by Chewy Walrus
O'Hare Airport, Chicago:
The airport had been utterly deserted since the Metahuman Revolution began. A target as big as O'Hare was as much a target as the Sears Tower or the Museum of Science and Industry. It was one of the first places nearly destroyed by the rabid metahuman rampage.
A few empty planes sat on the runway, never given clearance to take off. The bodies of the passengers had been hauled out of the husk of the airborne vehicles and piled in rotting, smelling, decaying heaps along the grass. In the darkness and quietness of the night, one solitary metahuman prepared the plane for its takeoff.
You see, this was the final stage of Rothman's plan to set up the metahuman-controlled world government. Once Chicago had been made an example of, the remaining metas would pack out large passenger jets, like Boeing 747s, and fly to every major capital, offering an ultimatum: surrender your nation to Rothman's control or suffer the fate of Chicago.
And, as far as Captain Geoff Marks was concerned, it was the perfect plan. Marks had been secretly concealing his metahuman abilities for years. He had managed to bypass most of the mandatory DNA tests due to his sterling record with the airline and his overwhelming commendations from his superiors. No one had suspected anything until it was too late.
Now Marks, one of the few pilots involved in Rothman's final stage, readied his flight sequence in preparation for the arrival of his metahuman brothers. The insurrection was at hand, and Captain Geoff Marks was more than proud to be a part of it.
Marks smirked as his pencil touched the paper attached to the clipboard he held in his hand. With a quick, fluid swipe, he checked the final item off of his preflight checklist. The pilot's smile widened as he secured his headset over his ears and leaned back in his seat.
And he immediately snapped forward again. His eyes widened as he saw a bright flash of light in the shape of a sphere appear out of nowhere, right in the middle of the runway. He rubbed his eyes, not trusting his own senses, as he saw two people emerge from the hole in the air: a man, dressed all in white with a tan vest, and a blond woman dressed in green.
Out on the runway, William Tweed turned to Vidalia Owens, smiling at her. "Thanks for the assist on this one, V," he said.
"Don't mention it, Bill," she said, smiling. "Besides, after what I've been through tonight, I could use an easy assignment." The woman winked at him, causing him to smile and blush slightly.
"Hey, see if you can't get that pilot to back down," Tweed suggested, trying to mask his embarrassment slightly.
"All right," Vidalia said, closing her eyes, "here goes nothing."
A barren desert.
Vidalia Owens looked around her, slightly confused. Granted, telepathy wasn't her strongest of points, but she had done it before, and this was NOT what she expected.
Her world seemed to spin quickly as an overwhelming feeling of nausea overcame her. A steady hand gripped her shoulder as the tilt-a-whirl of her current situation came to a screeching halt.
Turning perhaps a bit sooner than she should have, Vidalia came face to face with a tall, thin man. He was dressed in a black turtleneck with matching slacks. His five o'clock shadow and greased hair were both black as well. His brown eyes seemed to pierce her very soul as his razor-thin lips opened to speak.
"Well, well, well, Ms. Owens..." he said calmly, "...or should I say Miss Audrey Krup?"
"Wh-what?" Vidalia stammered, taken aback. She attempted to take a step away from the man holding her shoulder, but his grip was too strong. Knowing she could not wrestle free, she took to asking more questions. "Wh-who are you? How do you know that name?"
"I know all about you, Audrey," the man said, penetrating down to the deepest part of her soul. "I know how you several months ago became involved with a covert government operation to betray your own kind, how you legally changed your name three years ago to hide your drug history."
The man narrowed his eyes and brought his face closer to hers. As he spoke, she could feel his hot breath on her face and smelled its stale odor. He brought his voice to a whisper and spoke again.
"I know how your adoptive father, the devout Catholic and habitual drunk, would pull you aside and rape you nightly from the age of five until seventeen, when you finally had the nerve to take a revolver to his head. I know how he would tell you he loved you, calling you his 'real wife.' How much, despite your hatred for him, you enjoyed it."
"STOP!" Vidalia screamed. She closed her eyes and put her free hand up to her face, but the image of the man before her still stayed, despite her obstructions. "Why are you doing this?"
