Super Genetics

When Terry came to, it was to the sound of his father’s voice shouting nearby.

He sat up in a panic, his limbs tangled in the dirt.

They’re coming for me, he thought. Why are they coming for me?

But the realization hit him a moment later; he wasn’t buried in the dirt of the farm he had been visiting with his parents, but rather, the heavy linens of a bedsheet. He looked around in a panic, then spotted the familiar posters on the wall, the action figures lined up on the windowsill, and the desk where he sketched the various supers that he admired.

His eyes tracked over the poster of Savage in an action shot, his jaw opened unnaturally wide, revealing forearm-length fangs, just before he ripped through one of Mechlord’s super-soldier robots.

A shiver traced up his spine as the memory of those fangs tearing through Crunch’s shoulder replayed in his mind.

His dad’s voice echoed through the door, drawing Terry’s attention back to the reality of the situation.

“He deserves to know!”

Terry realized with a start that there were two ghouls standing guard by his door. Their eyes tracked over Terry, but their bodies remained impossibly still. Not even the slightest shift of their chest to signal the intake of air.

All his life, he’d been surrounded by the unliving. He even considered a ghoul one of his closest friends. But in this moment, for the first time, he felt an unease around the elite guards of his grandfather’s city.

A commanding voice answered his father.

“Knowing will only hinder his Awakening. You will obey—” The voice cut off and Terry strained to hear what was said next. “He’s awake. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Terry shot back against his pillows as the door handle turned. Standing in the doorway was his father. James Fairway was a well-built man with raven-black hair tinged by gray at the temples. His piercing green eyes landed on Terry and the boy flipped back his covers, prepared to run into his arms. Then he noticed the man standing behind him.

His grandfather shared the same physical traits as his father, his eyes, hair, and body type close enough that they could have been brothers. But where his father’s hair was beginning to gray and the corners of his eyes were slightly tight with wrinkles, his grandfather had flawless black hair and skin as smooth as a teenager; the extended lifespan of a S-ranker on full display next to his older-looking son.

Maintaining the training embedded in him from a lifetime of practice, he stood from the edge of the bed and bowed his head.

“Hello, grandfather.”

His eyes studied the carpet as he waited to be acknowledged. After a moment of silence, he dared to glance up to see if he had offended the ruler of Wichita.

The first thing he noticed when his eyes tracked up was the scowl on his father’s face. Though it wasn’t directed at Terry, he understood that his father was not pleased with his reaction.

Did I bow wrong? he wondered.

Then he stole a glance at his grandfather, who was scanning the room with a look that Terry couldn’t identify.

After a moment of tense silence, his grandfather’s eyes finally landed upon Terry, and the boy quickly averted his gaze.

“How are you feeling, grandson?”

Terry lifted his head, standing up straight now that he had been recognized by his grandfather. Rather than answer right away, the boy took stock of his body in a careful fashion, focusing his attention on each limb individually before replying.

“My right shoulder was dislocated, grandfather. It appears to have been set while I was unconscious. Minor burns on most of my body.” He hesitated, afraid of making an inaccurate assessment. “I think Dr. Wong must have healed the worst of it.”

He studied his grandfather’s face closely, trying to pry into the Emperor’s thoughts. His eyes flicked up and down Terry’s body once, then rose to look past Terry, at the far wall.

“Take those down,” he replied tersely.

The boy whirled around, forgetting to stand at attention in his panic. Behind him, the poster of Sol dominated the center of the wall. His glittering gold chainmail shined in the sun, giving the super a halo of light like the Jesus of before.

Terry turned back, the words ‘Yes, grandfather’ on his lips, before he realized that all he could see of the Emperor was his trailing cape.

His grandfather had gone.

He turned to his father, who hadn’t said a word. “Di-did I do something wrong?”

His father’s face was set, his lips pursed tight. “No, son.” He glanced at the ghouls flanking him on either side of the doorway, a fleeting expression passing over his face before placing his stoic mask back on.

He played that expression back in his mind, trying to parse the emotion he had witnessed, even as his father continued, “I have some news, Terry. It’s—”

His father stammered and all thoughts of analyzing the man’s expression fell away as Terry jolted in surprise. He had never seen the uncertainty or doubt in his father that he saw now.

“What is it, dad?”

His father’s lip quivered and the man looked away suddenly. He rushed over to the desk and leaned heavily against it, his whole body shaking.

Terry looked on in horror, frozen in place even more so than when Savage had attacked him.

