on the nose with a newspaper, but still. It's a large part of the reason Morris eventually received a strict parole for his troubles while other villains waste away in Beddingfield.
Well, that, and his relative sanity.
The distinguishing detail that differentiates him from all other loonier villains is his obsessive fixation with anyone with Noble blood – my parents, my brother and me, and sometimes for added kicks the one grandmother I still have left alive. Ask him now, and he'd tell you he enjoys a challenge. I imagine that's not all he enjoyed about sparring with Dad, but just thinking that puts less appealing images in my head than I'd like to dream up.
I lean forward to rest my folded arms on the table, planning out every word before I say it, silently afraid of what I might let slip. “Look, I know the man could be exceptionally irritating, and that he spent the majority of his adult years committing vast amounts of robbery and property destruction, but he never so much as broke another person's fingernail. In fact, the only two people he ever aimed to bother were my parents –”
“Yeah, and distracted the piss out of 'em with elaborate plans that never went anywhere, as far as we know. If I didn't know any better, I'd think the bastard just liked screwing with the two of them.”
Or one of them, at least.
I roll my eyes, murmuring, “Ain't that the truth.”
“Come again?”
I wave a dismissive hand in the air, cutting off the conversation for now. If Nate wants to argue the merits of allowing a suspected murderer to go free simply because he's a superhero … well, I'm not sure I'm up to talking it out right now. Superheroes live by different standards than the average citizen and we both know it.
Changing tactics, I wriggle in my seat and tilt Nate a wicked grin. “Take me to the morgue,” I say, as sweet as I can be.
His smile stretches from ear to ear, wild and mischievous, ready to play. “You're the strangest date ever, you know that?”
I hold out a hand and beckon him with a gesture.
“Give it here, Nate.”
He sighs, a poor put-upon sound, but a second later he slaps the item I asked him to boost from the Brigade and bring along with him into my palm. I make a soft triumphant sound as I look it over, so impressed by the newest upgrades I barely hear him when he sprawls in his seat and says, “We can go to a nice candlelit slaughterhouse afterward if you want.”
I run a fingertip along the sleek supple surface of the DNA pen. They've gotten smaller and lighter since I left the Brigade, probably the elegant work of some bored technopath with artistic delusions. Most technopaths have dreamy ideas like that, useless cravings possessed by talentless hacks who use too much of their brains on phenomenal technical prowess to spare any for creative pursuits. Ubuntu, the technopath the Brigade kept on retainer during my tenure, painted quite possibly the worst portraits of pie I'll ever see. As far as I see it, any piece of artwork that turns me off baked goods is clearly an abomination unto the Lord.
“This is nicer than the ones we had back when I worked the field,” I say.
“When you had to walk to the villain's lair barefoot and capeless uphill both ways in the snow?”
Smirking sarcastically, I snatch the half-full plate from the table and pass it off to one of the waitresses as she stalks in the direction of the kitchen. “Miss, could you give these to a nice starving child somewhere?”
Nate whimpers as she carries it off. “Don't let anybody tell you you ain't your mama's daughter, you hear that?”
Clearly Nate is asking for the sour glare I throw his way.
Drunken spectators clog the city streets as Nate steers his chocolate brown Cooper through the brightly lit side streets. I slouch down in the passenger seat, cupping one hand as casually as I can manage over the right side of my face to shield myself from view. Beaming fratboys stumble off the sidewalk
Well, that, and his relative sanity.
The distinguishing detail that differentiates him from all other loonier villains is his obsessive fixation with anyone with Noble blood – my parents, my brother and me, and sometimes for added kicks the one grandmother I still have left alive. Ask him now, and he'd tell you he enjoys a challenge. I imagine that's not all he enjoyed about sparring with Dad, but just thinking that puts less appealing images in my head than I'd like to dream up.
I lean forward to rest my folded arms on the table, planning out every word before I say it, silently afraid of what I might let slip. “Look, I know the man could be exceptionally irritating, and that he spent the majority of his adult years committing vast amounts of robbery and property destruction, but he never so much as broke another person's fingernail. In fact, the only two people he ever aimed to bother were my parents –”
“Yeah, and distracted the piss out of 'em with elaborate plans that never went anywhere, as far as we know. If I didn't know any better, I'd think the bastard just liked screwing with the two of them.”
Or one of them, at least.
I roll my eyes, murmuring, “Ain't that the truth.”
“Come again?”
I wave a dismissive hand in the air, cutting off the conversation for now. If Nate wants to argue the merits of allowing a suspected murderer to go free simply because he's a superhero … well, I'm not sure I'm up to talking it out right now. Superheroes live by different standards than the average citizen and we both know it.
Changing tactics, I wriggle in my seat and tilt Nate a wicked grin. “Take me to the morgue,” I say, as sweet as I can be.
His smile stretches from ear to ear, wild and mischievous, ready to play. “You're the strangest date ever, you know that?”
I hold out a hand and beckon him with a gesture.
“Give it here, Nate.”
He sighs, a poor put-upon sound, but a second later he slaps the item I asked him to boost from the Brigade and bring along with him into my palm. I make a soft triumphant sound as I look it over, so impressed by the newest upgrades I barely hear him when he sprawls in his seat and says, “We can go to a nice candlelit slaughterhouse afterward if you want.”
I run a fingertip along the sleek supple surface of the DNA pen. They've gotten smaller and lighter since I left the Brigade, probably the elegant work of some bored technopath with artistic delusions. Most technopaths have dreamy ideas like that, useless cravings possessed by talentless hacks who use too much of their brains on phenomenal technical prowess to spare any for creative pursuits. Ubuntu, the technopath the Brigade kept on retainer during my tenure, painted quite possibly the worst portraits of pie I'll ever see. As far as I see it, any piece of artwork that turns me off baked goods is clearly an abomination unto the Lord.
“This is nicer than the ones we had back when I worked the field,” I say.
“When you had to walk to the villain's lair barefoot and capeless uphill both ways in the snow?”
Smirking sarcastically, I snatch the half-full plate from the table and pass it off to one of the waitresses as she stalks in the direction of the kitchen. “Miss, could you give these to a nice starving child somewhere?”
Nate whimpers as she carries it off. “Don't let anybody tell you you ain't your mama's daughter, you hear that?”
Clearly Nate is asking for the sour glare I throw his way.
Drunken spectators clog the city streets as Nate steers his chocolate brown Cooper through the brightly lit side streets. I slouch down in the passenger seat, cupping one hand as casually as I can manage over the right side of my face to shield myself from view. Beaming fratboys stumble off the sidewalk
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