NIGHTJADE #1 by Dave Menendez It was late when Emily reached her apartment. Very late. Even the college students were asleep. The stairs were dark, but that wasn't a problem. She knew them well, having climbed them dozens of times before, in darkness and in light. The elevator had been broken since time immemorial, and the tenants had since grown quite familiar with the building's stairwells. The exercise was nice, in the abstract, you'll-appreciate-it-later sense, but right now Emily just wanted to go home and collapse in bed. It had been a stressful night. She left the stairwell on the fourth floor and walked towards her door. It looked like her neighbor Derek was still awake, but that wasn't surprising. He kept weirder hours than she did. He'd left his door slightly open to help ventilate his room, and the light spilling out cast a yellow sliver across the hall and onto her door. Convenient, really; she wouldn't have to fumble for the keyhole. "Emily?" Derek's voice. He must have heard her getting her keys. "Yeah," she said. "Had a late night. Just got back." "Me too," said Derek. He opened his door the rest of the way. Emily squinted at the sudden influx of light. "The late night part, anyway. I've pretty much been here all night. We're having another 'crisis' at work and everyone's putting in extra time." "That's rough. I'd show more sympathy except I've had a tough day myself and right now I just want to sleep." "Actually, I _did_ have something useful to say." He wasn't smiling, which meant it probably was important, too. "A bunch of big guys came by a few hours ago. I think they're still in your apartment." Big guys? That didn't sound good, and Emily had a pretty good idea what it might mean. "I would have done something," Derek continued, "but they looked armed, and--" "That's all right, Derek. They're probably gone now." He seemed to accept that. "Okay, then. Sleep well." "Thanks. You too." She waited until he'd returned to his room before turning to open her door. Derek was a decent fellow. If there was trouble coming, he didn't need to be part of it. Her apartment was dark. "Strange," she muttered. Perhaps they'd left or Derek had misinterpreted things. It wouldn't be the first time. Taking off her jacket, she reached for the lightswitch. There were two large men in her room sitting on her sofa. "Hi!" Emily said nervously. She had been right, it seemed. Her uncle _had_ sent his goons after her. "What brings you two over to my place?" The two goons stood in unison. They looked like a matched set. One was a little taller, but they made up for that by dressing alike: dark purple suits, black shirts, white ties, and wraparound sunglasses. All they needed to complete the look were little signs around their neck that said GANGSTER. The taller one--Carlos?--spoke first: "Your uncle would like to see you." "So you two decided to wait in my living room in the dark?" The smaller one shrugged. "We didn't want to waste electricity," he said. "Saving power is everyone's responsibility," Carlos added. There was a certain logic to that, Emily had to admit. "Can I get you two some coffee or anything?" "We don't want to keep the boss waiting," said Carlos flatly. "I could go for a latte," said the other one at the same time. Fritz, maybe? Frank? French? Emily had never really bothered to learn the names of her uncle's henchmen. Carlos gave his companion a tired look. "We do not have time for lattes," he said. "What? A little more time won't hurt anthing--" "No. The boss has waited enough." "He's probably asleep." Carlos gritted his teeth. "Yes, but he'll still want us to come as soon as we can." "Maybe we should call ahead." "We can do that from the car." "Yeah, but if we call from _here_, we'll have extra time to make the coffee." "No coffee!" Carlos growled. "We can get that _later_." "Fine, we won't get coffee. Whatever." Finkel, that was it. Finkel and Carlos. The two turned back to Emily. "Let's go," said Carlos. "After you." Emily sighed and flipped off the lights. Relax, she told herself, how bad could it be? Then she remembered what her uncle had done to Toby Amarillo. They were still pulling body parts out of the deep fryer at O'Donald's. It had gotten darker in the hallway, Emily noted. Derek must have gone to bed. It didn't matter; Emily could navigate the hallway in her sleep. THUMP. "Er, mind the doorway," warned Emily. "It _is_ a bit low," agreed Finkel. "Ow," said Carlos. * The evening had started well enough. Emily had gotten into the main offices of the Fictitious State Bank through the roof. It was a few hours after sunset, and the offices were mostly empty, save for security personnel. She would deal with them if she had to, but hopefully they wouldn't notice her. After all, the target wasn't anything they considered important. She crept down the hallway towards the manager's office. The skills her parents had taught her let her move in almost total silence. If there _were_ any guards around, that and her dark clothes would protect her from any casual notice. Her uncle