Rusty (Part 2 of 2)

 

Magnifique was somehow enjoying the Gala even less than she had expected. And she wasn't cheered by the fact most other people weren't either. The people of Detroit didn't have enough experience celebrating. She wasn't sure what a Gala ought to involve, but she felt sure it had to be more than just groups of people standing in small groups, eating and talking in low voices.

Once peace was established, this was definitely something she would have to work on.

Critical Strike had indeed introduced her to his son, and Railgun had stuck to her the rest of the evening. He was cute in a way, but any other night, she probably would have found him annoying. But as it was, she was glad of any distraction. 

As usual, he was talking. “And so the whole mission was successful because of me.”

“Of course.” Mag had looked up Railgun's record after talking to Crit that afternoon. He had an acceptable record in the League, but definitely nothing exceptional. He probably wouldn't have made it as far as he had if his father hadn't been Critical Strike. Not that she was in a position to judge someone for nepotism.

Railgun was still talking, but Mag had given up listening to the words and just enjoyed the stream of sound as she looked around the room. Her eyes fell on a figure making its way through the crowd. Like many of the people there, he seemed ill-at-ease, as if he didn't know how to act in this sort of setting. But while Mag thought she knew all the heroes in the League, at least by sight, this one was a stranger to her.

Wasn't he? For a second she had a weird thought that she had seen him before. But there was no way she would have forgotten that uniform: jet black with white trim—striking and unique. 

“Rail,” she said, interrupting her companion in the middle of a sentence, “would you mind getting me some punch?” She handed him the empty cup she had been holding onto for the last hour.

Railgun blinked for a minute in surprise that someone had interrupted him but then hastily put on a smile. “Yeah, of course; it will be the best punch anyone's ever got for you.”

She highly doubted that. The quality of the food was something else she was definitely going to have to look into if they ever had another Gala. She glanced over at the food table where Mutatis and Mutandis were pouring punch. Taking two heroes who had to wear hazmat suits because they were oozing with toxic radiation and putting them in charge of the food had probably been another poor decision.

As soon as Railgun was gone, she moved forward. She had thought the stranger had acted as if he wanted to talk to her but also didn't. She thought with Railgun gone, he might be more interested. 

She had guessed correctly, and now, as she moved towards him, he moved to meet her. He smiled a little awkwardly: “Good evening, Magnifique. I wanted to give you my congratulations.”

*

Rusty's mind was filled with a whirl of different emotions—fear, excitement, hope, wonder, and worry existed in just about equal parts. And perhaps the very strength of these emotions caused them to cancel each other out--or perhaps it was the solid and unshaken determination that ran through all of them like a central pivot. In any event, despite being aware of all those feelings, he felt strangely calm. For a moment, it was just Magnifique and him—and all his other concerns and thoughts felt very far away, like a loud but distant noise.

She looked at him curiously. “Thank you. I don't think we've met before--”

“I'm a new member of the League; we haven't met before.” He hoped this would be enough to cover his tracks.

“Oh, of course, that explains everything.”

Had he said something wrong? He couldn't escape the feeling that Magnifique was laughing at him, though her voice was calm and even. “Metal Burst,” he added by way of explanation. He had come up with the name on the trip over.

“Metal Burst.” She repeated the name as if to commit to memory. “I'm sure you're a fine addition to the defenses of Detroit.”

“I hope to be.” After all, that was why he had come. But now that he was here, he had no idea how he was going to do it. He didn't know where the attack would come from or what he could do to prevent it. His only plan had been to get to talk to Magnifique and now that they were talking, he had no idea what to do next. He just knew he had to keep close to her. And was there—was there more to that desire than simply his desire to stop the Toledan attack?

“Make way for a real hero, kid.”

For just a second, Rusty froze in place at the sound of the voice, though he had been expecting it. He had to force himself to be calm. He looked up to see Railgun standing in front of him, holding a glass of punch in one hand. They locked eyes for a moment; there was no look of recognition in Rail's eyes. Uncle Ben had been right that he wouldn't see through the disguise.

“Excuse me,” said Rusty, deliberately trying to make his voice sound a little deeper than usual, “Magnifique and I are talking.”

“Well, you can stop now.” He handed the glass of punch to Magnifique who took it with an amused smile.

“I don't think we were done yet.”

“And I think you need to be.”

Rusty glanced at Magnifique; she was sipping her punch and watching him with an enigmatic expression.

