Breaker

By JCRogers

The television faded slowly to life. The rabbit-ears on top got bad reception this far out of town, but the storm wasn’t helping matters. As the picture faded in, the image of a reporter standing in front of a building became apparent, however, the words on the building were too distorted to read. The audio was faint, but it was better than the picture.

“This most recent string of reports culminated with the public admission of Isaac Quincy, a teacher here at Waukee High School, that—” the static temporarily won the battle and drowned out the audio. “Mr. Quincy claimed—and demonstrated—the ability to both read minds and see what other people see—fortunate, since his abilities have apparently left him blind. Mr. Quincy was taken to Johns Hopkins for investigation, but the principal, Dr. Jodie Ratigan, has promised that Mr. Quincy’s job will be waiting for him when he returns.”

The television then showed the newsroom inside the studio. “Thank you, Ellen. In local news—”

“You believe this?” They sat in a dark room, lit only by the blue glow of the old television. “Another one.”

“You think it’s related to that other guy?” The dark room was briefly illuminated by a white-blue flash of lightning. The quiet thunder rumbled through the motel a few seconds later.

“Another freak, in less than a month? They pretty much have to be related,” Jack said.

“I wish I had some kind of…” Tim struggled for the word. “Superpower,” Tim concluded.

“Superpower? These are freaks of nature, not superheroes. It’s not a movie or a comic book, Tim.”

“I know, but don’t you wish you could read minds? Or lift cars?”

“Not in the least,” Jack said.

The small silver bell on the front counter let out a peal. Tim got off the couch in the back room and went out front where a woman was waiting.

“Checking in?” Tim asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought I could make it, but this rain is ridiculous; I can’t even see the road.”

Tim took her cash and gave her a key. “Room six,” he said. “This rain’ll be cleared out by morning,” he added.

“Thanks,” the woman said, and she exited. Tim saw her through the windows as she pulled her jacket over her head and ran for her room.

“She trying to get out of the rain?” Jack asked when Tim came back into the back room.

“Yeah. If this rain keeps up, there’s going to be two or three more before morning.”

“Think she’d like some company?”

“No, Jack, I don’t think she wants any company. Idiot.”

“Just asking,” Jack said. “News says the rain’s going to get stronger. Might stick around till tomorrow afternoon.”

The news was ending when the bell rang again. An elderly couple checked in to avoid the rain, and got room three. They asked Tim for his help getting their bags into their room, and he went out into the rain.

“It’s getting really bad out there,” Tim said when he got back. Predictably, during Leno’s monologue, an annoying tone sounded and they were informed of flash-flood warnings in their county, and several others.

Lightning and thunder coincided loudly. When Tim’s eyes and ears recovered, he realized that the television was now off. A glance outside told him that the exterior lights of the motel weren’t working either.

“Power should be back in a couple minutes,” he told Jack.

“Better be. I’m bored already.”

A couple minutes came and went, but the lights remained off. Tim opened the drawer on the TV stand and retrieved a flashlight. With it, he went to the reception desk and looked out the front window. The small, two-pump gas station across the street was fully lit.

“Hey, Jack, go check the breakers!” he called into the back room.

“I’m not going out there!” Jack called back.

“Come on, I was just out there. It’s your turn.”

“I don’t work here,” Jack said as he came out of the back room.

“I know, and I’m risking my job by letting you hang out here. So do me a solid and go check the breakers.”

“A solid? How old are you, forty?” Jack started putting on his jacket. “I’ll do it, but you owe me.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Jack went out the door and headed around toward the back of the motel. Two minutes later the lights came back on. Lightning and thunder exploded around the motel, and the lights went off again.

Suddenly concerned, Tim ran to the back of the motel. The breaker box was destroyed, blown to pieces by what appeared to be a direct strike. Tim couldn’t see Jack anywhere.

“Jack!” Tim called into the downpour. “Jack, you okay?!” Tim waited for a response, but all he heard was the rattling and splashing of the heavy rain.

Tim began searching through the thick-grown weeds and stumbled over Jack’s leg. Jack groaned and sat up. Tim helped him up, and looked back at the breaker box. They stood nearly sixty feet away, but Jack didn’t have a mark.

“What happened?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know, but I feel weird.” Jack replied. “My hand is all tingly.” Jack held up his hand and looked at it, flexing it experimentally. Tim jumped back a step when a white-blue arc jumped across the air from Jack’s thumb to his forefinger.

“Great,” Jack said. “I’m a freak.”

~ ~ ~

Tim was in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The rain was down to a drizzle, and the clouds were thin enough to permit a diffused grey light to permeate everything. The light filtered past the edges of the black felt he had taped up in his bedroom window. He was already imagining the possibilities of Jack’s newfound powers. The quiet cacophony of the light rain on his window eventually put him to sleep, however.

When he woke up, the clock said 14:37—it was set to military time when he bought it, and the instructions didn’t seem to be able to tell him how to change it. He got his phone off the charger and pressed the speed-dial for Jack.

Instead of a greeting, he simply said, “You comin’?”

“Sure, why not,” Jack replied. They both hung up simultaneously.

While waiting for Jack to arrive, Tim hit the power button on his computer. Jack lived across town, so Tim had plenty of time for a shower. After which, he started searching the web for information about electricity, lightning, electrokinesis, and how to custom-order certain items of clothing.

Jack knocked on the door at 3:15, and Tim let him in. Jack took one look at Tim’s computer and said, “Uh-uh, no way. What’s wrong with you? Not gonna happen.”

“Come on, Jack. It’s tradition. Superheroes have to dress a certain way.”

