Malefic

The heat is on, as he knew it would be. His picture is on every news feed, as if the world didn’t already know him. But the hologram device disguises his features, buying him some time. A little after midnight, he disembarks from the train well before reaching his ticketed destination, a trick that will send the costumes on a goose chase.

The small town is traditional and quiet, with a low crime rate, a small police force, and — importantly — no security cameras. An empty car waits for him a few blocks from the train station, with a key in the ignition and directions in an envelope on the passenger seat. He turns off the hologram and sees his scarred face in the rear-view mirror.

He lights a cigarette, then drives. Dr. Malefic is on the run.

The directions take him outside town to a farm house at the end of a long gravel road. Sanderson waits on the porch, looking stern and sexy in her dark business suit. Malefic walks up and kisses her; Sanderson does not return the affection, turns around and walks inside.

The house is spartan, with a few chairs, a kitchen table, a couch and — Malefic hopes — a bed somewhere.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.” Sanderson’s tone makes it less of an offer than an order.

She fixes him a bourbon neat, and one for herself, then sits next to him on the couch; her eyes are cold.

“What happened?” She gets to business too quickly for Malefic’s tastes — a “Thank God you’re OK!” or even a “How are you?” would be nice.

“It was only a matter of time.” He drinks the whiskey; it burns his throat and warms him.

“Killing Ultimate was never part of the deal.”

“What did you expect, Sarah? You came to me, remember? Your bosses were scared…”

“We were curious! We weren’t scared.”

Malefic laughs. “Bullshit! You. The CIA. You were scared of the alien!”

He ignores Sanderson’s scowl and sips his bourbon. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come up with the ‘Malefic’ scheme.”

“The situation was under control, Malcolm. We’ve been handling the costumes since World War Two…”

“Not like him! He wasn’t a vigilante acrobat in a costume, was he? He was an alien from another planet who looked like us and had the power to change the world. He could fly. He was invulnerable. ‘What’re his limits?’ ‘What’s his agenda?’ You all wanted to know.”

He looks off towards the wall and massages his scarred temple. He has a headache and feels tired. “You recruited me,” he whispers.

“We recruited you to test him, not kill him! Do you know how much trouble you’re in? We’ve always helped you, but this is different. The public wants your head. The costumes aren’t going to stop looking.”

Sanderson gets up from the couch and paces the room. “You were an untenured professor with a gambling problem when I found you. A loser. I told you the deal. Challenge him. Test him. We created the Malefic identity, we gave you the best technology DARPA could come up with, we backed you with money and secret lairs and arranged prison breaks. You just had to commit crimes and challenge him so we could find a weakness.”

“And you did, Sarah. You found a weakness. I used it.”

“I told you about the isotope as a courtesy. You weren’t supposed to…”

Malefic holds up his hand to silence her. “I’ve fought Ultimate for years. I have so many scars and broken bones that he gave me, but I could take everything. Except for me having to live a lie, as ‘the world’s smartest crook’. When really I just work for the government.”

Malefic stands up and swallows the last drop of bourbon; his hand trembles as he puts the glass on the table. “When you told me the isotope’s radiation could kill him, I had to use it. No more Ultimate. No more Dr. Malefic. No more Malcolm Petrovic. I’m done. I want the agency to set me up with a new identity and a steady paycheck someplace quiet.”

“Malcolm…”

“Please, Sarah… You owe me this. Help me… disappear. The alien is dead. I don’t want to be Dr. Malefic anymore, I...”

Sanderson finishes her drink and walks to Malefic, who seems tired and unsteady. She gives him a kind kiss as she helps him back to the couch. Her hand caresses his ugly scalp.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I called you a loser. You were never a loser.”

Dr. Malcolm Petrovic, the notorious Dr. Malefic, closes his eyes, and is at peace for the first time in years.

Sanderson leaves Malefic’s dead body and walks outside for some air. She calls her supervisor with her secure cell phone, to let him know that the poison in Malcolm’s bourbon did the trick, that Malcolm never suspected it. Her boss tells her that a team will pick her up and sanitize the site.

Her boss asks how she is doing, and Sanderson lies, saying everything is fine. She finds no comfort in the necessity of murder. Malcolm had been reckless. Ultimate’s superhero friends would have found him, and Malcolm might have talked about things the government couldn’t risk.

Ending the call, Sanderson wipes tears from her eyes while she considers a world without its greatest superhero, Ultimate, and his arch-enemy, Dr. Malefic.

Image credit: Public domain image of a villain from Major Victory Comics #1 (“K-9”, Chesler Comics, 1944); artist unknown.

After years spent hunting monsters and fighting ninjas, Reed Beebe has retired to a quiet village to write. His work has been published by Heavy Metal, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, and Nothing But Comics.