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Issue #2 by A. Crute
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"THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS"
Moapa valley Native American Reservation
“Morning, Wannnga'a,” said Michael Honi to his brother as he sidled up beside him and leaned on the wooden rail outside of the general store. His brother Lincoln was busy staring off across the stretch of desert before him.
They were both on the wrong side of 60 and wore matching little round spectacles that sat on the bridge of their noses. Michael’s hair was cropped short, thinning at the crown and at the top of his forehead. His brother Lincoln took on more of a traditional look with his long hair in braids down this chest. They both wore denim shirts; they were not twins but the similarity between them had increased with age so that some would mistake them for such. They were large men built like their namesake, the bear.
“Wagannna’a, I don’t like the look of those clouds.” He nodded at the sky in the distance at which he was staring.
“They don’t look like storm clouds to me,” said Michael with a furrowed brow.
“No, but an omen, the great thunderer spoke to me in a dream,” Lincoln said as he turned to his brother.
“Ah, Wa'etse,” said Michael with a shake of his head. He had called his bother ‘Old Man’ since he turned 50 whilst he himself was only 45. He was as he had always been, in two minds about their heritage. He still prayed and he was proud of their rituals but in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but shake his scientific knowledge which conflicted with their ancient stories. All the talk of prophecies and signs had always brought on an ‘oh brother’ attitude in him. Not least because his brother was the Micco.
“Grandmother spoke to the spirits all the time, she told us…”
“She also called you Tate,” Michael smirked.
“’He who talks too much’…it was fitting,” he laughed gently. “There is still no sign of those missing, the boys search every day.” He sighed, in the past weeks people had went missing from the reservation with no sign. Sure they could have went on a bender into Vegas like so many others had before but it didn’t fit their characters, two of them didn’t have two dimes to rub together. For one, Dino Poorbear however, it sounded just about right.
“You’ve just been on edge recently, have been for about a month now. You ever going to share with the rest of the council why that is?” Michael raised an eyebrow to his brother.
“Nothing, things for a chief to be concerned with. It’s my burden,” he nodded. “One more day to try and find them and then we’ll call in the FBI to do a wider search.”
“FBI always rub folks the wrong way.” Michael took a big glug of his coffee.
“We don’t have anything to fear from them, everyone needs to trust a little more,” he said with a nod.
“That’s what they said to our ancestors…look how that worked out,” Michael gestured to the horizon. “Anyway Wa’etse some of us have work to get to off this Rez. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He drained his coffee and stepped off the porch onto the sandy dirt.
Lincoln turned and entered his store whilst his brother walked towards his truck. There was a low rumbling sound which sounded a little like thunder and then a sudden gasp of air. Lincoln turned to look for the source of the sound.
His brother was gone.
# # # # #
The Outskirts of Vegas, storage locker (once featured on storage wars)
Vince Gonzales and his partner Michelle McKenzie moved through the storage facility. They were here following a tip from one of the homeless residents in the city, a woman who always had her ear to the floor and seemed to know a little bit about everything. She had seen something, she wasn’t sure what, but it had been bad. The scream from the victim had apparently set her hair on end. The scream had been reported by another two citizens but they had no clue where it had come from.
“If we got a blanket search warrant how many crimes do you think we’d find in this place?” Michelle asked, she had her hand on her gun and glanced down the rows of lock ups as she moved.
“A fair few, I’m more thinking about the forfeiture cash we could rake in.”
“You’ve seen too many episodes of that storage show,” she said with a shake of her head.
“I’m a junkie, pawn stars and everything. I’m a reality TV auction show addict. It’s the one thing we don’t have a meeting for in Sin City,” Vin said. He mirrored his partner’s movements as they moved down the lanes.
“No one calls it Sin City. I’ve lived here my whole life and no one calls it that.”
“Well, I moved from New York and I do,” Vin shook his head and then slowed. He nodded straight ahead. “There.”
The locker he pointed to had a dark stain on the floor just outside of the door. The stain was a light brown but their instinct and experience told them that it used to be red. The door had been shut but not locked; the lock was broken on the floor probably from where it had been smashed open in the first place.
“Ready?” Michelle asked as she moved to the door. Vin nodded as he moved to cover him. She grabbed the door and pulled it up sending the door sliding shut.
Vin moved forward moving his gun from one side of the locker to another. It was mostly empty but for a few cardboard boxes.
He moved in slowly. Lowering his gun as he did so. “Empty,” he turned to look at Michelle. He turned back when he heard a movement. The face was only inches from his, now having swung down from the ceiling.
He screamed and leapt back. The face was disfigured, blackened with tight shiny skin. It’s eyes sunken and hollow. His mouth open in a scream. Vin unleashed two bullets into the centre mass before he realised that the figure was already clearly dead.
It fell from the ceiling where it had been suspended thanks to the force from the bullets. It hit the floor with a thud and it’s chest burst like a piñata. A horde of black moved from the now gaping wound as the mass of spiders he held within him crawled for freedom. It was only now Vin noticed that the figure had been stuck to the ceiling of the place with spider webs.
Michelle took several steps back from the now scattering spiders and opened the relevant channel on her radio.
# # # # #
Las Vegas, later, early evening
Marvin glanced around himself, not nervously, but rather aware. He was keeping an eye out for the security that the casinos were famous for. He was trying to do so, however without looking nervous. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worked up this time; he had done this a thousand times. He even got caught once or twice, which wasn’t exactly a problem for him.
He sat back and grinned confidently. He rolled his shoulders back and rubbed his goatee before leaning forward and picking up his glass of scotch. He tried to make eye contact with those seated around the table from him and smile, showing the wrinkles around his aging eyes but was often met with blank stone faced stares of simply a set of shades. He knew their eyes were trying to bore through him to pick up some signal or another of what hand he had.
