Governor Alistair Margone. He lived in the city and was a perfect first target. There were rumors that the guy had a tendency to harass teenage girls, occasionally touching them, but in one case even raping them. The guy was slick, though. There was never enough evidence to convict him. He managed to escape every time, or everything pointed to some intern or junior employee working under him. All too conveniently in fact.
I saw his face, though. That smirk. I've seen tons of criminals and scum with that same expression smeared upon their rotten faces. It was that brief moment when you felt victory, when you knew you beat the system.
Governor Alistair Margone may have beaten the system, but I was going to make sure he didn't beat me.
Getting into an official's place is pretty easy when you're a Super. It's polite to call ahead, but if you just show up at their front door they'll let you in anyway. So I walk up to the Governor's office, let right in to the elevator, and next thing I know I'm being ushered into his office. The guards simply close the door behind me, expecting me to be all the safety Margone needs. It was a huge office, the odor of chemical cleaner still steaming from the carpet, the state's seal imprinted onto the floor beneath my feet. Ahead of me is the Governor's desk, with a large glass window overlooking the city from...thirty stories up? Perfect.
"What brings you here, AirStrike?" The governor stands up from his soft, comfortable, expensive leather chair with a smug smile on his face. How much tax payers' money did that chair cost? A thousand bucks? Yeah, and in order to make budget cuts they lay off hundreds of government employees. Talk about trimming the fat.
I blow a gust of air behind me, just enough that I jam the door's lock so no one can get in. It makes a soft cracking noise, but I cough to cover it up, clearing my throat.
"Good evening, sir," I say with a slight hint of derision. "I just came to inquire about these...allegations. Another girl has appeared on the news lately, claiming you took advantage of her. I believe she was...fifteen?"
"Jesus," Margone pinched his forehead, sighing exasperatingly. "Look, it was..." He pauses. I watch his eyes. They look to the side, indicating a fabrication. He's making a story up. "We lost track of one of my interns at the rally." He says. He's smiling again. Why would anyone smile when discussing a rape? "We thought he was just getting coffee, but the time he was gone fits the time the young girl indicates she was attacked." He looks confident, as if he believes me to actually by this sham.
"Another intern, huh?" I ask, casually looking about his office. "So tell me. Why is it you keep hiring forty-some year old interns that look exactly like you? Don't you run a background check?"
He's taken aback. That smug look is wiped off his face. He is surprised, but the shock soon changes to anger. His brow furrows, teeth grit, jaw quivers. His pockets bulge a bit, he's balling his hands into fists.
"What are you implying?" His voice is harsh. It lacks the proud gusto it did before. "Are you, a mere sidekick," he seems to spit the word out, "implying that I haven't been thorough with my own employees?" I can't help but laugh.
"Please," I wave my hand in the air. "I'm implying that you're a lying son of a bitch and have been framing innocent men to take your fall."
His fist pounded onto his desk. A vein began popping out from his forehead, his face red. A little bit of spit seemed to dribble from his lips. He soon regained his composure, though, drying his mouth with a handkerchief.
"You have nothing," he said calmly. "Just conjecture. I'd like you to leave now, and don't come back unless you have an apology or evidence with you."
He's smug again. Not smiling, but smug. He thinks he has me. He thinks I'm still playing by the rules. His brow furrows once more as I begin to laugh, chuckling, stepping toward his desk.
"Sorry, Alistair," I say, waving my hand in the air, loosening it up a bit. He watches my legs as I separate my feet, bending my knees slightly. "I'm tired of seeing you sick jerks bending the system to your will." I crack my neck. He looks worried. I hunch over slightly, my hands balled into fists. I can feel the surge of wind coursing around me, the hairs on my arms standing. He sees it, too.
"Wait!" he exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.
I shoved him out the window. I used enough force that I shoved him out. Or, more accurately, shoved his desk out the window, which knocked him with it.
Movies always depict people screaming as they fall, get stabbed or even get shot, but it's not really like that. Margone never screamed once as he fell. I stood there, shivering slightly, feeling the chill air flood in through the now broken glass until I heard a sick splatter upon solid ground. That's when there were screams. I ran forward to the edge, looking down at what I had accomplished. I couldn't see him well from the 30th floor, but I could see his head had split open, and some of his limbs were contorted and twisted awkwardly.
I looked up...and realized I had stayed too long. There were people in the building across snapping photos on their phones, and the door behind me was pounding. The guards heard the glass break. They were trying to break in.
I jumped forward into the air, and from my legs sent another burst beneath me, jettisoning me higher, again and again until I found myself on top of the next skyscraper. I ran, and burst ahead onto the next roof top. I kept running, best that I could, until I could find a hiding spot.
I did it, though. I don't know how many, but I saved a number of girls from his harrassment. I stopped a rapist. I stopped a criminal, and he wouldn't be coming back.
I killed for the second time in my life, and I didn't regret it.
...so why wasn't I happy?
(I may continue after this, may not. In any case, feedback is certainly appreciated. What you think of the character, the premise, my writing, etc. Go ahead and lay it on me, if you wish. I'd like to improve and refine my idea and my technique in time).