“Fictional tradition,” Jack corrected. “Remember, there are no real superheroes. And how do we know it’s even permanent? Maybe it’s a side-effect of the lightning.”

“Lightning kills, burns, deafens, and generally destroys—and you’re fine. No, I’m betting that the lightning was actually drawn to you as a manifestation of your powers. I think your abilities are going to increase, rather than wear off,” Tim said as he scrolled down the page of one-color, full-body spandex unitards. “And there are superheroes now—you’re one of them. And you can bet there’s going to be more.”

“Okay, but I’m not wearing spandex,” Jack said.

“Whatever; you don’t really need spandex anyway. A lot of the more modern superheroes have taken to wearing more casual clothing. I was thinking we could order material in several colors, and then cut a pattern out of them and sew them together. Then nobody could trace a specific order.”

“When did I even agree to be a superhero, anyway? I mean, what if I just want to keep this thing to myself? Or maybe even be a supervillain?”

“Well, do you? Like you said, it’s not a comic book. A real supervillain would have to steal, cheat, rape, murder, and who knows what else. Could you do that?”

“No, but like… Maybe I could rob banks or something,” Jack said. “But yeah, you’re right. And I guess I can’t sit on it, either. Like you said, there are bound to be more freaks if this keeps up, and not all of them are going to be good guys. But before we start ordering a costume, I think we’ll need to come up with a name.”

“Good idea, did you have any in mind?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, I was thinking ‘The Storm’,” Jack said. “You know, because of the storm last night, plus the powers—”

“It’s taken.”

“What? By who?”

“Storm. X-Men.” Tim added, “Plus, it’s a girl.”

“ ‘The Flash’?”

“Taken, by a guy that can run fast.”

“ ‘The Zapper’?”

“Zapp Brannigan,” Tim said.

“Who?”

“Forget it. It’s not a very good name, anyway.”

“ ‘Static’?”

“Static Shock; saw the cartoon a few times. Good show.”

“Are all the good names taken?” Jack asked.

“What about Sparky?”

Jack’s eyebrow shot up. “That’s stupid.”

“No worse than the Zapper,” Tim said.

“What else you got?”

“Um… The Bug Zapper? Butt Zapper?”

“Again with the Zapper. What about ‘The Circuit Breaker’?” Tim said.

“That’s more like it. I like that,” Jack said.

“Okay, so, you’re the Circuit Breaker. Now, the costume.”

“No spandex.”

“Fine, no spandex. But first, what colors? A combination of blue, silver, and black is underused.”

“Circuit Breaker. Circuits are green,” Jack said. “What about green, silver, and black?”

“That could work. If we keep up with the circuit motif, we could print a circuit diagram on the chest as your symbol or logo. Or just a symbol for a diode or something. Or even build LED’s into the fabric, so it lights up.”

“Whoa, slow down, Tim. How much crime is there in our sleepy little burg? You want to drive over to the high school and zap the kids smoking behind the biggest car in the parking lot? Or are we going to roadtrip to Chicago for the real crimes? And we don’t even know what my powers are, yet. So far I can do a Jacob’s ladder on my fingers. That might scare the kids smoking at the high school, but what if a real criminal actually wants to test it out?”

“Good point. Let’s get testing. How big an arc can you make? Can you direct it? Can you draw power from other sources?”

“One thing at a time, Tim.”

“Right. Okay, test number one: How big an arc can you make?”

Jack held his hand up in front of his face and an arc of electricity appeared almost instantly. He moved his thumb and forefinger, and the arc waved through the air between them.

“Can you do anything with it? Try directing it somewhere,” Tim said.

Jack unconsciously squinted while he concentrated on directing the arc. The arc began to stretch out, lengthening in Tim’s direction.

“Hold on, not at me!”

Before Jack could pull it back it jumped at Tim, and everything went dark.

~ ~ ~

“How long was I out?” Tim asked, as Jack helped him up.

“About three minutes,” Jack said. “Did it hurt?”

“Of course it hurt; it still hurts. But that was freakin’ awesome. Can you go bigger?”

“Bigger?”

“Yeah, like… Can you arc it between both hands? And how far can you shoot it?”

“Let’s go outside and test it,” Jack said. “And this time I’ll aim for a dumpster or something.”

They left Tim’s apartment and went to a vacant lot down the block. The lot was long enough to have housed a football field, with room to spare. Jack and Tim stood at one end of the lot, with Tim slightly closer to the street, to alert Jack when cars approached.

At the other end of the lot sat a broken-down Ford Bronco that had been dumped some time in the mid-eighties.

“Okay,” Tim said, “first test: see if you can make an arc between your hands.”

Jack held his hands in front of him, flat palms facing each other. After a few moments of concentration, hair-thin tendrils of electrical energy began jumping between the surfaces of his palms and fingers. If not for the overcast sky, they might not have been visible at all.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Tim said.

Jack dropped his hands to his sides. “You try it, then.”

“I just meant that you’ll have to give them a little more than what you can get from a doorknob after rubbing your feet on the carpet,” Tim said. “Try making fists instead, maybe that’ll focus the energy.”

Jack held his fists out in front of him, and an arc instantly shot out ten feet in front of him and held there, slithering through the air.

“Hit the car!” Tim said.

Jack thrust his fists toward the car, and the arc flew through the air, impacting the car. The last remaining window in the vehicle shattered, though the vehicle itself barely moved. Two arcs extended from Jack’s fists into the car and wherever they moved on the surface, the remaining paint burned off. Jack released the power and the arc disappeared, though Tim could still smell the ozone heavy in the air.

“Can you do just one?” Tim asked.