Poker was his game of choice. It had just the right amount of skill and luck that he didn’t feel like a complete sham celebrating his winnings (in other cases it could just become like an ATM transaction) but just the right amount of leeway that let his powers become most useful.
He had thought a couple of minutes earlier of going to play Black Jack where all he had to help was the dealers ideas about what cards had been played recently or even craps or roulette where it was totally out of his control. Well mostly, it was a blunter use of his powers in this context than he liked but he wasn’t above making everyone around the table see the numbers or the cards as falling in his direction.
The mutant known as Mentallo varied in the use of his powers depending on whether he was gambling for fun, because he needed money or if he wanted a little more ‘sportsmanship’. This time he was playing it safe and strictly sticking to mind reading. If he did anymore there was always the danger that someone in the control room would see his losing hand being declared the winner and it would raise some concerns. Sure a mindwipe and an instruction to wipe the records stopped him getting pinched but it was a lot more effort and a lot less fun.
“Keep a straight face Buck…high rollers around this table and you can bluff with the best of them,” the chunky sunburned man sitting three places to Mentallo’s right thought without betraying anything in his face. An admirable ability, Mentallo without his telepathic prowess was a horrific bluffer. “Can’t believe I’ve got the kids tuition riding on this…If they ever get to college,” Buck’s mind began to wander slightly.
Mentallo thought for a moment whether he wanted to take this poor rube’s money. He clearly didn’t have much of it by looking at what he was wearing. No class compared to his own fine red silk shirt and white linen suit, the gold Rolex glinting from his wrist.
“Screw him, it’s his own dumb fault…and it’s not like I got to go to college,” was Marvin Flum’s response. He cast a quick mental scan around the table for the cards of the other players. A businessman from Tulsa who was running through the big Vegas win fantasy. A woman who had a hatchet sharp face, she was a lawyer from Michigan. An obese Texan who had made a small fortune finding a small deposit of oil. All of them had nothing in their hands he needed to worry too much about.
He started by giving them a blast of confidence, making them sink dollar after dollar into the pot for a couple of passes and then he started to blast out a low level of anxiety. One by one he watched as they folded and he picked up the pot. He didn’t let the fact that he had cheated to win dissuade him from his celebration.
In the back room a group of men, highly trained professionals watched the screens of the casino looking at the comings and goings of punters and staff. They were experts at spotting unusual patterns of behaviour, cheating behaviour and the certain stress signs to watch in their customers for an early warning of something serious about to erupt. They would then direct the floor staff to intercept.
Two more members had joined the fold recently. They were both Asian, Chinese by descent and they had been put in place by the new silent partner in the business. One was a bookish gentleman with glasses as thick as jam jars who was constantly tapping away on his laptop. The glare danced against his weak chin giving it a little more definition. The second had a shaved head, dressed in a suit and was clearly fond of flashing his wealth as his gold watch, rings, and necklace demonstrated. He sat in the corner quietly.
“Mentallo,” said the first man from his laptop. He hit a few buttons and one of the screens in the bank shifted to mirror his laptop. The page was a SHIELD profile, everyone who had worked in the casino before their arrival had been clearly instructed not to ask him questions about where he got his information from. “Psychic powers, SHIELD trained. Has won more hands than is statistically probable…his cards weren’t exceptional either. He appears to be a good bluffer.” He turned to face the head of security and then to the shaved head man in the corner. He had sat forward in his chair and lifted his phone from his inside pocket.
“We have a problem sir, meta-human, telepath….understood sir.” He stood up and turned to the head of security. “Send some of your men, we’re going to have company in a couple of minutes. Bring him to the interrogation room.”
The head of security glared at him from under his tinted specs and nodded gently. He did not like being ordered about by anyone but the owner and CEO of the casino.
# # # # #
Circus Circus
Ben Reilley was a hard worker…when he was not being flaky. That was something that everyone could say about him honestly. In his first week he had been late three times and had vanished 20 minutes before the end of a performance. He had however been spotted on two of the other nights practicing by himself late into the hours of the morning.
When he was there he worked diligently. He was focused and precise and his form had come on in leaps and bounds in the short period of time. Madame Yemelin watched him closely with sharp eyes, whilst he didn’t let him see she was impressed by his progress. Given his clear natural ability and if he kept on improving then she could see him becoming an exceptional performer…if but for his lack of rhythm. He could do flips and spins, he could both throw and catch other performers and he displayed strength that was very impressive for his physique, but the boy couldn’t follow a tune or a beat if his life counted on it. She watched his lips move as he counted time to judge when to move onto the next step of his routine.
The Scarlet Spider swung around the room gracefully. His legs were close to his chest but splayed out to the side as his arms reached forward preparing to fire a blast of webbing. Ben waited for the moment and then fell to the floor throwing the white stringy substance he had tucked up his arm across his own chest.
His Hydra uniform slipped across one eye obscuring his view. He watched the figure of the Scarlet Spider rapidly pass him above. “This is an odd situation,” he thought to himself from flat on his back as he watched the polish gymnast named Arthur dressed in his costume trying his best to mimic his moves.
There was a slight startled yelp from above. Ben kicked up to land on his feet and turned in a crouch to look at Arthur who had mistimed a release from one grip and to another and was currently making his way to the edge of the safety net. “Okay, positions two,” barked Madame Yemelin.
Everyone moved quickly to their positions and prepared to run through part of the performance again. Everyone was professional, there were no apologies or recriminations at this stage. This sort of thing happened all the time, it’s why they spent so long practicing so that it went perfectly on the night.
“Madame Yemelin,” Ben began as he approached her removing his Hydra mask “Can we talk later about maybe getting a more active part….if you think I’ve improved enough obviously.”
Madame Yemelin turned to regard him. She had a serious expression on her face, as always. “Mr. Reilley you already have three roles in the current show which reflects how far you have come…and the needs for cast members we have at the moment.”
