Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Five

The four Devon supers - in costumes and masks, with Randy transformed into Template - didn't do much cleanup or rescuing after the storm, though they did some. The worst of the winds and rain had missed their area, and most of the damage they saw involved trees in saturated ground giving way due to the strong winds. The family's methodology was simple: They flew around while listening to emergency radio communications on their ear buds. Once they found a situation where they could help - whether by radio or through their own searching - they hurried to do so. They turned out to be almost the only masks working in their area. The members of the quartet were definitely the only people in costume whom they saw.

Template carried a shrunken Colossa plus Roy while Sarah flew alongside. Sarah, as befitted her costume - inspired by her favorite Americanized anime - called herself Princess. Roy still hadn't settled on a mask name, but was leaning towards Royal. This somewhat fit his costume, an old-fashioned formal, long-tailed jacket, with black pants, gloves, top hat and mask, something which looked like it could have been handed down to him by the Black Mask, himself. Whom Roy had actually met. Apparently, the older super had made a significant impression on the young man.

Remarkably, while there were many "Princess" somethings and "Royal" somethings in the registry, both names without modifiers were available.

Together the family of supers moved a few trees and large branches, mostly to clear blocked roads. Template also had Royal use his energy control to make sure any wires were dead before she moved them. She was invulnerable, of course, but there was no sense taking chances, when Royal could do this from a safe distance. He could even trip the cutouts if that were needed. The two adults considered this to be largely a training mission for the kids, helping them understand what they could do in an emergency. As well as what they shouldn't do. Perhaps most importantly, the children were taught how to apply their gifts to help people.

Although Template was stronger than Colossa even at her largest, there were circumstances where the latter's size at full growth made her more suitable for handling large objects. This became particularly obvious when they had to deal with a certain huge, old oak tree which had been felled by the winds. The official rescue workers were glad to see them. Cutting up the tree was slow going, and the only person still directly affected by it was... impatient.

The tree had toppled onto a house. Though there was little damage - only the leafy top had actually hit the structure - part of the roof had collapsed and the wreckage and tree limbs were blocking access to an upper-floor bedroom where an elderly woman was trapped. Fortunately, she was both unharmed and communicative. Very communicative. Colossa hopped to the ground from her perch on Template's head and expanded to her full size.

Working with the rescue experts, Colossa - now many times typical human size - supported the trunk while the other three in her family used their powers to remove the leafy upper portions. That way they could see what needed to be done next, and how to do it. This also gave the non-powered rescuers room to use their chainsaws. Roy's powers were especially useful after they had the tree away from the house. He was able to transmute part of the scrap wood into a large sheet of dense, water resistant paper which would keep any further rain out until proper repairs could be made.

In a very short time they reached a stage where the four supers could move on and leave the rest to the experts. Though the old woman was heard to ask loudly why they couldn't "put everything back the way it was" before they left. Colossa quickly explained that the unions didn't want them doing carpentry, which seemed to satisfy her.

As they flew away, though, one member of the quartet voiced his own criticism.

"I am really glad I don't have to change into a girl to use my powers," said Roy - or Royal - with a critical glance at Template.

"What's wrong with being a girl?!" demanded Sarah - or Princess - gleefully.

"Would you want to change into a boy?"

"No! Boys are icky!"

"I hope that settles that," muttered the miniaturized Colossa, as she settled back into her perch on Template's head.

* * *

Fortunately, the storm also spared Detroit most of its fury. There were some limbs and a few entire trees down; some blocks were without power; some streets were closed due to flash floods. Overall, though, the city had gotten off lightly from the tempest.

However, there were far more sources of danger than wind and rain.

"Do you remember that the judge in charge of the case of the two problematic cops claimed that they had threatened him?" said Drake, to Vic, in a private meeting in the boss' office the day after the storm. "He was found dead in his study by his housekeeper this morning. Shot multiple times in the back. Probably by someone who used the noise of the storm to cover the sound of the shots. Maybe of the killer's approach, too. There are no signs of a struggle. No evidence the judge had any warning."

"Ow. I'm... well, not surprised, but..."

She floundered, at a loss for words.

"The two cops had their bail revoked and the city of Detroit has asked for federal help with the investigation," said Drake, picking up the thread of the announcement when Vic stalled out. "By the way, the city is still officially supporting those police officers. The FBI and the Marshal's Service are the main agencies working the case, but we may be asked to assist them. Just a heads up."

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" said Sarah, as she entered her father's office.

"I did an inventory of the supplies in our shelter after we used it," said Randy, sternly. "The breakfast bars had been replaced by a box of Taco Crunchies cereal."

"Why are you blaming me?" she whined, even though he hadn't actually blamed anyone. Yet.

"You're the only person in this family who likes that... junk."

"Taco Crunchies aren't junk!" said Sarah, with the conviction of a true believer. "They're great!"

"No, that's Frosted Flakes," said Randy, to her confusion. "Listen, the emergency supplies were put there for emergencies. Don't mess with them!"

"Yes, sir," said Sarah, with a sigh.