“I bet I can do whatever I want with it. I think I can feel the electrons or whatever. I can tell them exactly where to go, it’s awesome!” And with that Jack mimed throwing a punch, and a small bolt of lightning shot from his hand to the car. This time the wheels facing them lifted slightly from the ground.

“Can you draw power from other sources? Like an outlet?”

Jack raised his hand to the storm, and within seconds a small bolt of lightning shot into him. Tim could feel his feet tingling and looked down. He saw dozens of earthworms wriggling their way out of the mud beneath his feet. Jack seemed to hold the lightning longer than a normal strike lasts, but the bolt was much thinner and produced only a low rumble of thunder.

“Seems like it’s out of juice,” Jack said, after the lightning dissipated.

“Probably doesn’t have much of a charge built up.”

“Well, whatever it did have was enough to make me feel great. It’s like I absorbed the lightning.”

Tim thought for a moment. “A capacitor!”

“A what?”

“Capacitor. That’s what your costume should have for the symbol. If you hold a charge, it’s perfect. I’ll have to start looking up circuit diagrams to figure out the right symbol.”

Tim then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of thick leather work gloves. “Here, try it with these on.”

“Why?” Jack asked, as he slipped them on.

“Don’t want to leave fingerprints,” Tim said. “Regardless of what the comic books say, being a superhero isn’t exactly legal. Something about being a vigilante or something like that.”

Jack shrugged; he’d been talking about robbing banks not too long ago. Err on the side of good, or whatever it was they said.

He pointed his fist again at the Bronco, and the bolt fired into its side, unimpeded by the leather of the glove.

“Seems to work fine,” Jack said. “But if I’m trying to hide my identity, won’t I need a mask, too?”

“Yeah, it’s going to be part of the costume. Let’s go back to my place and start looking at our options.”

~ ~ ~

After searching online custom clothing stores for several hours, they’d arrived at what they thought would be perfect: Grey cargo pants; black boots; heavy-duty black leather gloves; a green shirt; a used silk-screening machine and software for Tim’s computer; a black leather, knee-length coat (the most expensive item); and the only item that could be traced: A metal facemask, custom ordered from a Japanese company, emblazoned with lightning bolts, that would cover his face from chin to nose, leaving his eyes unimpeded. They knew they had to cover the hair as well, but they couldn’t decide on a hat that looked good with the costume. Most of the items arrived in three weeks from the same company. The coat, which might also be traced, was to have a capacitor emblem embossed on the back of it, and took two more weeks. Of course the item that took the longest was the mask, which was only fifty dollars cheaper than the coat, and had to be specially cut, stamped, formed, fit, and then, because of the metal, spent an inordinate amount of time in customs.

While they were waiting for the items to arrive, Tim had Jack practicing and pushing his powers.

~ ~ ~

Five weeks after ordering, the mask finally arrived and Tim called Jack.

“I’m working tonight, meet me at the motel at nine,” he said, and hung up. He spent the rest of the afternoon admiring the mask: It really was top-quality and well worth the money.

Tim brought the entirety of the costume with him in a duffel bag—a duffel bag that he’d recently gotten at the sporting goods store, black with silver accents and green trim. When the evening manager left the motel for the night, Tim went out to his truck and got the bag. Jack showed up at a quarter after nine, by way of his bicycle.

Before Jack entered, Tim pulled the mask from the bag and hid it under the couch. When Jack came in, Tim tossed the duffel to him.

“What’s this?” Jack asked.

“That’s your costume. Put it on.”

Jack went into the bathroom and came out ten minutes later with the almost-complete costume.

“I’m gonna need a belt,” Jack said, grasping the waist of the pants to hold them up.

“I’ll pick one up later,” Tim said. He reached under the couch and pulled out the mask. “Try this on.”

“It came?” Jack said. He snatched it from Tim’s hand and began adjusting the straps. With some minor work, he was able to slip it on.

“Perfect fit,” he said through the mask. It was only slightly muffled; the mask had a half-dozen ventilation holes on each side between the lightning bolts.

“I don’t think you’ll even need a hat,” Tim said. “That mask obscures your face pretty well.”

After some posing and strutting in the costume, Jack went back into the bathroom to change into his regular clothes.

With clear skies, the front desk wasn’t very busy, so they had to sit all night without any distractions, eager to get out and get started on the superhero business. When Tim’s shift was finally over, they tossed Jack’s bike into the back of Tim’s truck and threw the empty duffel on the front seat. Jack had changed back into the costume, and had used Tim’s belt to hold up his pants.

“Where should we go?” Jack asked. “Where are we going to find crime at five A.M.?”

“Good question,” Tim said, and they drove away from the motel. They drove around Knox, looking for any sign of crime. As the sun came up, it was clear that everyone—even the criminals—was asleep.

“Well, I’m off tonight,” Tim said. “We can go hunting for ne’er-do-wells after I get some sleep, okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. He seemed disappointed to have been unable to show off his new costume to some thugs or thieves.

Tim dropped Jack at his house and drove across town to his own apartment. The next day would prove more fruitful, Tim was sure of it.

~ ~ ~

Tim woke up to his phone’s incessant ringing. He looked at the clock: 3:09. A little less than eight hours. That’ll have to do, Tim thought. He answered the phone.

“Tim, come on. Let’s get this superhero business started. This costume cost over a thousand dollars, let’s get some use out of it.”

“Hang on,” Tim replied. “Before you start getting all indignant about the price of the costume, let’s clarify: How much, exactly, did you spend on it?”

A slight hesitation. “About thirty bucks,” Jack said, and Tim thought he detected a bit of pride in his tone.

“What? You didn’t give me any thirty bucks.”

“I just got back from the store,” Jack said. “I got the perfect belt.”