Ben nodded a little cowed by the woman’s imposing and decisive voice. He had no idea how she had such an impactful presence. He’d fought towering monsters, psychopathic killers, and his own mentally damaged clone-brother-guy but yet Madame Yemelin had such an effect on him.
It was true that Ben had three roles in the show and the money he was receiving was reflective of the hours he worked, he however would need more to get a permanent apartment rather than the temporary one he had been given as a performer. His three roles were firstly Hydra Agent #4 who gets webbed to the floor, bystander #6 who got to do a backflip onto his stomach when charged by the animatronic Pangolin and finally one of the bystanders who helps carry unconscious Scarlet Spider to a plinth where he recovers before his final battle with the Pixie. The casino obviously trying its hardest not to annoy any supervillains.
“Okay,” Ben nodded “I’ll ask again tomorrow. That’s me showing motivation and commitment, admirable qualities for someone with a bigger part.”
Ben couldn’t be sure but he thought momentarily that he saw a smile in the edge of Madame Yemelin’s mouth creep into existence before being swiftly rubbed out. She turned to go watch someone else practicing their part and no doubt crush them with ‘constructive’ criticism.
“Is this a bad time?” came a voice from behind Ben. He turned to face them.
Cindy Moon was dressed in a light blue summer dress and a large floppy hat to keep the sun off of her face. She took her sunglasses off and smiled at him.
“Cindy,” Ben said with quite a lot of excitement in his voice. “Way to keep it cool Spider-boy,” he chided himself.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?...is this just a coincidence and I’m being conceited?” Ben asked.
“I’ll take that as a congratulations for my new job,” she smiled wryly again as she had done during their first meeting. Ben was beginning to wonder if that was her default expression.
“Yeah, of course, I don’t at all hate you for pipping me to it. Have you started yet?”
“Officially next week, I was in today to sort some things out and then had some free time so I thought I’d look in on you. You seem to have landed on your feet.”
“Nah mostly my back. I get to do a flip and land on my stomach at one point,” he shrugged nonchalantly like it was no big thing.
“You are a man of many talents. Scientific and athletic…gymnastic even,” she said.
“I am pretty awesome,” Ben laughed as he spoke “modesty is my true strength though. So how did you know I was here?”
“Ah, this was a part I was hoping you’d be dumber than you seemed and didn’t ick at that particular scab,” she brushed some hair out of her face and tuned slightly to hide her blush. “I….uh….Can we take this next bit to be silly and cute, rather than all fatal attraction-y? I searched for you on social media sites. No Facebook or Twitter, total hipster points there.”
“Instagram was my downfall right?” Ben knew that it was the only social media account he had under his own name. He never had much in the way of friends to fill Facebook with and he just had a random twitter handle.
“You take a lot of pictures of sunsets and food. You were tagged by one of your co-workers at a practice. Again lets go for cute not creepy”
“OK, but only if I can hold you to that when you see my shrine to Tom Selleck and Taylor Swift in my apartment,” Ben held up his hands. He could feel his heart bounding and his stomach churning. He was ridiculously nervous like he was back talking to a girl in high school. That however was Peter Parker, Ben hadn’t existed at that point…and he hadn’t really talked to many girls.
“Woah slow down, you planning to take me to your apartment already. I think you’re moving too fast.” Cindy looked a little nervous and took a step back.
“Oh crap, I’m sorry. I…”
Cindy started laughing. “Come on, I stalked you on Instagram and turned up at your job. I’m clearly taking you out for drinks.”
“Taking me out or asking me out?”
“Taking you out, I’m not letting you contribute a cent,” Cindy raised her finger almost like it was a warning for him not to speak.
Ben grinned gently back at her. “I don’t think my masculinity can take that.”
“You’re wearing tights and a leotard, I don’t think your masculinity could be damaged anymore in this conversation.”
Ben suddenly became aware of this clothing. This wasn’t unusual for him since he slipped into tights every night and swung around the city battling criminals, averting disasters, and he did so with a strong confident attitude. Now, however he shifted slightly and covered his crotch with this wrists holding his hands together. It was as much for show as it was for his own ease.
“Only a true man could wear this whilst having this conversation.”
“Tonight then? Eight?”
“Nine,” Madame Yemelin spoke out. She was standing to the side. “Mr Reilley has a show at 7.30 but he will be able to be showered and awaiting you outside by nine this evening…perhaps sooner once he is fired for not taking his training seriously.”
Ben and Cindy turned to look at one another, back to Madame Yemelin and back to one another. “My masculinity totally survives this minute too,” Ben warned with a raised finger.
“Not at all,” Cindy smiled. She took a backwards step and waved her fingers “Nine; outside.”
# # # # #
6 PM
Marvin Flumm sat patiently in the interrogation room in the casino. He had been alone in here for about 40 minutes now and was beginning to get testy. He was giving it about five more minutes before he simply walked out of the casino. He had consented to coming to the backroom because he wanted to know the face and disposition of every security officer in town, it made his work that much easier to do if he understood the personality and had a rough topographical brain scan, and because he had nothing to lose. On some level he actually liked it. This was akin to him knocking on someone’s door and then running away, part of the thrill was them seeing you, maybe even giving chase and still managing to get away.
The door to the room opened and an Asian gentlemen, shaved head, dripping in gold entered. He was in a dark blue suit with a black shirt. He was flanked by two large African American gentlemen who were dressed in black suits. “Mentallo,” said the Asian man as he pulled up the chair opposite him at the table and sat down.
“My reputation precedes me” he grinned. He nodded almost in respect that they had identified him.
“Your SHIELD file, too,” said the man who still hadn’t offered his name to anyone.
“You accessed classified SHIELD files? Isn’t that illegal?” Mentallo raised an eyebrow with a smug smile. He was well aware that various organisations had managed to get some sort of access to SHIELD files over the years, it didn’t surprise him that some major conglomerates such as those who own Vegas casinos would be one of them. They were not, however usually so open with admitting it. That was interesting.