had been concerned about her outfit. Black would have made her even harder to see, but Emily had passed on that idea. She might have had to become a sneak thief, but she wasn't about to start _dressing_ like one if she could avoid it. Instead, her outfit was various shades of dark green. It wasn't so cliche as black, and it set off her eyes nicely. Of course, her eyes were currently hidden behind a visor, but that was a minor detail. Once at the manager's office, she whipped out her lock-picking equipment and quickly determined that the door was already unlocked. That certainly made things easier. The office was reasonably sized, although the desk was disproportionately large for the room. There weren't any obvious safes, so Emily checked out the desk. The lower left drawer was locked; she went for that first. The lock didn't pose much of a challenge. A pity, really; learning to pick locks was one of her few happy memories of her father. She was in luck. The box her uncle had described was right on top of the stack. She grabbed it and then relocked the drawer. That always confused people. Now that she had what she had come for, all she had to do was get back out. Something exploded downstairs and the alarm went off. Things pretty much went downhill from there. * As Finkel had predicted, Hugh was asleep (or "in a meeting", as his secretary put it). Finkel and Carlos, having brought her most of the way to her uncle, noted that they had other pressing issues to attend to and left her with Vincent Capicola, Hugh's right hand man. Vincent was dressed in his usual expensive suit and chewing on his usual expensive cigar. The latter actually _said_ "expensive cigar" on its label--as near as Emily could tell, that was the brand name. Vincent looked at her dourly, hmpfed, and started to tossing a quarter into the air and catching it. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. "Have I kept you?" asked Hugh, coming out of his office. "No problem," said Vincent. Toss, catch. "We're not going anywhere." "What's a little lost sleep between friends?" asked Emily. "Ah, yes," said Hugh. "What indeed?" He turned back into his office (no, not like that), motioning for Vincent and Emily to follow. The office wasn't spectacularly large or stylish or clean or odor-free, but Hugh didn't seem to mind. Vincent seemed to mind, but he knew better than to bring it up (much to the relief of the local O'Donald's, no doubt). Hugh sat down, cleared some papers off his desk, and leaned forward. "I'd offer you a seat, but..." The other chair in the room was buried under a stack of old magazines. "I'll stand," said Emily. Hugh nodded. "I assume you know why I called you here." Emily hung her head and sighed, hoping this would be quick. Off to the side, Vincent kept casually tossing his coin. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. "You're not going to guess?" Emily blinked. "What? Oh--I figured it was about the bank." "Exactly!" * Emily's curiosity warred briefly with her better judgement, eventually winning a decisive victory and imposing harsh sanctions on the loser. She decided to check out what had caused the explosion. Her better judgement formally protested, but her curiosity's "peacekeeping" forces prevented any real action. Rather than risk discovery, Emily ducked into the ventilation ducts, discovered that they were both cramped and incredibly dusty, and ducked right back out. A quick glance in the stairwell revealed an encouraging lack of surveillance equipment, so she took the stairs down to the second floor. Then she ducked into the ducts again, working her way to a grill overlooking the front lobby. As she had expected, the explosion had been in the vault. The heavy vault door, normally open during the day and locked at night, had been blasted open, its massive lock reduced to scrap. Emily could only see one thief, so she assumed he was keeping a lookout while the others worked inside. Whatever they were after wasn't money, it seemed. The money vault was hidden away in the basement; the lobby vault just held the safe-deposit boxes. Emily wondered if her uncle had known the bank was being robbed that night. While the more dramatic robbery would deflect attention from her own activities, she preferred to avoid situations involving armed men with a strong desire to to keep their presense secret. Emily was about to crawl back to the stairwell when the burglars emerged from the vault. She shuffled forward to get a better look. Like their lookout, they were dressed in loose-fitting black clothes and ski-masks, except for a more formaly dressed one with a tie and nice shoes and a sturdy-looking screwdriver in his right hand. He was probably the leader. Emily shifted to get a better look and the grate made an alarming creaking noise. That wasn't good. The leader was saying something softly to his men, but Emily was suddenly more concerned with safely escaping the ventilation system. She started to pay more attention when he pointed at her and shouted "There!" One of his minions fired, hitting