Off The Pages

I.

Multiple file folders lay scattered across a desk. In an open air office floor, surrounded by filing cabinets and ten year out of date computers, Davis Wilson sat, analyzing photos and travel reports of multiple persons of interest, and beneath these photos and reports sat extensive bios, assembled out of the best data available to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The agent wiped his brow and took a drink from his water bottle. Ever since the President had ordered a special FBI task force on superpowered individuals, the man, weeks away from his thirty-nineth birthday, had sweat his way through sixteen-hour workdays. He’d been running on a cocktail of black coffee and Advil for the better part of two weeks. The gel insoles in his dress shoes had worn out from all the walking he had to do moving between offices and communicating important information to persons of interest higher on the federal food chain than he, because people of certain security clearances didn’t talk over the telephone or by computer. He probably knew more about certain individuals he’d been looking into over the past several days than his own mother. He let out a sigh and brushed his rust-colored hair out of his eyes. Normally, haircuts were a twice a month affair, but he hadn’t gotten his hair trimmed in almost a fortnight because he’d get home, his wife would feed him, and then he’d collapse into his bed. More than once he’d had to get up at three in the morning because the office called with urgent information.

“Wilson!”

Davis looked up at the gravel road of a voice he knew too well. Sam Louis, his section chief, and the official commander of the task force on supers, approached and placed a palm on his subordinate’s desk. “Sir?” Davis asked, tempering his tired voice with politeness.

“Did you finish gathering intel on the two primary cases?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Davis said, handing over a manilla folder. “This guy’s been the busiest of them all.” His supervisor flipped open the pages, revealing a long list. “Jericho Wilhelm Torvalds. President and founder of Firestorm Investments, personal net worth of eight point six billion dollars, four billion of which is in liquid assets, thirty-two years old.”

“Christ,” Sam scoffed, going over the travel report. “This guy’s been on the move.”

Davis nodded. “Before the lights,” he explained, “fairly ordinary travel pattern. Destinations largely line up with meeting important heads of corporations, financial firms, and other bigwigs of industry. After the lights, he goes globe-hopping.” He started counting on his hands. “Georgia. Los Angeles. Chicago. Montana. Mexico City. Orlando, Florida. All in the span of two weeks.”

Sam read the report. His eyebrows raised. “He set up investments to pay dividends to people?” he asked. He flipped a page. “What did he ask for in return?”

“That’s the weird thing,” Davis replied. “We got one of these individuals to contact us and he said all the guy wanted in exchange for the money—which is a decent chunk of change, let me tell you—was to shake his hand.” He reached over and pointed to an item on the next page. “He said Jericho Torvalds wanted to copy his power.”

Sam looked up from the folder. “So, you can confirm we have power consolidation?”

Davis nodded. “Yup,” he admitted. “So far, these people do not appear to be coerced, attacked, threatened, or in any way held under blackmail. It appears to be a case of a guy collecting powers for…well, we don’t know.”

Sam finished the information packet. “Right,” he said. “Johnson is going to be further investigating Torvalds. What can you tell me about the girl?”

Davis leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming against each other while cupped. Sam was about to say something, when he handed his superior a collection of pictures. “We were lucky in one regard,” he explained to Sam, “in that we got some very good clear pictures, which is rare for amateurs.” He took a breath, held it a moment, and let it out.

Sam looked at the pictures. Some clear, some exceptional, given they came from cell phone cameras. “So,” he inquired, “who is she?”

Davis pressed his lips firmly together and opened, making a pop sound. He gave his superior a dead-serious stare. “No one,” he said.

Sam’s head jerked in surprise. “Really.”

The junior agent blinked. “Fingerprints left behind?” He shook his head. “No record. No blood or tissue sample, because…obviously. Oh! We got a hair sample for DNA. Guess what? Nothing.” A single gasp of a laugh escaped. “Every avenue of data has been explored. This person did not exist prior to the Lights. They materialized out of thin air.”

“That’s impossible,” Sam stated. “Either way, you don’t believe that.”

