Superhero Landing, Nice

He hit Vickers square in the chest.

The big man left his feet, flew backward, and met the wall. The wall won. He stuck to it for a moment, then peeled off it and slid down in a heap of arms, legs, and sunglasses.

“Oh OH! Sorryyyyy!”

His body wasn’t done. It spun him through the air, a neat half-turn. The IV lines pulled taut and tore out of his arm, a hot little bite of pain. His motion carried him out through the open door into the hall, where his bare feet came down on cold tile. The hospital gown flowed around him like a cape.

He sprang forward, snagging the door handle, then slammed it shut so hard the handle broke off in his fist. Muffled screaming and banging thudded against the door.

“Holy crap, I just assaulted someone.”

Then he realized he was in a hospital gown and nothing else.

“In a hospital gown.”

You did great! You relaxed and we just flowed! Way to go, PJ!

He stood in the hall holding the broken handle, breathing hard, staring at it.

“My name’s not PJ! And I didn’t do any of that!”

Correction. You kinda half-did. It was a team thing. Like the best kind of tag team!

“You threw a federal agent into a wall!” He pointed at the door. “And shut the other one in there — she’s got a gun.”

From behind the door, Colby’s voice on a radio, flat and fast. “All units, we have a runner. Seal the building. Every exit. Nobody in or out. And somebody get up here and get us out!”

“And now she’s mad!”

Okay, so, we should probably go.

Down the hall, Pat stood frozen with a tray, gaping at the barefoot boy who’d just come backward through a door and shut two federal agents behind it. “Honey—?”

“Sorry! Sorry, Pat—” In a blink, he was past her, running.

The elevators — end of the hall. Take the elevators.

A bank of steel doors swam up ahead. “Stop telling me what to do!” His body didn’t slow. “How are you making me run?! I didn’t say you could—”

The middle elevator chimed. So did the one beside it. Both sets of doors slid open and men in dark jackets poured into the hall.

He skidded, spun.

Correction, the voice said. Elevator’s a murder box. Do not take the murder box! Stairs!

He came to a door clearly labeled STAIRWELL and hit the bar with his shoulder. It boomed open.

Cold air found the gap at the back of his gown.

He grabbed at the flapping fabric. “I’m going to die of embarrassment. Everyone in this building has seen my—”

Better than dying of them, the voice offered.

“Only slightly!” He started down, gripping at the flimsy fabric.

His legs took the first flight in one go and his knees didn’t even complain. His stomach, however, attempted full mutiny, which his throat barely restrained.

“How—” down another, the rail blurring under his palm “—how are you making me do this?”

Emergency mode. For emergencies. And this is very much an emergency, so…

From the bottom of the stairwell, a door banged and boots came pouring up. More of them, in off the street. From the top, more, coming down.

“Crap.”

Uh… new plan!

He pounded through the heavy door onto the third floor and ran. A row of dark rooms. He ducked into one and put his back against the wall. A big beige machine filled the room, a fat plastic doughnut and a sliding bed.

“Okay,” he whispered. “How are you doing that!? What’s going on?”

Can we really not do this right now—

“You are making me run from the FBI in nothing but a hospital gown! Half floor seven has seen my—”

Quiet.

Footsteps in the hall, slow and searching. He folded down behind the machine, making himself small, and stopped breathing.

Two agents came in. “Where’s the light switch?” one asked.

Flashlight beams swept the dark, crossed the machine, slid over the gap where he was folded, and moved on.

“I don’t know. These stupid rooms.” He keyed his radio. “MRI’s clear.” They stepped back out.

The clack of heels on tile filled the halls. He pressed his hands to his ears and squinted hard. A whole building full of grown men hunting one barefoot kid.

“Can you at least tell me your name?” he whispered.

Uh.

“Uh? Your name is Uh?”

No. Just… they never gave me one.

“You don’t know your name?”

Bout sums it up. We’re a matching pair.

“Great,” PJ sighed. “Two nameless idiots running from the feds. Perfect. Okay. Well what are you, then?”

Now? You want to do this now?

“Yes, now! You’re in my head! You’re assaulting people with my arms and legs! I have a right to know what you are.”