“No.” He looked at his half-brother and forced into his voice more determination and strength than he had ever used with him, or anyone. “No, I'm not leaving.”

Railgun scowled and raised his arm, aiming his suit's gun at Rusty's chest. Rusty also raised his arm, generating a round metal shield on the side of his arm. (On the way over, he had spent time practicing how to use this aspect of the suit.)

There was a tense, silent moment. In the heart of the silence, Rusty realized with surprise that, for the first time, he wasn't the least bit afraid of Railgun—even though he wasn't sure that his shield would actually hold. Magnifique was still watching the stand-off with an entertained smile. There were others in the crowd around them who had also stopped to stare.

And then the moment snapped. Rail's face looked suddenly nervous, and he dropped his arm. Muttering something incomprehensible, he turned and pushed away through the crowd.

There was only one person who could have that effect on Railgun. Crit must have given him a look from across the room. (Rusty didn't dare turn to see, though.) Starting a fight in the middle of the Gala would not help their plan.

Magnifique laughed quietly. “Well, I guess you've won the right to be my escort for the evening.” When Rail had backed down, Rust had dismissed his shield and dropped his arms. Now, Magnifique threaded her arm through his.

Rusty felt his heart beating faster. Things were actually beginning to work out, even though he still didn't have a definite plan.

“Come on--” Magnifique guided him through the crowd-- “Let's go somewhere we can talk.”

“This really is an honor for me—to meet you, I mean,” said Rusty as they walked through a doorway into the cool darkness of the garden that surrounded the building.

“Oh?”

“You don't remember, of course, but you saved my life once.”

She nodded without much change of expression. Rusty knew she must hear that a lot.

They sat down on a little stone bench. “Is that why you decided to join the League?”

“Not exactly,” Rusty admitted uncomfortably. “I—well—I really didn't have a choice.”

Ever since he had come up to her, Magnifique had kept an urbane, amused smile. For the first time, she frowned a little bitterly. “I know the feeling.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Is this because of your mother?”

She sighed and took a sip of her punch. “Well, as Prima Donna's daughter, I never had much choice about what I was going to do. Working with her was one thing, but taking her place--” she trailed off and shrugged.

“I'm so sorry.” Rust had been so focused on his mission that he hadn't considered Magnifique's feelings. He had seen her as a hero and leader—now he remembered that she was a girl, no older than he was—a girl who had just lost her mother and was thrust into a new role.

There was a long, awkward silence. Magnifique was staring down at her cup introspectively. Nervously, anxious to dispel the tension, Rusty started talking, hardly knowing what he was saying. “My mother was a hero too—but she died when I was born. And I never knew for sure who my father was.”

Magnifique gave him a look that had in it sympathy but something else as well. “Metal Burst—can I give you some advice?”

“Of course.”

“If you're going to be a spy, you need to learn to hide your vulnerabilities better—unless this is all an act, in which case, good job.”

He gaped at her. “Spy?” he repeated blankly.

She laughed quietly and took another sip of punch. “You really should have come up with a better cover story. I keep up with all the new additions to the League. I definitely would have remembered you.”

Thoughts tumbled around in his mind. Of course; things had gone too smoothly. He should have known his lie would be discovered, though he never dreamed that anyone would accuse him of being a spy. Had Crit thought the same thing? Is that why he had warned Railgun away—because he thought Rusty was the Toledan spy? But out of all the thoughts, one came uppermost and burst out of his mind almost without his will. “If you think I'm a spy—why—why are talking to me? Why didn't you tell someone? Why--” the thought became more solid and definite in his mind-- “why would you let yourself be alone with me?”

“Don't take this too hard, but—” she looked at him critically-- “unless that suit is way stronger than it looks, I don't think there's anything you can do to me if I'm forewarned. And besides--” she smiled and shrugged-- “I've always wanted a chance to talk to a spy. Are you from Toledo, or are you a traitor from Detroit?”

Rusty took a deep breath. Clearly, there was only one choice now. “Magnifique—I did lie to you. But I'm not a spy.”

“OK, I'm listening.” And she really was, though Rusty couldn't decide whether she was giving credence to his story or just enjoying his supposed lie.

“I'm not a spy—but there is a spy here. I—well—heard information, information that the Toledans would have a couple spies here tonight—and that they're targeting you. It's a plot to kidnap you. So I came hoping to protect you.”