“No, sir,” Davis answered, “I don’t.”

“Does this look like anyone in particular?” Sam said, grasping.

Davis pulled up his phone. He displayed a Wikipedia page for a superhero. “Based solely on the powerset,” he said, “I’d say this person is incredibly similar to the Capacitor, from Furious Comics. Anyway, I don’t believe in coincidences like this.”

The senior agent thought it over. “So, honestly,” he said, “what’s your analysis?” The lines on Sam’s face told the story of years of stress from investigating and pursuing all manner of crimes and suspicious actions. He’d seen decades of the worst people had to offer. His unkempt white hair spoke volumes. “That look says you think something.”

Davis leaned back. “I believe this is either a disguise,” he thought out loud, “or else someone physically transformed into a fictional character.” He headed the next question off at the pass. “The reason why I don’t think this is just some redhead given powers is how specific those powers are.”

Sam folded his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Davis continued, “during the Kansas floods, this person was seen affecting downed power lines to prevent people from being electrocuted. Furthermore, during the wildfires, some of the firemen said they saw heat and flame draw away from the people while she held them. That’s energy manipulation.”

“And,” Sam said, reading from the phone, “Capacitor’s powers are strength, speed, flight, durability, super senses, and energy manipulation.”

“Hence,” Davis added, “the name. The character is a tall redhead. This person is a tall redhead with the same powers. The odds of it being unrelated must be astronomical.”

“So,” Sam said, “you’re going to be investigating her.”

“What’s next, boss?” Davis asked.

“The only lead we have,” Sam said, putting a new sheet down on his subordinate’s desk, “is the southern Illinois area. Her actions take her to places where known disasters were being displayed, including the incident in China where she saved almost a thousand people, but she always seems to be coming back to within a half-hour’s drive of Madison County, Illinois.”

Davis perked up. “Really?”

Sam nodded. “Eleven sightings,” he said. The look on his subordinate’s face told him the gears were turning. “You’ll fly out to Saint Louis tomorrow and you’ll be set up with the local office to investigate. Your orders are to either gather intel on the individual, or, if possible, get them to make contact.”

“Alright,” he replied. “I’ll get on it.” He got up from his desk.

“Dave,” Sam said.

Davis wiped his brow. “Yes, sir?”

The old man wore a look of genuine concern. “I’ve dealt with the worst of the mob,” he explained. “Thirty-eight years dealing with shit, and this is brand new. You’re the one who grew up with comics. What’s your take on this whole ‘superpowers’ thing?”

He leaned on his desk. “Honestly, sir?” he asked. He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve had it good. Most people with powers haven’t done much. I don’t know if it’s fear holding them back, and they’ll eventually start wanting to show off, or if this is just the calm before the storm and once everyone who has powers knows how to use them, everything goes to hell. I don’t have a clue.”

Sam pondered this. “Don’t most comics have a supervillain?”

“Yeah,” Davis replied. “And that’s what really scares me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam agreed. “Go get some rest. You’ve done a hell of a job so far.”

The car door and Davis almost collapsed into his driver’s seat. He plugged his cell phone in to charge and set the Bluetooth to play anime themes. It allowed him to reminisce to the days of college where he got to party, watch cartoons, read comics, and study for tests. Even at his very adult age he couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility sometimes. A tired hand pulled the ID badge off his suit jacket and set it on the passenger seat next to his phone and firearm.

“Hey! You’re back before nine p.m.!”

He smiled at his wife Yvonne’s open arms and cheerful greeting. “Yeah, it’s a miracle,” he said. They gripped each other for dear life, and he rested his head next to hers on her shoulders. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replied. She pulled back. “So, why did Sam let you go early?”

“I got a project,” he explained. “Tomorrow I fly out to Saint Louis.”

“Saint Louis?” Yvonne asked.

“Lookup ‘Capacitor look-alike’ on the internet,” Davis told her, stumbling to the kitchen and melting into the seat.

She put a dish in front of him. “It’s still hot,” she said. “Lasagna. Your favorite.”

