Madame Science Chp. 1

Hey all! I'm sorry I've been gone for so long. That was totally unfair of me and I've worked up a collection of stories so that doesn't happen again, at least until January.  I've started school again and that took way more of my time than I thought. 

To thank so many of you for sticking with me, I've decided to make Madame Science, the book based on this post (X)  that I've finally completed after a year of hard work available to all my patrons for free. Over the next two weeks, I'll be posting all 15 chapters in their unedited forms, and then the final edited book. If you'd like to purchase a physical copy, that will be available mid-november, but I really wanted you all to have it digitally for free.

Thank you again for your continued support, I am so blown away by you all.

--------------------------------

The parking structure one block ahead of my car implodes, sending the sound of shrieking metal and clashing concrete piercing through the air. Traffic’s already at a halt by merit of it being early morning rush hour on a Tuesday, but the city’s Battle Protocol slams into place anyway and the light starts blinking red. A siren starts up from the direction of Hero Headquarters and my radio starts blaring the prerecorded warning. I switch it off.

Through my open window—it’s a rare nice day in LA—I hear a woman on the sidewalk say, “Oh for heaven’s sake.” It’s a middle-aged woman with three strands of pearls draped around her neck. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose and talking into a cellphone without the least bit of fear as the dust from the explosion sweeps over her. “Push my meeting back thirty minutes, Steve, there’s another Super fight.”

I roll up my window before the clouds of debris can blow inside my Audi. Around me, people are doing the same, cursing their luck as small bits of gravel ping against their shiny paint jobs. I’m not worried. My car is the last thing I have from my villain days and is reinforced to withstand laser beams. A few chunks of rock aren’t going to do anything to it.

In the old movies, the woman on the sidewalk would be screaming and running or, maybe, clutching her pearls before swooning. The people on the road ahead of me would be swearing and swerving away from the explosion, running over medians and people in an effort to flee. Some people say it’s thanks to the security the Department of Heroes installs in citizens that there’s no panic now. Others say that people trust the defense measures—forcefields around the streets to prevent people from being crushed by falling rubble—the government made sure to install in every major city.

The truth is that Super fights are so common that people are desensitized to them. The average citizen is fully capable of recognizing an implosion versus an explosion and know that they’ve got very little chance of being crushed to death right now. Most citizens have been taught that running is oftentimes futile (and more dangerous) anyway. Better to save it as a last resort.

I sit back and watch for whoever got thrown through the parking garage to emerge. It’s an old structure, already half demolished by previous fights, and empty. The hero who threw the villain must have known that, which must mean it’s a veteran. Only veterans are confident enough to blast a villain like that in the middle of rush hour.

Sure enough, Stormfighter comes drifting down from the clouds above, his eyes glowing silver as he uses his control over the wind to hover over the collapsed garage. He’s a C-rank hero who’s under a lot of scrutiny right now for causing a tornado in Dana Point Harbor, destroying millions of dollars in yachts. Depending on the villain, this arrest could be enough to get him off DOH probation.

“Or not,” I say out loud as part of the structure lists dangerously towards the road. Killing civilians through structural damage is a big no no. Car horns blare as those under it start trying to work their way forward. While the government put forcefields over the main roads, they’re not always super effective. Sometimes they don’t trigger and, other times, they’re not strong enough to hold up huge pieces of debris. The technology is advanced enough to hold up buildings, but the government cheaped out on parts and the effect was compromised.

How do I know that? Because I’m the one who created the technology in the first place. Do I know how to fix the problem? Of course, but I’m definitely not going to go out of my way to help them since they stole my invention in the first place.

Stormfighter swoops down, his grey cape nearly flying over his head when he moves too fast, and blows the listing structure back upright. He waves to the honking cars like the people inside are applauding him instead of cursing him before turning back to the collapsed garage. There’s a pile of concrete that’s moving, which means the villain is alive and well. That’s good for him, bad for us commuters. A dead villain would definitely keep him on hero probation, but it’d spell an end to Battle Protocols so we can all continue on our merry way.