Magnifique ruminated for a minute. “An interesting story. Why go through all that trouble, though? You could have just told someone—anyone, really—about the danger.”

“Because—because then I would have to explain how I knew.” Rusty drew back as he thought of what would have happened if he had done that. “And—besides—there are some of your own people who are working with the Toledans.”

“That makes things more serious.” For the first time, it really looked and sounded as if she believed him. “Maybe in that case, I'd better warn the others.” She glanced up and looked back towards the lighted building.

Rusty followed her gaze. There, framed in a doorway, was Critical Strike, looking out over the garden—probably looking to see how things were playing out.

“No!” he almost exploded, and with an instinctive terror, he grasped her arm.

“You realize that makes your story look even more fake, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

She sighed. “You're either the worst spy ever or the best—or you're actually telling the truth. In any case, you're the most interesting person I've talked to all week.”

Rusty opened his mouth and closed it again. What was he supposed to say to that?

Magnifique started talking again thoughtfully. “Either you're a spy, or someone else is. I can't believe you made this all up for the fun of it. And if there is a spy, what is their plan? I don't think any of the Toledans could win a fight with me, but certainly not here—not with fifty other heroes who would come running at the first sound of trouble.”

“I wish I knew.” If only Crit had gotten more details... He glanced over at Magnifique, who seemed deep in thought. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The next moment, she slumped back, her head hanging over the back of the bench.

“Magnifique?” Rusty turned to stare at her. For one wild moment, he thought she was dead. He saw she was still breathing, but she seemed unresponsive. Her eyes were open, staring upwards, but they seemed unfocused and unmoving. As she slumped, her empty cup slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground.

The cup. Of course. Individual thoughts leaped through Rusty's mind and came to life like a zoetrope. Somehow, there must have been a drug or poison in Magnifique's punch. That was the only way anyone could hope to capture her. 

He glanced around quickly. He had thought they were alone, but he now noted a couple figures walking through the darkness towards him. They wore yellow hazmat suits; they were almost identical, but one had green trim and the other red.

“What's wrong?” barked the one in green as he approached. “I saw Magnifique fall over. Is she all right?”

Rusty stood up. “I think so. But she's unconscious.” He was glad to have some other hero there since he was at a loss about what to do, but he also realized that they would probably suspect him of being involved.

“Good thing we're here,” said the man with red trim. “Just let us handle this.”

Rusty wondered if either of them had powers that would be useful in this situation. He had a vague recollection of hearing Crit mention two heroes who wore hazmat suits, but that was it. He also remembered seeing them earlier at the Gala. He remembered...

Seeing them pouring punch...

Suddenly, he generated his shield, and forcing his voice to sound steady and certain, he spoke: “Stay back. I'll take care of her.”

The two men glanced at each other (or at least, Rusty thought they did—since their faces were hidden by their suits, it was hard to tell). Then the man in green produced a gun from inside a pocket. “I don't think you'll take care of anything.”

Rusty opened his mouth. If he shouted, he could attract attention from the others at the Gala. There was a chance that Crit would be the one to come, but he had to take that chance.

But even as he drew his breath, the man in red threw something on the ground. Rusty braced for an explosion, but what happened was almost the opposite. There was no noise—it was more like a contraction, a compression of sound condensed into silence. And though he shouted, no sound came from his mouth. The weapon must have been some kind of sound dampener.

And in the safety of silence, the man in green fired his gun while his companion made for Magnifique.

The bullet struck Rusty's shield. The bullet shattered on the hard surface, but it still had enough force to knock him back and onto one knee. He could feel the sting of that force through his whole body, but fortunately, he had come to acquire a high pain tolerance. 

And before the man had a chance to fire again, Rusty had leaped up. With the suit, he felt almost weightless so that he could move faster and easier than he ever could before. He wheeled through the air and came down with a crash against the man's arm, knocking his gun to the ground. Both of them crashed to the ground in a tangle, but after a moment of struggle, Rusty forced himself up, throwing off his antagonistic, as he arched sideways to strike the man in red just as he reached the bench where Magnifique still slumped. 

But this time, the enemy was prepared. Rusty plowed into him, but the man managed to keep his footing, though he slid back a few inches. And before Rusty could regain his balance, the man swung, striking at him with some kind of blunt weapon. Rusty tried to block with his shield, but he couldn't get it in place in time, and the block struck his side. His suit dispelled most of the force, but his eyes still started watering in pain.