the duct somewhere behind her. Going forward became an attractive plan, and Emily rushed to implement it. Unfortunately, this meant crawling over the grate, which protested that decision rather loudly. "Get the grate!" called the well-dressed screwdriver holder. The minion with the gun ran underneath the grate, looked up to take aim, and got a face full of the dust dislodged by Emily's shuffling. "My eyes!" he cried. "You imbecile!" Then the grate gave out. There was a loud crack, an explosion of dust, and Emily suddenly found herself in free-fall. The ceiling in the lobby was pretty high; more than enough for her to twist in mid-air and land on her feet. She would have made it, too, if it hadn't been for the unfortunate minion she landed on. "Oww," Emily moaned. She'd landed uncomfortably after losing control of that fall. She started to pick herself up off the floor, but with a _swssh-thock_, a screwdriver embedded itself in the floor next to her arm. Emily froze and looked behind her. "Well, well," said the fancily-dressed man, "look who's... _dropped in_. Nya-ha-ha-ha-ha!" He was wearing a mask, Emily noted, and idly twisting one end of his moustache with his left hand. His right hand was still holding a screwdriver. Emily started to wonder if she was being punished for something. "So," continued the presumed supervillain, "if you're a chimneysweep, where's your _brush_? Eh?" Then he laughed some more. Emily rolled into a sitting position, shook some of the dust off herself, and started to stand up. Abruptly, another screwdriver embedded itself into the floor, this time between her legs. "Leaving so soon?" asked the head thief. His three minions were standing behind him, adding to his ominousness. He was still holding a screwdriver, identical to the two stuck in the floor. "How many screwdrivers are you holding?" Emily asked. He held up his hand. "Just this one." Emily supressed a grin. He didn't look like he'd be dangerous without a weapon. She sprang to her feet, dodging the next screwdriver with ease. "Missed m--" Thunk! Another screwdriver; right in the forehead. "Oww." At least it had hit her with the blunt end. "I thought you were only holding _one_ of those!" In fact, he was _still_ holding a screwdriver. That little incongruity so distracted her that she didn't notice that the other thieves had snuck up behind her until she found herself grabbed from behind. "Fool! I may only carry one screwdriver at a time, but I never run out, for I am Always Holding A Screwdriver Man!" He laughed some more, then suddenly grew serious. "Now--who are you and why are you disrupting my operation?" "That was an accident," said Emily quietly. "What? I can't hear you." He drew closer, and Emily repeated herself more softly. That seemed to puzzle him. "Odd," he muttered. "Normally, when I draw closer to someone, they become _easier_ to understand. Oh well." He drew closer still and held a hand up to his ear. Emily kicked him in the neck, used the momentum to throw the minion behind her into the one next to her, and swung at the third once her hands were free. Always Holding A Screwdriver Man drew his arm back to hurl another of his signature weapons but paused, seeing something towards the lobby entrance. "Retreat!" he shouted, putting that command into action himself and making a beeline for the rear door. His assistants quickly followed, the less injured ones helping their confederates. Seconds later, Emily was alone with whatever had scared off her opponents. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomache, she turned to face the bank's main entrance. "...she's turning towards us now; in a moment I'll be attempting to get a comment. For those of you tuning in..." It wasn't the police. It was the media. Emily wasn't certain if this was a reprieve or something far worse. The rising sounds of sirens in the distance suggested that she'd have both to deal with in a few moments. Time to leave. "Excuse me?" called the reporter as she ran for the back entrance. "Can we get a comment? Hey, wait up!" Fortunately, he was encumbered by the camera man. Losing him was a sinch. Unfortunately, she'd been spotted by the local newsteam. Given the lack of superguys in Fictitious City, this was almost certain to get on the air. Her uncle wasn't going to be happy about this. * "I'll admit," Hugh continued, "I wasn't happy when I heard you'd been spotted by a news crew at the Fictitious State Bank." He laughed, and Emily allowed herself to relax a little. Hugh seemed to be in a good mood, which meant the chances of him flying into a murderous rage were slim. She glanced at Vincent to try and gauge the mood, but he was absorbed in flipping his quarter. Hugh leaned back in his chair and continued. "Then I heard about you stopping that screwdriver guy and how that reporter thought you were a superguy, and it got me thinking. I know you don't like the work my organization does and you're only here because of your money problems." That much was true, Emily admitted. Once she got her college loans repaid, she