I hope he’s alive. That’d be the hero-like thought to have and one I’ll definitely relay to my DOH’s case agent when they give me another assessment. Hoping someone is alive, no matter their background, is a sign of compassion. It’s unfortunately not my first thought, but Ms. Barry doesn’t need to know that. We’ve been working on getting my morality scores up so when I can finally apply to be a hero, I’ll pass with flying colors.

A robotic arm emerges from the rubble, claw-like hand slamming against the concrete hard enough to splinter it. Another emerges and then a third, all working together to drag the villain out into the open air. Stormfighter is too busy waving at the annoyed citizens to notice the villain brushing dust off of his costume.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hiss, staring. I don’t recognize the villain. He’s in robotic armor styled to look steampunk. There are a lot of pointless gears bolted to his chest plate and arcing over his head like horns. I can hear the joints of his suit whir from here. I flip the radio back on, suspecting what I’ll hear and already angry.

“—new villains have increased 5 percent over the last quarter. Gears, a Super villain currently in active combat with Stormfighter in downtown Los Angeles, is just one of six new Super faces on the scene. Our eyes in the sky say that he has a telepathic link with machines, allowing him to control Gen Prosthetics in a way the company did not intend for them to be used. In a statement to the Department of Heroes, Gen Prosthetics said—"

I slam the power button, cutting the announcer off mid-sentence, and throw myself back into my seat with a huff. Of course, this guy gets to be called a Super. Nevermind the fact that his robotics are shit, uninspired, and ripped off from someone else, he can control them with his mind! That makes him a super-powered individual, for sure!

Meanwhile, I designed, synthesized and sicced sentient slime on the unsuspecting Chicago populace five years ago, but am only considered a civilian. Does it matter that nobody else can create sentient slime? No! It’s still what they think of as “science” and science is a civilian ability. 

It’s that kind of hypocritical thinking that led me to becoming a villain in the first place. The government can confiscate a civilian’s inventions for being too powerful, an ability they used to steal my forcefield tech when I was in college. When I refused to hand over my precious slime without a patent (and down payment), they labeled me a villain, those useless walnuts. Was it petty to sic the slime on their outpost in Chicago? Yes. Was it worth it to see their offices closed for three weeks while they waited for it to break down? Also yes.

It’s petty that I don’t shout out to Stormfighter when Gear finally shakes himself free of the rubble and launches himself at the floating hero, but I’m mad now. I’ve never had the opportunity to fight Stormfighter since I was Chicago-based last year, but I’ve fought enough heroes up there to spot an arrogant one. Gear is clumsy, barely able to accurately control his stolen robo-suit, and new, but he wraps all three of his robotic arms around Stormfighter and drags him down to the ground anyway.

I crane my neck to try and see over the cars in front of me. Gear’s heavy enough to keep a C-class hero from taking off. They’re fighting on the street, sending swirls of discarded trash into the air as Stormfighter launches his wind attacks. The pearl lady turns on her heel with a muttered curse and goes down a side street to get around them. Traffic starts to creep forward, no longer frozen in place under the threat of a building collapsing on them.

Police sirens approach from the right finally. The officers aren’t in a rush. Legally, they’re not allowed to detain a Super, villain or otherwise, if there’s already a hero on scene. The only reason they’re driving out is because the state will cut their funding if they don’t.

A throbbing sensation starts up behind my eyes as the sound of concrete breaking, car horns blaring, and multiple sirens shrieking meld together. I’m not legally allowed to use any tech over Level 4—your basic computer with Word on it—while I’m on probation, but what they don’t know can’t hurt me. I press the AM setting on my radio, revealing a second control panel above the clockface. No one listens to AM radio. I toggle through the menu until I find NoCan, short for noise cancelling. Immediately, the cacophony outside is cut off and the resulting silence is nearly enough to make me groan in relief.

I’m not controlled enough to stop the curse that leaves my lips when the phone rings. I wouldn’t answer considering I have to focus on not rear-ending the car in front of me, but I recognize the number. Or, rather, I recognize the lack of number.

Grudgingly curious, I press answer on my Bluetooth. “Christine Green.”

“Ms. Green,” the man on the other end says. I don’t know his name. He’s told it to me like five times, but it never sticks. He’s a government dog with twice the amount of blond hair that I have despite being twice my age. I’m pretty sure he knows that calling me directly is against the rules. “We have a case for you.”

