A Boy Named Evil

Being Ernest

“Well.” a woman with a husky voice called, “if it isn’t Mr. Evil Overlord.”

Though he hated being called by his name, Evil was well practiced at not reacting to hearing it. He lifted the thin metal lid to the industrial dumpster out behind Norwest Grind. A sour smell of milk turned bad wafted from the bin as he tossed in the two p.m. trash. While his insides shivered at the thought of his great-grandfather’s lackeys finally finding him, Evil couldn’t help but shake his head at the break in simple Norwest Grind procedure.

He used the smell, a recurring problem, as a means to stay in character as Ernest Smith Junior, the son part of the popular mother/son coffee shop.

No one wanted to take the trash out because of the smell. If everyone followed the simple procedure he had put in place of rinsing out the various empty milk and cream containers and bagging them properly, there wouldn’t be a smell to contend with. Evil released the lid and let it bang closed.

“Salutations, E-vil.” This gruff voice, a second one, was male and sounded just like his great-grandfather’s, but the words didn’t have the suffocating telepathic heft.

Fully aware that the voices came from his right out toward the mouth of the alley that spilled into the strip mall’s employee parking lot, Evil glanced left as though he had heard them from that way.

Per lease standards, the three sets of shops’ gray-black back doors to the dead end left of him had their dumpsters and pallets pressed neatly against the walls. If need be, he had a totally clear path all the way to the gray-black back door of G14, the Army Surplus store that he owned through a shell company. While his great-grandfather would have dozens of ways of destroying the building in a blink of an eye—in which case he’d be totally screwed anyhow—the lackeys wouldn’t.

Unless the orders had change, they were to bring him back alive. And, rightfully fearful of his great-grandfather’s wrath, none of them would risk causing an iota of damage over what it would take to capture him.

Movement along the three-story roofline above G14 caught his attention. A rifleman in bulky SWAT style body armor had shifted to drop his cheek against his weapon and eye the scope.

Kicking into high gear, the inhibitor vest that Evil had purchased from Jimmy Alcazar warmed and thrummed softly against his chest under his long sleeve hunter-green Norwest Grind polo and yellow apron. Carrie Smith, the mother part of the coffee shop, was a proud Oregon Duck graduate and, as a luminary in the community, she incorporated the colors into her company, including hunter-green jeans and yellow vans.

Though mostly nerfed by his inhibitor, Evil’s TA—his tactical awareness, the power that annoyed him the most—dimmed the world slightly to highlight the rifleman. Then, in an instant, five other riflemen were popped from the background. Because they were mostly blocked by the ledge, his power couldn’t tell how tall the shooters were; but it noted their general shape for future indexing and advised their distance away.

While he couldn’t help but notice the first one, he made no outward gesture to let on that he knew about the others.

Looking up at the rifleman, Evil raised his hands in the air with his fingers spread.

The riflemen were good news. The two speaking from the mouth of the alley weren’t his great-grandfather’s lackeys. All members of the Peacekeepers were too full of themselves and power-proud to make use of lowly riflemen, even when they would offer an overwhelming advantage. Like now.

Evil felt like he had missed something in his reaction. What else would a non-powered person do if they had a gun pointed at them? Was he supposed to cry? Babble for his life? Wet himself? His mind raced for the elusive answer.

The woman said, “Relax.”

Familiar with the area, Evil’s TA laid out the alley behind him with the four other stores to the mouth of the alley. The voice came from two feet inside the alley, precisely where she had originally called to him the first time.

Evil didn’t relax. Though he’d missed something in his reaction, they hadn’t noticed. He began to ease his way to the back door to Norwest Grind.

“Not so fast.” The woman said, “Turn around.”

Evil did. His TA lit them and the two Streit Cyclone SWAT vehicles that thundered in to block the alley.

Eighty-five feet away, both the woman, 5’6” and curvaceous in the ways that made Evil’s teenage mind take note, and the skinny 5’11” man were decked out in full black tactical gear. Though their armor looked like typical SWAT armor, they had black visors over their eyes and they didn’t have weapons of any sort.

If they were non-powered in full gear, they’d have weapons on their hips or, like the riflemen above, have the gun butts against their shoulders. Their lack of typical weapons screamed that they both had some sort of projectile power: laser beams, ice shards, kinetic blasts; something.

Both of them started to close on him. While the woman was more business, on a direct path, the man sort of sauntered along, lagging back just a touch.

The woman stopped four feet from Evil. Closer, her being an inch shorter didn’t factor in. Something, maybe her authoritative tone, made her seem taller.

