Fight or Flight
Thirty stories was not high enough to silence a shrieking city. Though faint, Advent 9 heard the peal of police cars racing through the streets.
It’s wrong to chase the sirens, he told himself.
He didn’t need to be reminded. He was better now. They weren’t a temptation anymore.
It’s wrong to chase the sirens, he thought again, harder.
That got him groaning. Life was hell when his brain refused to turn off, and the night was only half done. With summer rolling in early and the sky hazy yet cloudless, the city broiled in its own sleepless energy. Uncurling on the ledge and staring at a half moon, he dangled one arm off the roof like a swinging wind chime. The commercials were going to end soon, so he put his second earbud on.
Seven Hummingbirds shared the roof with him. These ones weren’t causing any trouble. Mostly they scratched their bellies and yawned, slapping pink tongues over their teeth or pawing at their antennae. Advent 9 still had to keep an eye on them. He could winnow them down during the night. Then, maybe, he could relax.
He practiced smiling as the commercials ended. His favorite radio show was on.
“What I don’t get,” said the guest, “are these ads you see in supermarket newspapers asking you to find missing children. Saw one today where they aged the picture. To show what the child looks like now, you know.”
“Right,” said the host.
“So I see this one today with two pictures. One is the kid when he’s eight. The other shows him at eighteen.”
“Right.”
“But here’s the thing. The picture where he’s eighteen shows him smiling, wearing a nice button-up shirt with a good haircut and everything. And I’m thinking, ‘Who would want this kid to be rescued? He looks happy where he is.’”
Advent 9 snickered, tilting toward the edge. He wondered if the joke was—what was the word—“inappropriate.” People said that a lot around him.
“So I’m thinking if they really want you to find these missing children they should make them look miserable, right? They should ugly them up. Make their teeth brown. Give them greasy hair and scars. Cause that’s probably how they look now, you know?”
“You want to make them up like coked-out rock stars?” the host asked.
“Oh, is that where they all went? Well, mystery solved.”
Advent 9 laughed out loud—a rarity, even coming from his favorite show. The night seemed less hot, and it felt like he was having a nice time.
That didn’t last. A Hummingbird poked its ferret nose a hair too close. He glared, letting it know he was watching. With the slightest mental push, he sent it scampering away. Lungs unclenching, he returned his focus to the radio, but the laughter was gone.
It’s wrong to chase the sirens.
This time they blared long and hard, and came with spinning lights that turned the streets red, only to round a corner and vanish between the sheets of buildings. Maybe he did want to follow them. But he wasn’t stupid. If other help was on the way, he wasn’t needed. It had been a hard lesson to learn.
“Thanks for stopping by. Have a great evening.” The host cleared his throat. “Coming up next: the last Power Edict is up for repeal. We’ll argue both sides with Lisa and Hogan. Don’t miss it. But I can’t sign off without saying hello to my favorite listener. Are you out there, Advent 9?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“If you’re listening, I want to say thanks for everything you do.”
“You’re welcome,” Advent 9 said, lacing his fingers.
“And don’t stay up too late. You’re too young to be working the graveyard shift.”
Advent 9 frowned, wondering if he agreed. Without knowing how old he was, it was impossible to say. But he let that question go before it attracted more Hummingbirds. Questions were nasty that way.
As he started to unwind, a sharp tug yanked his mind from the radio. Was he imagining it? No. It was like someone pinching his stomach from inside. This was a call for help.
“Finally,” he muttered. He stuffed the earbuds in his pocket, switched off the radio, and checked the laces on his mask, which were nice and firm. Yawning, he rolled off the roof, plunging six feet before flying away.
The Hummingbirds followed in formation, wings beating too fast to see. Weaving around buildings would take too long, so he shot up the face of Highgarden Tower. His reflection raced him along the floor-to-ceiling windows on every level of the skyscraper. His mask peered at him from the glass, with eyes hiding behind gold-tinted lenses, and blond hair spilling out the top pulled straight down by his ascent. His mouth was set, ready for a fight.
His boots scraped the building’s needle tip before he climbed into the sky. The noise of traffic abruptly choked off at this height. There were no clouds or stars tonight, only the city’s electric aura.
The tug grew stronger and more frantic as he flew. Whatever trouble he was headed for had turned deadly, and he had to cross half the city and the bay. Looks like he’d picked the wrong roof to start from.