“That’s doubly against the rules,” I tell him, eyebrows flying up to my hairline. I’m close enough to the fight that I can see Stormfighter get frustrated enough to forget there are cars behind Gear. He slams a blade of wind towards the villain, causing Gear to fly straight back into the side of a Mercedes van. The driver stops and pops out, red-faced. The cars behind him start going around his dented van and I inch forward with them. “You need to call Ms. Barry with assignments.”

It’s not easy to just stop being a villain. While I don’t have to answer for any murders, I do have quite a bit of property damage to my name. I was able to repay Chicago and the state which earned me probationary immunity. The federal government, however, slapped me with 500 hours of community service and about $500,000 in fines that I’m supposed to “work off” with the Department of Defense.

Ms. Barry, a lawyer but also an agent for the Department of Heroes, managed to put some boundaries down for me. The DOD isn’t allowed to ask me to make them anything, I only have to consult in an analytical capacity, and they can only give me three cases a month, or a maximum of 50 hours of work per month. She also made them agree to use her as a liaison, stating that the hours and cases I work have to be logged by both parties.

If I’m counting right, I’ve already hit my case quote for the month.

“This isn’t DOH business,” Blondie says stiffly. “We are requesting a civilian incident analysis.”

The fight is escalating again. Gear is visibly agitated by the Mercedes driver shouting at him. He twists a panel open on his thigh armor, removing a gun in one fluid motion. Traffic jolts at its appearance. It’s one thing to ignore two Supers rolling around on the ground like idiots. It’s another thing to ignore a gun. Stormfighter tackles Gear from the side before he can shoot the driver.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not Hero business,” I say. I’ve got bulletproof windows so I’m not particularly alarmed when Stormfighter fails to control the line of fire during the struggle. I watch with interest as several people duck below their car windows in an effort to gain some cover. “I hired Ms. Barry to represent me. She doesn’t work for the DOH when she’s handling my case.”

I can hear Blondie forcing himself to stay polite. “It’s sensitive information. The fewer eyes on it, the better.”

“Ms. Barry doesn’t look at the specifics,” I say. I frown and adjust my rearview mirror as several people behind me flash their brights. People usually only do that when another Super arrives on scene, but I’m not seeing anything. “You trying to hide something, Mr. Government Man?”

Something zips past my window, moving so fast that it’s blurry. I recognize the green and gold color scheme. Light, a speedster and A-class hero, has arrived. He darts towards the Mercedes driver, not slowing down enough to be seen clearly, and scoops him back into his car. If I wasn’t interested in the fight before, I am now.

“I resent the implication,” Blondie says. “And, for the last time, my name is Ronalds. The case is urgent—"

I’m not listening. Stormfighter still isn’t in control of the gun and Gear is remembering that he has three arms to Stormfighter’s two. Light is focusing on getting pedestrians behind cover, bolting around chunks of concrete so he doesn’t always have eyes on the struggle. Gear starts thwacking Stormfighter on the back with his third arm, causing Stormfighter to cough blood.

Idiot bit his tongue. All members of LA’s chapter of the DOH wear special Kevlar designed to disperse force. There’s no way Gear hit him hard enough to damage his lungs. Stormfighter, shocked by the blow, loosens his grip on the villain. Gear snatches his gun arm out of Stormfighter’s hold and shoots straight up into the air.

“—and, with all due respect, Ms. Green, I find it shocking that you’re hesitating to fulfill your part of the agreement considering the irreparable harm—”

For the first time, people start screaming. Gunfire is gunfire. The bullet activates the forcefield above the street, the green-blue sheen making the surrounding area look like it’s under water. The bullet hits and ricochets off of it back down to the street. It punches through the top of a Corolla and now people are panicking. The first wave of idiots hop the curb and floor it down the sidewalk.

“Wow.” I’m impressed. Somehow, after modifying my design, the government managed to overlook the pitfalls of not keeping one side of the forcefield permeable. “Wow.”