“Once I spotted you in here today we went back through our data using the finest software as well as in some other casinos which we have links with. You owe us $700,000…approximately.”
“Approximately? I was hoping I could have an exact figure…it’d look good on my criminal CV.”
“You consider yourself a criminal?” the man asked with a gentle nod, he stuck out his bottom lip “So few of our type do. That’s interesting.”
“Our kind?” Flumm asked.
The Asian man sat back and flashed his teeth like a shark about to bite into a seal. “We all have our secrets.”
Mentallo stood up and pressed his hands, palms down onto the table. “No one has secrets from me!” He pressed his mind up against the man’s and got flashes of images but not much else. He was somehow shielded from telepathic interrogation. The images were of men in black and white suits, they wore Chinese masks, hideously contorted faces with sharp teeth and horns. They were legion.
“Who are you people?” He asked the gentleman who stood up to face him.
“We’re in charge now and you’re in trouble,” he grinned. An arm suddenly slammed across his back and drove him into the table. One of the mountainous men behind him pressed his weight down on him while Mentallo jumped the table and headed for the door. The two heavy men were soon following.
The three held down the corridor, Mentallo in the middle whilst the other two flanked him from either side. They drew their weapons ready. He had implanted the instruction that they were loyal to him alone, protect him at all costs and lowered their inhibitions. They were going to have very itchy trigger fingers for anyone who got in their way.
He let them lead the way to the casino floor and then out into the crowds. Mentallo fired mental blasts and instructions at the random casino goers who were in his way. They were making good time.
He was unleashing a low level scan around the room looking for any security who had a line on him from a distance. A distance that his guards couldn’t protect him from. What he found was a little more worrying. There were five or six people in the room who his mind just slid over, like he was trying to hold hot butter, they gave off nothing but static. He looked around the room for them knowing exactly what to look for.
He saw two moving quickly along the far walls of the room. They were sprinting at full speed, their ties blowing over their shoulders. They kept their masked covered faces turned towards him. The two men who he had commandeered to fight for him unleashed a volley of bullets towards the men, they sprinted just ahead of the hail of bullets. Three bystanders were not so lucky. He didn’t care, he kept going.
They made it to the street a few seconds later. They sprinted into the open and then came to a complete stop. Flumm swore out loud, the two men who were linked to him repeated his words. In the street in front of them stood three of the masked men. Mentallo moved his eyes across the buildings of the street, there in shadows hidden in plain sight were numerous similarly dressed man. He could see about 30. Their minds were slippery static.
They advanced towards him slowly. He let them get three or more steps each before they were all tackled. Their minds were untouchable to him but the tourists who were dotted around the streets were not the same. They tried to drag the masked men to the ground.
# # # # #
A couple of streets over
Ben stood leaning against the wall as he opened his food and then began to walk whilst eating his mixed veg lamb shwarma. He was getting a breath of ‘fresh air’ before the show. The other performers would no doubt be wolfing down their broccoli, chicken breasts, and rice with a couple of bananas for dessert in preparation for the show making sure they had enough time to properly digest. Ben thanked heaven that he was a genetically modified radioactive spider victim, which gave him an amazing metabolism and let him eat what he wanted without any issues.
His mind was racing with ideas of where he could take Cindy and how exactly he would prove to Madame Yemelin that he was the right man to move up through the ranks in the show. He was picturing his form and body positioning to pull off the perfect moves. He of course felt pangs of guilt throughout all of this.
The whole situation, the show, the spotlight etc struck close to home for him. It all reminded him too much of the Spider-Man he was at the very beginning, the one who got Uncle Ben killed. He was using his powers for his own personal gain and stacking the deck against the other performers who had worked hard for years to perfect their moves. The idea had crept into his mind the moment he decided to try for a shot, he was being equally pulled into keeping his head down, doing the minimum and just eking out the living he needed.
The two ideas pulled at the two halves of him. One half said he should try his hardest at everything he did and the other half wanted to be fair and moral. His Uncle Ben’s maxim of ‘With great power comes great responsibility’ wasn’t so useful in this situation because it could be interpreted either way. ‘Damn subjectivity. I wish Uncle Ben was here’ it was not the first time he had made this wish both when he was Peter Parker and now.
Ben raised his head, his mouth full of Shwarma, to look at a figure who had caught his attention. It wasn’t like his spider-sense went off or anything. It was something else, maybe just years of experience, maybe some instinct honed through years of evolution.
The small group who he could see through the cross streets were running across his view. It wasn’t that which grabbed his attention, however it was more their jerky movements, the fact they looked like they kept stopping for milliseconds. Then they stopped all together…all together, at the exactly same moment, then they turned and ran the other way.
Ben threw his food in the trash and began to make a beeline for a back alley. This clearly looked like a job for the Scarlet Spider.
It took approximately two minutes for Ben to web his clothes securely in an unseen location, slip into his costume and swing to the main strip. He looked down on bedlam below him.
There were about 30-40 suited and booted ninjas whaling on the patrons of Vegas. They themselves were moving in fearless waves directly into them being slammed, kicked and struck to the floor, only to rise again as if it was nothing even though it was obvious that there were several broken bones between them.
The ninjas themselves were making tiny incremental movements towards a single figure who was unmoving standing in the centre of the mass. He had one hand to his temple whilst his other moved, outstretched, in various directions at the crowds just before they surged. ‘Brilliant; a psychic’
He dived towards the floor to land next to the man, having assessed the situation. The general rule of thumb should always be ‘talk to the person who the ninjas are after’. “Okay Professor X what is going on here….” The man turned to look at him and smiled.
Ben turned his back on the man and dropped back into a fighting stance. He didn’t know why but he felt the overwhelming urge to protect the figure from the ninjas. He would fight to the death to protect his friend if he had to.