The voice seemed to pull back. Then it said, I don’t know. That’s the honest truth. But I know what they are, and I know you do not want them putting their hands on you. That much I’m sure of. Okay? Is that enough for now?

“Well I can’t just keep saying hey you when I talk. Pick a name.”

You first.

“I have a name. I just can’t remember it.”

Just go with PJ.

“Absolutely not.”

Why?

“Because I’m not named after bedtime clothing!”

Well, until you remember, I’m gonna call you Max.

“What? Why?”

You seem like a Max to me.

“Max. Okay, I can think of worse. Now your turn.”

Lax.

Max spread his hands wide. “Seriously?”

What?

“It’s just my name with an L.”

We can argue about our names as much as you want. After we’re clear. Now. We need a way out of this room.

Max scanned the dark. High on the far wall, a wide metal grate.

“What about the air conditioning vents?”

What?

“The vents! Like Die Hard?”

Lax said nothing for a second. You want us to die hard?

“Wait.” Something snagged in him. “I remember that. I remember Die Hard. My first memory.” His voice went flat. “My first memory is a Bruce Willis movie?”

You can cry about your selective memory later. But you can thank your lucky Bruce for the idea. Now. Air vents. Go.

His body lurched at the wall before he’d finished hearing it.

“Would you — stop that!”

Stop what?

“The puppet thing! The override! Knock it off. I can walk.”

Fine. But you do still have to actually—

“I’m running. Look. Running.”

He reached the wall under the grate. Up close, it was bolted at all four corners, screws sunk deep.

“It’s bolted.”

That’s fine.

His hands went up and locked onto the grate. Heat and pressure filled his arms. And then he ripped the panel clean off the wall. It tumbled back across the room and clanged into the machine with an echoing BANG.

Yeah. They heard that. Go, go, go—

He hauled himself up into the duct. Cold, tight, and musty.

“Which way?”

Stop and listen.

He stopped and listened. He felt it before he heard it: a thread of moving air on his left cheek, and riding it, traffic. A horn. Somebody’s radio.

“That way.”

He crawled toward the noise, knees bouncing against the sheet metal. Light grew ahead, slatted and gray. An outside vent, louvered shut. He hit it with the heel of his hand and it popped off its frame and dropped away, turning over and over until it clanged loud against the pavement of the alley three stories below.

“Crap, dude. I’m gonna die.”

No you’re not. Stick your head out.

“What?!”

I can’t see if you can’t see. Get your head out there!

Max’s arms seized. “Crap, crap, crap.”

Hey, I can do it—

“I’m moving, okay? Just… give me a second.”

He leaned out into open air. The alley below seemed to grow farther away with every heartbeat. His hands locked onto the ledge, knuckles losing all color.

Don’t lock up on me now! Look around!

He looked to the side. Bolted to the brick beside the vent, a drainpipe ran the height of the building.

That. Take that.

“That’s a death pipe. I’m gonna die.”

No you’re not. Move.

His shoulder twitched toward the gap.

“Stop. No override! We agreed!”

Then move!

He pried his fingers free of the ledge and tried to latch them onto the pipe. The pipe was large. His hands gripped at it, but didn’t quite hold.

Now, out ya go!

His legs shoved forward, and his hands suddenly took all his hundred-forty pounds. His bare feet wheeled below him, seeking purchase anywhere. They found a steel bracket. The metal instantly began to cut into his soles.

Max’s eyes flicked toward his legs, then zoomed beyond to the expanse below. Then his stomach attempted to climb the pipe without him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Open your eyes!

“No!”

I can’t see if you can’t see! Open ’em!

“Wait. You see through my—”

Open them!

He opened them and, even though he’d hoped, his situation had not improved. Then every muscle locked solid.

You’re too tense. Loosen up.

“You made me open my eyes! You kicked me out of a vent! Now I’m dangling and about to—”

Relax. I’ll take over—

“No!”

His foot slipped on the bracket. His hands skidded. And then there was nothing under him at all. A screaming I told you so bellowed from his throat as he fell three stories. Then his body folded and twisted mid-air. He wriggled like a cat as the ground came up fast. Then with a hard OOF he hit the pavement.