With her hand out, she ordered, “Ident.” She sounded annoyed.

Slowly, Evil went to his front right pocket.

Since they weren’t attacking him or arresting him, they were buying his cover. He dipped his hand in his pocket, pulled his wallet, and took out the real Ernest Smith’s ident card. He placed it against the hacked government lo-jack transmitter on his neck, and—money well spent—the star-spangled glow of his holo-ident card presenting Ernest’s information lit the side of his face.

Reading, she took a step back.

The guy finally made it to stand next to her. He raised his visor, revealing pale skin and eyes slightly obscured by brown mist. A telltale power indicator. Evil had seen similar effects before, but the abilities range from powerful eye beams to inoffensive air purification. Since only a couple of the Power League’s front men and leaders went without masks, the mist wasn’t enough to nail down an identity.

Focusing on his face, Brown Mist said, “Ernest Smith. J. R.” He glanced at the projected info and then split his focus between the corners of Evil’s eyes and the corners of his mouth, the usual glitch spots of—illegal for non-costume—falseface overlays. “Where were you last night?”

“Kyoto, Japan.” Evil answered without hesitation. Jimmy Alcazar’s falseface was better than anything available to most. This would test just how good.

The real Ernest Smith loved jet-setting and, as part of the deal of Evil taking over the humdrum everyday aspects of Ernest’s life, frequently updated his journal in a private cloud server. A journal Evil read often and occasionally left notes in. Evil’s entries were usually short, advising Ernest of what was being done in his absence. A few times Evil prompted Ernest to call his mom; those prompts always came after she dropped a surprise visit on the Norwest Grind that Ernest typically worked out of and Evil had left her standing there.

Evil said, “I was at the opening of the first Norwest Grind in Kyoto Station.” Making sure to keep his tone respectful, he asked, “Why?”

The woman grumbled. “It’s legit.”

Thrilled, Evil kept his emotions in check.

She turned to Brown Mist and whispered, “Damn it. Another false lead.” She stalked away and spoke at her wrist. “Roof and perimeter teams. Stand down.” Though it looked like she was holding back her anger, she hauled off and kicked a dumpster. The industrial bin whined as it buckled and slammed into the wall.

Evil jumped at both sounds. Nerfed, his TA couldn’t hone in on exactly who she was from her body and gait, but the kick narrowed her identity down to three Power League brawlers: Peach, Viper, or Granite. This kind of operation—not to mention the all-black uniform—wasn’t Peach’s style, and Viper always seemed too in control of herself to allow that kind of lashing out. Though it could be any one of the three, Granite was the odds-on favorite.

“This is a little embarrassing.” Though Brown Mist still kept a sharp eye for a glitch, his voice took on a modest tone. “We had intel that one of the company employees here is wanted.”

The guy had worded his accusation carefully. He didn’t say, we heard you were the great-grandson of Supreme—the most powerful ultrahuman on the planet, grandson of Ultimate—a villain the world never got to appreciate, and son of Perfection—the man who nearly eradicated everyone of Chinese decent by targeting markers in their DNA with genetically modified food. The guy also didn’t say I believe you’re innocent and you’re free to go.

Though Evil’s false identity wasn’t meant to hide from the Power League, he swallowed in relief. It was strong enough to stand up to their scrutiny. Jimmy truly was a genius.

“Well.” Evil put the ident card back in his wallet and the wallet back in his pocket. “If it’ll help, I can call everyone in so that you can interview them.”

“No, thanks.” Brown Mist shook his head. The mist that obscured his eyes faded, showing earth-brown irises. “The guy we’re after comes from a line of real bad news. So, sorry about all of this...” He motioned to the riflemen along the roof and the SWAT vehicles. “And for taking up your time.”

Evil understood that his great-grandfather wanted him back under control, but he hadn’t done anything to anyone to warrant the Power League coming after him.

Grasping for understanding as to why he was wanted, Evil asked, “If I may, what’d the guy you’re after do?”

“Nothing.” Brown Mist’s shrug looked weird through the SWAT armor. “At least not yet.”

“Oh.” Evil frowned as he fought the logical follow up question of, then why are you after him? He felt as though he had asked the one question that someone who is not used to seeing a show of force would ask. One of the many things his training had taught him was that looking—being—too composed was as much of a flag as asking too many questions.

Granite raised her arm at the SWAT vehicles and wound her hand in some circles.

The vehicles crept back.

Brown Mist turned to leave and turned back. He motioned to the mangled dumpster. “Hey, tell your landlord that he’ll be getting a check from the League about that.”

Evil nodded. “Will do.”

“Thanks.” The guy extended his hand.

