LAST NIGHT
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[ - ]BLACKWEB
The greatest part of working in a twenty-four hour electronics store was being able to spend most of the night gaming. The shift manager didn’t care—more than likely he was already asleep on the cot he kept in the back office. Rarely did anyone actually come in after nine or ten o’clock, which meant the scruffy-faced clerk could slip on a headset and settle back behind the counter, eyes fixed on one of the display screens across the aisle...until it showed him a “connection error.” With a silent curse, he waited for the troubleshooter to diagnose what was wrong. He glanced at another one of the display units on the next aisle. That one was still set to a normal channel, and currently playing some late-night talk show garbage. While he waited for his network to resolve whatever bug was keeping him from his matches, the clerk tuned in for just a minute or two…
”—and an upper-brass of the “Hunters” program! We’re so glad to have him tonight, folks!” The host, a man with a jawline like a sledgehammer and a plastic-surgically perfect smile, shook hands with the guest before sitting down behind his desk. The other guy wore a crisp, three-piece suit, all-black of course, and too stiff to be unpadded cloth. He lowered himself to the plush recliner like a machine on hydraulics.
“So, what’s it like, being a Hunter? Must be pretty scary, facing down…the kind of folks you do?” A slight falter in the host’s cheek, imperceptible to most.
“You must mean Gifted individuals, right?” A lump dropped in the host’s throat, but he nodded. The other man in the suit smiled, and leaned back, and flipped his wrist to adjust the fancy watch wrapped around it. An easy motion. “Well, it’s certainly not easy—I mean, imagine yelling at a guy, “put ‘em up!” and he literally starts floating into the air, huh?” The man pantomimed with his arms as if he too would just hover away, and pre-canned laughter played. “Ah, but seriously. The thing you have to remember is that the Gifted, well, they aren’t monsters. They’re still people, like you and me—just ones that have a very dangerous, potentially deadly, condition.”
“Wow! It’s great that you’re able to hold onto that mindset!” The host didn’t actually seem surprised by the line. “You know, lots of folks have seen it at least once, these days—somebody picking up a car like it’s a toy, or literally spitting fire! I mean, it’s downright crazy what some of these mutations can do! What about those ones, uh, whaddya call ‘em, the Alphas?”
The bell above the store’s door jingled, and the clerk’s head snapped around. Two guys entered—young, slouchy, wearing baggy clothes. Typical customers, although out a whole lot later than most. Nonetheless he called out to them.
“Good evening! Let me know if there’s anything I can do—” they’d already turned the aisle. He didn’t even get a good look at their faces. But he could see they were headed towards the gaming section. It wasn’t unusual for types like that to avoid as much human contact as possible. The clerk had a deep personal understanding of that notion.
The game still hadn’t connected—he was probably going to have to reset the router again—so he turned his attention back to the talk-show. The guest had been explaining something, and the clerk had to run the last few minutes of background noise through his head to mentally catch-up…
“Right. Well, you see, Alpha is just a form of classification for Gifted whose powers are known to be extremely destructive—and not always under their control. Through no fault of their own, of course.” The guest was looking at the camera, or ostensibly the crowd behind it, now. As if he were speaking to them personally. “Imagine if you woke up one day, and your sweat was just…pure nitroglycerin? You wipe off when it gets hot—just like that!” He pointed at the host, currently engaged in applying a white handkerchief to his forehead. “And then when you throw the towel in the laundry? BOOM! Like a stick of dynamite!” The host slowly fingered the cloth back into his pocket. That smile was starting to slip.
“Hence the need for the Hunters in the first place, then?” The man’s jaw loosened for a moment as his eyes glanced somewhere off camera, then returned to the guest’s face. Which hadn’t changed at all from that welcoming, laid back, chatty expression. “If an individual like that decided they wanted to hurt people, I can’t see a lot of ways to stop them. Unless maybe they move to the North Pole year round!” Again, the artificial laughs from an unseen gallery.
“Exactly. The reason I came on tonight, you see, is because people have the wrong idea about us.” The guest leaned forward, like he was sharing something personal to him. “They think Hunters are these scary bogeymen, or that we’re like some kinda secret police coming to drag them out of their beds! That couldn’t be further from the truth!” Again, he looked at the crowd and ran a hand over his handsome head of hair.
“Sure, sometimes the Gifted give in to their darker instincts, and use their powers to hurt people, destroy property, or worse. Those people are criminals, and we’re required to take a harder stance with them. But the Hunters are here to help. The idea that we want to wipe out all the Gifted, that’s just insane!” He shook his head and, again, gesticulated with his hands emphatically.