There, Tim thought, that explains his pride. In his mind, that’s tantamount to having bought the entire thing. Out loud, he said: “Nice. I’ll be right over.”

After Jack showed Tim the belt he’d gotten—a simple leather one, but with a battery-powered, LED-covered buckle that flashed in seemingly-random colors—they prowled the town in Tim’s pickup, taking every back road and “alley” that Knox had to offer—which wasn’t much. They saw several cars speeding and running red lights, though they both agreed a superhero is not a traffic cop.

Finally, when they were about ready to give up, they spotted a kid (not much younger than themselves, actually) looking around shiftily while standing a little too close to a car. As they watched, he inserted a thin strip of metal between the window and the rubber seal. Tim slammed on the brakes and Jack jumped out.

“Hey!” Jack shouted, having just strapped on his mask. Tim saw him pulling power into his right thumb and forefinger, waiting to fire if he had to. They’d agreed that most cases would only require the knockout jolt that Tim had unfortunately received.

Without even looking at Jack, the kid withdrew the metal strip, turned the other direction, and ran.

“That was a waste of time,” Jack said, as he settled back onto the seat of Tim’s truck.

Tim gave his best “what-can-you-do” shrug, and pulled away from the scene of the almost-crime.

~ ~ ~

“This was fun,” Jack said sarcastically, as he exited Tim’s truck. “We should do it again, real soon.”

“Yeah. You know, I’m starting to really consider your whole roadtripping-to-Chicago idea. Plenty of crime there.”

“You know that was a joke, right? It’s a two-hour drive, man, you really want to commute every other day? The cost of gas alone would break the bank.”

“Yeah, but we’d find criminals all over the place. Don’t you think it’d be worth it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack said. “Meanwhile, can’t we keep looking around here? I mean, there has to be something going on here. Car theft; bank robbery; kidnapping; something. Bar-fights maybe?”

“You really want to barge in on a bar full of drunk, angry, probably-big guys? You ever think maybe alcohol’s your weakness? Maybe a drunk guy can avoid your electricity.”

“That’s retarded.”

“Yes it is,” Tim said. “But you get my point. It’s good that we’re starting small; we still don’t know your limits.”

“Fine,” Jack said, “but I still don’t want to go off to Chicago just yet. The way you talk about it, Chicago’s just one big bar full of big, scary drunk people. I don’t want to barge into Chicago any more than I want to barge into the bars around here.”

“Alright,” Tim conceded. “We’ll keep looking for crime in Knox. You are going to have more people like that kid today, though. Most people caught in the act will just run. If we want to catch them, we’ll have to corner them somehow.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jack said, “I think I have an idea of what to do with the next runner.” An almost cruel smile curled the corner of Jack’s mouth.

~ ~ ~

For the next two weeks, they drove around during the few hours when Tim wasn’t working or sleeping. Unfortunately, this meant they usually had to call it quits before nine o’clock—not many criminals out so early.

Finally, on one of Tim’s days off, they found what they were looking for: Someone breaking into another car. As they got closer, Tim realized it was the same kid from before.

“I got him this time,” Jack said, as he stepped out of the truck. Tim watched as Jack approached silently. Jack’s shadow fell beside the kid and he froze. The shadow continued, sliding up the side of the car until Jack stopped, right behind the kid.

The kid bolted, but before he got four steps, Jack fired an arc from his right fist which sailed out in front of the kid before returning to his left. The kid almost fell over trying to stop. Just as Tim saw the kid was about to duck under the arc, Jack opened his fists, and the arc split into five arcs, one from each finger. The kid turned around, a look of utter terror in his face.

“Whad’you want?” he asked in a trembling voice that Tim could barely hear over the hum of Jack’s arcs.

Jack was clearly lost for words; he hadn’t expected such a question. After a moment of thought, he said, “Let’s take a walk down to the police station, and you can turn yourself in.”

The kid’s face lost the terror as he realized what was going on, and his voice had a hint of defiance when he said, “For what? I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You’re not wearing gloves,” Jack said coolly. “I bet there’s fingerprints all over that thing you were using to force that lock.” A pause for dramatic effect. “Tell you what. I’ll offer you a choice: You can walk down to the police station with me, or I can drag you down after I give you a little juice.”

The kid agreed, and Jack dropped what he would later dub the “Electric Fence”. They walked nine blocks, Tim following in the truck. The kid tried to bolt once, but Jack shot a small arc at his feet, causing the muscles to lock up and the kid went sprawling. Jack waited outside the police station as the kid entered, and Tim pulled up to the curb beside Jack. Tim killed the engine and Jack got in and quickly stripped off the mask and coat, leaving only the green shirt, which he hoped wasn’t too identifiable. Twenty minutes later, the kid came out holding a small slip of paper. He looked around nervously as he reached the sidewalk, but didn’t see Tim and Jack sitting there. The kid started off down the sidewalk, and as soon as he was out of visual range of the police station doors, he tossed the slip of paper over his shoulder.

Jack got out of the truck and walked to where the paper had fallen. He brought it back and showed it to Tim.

“A warning?” Jack asked. “Shouldn’t the kid be locked up somewhere? Arkham or something?”

“There are several things wrong with your questions: He’s just a kid; he turned himself in; there were no charges filed; Arkham is fictional; even if it were real, it’s for the criminally insane, not juvenile delinquents.”

“Still, though,” Jack said. “Plus, he just littered.”

~ ~ ~

Several more days with zero activity must’ve persuaded Jack. He showed up at the motel and shoved a newspaper at Tim.

“Roadtrip!” Jack exclaimed, almost seeming excited.