He poked some of the cheddar-covered broccoli with his fork and ate it. “Great,” he mumbled, in between bites. “These mashed potatoes are great too.”

“Wow,” Yvonne said, reading the articles. “This is like a dead-on.”

“That’s what I told Sam,” Davis replied. He took a bite of the lasagna. “Oh god, this is fan-freaking-tastic.”

“So,” she said, “this person gets superpowers, and decides the first thing they’re going to do is save lives?” She chuckled. “What a terrible person.”

Davis rolled his eyes. “You know,” he said. “Typical government bullshit. She’s just the biggest target. I mean, look at what she can do.”

“Do you think she’s dangerous?”

The agent looked at his wife. “Honestly? No,” he admitted. “I may not believe in pure good and evil, but this person could do almost anything, and they didn’t.” He took a drink of his cola. “But I have the unenviable task of either spying on them or getting them to come in. Neither one is a particularly great prospect.”

“I love you,” Yvonne said, reaching out and taking his free hand. “I want you to know that again.”

“I love you too,” he agreed. “Don’t worry. Don’t jinx it.”

After he ate, she took his plate and he went into the living room to read comics on his laptop. He had research to do, and his wife understood. “After this,” she said, reading on her Kindle, “can we take a vacation?”

“After this,” he said, looking up, “we’re going to take one hell of a vacation.”

II.

Bright and early, Davis got on his flight to Saint Louis. He took a nap on the flight and when he touched down, he got off the plane and called the branch office. “Hi,” he began. “Yeah, this is Agent Wilson.”

“Acknowledged, Agent Wilson,” the liaison said. “Agent Jackson will be there to pick you up.”

“Got it,” Davis said, hanging up. He walked over to the entrance to baggage claim and saw a man in a suit holding up a sign. He waved.

“Agent Theodore Jackson,” Jackson said, extending his hand.

“Agent Davis Wilson,” Davis replied, shaking.

Jackson gestured towards the carousel and Davis stood nearby and grabbed his bags when they came down. They left the airport and Davis put his luggage in the trunk of the Ford Crown Victoria parked near the front of the lot. “We’ve been briefed on the situation,” Jackson explained, “and you’re being given free reign to run this how you like. What do you require?”

“I’m honestly not suspecting her of being a killer,” Davis explained. “So, I’d like to avoid treating her like a terrorism suspect. Just me, running this out of a motel room.” He nodded. “I’ve done it this way before.”

“That’s right!” Jackson remembered, getting behind the wheel. “You did figure out where the gang was running the cartel’s drugs down in Florida, didn’t you?”

Davis shot him a look. “You heard about that?”

Jackson laughed. “We didn’t stop hearing about it for months,” he replied. “Brass kept wanting to reward you for it.”

Davis buckled his safety belt. “Well, don’t lose your mind about it,” he shot back. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“I’ve been reading up on this woman,” Jackson said. He shook his head. “It’s something else, I tell ya. She’s survived extreme heat, flood water, sharp objects moving fast, it’s just like the comic books.”

“Yeah,” Davis agreed. “Except for, you know, she’s not wearing a costume.”

“Hmm? What do you mean?” Jackson shot him a confused glance.

Davis shrugged with his hands. “You know,” he answered, “you can walk into Wal-Mart and get what she’s wearing off the discount rack for thirty bucks for the whole outfit. Cheap t-shirts, yoga pants, and rain boots.”

Jackson chuckled. “I guess she’s cheap,” he said.

After twenty-seven minutes of driving, they arrived at a motel in Collinsville, Illinois. They pulled up to the back, and Jackson reached into the glove compartment and handed a room key to Davis. They got out and Davis loaded his luggage into the room. The agency had already outfitted the room with a secure phone line as well as video equipment, and a couple firearms.

“So,” Davis chimed in, “who do I call?”

“Me,” Jackson replied. He handed a card with a handwritten number on it. “Just gimme a call and I’ll give you anything you need.”