Evil’s nerfed TA alerted him that the guy had removed his tactical glove a split second before their hands made contact.

They shook hands.

Brown Mist’s grip seized up and clamped hard. His jaw locked. His eyes glossed over with inky black. Soft pleading groans worked in his straining neck.

Evil whispered, “Shit.” He grabbed onto the guy’s thumb with his other hand and worked to get free.

If it had been just a regular handshake, nothing would’ve happened. It would’ve just been a typical parting gesture that Evil had done countless times since he and his mother fled their home country that his great-grandfather controlled.

However, the guy had to have tried to do something sneaky, a mental or emotional trick of some sort, to be ensnared by the psychic trap that was woven into Evil’s psyche by Tar—his father’s top mentalist—before evil had uttered his first word.

Focusing, Evil struggled against the confining mental yoke from the inhibitor that made it feel like someone had slipped his powers a pill that put them in a constant coming-out-of-a-coma stupor; which, originally, was the plan. He had worked with Jimmy to make the design stronger and had willingly put it on. His powers were a link, a legacy, to his father’s side of the family and Evil wanted nothing to do with them. But right now—

Right now, Evil summoned every iota of mental control that he could muster. Hoping it would be enough, Evil looked the guy in his blackened eyes and quietly ordered, “Let. Go.”

Fighting to Stay Free

The alley behind Norwest Grind rocked side to side.

No.

It was still. Nothing had moved at all.

But it sure as hell felt like the earth had just rocked back and forth. Not enough to take your feet from under you, but strong enough to nearly make you swoon.

Filling Evil’s nose and mouth, the spoiled cream smell from the dumpster intensified. His stomach lurched as though he had decided to chug a quart of expired milk. Breathing—his, Brown Mist’s, Granite’s, and the riflemen on the roof—roared like double-hauling big rigs tearing down the highway.

Brown Mist’s eyes widened and the blackness budged outward to form oblong balloons stretching to make contact with Evil eyes.

This wasn’t real.

Couldn’t be real.

This was just like the time when Evil’s dad had told him to try and read him when he was four. It was the first time Evil had experienced true terror. The worst thing his four-year-old mind could imagine—his dad abandoning him at the beach with faceless, dog-headed strangers with lobster claw hands—had held him fast.

His father said that he had only waited a few seconds before pulling little Evil out of Tar’s trap; banishing the terror that haunted his nightmares for years. A nightmare that, after a stressful day, would still drop by to make the night insufferable.

No!

Evil yanked to get his hands free. Though ten years older, he knew much more about the world, how it worked, and didn’t want any part of the kind of horrors that waited for him in Tar’s trap.

Brown Mist’s fingers were like gas-powered pistons holding Evil in place.

Not only had his mental command to make the guy let go not work, but—somehow—it had caused some sort of feedback loop in the trap that worked to reach out to him. To grab him. To pull him in.

No!

Evil leaned back.

The blackness in the man’s eyes took on pincer-like appendages that snapped at him.

Held in place, Evil dodged.

Left.

Right.

He kneed Brown Mist in the junk.

The guy’s hand popped open.

The alley snapped back to normal. No wobbling. No horrendous taste or stench. No whooshing breath. Just the steady ground that the earth—barring earthquakes—always provided. That and the slight whiff of bad cream in the air, and the revving of the Streit Cyclones as they trundled backward.

Granite, who had been motioning the trucks to back up was still doing that motion.

It had only been a split second.

Black tears, a thick morass, dangled from Brown Mist’s eyes to his cheeks. Reacting in slow motion to whatever tormented him the most, his brow knotted behind his knitted ski mask and his mouth began to open. He’d start wailing soon.

When Evil’s TA was at full strength, it would let him know paths to take, the best moves to make; it’d optimize everything for him over the next few minutes to give him the best chance of success. Nerfed, it could only make him vaguely aware of threats. For the first time in his life, it was up to him to figure out the best move.

About to head back into Norwest Grind, his TA flashed four faces of customers—new customers—who had been in the lounge drinking coffee for hours; not quite fitting in, but not standing out enough to make Evil think twice about their prolonged presence. At least, not until his TA flashed their faces.

He didn’t know who they were, but they would play some part if he went back in.

Casually, Evil walked toward G14 at the end of the alley.

Running would alert the riflemen.

It was best to act as if all was normal until Brown Mist started wailing. Then, all bets would be off.

Evil passed the first set of doors. Two more.

Granite said, “Come on, Dreamweaver, let’s load up.”

