Judgment

The sounds of the alarm clock rang through the tiny room. Sullivan rolled over, mumbling and cursing as he flailed for the clock on his bedside table. He lashed out with a hand and solidified air sprang from his fingers. He heard the clock crash against the ground, still ringing. “God damn it,” he muttered. He got out of bed and turned the clock off. The glass face had acquired a crack. Sullivan groaned and put the clock back on its table. 7:30.

Five more minutes couldn't hurt, he reasoned, so he tumbled back into bed and shut his eyes. When he opened them again moments later over an hour had mysteriously passed. Yawning, Sullivan threw on his bathrobe. It wasn't like he had to be anywhere. Begging for work on the streets could wait.

Not begging. He wasn't a beggar. He was a mage, and he was asking people for the privilege of assisting them.

Breakfast was toast with margarine. While he ate Sullivan thought about the things that needed paying for. Bill still needed this month's rent, and in a few days it would become last month's rent. He needed to buy food soon, or he'd be back to plain pasta for meals, if he was lucky. Soup kitchen lines were something he refused to stoop to. And then there was his costume, which needed cleaning and repairs. Though it didn't matter if no one was hiring his services anyway.

After he'd eaten he looked through his mail. Bills, mostly. Adverts from banks and other companies. A flier promoting a sale at a furniture store. An official-looking creamy white envelope. Sullivan slit it open, frowning, and pulled out the folded letter. The Harrington seal, a cross-bearing horse within a shield, was at the top of the letter, along with the very formal heading Mr. Sullivan J. Andrews. “Ah, shit.” It was a court summons, for the next morning at Central City Superior Court due to the matters of 'disruptive vigilantism and obstruction of justice during recent police actions'. “Damn damn damn.” Sullivan threw the letter across the room and watched as it fluttered to the ground a foot away from him. This was the thanks he got for trying to help? Maybe he'd botched it up, sure, but he'd tried, right? That's what mattered, right? Sort of?

Sullivan dressed, though it took him longer than usual to do so. He spent the day wandering around the borough of Anna's Downs, stalking the poorer streets with his sign. Mage for hire. Sullivan the Sensational. Extra, extra, please for God's sake give him money...

Most of the problems he saw were poverty and depression, things that punches and powers couldn't help. Not immediately, at least. Some of the people gave him strange looks for the cape and sign. One kid on a porch threw a stone at him. Sullivan had been on the street for several hours before hearing the cries of a woman being mugged. He gave chase to the man who had stolen her purse and managed to stop him for a short time with a forcefield directly in the middle of the sidewalk. It then took another minute of wrestling the man (who was shorter but much stronger than Sullivan) to get the purse back. “Let that be a lesson to you,” Sullivan said. The thief rubbed his shoulder where Sullivan had driven blunt forcefields repeatedly. He returned the purse to the woman.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked around thirty, and pretty, for the most part. Her legs were nice, anyway.

“Just doing my job,” he said. He doubted the woman had much money with her, at least not enough to cover rent, anyway. It seemed rude to ask. Hadn't she noticed the 'Mage for Hire' sign? Would a kiss from the rescued damsel be too much to ask? But she did pay him. A single one mark bill. A proper hero wouldn't need money for the good deeds he performed and would have rejected any offered charity. But he needed the money, so he took it.

Nothing else happened that day. At six o'clock Sullivan made his way to the nearest bar that didn't look like someone was waiting to knife you as soon as you walked in, and plopped down in an empty stool. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of flat beer and stale sweat. Blue-collar workers in flat caps and suspenders sat side-by-side with men in suits, skinny ties and fedoras. There was one other caped superhero in the corner, a pointy-nosed and chinless blond man with a hangdog expression, nursing a martini. “What'll it be?” the bartender asked Sullivan.

“Beer. Fieldson's Original.”

The bartender twisted the top off the bottle and handed it to Sullivan. He silently passed the bartender the bill the woman had given him. “Thanks.” He took a long sip, slumped forward in his seat, and exhaled. The knowledge of his court hearing that he'd suppressed all day came bubbling back to the surface. He pulled a face and took another long sip. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling him that he wasn't cut out for the superhero thing. He could go back to an ordinary job somewhere. Perhaps he could move back home to Emerson. Or he could move away from Central City to a place where there weren't so many government heroes.

A man in a suit was speaking to the mage in the corner. “Did you hear about the scuffle in Princeshire?” the man asked.