Davis looked under the entertainment center and saw the room had a mini-fridge. “I’m going to need an extra TV and VCR,” he explained, “as well as a vehicle.”

“No prob,” Jackson said. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Yeah?” he began. “This is Agent Jackson. I’m setting up Agent Wilson at the motel room. He says he needs a car and an extra TV and VCR. Okay, no problem.” He hung up. He tossed the keys to Davis. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with the agents in the equipment van.”

“Thanks,” Davis said, sitting down on the bed.

“So,” Jackson said, “you’ve read comics, right? What’s your take on this?”

“I honestly think that some major villain’s coming soon,” Davis explained. “Most people with powers are small fry, but there’s always one big bad in these stories.”

“Do you think everything will be alright?”

“Honestly?” Davis answered. “I don’t know. I think it depends on how much we’re able to set aside our crap and work together.” He pondered further. “Villains in the comics love to divide heroes against each other.”

“That sucks,” Jackson shot back. “We’re not good at that.”

“I don’t know,” Davis countered. “We’re bad at it until suddenly we’re really good at it. It all depends.”

A short while later, there was a knock at the door. Jackson opened the door and three guys brought in a television stand, a second television, and another VCR. They set it up and brought in spare cables and power adapters. “I’ll be one phone call away if you need anything else,” Jackson said, walking out the door.

Davis sat in silence for a few minutes before he got into the car and drove to the local Wal-Mart and picked up a footlong three-meat footlong deli sandwich and a twelve pack of iced coffee. Then, after returning to the car, he pulled up his map of the sightings. One of them wasn’t too far from where he was, so he pounded an ice coffee and drove on.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, approaching the courtesy counter of a Schnucks. “I need to see your surveillance tapes.” He flashed his FBI badge.

The middle-aged woman regarded him with indifference until she saw the ID. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Right this way, sir!”

They entered a small room with four video monitors and two separate video recorders. “Oh, hello!” A man, early fifties, said, startled. “Can I help you?”

“Stevens?” the woman explained. “This is Agent Davis Wilson. He needs to see the security tapes.”

“I’m investigating sightings and appearances of the super-powered woman,” Davis stated. “I need to see the tape that includes immediately before and shortly after her arrival.”

The man nodded. “Sure thing!” he cheerily explained. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a tape in a plastic case with the date written in Sharpie on the front. “This is the one.”

Davis took it. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Were there any other dates?”

The man pondered it. “No,” he said, “just the one.”

On the way out, he bought a bag of sour cream and onion chips and some spare notebooks and pens. He set them next to the food in his front seat and checked the next nearest destination. He repeated this process, checking out each location, and retrieving the relevant surveillance tapes, until he had all the tapes in his passenger seat, eleven in total. He made his way back to the motel and set everything up in his room.

Alright, assumptions, he thought. Let’s assume she doesn’t wait around for an hour; she leaves right away. This assumption made sense to him because, rationally speaking, if she was someone else in disguise, they had a life of their own and waiting around made it more difficult to plan. He popped the first tape in and fast-forwarded to the part where the camera clearly picked up the would-be Capacitor descending from the sky into the rear left area of the parking lot. A moment after touching down, she vanished. Super speed, no doubt, he figured. He paused.

He grabbed a notebook and pen and began jotting down license plates and make & model information of every vehicle that left the lot. “Okay,” he said to himself, “next assumption.” He would assume this person drove to the place and alone. It didn’t make sense to him that someone who intended to be a hero would involve others in their activities. After thirty minutes of video, he stopped it and put on the next one.

Midway through the next video, he ate his deli sandwich with one hand and wrote information with the other. Five hours passed with him filling up almost a full notebook with vehicle information. He stretched and walked around to ward off weariness. He’d completed half the tapes. The laptop opened Excel and he began typing license plates into it, one column for each video. After setting it to compare the lists, he noticed that, out of the six videos he’d completed so far, there were eight vehicles in common leaving the first two places.

However, there were only two that had left all six.