This wasn’t the Prince of Twilight, the Commander of the Unliving legions that had solidified the Free-City of Wichita over decades of war and struggle. This wasn’t the man who had always maintained a quiet dignity and a commanding presence.

This wasn’t his dad…

He stepped quietly toward his father, afraid to make even the slightest sound as his hand stretched out uncertainly.

His hand never touched his father’s shoulder. He stood a foot from the man, letting his arm fall to his side as he looked around for guidance.

How did you steady the man that had always been as steady as a rock?

The two ghouls standing at the door stared straight ahead, as if embarrassed by his father’s emotional display. He wanted to reprimand them, remind them who his father was. But the air was heavy. So heavy. To break the silence felt like the ultimate sin.

After a few more moments, his father took in a wracking breath, stood upright, and composed himself by running his hands down his shirt to smooth the wrinkles. When he turned toward Terry, his usual neutral expression was back in place.

The only evidence that anything unusual had occurred were the streaks running down his face.

“Son—” His voice quivered and he cleared his throat. His shoulders rolled back and his chest puffed out. His gaze rested just above Terry’s head, not quite meeting his eyes. “Son, I have something to tell you. It’s about your mother.”

Mom! He hadn’t even thought to ask.

Terry glanced at the hallway, expecting her to walk through the door any moment.

“Mom? Where is she?”

His father’s breathing hitched and Terry’s mind went completely still. The man’s jaw clenched over and over again, and Terry wondered if his father would answer him at all.

As he opened his mouth to ask again, his father spoke up suddenly.

“Your mother is gone.”

Gone? Gone where?

“Where’d she go?”

His father ignored him, rubbing a hand across his face. They came back wet and he stared at the moisture, his eyes unfocused.

“Dad, I…I don’t understand.”

James’ gaze snapped to Terry, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is,” he barked. “She’s gone. Don’t you get it? Gone!”

Terry recoiled, his legs bumping against the bed. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was scared and he didn’t know why.

His father sighed, closing his eyes. Terry watched as he took three deep breaths, then looked at him.

“She’s dead, Terry.”

No, that wasn’t right. His mother was the most powerful super in Wichita—other than the Emperor. If he wasn’t so scared right now, he’d call his father a liar.

Instead, he settled on, “How?” Once his father explained, he’d be able to tell the man why he was wrong. Why his mother wasn’t dead, but maybe… missing?

James chewed his lip a moment before replying. “She struck down Siren. The feedback killed her.”

Terry’s mouth opened but he couldn’t form any words. Siren? Killed?

The words had no meaning in his mind. He said them to himself over and over again, but no matter how many times he repeated them, they remained foreign concepts in his thoughts.

His father looked to the side, his eyes tracking over something on the wall. Terry followed his gaze and his eyes went wide. James rushed over to the wall with heavy strides, his hands gripping the poster on either side. It was a poster of his grandfather from before he formed the Free-City of Wichita, when he was a powerhouse superhero fighting against the supervillains of old. The Lord of the Long Night, Traveler of the Underworld, Lord Necroton himself, as he had been known at the time. With a growl, his father ripped the poster away, tearing it down the middle before throwing it into the lit fireplace.

“Dad—” Terry started, but cut off as the man strode over to the next poster, tearing it down as well before tossing it in the fire beside the Necroton poster.

Then the next and the next, until Terry’s walls were barren. Heavy, black smoke filled the room and Terry wasn’t sure if his tight throat was from the smoke or the deluge of tears threatening to burst forth.

He didn’t know what to say as his father followed up the posters with his action figures. He knew he needed to say something, but the connection between his brain and his tongue was severed. It was all he could do to tamp down the sob rising in his chest.

A minute later, James stormed from the room without a word, his face streaked with black soot and tears. Terry watched him go with a tight chest before throwing himself down onto his bed.

He finally allowed the dam to break, his still-aching shoulder sending waves of pain through his body with every wracking sob.

One of the ghouls silently snuffed out the fire, while the other opened the window. A wave of black smoke washed out into the dark sky.

Days later, Terry stood by his father’s side before his mother’s casket. They still hadn’t spoken and though Terry desperately craved to hug his father and be hugged in turn, he refused to do so until the man apologized.

So he stood by the open casket in stubborn silence, staring down at his mother’s lifeless face.

She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life. Full lips, high cheekbones, and a graceful jaw that had made her a superhero icon well before she was Terry’s mother.

But where her face had once been tanned and full of life, it was now pale and ghastly.