“Excuse me?” Blondie squawks. “Ms. Green, as a patriot of this country, I encourage you to think deeply about who exactly provides for the general welfare—"

Excited by the screaming, Gear shoots into the air again. This time, the forcefield isn’t strong enough to block the bullet. It breaks, showering electrical sparks as the fine copper webbing the forcefield is grounded to breaks. When Stormfighter tries to lunge for the gun again, Gear knocks him over the head hard enough the hero falls to the ground and doesn’t get back up.

“—important that this is completed in a timely manner. Timeliness is the least form of respect you owe to—"

Light darts forward and, simultaneously, I reach for the tiny device I keep in my center console. At first glance. it looks like a lighter with a plastic casing and metal top. Light catches one of Gear’s robot arms in one hand and scrambles for the one holding the gun with the other. Gear jerks it out of reach and bares his teeth as he jerks the barrel to point at Light’s head.

“—Barry is an agent of the DOH and is using you to keep tabs—"

I click the spiral design on the side of my device, pointing the hole where a flame might come out at Gear. Nothing shoots out and there’s no indication that it worked except that, all at once, Gear’s suit completely loses power. His robot arms sag and the lighting around his eyes goes dark. At some point in the fight, both of his gear-horns got broken. Without power in the legs, the metal suit becomes too heavy, and Light is forced to dodge as the new villain collapses under the weight.

“—it’s imperative that your priorities and the DOD’s priorities align—”

Holy sentient slime, was this guy still on the phone? “Call Ms. Barry,” I say and hang up before he can waste anymore air.

Light blinks down at the villain, frowns, and then jerks as he realizes what happened. Of all the LA heroes, he’s the only one who’s seen one of my EMP blasts before. His head whips around towards me and I hurriedly throw my directed EMP device out of sight. If Light sees me with Level Eight tech, he’s obligated to report it to Headquarters and I’d hate to put him in that position.

He doesn’t see me right away, beautiful dark eyes scanning each car slowly. I take a moment to admire his choice in gear—knee-high, gold-trimmed boots, contoured green Kevlar over his chest, and the mask that leaves his tightly curled hair exposed. The sparks raining down from the damaged forcefield and the underwater effect from the parts still working make him look ethereal.

Then he spots me and his face goes carefully blank. I sketch out a heart with my fingertips, grinning when his lips twitch. Light, as a Hero, doesn’t support civilian interference with ongoing Hero incidents like Super fights.

Scott Mitchell, as my boyfriend, thinks my humor in combat situations is funny.

Sorry, I mouth at him and shrug. I don’t really know if I mean “Sorry, I took the finishing blow” or “sorry, I know I’m not supposed to get involved until I get my hero license.” Both are equally true. As an extra apology, I blow him an exaggerated kiss.

Scott rolls his eyes and quickly signs later at me before turning back to Gear. The villain is unconscious, but it’s DOH policy to put on power suppression cuffs regardless of their awareness. The safer the better. He reaches for the set he keeps on his belt and kneels by Gear’s side.

I can’t hear anything behind my noise cancelling, but there are a lot more smiles on people’s faces now than when Stormfighter appeared. Light is known for being one of the most efficient heroes out there. The Chicago chapter had been devastated to lose him to LA, but couldn’t stop him after his identity got blown in front of the whole student body of the school he’d been teaching at.

I share a hearty thumbs up with the older man in the car next to me as the traffic light ahead stops blinking red and turns green. A Super fight ending within 20 minutes is rare these days. It seems like there are too many villains and too few heroes so it’s not uncommon to have an hour wait as police quarantine an area, waiting for a hero to show up.

When I become a hero, I think I’d like to fix that problem first. Maybe an underground transportation system for heroes so they don’t have to fight through LA’s dense population? No, there are too many subterranean systems already…maybe I could take another look at teleportation? I’ve been avoiding it for a few years because that’s the sort of tech that can get me into Big, capital B, trouble with the government, moreso than robots or slime. But once I get my hero license, I’d be protected, right? People’s superpowers are protected under law and by getting my hero license, I’d be a super-powered individual.

Teleportation’s always been tricky because we don’t understand enough about how the world behaves to even start trying to figure out how to do it. However, with my power, I don’t really need to understand how the world works to build a machine that does what I want. It just needs to be physically possible, which means I can keep trying until it does work. But what if I choose the wrong theory to work off of? There’s the idea that teleporting isn’t feasible. Instead, what you’re doing is “digitizing” and destroying the original thing being teleported and then creating a clone somewhere else. Would that clone have the memories of the original? Or would it degrade every time the subject was digitized?

