Every once and a while, it becomes prudent to let an unpleasant situation play itself out. This allows one to discover limits, to see how far they can push before the pushing turns back on them. A lot can be learned by doing the wrong thing. Colinaude, for instance, heard the wind crack as the figure above him swung its blunt object toward his head in the alley on Beacon Street. He had more than enough time to avert the coming blow. He knew this because he had done so in the past, dispatched the attacker, and learned little as to the motivations behind the attack. In that scenario, the attacker became a mindless aggressor. Heroes could not generally accept such a thing. There was always a reason.
There was also always instinct. The instinctive reaction to knowing you were about to be hit always translated into defensive thinking. From that, you had several more options. Go be a reciprocal disabling blow, parry the blow and prepare for a fight, parry the blow and hope for words, parry the blow and hope for backup, and so on. Colinaude did not often expect the last option. He had made the habit of working alone, and that was something he had needed to live with, and to work with. In situations such as the one he now found himself, he had prepared a number of strategies that would serve to ably compensate.
Wherever he now was, he was alone there. His attackers, confident in their binding techniques like the fools that proved them to be, had left him be for the moment. Maybe they had plans, which would indicate forethought of some kind, and not just opportunism. Plans indicated motive, which meant Colinaude was dealing with assailants with some sort of personal grudge, which was not all that unlikely given his preoccupations. He was sure he’d made hundreds, if not thousands, of ill-humored acquaintances, both in person and by reputation, some of whom were willing to take their frustrations out on him personally.
These had tied the ropes right over his cape, apparently not feeling it would matter one way or another. That was another indication of clumsiness, another advantage for him. Maybe for someone else this might have appeared grim, maybe from the kidnapping, maybe from being held bound, alone and left to ponder their fate. There was nothing grim about this for Colinaude, and he didn’t feel it was necessary for him to possess extraordinary abilities to say so. At the moment, he couldn’t say anything. They had taken the time to gag him.
But they hadn’t unmasked him. Maybe the Eidolon was not that far up in the super hero meat market for anyone to care who he really was, or maybe someone had correctly assumed most heroes didn’t have very interesting personal lives to exploit. But he was able to rule out any advanced foe, because whether his ordinary life was petty or not, they wouldn’t have cared. These clowns didn’t care because they wanted some kind of immediate gratification, which made them superficial, and that only served to reinforce everything Colinaude had already assumed about them. And he still hadn’t seen a single one of them.
He could assume there was more than one because no one person ever targeted super heroes, not even if their name was Rancor. Something about working alone didn’t seem to appeal to such an inclination. Not enough people to blame when the bottom fell through, and let’s face it, most plans of the kind were made pessimistically. You planned to fail, with enough contingencies to cover the cost of business, and ensure your ego was still stroked.
Colinaude claimed he didn’t have an ego, but the truth was he had an excessively over-developed one. It was his self-confidence that counterbalanced this fault. He continued to wait, in the ropes and propped up against a box in, of all things, what appeared to be an abandoned building, if not a warehouse specifically. He was fast growing bored with these fools. A little while longer and he would cut his losses, which in this calculation amounted to minutes, and there was always minutes to spare. He was ahead of the count in yet another regard.
"Fuckin’ hero," the anticipated voice sounded, no doubt from a distance the speaker had thought would not be audible to the ostensibly addressed individual. Colinaude followed each footstep, and listened as they multiplied. Speaker had brought along his friends, and they were snorting through smirks, by the sound of it. By the sound of it, they were exactly the kind people he had suspected them to be. They were Random Red’s gang.
Colinaude was more impressed that they were operating so far from Cobb Lane than by their demonstrated capabilities. He reasoned that the voice belonged to the leader of the pack, a punk who liked to call himself Vinny Vegas, and whose trademark vest attested to the fact. Someone shoved their foot into Colinaude, probably as a sign of intimidation, to make him scared. They had not meant to kick him, and probably were working on a follow-up to the effect, either. More snickering followed, but no one said anything. They probably still couldn’t believe that they’d captured the Eidolon, and had him in front of them at that very moment. Another sign that they were pushovers was that they were conveying not a position of power, but one of awe.
Call it celebrity worship, but most people were similarly star-struck at the sight of a super hero. Another good reason for choosing the stealthy path in getting around was that a sighting could easily lead to car accidents, car pile-ups, or other such mash-ups. Regardless of how they felt personally about them, people couldn’t help but gawk at super heroes. This tended to be unfortunate, both in the already mentioned casualties and in the opportunities other might take. Magicians and thieves were distraction’s greatest patrons, so in a way, being spotted meant Eidolon was abetting the kind of behavior Colinaude had pledged his life against.
He could easily imagine the conversation that had taken place before Vinny’s posse had entered the room: all questions and no answers. They had no idea what to do next, and not one of them was willing to admit it. Another foot shoved into him, a different brand of sneaker by the feel of it. Either fashion had turned to schizophrenic or another soul had dared. Colinaude considered ending it right then and there, out of mercy, but decided to bide his time a while longer.
"Mofo," Vinny said, but went quiet again. It was like any thought at all was killing them. It was becoming rather amusing. "Mofo," Vinny repeated after the beat. It was past amusing. Colinaude was feeling awkward now, almost sorry for them. He was now waiting for Vinny to repeat his taunt a third time. But he didn’t, he said this time, "Def."
This was met by agreeing terms all around, to the same word. Someone was going to pull a gun soon, Colinaude was sure of it. He couldn’t wait any longer. In an instant, he escaped the ropes and spun around, a calculated foot catching most of his captors and sending to the same position Random Red had found himself in. Colinaude removed the gag and the blindfold in one flick on the hand. "Def," he mocked, and took out the remaining thugs, who had been too shocked, or star-struck, to move. Or perhaps Colinaude had moved faster than he’d thought. He was always forgetting to factor that in.
Looking down now, he was not surprised to see Random Red himself among the bodies. Either the authorities never swung by Cobb Lane or the system worked itself as usual. Colinaude had not really expected much different. He would have, however, expected Red to have something more to say than he had. But even that wasn’t surprising, given Red’s position in the gang. He was not Vinny Vegas, and if he wasn’t Vinny Vegas he was no one. Still, that solved one mystery. The conversation they had shared earlier was not just question-and-no-answer. Red had used his talking time to give his report. Fortunately they’d learned nothing.
As he departed the scene, finding himself on Prospero Drive just as he’d figured, Colinaude took a moment to wonder how the gang had found him so quickly. There were many possible answers, including sheer dumb luck, but that was not as likely as the gang’s illustrated intelligence would have suggested. There was the chance Neville had something to do with it. Colinaude was willing to consider that. He had never given Neville’s kind much credit, but he was willing to give them enough. Then again, there was no way to know for sure until he found out.
Which might end up being never. Much like Vinny Vegas and his ilk, there were always more questions than answers. Colinaude had solutions to that, such as Hopper. Such as Solvent, whom the Eidolon still had an appointment with. Solvent was not as creative as Hopper with regard coordinating such things. He had an office. Eidolon showed up in that office. Nothing Colinaude couldn’t easily accomplish, slipping in, the same location, the same way, every time. The fluke that had been Beacon Street was never something he was worried about on his way to one of these. If there had indeed been someone putting Vegas up to that, it might leave answers but it would help Colinaude sleep better on other matters.
So he pushed on. His next destination was toward the heart of the city, the business district. Among the very-much-occupied buildings there was Solvent’s office, where he availed himself of two identities and occupations. One was an aide to super heroes. The other wrote for the "Traverse Tracks." In some ways, Colinaude was headed straight for enemy territory. Under the goggles, he was not blinking an eye over it.
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