* * *

Vic and Drake were indeed invited to a joint meeting of the local FBI and Marshal's Service to discus the assassination of Judge Wapakoneta. Detroit's head coroner gave the initial presentation. An FBI profiler then translated.

"Someone put six slugs into the judge's back, as he was sitting at his desk," said the FBI woman. "The first two hit the spine, just below the base of the neck, from a range close enough to leave powder residue on his clothes and the top of his chair's back. The bullets hit very close together. The first shot likely killed him instantly, with the second being fired immediately after it. A double-tap. The rest were fired more deliberately after he slumped forward, from a bit more distance and at a different angle, and were probably insurance. Or maybe a message. None of the bullets hit the Judge's chair. The first two shots were just over the top of the chair's back, leaving the powder burns on the leather; the other four were at an angle and from further away. The city wants state and Federal help with this investigation, since it involves both civil rights and the murder of a local judge. Because the original case involved someone with powers the FBI wanted to include folks from Special Resources.

"The judge was shot enough times that we were able to reconstruct a full set of rifling markings on the bullets," the FBI profiler continued. "We quickly determined that the bullet diameter was .357 and the type of bullet was a modern, jacketed hollow-point. Each projectile likely started at 158 grains, and was probably made within the past decade. The impact velocity was low enough that even those modern bullets barely expanded. So when someone found an old, First Series Detective Special with a two-inch barrel, in .38 Special, ditched in a storm sewer near the scene, we immediately tested it. It gave us a match for the rifling marks on the bullets. The empty cases were still in it, which confirmed that the cartridge was a modern .38 Special commercial load, one specifically intended for use in guns with short barrels. We also recorded the chamber markings on the cases and the firing pin marks on the primers. Unfortunately, the gun and the cartridge cases had all been wiped clean, so we didn't get any prints. Somebody was being thorough."

"A snubby in thirty-eight Special?" said Drake, frowning. "That combination is a rather traditional hit weapon. Not an assassination weapon; a close-up hit gun. That type of firearm is, as the name for the model of the gun you found implies, an old-school plainclothes detective's weapon, and also a traditional concealed carry gun, and so on. So we may be looking for an old cop or an old mobster. Of course, it's also a popular throw-down or throw-away gun even today."

"Yeah, those old-style guns can often be picked up cheap, since these days they are seen as unsafe, 'cause of the fixed firing pin on the hammer," said one of the older Deputy Marshalls at the briefing. "They are still effective, though. There were a lot of 'em made, and they were in use for a long time."

"Still are in use, some places," said the profiler. "I think they were manufactured until the mid-Nineties, with some updates along the way, like a transfer bar safety. The murder weapon was an old gun, though. The serial number was obliterated, but we're trying to bring it out. The lab boys say there's a better than even chance, but it won't be a quick process."

* * *

The assembled Detroit SWAT teams were getting roughly the same briefing from their overseer, Captain Anders, at roughly the same time. However, when the Detective reached the part where he described the murder weapon, Officer Magrum raised his hand.

"No, Doug, it does not take Glock mags," said his superior, tiredly, without needing to hear the question. "It's a revolver."

There was some general laughter. Magrum jerked his hand down and sat, stone-faced, through the rest of the presentation.

Afterwards, however, he confronted his superior on the way to his office. Who told Magrum to be quiet until they were in that office, with the door closed.

"Nobody will tell me why they think it's funny if I ask what kind of magazines a revolver takes! I'm tired of it!"

"Because except for a very limited few revolvers - like the Dardick - they don't use magazines!" yelled his boss.

"Then how do they shoot, huh?!" said Magrum, pointedly. "Where do they keep the bullets?!

"Get out of my office," said Captain Anders, tone low and deadly. "If you're tired of being laughed at, learn how guns work. Meanwhile, I'm tired of _you_!"

* * *

"That man has a head full of unwashed socks," said Anders, tiredly. "Ignorance can be cured, but this guy doesn't want to know anything! Isn't there any way to get rid of him?"

"How do you think he wound up here?" said his assistant, Lieutenant Danville, with an equal lack of energy. "Despite our strict criteria. I don't think there's anywhere left you can transfer him to."

"He refuses to recover his empty magazines! 'Why bother; they'll just give us new ones. These are all used up.'" Anders groaned, and held his head. "He seems to think that the magazines are factory-loaded and can't be refilled."

"He is a good shot, though," said Danville, a bit reluctantly. "That's why he got the sharpshooter position in SWAT. Of course, his belligerent ignorance is why he's always stationed away from the action. The other SWAT officers don't like him any more than you do."

* * *

"Wanna go out for dinner?" said Vic. "We can try that new place, near that nightclub we like, then go clubbing after. The Free Electron Band is the lead act the next few nights! They are guaranteed to leave blisters on your eardrums!"

"I'm all right with staying in tonight," said Michelle, barely looking up from the cosmetology magazine she was reading.

Vic wondered if she were sick. Normally, with a build-up like that, she would make a joke about not having her spouse's regeneration. Then came a dread feeling... that Michelle was aging, while Vic was not. That she was losing her energy for both such entertainments and such retorts.