"You've kidnapped Rothman, thus negating our whole revolution," he said. Then, after a brief pause, he continued, sneering. "You and 'Charlie.' You liked him, didn't you? He was the best you'd ever had, wasn't he? You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?"
"SHUT UP!" she cried, this time punching forward with her fist, amazed to find that she hadn't connected. Opening her eyes, she found that the desert remained, but her assailant had gone.
"And, now, you've come to deliver the crushing blow," came a voice from behind, distant yet close. Turning quickly, Vidalia saw the mystery man perched high atop the dune that towered over her. "To stop me from carrying out my plan... and I know you will succeed."
"Who are you?" Vidalia sobbed, dropping to her knees. "How are you doing this? Where am I?"
She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and the accompanying voice was now close beside her.
"I am the man whose head you are trying to inhabit. My name is Captain Geoff Marks, and I'm a Class-One telepathic metahuman. Your attempts to talk me out of fulfilling my mission were convincing, but still quite useless.
"You are within my mind, held prisoner by my superior mind. I've noted your escape attempts, the raised hands, closed eyes, punching, and the like. You must have noted that none of them has worked. You're trapped here, Ms. Owens. 'Til death do us part."
Outside on the runway, Tweed waved his hands in front of Vidalia's face, puzzled. Her gaze was fixed on the plane ahead, unblinking.
"Usually doesn't take this long," the boss mumbled to himself.
In a flash, he was invisible and running toward the plane to see how her progress was going on the pilot. When the man, slightly winded, reached the cockpit, he saw the pilot with a twisted smile on his face, his hand resting inside his pilot's jacket.
Tweed instinctively reached for the tranquilizer gun he had gotten from Walker and eyed the man cautiously.
"Billy's here..."
Vidalia could no longer bear to look at Marks' visage, and yet she could not look away. Her mind was too weak, and his too strong.
"B-Billy?" she questioned, looking up, revealing her bloodshot eyes and runny mascara. Then, as she realized what she was saying, her eyes bulged. "No! Not Billy!"
"Why not?" Marks asked, his fingers steepled. "You only used him to get what you wanted from him, right? He did have fine cigars, did he not?"
"Why are you still talking?" Vidalia asked, a violent bile lining her words.
"Only delaying the inevitable," Marks said with a smile. "It is time for you to accomplish your mission and for me to accomplish mine."
"But if I accomplish mine, then you can't take off. You can't accomplish yours!"
"My new mission, Vidalia," Marks said with a smile, "to rid myself of you."
At those words, a time bomb appeared at Marks' feet with ten seconds left on the clock. As Vidalia rushed to disarm it, Marks let out a maniacal cackle.
...9...
The pilot removed his hand from his coat, revealing a sterling silver, newly polished Colt .45. Tweed's grip on his own gun tightened as the man brought it upward.
...8...
The barrel of the gun slid down the man's throat as Tweed took aim.
...7...
"DROP THE WEAPON!" Tweed said, doing his best to imitate the cops he'd so often gotten involved with.
...6...
A sweaty thumb cocked back the hammer of the Colt.
...5...
"DROP IT, I SAID!" Tweed yelled, his hands beginning to shake.
...4...
A sweaty hand readied itself on the trigger, pulling back slightly.
...3...
"Please don't make me kill you..." Tweed muttered, more for his own sake than the pilot's.
...2...
The metallic barrel gleamed as the finger squeezed the trigger a bit harder.
William Marcy Tweed closed his eyes and took aim with his gun.
...1...
BLAM!
A wash of blood and gray matter poured over Tweed's white jumpsuit, staining it beyond what washing machines could clean. A tranquilizer dart hit, too late, digging itself into the pilot's shoulder.
Tweed watched in horror as, down on the runway, Vidalia fell to the ground in a heap, matching the bodies that were already amassed just a few feet away.
A solitary tear ran down the man's face as he looked from his gun to his clothes to the pilot, and then to Vidalia.
"What have I done?" he said, weeping softly. "Sweet Jesus... what have I done?"