Avalon City Saints: Chapter 4
4. Johnny Ballistic - Bangs and Crashes
Whenever Johnny Ballistic was reminded of his limitations, he took it very badly. It was a character flaw of which he was unaware, but Johnny was unaware of a great many things, especially his many flaws. For all his scientific intelligence, technical skill and boundless ingenuity; deep down inside, ultimately, Johnny Ballistic was an idiot.
Also, he was about to die.
Johnny had thrown everything at the monster. The sonic pulse that usually made muggers empty their bowels had been shrugged off like it was nothing. Similarly, the glue gun splurge had been a complete waste of time. Johnny knew that the electro lash had hurt the creature quite a bit, just not as much as it had made him angry. The situation had quickly become embarrassing. Johnny was glad that the live feed had been taken out early on. His engagement numbers could more easily take the hit than his ego.
Technology had failed Johnny and Johnny was nothing without his technology. He never dealt with failure very well. By rights, he should have gotten used to it by now.
What had the monster been doing there in the first place? Johnny had gone to visit the south tower of the Cobwood Bridge out of curiosity. Someone in the chat on Johnny’s livefeed had claimed to have worked on the scaffolding, while the bridge was being renovated. They had said that there was a stone carving that Johnny had to see with his own eyes to believe. Something that was not on view to the general public. So, Johnny had gone to the bridge to take photos, like some kind of tourist. He had not anticipated having to fight for his life against a purple monster, with massive teeth, and guns for hands.
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Johnny Ballistic rarely engaged in combat with other mods. He only ever did if he was sure that he held the tactical superiority. Some might have called that cowardly. Some did, on social media. Johnny Ballistic disagreed. The vast majority of his opponents were regular muggers or general thugs, with only the occasional, unmodified, costumed crook on special occasions. Johnny liked certainty. Whenever he found himself at a disadvantage, he went to pieces, thereby increasing his disadvantage.
Johnny Ballistic had now used all of the suit’s offensive capabilities and the purple monster was still standing.
In frustration, he threw a couple of ill-advised punches. Luckily, the suit's exoskeleton prevented both of Johnny’s wrists from snapping on impact. It still hurt like hell. But the backhander that the monster gave him in return hurt considerably more.
Johnny was propelled backwards, about three meters. The biggest problem with this was that there was only one and a half meters of concrete platform behind him, and a three hundred metre drop beyond that.
He fell.
Subscribe nowFour metres into freefall, the jetpack booted up automatically - an emergency protocol designed to slow his descent. He was doing about twenty miles an hour when he hit the water. The suit soaked up the majority of the impact, but it knocked the wind out of him. His brain was still rattling from the monster’s initial slap.
Johnny sank like a stone. He did not fight it. The suit was watertight and had enough oxygen on board to keep him alive for at least an hour. He let the weight of the suit drag his body to the very bottom of the river, out of shame more than anything else. Johnny settled into the thick mud on the river bed and stared up towards the surface, wondering what to do next. Silently, the suit ran diagnostics.
Cobwood Bridge had been closed for repairs, which meant that there were no eyewitnesses in the immediate area. His live feed had gone down, so there had been no one on-line to see his humiliating performance either. He wondered if he could just wait for the monster to go away. Johnny considered phoning the police. The proper authorities could call in Brinkman or Mr Neat or anyone with a bit more experience of the whole modified creature-fighting thing.
Johnny knew this course of action was pretty lame, but at this point, he did not care. He booted up the suit's phone, dialed 999 and asked for the police.
"Yeah, I've just seen this big monster thing," he said. "Climbing up the south tower on Cobwood Bridge."
"Could you describe the thing to me?" said the operator.
"It was really weird," Johnny said. "Like a sort of giant, purple bloke with big teeth and guns for hands."
"Purple. Big teeth. Guns in his hands," said the operator, taking notes.
“No, no, guns for hands,” said Johnny. “He fires bullets from his fingers.”
“I see,” said the operator. "Are you in any immediate danger?"
"No, no, no," said Johnny. "I'm not fighting with him or anything, if that’s what you mean!"
"Of course not. We're sending someone now," said the operator. "Can I take your details, please?"
He cut the call.
His shame was complete.
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There was Johnny Ballistic, lying on the bottom of the river, finally admitting that he was out of his depth. He wondered if this was ironic. He had never been very good at irony. What he knew for sure was that this whole situation sucked.
Up until now, Johnny’s massive technical advantage had not only shielded him physically, but socially and emotionally too. Street level stuff, like gangs and robbers. On-line stuff, like stalkers and fraudsters. He, Johnny Ballistic, had put them all in their place and broadcast the best bits on the internet.