After crossing Old Harbor the lights vanished, replaced by black water stretching for miles. He let himself fall, picking up speed to blast across the bay, flying parallel with the suspension bridge. The night was colder down here, with a zest of salt in the air.
The uniform was good for this kind of flying. The blue mantle wrapping his shoulders broke the wind chill. The mask’s lenses saved his eyes from stinging spray. And the thick vest and boots kept water out. He passed the island with the amusement park and a hundred ships but was still making bad time.
Above land again, he arced over a seaside neighborhood and found the right place, as the call changed to an alarm in his head.
It was just outside a brick-walled park, which an expensive car had crashed into. Advent 9 looked for the animal who’d called him—another Hummingbird who swooped and hissed at four men surrounding the car.
They hadn’t noticed the creature.
Dressed in matching black with red jackets, they moved in. One smashed the windshield with a baseball bat, letting out screams from the woman trapped inside.
“Morgans,” Advent 9 growled. No common criminals. They would take the lady’s life and leave her jewelry untouched on her corpse. They were monsters, and they only stopped when he stopped them.
The batter circled the car, breaking every window. The next guy, with a gasoline can, splashed it inside, laughing like a maniac.
When the third man fished a lighter out of his pocket, Advent 9 dropped like lightning, flying boot-first into the Morgan’s face. The lighter spun into the road as its owner was launched fifteen feet. Advent 9 landed. The Morgans jumped.
“That’s him!” the gas man shouted.
A third Morgan blurted, “Rex, your gun.”
“Right.” The batter dropped his weapon and pulled out a handgun. “Careful now, hero. One step and you’re. . .”
Advent 9 strolled up to the car.
Bang!
The bullet flew up to his nose.
Fuzz.
In a blink, Advent 9 became a colorful haze in the air. He reappeared a step to the left and felt the bullet sail by his ear.
Rex fired six more times, each bullet striking places Advent 9 had just been. Sweating, the Morgan pointed his weapon into the car and screamed. “I have hostages!”
The hero shrugged. “Yeah? Well, who doesn’t?” He grabbed the car’s bumper and swung the vehicle like a hammer, mowing Rex and the gas man like grass. The two criminals lay in the street, gasping. The gas man clamped his hands on a bleeding knee.
Satisfied, Advent 9 searched for the last Morgan, and found him standing, transfixed.
Why hadn’t he run? The last man always ran. It was a rule. If lawbreakers wouldn’t follow the rules, how could he do his job? It was infuriating.
The hero crept closer, but the Morgan didn’t move a muscle. Was he paralyzed with fear?
“I-I’m ready,” the Morgan said.
Advent 9 blinked. “You know what’s coming, right?”
The man nodded.
The hero shrugged. “Okay.” One chop of his hand brought the Morgan down, his collarbone buckling under the blow.
Advent 9 kicked Rex’s gun into a storm drain. He searched for any threats he had missed, but there was nothing.
So he waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. The Hummingbirds emerged from the trees, from behind lampposts, from open mailboxes. With the danger gone, they floated together into the battlefield.
And danced.
Feathers flapped in a midair tumbling display that became backflips on the ground. Ferret smiles were shot all around with lolling tongues. Somehow, Advent 9 had picked up five more since leaving the rooftop. One curled itself into a doughnut for the others to roll between them when they weren’t leaping over each other.
Advent 9 groaned. “Does it have to be every single time?” There had to be some other way to celebrate his victories.
Whatever. It was time to find a new ledge, listen to the radio, and wait for another call. Tonight had been a bust so far but it could still be salvaged. He kicked off and started soaring.
“Wait!” shouted a woman below.
He stopped, caught off guard, and circled back to the lady who’d stepped out of her car. Two girls, maybe ten or twelve, stood there shivering. He smelled gasoline on them.
“Uh,” he began, “is something wrong?”
“You saved us.”
“Well, sure.” He shrugged.
“I called the police.”
“Good.” He mentally reached out to the Hummingbirds patrolling other blocks. They saw cars coming. “They’re a few minutes out. Stay out of the car to dry off.” He floated away.
“Wait!”
He sighed, coming back.
“Those men.”
“They’re not going anywhere,” he said. “They probably won’t die, though that one might never walk again.” He stroked his chin.
“Well okay, but . . .”
“Everything is fine.” He frowned at her. “Uh, you’re welcome?” Was that what she wanted?