“Heard? I was there.” The mage spun his empty martini glass around on the bar. “It was more than just a scuffle, too. Had to call in the Mighty Men.”

“Get outta town.”

“They did. I was the first one on the front lines fighting Father Famine. Nasty piece of work, that man. Has some power that lets him suck the life out of stuff.” Sullivan walked over to where the two men were conversing. A new villain in town? This could be a big break for him. “Anyway, battle was a bit of a stalemate until the Mighties showed up. Grace and the Battery came in to fight him, and then they called in Starbright from the Reserves.” The mage noticed Sullivan hovering outside the edge of the conversation and nodded to him. “Save any lives, hero?”

“Close enough.”

“You missed the action in Princeshire today.”

“I heard. What happened to Father Famine? Did the Mighties get him?”

“Nah,” the mage said. “They had him cornered, but he did something to the Battery and made him collapse. Ran right past him before Grace or anyone else could get him. Police are searchin', and Panopticon's supposed to be lookin' too.” The mage looked at him. He'd sewn what looked like a metal fist onto the lapel of his uniform jacket. “Did you really miss all of it?”

“Yeah.” Mentally Sullivan kicked himself. Princeshire! Of course that's where any burgeoning supervillain would go, not the slums of Anna's Downs. It was only petty crime there. Such a place might have the right ingredients for brewing the resentment, frustration and hostility in a young mage needed for a villainous life, but no one would use it as their secret fucking headquarters or anything. “You met the Mighty Men, huh?”

“Oh yes. Pleasant bunch. But that's not the life for me, no sir. I like working on my own. It's not a living, but it's a good hobby.” And he waved the barkeep over for another martini.

Sullivan slept poorly that night, his mind full of concern and worry for what would happen at the courts. What could they possibly do to him? Levy a fine? Force him to stop hero work? Whatever. They couldn't strip him of his powers, and that was what mattered. With that vaguely comforting thought, Sullivan drifted off to sleep. In the morning he drank instant coffee that still somehow managed to taste burnt and debated whether to wear his hero costume or a suit to the courthouse. Given what he was being tried for, the cape and boots seemed inappropriate. He walked Superior Court in Yorktown. By the time he got there his feet were smarting from walking almost three miles in dress shoes and he realized how hungry he was. “Damn damn damn.”

Superior Court was a white stone building, featureless except for the wide stairs in front and the statue of King Bennett II, the legendary king-become-judge from the days of the Kingdom of Harrington. The statue stared down at Sullivan, scales in one hand, sword in the other, its blank white eyes harsh and judging. Sullivan kept his head bowed and jogged up the front steps, past the other morning stragglers and through the winding halls of the courthouse. He slipped into the appropriate courtroom and found a seat in the back. The room had a high ceiling and high windows. Keeping in theme with the court's exterior, the room was bare of any decorations except for the First Union and Harrington flags hanging on the rear wall. The rest was all white painted walls and plain floors. Despite the early hour – it was not quite 10:00 – it was already full. Men and women in smart suits, reporters or lawyers or curious civilians, filled the pews in the back. Nervous-looking people – the accused – sat closer to the front. The judge himself sat behind an elevated podium, dressed in white robes. He looked bored.

One by one people came before the judge. Most of the matters were very simple ones; minor thefts or speeding in automobiles or blowing up street vendor carts in a magical battle. A lawyer in the front of the room represented each case, delivering minimal arguments for the accused while the judge doled out punishments. Sullivan watched with increasing nerves as they were passed out. Extensive fines. Prison. A day in the stocks. The bad coffee in his stomach churned as his guts twisted themselves into knots.

Finally, the judge called out, “Mr. Sullivan Andrews.” Feet leaden, armpits stinging with sweat, Sullivan walked to the front of the room. It seemed to take forever. The judge's podium loomed far above, impossibly tall, the judge's face stony and still as a mask. Sullivan stood by the lawyer, who shuffled papers around, pulled out one sheet, and frowned at it.

“I think we can do something here,” the lawyer asked Sullivan in an undertone. There was something about the man that reminded Sullivan of a weasel.

“Mmm.”

“Mr. Andrews,” said the judge. His voice boomed off the blank walls. “You stand accused of interfering with police actions, leading to the escape of a thief and criminal. How do you plead?”

Sullivan really wanted to say, “Innocent.” But the fact of the matter was that he had gotten in the way of police action. Perhaps 'obstruction of justice' was an exaggeration of terms, but still...

