris is and was practically a kitten. A kitten who chews on your fingers and needs to be smacked
Nate jabs a handful of French fries into the congealing dab of ketchup on the plate, happily fed and watered, no matter the cold clammy look of the food. Nate is easy to please like that, and always has been. Buying him off is a breeze if you can locate a genuine steakhouse with fresh sawdust on the floor and no qualms about turning out a slab of beef so rare they might as well just yell “Boo!” at a particularly skittish cow.
However, when a decent steakhouse is unavailable, a deserted greasy spoon will have to do.
“Are they sure it's Morris?” I ask.
Nate pauses in mid-chew to groan around a mouthful of half-masticated potato, realization slowly dawning in those gorgeous bottle-green eyes of his. “Tell me you didn't ask me to bring --”
“Damn straight I did.”
He frowns, the expression not sitting well on his perpetually good-humored face. “I told you not to tell me, damn it,” he says, digging absently through the pockets of his jeans with his free hand. He darts a quick glance around the diner, taking in with blatant relief the disinterested waitresses and the unoccupied chef smoking outside the front door. It doesn't stop him from leaning close, though, lowering his voice so he can't be heard even if the waitresses are faking their bored fixation with the level of salt and pepper in the diner's multitude of shakers. “Vera, I ain't got time for this. I've got to be back in the city in an hour for overtime with the Brigade. They're throwing a ticker tape parade tomorrow, you know that? They're so glad to be rid of the Quiz Master, it's like they completely forgot about the damn robots. And the SLB is about ready to have Graham released from the clink just for kicking Morris's ass to the curb whether Graham did it or not.”
I cock an eyebrow. “A ticker tape parade? How classy.”
“Yeah, well, leave it to you city folk to celebrate when a supervillain gets bumped off,” he says with a shrug.
I want to argue that, but instead I drum my nails on my arm as he licks the grease from his fingertips so he can rummage around in the pockets on the other side of his body. Two weeks before I left the city, the Brotherhood of Bravery finally took down Commodore Electro in a tempestuous explosion that took out four city blocks and left behind only a few singed protruding appendages the Commodore wouldn't get much use out of anymore. (Oh, and dozens of innocent humans were left injured or dead, but it's not as if that really mattered, right?) Two days later, the Brotherhood used up a vacation day to go to the memorial service and egg the Commodore's hearse. Superheroes have more limits on their pity than any person with a lick of sense would presumably prefer. I don't know about anyone else, but I considered that one incident enough of a turn-off to add it to the list of reasons I'd suddenly begun to contemplate extremely early retirement.
“And they're just going to let Graham go?” I ask. “No trial, no investigation, nothing at all?”
Nate shoots me an odd look as he finally wriggles the item he's looking for out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “Hell, after the grief that son of a bitch put your family through, I'll bet my last dollar they'll handwave it as self-defense even if Kemp was just dumb enough to cut in front of your brother at the damn post office.”
“Morris never even hurt anyone,” I protest, feeling a bit stupid even as the words tumble from my lips.
“That's a bullshit argument and you know it, peaches.”
Sadly, I do.
The Quiz Master never killed anyone. It's a standout record among the supervillain ranks. He never harmed a hair on anyone's head, kept his hostages well-fed and entertained, and held his stereotypical mutant menagerie on a short leash. As far as supervillain records went, Morris's is almost tame. No matter how the media may portray him, Morris is and was practically a kitten. A kitten who chews on your fingers and needs to be smacked
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