He felt his father’s presence at his side like a magnetic pull and it distracted him from his grief in a way that irritated him. He almost broke the silence between them to demand his father leave him alone by the casket. But no man—living or undead—had ever commanded James Fairway to do anything, except for the Emperor himself. And despite Terry’s simmering rage toward his father and the heavy grief that sat deep in his chest, he couldn’t bring himself to lash out at the man.

So he stood there in stubborn silence and allowed himself to feel the grief he had been holding back. His throat tightened as he remembered sunbathing by the river with his mother, splashing in the water before air-drying on a rock outcropping. His eyes moistened as he thought back to the week before, when his mother had indulged him and played hero and villain with him in the courtyard.

Her laugh echoed in his mind and the tears broke free. He bent over the casket and pressed his lips to her forehead, closing his eyes as he breathed in her hair one last time.

When he stood back up, he gazed down at her and realized that he had smeared the makeup on her face. He reached over with his thumb and wiped away the signs of his tears and the outline of his lips, but he only made it worse. The heavy makeup came away on his thumb, revealing something beneath.

Underneath the foundation and blush was her exposed skin, a streak of red and white lay there, like a gash cutting down to the bone. He reached out his hand once more to wipe away the makeup and take a better look, when an iron grip wrapped around his wrist.

He looked up at his father’s face. His expression was pained, streaks of tears cutting divots down his cheeks. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Then, maintaining his grip on Terry’s wrist, used his other hand to smear the makeup back into place. What had looked like a deep gash was now simple makeup once again.

Before Terry could question his father—cold shoulder or not—a rush of movement erupted by the door. He turned to see two dozen ghouls file in, forming two lines leading toward the casket. Their unnaturally lithe bodies were bent at the waist, their eyes cast to the carpet.

Following them were two hulking patchworks. They stood nearly ten feet tall and were as wide as a car. Their limbs were stitched together from various undead parts and they wore black steel masks over their faces. The smell of their half-rotten flesh invaded the viewing room, nearly gagging him. But that, Terry didn’t mind. What set his teeth grinding was the aura of indifference they projected, like this was any old court appearance. Unlike the ghouls, they didn’t bow or show deference to his mother. They simply strode into the throne room.

He would have considered yelling at them to get out, if not for the man behind them.

Standing in the doorway was his grandfather in full superhero regalia. His face was covered by his bone mask, his ember eyes blazing in the open sockets. He wore his set of bone armor, though his scythe lay strapped to his back rather than clutched in his hands.

The memory of that scythe passing through Savage with contemptuous ease played over and over again in his mind. He wasn’t comforted by that image—just the opposite, actually. It terrified him in a way he couldn’t understand. The casual disregard for life, the harvesting of a soul that now languished inside that unnatural weapon. The burning embers of his eyes, lifeless and cold despite the flames. A wave of unnatural terror washed over Terry at the sight of his grandfather.

This isn’t a man. This is the reaper, whose throne rests upon the bones and trapped souls of his enemies.

That dissociation crystallized in his thoughts and for the first time in his life, he considered the Emperor strolling down the aisle as just that—the Emperor. Not grandfather, not his father’s father, but the super who ruled the city with an iron fist. The super who commanded the unliving and the living with equal parts brutality and coldness.

As if giving life to his thoughts, five men and women came into view behind the Emperor. No, former men and women.

The Emperor’s revenants bore all the hallmarks of being human—normal hair, clothes, and wrinkles marring their flesh to signify that they had once been living. The only indications that they no longer lived and breathed like him was the pale, bloodless skin that spoke of a lack of circulation and the stillness of their chests that reminded him more of a ghoul than a person.

He had once feared the revenants, zeroing in on all the traits that set them apart from the other supers he so admired. But over the years, some of them had become his greatest friends and frequent tutors. His eyes locked on Nick Halleck—Whipvine as he was known to most—and the man flashed him a sad smile, the scars on his face stretching gruesomely in a way that would have once sent him crying to his mother. Now, he felt comforted by his friend’s war-torn features, longing instead to run into the man’s arms now that he felt so distant from his father. But he wasn’t so cruel or so grief-stricken as to embarrass his father and himself like that. Instead, he returned Whipvine’s ugly smile with a nod.