“Pure propaganda! Those people calling themselves Rebels, they’re no better than terrorists! They want you scared, they want you thinking that they’re the only ones who can help “save” you! But that’s just not true.”
Again, the man leaned back in his chair, a motion that the host mimicked. Even the camera pulled back a bit, as if everyone on the crew was trying to lessen their tension. The guest continued to speak.
“What we do, when we find these individuals, is take them to a safe, well-protected, and prepared environment. Somewhere their abilities can be measured, tested under non-threatening conditions, and, only if needed, restrained—so that they don’t have to worry about hurting themselves, or anyone else they care about!”
On the security camera behind the clerk’s head, a hushed verbal exchange took place. The two customers had split up. One made a loop around the store while the other was hanging back.
The doorbell jingled again. Another young guy walked in—he was wearing a hoodie with no sleeves and the hood up. The clerk wasn’t much for fashion, but thought that was a weird choice. Was the guy hot or cold? Make up your mind already!
“Good evening.” The clerk said half-heartedly, expecting this to be another night-owl nerd. The younger guy didn’t take his hood off, but nodded in acknowledgement.
“Good evening. Slow night?”Oh, even worse. A customer who actually
wanted to make conversation. The clerk gave him a non-committal chuckle and head-nod in response, then pretended to be engrossed in the show again.
“So if someone is a Gifted, or they suspect one of their friends or family of having these abilities, what should they do?”
“The Hunters can be contacted at any time, anywhere, by calling the Republic’s assigned hotline—can we get that on the screen? It’s on there? Awesome!” An exchange with the off-screen crew, followed by laughter and a sudden “gotcha” look from the guest. “It’s like you read my mind—Oooh, are you Gifted? Uh-oh, I better take you in!” More laughter.
“But seriously! You call that number, tell our operators what’s up—they’re trained to be aware, considerate, and understanding of all these issues we’ve talked about—and our agents will take things from there!”
The guest suddenly stood up, apparently surprising the host, but the camera followed him without missing a beat as he walked across the stage.
“And, just to show you this: The Hunters aren’t trying to, to put it mildly, do away with the Gifted, as so many have accused us of doing. If that was their goal…then they wouldn’t have hired someone like ME!”
The man waved his hands. A bright sphere of light, as if someone were dangling a fluorescent light bulb, took shape in the air above his palms. As the still-unseen crowd ooh’d and ahhh’d, the orb floated to center-stage, then flattened itself and took the shape of a floating ring, like a halo.
“You see, I can only do this because the Hunters allowed me...To get the training and discipline I needed to be of use to people! Now, instead of accidentally blinding somebody, I can use my powers for something better!” The light ring wobbled over to the host and settled down just over his toupe, again accompanied to the laugh track. “Like showing them what an angel YOU are!”
Amidst clapping from the host and crew, it was declared that the guest would stay on the show to meet the other people coming on that night, right after a commercial break…
The clerk looked up to see that the younger guy had taken the hint and moved along. But then when he glanced down the aisles, he didn’t see the other two. Had they left already? He didn’t hear the doorbell…
If he’d been looking at the cameras, he’d have seen them crouched down at an angle behind the shelves—one ready to rush the counter, and one lifting his shirt before reaching down his baggy pants. A baseball bat, tucked along the side of his body, found its way to his hands.
And if the clerk had
really been paying attention to the cameras, the way the third guy in the back of the store was, he might’ve seen the young man slip a
mask over his face and let the hood fall.
The game finally connected! As prompts and sounds filtered over his headset, the clerk reached for his controller and turned—
“OPEN THE REGISTER!”The one with the bat ran and jumped over the divider between the counter and the store, slamming the weapon against the polished wood surface for intimidation. The other one ran up in front of the clerk and the checkout station, pulling a crumpled trash back out from under his shirt.
“W-wha—wait—”“I SAID OPEN IT!” The clerk eyed the two of them nervously, but shrank back as the first man raised the bat again.
“And gimme yo’ KEYS!”Then a black whip wrapped around the weapon and yanked it over the perp’s shoulder, dragging him with it. His back hit the counter as the man yelped in surprise, and his partner turned with a gasp.
“Bruh, the batting cages are on the other side of town.” The third young man stood with one arm outstretched, holding the whip…which was wrapped around his forearm and
rooted there, like it’d grown out of him as individual threads and been wound together.
“Let ‘im go!” The second thief dropped the bag and went for a football tackle. The masked guy brought his other arm up and made a weird movement—like some kinda kung-fooey martial art, the limb undulated, spinning at the wrist, as his fingers twitched into a shape like some kinda anime-character making the fox ears.