The story in the paper was about a man who was apparently invincible, capable of breaking down walls, and had a mean disposition. He’d showed up in Chicago several months ago, but generally laid low, only breaking into ATM’s, banks, and pawn shops every few weeks, then disappearing for several weeks until the urge apparently struck him again. The police and FBI knew it was a guy who’d broken out of a San Francisco prison in March, but they had no idea where he was hiding. And he didn’t seem concerned about his identity, because he never wore a mask when he was tearing his way into bank vaults or ATM’s. Lately, however, the frequency of his attacks had greatly increased, and he was now no longer limiting himself to property damage and thefts: He had begun to injure and kill people that got in his way. The writer of the story had compared his behavior to that of a rabid dog, and had also referred to the man as “Mad Dog”, a moniker that was bound to stick; the media always need silly names for serial criminals.

After reading the article, Tim said, “Are you sure, Jack? This guy sounds like he could be one big barroom, if you know what I mean.”

“He’s the freak, though—the first one. It’s like I was meant to fight him. Superhero, supervillain. I’ve gotta do this.” Jack still sounded pumped up.

“You’ve said it before, and apparently I have to say it again: This isn’t a comic book. The good guys don’t always win, man. If you’re not ready, he could kill you. And it says he’s bulletproof; how do you know you can hurt him?”

“I don’t,” Jack said simply. “But I’ve seen the security videos on the news; he’s not that fast. If I can’t hurt him, I can still outrun him.”

“Unless he throws a car at you,” Tim interjected.

“I can blast a car right out of the air now, Tim; I’ve been practicing. Come on, let’s do this.”

“You sure?” Tim asked, offering one last out. Jack would never know how excited Tim actually was. He’d been waiting for this for weeks: Real superhero action.

“In the immortal words of Spongebob, I’m ready!”

“Alright, I’ve got a day off coming in two days. We’ll go then. Meanwhile, go to that vacant lot as often as you can to practice. Pump as much as you can into it; who knows what it’ll take to stop this guy. And charge up before we go, if you can.”

Jack’s smile had widened considerably. “You got it. Thanks man.” Jack went out to the bike he had ridden to the motel. As he went, he fired a bolt of lightning into the cloudless sky, and the motel rumbled with the resulting crack of thunder.

Might want to add earplugs to the costume, Tim thought.

~ ~ ~

Tim’s time off came, and he drove directly over to Jack’s place on Bender Street when he woke up. If he was going to make the trip to Chicago, he was going to make sure they got started (relatively) early. Jack had been entrusted with the duffel this time and emerged with it in his hand. He was already wearing most of the costume, except the mask and the coat. Tim pulled away as soon as Jack had closed the passenger door. As they drove out of town, a light drizzle began to coat the windshield. After ten minutes of the silence that only two males in a car can manage, Jack reached over and turned on the radio. Ironically, “No Rain” by Blind Melon was playing. For the next two hours, as they closed the distance between themselves and the state line (they took the longer way to avoid tolls), the rain grew more intense. Before they crossed into Illinois, they could see the glowing skyline that was Chicago’s outlying areas. Jack opened the duffel on his lap and pulled something out.

“I thought this might come in handy,” he said. He set the object on Tim’s dashboard—in the darkness, Tim couldn’t see what it was—and fumbled with a cord until he found the end, which he inserted into the truck’s lighter port (the lighter itself having been lost before Tim came into possession of the vehicle). Tim realized what the object was when the front of it lit up with bright LED numbers and buttons: Jack had bought a police scanner. “Might help us find the guy. Big city.”

“Brilliant!” Tim said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“Yes, well,” Jack exhaled on his fingernails and polished them on his shirt—a gesture that was lost on Tim in the dark—and said, “you can’t be expected to do all the thinking.”

The numbers flashed by as the scanner did its work. As they approached Chicago, it stopped more and more frequently, usually only catching unintelligible snippets of police transmissions.

When they got into Chicago proper, they found a nice alley to park in and wait. Tim shut off the engine and they sat in silence, listening to the rain pound the roof of the truck and the occasional bursts of noise from the scanner. As they waited, Jack opened the duffel again and pulled out the mask and what looked to Tim like a scrap of black cloth.

“What’s that?”

“My mask,” Jack replied.

“No, that.”

“My mask.” And with that, Jack pulled the cloth over his head and it stretched and conformed to the contours of his face. As he slid it around his head, his eyes and mouth appeared through neatly-cut holes. Then he strapped on the metal mask over it, and the effect was something Tim hadn’t expected: Jack actually looked like a comic-book superhero.

“But I thought you said—”

“Yeah, well, I needed to cover up the rest of my head. We both agreed that hats don’t work. Plus, it looks good with the mask.”

“Granted. But you have yet to acknowledge that you’re wearing spandex.”

“And I will deny it to the grave.”

The only piece of the costume left to put on was the coat, and that was best left for when Jack was standing. And before midnight, Jack would be donning the coat. A few minutes after eleven, the radio crackled and they caught the tail end of something.

“—think it’s him.”

The radio fell silent. Jack and Tim exchanged glances. Jack’s hand flew up and canceled the scanning, so they could stay on this frequency. After a long time with no response, someone else said, “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know, but the caller said he was invincible. I’m on my way to check it out.” Tim wished they’d hit this frequency sooner so they could catch the address. At this rate, if they found out where it was, they’d arrive after the police had. Not a good thing for a superhero.

