Making supers 1, p.30
Making Supers 1, page 30
I woke up on one of the training mats the next morning, when Chuck slid through the side door. My eyes flitted open, and I was up in a crouch before he managed to close the door behind him on his way to the kitchen. Fighting off the post-sleep fuzzies, I rose to my feet and faked a glare at his amused expression.
“I’ve got beds, you know,” he told me.
“I’d say someone should’ve been on watch, but I forgot we were in a giant concrete coffin. Plus I prefer to sleep rough. What time is it?”
“0700. Enough time for coffee. And we’ve had a delivery.”
Excitement flared in my gut. “Silver crate?”
“Got it in one. I’ll bring it down now if you get the coffee started.”
“Say no more, simply point me toward the Venezuelan ambrosia.”
Chuck dropped a bag of beans next to a sleek coffee machine that reminded me of a 70s roadster, before heading upstairs to the ground floor of the warehouse. I started the coffee machine, filled the air with the smell of South American grinds, and whipped up five mugs of coffee as quickly as I could.
It’d been a while since I’d made my own, but I’d spent enough time in hipster cafes undercover to know the tricks around making the perfect brew and how annoying a man-bun could be to maintain.
Giselle was the first of my team to make an appearance. She stepped out into Chuck’s living room with bright eyes focused on the mugs in my hands. Her hair was up in a messy bun that hit my glands hard enough to warrant mild readjustment of my trousers.
I handed her a mug as she sauntered up to the kitchen. She stared down at the milk froth with the same kind of animalistic lust I’d seen on her face in bed.
“Did you sleep?” Giselle asked as she took a long sip.
“Pretty well actually. How’d you pull up?”
“Took hours,” she admitted. “Can’t get the nerves to go away.”
“That’s the problem with pre-planned carnage,” I said. “Shit always weighs on your mind before things get started. Too many variables and things that could go wrong.”
“As opposed to knee-jerk carnage?” she asked.
“You kinda don’t have an opportunity to think about it then,” I pointed out.
“True enough,” she agreed. “Where’s Chuck?”
Gwen’s top merc pushed open the door with a grunt and wheeled in one of the big crate with the SilverSky Industries logo I’d seen among the piles of crap in my dad’s hideout over Northside. Chuck pushed it over to the table and strolled back to the kitchen to collect his own mug of liquid life with a grunt of thanks.
I found a tray, carried the other coffees over to the main table, and combed my eyes over my dad’s gift to us. The crate didn’t look like anything special, but it also didn’t have any visible seals or locks, either, which puzzled me. I laid a hand on top of the smooth, cool metal, and felt something click under my touch.
The top opened up with a whirring buzz. A platform raised itself up with a hiss of cool air from the depths of the crate. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but it sure as hell hadn’t been four belts.
Each of them had a neat business card beside them to identify the owners. I picked up Giselle’s and turned it over in my hands. The material had to be synthetic. I’d have guessed it was leather by the looks. There was, however, a subtle weight to the thing that didn’t match its appearance. Small silver studs ran along its length.
“That’s a superhero suit?” Giselle asked, confused.
I handed it to her with a shrug. “I guess. Try it on?”
Giselle set down her coffee mug, snaked it through the belt loops of her business slacks, and cinched it shut around her hips. A stylized ‘S’ letter sat where the buckle was supposed to be, and she toyed with it for a moment.
The pressure of her touch spun the buckle around forty-five degrees, and the metal studs shifted.
Tiny threads lunged up from the belt, caught onto her rumpled clothes, and instantly changed her entire outfit. The blouse and pants bled away as smooth fabric tightened around her body, traveled down her bare arms, and hardened into proper gloves at her fingertips. The slacks tightened around her strong, dancer’s legs, and a pair of sleek, form-fitting boots slid into existence around her feet like magic.
Giselle yelped, staggered backward, and caught her balance. A sleek, stylish domino-mask appeared around her face to finish the look, and I stared at her in awe.
The entire process had taken less than a second.