“Guilty.” The word hung heavy in the air for a moment, as if with his voice Sullivan had solidified the air into a forcefield.

The judge said nothing for a while, so that Sullivan began to squirm. The lawyer beside him shuffled his papers again and coughed. “Police protocol and Harrington law dictates that, for the severity of your crime, you receive four years in prison.”

Sullivan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, plummet through the floor and down below the earth's surface. Four years? Four years of wasting away as a criminal? He turned, helpless, and gaped at the lawyer, who eventually took his cue and spoke up.

“Ah, your honor,” said the lawyer, “Mr. Andrews here may have gotten in the way of police action, but, ah, according to the same police records his actions saved the life of two hostages. Surely that's worth something?” He sounded like he was pleading.

The judge squinted, considering for a moment. A line of cold sweat traced its way from Sullivan's armpit down his side. He rubbed at it, flinching.

“Would his honor consider a fine of an appropriate amount?” the lawyer asked.

“No!” Sullivan shouted, louder than he meant. He swore he heard every head in the room snap up to look at him, felt the iron stares of everyone on his back. “I can't afford to pay a fine,” he said in a lower tone, hoping that only the judge and lawyer would hear him.

“Mr. Andrews, you are a mage, correct?” the judge asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you a superhero?”

“Not registered, no. Vigilante.”

The judge stroked his chin. “If you want to be a superhero, Mr. Andrews, then perhaps community service will suit you best. Learn how to use your powers to the benefit of Central City, and a little bit of discipline and healthy respect for authority.” He paused briefly. “One hundred hours.”

“I don't think-”

“Take it,” the lawyer hissed at Sullivan. “I don't think I can get you much better. Agreed, your honor.”

“One hundred hours service.” The judge banged his gavel. “See the bailiff on the way out, Mr. Andrews. Next, Mr. Donald Wood...”

Sullivan wasn't sure how he managed to walk away from the front of the podium. He was both very aware of the fact that they were moving, but utterly uncertain how. They felt odd. The bailiff in the corner of the room took down Sullivan's information and provided him with police groups to report to for service. It was all very mechanical and Sullivan realized when he stepped out of the courthouse and into the dazzling late morning sun that he wasn't sure why there was a sheet of paper with addresses and voiceline numbers written on it.

Community service. Well, all things considered, it would have been much worse.

It would be best to patrol the streets again to look for people that needed his service. Perhaps there was still work to be done in Princeshire after the battle with Father Famine. The police might want help finding him. But somehow Sullivan couldn't summon the resolve. He'd be doing plenty of service soon, anyway.

It wasn't yet noon, so the bars in affluent Yorktown were all closed. Instead Sullivan found a restaurant and slumped in to an empty table. It was a couple of decades old, if the style of the place was anything to go by. The charm of the varnished wood, polished chrome surfaces and comfy booths was lost on Sullivan, and he ordered a coffee from the young, bored-looking waitress on duty. When it arrived he didn't drink it, but stared into the mug, as if the rising steam would inscribe an answer for him upon the air, however brief, before twisting and dissipating into nothing. Really, he shouldn't be complaining. He wanted to be a hero. What did heroes do but help people? He was being given the opportunity of a lifetime. This could be it. This could be the step into real honest to God registered superhero work. So why did it feel like a death sentence?

Because it was still punishment. Despite his powers and his good intentions, the law still frowned on him and what he'd done. It wasn't enough to be blessed with unnatural skills, oh no. Those skills had to be put to use as the government saw fit. Or at least, in ways that did not conflict with the government's interests. Bullshit. Shouldn't mages be above the law? Sullivan took a mental step back and analyzed his strong, if brief, argument. No. That was a slippery slope. The next logical step was a mageocracy where only the strongest survived and villainy reigned supreme. The collapse of society.

Sullivan took a bracing gulp of coffee. The warmth slid down his throat and washed around his empty belly. He put the mug back down on the table, put his hand close to the steam, and concentrated. The elementary particles above the drink were unstable and energetic, rattling around faster than he could get a grip on them. He cupped his hands into a rough ball shape, willed the air to solidify. The air resisted him, rising between his fingers. Then it began to congeal. Sullivan drew his hands away, and a steam-filled orb floated above his mug. Grinning, he plucked it out of the air and turned it around in his hand. Then he crushed it between two fingers. The forcefield cracked and dissolved along with the steam within it.

I bend reality and destroy plausibility.

When his drink was done he dug out the last few coins from his pocket and dropped them on the table and, not quite disheartened, left.