I turn this over in my mind as I continue on my way out of downtown. I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I don’t understand why Ms. Barry calls me just as I’m passing Union Station.

“Madame Science,” I answer. I’m not supposed to use my old moniker anymore since I’m no longer a villain. The DOH wants to keep me as far away from my villainess ways as possible. I do it anyway because it annoys Ms. Barry who’s one of the most put together people I’ve ever met.

“Ms. Green,” Ms. Barry sighs. “Christine. I am not using a secure line.”

“But I am,” I tell her cheerfully. My Audi’s perfectly capable of securing both sides of any calls I make, barring a physical bug on Ms. Barry’s side.

“How did you—” Ms. Barry bites off the rest of her question. If she asks me and the answer involves the use of Level Five tech or above, she has to report it to the DOD and the DOH. “Never mind. Why did you answer Ronalds call this morning?”

I nearly ask her who Ronalds is before remembering that I only took one call this morning. Was his name Ronalds? Really? It didn’t suit him at all. “I thought it’d be a good way to start my day at rock bottom.”

“What?”

“There’s only up after hearing his voice,” I explain. A white car cuts me off and I briefly fantasize about stealing their spark plugs the next time they stop for gas. I clear my throat. “I told him to call you.”

“I’ve been attempting to ignore his emails, Christine,” Ms. Barry says. She’s told me that I’m not allowed to call her by her first name while she’s working. Somehow the rule doesn’t apply to her. “I didn’t want to hear from him first thing in the morning that he’s already spoken to you.”

“Sorry,” I say. “It sounded important.” I don’t actually know if it sounded important but I’m pretty sure he used the word urgent.

“It’s the government,” Ms. Barry says. “They always think they’re important. Let’s meet and talk about what they’re asking for, I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“I promise it’s secure!”

Ms. Barry ignores me. “I know it’s not our usual day, but can you swing by the office?”

“Uuuh.” I check the time and run some numbers. “I’m not going to be back in the area until…two? Is that okay?”

There’s an ominous silent. “Where are you going.” It’s not a question.

I feel a cold sweat start building on my upper lip. She can’t know about the specialty store. While not against my parole, it’s not exactly within the spirit of my parole. I keep my voice nice and light. “I’m trying to find a specific scent of candle so I’m going to the Glendale Galleria.”

Ms. Barry’s suspicion is nearly palpable. “You’re driving an hour for a candle?”

“Yep.” I scramble for anything else. She knows that I’d find a way to make a candle with Level Two tech if I had to. “I mean, that’s not the only reason. Can you keep a secret?”

“Legally?” Ms. Barry asks. Her voice could cut glass. Gosh, terrorize a major city for five years and people just stop trusting you.

“Scott’s birthday is coming up,” I say. It’s even true but I’m definitely losing hero points for using my Superhero boyfriend as a smokescreen. I ruthlessly shove away the guilt. “I’m buying him a gift but he’s nearly caught me twice already.” This is also true, but he didn’t nearly catch me out in person at a store. For being so good with tech, I forget to close tabs on my open computer way too often. “So I decided to drive as far away as my parole agreement allows to minimize the risk of him interrupting me.”

“That seems extreme,” Ms. Barry says far less suspiciously. She’s letting herself be convinced. She just needs one more push.

“Ms. Barry, I quit being a villain just to have a chance with Scott. And then I traced him to his place of employment, got a job there, and asked him out myself.” I’m almost embarrassed to bring it up, but it proves my point nicely. Though, in hindsight, that was pretty creepy of me. I should ask Scott about it. “I have a history of being extreme.”

There’s another beat of silence before Ms. Barry sighs. “Fine. I’ll be in your area for a lunch meeting anyway. Why don’t I stop by your apartment at, say…2:30?”

I try to hide my relief. “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

“You will,” Ms. Barry says ominously. “I look forward to smelling your candle.”

“That’s kinda of a weird thing to say,” I start to say, but she hangs up in the middle of my sentence. I bite my thumbnail, brows knitting together.

I don’t even like