And as he stood, stunned for just a moment, the man in green came up from behind and grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back. With a nod, the man in red raised his weapon for another strike.

But now Rusty's mind was clear. He couldn't get his arms free, so he braced his legs and pushed up with all his strength.

He shot into the sky, carrying his attacker with him. Off the ground, the man's superior size and advantage of position didn't matter. Rusty twisted and struggled until he was on his back, facing upwards, with his enemy clinging beneath him. Then, he pushed himself downward, hitting the ground with a resounding crash.

The man's grip loosened and let go. As Rusty had figured, this had been enough to knock the fight out of him. 

But the other man had taken advantage of the distraction to return to Magnifique. As Rusty looked up, the man was almost on top of her. But before he could do anything to interfere, something hit the man, sending him staggering backward.

Rusty looked toward the source of the attack and saw Magnifique slowly stand up, generating another energy sphere as she did. The man was stunned, but he tried to move forward again, but even as did, Mag threw the sphere, sending him sprawling.

She stepped forward briskly, crushing the sound dampener under her foot. With an easy movement, she grasped the two attackers by the back of their suits and flew upwards.

She returned a moment later. “I left them on the roof of the tower. That should keep them out of the way until we need them again,” she explained conversationally.

Rusty looked at her in amazement. “I thought they drugged you.”

“Yes, they did. When you told me about the plan, I realized that was the only way they could hope to capture me. And then I realized I could detect the drug working. That's why I was out for a few minutes—because I had to take conscious control of all my body's chemistry to neutralize the drug.”

“That's something you can do?”

She shrugged with a slight smile. “It's not a power that comes up very often. And I wouldn't have been able to do it if you hadn't given me forewarning.” She pulled his arm through hers again and started strolling slowly across the garden. “You really did save me, you know.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that.” Rusty felt a strange combination of relief and exhilaration. He had accomplished his goal and now he didn't know what to do with himself.

“Don't be. This made the Gala way more exciting.” She laughed and then went on in a more somber tone: “It's important to remember that behind all this, there is still a war going on.”

“Yes, but we're winning, and with you in charge, I know it'll be over soon.”

“You're spreading it on a little thick. Are you sure you're not a spy?”

Rusty smiled self-consciously. “If I was a spy, I failed—and I'm glad. Either the best spy or the worst—isn't that what you said?”

They had walked up to a railing that ran along the side of the garden and stared down into the empty, shadowed street below.

There was a momentary pause, and then she glanced at him. “You still seem nervous. Do you think the Toledans will make another attack tonight?”

“No. I've just never been this close to a girl before,” Rusty explained simply.

“Oh.” A smile flashed on her face; she withdrew her arm from his and put it around his waist: “Like this?”

With his armor, he couldn't really feel her, but the mere knowledge of her closeness was overpowering; it took all his self-control not to reciprocate. His heart was racing, and he could feel a thunderous pounding in his ears.

Only it wasn't his pulse. There really was a beeping in his ears. He glanced around and noted the display on his wrist. It was 11:59. And then he remembered what Uncle Ben had said—the power suit's battery would only last for 4 hours, and it was almost up. That was the meaning behind the alarm.

In just a few seconds, Metal Burst would be gone, and only Rusty would be left. He glanced over at Magnifique. What would she think? What would she say when she saw what he really was? How would she react when she realized her hero was a ragged nobody in a stained shirt with a bruised, scarred face?

Abruptly, instinctively, he pulled out of her arm and shot upward in an arc, burying himself in the foliage of a large tree that grew up from the street. With a flicker and a final beep, his armor retracted, and he fell down through branches. For a moment, his wrist caught on a protruding branch. He shook himself free, but in the process, his right cuff came off—but he had no time to try to find it. He fell to the ground below, landing on his feet, almost-but-not-quite breaking his ankles. He had just a second to pull himself into the shadow of a small alcove because as soon as he did, there was a whoosh of air as Magnifique flew over.

She had no reason to suppose he had lost his armor, so she would assume that he was still flying. And now, he just had to get far enough away; in the main streets, he would blend in and no one could suspect him of being involved.

With a very deep sigh, he began his long walk home.

*

“Well, it's a little crude and unprofessional—really, shameful workmanship—but it would work, and it does make the most of its clearly insufficient resources.” Dr. Stella stood up from her lab bench. With two fingers, she gingerly lifted the small metal cuff from its place in the middle of the complex machinery.

