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Larry:
It was the infamous Cartouche, that or Vegas was regurgitating cocktail waitresses out in no man’s land. I could tell Luke was just as apprehensive as I was. I washed away the look of fear and concern from my face and replaced it with bravado. She was breathing, thank god. The last thing I needed was the corpse of a known enemy strewn out next to my Pontiac Grand Am. We didn’t kill people; they did.
The woman began to move. Her clothing was covered in dirt and her body in bruises. Something had happened, something bad. Her blue eyes opened and gazed at us in
confusion. Then she made the face.
We had never met Cartouche personally, but we knew Cartouche would
know our faces. Cartouche possessed what
was referred to as a “photographic memory”.
The moment someone on the other side had shown her pictures of us, she
would know us barring a massive overhaul of our physical appearance. Slowly she sat up. She looked weak. I offered her a bottle of water from the
car. There was one other important fact;
Cartouche was unfathomably strong. Who
the hell was capable of beating up Cartouche?
“Where am I?” It was faint, but
there was a trace of a long-forgotten eastern European accent.
“Nevada,” Luke replied.
“Not exactly specific, are we cuz?”
I replied with a hint of a glare.
“Do you remember what town we’re
by?” Luke retorted.
“Somewhere five miles past your
Lady Goo Goo CD, but enough about that.
Are you alright Miss?” I extended
a hand. If I had any doubts they were gone. She wasn’t trying to, but jeeze, that woman
was going to rip my arm off. We stood
up. She looked around and, as coy as she
was, she couldn’t conceal the look of sorrow in her eyes. It was a hunch, but something told me Cartouche
was no longer with the enemy.
“What happened?” I asked, shooting
Luke a death glare. Luke’s posture said
it all; he was ready to run. I knew he
would have preferred we ditch her in the desert, but that wasn’t my style.
“Please, can we not talk about
this?” She leaned against my car. I tensed for a moment; I had always been
protective of my baby. Cars were my
gift, my calling. My particular power
was referred to as techno-kinesis; well, that was the bullshit name we gave it
anyway. Techno-kinetics imprinted on one
type of technology. Mine was cars. My uncle was a mechanic and when I was
fourteen we restored a 1969 Chevy Camaro.
Rebuilding the engine was a labor of
love. We had ordered a replacement
crankshaft, and when the part came in it was clear it wouldn’t align right. I had been so excited about our restoration
project, and there we were delayed by something as stupid as a crankshaft. Somehow, with the power of my mind, the metal
morphed in my hand, shifting into the perfectly fitting piece.
“So…” Luke chimed in awkwardly. Luke was one of those “uncomfortable in his
own skin” types of guys. Luke suffered
from what could best be called “late-manifestation”. He was well into his twenties when he
discovered he possessed an ability.
Unfortunately, he still couldn’t control it with ease. Luke was a Thermodynamic. Thermodynamics can control heat, pressure,
and energy; it is a bitchin’ power. Yet,
of all the people to be blessed with such a bitchin’ power, Luke had it, and
Luke seldom kept his focus well enough to channel it properly. Linus guessed, however, that eventually Luke
would grow into it.
Cartouche was clearly in a bad
state. I finally braved to break the
stillness and move forward. I opened the
door and gestured to her. She looked at
me with hesitation. I didn’t blame her;
it was like a mongoose opening a door for a cobra. We took our places in the car, because it was
too hot to argue otherwise. I turned on
the engine and looked to Cartouche.
“Direction?”
“Just keep headed as you were,” she replied,
gazing out of the window. Luke kicked my
seat from the back. I ignored him and
began to drive. We sat without music or
conversation for about ten minutes. One
way to sift out phonies from genuine super heroes; the real ones are hesitant
to talk about it. I reached for a mix CD
I kept for such occasions and popped it into the player. Elevator music began to emanate from the
speakers.
“Thank god.” Cartouche said,
slumping in her seat. It started a few
years back. A nasty confrontation
between the sides had erupted. A chick
called Boom Box Betty, a lovely punk with a morbid sense of humor, decided to
play some elevator music during the fight.
Elevator music, oddly enough, was the code word to describe the
antagonism between the sides.
“Now that we’ve cleared the air,” I
grinned, “Do you like Billy Joel?”
“That’s it! I’m throwing myself out
of the car.” Luke groaned.
“Why did you help me?” Cartouche glanced over to me, ignoring Luke.
“Because somebody else in this car
needs to appreciate the work of a master
musician.” I winked. She was a serious one, not a grin or even a chuckle. I sighed and admitted, “’Cause, dangerous as
it is, we’re not the kind of folks who leave a gal stranded in the desert.”
“How do you know I’m not going to
lead the others straight to you?”
“Your eyes, you can’t fake the look
you’re trying to hide.” We listened to the sound of the music a few moments as
we prowled down the highway. “Sweetie,
you were left for dead out there, it’s all over your face.” As I said this Luke turned his head to
Cartouche, the light bulb had just turned on.
“Just drive, ok? I’ll get off at the next town.”
“This is Nevada, you have to drive
about 70 miles to get to a gas station, let alone a town,” Luke chimed in. I resisted the urge to hit him.
“She’s fine, just shut up.” The elevator
music continued to fill the car. My
phone rang; it was Linus. Cartouche
looked to me and gave me a nod of understanding. I answered the call. Linus wasn’t short of reprimands. This I had expected, but there was an added gravity to the situation I hadn’t
anticipated.
“Larry…” Linus wasn’t the type to
get sentimental or emotional. Suddenly,
there was fear in his voice.
“Yeah Boss?”
“Cartouche isn’t just one of their
kind… she’s one of the Elite. Listen
very carefully. If she was still alive
when you found her and not dead from dehydration, they are still in the area. They are close to…”
“HOLY” Luke screamed. Cartouche dug her nails deep into the dash
board. There was no anticipating the
fifteen foot sink hole that appeared before us.
The Pontiac was airborne, heading hood-first into the impromptu crater.
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