Public Enemy

By Erik Scott de Bie

Our heroes have attracted public attention, which is a dangerous proposition when you have an image to maintain, you're not ready for scrutiny, and/or you've convinced the world you're already dead.

An obsessed Supergroup fan targets Kid Justice and A-Girl in an effort to undermine their public image and get them in trouble with the law. What starts with social media harassment, review bombing, and other such online abuse escalates and spirals into real-life violence. How do you fight an enemy you can’t see or punch?

Meanwhile, The Raven strikes! Now that she’s out of hiding, Lady Vengeance has to face her greatest mistake. It will take all of her power, her training, and her scarred heart to survive the fight of her life.

Not to mention the mysterious ninja girl who keeps appearing at the least opportune times...

Don't feed the trolls!

• Language: English
• Publisher: DefCon One Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215296615

Erik Scott de Bie

Erik Scott de Bie is a 30-something speculative fiction author and game designer.He has published ten novels to date, including novels in the storied Forgotten Realms, his World of Ruin epic fantasy setting (the fourth of which, Scourge of the Broken World, will come out in 2019), as well as stand-alone novels for Broken Eye Books (Scourge of the Realm) and the Ed Greenwood Group (Blind Justice).His short work has appeared in numerous anthologies and online, and he is the author of the multimedia superhero project, Justice/Vengeance (including fiction, spoken word, and comics).In his work as a game designer, he has contributed to products from such companies as Wizards of the Coast and Privateer Press, and he was a lead creative consultant on Red Aegis from Vorpal Games.He lives in Seattle with his wife, cats, chickens, and dog.

Book preview

Public Enemy

Justice/Vengeance

Volume 2

Erik Scott de Bie

Copyright 2024 Erik Scott de Bie

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Other Lady Vengeance Stories

The Justice/Vengeance Series

Libations for the Dead (DefCon One Publishing, 2023)

Other Stories

Vengeance on the Layover, Cobalt City Timeslip (Timid Pirate Publishing, 2010)

Angels of Mercy, Triumph over Tragedy (Terrene Press, 2013)

The Curse of the Bambino, This Mutant Life: Bad Company (Kalamity Press, 2013)

Queen of Demons, Monster Hunter: The Good Fight (Emby Press, 2015)

Baggage, Shadowed Souls (Roc, 2016)

Mother of Harlots, Cobalt City Dragonstorm (DefCon One Publishing, 2022)

Eye for an Eye (originally published as a part of Cobalt City Double Feature, 2012, Timid Pirate Publishing; reprinted 2018, DefCon One Publishing)

Femmes Fatale, with Amanda Cherry (DefCon One Publishing, 2022)

Bad Intentions (Femmes Fatale 2), with Amanda Cherry (DefCon One Publishing, 2023)

Pretty Hate Machine (Girl Vengeance 1) (DefCon One Publishing, 2024)

The Downward Spiral (Girl Vengeance 2) (DefCon One Publishing, 2024)

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

1. Judgement Day

2. Public Enemy No. 1

3. Burn My Dread

4. Style

5. Spark

6. Don't Believe the Hype

7. Crash

8. Eve of Destruction

9. Can't Be Tamed

10. Mass Destruction

11. High Tension

12. Show 'Em Whatcha Got

13. Shot in the Dark

14. Beneath the Mask

15. Endless War

16. Fight the Power

17. The Kids Aren't All Right

18. New Girl

19. Triangle Man

20. Harder Than You Think

21. Fallen Angel

22. Look What You Made Me Do

23. Holy Ground

24. Bring Tha Noize

25. Buy Me a Boat

26. Rebel without a Pause

27. Still Here

About the Author

For everyone out there striving for justice, respect, and equality.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to shout out the great, talented, and very patient folks at DefCon One for hanging with me during this wild ride. Thanks, and we're gonna keep this train going.

Special thanks go to the veteran artist Claudio Pozas, who designed the amazing covers for the books in this series. Claudio and I have been friends for a long time, and this project was years in the making. O maior presente da vida é a amizade, e eu o recebi.