He blinked. Once, twice. Then realized how he’d landed. A fist against the concrete, the other arm flung wide. A low crouch with his head bowed.

Superhero landing. Nice.

Max panted. His muscles wanted to give out. “I just fell three stories.”

Into a perfect superhero pose! That’s like the Maxest thing I’ve ever seen!

A low gasp. Gravel crunching beneath soft-soled shoes. He looked up. A hundred feet down the alley, Colby stood frozen at an emergency exit, one hand still on the handle, staring at him like he’d sprouted a second head.

“Think she saw that?”

Yep, Lax said. Totally saw that.

“Ha.” The chuckle tumbled out, awkward and broken.

Colby just stared.

GO!

He smiled, and then he ran.

Behind him, her voice echoed off the brick walls. “East alley, he’s mobile—” The words faded as the pavement flashed beneath his bare feet. His legs blurred, gown flailing in the breeze. He banked right into a second alley. Strung across it, low, was a clothesline. A red hoodie and a pair of gray sweatpants hung on it.

His arm shot out as he passed and tore them off the line.

“Dude!” Max shouted.

What?

“Those aren’t ours!”

I know.

“You just stole somebody’s clothes!”

A small price to keep you breathing. Put them on!

A gunshot cracked off the brick, spraying dust across the alley. Another spanged off the pavement at his feet.

Far back, Colby shouted, “Hold your fire! Do not shoot!”

He burst out of the alley mouth into a wall of people. Sidewalk, street, traffic, long shadows cast by late-afternoon sun. He wove through the stream of faces on the sidewalk, dragging the hoodie on over his head as he ran. A few awkward hops later and his legs slipped into the sweatpants. Semi-decent, finally, he pulled the cursed gown through the neckhole of the sweatshirt and let it fall behind him.

He spotted the stairs down across the street.

Subway! There! Go!

He waited for a car to pass then dove into the flow. A horn blared. Tires screeched. A bumper blurred past his peripheral vision. Then he was across. The stairs were just ahead. He grabbed a pole and swung into the turn, then dropped the entire first flight, again scoring a perfect landing.

The subway was a feast of offense for his tender senses. Brakes screeched in his ears. Turnstiles clanked. Passengers bustled. Somewhere a man shouted nonsense. A smell he could only identify as hot, dirty feet filled his nose. The air was so thick with brake dust it stung his tongue.

This place tastes bad, Lax muttered.

At the bottom of the stairs, a man sat hammering a row of plastic buckets, sticks flying, not looking up. Ahead were the turnstiles. Beyond them a platform, and a train just screeching to a stop. A transit cop sat beside the turnstiles glued to his phone, four bites into a powdered doughnut.

Behind him, the stairwell filled with shouting. Boots and radios crackled his description down the steps at him.

“Okay. Slight problem. The turnstile takes money. I have none.”

That’s easy. Jump it.

“I can’t just—”

From the stairs, a man shouted. “Hey! It’s him! In the red!”

JUMP!

His body jerked forward. He ran at the turnstile and leapt.

The world slowed, every sound stretched. Max watched his body sail over the turnstile with an inch to spare, his stolen sweatpants flapping in the breeze. Below him, the transit cop watched, eyes going wide, mouth coming open, and the doughnut leaving his fingers.

Then the world snapped back to speed. He tucked and rolled into the landing, popping up at a full run.

The men shouted. “He’s through! Get in there!”

The transit cop’s keys rattled as he fought the turnstile bypass door.

The train hissed against the platform. A ding sounded along with a muffled voice.

Dive!

Max dove, arms extended, toes flat, like a swimmer through air. As he flew, he glanced back. Dark suits flooded through the open turnstile gate. Ahead, the subway doors were already halfway shut. His hands, then his arms, then his head and torso passed the rubber gaskets. His ankles brushed them as he flew by, then they slammed shut and clicked. His hands caught him against the far side, bracing, then shoving down. He popped up into a low crouch, head bent up toward the door.

Outside, the transit cop hit the glass with both hands. Men in black suits arrived a half-second later. Three slapped the door, one grabbed a radio, then all of it slid backwards and away as the train pulled out of the station and accelerated into the dark tunnel.