“So what exactly is it?” Magnifique took the cuff and examined it. She had examined it multiple times since she found it caught in the tree outside the garden, but she still could make nothing of it.

“A compressed synergetic nano-metal. This was the basis for your friend's armor. When activated, it would expand and take form, creating a full suit.”

She slipped it over her wrist. “So, could I wear his armor?”

"Magnifique, you are the most powerful and best trained of anyone in Detroit. Why would want to settle for this homebrew heroism? Anyway, no, you couldn't. It is keyed to one person's specific genetic code, so no one else can activate it.”

“That's clever.”

Dr. Stella made a very unenthused sound with her tongue. “It's an adequate system. But the low quality of the materials suggests that the designer didn't properly respect the rank of a hero. Makes sense given the kind of person he chose to wear this.”

Mag crossed her arms. “Would you rather I had been kidnapped and possibly killed by the Toledans? Because that's what would have happened if it weren't for Metal Burst. And it would have happened right under the noses of the entire League.”

“Well--” Dr. Stella gave a very slight and very reluctant smile-- “Of course I'm glad of his help. But we don't know why he saved you, and since he ran away when it was over—most likely he was involved in the plot, but he got cold feet at the last minute.”

“Do you really think he was a Toledan?”

“No--” Dr. Stella spoke slowly-- “I'm quite certain this cuff was made in Detroit, based on the workmanship. But he still could have been involved.”

“You didn't talk to him. But even if he was involved in the plot originally, he still saved me. And I think he's in trouble—that has to be why he ran off the way he did. So I've got to do something to help him—to thank him.”

“That would require finding him again. Do you have any way of doing that?”

“Actually--” Magnifique smiled slowly-- “Actually, I think I do.”

*

Critical Strike was in a bad mood that morning; he paced the room, muttering angrily as if practicing for some extremely vitriolic public speaking occasion. Rusty—who was polishing Crit's armor—was scrunched in the corner, his bare back pushed against the wall, partly to try to avoid Crit's attention and partly because he was nursing several new welts. Even Railgun was nervous and glum. He sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, his armor spread over his lap, pretending to be very concerned with recalibrating the guns. He was nursing a different kind of wound.

And yet, for all of that, Rusty felt a strange sense of happiness wrapped comfortably around the corners of his mind, like the warmth of a heater on a cold night. He still felt pain—the pain of losing the cuff from Uncle Ben's armor hurt as badly as anything Crit could do to him—but this feeling could not reach and dispel that distant but definite joy.

He had one night of fantasy; for a few hours, he had lived his own legend. And even if he was back in the cold darkness of reality, the light of the previous evening still burned in his mind. For a few hours, he had the chance to be part of a world in which he really had no place; in some ways, he was disappointed that it had to end, but he knew there was no way it could have lasted, and he was unbelievable lucky even to have had that brief taste.

It had been like a dream—so much like a dream, he might have been tempted to believe it really had been a dream. But there was an anchor that tethered the wonder of the previous night to his current life—it was the hard feeling of metal against his leg. He knew it was dangerous to keep the cuff in his pocket, but he wasn't ready to part with it yet. Of course, as soon as Rail and Crit left, he would slip out and return it to Uncle Ben, but in the meantime, having it with him made him feel closer to everything that had happened.

These were the thoughts that filled Rusty's mind (though he was not so distracted to keep him from his work—he knew better than that). But all of these thoughts were scattered by something so abrupt and so unexpected that Rusty, Crit, and Railgun all paused and glanced at the source of the interruption. Someone had knocked very firmly on the front door.

This was unusual—Crit very seldom had visitors and never unexpectedly. 

Crit swore in annoyance and snatched his armor from Rusty. Somehow he had managed to pull it on before he reached the door.

Rusty was sitting in the corner, and there was a large, old-fashioned cabinet between the door and him, so he couldn't see the figure standing there. But there was no way he could misidentify that voice:

“Good morning, Crit; I'm sorry to bother you this early in the morning,” said Magnifique.

Rusty was frantically but quietly pulling his shirt back on, but he could clearly hear the wry and reluctant smile in Crit's voice. “Not a problem. But what brings you here?”

“Well, of course, you know about what happened at Gala.” Magnifique took a step into the room.