Many thanks go to my talented, supportive, and always-game-to-banter friend, Amanda Ratchford Cherry, my co-author on the Femmes Fatale series, featuring Vivienne Cain and her billionaire not-girlfriend Ruby Killingsworth, who shows up in a brief cameo in this very book. The first Femmes Fatale happens during the first arc of Public Enemy, explaining V's extended absence, a few of the outrageous references she makes (especially involving Loki), and where a particular suitcase of money comes from. Amanda gets full credit for some of the jokes in this book and definitely the stylish dresses herein described. (And no, she's just going to have to wait a bit before she gets to kill The Aphid.)

A special shout out to Kelsey Dawn Scott, a steadfast fan of the Justice-Vengeance universe, but also the cover artist for several of the entries and a consultant on the series. Kels was one of my beta readers on the book, and I very much appreciate their insight and support! And of course, thanks for letting me continue to borrow the long-suffering Dr. Wren The Shrike Fulton-Gray.

1. JUDGEMENT DAY

Oh look, it's Bug Boy running his mouth again. The guard smashes his nightstick against the bars, making the prisoner flinch back, cradling his smarting hand. Shut the fuck up, Bug.

It's The Aphid! the prisoner says, full of righteousness. "At least, heh, get my name right!"

Whatever, Steve.

It's--

But the guard is already gone.

Stefan Spencer sucks on his aching fingers, though his mouth is all but parched. They keep his cell extremely dehumidified and below normal room temperature, which are both methods to control his powers. It's really not necessary, what with the power-draining tech they installed at Walla Walla State a couple years back. This is way better than the rudimentary stuff they had back in Stefan's Supergroup days. He hasn't felt so much as congested in the year he's been here, after several months in intensive care for a broken back and three of four limbs shattered. It makes eating his paltry dinner--bologna on tasteless white bread--difficult. He can barely swallow the flavorless mush.

Injustice.

It was a ridiculous list of charges: breaking and entering, kidnapping, extortion, aggravated sexual assault, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder ... the whole supervillain works.

How did that even make sense? Two different assault charges? Make up your mind, justice system. And he hadn't tried to kill anyone, except for that dysphoria case Wren Fulton-Gray, but that was a clear case of self-defense. He had gone to that apartment fully expecting a joyous reunion with an old friend he hadn't seen in a long time, and maybe there would be sex involved, who could say, but he certainly didn't intend to hurt anyone.

His trial was quick and clearcut, despite his excellent performance on the stand against the advice of his biased counsel. He had laid out his whole story: his history of being abused and demeaned and mocked, and how Vivienne Cain kept leading him on only to humiliate him. I mean, just look at the photos in evidence. See what she was wearing? She was clearly asking for it. He was cogent, charming, and eloquent, and he was pretty sure at least some of the females on the jury caught feelings for him during the trial--the whites, anyway. At least his lawyer got most of the minority jurors dismissed.

What a rude shock when not only did they find him guilty on all counts, but they reached that unanimous decision after a single hour of deliberation. It was, according to his lawyer, the shortest jury deliberation he'd ever experienced. The judge--some smug femoid with graying hair, past any value--seemed to enjoy sentencing him to twenty-five to life.

It was a setup, all of it.

Stefan sneers remembering the humiliation, but he should have expected it. The system is stacked against white men, after all, especially when women are involved. He is among the most persecuted group in America, despite what the liberal media spews. That bitch Cain and her cunt of a niece only had to bat their eyelashes, and the jury believed every word out of their lying slut mouths. It was probably tactically wise not to have the Black kid testify--his mealy-mouthed utterances would only have damaged the prosecution. And besides, he'd been the one who assaulted Stefan, not the other way around! He'd blasted him out a window--a fall that would have killed any normal person, rather than just put him in traction for six months. He should be free and suing Marcus Orestes for bodily damages.