“I’m almost there,” he said to no one in particular. He opened a new notebook and wrote down the two license plates, and the vehicle make and model next to each one. Then, he went back to each video tape he’d looked at. Of the two, one of them had no consistent pattern. That vehicle left at random intervals. The other, however, a beige Toyota Corolla, at least ten or so years old, with a dent in the trunk, he noted had a much more consistent pattern. Within about three to five minutes after the woman touched down and disappeared, a man would emerge from the place of business and enter the vehicle. He checked through the other five tapes. Each time, this man walked to the same vehicle, within a short period of time of the woman’s arrival.

“Agent Jackson,” he said, after the phone picked up. “This is Davis Wilson.”

“Agent Wilson,” Jackson acknowledged. “Nice to hear from you. Honestly, there was a bet as to whether or not you’d have some kind of major result in the first day. Guess I lost. What do you need?”

“I need you to email me vehicle information on a Toyota Corolla,” he stated, “Illinois license plate number ‘alpha-kilo-six-eight-two-Charlie-nine-zeta,’ and its owner.” He thought about it. “And also, a Honda Civic, Illinois license plate number ‘beta-seven-five-x-ray-delta-Romeo-three.’”

“Gotcha,” Jackson shot back. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” Davis advised. “Keep you posted.”

“Got it.” Jackson hung up.

Davis checked his email and saw in his secure inbox two separate detail sheets for his only two main suspects. The second one, he kept around for completeness sake. The first one, however, saw a man whose driver’s license photo seemed somewhat different from the surveillance image. You’ve lost weight, Manfred Voren, Davis thought to himself. If this man was in fact capable of transforming into a female superhero, that might explain the sudden loss of more than a hundred pounds of body fat.

“Manfred Edward Voren,” Davis read. The sheet read like a straightforward account of poverty and midwestern struggle. The father, a Reichard Voren, son of German immigrants, often struggled to find work based on the extensive work history with the varied work lengths. It struck him as strange. The father was a welder; that seemed like a job often in demand. The mother, Paula, often had to support their family on her nursing income alone. The man didn’t have a criminal record, nor did his parents, so the likelihood of evil intent, while not zero, seemed diminished.

The sun had gone down, and Davis decided to call it a day. He looked up local steakhouses and saw a number in the area, and chose one based on its Google review score. As he sat in the parking lot, in the agency vehicle, his cell phone rang.

“Davey,” Yvonne said. “You did it again.”

He blinked, then closed his eyes tight and let out a sigh. “Aw, shit,” he exclaimed. “I forgot to call you when I got off the plane.”

“It’s alright,” his wife answered. “I know you’re doing all you can to make our future as bright as can be.”

“Still,” he countered, “I love you, and I shouldn’t have forgotten. I don’t want you to think I’m putting you second.”

“Ha ha, don’t worry,” she replied. “I know you get all wrapped up and it means a lot to you to solve these cases. How’s this going?”

“All I can say is, it’s going good,” he said. “I’ve got a primary target.”

“Wow,” she joked. “Took you that long?”

“Funny,” he replied. “Anyway, I’m going to have a steak dinner and turn in for the night.”

“They can’t possibly make a steak as good as I can,” she bragged.

“No,” he replied, “but they’re going to try. Love you.”

“Love you,” she said. “Bye.”

“Bye.” He hung up and went inside. As he got to his seat and ordered his meal, he thought to his primary target.

You’re making this easy, he thought. Like a static shock, it hit him. What did the average person think of the government? The government, to the average American, must seem to be a monolithic mass of paranoia. After all, that was what Hollywood always portrayed. So, perhaps, this man wasn’t interested in hiding after all. He wanted plausibility; he wanted to be able to say, “look, I wasn’t hiding this from you.” After all, if he had wanted to make it difficult, if he actually had been stealthy, it would have been almost impossible. It was to ease their mind. It was to demonstrate a desire to be diplomatic with the authorities.

He wanted to be accepted, maybe not as a part of the government, but as a person operating acceptably within it.

I see what you’re after, Manfred Voren, Davis thought.