Chapter 17
The smoke-filled office of Silvio Manfredi, known as Silvermane, was thick with tension. Joseph, nicknamed Hammerhead, nervously paced the room, waving a printout of an internet article.
"Silvio, are you just going to sit there?!" he barked, slamming his fist on the desk so hard the ashtray jumped. "This bastard spilled everything! Where we meet, who's in charge of what! The whole city knows now!"
Silvermane took a slow drag from his cigar, which was specially laced with neuroleptics—the only thing that could still cut through his cybernetic brain enhancements. He blew out a ring of smoke, watching it slowly dissolve. "Calm down, Joseph. What's done is done. If you ever used that head of yours for something other than driving nails, you'd see this as an opportunity."
Hammerhead stopped, staring at his boss in confusion. "An opportunity?! We've been made a laughingstock!"
"First, you have to ask the right questions," Silvermane cut in. "How did he find us? Why did he publish this on some forum instead of going to the police? And most importantly, how do we profit from this?"
Hammerhead scratched his reinforced skull. "And?..."
Silvio sighed, recalling a line from the article that had been surprisingly accurate: "To rule the criminal underworld, sometimes just being a complete psycho is enough." "The answer to the first question likely lies in that recent failure with the Hardy girl's kidnapping. Two of our guys went missing. The drone recorded some mutant with a helmet taking them down. Police reports on him mentioned invisibility. Those two didn't know everything, but they didn't need to. They gave him a thread, and he just pulled it. With his invisibility, he could have been anywhere, heard anything."
He took another drag. "Second question. One can only guess. Fame? Money? Revenge? The human soul is a dark place. Third—why not the police? Either he naively thinks this article is enough, or he simply doesn't care if we get caught or not. Maybe he has his own score to settle with us."
"And what about the profit?" Hammerhead asked impatiently.
"Now that is the interesting part," Silvermane's eyes narrowed slightly. "Since this article was published, not a single cop has come knocking. And the costumed freaks aren't in a hurry either. Because of the National Guard on the streets, the whole city has gone quiet. All business had to be put on hold. No one wants to attract the extra attention of military patrols. But this is a temporary lull. As soon as the soldiers leave or things heat up again, I'm sure other... guests... will show up. Like the Punisher, or some other freak. They'll read the article, wait for the right moment, and decide to pay us a visit. And we'll be waiting for them."
"So, we're moving our spots?"
"Only the most important ones," Silvio corrected, as if explaining to a child. "We leave the rest as bait. And we station men there." He unrolled a map of New York on the desk. "If the Punisher picks up our trail, he's not coming in head-on. He'll take a position... right here." Silvio pointed to the roof of a building across from one of their warehouses.
Hammerhead jabbed a finger at another spot on the map. "But that roof over there is higher. Better sniper position."
"Exactly," Silvermane nodded. "And precisely because it's the best, he won't take it. He'll think we anticipate it. Especially if he's read the article and knows about my... cognitive peculiarities. He'll assume I'll calculate the obvious move and set an ambush there. So he'll choose the second position, less convenient, but safer. And then he'll second-guess himself and decide I've calculated that, too. And in the end, he'll take the third, most illogical spot—the one I pointed to. Your man needs to be on this roof,"—he again pointed to a building overlooking that spot—"and watch only position number three. There should be one man. If it's a whole group, the Punisher will know."
Hammerhead nodded slowly, processing the complex chain of logic. "What do we do about Daredevil? Or Spider-Man?" Silvermane waved a hand dismissively. "Run. What else? Those two are in another league. Too strong, too unpredictable. You can't catch them off guard. We don't play their game. Not yet."
---
A hundred thousand dollars on a bank card—compensation from the police department, secured by my lawyer. A sum that would probably make a normal person jump for joy, but right now, the money just felt like numbers on an account. All my thoughts were occupied by that letter. The hope of anonymity in the digital world had always been a phantom; sooner or later, someone would dig up the truth. But this... this was a completely different level of awareness. Whoever was behind that message knew not only the facts, but also intentions. In the face of such power, all that remained was a sense of my own insignificance, the feeling of being an insect under a microscope. Not that I could change anything. It was probably the work of some precognitive mutant, maybe even a group, considering the letter's teleportation. How do you become a blind spot for such abilities? A question with no answer, for now.