To be continued...
“Morning, Wannnga'a,” said Michael Honi to his brother as he sidled up beside him and leaned on the wooden rail outside of the general store. His brother Lincoln was busy staring off across the stretch of desert before him.
They were both on the wrong side of 60 and wore matching little round spectacles that sat on the bridge of their noses. Michael’s hair was cropped short, thinning at the crown and at the top of his forehead. His brother Lincoln took on more of a traditional look with his long hair in braids down this chest. They both wore denim shirts; they were not twins but the similarity between them had increased with age so that some would mistake them for such. They were large men built like their namesake, the bear.
“Wagannna’a, I don’t like the look of those clouds.” He nodded at the sky in the distance at which he was staring.
“They don’t look like storm clouds to me,” said Michael with a furrowed brow.
“No, but an omen, the great thunderer spoke to me in a dream,” Lincoln said as he turned to his brother.
“Ah, Wa'etse,” said Michael with a shake of his head. He had called his bother ‘Old Man’ since he turned 50 whilst he himself was only 45. He was as he had always been, in two minds about their heritage. He still prayed and he was proud of their rituals but in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but shake his scientific knowledge which conflicted with their ancient stories. All the talk of prophecies and signs had always brought on an ‘oh brother’ attitude in him. Not least because his brother was the Micco.
“Grandmother spoke to the spirits all the time, she told us…”
“She also called you Tate,” Michael smirked.
“’He who talks too much’…it was fitting,” he laughed gently. “There is still no sign of those missing, the boys search every day.” He sighed, in the past weeks people had went missing from the reservation with no sign. Sure they could have went on a bender into Vegas like so many others had before but it didn’t fit their characters, two of them didn’t have two dimes to rub together. For one, Dino Poorbear however, it sounded just about right.
“You’ve just been on edge recently, have been for about a month now. You ever going to share with the rest of the council why that is?” Michael raised an eyebrow to his brother.
“Nothing, things for a chief to be concerned with. It’s my burden,” he nodded. “One more day to try and find them and then we’ll call in the FBI to do a wider search.”
“FBI always rub folks the wrong way.” Michael took a big glug of his coffee.
“We don’t have anything to fear from them, everyone needs to trust a little more,” he said with a nod.
“That’s what they said to our ancestors…look how that worked out,” Michael gestured to the horizon. “Anyway Wa’etse some of us have work to get to off this Rez. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He drained his coffee and stepped off the porch onto the sandy dirt.
Lincoln turned and entered his store whilst his brother walked towards his truck. There was a low rumbling sound which sounded a little like thunder and then a sudden gasp of air. Lincoln turned to look for the source of the sound.
His brother was gone.
# # # # #
The Outskirts of Vegas, storage locker (once featured on storage wars)
Vince Gonzales and his partner Michelle McKenzie moved through the storage facility. They were here following a tip from one of the homeless residents in the city, a woman who always had her ear to the floor and seemed to know a little bit about everything. She had seen something, she wasn’t sure what, but it had been bad. The scream from the victim had apparently set her hair on end. The scream had been reported by another two citizens but they had no clue where it had come from.
“If we got a blanket search warrant how many crimes do you think we’d find in this place?” Michelle asked, she had her hand on her gun and glanced down the rows of lock ups as she moved.
“A fair few, I’m more thinking about the forfeiture cash we could rake in.”
“You’ve seen too many episodes of that storage show,” she said with a shake of her head.
“I’m a junkie, pawn stars and everything. I’m a reality TV auction show addict. It’s the one thing we don’t have a meeting for in Sin City,” Vin said. He mirrored his partner’s movements as they moved down the lanes.
“No one calls it Sin City. I’ve lived here my whole life and no one calls it that.”
“Well, I moved from New York and I do,” Vin shook his head and then slowed. He nodded straight ahead. “There.”
The locker he pointed to had a dark stain on the floor just outside of the door. The stain was a light brown but their instinct and experience told them that it used to be red. The door had been shut but not locked; the lock was broken on the floor probably from where it had been smashed open in the first place.
“Ready?” Michelle asked as she moved to the door. Vin nodded as he moved to cover him. She grabbed the door and pulled it up sending the door sliding shut.
Vin moved forward moving his gun from one side of the locker to another. It was mostly empty but for a few cardboard boxes.
He moved in slowly. Lowering his gun as he did so. “Empty,” he turned to look at Michelle. He turned back when he heard a movement. The face was only inches from his, now having swung down from the ceiling.
He screamed and leapt back. The face was disfigured, blackened with tight shiny skin. It’s eyes sunken and hollow. His mouth open in a scream. Vin unleashed two bullets into the centre mass before he realised that the figure was already clearly dead.
It fell from the ceiling where it had been suspended thanks to the force from the bullets. It hit the floor with a thud and it’s chest burst like a piñata. A horde of black moved from the now gaping wound as the mass of spiders he held within him crawled for freedom. It was only now Vin noticed that the figure had been stuck to the ceiling of the place with spider webs.
Michelle took several steps back from the now scattering spiders and opened the relevant channel on her radio.
# # # # #
Las Vegas, later, early evening
Marvin glanced around himself, not nervously, but rather aware. He was keeping an eye out for the security that the casinos were famous for. He was trying to do so, however without looking nervous. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worked up this time; he had done this a thousand times. He even got caught once or twice, which wasn’t exactly a problem for him.
He sat back and grinned confidently. He rolled his shoulders back and rubbed his goatee before leaning forward and picking up his glass of scotch. He tried to make eye contact with those seated around the table from him and smile, showing the wrinkles around his aging eyes but was often met with blank stone faced stares of simply a set of shades. He knew their eyes were trying to bore through him to pick up some signal or another of what hand he had.