Now, as he lay at the bottom of the river, those old feelings were creeping back. The way he had always felt, before the suit.
The suit finished its checks. There were no major faults. Nothing that a couple of hours in the workshop could not sort out. Johnny sat up and clambered to his feet. This was ridiculous. He was Johnny Ballistic! What was he doing hiding at the bottom of the river? He could take out this thing! He just needed to duck and weave a bit more. And anyway, the po-po were on the way. He could just keep it busy until they got here.
Reinvigorated, he fired up the jetpack and torpedoed out of the water. Johnny accelerated back to the top of the tower, whilst also keeping at a safe distance.
The monster was nowhere to be seen.
Johnny circled the tower, making sure that it was not just hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out. When he was certain the creature had definitely gone, he landed back on top of the platform, and took a look around. He found what he had gone to look for in the first place.
Set into the stone floor was an elaborate circle, about a meter wide. It was the exact same circular pattern as on the graffiti under the Pilton flyover. The same symbol as he had seen on that dark website.
There was the sound of a chopper approaching. The cops.
Quickly, the suit’s camera recorded as much detail of the stone circle as it could, before Johnny booted up the jet pack and dived back down towards the river. Opening the throttle, he tore off, heading east, following the path of the river. He skimmed about a foot above the river's surface, churning the water into a trail of swirling vapour. He buzzed past a cruiser full of tourists, giving them a thumbs up as he accelerated harder, drenching everyone waving at him from head to foot.
Johnny ducked onto the canals, zigging and zagging left and right, scaring the life out of the ducks and the anglers, as he flew deeper into the south of the city.
Johnny Ballistic was heading home.
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There was no one around as he approached the featureless, grey blocks of the Sparkford industrial estate. The metal, roller-shutter door on his lock-up opened automatically as he approached, then closed as soon as he landed inside. Johnny took off his goggles, his helmet and his face-mask, and breathed in the metallic air of his workshop. Oil and electrics - the smell of home.
He hooked the suit onto the engine hoist using the special fitting, hidden between the shoulder blades. Then, he shut down all systems and rebooted it in repair mode. The exo-skeleton popped open. Johnny unstrapped himself and stepped out.
The suit regulated its internal temperature so well that Johnny felt pretty chilly, standing in only his boxer-shorts, in a draughty industrial unit. The oily, concrete floor was freezing under his bare feet. Quickly hopping over to where his overalls were hanging on a peg, Johnny threw them on and stepped into his work boots.
Fetching his tablet from the table, Johnny switched on the thirty inch monitor, hanging on the wall, woke the PC from its hibernation and clicked on the kettle for a brew.
Synching the PC with the suit, Johnny began to download the camera footage. He disregarded the video of his battering for the time being, and instead, studied the stills of the stone circle.
He dragged up the images of the graffiti from under the Pilton flyover that he had taken previously. It was amazing how closely the details matched. Johnny overlayed the graffiti photo on to the new image of the stone carving. They slotted together exactly. Johnny opened the screen grab he had taken from the other circle, on the dark web page and layered that on top of the two photos.
As he lined up the three images, sliding them neatly into place, the monitor suddenly froze. The strip lights in the ceiling began to flicker. The big screen lost its signal and fizzed with static. Johnny heard a fuse trip. Then the whole computer system crashed. Johnny swore, ran to the fuse box in the far corner and shut everything down.
He counted a full thirty seconds, taping the fuse box in time with the count (as was Johnny's traditional, OCD, rhythm ritual). Then, he rebooted everything. The monitor came back on. The PC automatically ran diagnostics and repair work. From the looks of things, the systems were going to be preoccupied for a very long time. He sighed.
Johnny boiled the kettle again. Spooning some instant coffee and sugar into a grubby mug, he sniffed the milk from the fridge. It would do. He put a splash of milk in the mug and poured in hot water from the kettle.
It was only as he sipped his coffee that he realised that he had a splitting headache. His shoulder was killing him too. He had to remind himself that he had just been in a fight for his life. The suit sometimes made him forget that he was only human. He found a packet of paracetamol on his workbench, next to his glasses, and took two, washing them down with a swig of coffee.
On the screen, the diagnostics time bar was still only at 6%. He decided that he may as well patch up the suit while he waited. He put on his glasses and fired up his soldering iron. Johnny hoped that whatever caused the system crash had not left any serious or lasting damage.
Chapter 5 in two weeks!
In the meantime, why not buy one of my books?
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