Rusty had squeezed himself onto the side of the cabinet. The room was not well lighted, but he was sure Magnifique would see him if she entered the room further. Of course, she wouldn't recognize him, so it didn't really matter, but he still wanted to avoid the encounter if he could.

“Despicable. Did you get any intel on the poisoners?”

“No much worth telling. Just a couple of Toledan operatives; they captured and switched places with the real Muto brothers during a mission last month. But that's not why I'm here.”

“Well, sit down and explain everything.” Crit was not quite managing the friendly and interested tone he was going for.

Mag nodded and sat at the table across from Railgun, and Crit came around to stand beside her. As she sat there, her back was to Rusty, and he quietly began inching his way down the wall toward the doorway that led into the next room.

“Right now,” Mag explained in a conversational tone, “I'm searching for a hero called Metal Burst—maybe you saw him there, Critical Strike—he was the hero who saved me, and I want to make sure he gets the thanks he deserves.”

“Huh. I think I saw the one you mean. But he was masked; how are you going to find him?”

“With this.”

Rusty was directly behind Mag—and as she held out the object, he got a perfect view of it. She was carrying the other cuff. He froze for an instant.

But Mag was still talking. “This is genetically connected to the mystery hero, so I just need every boy in the city to try this on so I can find him.”

“That's quite the endeavor.” Crit spoke somewhat distractedly. As he talked, he glanced over Mag's head, and his eyes met Rusty's. And for an instant, the cold blue of his eyes flashed with white fire.

He knew.

Rusty wasn't sure if the man had seen something in his face or whether his paranoia had just led him to a lucky guess. But he knew. Rusty was terrified of Crit, but, at the moment, he was even more terrified of Mag finding him.

“Let me try it on,” volunteered Railgun eagerly. “I'll be your mystery hero.” Mag's appearance had swept away any chagrin from the previous evening. 

“Of course, you do seem like a likely candidate.”

As nervous as he was, Rusty smiled slightly; that light-hearted sarcasm was so typical of Magnifique. He also knew there was no way the cuff would even fit around Railgun's far-more-beefy arm. 

But while she was distracted by that, Rusty made it to the doorway. He was just stepping through when Magnifique turned and commented, “Wait just a minute.”

Had she heard him? Had she known he was there all along? But in any case, surely she couldn't recognize him. Could she?

He stopped dumbly in the doorway and glanced from Magnifique to Critical Strike and then back again.

“Who's that?” asked the girl, looking at Crit. Railgun was still struggling to fit the cuff around his arm.

Even with everything else going on, Rusty couldn't help wondering how Crit would introduce him. It was a situation he tried to avoid. On the rare occasions the man had any of his friends from the League come to the house, he kept Rusty chained up in the basement.

“That's—Rusty,” explained Crit in a voice that was annoyed but still trying to sound friendly. “Just some kid I hired to keep this place clean. Not that he does a great job, but he's better than nothing.”

“I see. Well, since Railgun clearly can't wear the cuff, Rusty'd better give it a try.”

Critical Strike gave a laugh that sounded something like a choke. “He certainly couldn't be your hero. He's barely smart enough to hold a broom. Anyway, he was here last night.”

“Of course, but I do like to do things thoroughly.” Magnifique spoke with her normal, upbeat, slightly urbane tone. 

Rusty stood in place, once again glancing between the two figures.

“Well, you heard her,” said Crit brusquely, throwing Rusty a fierce glare. “Come on over here, and we can put this to rest.”

Critical Strike took the cuff from his son and turned it over in his hands as Rusty, slowly and very unwilling, took a step towards the group at the table.

“Quite an interesting device.” Crit swiveled as if to hand the cuff to Rusty. But then, with a sudden, convulsive movement, his powerful hands closed around it; there was a moment of straining, and then the cuff dropped to the ground, crushed and broken. “Ah—I didn't realize it was fragile. Super-strength can be a curse sometimes.”

“Of course, accidents like that are bound to happen.”

For a long moment, everyone stood in place. Rusty was torn between relief—at knowing he wouldn't be exposed—and grief—at seeing the cuff broken—and fear—at what would happen as soon as Mag left.

And then, Crit broke the silence, speaking in a voice that was unusually calm and quiet. “You're not fooled, are you.”

“No,” answered Magnifique in a voice that was equally calm and quiet. “Honestly, a rather unconvincing performance, but I suspected you anyway. You're the only Detroitite who would have been in a position to know about that attack. It was on one of those mortar ships we searched yesterday, wasn't it?”