Poker was his game of choice. It had just the right amount of skill and luck that he didn’t feel like a complete sham celebrating his winnings (in other cases it could just become like an ATM transaction) but just the right amount of leeway that let his powers become most useful.
He had thought a couple of minutes earlier of going to play Black Jack where all he had to help was the dealers ideas about what cards had been played recently or even craps or roulette where it was totally out of his control. Well mostly, it was a blunter use of his powers in this context than he liked but he wasn’t above making everyone around the table see the numbers or the cards as falling in his direction.
The mutant known as Mentallo varied in the use of his powers depending on whether he was gambling for fun, because he needed money or if he wanted a little more ‘sportsmanship’. This time he was playing it safe and strictly sticking to mind reading. If he did anymore there was always the danger that someone in the control room would see his losing hand being declared the winner and it would raise some concerns. Sure a mindwipe and an instruction to wipe the records stopped him getting pinched but it was a lot more effort and a lot less fun.
“Keep a straight face Buck…high rollers around this table and you can bluff with the best of them,” the chunky sunburned man sitting three places to Mentallo’s right thought without betraying anything in his face. An admirable ability, Mentallo without his telepathic prowess was a horrific bluffer. “Can’t believe I’ve got the kids tuition riding on this…If they ever get to college,” Buck’s mind began to wander slightly.
Mentallo thought for a moment whether he wanted to take this poor rube’s money. He clearly didn’t have much of it by looking at what he was wearing. No class compared to his own fine red silk shirt and white linen suit, the gold Rolex glinting from his wrist.
“Screw him, it’s his own dumb fault…and it’s not like I got to go to college,” was Marvin Flum’s response. He cast a quick mental scan around the table for the cards of the other players. A businessman from Tulsa who was running through the big Vegas win fantasy. A woman who had a hatchet sharp face, she was a lawyer from Michigan. An obese Texan who had made a small fortune finding a small deposit of oil. All of them had nothing in their hands he needed to worry too much about.
He started by giving them a blast of confidence, making them sink dollar after dollar into the pot for a couple of passes and then he started to blast out a low level of anxiety. One by one he watched as they folded and he picked up the pot. He didn’t let the fact that he had cheated to win dissuade him from his celebration.
In the back room a group of men, highly trained professionals watched the screens of the casino looking at the comings and goings of punters and staff. They were experts at spotting unusual patterns of behaviour, cheating behaviour and the certain stress signs to watch in their customers for an early warning of something serious about to erupt. They would then direct the floor staff to intercept.
Two more members had joined the fold recently. They were both Asian, Chinese by descent and they had been put in place by the new silent partner in the business. One was a bookish gentleman with glasses as thick as jam jars who was constantly tapping away on his laptop. The glare danced against his weak chin giving it a little more definition. The second had a shaved head, dressed in a suit and was clearly fond of flashing his wealth as his gold watch, rings, and necklace demonstrated. He sat in the corner quietly.
“Mentallo,” said the first man from his laptop. He hit a few buttons and one of the screens in the bank shifted to mirror his laptop. The page was a SHIELD profile, everyone who had worked in the casino before their arrival had been clearly instructed not to ask him questions about where he got his information from. “Psychic powers, SHIELD trained. Has won more hands than is statistically probable…his cards weren’t exceptional either. He appears to be a good bluffer.” He turned to face the head of security and then to the shaved head man in the corner. He had sat forward in his chair and lifted his phone from his inside pocket.
“We have a problem sir, meta-human, telepath….understood sir.” He stood up and turned to the head of security. “Send some of your men, we’re going to have company in a couple of minutes. Bring him to the interrogation room.”
The head of security glared at him from under his tinted specs and nodded gently. He did not like being ordered about by anyone but the owner and CEO of the casino.
# # # # #
Circus Circus
Ben Reilley was a hard worker…when he was not being flaky. That was something that everyone could say about him honestly. In his first week he had been late three times and had vanished 20 minutes before the end of a performance. He had however been spotted on two of the other nights practicing by himself late into the hours of the morning.
When he was there he worked diligently. He was focused and precise and his form had come on in leaps and bounds in the short period of time. Madame Yemelin watched him closely with sharp eyes, whilst he didn’t let him see she was impressed by his progress. Given his clear natural ability and if he kept on improving then she could see him becoming an exceptional performer…if but for his lack of rhythm. He could do flips and spins, he could both throw and catch other performers and he displayed strength that was very impressive for his physique, but the boy couldn’t follow a tune or a beat if his life counted on it. She watched his lips move as he counted time to judge when to move onto the next step of his routine.
The Scarlet Spider swung around the room gracefully. His legs were close to his chest but splayed out to the side as his arms reached forward preparing to fire a blast of webbing. Ben waited for the moment and then fell to the floor throwing the white stringy substance he had tucked up his arm across his own chest.
His Hydra uniform slipped across one eye obscuring his view. He watched the figure of the Scarlet Spider rapidly pass him above. “This is an odd situation,” he thought to himself from flat on his back as he watched the polish gymnast named Arthur dressed in his costume trying his best to mimic his moves.
There was a slight startled yelp from above. Ben kicked up to land on his feet and turned in a crouch to look at Arthur who had mistimed a release from one grip and to another and was currently making his way to the edge of the safety net. “Okay, positions two,” barked Madame Yemelin.
Everyone moved quickly to their positions and prepared to run through part of the performance again. Everyone was professional, there were no apologies or recriminations at this stage. This sort of thing happened all the time, it’s why they spent so long practicing so that it went perfectly on the night.
“Madame Yemelin,” Ben began as he approached her removing his Hydra mask “Can we talk later about maybe getting a more active part….if you think I’ve improved enough obviously.”
Madame Yemelin turned to regard him. She had a serious expression on her face, as always. “Mr. Reilley you already have three roles in the current show which reflects how far you have come…and the needs for cast members we have at the moment.”