He'd tried to convince his public defender to call any of the above to the stand as defense witnesses, just to show how ridiculous the prosecution's case was. Unsurprisingly, the empty suit had turned pale and refused. Dirty liberal. Probably gay, too. Ugh.

Ineffective counsel was the basis of his first appeal, and he can't comprehend why it didn't work out. That judge was biased against him too? Probably. He's waiting on word of his second appeal, and maybe he should start a third one, see if he can get that trial thrown out. He tells everyone who'll listen that he's an innocent man--a political prisoner, really--when the real criminals are out there. The ones who led him on and falsely accused him. The cretin who blasted him out a building with lightning. The officers who falsely arrested him. The media. The judge. The jurors.

And Vivienne Cain, Lady Vengeance, who faked her death and presents a clear and present threat to the entire world if that demon comes back. That's right. He flushed her from hiding. When she relapses into demonic possession and overthrows America, they will rue the day they didn't heed Stefan The Aphid Spencer ...

Abruptly, the lights go out--not just in his cell, but out in the prison block, too. Stefan looks up, momentarily blinded. Hey! Hey, you assholes! What gives?

The constantly churning air conditioners that supply his cell shut off with a disconsolate whine.

The power will come back on any second, surely. Though honestly, if it stays off, that gives him some grounds for a cruel and unusual punishment appeal.

It's then that he hears it.

Nothing.

Silence.

The other prisoners aren't shouting or banging on the bars. No griping or screaming or anything. Just nothing.

Nothing but a single clomping sound. Then another. And another. Rhythmic and echoing down the corridor. Like a cold, slow heartbeat.

Footfalls.

Oh, fuck.

Heart in his throat, Stefan gets as close to the bars as he dares. They're cold, and he knows he isn't supposed to grab them. All he sees is a red emergency light down the corridor, which probably points to an exit or something. He cranes his neck to see both ways down the hall.

He needn't have bothered.

The red light abruptly moves, swaying to the side, and Stefan's breath catches. When a figure emerges from the shadows to match, walking down the corridor toward his cell, he falls onto his backside, chest heaving. Stefan shuts his eyes tight.

Can't be here for me, he prays. Not for me. Not me.

The footfalls stop.

Stefan musters the courage to open his eye a sliver, and he pees himself a little bit.

There, outside his door, stands a man all in black combat armor, wearing a cape made of razor blades. His helmet is elongated like the beak of a bird of prey--no, ravens are carrion eaters. His suit isn't smooth or perfect but scarred, frayed, and creased--the veteran of a thousand battles. The Raven goes beyond superheroics and straight into fucked-up nightmare fuel.

Tony, Stefan says, his voice squeaking. "Heh-hey, man, long time. You coulda just called. Heh."

Wordlessly, The Raven reaches out and seizes the bars, Stefan's last line of defense, and the door slides open easily, despite squealing on a poorly oiled track. Oh, fuck.

Hey, man, be cool. Stefan skitters back until he bumps into his cot. Please be cool.

Slowly, The Raven steps into the cell, his single red eye glaring balefully down at Stefan. Just the one eye, Stefan realizes. That slag Vivienne tore out the other one years ago.

What gives? Stefan asks, a little more steel in his voice. "You here to rescue me, heh? You don't like the prison industrial complex, do you? Did I mention I support abolition, too?"

The Raven stares at him, still not speaking, and that gives Stefan a little momentum.

Why should he be afraid? This one-eyed Chad is just trying to intimidate him. But under that armor, he's just a man. And an immigrant at that. Of lesser mind and value. He can do this.

Is this because I fucked with your girl? Stefan sneers through a messy forest of yellowed teeth. She's still sweet, you know. A little overripe, but--

A black gauntlet smashes into Stefan's face, which is such an explosion of pain that the world momentarily flickers out of existence entirely. When he comes back to himself, he's slumped against the wall, hand up and feeling at the unnatural contours of his broken face. Things aren't where they're supposed to be, and it feels like someone else's face.