was out of there. "I don't mind that--in this business, you get used to people not liking you--but you're family, so I figure I should find something for you that you won't hate too much. That's when it hit me. There's a way you can pay back your debt _without_ doing any more crime." "What's that?" Emily asked. It sounded too good to be true, but she was willing to investigate any new career paths that came up. Particularly if they didn't involve sneaking around the city at all hours of the night. "I want you to fight crime." Vincent's coin hit the floor with a metallic clank. "You want her to do _what_?" he demanded. Emily's reaction was similar, except that she didn't have a coin toss to flub and she was too surprised to manage anything beyond "What?" Hugh looked amused by their reaction. His chuckle sounded pretty amused, too. "To be honest, I'm surprised I never thought of it before. Our competition, the Smith gang, is stifling our growth, but we can't move against them because they're so big. But no one's gonna comment if a _superguy_ starts cracking down on the Smith gang, and they'll never think to connect you with us." This was actually sounding like a worse career choice than burglary. At least that usually didn't involve combat. "You want me to be a _superguy_? I don't even have any super powers!" "You beat that screwdriver guy without any powers, didn't you? If Trashman can take on that Awe-Inspiring lady, I think you can handle the punks in this town. It's not like you can't handle yourself in a fight." "That doesn't mean I like it!" People always assumed she was some kind of dedicated warrior just because her mother had trained her to become one from an early age. It was annoying. "Look," said Hugh, "just try it for a few weeks. If it doesn't work, we'll fake your death and do something else, okay? You've even got a costume." Emily considered. On one hand, it was an insanely dangerous, risky, and very possibly stupid idea. On the other hand, her uncle's good mood was likely to end violently if she turned it down. "I'll do it," she said. Better a risky future than no future. "Great!" He turned to his second-in-command. "Vince, don't tell anyone about this. Loose lips, and all." "...Right," said Vincent. He still looked a little stunned by the whole affair. Emily couldn't blame him. Hugh leaned forward again. "Now--about the _real_ reason you were at the Fictitious State Bank..." Emily tossed him the box she'd taken from the manager's desk, and he tore into it with glee. "What's in it?" she asked. It almost looked like a stack of customized checks. "Novelty checks!" Hugh crowed. "Rare ones, too. Look, there's even one with Superguy." "On a check? I thought no one knew what he looked like." Hugh handed her the check so she could see for herself. It was a stylized representation, consisting of some speed-lines and a few small post-it notes fluttering in the air. "I guess that's appropriate." She handed back the check, and Hugh put the stack aside. "We'd better start planning your first strike," he said, pulling a legal pad from his desk. "Vince, have you heard any rumors about this screwdriver fellow?" The burly mobster shook his head. "I'll talk to my people," he said, without much enthusiasm. "Yeah, that'd be good." He paused, tapping his fingers on the desk. "It's gonna be hard to plan without knowing what our next move will be." Emily nodded in agreement. "Maybe we should get some sleep," she suggested hopefully. "I have work tomorrow." "You could call in sick." "I'd rather save that for when I'm actually sick. They get annoyed if you abuse the sick day policy." Hugh's eyes narrowed. "They aren't giving you any trouble, are they? 'Cause I can send some people to talk with 'em." "Uh, thanks, but I don't think you need to. It's fine. Really." "Well, all right. Vince, why don't you give her a lift home?" He stood and walked his neice to the door. "I'm so glad you agreed," he whispered. "This is gonna be great!" He kissed her on the cheek and sent her and Vincent on their way. * It was late when Emily reached her apartment. Really late. So late that 'early' might be a better term. This time, she got to her door without a warning from Derek. After all, he was asleep and there weren't any strange men in her room for him to warn about. Emily had checked the closets and under the bed, just to be certain. After a rushed bout of tooth-brushing, Emily collapsed into bed, exhausted. She could tell tomorrow was going to be a miserable day at work, and she wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect of facing that screwdriver-weilding maniac again. She decided not to think about it until after she had gotten some sleep. Things would look better in the morning. NEXT: Emily faces the horror of her day job. Will her career as a superguy work out? What vile schemes are Always Holding A Screwdriver Man and his cronies involved in? Keep reading Nightjade to find out! Just One Superguy //Copyright 1999 Dave Menendez //This is a work in progress, so please do not redistribute