Ben nodded a little cowed by the woman’s imposing and decisive voice. He had no idea how she had such an impactful presence. He’d fought towering monsters, psychopathic killers, and his own mentally damaged clone-brother-guy but yet Madame Yemelin had such an effect on him.
It was true that Ben had three roles in the show and the money he was receiving was reflective of the hours he worked, he however would need more to get a permanent apartment rather than the temporary one he had been given as a performer. His three roles were firstly Hydra Agent #4 who gets webbed to the floor, bystander #6 who got to do a backflip onto his stomach when charged by the animatronic Pangolin and finally one of the bystanders who helps carry unconscious Scarlet Spider to a plinth where he recovers before his final battle with the Pixie. The casino obviously trying its hardest not to annoy any supervillains.
“Okay,” Ben nodded “I’ll ask again tomorrow. That’s me showing motivation and commitment, admirable qualities for someone with a bigger part.”
Ben couldn’t be sure but he thought momentarily that he saw a smile in the edge of Madame Yemelin’s mouth creep into existence before being swiftly rubbed out. She turned to go watch someone else practicing their part and no doubt crush them with ‘constructive’ criticism.
“Is this a bad time?” came a voice from behind Ben. He turned to face them.
Cindy Moon was dressed in a light blue summer dress and a large floppy hat to keep the sun off of her face. She took her sunglasses off and smiled at him.
“Cindy,” Ben said with quite a lot of excitement in his voice. “Way to keep it cool Spider-boy,” he chided himself.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?...is this just a coincidence and I’m being conceited?” Ben asked.
“I’ll take that as a congratulations for my new job,” she smiled wryly again as she had done during their first meeting. Ben was beginning to wonder if that was her default expression.
“Yeah, of course, I don’t at all hate you for pipping me to it. Have you started yet?”
“Officially next week, I was in today to sort some things out and then had some free time so I thought I’d look in on you. You seem to have landed on your feet.”
“Nah mostly my back. I get to do a flip and land on my stomach at one point,” he shrugged nonchalantly like it was no big thing.
“You are a man of many talents. Scientific and athletic…gymnastic even,” she said.
“I am pretty awesome,” Ben laughed as he spoke “modesty is my true strength though. So how did you know I was here?”
“Ah, this was a part I was hoping you’d be dumber than you seemed and didn’t ick at that particular scab,” she brushed some hair out of her face and tuned slightly to hide her blush. “I….uh….Can we take this next bit to be silly and cute, rather than all fatal attraction-y? I searched for you on social media sites. No Facebook or Twitter, total hipster points there.”
“Instagram was my downfall right?” Ben knew that it was the only social media account he had under his own name. He never had much in the way of friends to fill Facebook with and he just had a random twitter handle.
“You take a lot of pictures of sunsets and food. You were tagged by one of your co-workers at a practice. Again lets go for cute not creepy”
“OK, but only if I can hold you to that when you see my shrine to Tom Selleck and Taylor Swift in my apartment,” Ben held up his hands. He could feel his heart bounding and his stomach churning. He was ridiculously nervous like he was back talking to a girl in high school. That however was Peter Parker, Ben hadn’t existed at that point…and he hadn’t really talked to many girls.
“Woah slow down, you planning to take me to your apartment already. I think you’re moving too fast.” Cindy looked a little nervous and took a step back.
“Oh crap, I’m sorry. I…”
Cindy started laughing. “Come on, I stalked you on Instagram and turned up at your job. I’m clearly taking you out for drinks.”
“Taking me out or asking me out?”
“Taking you out, I’m not letting you contribute a cent,” Cindy raised her finger almost like it was a warning for him not to speak.
Ben grinned gently back at her. “I don’t think my masculinity can take that.”
“You’re wearing tights and a leotard, I don’t think your masculinity could be damaged anymore in this conversation.”
Ben suddenly became aware of this clothing. This wasn’t unusual for him since he slipped into tights every night and swung around the city battling criminals, averting disasters, and he did so with a strong confident attitude. Now, however he shifted slightly and covered his crotch with this wrists holding his hands together. It was as much for show as it was for his own ease.
“Only a true man could wear this whilst having this conversation.”
“Tonight then? Eight?”
“Nine,” Madame Yemelin spoke out. She was standing to the side. “Mr Reilley has a show at 7.30 but he will be able to be showered and awaiting you outside by nine this evening…perhaps sooner once he is fired for not taking his training seriously.”
Ben and Cindy turned to look at one another, back to Madame Yemelin and back to one another. “My masculinity totally survives this minute too,” Ben warned with a raised finger.
“Not at all,” Cindy smiled. She took a backwards step and waved her fingers “Nine; outside.”
# # # # #
6 PM
Marvin Flumm sat patiently in the interrogation room in the casino. He had been alone in here for about 40 minutes now and was beginning to get testy. He was giving it about five more minutes before he simply walked out of the casino. He had consented to coming to the backroom because he wanted to know the face and disposition of every security officer in town, it made his work that much easier to do if he understood the personality and had a rough topographical brain scan, and because he had nothing to lose. On some level he actually liked it. This was akin to him knocking on someone’s door and then running away, part of the thrill was them seeing you, maybe even giving chase and still managing to get away.
The door to the room opened and an Asian gentlemen, shaved head, dripping in gold entered. He was in a dark blue suit with a black shirt. He was flanked by two large African American gentlemen who were dressed in black suits. “Mentallo,” said the Asian man as he pulled up the chair opposite him at the table and sat down.
“My reputation precedes me” he grinned. He nodded almost in respect that they had identified him.
“Your SHIELD file, too,” said the man who still hadn’t offered his name to anyone.
“You accessed classified SHIELD files? Isn’t that illegal?” Mentallo raised an eyebrow with a smug smile. He was well aware that various organisations had managed to get some sort of access to SHIELD files over the years, it didn’t surprise him that some major conglomerates such as those who own Vegas casinos would be one of them. They were not, however usually so open with admitting it. That was interesting.