Tim hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel until he heard, “What’s the twenty on that call? You’re gonna need backup if it’s him,” and he relaxed his hands. He moved his right hand from the wheel to the key protruding from the ignition. The first cop gave the address to the second, and as soon as the transmission cut off, Tim rolled the key forward. For two years, he’d had a girlfriend that lived in Chicago, and constant visits to her place and various restaurants and theaters had given him a passing familiarity with the roads. He floored it out of the alley, almost hitting a passing car, and swung out into the relatively mild nighttime traffic. Five minutes later, they had arrived: they pulled to the curb in front of a building with a hole in it. Jack and Tim both jumped out of the cab, and both ignored the parking meter. Luckily they’d beat the cops to the scene; Jack might really get his chance.

Jack activated his belt buckle and put on his heavy leather coat, but Tim hadn’t thought it’d be raining and hadn’t brought anything. Within seconds, Tim was soaked to the skin.

They both turned when they heard a crash come from within the broken pawn shop. They entered and saw two people laying on the floor, and a third smashing his way through glass cases full of diamonds and gold. It was obvious that one of the two on the floor was dead; the other was wounded but inching slowly toward the door. The third, the one smashing everything, was huge. He wasn’t smashing things by swinging his fists; he was only reaching toward the largest jewels, and the glass shattered at his mere touch. Then he’d walk towards another case, walking straight through the one he’d just finished with as it fell apart around his feet. It seemed to require no energy on his part. Tim wondered if he’d also simply walked straight through the wall to get in here.

Tim crept over to the woman on the floor, and she started at his approach. He realized she hadn’t noticed them coming in. He helped her silently to her feet as the “Mad Dog” continued ripping into glass cases. Tim hauled the woman toward the big hole in the wall.

Tim froze. He’d crunched some broken glass under his shoes. The huge man turned and saw that he had new company. Something in the man’s eyes caught Tim’s attention: It looked as if he were acting against his will, as if he was unable to control himself. It reminded Tim of what drug addicts looked like when they were after a fix. Or at least, how actors portrayed it on television.

The man lumbered toward Tim and the woman, and Tim backed slowly toward the hole. Beneath the look of desperation, Tim saw something more basic—something animalistic. He really was a mad dog. Before the man could reach them, a bolt of lightning shot in front of his face. He stopped so suddenly and recoiled so violently that he nearly fell over backward. He turned his head toward Jack.

“Step back,” Jack said, holding an arc between his fists.

Mad Dog did as he was told. There was now fear in his eyes, but his mouth opened in a snarl. Tim had never seen someone so large as this man. He had to be at least seven feet tall, with muscles bulging through what was left of his tattered clothes.

“Come with me, Mad Dog,” Jack said. He threw out his Electric Fence, forcing Mad Dog to come toward him. Jack backed into the glass front door, expecting to take Mad Dog outside and eventually to a police station. The door, however, was locked for the night. Mad Dog saw the surprise on Jack’s face and used the opportunity to advance. Before Jack could drop his Electric Fence to fire a bolt, the large man’s fist was hurtling toward Jack’s face.

Jack only had time to move slightly to the side, avoiding a direct hit, but taking a glancing blow off his cheek that clearly disoriented him. Mad Dog didn’t wait before throwing his other fist at Jack’s chest, connecting squarely in the center.

The locked door exploded into tiny cubes of glass and the metal push-bar across the middle tore free of the frame as Jack flew through the door. Tim could see through the glass in the front of the shop that Jack was still alive: He struggled to get to all fours, clutching his chest and fighting to breathe. Meanwhile, Mad Dog’s attention had shifted to Tim and the woman he was supporting. Tim realized that he’d been standing still during the confrontation, fully expecting Jack to win, no contest. He began to back again toward the hole that Mad Dog had made to get in in the first place. He and the woman exited into the heavy rain, and Mad Dog walked slowly toward them. Tim nearly dragged the woman toward his truck and threw her into the passenger side. As he rounded the truck, he saw Jack was starting to take deeper breaths and was getting to his feet. Tim opened the door to his truck, but before he could get in, a clamp shut on the back of his neck and his feet left the ground.

Mad Dog then grabbed the bottom edge of the truck and tipped it to the side, the woman inside screaming hysterically. He then put his shoulder to the edge and shifted his grip to the driveshaft. Before Tim realized what Mad Dog was doing, he’d lifted the truck over his head and started walking.

Jack stood now, preparing to continue the fight. He held his fists over his head and called down a bolt of lightning that seemed to energize him. Then he created an arc between his fists and held it.

“Don’t…” Mad Dog said. “Don’t want to hurt him.” Tim could tell it was a struggle for this man to speak. “Zap me, I drop the truck. It’ll land on your friend.”

Jack held the arc a second longer before letting it dissipate. “Let him go,” Jack said.

“Can’t do that.” Mad Dog walked down the street, and Jack started to follow. “No,” Mad Dog said. “Stay.”

Jack stopped. Mad Dog passed Jack then and Tim could no longer see him. As they reached the end of a row of buildings, Tim heard police sirens approaching. How long did the fight last? he wondered. Probably not more than ten minutes. Fifteen minutes was a decent response time in a city this big.

Mad Dog turned down the alley and set the truck down. He took a few more steps and then released Tim. Tim stood, dazed, and watched the man walk through a fence at the end of the alley. Tim got into the truck and found that the woman had passed out. He drove back to the pawn shop. He found Jack standing in front of it, looking up at the rain. Tim stopped the truck and honked the horn. Jack turned toward him and started walking, still staring into the storm. He pulled off his mask (or set of masks), and opened the door. He dropped his metal mask as he had to suddenly catch an unconscious woman before she dropped out of the seat. He and Tim worked her into the center of the bench seat and Jack climbed in after picking up his mask. He stuffed both masks into the duffel.

As the police arrived, Tim stayed there, parked now at the curb opposite the pawn shop.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked.