With these thoughts, I made it to school. And what was waiting for me at my locker sparked more curiosity than frustration. On the door, splattered with some sticky gunk, the word "ASSHOLE" was crudely scrawled. A small crowd had gathered, some with sympathy in their eyes, others with unconcealed glee.
I had no desire to touch the filth. Instead, I turned and headed straight for the principal's office. Bullying was a good enough reason to bother him, right? A knock on the door. "Come in." He wasn't alone in the office.
"Diego," Principal Davis looked up from his papers. "In trouble again? Meet your new P.E. teacher, Ms. Nellie Romanova." The woman standing by the window turned. She was, of course, striking. Red hair pulled back in a high ponytail, piercing green eyes, and a perfect athletic figure that her business suit couldn't hide. She smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Diego..." she glanced at the papers in her hands for a second, "...Parr. I hope you're not the type to skip P.E."
"I'm afraid, Ms. Romanova, that no boy in school will be skipping your classes from now on," the reply slipped out on its own. She let out a short, slightly embarrassed laugh. "Haha, one can only hope. Principal Davis, have a good day." When the door closed behind her, Davis looked at me again. "So, what brings you here?"
The thought that she was far too "good" for a simple high school teacher flickered and was gone. "You said I get into trouble. It's more like it finds me. Someone vandalized my locker. Splattered some gunk on it and left a message." Davis sighed, taking off his glasses. "Alright. Let's go to the security office and check the camera footage."
Following Principal Davis into the office, I saw a small room cluttered with monitors. An old security guard in a uniform, smelling of cheap tobacco, sat at the desk. He nodded when he saw us. "You here about the locker incident?" "You already know?" Davis was surprised. "Knowing what happens in my school is my job, Principal," the old man replied. "Only, there's not much I can do to help here."
Not waiting for a "why," he swiveled one of the monitors and played the recording from the hallway camera. He fast-forwarded through the night hours. Empty hallway, dim emergency lights. At 3:31 AM, the camera lens is suddenly covered by some fabric. The recording continues, but only shows a dark screen. "Around 3:40, I was doing my rounds. Saw the locker, all vandalized. Looked up, saw the camera was covered with a rag, and took it down." The old man turned to us. "So that's that. I checked the other cameras. None of them show this... artist... entering or leaving the building. It's like he walked through the walls. Some kind of voodoo."
"And that's all you can say? Voodoo?" Irritation was in Davis's voice. "What do we pay you for?" The guard just shrugged. "I've seen a lot in my life, but never this. In any case, you start with the obvious. Kid,"—he looked at me—"who'd want to do this to you?" "Other than Flash Thompson, no other options come to mind," I replied.
The old man looked at Davis. "Can we check his locker?" "Let's go," the principal agreed. On the way, we stopped by a classroom and pulled Flash out. Classes had already started, so the halls were empty. "Principal, I didn't do anything!" Thompson immediately started, shooting me an angry look. "No one's accusing you yet, Eugene," Davis said calmly. "We're just going to look at your locker."
Flash's face went pale. "No! You can't! It's... it's messy in there!" The three of us looked at him like he was an idiot. "Stop fooling around," Davis's tone hardened. "Open it." Flash fumbled nervously with the keys at the lock. "It's... jammed. The key's not working." Davis irritably snatched the keyring from him and opened the door himself.
"It's not what you think!" Flash yelled. Inside, among the textbooks and gym clothes, was a can of red spray paint, suspiciously similar in color to the one used on my locker. But even more surprising was another item—a strange device with a cylinder and a hand pump, clearly not school-related. "God, Eugene," Davis looked in bewilderment, first at the device, then at Flash. "What is this? And why do you have it here?"