“You're smart. Smarter even than your mother, maybe. But still not smart enough.” As he spoke, Critical Strike whirled around and lunged. Even as he moved, Magnifique generated an energy sphere in her hand, but in the few seconds before she could throw it, Crit had closed the distance between them and grasped her wrist, causing the throw to go wild; the sphere smashed into the cabinet, breaking it into pieces.

Crit's voice had raised to a savage roar. “Do you really think you can take me? A little girl like you? Just because your old lady thought you should lead the league doesn't mean you can beat a real hero. I'm going to finish off what the Toledans started—and when I'm done with you, I'll do what I should have done fifteen years ago and rip the runt into little pieces.”

“It's good to know the defense of Detroit has been in such capable hands.” But Magnifique sounded unusually winded. It was clear that she and Crit were almost equal in strength, and with him holding her wrists, she couldn't use her energy spheres.

“Dad, hold her still, and I can get her,” Railgun called out as he started pulling on his armor.

This pulled Rusty out of his temporary paralysis. He thought Mag could handle Critical Strike—but not both of them. But he also knew that he couldn't beat his half-brother in a fight even if Railgun didn't have his armor on.

And then he remembered. He reached into his pocket and pulled on the cuff that still rested there. If only it had enough juice and could last for even a few seconds—He knew he couldn't activate the full armor, but if he could just generate his shield, that might be enough to give him an edge.

He forced his mind into the cuff, willing the shield to appear even as he bounded across the room. He was already in the air when a slight whining sound filled his ear, and Metal Burst's shield appeared out of his cuff, along with a small portion of the armor, coming up to his forearm. 

Even with the shield, it wasn't enough to overpower Railgun, but the older boy, for a moment, just gaped at him as if he had no idea what was happening. Clearly, he had not yet processed what was really going on. And that gave Rusty a second chance.

He took a second to center himself and then jumped again and, with all his strength, drove the rim of his shield into Railgun's throat. He didn't know if what little he had of the suit was augmenting his strength or whether it was just adrenaline and desperation. He just knew the attack was enough to knock Railgun backward to the ground and leave him for a minute gasping for breath. In that moment of respite, he grabbed Rail's armor and launched it across the room. Without the armor, he was no threat to Magnifique, so he knew he had to prevent him from donning it for as long as he could.

Magnifique and Critical Strike were still wrestling in the middle of the room. In strength, they were roughly equal, and Crit was using his superior mass to pin Mag in place so that she couldn't bring her other powers into play. She had managed to get airborne, but with the extra weight and cramped space, she couldn't get very high and Crit had experience with fighting in the air.

Rusty wanted to do something to help her, but he had his own hands full. What little he had of the Metal Burst suit had already vanished, leaving him to face Railgun on his own. Fortunately, Rail seemed to have been injured in his initial attack because he seemed much weaker and more uncoordinated than usual—and he kept gasping as if he still couldn't catch his breath. Even at that, Rusty was surprised that he could hold his own in the fight. In one corner of his mind, he wondered if Rail wasn't as tough as he always acted, at least without the armor. He never would have known—he had never dared to fight back before.

The other fight wouldn't have been that interesting to watch for a disinterested observer. Now, the two heroes were almost immobile, floating just above the floor. Crit had one hand around each of Magnifique's wrists, and he held her arms outstretched as if he were really trying to rip her in half. And Mag, her whole body straining, was pushing back, trying to draw her hands together. Wordlessly, almost soundlessly, they strained. And then slowly, Mag's superior strength began to show itself. There was an imperceptible shift, and slowly, against his will, Crit's hands moved inward. It wasn't very far, but it was far enough. Magnifique generated an energy sphere in her hand and, with a slight movement, was able to launch it directly at Critical Strike's face.

She couldn't put much force behind it, and Crit's armor absorbed much of the impact. But the attack was still potent enough to make him loosen his grip for a moment, and in that moment, Mag threw herself forward, knocking her opponent to the ground with a crash that nearly sent him through the floor into the basement.

He was back up in a second, but in that second, Mag had moved back out of reach and readied another energy sphere.

Rusty paused in his fight to look at her. (He had just kneed Rail in the stomach, leaving him gulping and gasping and momentarily helpless.) Now that she was in control of the situation, he felt sure she could win. But he wondered abstractedly how long it would take and how much of the house would be destroyed before the fight was over.