Dark, bluish-gray took up the bulk of her outfit’s color scheme, but subtle scarlet highlights snaked down her sides and up under her arms. Giselle reached up, pulled her hair out of its bun, and stared down at her gloved hands in utter shock. She tightened her hands experimentally and rolled her shoulders in their sockets to test the suit’s mobility.
My gaze roamed up and down, unable to decide where to settle on her gorgeous skin-tight-leather wrapped figure.
“What the fuck?” Gwen interrupted.
The leader of the Basement paced briskly over to us, her baffled eyes never leaving Giselle’s new suit.
Chuck let out a low whistle as Giselle took a few steps and got a feel for the catsuit costume. I couldn’t fault my old man for his aesthetic choices. The outfit showed off every curve Giselle had at her disposal, drew attention to her amazing chest and long, strong legs, and even had sections on her belt for a knife and gun if she needed it.
A salacious grin crossed Giselle’s face as she saw my expression.
“My ass looks amazing in this, right?”
“Amazing enough it probably needs its own billing,” I agreed. “Holy shit.”
Giselle took a half-skipping step and launched effortlessly into a perfect cartwheel. The movement just demanded attention to the way the suit looked on her, and my mouth went dry at the simplicity and elegance of it.
Gwen slurped coffee and glanced at the silver crate. Chuck tossed her the Ordnance belt. She caught it, clasped it around her waist, and raised her eyebrows at Giselle’s shit-eating grin.
“How does it work?”
“Try the belt buckle,” Giselle replied.
Gwen’s fingers hit the hidden switch built into the belt, and a suit snapped over her body like magic. The gym shorts and tank top vanished under some kind of kevlar-metal armor hybrid. A sleek series of hyper-tensile plates appeared over her chest, shoulders, and arms, linked with tough-looking material that reminded me of chainmail. A dual-belt setup materialized around Gwen’s hips, complete with holsters on either thigh, and more of the same muted-steel armor to cover her shins and main vitals.
A faceless helmet appeared around her head, closed in around her skull, and sealed her features away from the world. Gwen hissed a curse at the sensation of it, and I took in the finished product with a grin that threatened to dislocate my jaw.
Gwen’s Ordnance costume made me think of a hyper-sophisticated suit of cutting-edge armor, all muted gray metal and dark green material. Bright orange lines rolled through the green material, reminiscent of warning tape around industrial accidents, and her expressionless mask reminded me quite a bit of Scourge’s own costume.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a mirror out here somewhere?” Gwen asked.
Her voice came out lower and raspier than her normal tone. It wasn’t exactly male, besides Gwen’s own assets made it impossible to think of her as a guy, but the suit looked much better suited to combat than Giselle’s. Despite the heavy armor, the lines and design and the tight skin-suit bits left very little of her lower body to the imagination.
I had a vivid image of her tight upturned rump as she lay on her face, sniping away.
Chuck shook his head with a grin that matched mine.
“How the hell does all of that fit into a belt?” Giselle asked.
“I’m not the Craftsman,” I said. “No idea.”
“It’s flexible,” Gwen said, and threw an experimental punch. The suit didn’t impede her movement in the slightest, and she let out an impressed grunt. “Visibility’s good, no issues with hearing. Just need to know how bulletproof it is, and we’ll be golden.”
“Load up on some guns,” I suggested. “See how well it carries your gear.”
Gwen turned back to the pile of weapons she’d left behind last night.
Piper let out a surprised gasp as she filed into the room and spotted the others. I picked up the belt labeled ‘Paladin’, and my own, and bounded over to her. I couldn’t wait to see how we all shaped up in our outfits.
My dad had toed the perfect line between functional, distinctive, and memorable, and as I cast my eyes back over Giselle and Gwen, I had to admit, it did an excellent job of obscuring their identities, too.
Giselle’s domino mask was big enough that it covered up the distinctive lines of her nose and cheekbones. Meanwhile, Gwen looked like a high-tech soldier had stepped straight out of a rift into the future. The Tin Men didn’t have shit on the sleekness and style of her armor.