Evil’s eyes widened. Dreamweaver was a world-class psychometrist. While not in the Power League proper, Dreamweaver often freelanced for them and law enforcement—and anyone with the dough—to help find whoever they paid him to find.

Passing the second set of doors, Evil pulled his phone, typed 777 and hashtag. The pre-programmed code sent a message to Ernest Smith Junior alerting him that the jig was up and that he should immediately enact the fallout plan. In three days the plan would give Evil a bad reputation, but it would leave Ernest and Carrie Smith with plausible deniability instead of dragging them into being complicit in helping him, which shouldn’t have been a crime but—because of his legacy—probably would be.

“Dream?” Granite said, “Come on. Wheels up.”

Evil passed the next set of doors. One more set and he’d be one last length away from slipping free.

“Hey, Ernest.” Suspicion slipped into Granite’s voice, “Where you goin’?”

A gut-wrench jagged yell filled the alley. Freed from the molasses of his mind, Dreamweaver let loose with one after another after another.

Now! Feet pounding the ground, Evil sprinted past the last set of doors.

“Shoot!” Granite yelled, “Take him down!”

Evil’s TA alerted him to the movement above. Nerfed, his powers didn’t tell him anything else. There was nothing he could do but run harder.

Muffled gunfire rang out.

The pale, electric-blue pinpoint forcefield that he had built into the inhibitor vest flashed around him.

Rubber bullets thumped around him.

Ahead, the six deadbolts and lever locks on G14’s back door clacked and unlocked in rapid succession. The sensors picked up on his proximity. Good. Money well spent. The door flew open.

A deep, baleful wail closed in fast behind Evil.

Hoping to dodge what he figured was a speedster, Evil dashed sideways.

Something large and green sucked wind as it whistled past. It slammed into the reinforced doorjamb and wall with the cry of twisting metal.

An industrial trash bin, one bent out of shape from a super-strength kick and throw, blocked his way into G14.

Eyeing an emergency ladder, Evil used his momentum to launch from pallets to the top of the upright garbage bin, and leapt for the bottom rung.

Used to moving faster and being stronger, his legs didn’t even take him halfway.

His forcefield flashed as he bumped into the cinderblock wall and fell in the corner.

The gunfire stopped.

Dreamweaver’s wailing continued.

Evil popped up to his feet.

Feet thumping hard on the ground, fists balled, Granite sprinted at him.

One of the riflemen yelled, “Kick his ass!”

Evil got some distance from the wall and put his fists up. Studying hero combat was a must and he knew Granite—with her superior body armor—tended to fight a little sloppy and favored headshots.

Her right fist came at his jaw with deadly intentions.

Evil ducked and swept her lead foot.

Reeking of cigarette smoke, she sailed past him and slammed into the wall, shattering a body-sized hole in it.

That was nothing. She’d be back on her feet in a moment.

Evil tore off back the way he’d come.

Dreamweaver was on his knees and arched back with his hands on the sides of his head.

Evil passed the first set of back doors.

The two SWAT vehicles rolled back into position to block the alley.

From over the top of them, a svelte woman—in the same black tactical gear—came flipping into the alley. She could be any one of a dozen on the Power League’s roster. In each hand she held short, stubby chunks of gray metal, probably high-powered Tasers. If they weren’t Tasers, it’d be best to take them on the inhibitor vest for maximum protection.

Evil’s TA advised him that this was a losing fight. Whoever she was, she was quick and technical. She had perfect form and wasted zero energy as she ran at him.

An angry grunt came from behind him.

The woman in front of him jumped to the wall to spring high.

Giving up speed, Evil dodged low in the same direction.

The twisted, green bin whiffed by. It smashed into one of the SWAT vehicles, knocking it back a few feet. Evil eyed the small opening. Just enough space for him to slip out. He just had to get past the woman in front of him.

They ran toward each other.

Another grunt lit the air.

The woman stopped short, pivoted, and leapt left.

Not as nimble, Evil dove the same way.

Another garbage bin whistled past to crash at the mouth of the alley.

Evil popped up to his feet.

The woman slapped a chunk of metal onto his chest, knocking him backward.

His forcefield flashed brilliantly and faded.

Evil rolled back over his shoulder and got on his feet.

She had already launched herself at him and punched her other chuck of metal onto the first.

Knocked from his feet again, a vibrating warmth filled Evil’s body and the world flashed a familiar gray.

A bright, gunmetal gray.

A teleportation gray.

A goodnight gray.

The Dream Is Over

Evil’s mouth felt, and tasted, like he’d bit into a warm, soft pretzel. Heck, he could even smell it. God he loved that taste. It tasted like freedom and fun.