“We have to wait for them,” he said. “We can’t keep her,” Tim said and gestured at the woman between them.

“Oh.”

Three police cars parked in a semicircle around the shop, and the men got out. Tim rolled down his window. He honked the horn.

All the police officers turned in his direction. The two closest to him came to the window.

“He’s gone,” Tim said. “Went down that alley.” He pointed to the alley where he and his truck had been deposited.

“Would you step out of the vehicle, please,” the shorter of the two officers said. Formed like a question, but not spoken like one.

Jack and Tim stepped out. “What about her?” the other officer said.

“She was inside. We put her in here to get her out of the rain, and she passed out. There’s someone else inside, but he didn’t make it.”

“Nice outfit,” the shorter officer said as Jack rounded the truck. Jack looked down and realized that his belt buckle was still flashing; he quickly turned it off.

“Why are you here?” the tall one asked.

“We were passing and saw the hole in that wall,” he gestured toward it. “Thought we’d stop. The big guy took off, and she,” he gestured again, toward the woman, “came out screaming.”

The shorter officer glanced inside their truck, where the police scanner was still tuned to the same frequency. He grabbed the microphone on his shoulder and depressed the talk key. “Radio check,” he said, and the radio on the dash echoed, “Radio check.” Then the radio on the officer’s belt crackled “Sounds good,” in time with the scanner on the dash. “Uh-huh,” he said to Tim.

The taller officer went to talk to one of the others. He pointed toward the alley, and the man took off toward it. The taller one came back, and Jack asked, “Are you guys going to take her off our hands?”

“There’s an ambulance on the way. You guys aren’t going anywhere anyway. After we get this place sorted out, you’re coming with us down to the station to make a statement.”

A half-hour later, they were indeed at the police station, filling out statements and signing them. The police had allowed them to drive their own vehicle to the station (“Better than letting it sit here in this part of town,” they’d said), and on the drive they’d agreed to alter the story to incorporate the scanner.

Finally, at four in the morning, they were on their way back to Knox. Both of them were exhausted. Tim dropped off Jack at his place, and then headed to his own apartment. Tim dropped heavily onto the bed, rubbed at his sore neck, and fell asleep before he could change out of his wet clothes.

~ ~ ~

Tim woke. He slowly sat up and flexed his neck experimentally, which yielded a single loud pop. All his joints ached; maybe the myths about wet clothes were true. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Blank screen; he realized he’d forgotten to charge it. He put it on the charger and headed for a shower. When he got out, the screen indicated that he had six missed calls, all from Jack. He dialed Jack.

“Where you been, man?” Jack said.

“Sleeping,” Tim replied. “What do you want?”

“You ready to go back?”

“What?!”

“To Chicago. You know, try again.”

“This is my last night off, I was hoping to sit around and recover a bit. Maybe we could try next week.”

“But…” Jack said, then was silent. Tim could almost hear Jack’s mind formulating a plan to convince him to come.

“Don’t bother,” Tim said. “I’ll come. But I’m not getting out of the truck this time.”

“Exactly what I was about to tell you. It’s not safe for a sidekick out there.”

Sidekick? Tim thought.

An hour later they were again on the road to Chicago. The lack of rainclouds combined with their early start meant that they actually had plenty of daylight left when they got there. They parked near the alley that Mad Dog had disappeared into, thinking he might turn up in the same area. They turned on the scanner and waited. After two hours with nothing, Tim pulled out of the alley to find a place to eat. By now it was dark, and they headed for the place with the brightest sign.

They turned the scanner off at the drive through, and after they collected their food, turned it back on only to hear, “It’s Mad Dog!”

Jack hit the button to cancel scanning mode, and Tim floored it away from the restaurant. “Where? Where?!” Tim said at the scanner.

The scanner told them where, which was unfortunately over ten minutes away. Tim headed toward it while Jack stuffed himself with burgers. When they rounded the last corner, Tim was disappointed to see ten police cars huddled around a bank. He pulled to the curb well away from the scene and prepared to turn around and leave.

“Wait,” Jack said.

“We can’t go up there,” Tim said. “Remember, vigilante justice isn’t legal.”

“They can’t catch him on their own. They’ll appreciate the help.”

“I’m staying here. You can get arrested if you really want to.”

Jack pulled on his masks and opened the door. Before he was ten feet from the truck, Tim turned off the engine and got out to follow. When they reached the perimeter of the police barricade, one of the officers stopped them.

“This is a secure area, step back please.”

“I can help,” Jack said, and turned on his belt buckle.

The officer seemed to have just noticed the mask. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the—” A crash from inside the bank overpowered Jack’s voice. “—Breaker.”

“The Breaker, huh? Three more months till Halloween, pal,” the officer said. “I’m only gonna say it one more time: Step back. You could get hurt.”

Jack held up his hand and demonstrated a small arc from forefinger to thumb. “I can help,” he repeated, and made to sidestep the officer.

“Son, I can’t let you do that.” The weapon that the officer had held pointed toward the ground raised up a little bit.

“I’m going in,” Jack said. “You really wanna shoot me? How’re you going to explain that one?”

“And how am I going to explain it if I let you in and you get killed?”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Jack said and headed toward the bank’s front doors. The officer raised his gun and aimed at Jack’s knees. Jack continued on without glancing over his shoulder to see this move that was entirely gesture and no intent. The officer raised his weapon back to the bank to cover the entrance.

“He’ll be fine,” Tim said.

“He a freak, too?” the officer asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Tim said. “Though we prefer the term ‘superhero’.”

“You’re kidding,” the officer said, this time looking over his shoulder incredulously at Tim.