“Once I spotted you in here today we went back through our data using the finest software as well as in some other casinos which we have links with. You owe us $700,000…approximately.”
“Approximately? I was hoping I could have an exact figure…it’d look good on my criminal CV.”
“You consider yourself a criminal?” the man asked with a gentle nod, he stuck out his bottom lip “So few of our type do. That’s interesting.”
“Our kind?” Flumm asked.
The Asian man sat back and flashed his teeth like a shark about to bite into a seal. “We all have our secrets.”
Mentallo stood up and pressed his hands, palms down onto the table. “No one has secrets from me!” He pressed his mind up against the man’s and got flashes of images but not much else. He was somehow shielded from telepathic interrogation. The images were of men in black and white suits, they wore Chinese masks, hideously contorted faces with sharp teeth and horns. They were legion.
“Who are you people?” He asked the gentleman who stood up to face him.
“We’re in charge now and you’re in trouble,” he grinned. An arm suddenly slammed across his back and drove him into the table. One of the mountainous men behind him pressed his weight down on him while Mentallo jumped the table and headed for the door. The two heavy men were soon following.
The three held down the corridor, Mentallo in the middle whilst the other two flanked him from either side. They drew their weapons ready. He had implanted the instruction that they were loyal to him alone, protect him at all costs and lowered their inhibitions. They were going to have very itchy trigger fingers for anyone who got in their way.
He let them lead the way to the casino floor and then out into the crowds. Mentallo fired mental blasts and instructions at the random casino goers who were in his way. They were making good time.
He was unleashing a low level scan around the room looking for any security who had a line on him from a distance. A distance that his guards couldn’t protect him from. What he found was a little more worrying. There were five or six people in the room who his mind just slid over, like he was trying to hold hot butter, they gave off nothing but static. He looked around the room for them knowing exactly what to look for.
He saw two moving quickly along the far walls of the room. They were sprinting at full speed, their ties blowing over their shoulders. They kept their masked covered faces turned towards him. The two men who he had commandeered to fight for him unleashed a volley of bullets towards the men, they sprinted just ahead of the hail of bullets. Three bystanders were not so lucky. He didn’t care, he kept going.
They made it to the street a few seconds later. They sprinted into the open and then came to a complete stop. Flumm swore out loud, the two men who were linked to him repeated his words. In the street in front of them stood three of the masked men. Mentallo moved his eyes across the buildings of the street, there in shadows hidden in plain sight were numerous similarly dressed man. He could see about 30. Their minds were slippery static.
They advanced towards him slowly. He let them get three or more steps each before they were all tackled. Their minds were untouchable to him but the tourists who were dotted around the streets were not the same. They tried to drag the masked men to the ground.
# # # # #
A couple of streets over
Ben stood leaning against the wall as he opened his food and then began to walk whilst eating his mixed veg lamb shwarma. He was getting a breath of ‘fresh air’ before the show. The other performers would no doubt be wolfing down their broccoli, chicken breasts, and rice with a couple of bananas for dessert in preparation for the show making sure they had enough time to properly digest. Ben thanked heaven that he was a genetically modified radioactive spider victim, which gave him an amazing metabolism and let him eat what he wanted without any issues.
His mind was racing with ideas of where he could take Cindy and how exactly he would prove to Madame Yemelin that he was the right man to move up through the ranks in the show. He was picturing his form and body positioning to pull off the perfect moves. He of course felt pangs of guilt throughout all of this.
The whole situation, the show, the spotlight etc struck close to home for him. It all reminded him too much of the Spider-Man he was at the very beginning, the one who got Uncle Ben killed. He was using his powers for his own personal gain and stacking the deck against the other performers who had worked hard for years to perfect their moves. The idea had crept into his mind the moment he decided to try for a shot, he was being equally pulled into keeping his head down, doing the minimum and just eking out the living he needed.
The two ideas pulled at the two halves of him. One half said he should try his hardest at everything he did and the other half wanted to be fair and moral. His Uncle Ben’s maxim of ‘With great power comes great responsibility’ wasn’t so useful in this situation because it could be interpreted either way. ‘Damn subjectivity. I wish Uncle Ben was here’ it was not the first time he had made this wish both when he was Peter Parker and now.
Ben raised his head, his mouth full of Shwarma, to look at a figure who had caught his attention. It wasn’t like his spider-sense went off or anything. It was something else, maybe just years of experience, maybe some instinct honed through years of evolution.
The small group who he could see through the cross streets were running across his view. It wasn’t that which grabbed his attention, however it was more their jerky movements, the fact they looked like they kept stopping for milliseconds. Then they stopped all together…all together, at the exactly same moment, then they turned and ran the other way.
Ben threw his food in the trash and began to make a beeline for a back alley. This clearly looked like a job for the Scarlet Spider.
It took approximately two minutes for Ben to web his clothes securely in an unseen location, slip into his costume and swing to the main strip. He looked down on bedlam below him.
There were about 30-40 suited and booted ninjas whaling on the patrons of Vegas. They themselves were moving in fearless waves directly into them being slammed, kicked and struck to the floor, only to rise again as if it was nothing even though it was obvious that there were several broken bones between them.
The ninjas themselves were making tiny incremental movements towards a single figure who was unmoving standing in the centre of the mass. He had one hand to his temple whilst his other moved, outstretched, in various directions at the crowds just before they surged. ‘Brilliant; a psychic’
He dived towards the floor to land next to the man, having assessed the situation. The general rule of thumb should always be ‘talk to the person who the ninjas are after’. “Okay Professor X what is going on here….” The man turned to look at him and smiled.
Ben turned his back on the man and dropped back into a fighting stance. He didn’t know why but he felt the overwhelming urge to protect the figure from the ninjas. He would fight to the death to protect his friend if he had to.
To be continued...