Thompson turned beet-red, his eyes darting around. "It's... it's for... for science! A physics experiment! Pressure... vacuum..." While he babbled his excuses, the old guard, having put on gloves, carefully picked up the spray paint can. He walked over to my locker and sprayed a bit of paint on a clean section of the door next to the graffiti, comparing the color. "Color's identical," the guard stated. "It's not mine! I was framed!" Flash shouted.
The principal's face became extremely serious. "Thompson, Parr—to my office. Now." Once there, Davis turned to Flash. "Eugene, why did you do it?" "I didn't do anything!" he shrieked. "Vandalizing lockers is for girls!" "Are you saying that can of spray paint just materialized in your locker?" "Yes!" Flash answered stubbornly. "That's it. I've had enough," Davis reached for the phone. "I'm calling your parents."
And then it hit me. I couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Haha..." Davis turned his serious gaze on me. "You find this funny, Parr?" "I think I'm starting to see who did it," I replied. The principal was silent, clearly demanding I continue.
"Originally, we thought I was the target. But it looks like the real victim here is Thompson. He's an idiot, sure, but not so much of an idiot that he'd keep the evidence against himself in his own locker. Although..." I had to pause, "...if it was him, then I forgive him. God has clearly punished him enough." "Get to the point, Parr," Davis snapped. "Thompson," I turned to Flash. "This morning, when you got your books, was that paint in your locker?" "No!" he shook his head.
"There's your answer," I said to the principal. "We just need to check the cameras to see who went to Thompson's locker after he got his stuff this morning and before we just looked in it. In any case, it's someone who wanted to frame him. Get him suspended or expelled. So the circle of suspects narrows down to the people Flash usually bullies." "I don't bully anyone!" Thompson shrieked again. "Right, of course," I said sarcastically.
"Both of you, stop!" Davis barked. "We're going back to the cameras." The old guard was surprised to see the three of us again. "You again? What is it this time?" "Show us Thompson's locker," Davis requested. "We're interested in the time between..." he looked at his watch, "...roughly 8 AM and now."
The guard started the recording. We watched the sped-up footage of the hallway. There's Flash, opening his locker, grabbing books, closing it. Other students pass by. Time goes on, and no one approaches his locker. "This can't be!" Eugene muttered, his hope fading. Davis looked at him suspiciously. He also no longer thought it was Flash, but all the evidence pointed to him.
"What's behind that wall the locker is up against?" I asked the old man. "Storage," he replied. "An old janitor's closet. No cameras in there." "Okay. Can you show us the hallway leading to that closet?" The guard switched the camera feed, and there it was. Five minutes before we arrived, some kid in glasses quickly enters the closet door. A minute later, he comes out and hurries off in the other direction. Davis looked at me, understanding in his eyes. "Not a word," he said to me quietly but firmly. "Both of you, get back to class."
It was clear he understood. The guard's words about the culprit seeming to walk through walls, and the fact that the kid in glasses went into the closet while the paint ended up in a locked locker on the other side of the wall—it all pointed to one conclusion. That kid was a mutant with the ability to pass through solid objects.
"Am I free to go?" Eugene asked uncertainty. "For now, yes," Davis replied, his eyes still fixed on the screen, frozen on the image of the kid in glasses. When Flash's footsteps faded down the hall, I didn't hurry to leave. There was one last question I wanted to ask Principal Davis. "Aren't you afraid?"
He looked up over his glasses, his gaze calm. "When a person sees a puppy, they usually find it adorable. They want to pet it, play with it. But when they see a full-grown German Shepherd, they instinctively pull back, wary of potential aggression. Even though in both cases, it's just a dog. Their nature is the same." He took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. Setting the analogies aside, he continued. "The boy we saw on that tape is just another teenager who's lost his way. My job is to help him find it again, not to be afraid of him."
I had to nod, acknowledging his point of view. It was hard to argue with that. After which, I headed to class.