This building, unlike the pawn shop from the night before, had no large windows in the front, other than the glass doors, so Tim couldn’t see what was going on inside. A couple minutes after Jack had entered, something massive broke through the brick and slid across the asphalt, throwing sparks until it came to rest against one of the police cars. Tim recognized it as the mangled steel door of a bank vault. Then he heard a shout of rage emanating from the hole it had made. Jack thought he detected a little pain in it as well. Less than half a minute after the bank vault door, another thing flew through the brick, but this object was surrounded by arcing blue tendrils of electrical energy. This one didn’t go as far as the vault door had, and fell to the ground shortly after crashing through the wall.

Tim then saw Jack step through the hole, himself enveloped in writhing white-blue electrical arcs. It looked as if he were actually levitating an inch off the ground. Tim heard the officers around him muttering various expletives. But when Tim looked at them, he noticed one was working his way toward Tim.

Mad Dog got up, advanced on Jack, and Jack threw him back with a bolt of lightning. This process was repeated several times over.

“It makes more sense now,” said the short officer who had approached Tim. “Passing by, huh? It explains the scanner, too, actually.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. After a moment, he added, “Sorry.”

“So.” The shorter officer watched the struggle for a few seconds before continuing. “A real-life superhero, huh? Gotta say, that’s something I never thought I’d see. What’s he called?”

Before Tim could reply, the officer in front of him said, “The Breaker,” without taking his eyes off the action.

Mad Dog had dodged one of the bolts, and it struck a police car, burning a hole through the metal and causing the electrical systems to emit strange dieing horn honks and sirens. Jack was taken by surprise, and Mad Dog landed a punch. Jack twisted at the last second, and instead of taking a disastrous hit in the chest that probably would’ve collapsed his lungs (Mad Dog was clearly more aggravated than he had been the night before), he was hit in the shoulder. Jack left the ground and flew over the row of cruisers, landing somewhere out of Tim’s sight.

Mad Dog stood for a moment, then he slammed his fist into the hood of one of the cars so hard that the rear wheels left the ground. As he turned to reenter the bank, the sky was torn by a bolt of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder. Several officers—and Mad Dog—looked up at the cloudless sky. Then Tim saw Jack coming back.

A sphere of white energy moved toward the row of cruisers. Within it, Jack walked slowly toward Mad Dog. When Jack reached the cars, they were forced out of his path by the sphere surrounding him, making screeching sounds as the tires were pushed sideways.

“Big mistake,” Jack said in a voice Tim hardly recognized. He’s really getting into the role, Tim thought.

Mad Dog turned from the bank to face Jack and Jack pulled in the energy around him. Now only a thin layer of energy sparkled across his skin. Tim could hear the hum it created increase in pitch as it drew in.

Before Mad Dog could do anything else, Jack fired a bolt at him. Then another. And another. He continued firing until Tim lost count. Mad Dog had dropped to a knee, but was still visibly struggling to attack.

Then Jack stopped. The energy around him disappeared. Mad Dog got up. His scowl deepened as he moved toward Jack. Jack had apparently run out of juice, and he looked terrified as the huge man approached. Jack took a step back, then another. He raised his hands, palm-outward, as if to ward him off.

Jack then held his hands and arms outward, like a scarecrow, surrendering. Mad Dog closed the distance and began pulling his right hand back, his fist the size of a Christmas ham. Tim saw Mad Dog’s muscles contract as the fist was drawn forward.

Before it could connect, Tim was blinded. Jack’s chest exploded with energy—instead of his fingers or his fist, Jack was using his entire body as the conduit. The stream of electricity that flowed from Jack to Mad Dog was nearly a foot thick, and the massive man was thrown back into the same car that already had a hole burned in it. Jack maintained the flow, and Mad Dog spasmed. Then he only twitched. After thirty seconds of continuous electrocution, he was still. Jack stopped the flow. The officer nearest to Mad Dog (also the owner of the destroyed vehicle) slowly moved in and checked for a pulse. After a couple seconds, he nodded, and four more officers moved in to haul Mad Dog into an armored police van that was standing by.

The shorter officer said to Tim, “Come on down to the station; bring your friend.”

“Are we going to be arrested?”

“If that was any other criminal, you probably would be.”

Tim watched as a dozen officers surrounded Jack and gave him handshakes, congratulatory pats on the back, and shouts of praise. When Jack was finally able to make his way back out of the circle of police cars, he and Tim went to the truck.

“How do you feel?” Tim asked.

“Never better,” Jack replied, exuberant, but tired.

Tim started the truck, and they followed the armored van to the police station. When they got there, they watched as the van opened up. One officer jumped out, and another helped a man down from inside. The man looked vaguely like Mad Dog, but about thirty years older and withered, with grey hair. The man looked around dazedly. When the old man spotted Jack, Tim thought he saw the old man smiling.

Thank you, the man mouthed at Jack.

~ ~ ~

At eleven, after filling out even longer forms than the night before and answering hundreds of questions, Tim and Jack were shown into a room. There was a couch at one end, and a bed at the other.

“You can crash here tonight. We’ll probably have more questions tomorrow, anyway.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Tim said. Jack made no reply, only threw his duffel onto the foot of the bed. It contained his set of masks (the police had asked him to remove them, but promised to not release his identity), and his belt buckle, which had shorted out during the last blast. Although Jack was faking exhaustion to lure in Mad Dog, he was genuinely expended now, and he was snoring before Tim had even sat on the couch.

Tim set his shoes on the floor next to the couch and laid down. A sidekick hardly got as exhausted as the superhero, but eventually Tim was able to calm his mind and induce sleep.

~ ~ ~