“Aren’t you going to stay with us?” she screeched, falling to her knees, and Advent 9 covered his ears. She hadn’t been this loud when the Morgans had tried to kill her. “Please. Please. This has never happened to us before. Please stay until the police come.”
He grimaced. “No, I don’t do that.”
“But—”
“There are no other criminals in the area. You’re safe now.” Before she could scream again, he took off flying till she shrank to a distant speck behind him.
He tried to forget it but couldn’t stop wondering what her problem was. Being a hero might seem complicated but it was quite simple. You wait for a call, find the trouble, save the victims, then leave. Wait, find, save, leave. The sun comes up and the hero’s job is done. The sun goes down and it begins again. How could anyone not understand?
He was in no hurry, so he kept low, ducking around buildings. But he didn’t escape the Hummingbirds. They rode in his wake. Except the one he’d left behind to keep watch.
On a crowded strand of the eastern shore he found a nice high-rise and sat on a corner of its roof. Angry sounds of traffic rose from the street. The awkwardness of the mission faded.
The earbuds called his name. He’d need his radio to get rid of the eleven Hummingbirds on the roof with him. Not all were weak enough to push away.
He flipped the switch on his radio and was jolted by what he heard. Music. Not an advertisement’s jingle or the opening of a talk show, but real music, like an axe on his eardrums.
His finger Fuzzed, striking the buttons with superhuman speed to find a talk station. Then he fell backward, exhausted.
The radio waves seemed to be full of filler, like packing paper surrounding the real stuff. He couldn’t stand it.
He waited as the night grew cold. Hours passed without any calls. On the airwaves, a man and woman tried to outshout each other about something Advent 9 had never heard of. He smiled, relaxing. It could’ve been more exciting, but not every night could be a blockbuster. Still, considering how many sirens he’d heard, it felt like there was a shortage of peril in the city.
A static hiss washed through the radio. He sat up to find a clearer signal. The Hummingbirds rested, crawling the walls like flies, buzzing their wings or huddling in corners. He sighed. One day, he’d figure them out.
The static grew worse. When Advent 9 stood, it got louder and shorted-out the voices behind it. Wiggling the antenna got him nowhere. He didn’t understand. The sky was cloudless with nothing to block the signal.
He switched stations. Nothing changed. Curious, he surfed through the channels, and found every one had vanished under static. The radio didn’t seem to be broken. It had been working only a minute ago. Where was all the noise coming from?
Then the static stopped. A microphone popped and someone on the other end took a deep breath.
“Good evening, Hearth City. This is your doctor speaking.”
That voice. He recognized it.
“I have bad news. And you will be hearing it everywhere.”
Advent 9 flipped through fifty stations. They all played the same message.
“By now, you’ve noticed every wireless signal in the city has been infected. You have no television, no cell phones, no internet, no air traffic control, and no police dispatch. All your glowing trinkets have taken ill, and all emergency services are suspended. Even if you manage to call 911, they will have no way of sending anyone to save you.”
The speaker cleared his throat. “Such a nasty disease, but conveniently curable. All you have to do is return my property. Inside your police vaults you will find articles of advanced technology unlawfully seized from my past places of business. Deposit them in the open—anywhere in the city will do—and withdraw to a safe distance. I will make the pickup at three AM. After that time, your precious toys will completely recover.”
Advent 9 ground his teeth. The doctor had corrupted the city’s radio waves. Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it. He was playing with fire this time.
“Oh, and as a doctor I must recommend against any untested alternative treatments, such as sending a certain masked lawman to intercept me. However, if he wishes to call on me tonight, he will find me where we first met. But consider this, Advent 9: if you check in to my clinic tonight, it will be our last session. Once again, Hearth City, good evening.”
The message looped, taunting the hero again. He seethed.
The place they’d first met? Advent 9 remembered. A moment before, that place had had no Hummingbirds. Now he felt them converging, pulling at his brain, summoning him. It took all his willpower to keep from running into whatever ambush awaited him there.
But he couldn’t resist forever. The doctor had threatened his city too many times. Tonight would get a lot worse if Advent 9 couldn’t use his radio. If the sirens stopped, people would need him in every part of town. As a hero, he couldn’t stand still.
He took ten steps onto empty air, suspended between two buildings. A deep breath focused him.
He shot away. Surrounded by ghostly creatures with shimmering wings, he sped like a meteor toward the city’s heart.
Tonight he’d tangle with a supervillain!