"Are you all right?" said Vic, sitting herself next to Michelle on the couch and taking her hand.

"Uh, yes," said Michelle, surprised by Vic's solicitous attentions but not minding them at all. She put the magazine down. "I just don't feel like going out tonight. Besides, Megatherium is playing at the same venue next week, and I'd much rather hear them."

Still, she didn't talk much while they prepared their evening meal. Even after supper that evening, Michelle seemed unusually pensive and quiet.

"Is something wrong?" said Vic, again suddenly very attentive. As well as concerned. Even if the problem was not that Vic wasn't aging - after all, Michelle was only in her early thirties, so that was unlikely so soon - what if Vic had unknowingly brought home something impacting her health home? Some bug or toxin which she wouldn't even notice, thanks to her super healing?

Michelle shifted uneasily, then sighed.

"For a long time I was worried that after I stopped finding things to teach you about being a woman that I would no longer be useful to you," said Michelle, in a quiet voice.

"I love you," said Vic, actually feeling relieved. "Yeah, it's nice when you teach me things, but I married you because I love you. It's not about being useful."

"Oh, I realized that pretty early," said Michelle, grinning, a bit more like her usual self. She gave Vic a kiss on the top of her head. "It's still nice to hear you say it. However, I also like to feel useful in our relationship."

"Well, you're a lot better cook than I am," said Vic, trying to inject a bit of levity.

"Don't I know it," said Michelle, rolling her eyes. "You under-season everything."

A bit relieved, but also still worried, Vic made a point of being extra affectionate for the rest of the evening.

* * *

"One of the local papers had an editorial about Lady Green and me and said that Detroit had never had super protectors based here before," said Vic, a couple of mornings after the storm. She arrived in the office a bit before Cal, and had to wait for him - and for him to get settled in at his desk - before bringing this up. "I know that's not right; at the very least they had the Operators in the Thirties and Forties, right? You'd think the recent news about their lair being discovered would have put awareness of them in the mind of the editor."

"There were more than just them," said Cal, firmly. "Though I can't say anything about what the editor should know. I also can only think of one Detroit mask before the Operators, though, and he was a myth. People can't even agree on what he was called. However, The Black Swan began operation in the city in the late Fifties. The Crimson Heron may have been her daughter; she is more recent, but also retired, and hasn't been seen since the late Seventies."

"What is it with supers having a color in their name?" said Vic, not quite complaining. "Even one of the Intrepids has Black in his name."

"Black is the absence of color," said Cal, straight-faced.

"You know what I mean."

"The Black Swan wasn't Black, either. She was Native American. Forget what tribe."

"Still not what I mean."

"Let's see... From the Thirties to the Eighties I think that's about all that were actually in Detroit. In other parts of Michigan you had Domino Damsel, Drachpfinel, Tie-Breaker, Boiardi and a few others. Two of those didn't even have secret identities; they were like you, and went by their own, legal names. In Chicago you had Höflmayer from the mid-Thirties into the Eighties. None of those had a color in their name."

"Okay, maybe me thinking that a lot of 'em had a color in their mask name was just confirmation bias," Vic admitted. "You can't deny that Lady Green has a color in her name."

"Got me there," said Cal, grinning.

They both - along with the others on the small office - looked up as Drake came in.

"Need you to get suited up," he told Vic. "We have reports of a rogue super at a mall. Lady Green is on the way, but you need to get there, too, as soon as you can."

* * *

"Turned out to be a guy who discovered he could literally make others dance to his tune. He had a problem that as soon as he stopped playing they stopped dancing, but he still managed to grab a bunch of small items at several stores."

"So, a music-based form of mind control."

"Apparently. As soon as I damaged his concertina the effect ended. Only...

"'Only?'"

"When we first got there we were given a vague description, from a guy who called the concertina the perp used an accordion," said Vic, angrily. "Caused us no end of trouble finding the guy. We were looking for a much larger instrument, and he could hide what he was actually using under his coat. We didn't twig until he started using it again. "

"Witnesses," said Drake, with a tired sigh.

"Except this witness was a cop!"

"Magrum, again?"

"Yep. On a food run for his unit. Lady Green really let him have it. He was completely unrepentant; claimed there was no difference."

* * *

Things were quiet at the federal building for a few days. Until one of the FBI agents made a special pitch to the head of each agency. His meeting with Drake was typical.

"We've restarted our annual charity ball, and are looking for volunteers," he said, after gaining entry to Drake's office. "We already have several lined up, but are inviting all federal agencies to participate."

"Who do you have so far?" said Drake.

"The chief of our motor pool is the DJ and organizer of the dance contest, which is the biggest part of the event," said the FBI guy. "For that function he goes by Brake Master Cylinder. Then there's our lead motor pool driver, who has an unpronounceable Russian first name and is usually called Pickup Andropov. He provides the transportation for any celebrities who participate. We also have several chaperones and people lined up to stock the snacks and drinks. However, we can always use more help."

"I'll spread the word," promised Drake. "No guarantees."