FWIP!Another whip hit the charging thief in the face, and then stuck. It wasn’t a whip, it was some kind of net, or…a
web? He fell to one side, crashing into a shelf full of robot vacuum cleaners, while trying to pull the strange substance off his face. The guy in the sleeveless sweater jumped forward and yanked on both his lines at the same time, pulling the two would-be-robbers together on the open floor in front of the register. The one with the bat let go of the weapon and jumped up to take a swing at the web-spinner.
“Guh-gi-g-gifted?!” The clerk stumbled back against the wall—just as the door banged open and the portly, half-asleep manager stumbled out.
“We’re being robbed!? Call the police!” he yelled as the guy with the webs ducked and danced away from the thug’s wild swings.
“No! The HUNTERS! One of those monsters is tryin’ to kill us!”“Hey, whoa, I’m not like that!” The Gifted raised his hands, which still had a few strands of black webbing dangling from them. He pointed at the clerk.
“I mean, what he said, yeah, but not—”The thief punched him in the gut, then shoved him into a rack of magazines and tech manuals. As the protesting hero went down in a loud clatter and a cloud of pages, the thwarted crook ran for the doors—only to be caught at the legs just before he could reach it. As the Gifted yanked this new whip with both hands the other man’s head pitched forward, smacking the thick glass hard enough to crack it and then bumping the metal handle on the way down for good measure.
“Hey, leave that guy alone, you freak!” screamed the manager, already calling the emergency number from a cell phone.
“Your concern is appreciated, sir, but I can handle it!” shouted back the Gifted as he reeled in his catch.
“You’re the freak!”“Oh. Well no worries either way, I’m just about done here!” The man dragged the injured attacker back towards his companion, who had only just gotten the webbing off his face. Then the masked guy made more weird motions with his hands. The webs coming out of his arms—like watching a can of silly string explode—formed a net he threw over both of the thieves, and then he tied the ends shut and yanked them tight. Both men yelped as they were drawn together way too close for platonic comfort.
“I, I already h-hit the silent alarm!” the clerk was telling his boss, although whether he was trying to help the Gifted or not was up for debate. The man dusted his hands off and stood with his feet apart as he put both fists akimbo.
“There, gentlemen! As you can see, I’m not with the thieves! I’m only here to help! Just call me—” A cordless computer mouse flew over the man’s head as he ducked, both hands covering his mask.
“Don’t you touch us, ya mutated piece of trash!” The manager shook a fat fist as his red face jiggled.
“Right, I can see you’re stressed! The police will handle things from here!” The Gifted ran for the door, pushing through it and starting to sprint—then he turned and came back. From inside they watched him shake his arm for a moment. Then he sprayed a thin layer of black goop over the crack in the glass.
“A little extra, free of charge!”Then he sprinted off into the night, as flashing lights in the distance drew closer…
Ben woke up the next day—morning was long past—to his phone trying to buzz itself off the side of his nightstand. When he picked it up, he saw several unread texts from
her...and closed them. He yawned, stretched—then winced as the tender spot where he’d been gutpunched protested the movement. As he threw off the blankets and headed for the bathroom, he sighed.
Would she have called me a freak too? Or a monster? he wondered to himself. But he shook his head. Personal praise, fame, those weren’t the reasons he put himself out there night after night. He just wanted to help.
Although it would help
him if people weren’t so gung-ho to hate on Gifted. How’d that guy think
he was the thief!? He wasn’t swinging a bat around—
But you were wearing a mask, genius. Ah. Right. Well…unfortunately, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. But, he definitely needed to figure out some way to not scare the people he wanted to save. It was only natural that they’d be wary of the Gifted, the way things were nowadays…and his powers probably didn’t do his first impressions any favors. How many people would honestly be hyped to see giant, people-snagging spiderwebs?
Better that I do the right thing and get hated for it, than do the wrong thing and be loved for it. Right, Grandpa? Besides, in today’s world, you could do nothing at all and still get hate easily enough. Just ask those people the Hunters were always catching. He checked his phone again while he did his business.
Almost as if it were reading his mind (hell, with as much data as they gathered, maybe it could!), his social media feed was full of news about the
“prison camp” that’d been set up less than fifty miles outside of the city limits. People who sympathized with “The Rebels,” (which struck Ben as incredibly stupid, as you were practically asking for police to come knocking at your door) and people who were huddling under the long arm of the Republic for safety (equally stupid, because the government wouldn’t care whether the Gifted liked them or not) were in a constant and vicious flame battle in every comment on every article or photo.
He cleaned, shaved, all that usual morning routine stuff and threw on some workout clothes. He had the day off from work—hence why he’d been out all night—so he decided a nice jog in the park might help work out the soreness…
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