And then, just as Critical Strike regained his feet, something struck him—something that was not Magnifique's energy sphere. He gave a dull grunt as a cloud of sparks scattered across the surface of his armor. He teetered in place for a moment and then crashed back to the ground, his body rigid, as if paralyzed.

“Not really the best design for armor if it can be locked up so easily,” remarked a familiar voice.

“It's a failsafe, just for this kind of emergency. The Toldeans would never be able to replicate it even if they knew about it.”

Rusty looked up. The door to the house was standing open and in the doorway were two figures. There was a tall woman who still held a gun of some kind trained on Crit—Rusty recognized her from pictures as Dr. Stella Escallinor. And next to her was Uncle Ben.

Dr. Stella stepped into the room and gave a contemptuous glance at Railgun, “And, of course, you're not going to make any trouble, are you?”

Rail didn't have the breath to answer, but he probably wouldn't have had an answer anyway.

Rusty stood up slowly and glanced around—and then, without another word, he bolted from the room.

He was sitting, hunched up, on a bench in the basement when Magnifique found him twenty minutes later. “You know,” she commented cheerfully, “you are a very difficult boy to keep track of.”

He didn't turn around. He didn't want to talk to her, but he couldn't keep back his curiosity. “So, did you really suspect Crit from the beginning?”

“No. Remember, I suspected you at first.” He could hear her walk further into the room. “It is true that he would have had plenty of opportunities to get info, but so would other people. What made me think of him was the way you looked last night. When you saw him in the doorway, and I suggested talking to him, you looked absolutely terrified—that gave me the idea that he knew something and that you must have some connection to him. So when I started hunting for you, I knew to start near him. I didn't expect you to be living in his house, necessarily, but I thought you must be connected to him somehow.”

She was standing directly behind him now. “That was my plan. It turns out Dr. Stella had her own plan—she recognized your uncle's designs from back when they worked together. So she went to talk to him about it—and when he learned that I was looking for you and might find you, he warned her about Crit and the danger we might be in, and so they came over immediately.”

“So--” Rusty commented after a slight pause-- “I guess you know the whole story, then. And that means you understand why I ran away last night.”

“No. That's the one part of all of this I don't understand, beyond the fact that your suit was running out of power—your uncle explained that. You still could have stayed. Modesty is a great thing, but I feel like you take it an extreme.”

Rusty took a deep breath; he knew he couldn't keep running from this forever. He swung around to face her. “I didn't want you to know. I didn't mean to lie to you, exactly, but there was so much going on. And—and it felt so good to have you think of me as a hero; I couldn't bear for you to find out the truth.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Rusty felt confused. He hadn't expected this sort of reaction. He motioned around vaguely. “Well—I mean—now you know—now you see who I really am.”

“Reagan, listen to me--”

Rusty felt a strange warmth he couldn't explain at hearing Magnifique calling him by his real name.

Mag sat down beside him on the bench. “Last night, I could tell you were scared and uncomfortable. After talking to your uncle, I understand why. You were risking everything by coming to the Gala—and you were doing it just for the chance to save me and stop the Toledans. If that doesn't make you a hero, I don't know what does. Certainly not the way other people treat you or the clothes you wear. Although,” she added after a slight pause, “now that all this is over, I would advise you to buy a new shirt. That one is a little out of style.”

Something started welling up deep inside of Rusty; something strange, something he couldn't identify until it had reached his mouth and spilled out—and he realized with surprise that it was laughter.

Mag joined in the laughter but then looked at him with a more serious expression, though her voice was still light-hearted. “You know, it really isn't safe here. That fight probably weakened the whole structure. Railgun and Crit were being taken away when I came down, so there's nothing left here.”

“Right.” For the first time, Rusty began to think about the practical ramifications of all this.

“We've already arranged a place for you to stay back at the League HQ, at least until something better can be worked out.”

“Why would you--”

“You'd better get this through your head, Reagan—I am going to do something to thank you, so you'd better just accept it. Anyway, your uncle is certain he can repair the cuff Crit broke so you will be able to be Metal Burst again, if you want. We can certainly use more heroes in the League. The war may be almost over, but you are proof that there are dangers and courage in civilian life just as much as in war. And also--” she added after a long pause-- “I would definitely like the chance to get to know you better.”

There was a moment of silence as the two looked at each other. “I think I would like that too,” said Reagan slowly.