Goodbyes

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Author's Note: The idea of doing some kind of comic book/superhero story fermented for about a year. My first whack at it was this, which quickly seemed to be turning into some kind of reminiscence about father-daughter relationships. I have no idea how that would have paralleled with the guy with the super-pheromones.

Eventually, I wrote "Unmasked," which you can read on my web site, and which shares the same universe as this one. This one contains some things I like, which I may recycle elsewhere.

JS

Goodbyes

The city smelled different, you know? I'd been away at college for two years when I came back for Dad's funeral.

After the service -- it was held at night so some of Dad's odder friends could attend -- I said the hellos I had to say and then I went for a tour around town, since Dad would have liked that. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, you understand.

I hadn't gone through the motions for a while and there was a kind of comfort in the routine: Examine the uniform (to Dad it was always the uniform) for holes. Make sure it fits snugly without binding. Make sure everything's there: lockpicks and thermite and smoke grenades and flares and flashlight. Check the batteries in the flashlight. Check the cord for frays or worn spots; make sure the mechanics on the reel and return are ship-shape. Stretch out, get loose.

You understand, I wasn't going out to fight crime. It was more a tribute to my Dad. Plus, I hadn't put on the costume for a couple of years and I was curious to see if it still fit.

It did. Guess I didn't get too sloppy away at school.

I pulled on motorcycle leathers and a helmet and took the bike. Modified Ninja. Plenty of speed if you need it. Drawback is no bulletproofing and it's easier to steal.

I never understood why some people in the business travel into town in uniform on a motorcycle. Why not design the costume with a target, too? I think about a handful of caltrops on the road or even rusty nails and broken glass as you're coming in one of the main roads -- or about the sniper at the intersection -- and I get all squeamish. Lost two childhood friends that way. If you can avoid it, avoid it.

I drove around town for a while but it wasn't enough. I guess I'd known that, or I wouldn't have put on the costume. Parked in a garage owned by a family friend -- he used to be police commissioner -- and left the motorcycle gear there.

That was when I noticed the smell. It was ripe, almost over-ripe, under the oil and the sewer stink. It made me think vaguely of sweaty men -- and for some reason, of pigs.

The chuff and kick of the grappling gun was familiar in my arms and I tugged to make sure the hook had engaged. It was an easy climb to the top of the building, and I headed east, towards the city center. Always something going on in the city center.

I stuck to the rooftops for the first little while. The air was thick and humid and still, just waiting for a storm to break. It made me sweat in the uniform. Kevlar doesn't breathe at all. Gore-Tex does, but it doesn't stop bullets.

Life's all about priorities, you know?

* * *

Last time we talked about the family business, Dad mentioned he wasn't seeing many muggers any more. They'd taken to working the foyers of apartment buildings. Can't spot those while lurking on the roof.

Part of his solution was to eliminate the cape: he could throw on a trenchcoat and a fedora and not look terribly out of place on the ground. No cape dragging on his heels, and you'd be surprised how few people notice a domino mask.

That was when I told him I wasn't going to be a costumed crime-fighter. He wasn't too happy. It had been his life. It was all he had except for Mom and me.

I said a lot of hurtful things to him that day. I told him he didn't make a real difference. I told him he was outdated. I told him he couldn't run my life any more.

I might as well have told him I didn't love him.

* * *

The smell was stronger near the city center. The air was still, very still: the calm before the storm. With the air this still, whatever-it-was didn't have to stink a lot, but I was willing to bet it did.

And I had my first odd datum outside the Pinup Palace, a strip club.

She bulged out of her crop top and spandex shorts. Her hair was big and her makeup was heavy. She was standing outside a strip club. Hooker, right? Right. A working girl, and sex was just a job.

Customer came out and I heard the following dialogue:

"Looking for a date?" She was standing funny, her legs squeezed together.

"Maybe. How much?"

"Forty for a blow. Sixty for more."

He copped a pose, some collegiate asshole looking for fun by bargaining. "A dollar to do you against the wall."

"You got it."

And she grabbed his hand and practically dragged him around the side of the building. I watched. A girl's gotta do, etc. I'm willing to say she enjoyed it. She tried to make him last longer.

For a dollar.

Odd. Unless maybe she was secretly his girlfriend and it was some fantasy kick they were doing. But she was easily ten years older than he was.

And I got my second odd datum of the evening:

I was horny.

* * *

One of the things I loved about college was dating. And sex. A real life? Dating guys and possibly sleeping with them? I tried that once at home. Dad did a background check and staked out his house. "Do you know he reads pornography, Kelly? He's also a compulsive masturbator."

Well, gee, Dad. Andy was a teenage boy. I think that's synonymous with compulsive masturbator.

But not to Dad, I suppose. He had a holy mission.

* * *

I briefly considered calling Andy up just to show him what I'd learned. That was odd datum number three.

Look: At college I got a reputation. I wasn't easy, but I was fast. I had a lot of catching up to do. My motto was basically try everything a dozen times, just in case.

But I was always safe, and I never took stupid risks. I never thought with my crotch.

Now I was on a rooftop three hours after my father's funeral and I was considering calling a boy I hadn't seen for three years so I could jump his bones.

I'd call that odd.

* * *

Two clues as to how seriously this had affected my ability to think:

First, I was strongly considering masturbation in costume on a roof; only the strictest conditioning kept me from that.

Second, it took me almost four blocks to think of the word "pheromones."

Pheromones: like hormones, but released into the environment, they're chemical messengers. Existence in humans is debated but there was some research indicating that not every human being was equipped to detect them -- maybe one or two thirds of the population -- and that sensitivity would vary with those individuals.

Lucky me: My nipples ached. I swear I was making squelching noises as I ran.

At least I didn't have to try to run with a hard-on.

* * *

Dad saw his parents killed when he was seven. I checked once; they were the first deaths due to a costumed criminal in our city. The guy was dressed like Death, with a scythe and all. Called himself Charon and demanded a fee from Dad's folks -- my grandparents. They didn't pay. He sliced them down.

Nowadays, you'd see a therapist or get that popular self-help book or call a radio-show psychiatrist. Maybe you'd even sue the villain for mental anguish. They didn't do that stuff when Dad was a kid.

So he became a costumed crime-fighter.

God only knows what it did to his sex life; I never asked Mom.

* * *

---And it ended here---

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