A visibly super excited Piper took the belt and slid it around her waist.
“Pretty interesting design,” I said. “Dad do this for all the Pinnacle supes?”
“Are you kidding?” Piper asked. “No, we had to get in and out of our spandex. Could take ages. I haven’t ever seen anything like this before.” She closed the clasp on her belt, stepped away from me, and toyed with the little metal studs for a moment.
“Here,” I warned her, and twisted her belt buckle.
Piper’s Paladin outfit flashed out, morphed into her clothes, and left her in a stunning gold-and-white ensemble that tore my breath straight out of my lungs. Dad hadn’t just leaned into the white-knight theme. He’d ripped it straight off, reconstructed it, and forged something utterly new with it.
Piper’s body disappeared under a suit of sleek, ivory material. It wasn’t form-fitting in the same way that Giselle’s was, but it definitely clung to her hips and calves, and I got the impression I was looking at some kind of imperial duelist monk from a fantasy world. A wide sash billowed asymmetrically over one hip with golden trimming in the design of a classic warrior’s crest.
Tall, knee-high boots protected her shins and calves, and an eye-catching breastplate of white and gold slid up around her chest and shoulders. Piper’s left hand vanished underneath a protective gauntlet, bright with more gold trim that cascaded down over her whole arm in spirals until they met at each of her fingertips. Her other arm didn’t have the same armor-plating, but a low-slung utility belt sat on her right hip, in easy reach of her lighter hand. A hood rolled up over her shoulders to obscure her head, and underneath it, a pale veil hid her features from the world.
“Must look amazing.” Piper laughed. “You look like all your dreams just came true.”
I turned back to the others with an ornate, flourishing gesture. Giselle’s eyes widened when she saw the team’s combat medic step past me, and she gave the outfit a thorough eyeing.
With a deep breath, I slid the belt around my own hips, and said a silent prayer that my old man hadn’t decided to turn me into a stage magician or court jester.
A flash of full-body static hit my nervous system like an electric shock, and I grimaced as my clothes writhed all over my body. My suit shifted around my body like a nest of twisting vipers, and something slid over my face but left my hair alone.
I opened my eyes and watched my hands. Gloves that left my fingertips bare covered my hands, and a sleek jacket formed around my regular suit coat. It dropped down almost to mid-thigh, added an extra bit of style and flair to my outfit, and comfortable, hardy boots covered my bare feet.
The original suit had been a simple black. The supe suit had a subtle sheen to it that both caught the eye and deepened the black into something that shimmered when it hit the light. The mask around my face was soft, fitted my features without emphasizing them too much.
As I pulled the coat aside, I found in-built rigs for a heavy pistol, a knife, and straps for something bigger, like a sawn-off shotgun. A grin touched my face, and I turned to the rest of my team, who all stared at me like I was some kind of ghost. I glanced down at my lapel and found a strange play-card design with all four suites stitched into each corner of it.
“Let me guess,” I said. “I look like someone who doesn’t get let into casinos.”
“Or the guy who jumps out of the slot machines when someone wins something,” Gwen snarked, “and steals all their earnings to give back to the pit boss.”
“Should spook the supes out of gambling away their ill-gotten gains, then.”
“You look great, Dean,” Piper assured me. “Suits you. It really does.”
Chuck’s eyes darted between us approvingly. And why wouldn’t he, we looked damn amazing.
I sauntered back over to my coffee. I tapped the buckle on my belt, fashioned in the same playing-card motif. That same static-shock sensation washed over my body.
My clothes rippled back into the bespoke suit I’d been wearing earlier, and I shook my head at the sheer ingenuity of Brandon’s engineering. I had absolutely no idea how he’d managed to pull it off, and I wondered if the belts needed to be plugged in or something to make sure that they were fully-charged and ready for use.
The girls followed my lead, un-suped themselves back into gorgeous, bed-crumpled supermodels, and we collectively attacked the coffee as only addicts could.
I glanced over the crate again and searched for any notes that my dad might have left behind. Another coded slip of paper sat nestled in the middle of the raised platform, and I opened it up, curious and excited all at the same time.