Behind the Emperor, the other revenants were in moods as eclectic as their appearances. Cillian Fletcher—aka War Crimes—was in full tactical gear, a pistol on his hip and a rifle slung behind his back. He was young, blond hair cut short with piercing blue eyes that seemed to twinkle like he was in on a joke that no one else could hear. Beside him, in stark contrast, stood the Professor in stereotypical tweed, patched elbows, and twice-broken glasses hanging on for dear life on the edge of her nose. It was unclear to him if these were affectations of her costume or if the woman really dressed like this, even at funerals. He didn’t know her that well and she had rigidly maintained distance and professionalism in his presence, as opposed to Whipvine’s boisterous familiarity. Across from her was Sebastian Vatal—aka Mesmer—another tutor of Terry’s and one he considered a friend. Mesmer was much older than the other revenants, indicative of Awakening late in life—which meant that he was even older than he appeared—one of the Originals, like the Emperor. He also sent Terry a sad look, though it was lacking the exuberant charm of Whipvine’s dancing scars.

The fifth and final revenant of his grandfather’s coterie was a hard-bitten woman with leathery skin and a permanent scowl. Patricia—aka the Iron Maiden—was a Catalyst who could manipulate metal by touch. She was a nasty former supervillain notorious for disregarding collateral damage during her time among the living. Terry had personally watched the video of her collapsing a skyscraper in Dallas before her capture by a coalition of supers, including his grandfather. He’d been forced to shut the video off midway and still dealt with nightmares for weeks. His mother had shot dark looks toward Patricia for even longer. She was affectionately known on the web and HeroWatch as the Iron Bitch and Terry had even heard his mother refer to her as such when she didn’t know he was listening.

The five revenants assembled behind the Emperor, but didn’t proceed into the room. Instead, they lingered at the entrance as if expecting one more person. Mesmer glanced behind him with a worried expression, turning back to examine Terry for a moment before looking away. Whipvine’s expression was less concerned and more furious.

Terry caught the man’s eye and furrowed his brow in question, but Whipvine just shook his head.

A moment later, he understood why.

A sixth revenant appeared behind the rest, seven feet tall and covered in burnt-orange fur.

A fist clenched Terry’s gut, twisting it inside him until he thought he might puke. His father’s hand gripped his shoulder and he felt it anchor him despite everything.

Savage took his position beside the Iron Maiden, returning Whipvine’s hateful stare with a lopsided smirk. The bestial super scanned the others, then saw Terry staring at him open-mouthed. Savage’s smile twisted into a snarl, exposing fangs that crept from their gum sheaths in quiet threat. James pulled Terry away, turning the boy toward his mother’s peaceful face.

The coolness of her pale skin shocked him from his instinctive terror and his anger flashed hot once more. Not toward Savage, who was now a thrall to the Emperor, but toward his father. He shrugged off the man’s hand, taking a step away to create distance.

“Terry,” his father whispered, the pain ringing clear in his voice.

But the pain couldn’t touch him, not on his island. Nothing would touch him here.

“You should have warned me,” he hissed back, not even sparing his father a glance.

That was all he would give the man. Let him seep in that, knowing that he was failing as a father—just as he had failed as a husband to protect Terry’s mother.

The Emperor strode into the throne room, killing any chance for James to react. Terry could feel the naked desire in his father to bridge the looming divide, but his mother’s dead face stared back at him and he couldn’t make himself care about the man’s feelings. Not right now.

When the Emperor and his revenants passed by him and climbed the dais to his throne, Terry inclined his head in respect, but felt none of the filial love he had harbored from before. It was like a switch had been flipped that he couldn’t flip back. He wanted to—it would be so much easier to lean on his surviving family, his father, his grandfather. He just…couldn’t.

The Emperor passed his scythe to one of the ghouls at his side, then turned to sit on his raised throne. His six revenants followed behind him, arraying with three on either side. Whipvine, Iron Maiden, and the Professor on one side, while War Crimes, Mesmer, and Savage took the other.

Once he and his revenants were settled, the Emperor waved his hand imperiously.

“Begin.”

The undead servants rushed to the door and began ushering in those who had been patiently waiting outside. Slowly, the trickle of human and undead filed into the throne room to get in line. Though Terry understood they were here to pay their respects to his mother, he inexplicably found himself loathing them all.

And not just the viewers, but the man at his side and the Emperor sitting above them all on his throne.

He let his father usher him to a nearby seat, but he felt the change as clear as day. He stood resolute on that island in his mind, the connections he had previously felt to his father and grandfather severed as if the Emperor’s blackwood scythe had sliced that invisible thread forever.

He squirmed as the sycophants and attention-seekers wept and wailed over the corpse of his mother, hating them more and more with every breath. The impotent anger inside him dominated his thoughts. He wanted to lash out, berate and scold each and every last one of them.

And then, a moment of clarity struck him like a single, perfect chord. He made a decision in that moment, deep within his heart. One that he wouldn’t violate no matter how deep his hatred went.

They would never see his hate, or his sadness, or his anger.

He would give them nothing.