[Clone's Perspective]
I marched south, toward the lights of civilization I had spotted on the descent.
Three hours later, the lights resolved into an industrial outpost.
I found a dive bar on the outskirts. The neon sign buzzed and flickered, spelling out VODKA in Cyrillic. I pushed the heavy metal door open and stepped inside.
The bar was populated by men who looked like they carved a living out of rock.
I was shirtless, covered in soot, wearing tattered military pants.
A man at the bar, a giant with a shaved head and a neck tattoo of a spider, stood up. He said something in Russian, his tone aggressive.
"I need a drink," I said in English.
The giant laughed. He walked over, his friends flanking him. He pulled a knife from his belt.
"American," the giant spat in broken English. He lunged. The knife aimed for my gut.
I let the blade hit my stomach.
Tink.
The metal tip snapped off against my skin.
The giant froze, staring at the broken weapon. He looked up at my face.
I grabbed his wrist. I headbutted him.
CRACK.
His nose collapsed into his skull. He dropped to the floor like a sack of wet cement.
The other three men rushed me. One swung a pool cue. It shattered over my shoulder. I backhanded him, sending him flying through a table.
The third man tried to punch me. I caught his fist and twisted it. The sound of his shoulder popping out of the socket was loud in the silence.
I walked to the bar. The bartender, a skinny man with terrified eyes, was shaking.
"Whiskey," I said. "And a phone."
He scrambled to pour a glass, spilling half of it. He pushed his own cell phone across the counter.
I downed the whiskey in one swallow. It tasted like gasoline.
I picked up the phone. I accessed the local network, looking for a fixer. Someone who moved people across borders.
I found a number on a local forum for illicit goods. I dialed.
"Da?" a voice answered.
"I need a passport," I said. "And a ticket to New York."
"Who is this?"
"Money," I said. "I have money."
I looked at the unconscious giant on the floor. I crouched down and rifled through his pockets. A thick wad of rubles. A gold chain. And a heavy watch.
"Meet me at the airfield," I said.
The fixer was a greasy man named Yuri. He met me in a hangar at the private airfield. He had two bodyguards with AK 47s.
"You have the money?" Yuri asked, eyeing my stolen clothes… a leather jacket and jeans I had taken from one of the bar patrons.
I tossed the roll of cash and the gold on the table. "That's the down payment."
Yuri counted it. "This gets you the paper. The flight... that costs more."
I stepped closer. The bodyguards raised their rifles. I ignored them. I looked Yuri in the eye.
I reached into the mental reservoir of my abilities.
Telepathy (Tier 1).
I pushed a suggestion. You want to help me. You want to please me.
"The flight is on the house," I said, my voice calm. "Consider it an investment in future relations."
Yuri blinked. His eyes glazed over for a split second. "An investment," he repeated dully. "Yes. Of course. We have a cargo plane leaving for JFK in twenty minutes. You can take the jump seat."
"Good," I said. "The passport?"
He handed me a freshly printed booklet. The photo was a generic likeness, but the chips were encoded.
"Thank you for your service, comrade," I said, patting his cheek.
I walked toward the plane.
New York City.
I walked out of the cargo terminal, ignoring the customs agents who seemed to coincidentally look the other way as I passed… another subtle nudging of perception.
…
A dusty apartment in the East Village
I kicked the door in.
The Legend was sitting in a recliner, surrounded by stacks of Vought comic books and old VHS tapes. He jumped, spilling his drink.
"Jesus Christ!" he wheezed. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
I stepped into the light.
The Legend's jaw dropped. His cigar fell from his mouth.
"Ben?" he whispered. "No... No, you're dead. The Russians..."
"Where is it?" I said.
"Where is what?"
"My suit, Legend. My shield. Don't tell me you sold it."
"I... I kept it," he stammered, standing up on shaky legs. "In the storage locker. Back room."
"Good boy."
I walked to the back room. There was a metal trunk. I ripped the padlock off.
Inside, resting on velvet, was the suit. The dark green tactical gear. The eagle on the shoulder. The heavy brass shield.
I stripped off the stolen clothes. I pulled on the pants, the boots, the heavy vest. It fit perfectly.
I picked up the shield.
I walked back into the living room. The Legend was staring at me like he was seeing a ghost.
"You look... exactly the same," he said. "You haven't aged a day."
"I need a location." I said.
"For who?"
"Countess," I said. "Where is she?"
"Ben, don't," Legend said, raising his hands. "She's... she's moved on. She's got a gig."
"Where?" I asked, my voice hardening.
"The Chimp Sanctuary," Legend sighed. "In Vermont."
"Vermont," I repeated. "Thanks, Legend."
I turned to leave.
"Ben," Legend called out. "What are you going to do?"
I looked back over my shoulder.
"I'm getting the band back together."
…
The Crimson Countess Chimp Sanctuary was a sad collection of cages and overgrown grass in the middle of nowhere.
I walked up the gravel driveway. The sign was faded. I could hear the shrieking of chimps in the distance.
I reached the main building. It was a trailer, really. I grabbed the door handle and ripped the door off its hinges.
Inside, the air smelled of incense and animal musk.
Crimson Countess was standing in front of a ring light and a webcam. She was wearing a silk robe, singing a ballad about chimpanzees.
"Chimps don't cry..." she warbled.
I stepped into the frame.
She stopped. The music cut out. She stared at me, her eyes widening until I thought they might pop out of her skull.
"Ben?" she whispered.
"Hello, Countess," I said.
"You... you're real?" She backed away, knocking over the ring light. "But... we thought..."
"You thought I was dead," I said, walking closer. "Or did you just hope?"
"No! No, Ben, I swear!" She was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "I loved you! We all did! We searched for you! Vought said you were dead!"
"Did they?" I asked. "Or did you make a deal? Did you trade me for a paycheck?"
"No! Never!"
"Liar," I said.