I felt like a kid at Christmas.
Something about the outfits gave us a sense of legitimacy, like we were stepping up onto a playing field that Pinnacle owned. I couldn’t wait to get to test them in action.
Chapter 40
The message was short, simple, but I could hear my dad’s voice and the warmth in his tone as I decoded it.
Main Story Quest Completed. Rewards Within.
The Raid Awaits. Good Hunting, and Good Luck.
I grinned at the message, dropped it back into the crate, and pressed the side of the steel box with my fingers. It hissed shut at my touch, and I took another long pull of caffeinated goodness before I strolled over to the table, scooped up a 9mm, and tossed it to Gwen.
She caught it out of reflex, and managing to avoid spilling coffee. I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the firing range. I gave my belt buckle a tap as I went and endured another burst of weird, squirming static.
My superhero skin slid over my suit again, and I vaulted over the wall that led into the concrete death-box.
“Dean, what the fuck—”
“We need to test these outfits,” I called out to her, and held out my arms, inviting free shots.
Gwen set down her mug, dropped the mag out of the gun, and shook her head. “No! No fucking way. I’m not going to put a bullet through you before we get this mission started.”
“Dean, are you sure?” Giselle asked.
I nodded. “We have to know. Gwen’s got the accuracy to make sure she doesn’t accidently clip me in the head. Piper, how good are you on blunt force trauma?”
“Fine,” Piper said, “but you’re crazy.”
I glanced around the inside of the shooting pit and turned my eyes back to Gwen.
She kept shaking her head, bounced the magazine in her hand, and gritted her teeth.
I could see curiosity fighting with years of age-old gun wisdom in her head. Any guy in the firing line was a casualty, and I was pretty much waving off just about every bit of sense in my own training just to see how good my dad could build a suit of armor.
“Come on, Gwen. It’s not the craziest thing I’ve asked you to do.”
“It’s up there,” she assured me.
Giselle laid a hand on Piper’s shoulder. “Are you sure you can fix him?”
Piper took a long, hard look at the gun in Gwen’s hand, and nodded once. “Yeah.”
Gwen took a couple of long, striding steps forward, and met my eye with a steely gaze.
“Last chance before I change my mind,” she warned me.
“Just don’t hit me in the nuts,” I said.
Gwen let a breath hiss out of her teeth, raised the gun, and drilled me in the shoulder before my reflexes could so much as twitch. A sledgehammer crashed into my arm and blew me back half a step.
It didn’t puncture my spendy new outfit though.
A lead slug dropped away from my shoulder as I brushed it off and grinned. Gwen lowered the gun again with a shake of her head.
“You’re certifiably fucking insane,” she told me venomously.
“Maybe,” I said, and vaulted back over the barrier. “But they work.”
“Against small arms, sure,” Gwen argued. “What about rifle rounds?”
“Who makes all your spider-silk outfits?” I countered.
“Independent contractor,” Gwen said. “And they’re still shaky around rifles.”
“Safe assumption they’re at the same level of armor or better,” I assured her. “Dad doesn’t fuck around when it comes to making sure we’ve got the best gear possible. Giselle, you’re up.”
Giselle’s eyes widened. “You want Gwen to shoot me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I laughed. “I want you to knife me.”
She huffed a sigh of resignation, drew my blade out of its sheath on the table, and came at me in a blur of smooth skin and muscular curves.
Instinct had me bring my arms up to shield my vitals. Like oil on water, the razor-sharp edges of the weapon skidded harmlessly off the material of my coat. Giselle didn’t let up. She rotated into a vicious underhand stab toward my gut. Years of experience had me catch her arm against my forearm, but the tip of the dagger still hit my gut with enough force to punch an inch or so into my skin.
It hurt like hell, but the shimmery fabric turned the weapon aside again. It just left me with a numb chunk in my belly that felt as if I’d caught a body shot from a heavyweight boxer.
“Okay, slash-proof too,” I noted. “Good to know.”