My nose, he tries to say, but it comes out in a slurry of tooth chips and snot. I'll tell you whatever you want to know! You don't have to hit me!

The Raven speaks, and his voice is like blood gurgling down the drain of an autopsy table, the words guttural and threatening. "You'll tell me what I want to know. But you touched my daughter. So yes, I do have to hit you."

No-- Stefan Spencer gurgles. I'm sorry. I'm--

The words cut off in a lingering scream that the guards previously stationed outside don't hear.

Nor do they take note of the sound of breaking bones.

~

The glowing screens show a live update of half a dozen social media accounts and news feeds, delivering a constant stream of Google, Bing, and Starred searches for a carefully curated list of terms, including supergroup, a-girl, and vigilante. The word superhero is too common and would just clog up the feeds. Most of it is boring, endlessly scrolled through with a quarter attention, lighting up a pair of circular eyeglasses.

Nemesis can only dedicate some attention to the feeds. There is other coordination that needs to be done, up on other screens.

Some of the media, like Fox, are useless for news but rhetorically rich. They are instructive in how to package all sorts of messages in simplistic terms the ignorant masses soak up like sweet nectar: racism, misogyny, and, importantly, anti-cape talking points. Half the country came together eighteen months ago to vote in a nakedly fascist talk show host in the form of Lyle Prather, after all, and the media was instrumental in reaching out to the millions of people out there with more fear and hatred than critical thinking skills. Most of it is just blather, an endless diatribe against all things superheroic.

Then, around ten p.m., an update comes in over the AP that catches Nemesis's attention.

Inmate beaten into coma in Washington State Penitentiary.

A click reveals more information: Stefan Spencer, also known as The Aphid, former member of Supergroup, injured under mysterious circumstances.

That. That phrase.

Injured under mysterious circumstances, Nemesis murmurs. "He's coming. Finally."

Two more clicks bring up a picture of Nemesis's quarry: a good-looking man with dark brown skin, short cropped hair, and glasses. Medium build, could probably use some regular exercise, but that doesn't much matter. It's what he represents that's the problem.

Marcus Orestes, Nemesis says, chewing on the eraser of a pencil. Son of Justice.

Another picture pops up, with him standing next to Angel A-Girl DeSantes. Another, of her shielding him from reporters. Another, of them flying off together. Another, of them kissing.

Nemesis crunches the pencil in half.

I think not.

Several prepared emails require only a macro to place dates, then are sent with the click of a button. Plans springing into motion. Seattle is a tinderbox, and this just lit the match.

Son of Justice, is it? Nemesis sneers. "Let's see how you deal with him."

2. PUBLIC ENEMY NO. 1

May 2018

C'mon-- He buzzes again, but no response is forthcoming.

The door abruptly opens, startling Marcus Orestes, and an extremely tall guy in a tracksuit with three little yappy dogs on leads steps out into the cool Seattle morning. He looks at Orestes with the suspicion white dudes often aim at Black dudes, but his little dogs immediately love Orestes, leaping all over him and demanding pets.

Uh, good morning, he says to the guy. Can I, um--?

Say hello? the guy asks, visibly relaxing. I'll allow it.

Orestes kneels and pets each of the dogs, rubbing their furry ears and tiny muscular bodies. The pups wrestle and compete for his attention. He generates a little static spark that makes one of the dogs yip, then bounce back, headbutting him in the calf until he gives some tummy rubs. This has two outcomes: draining the man's anxiety entirely, and thoroughly tangling the leashes.

Sorry, Orestes says, as he helps the guy untangle the leashes.

But the guy just smiles. No worries, man. I got it.

Within just a minute, their interaction has gone from startled nerves to relaxed camaraderie. More people should have pets, maybe--especially dogs that are entirely too adorable. Would it end racism? Of course not, but it's a good idea, nonetheless.

The guy lets Orestes in before waving and jogging off down the street, the three yappy dogs skittering along behind him, their tiny legs a blur on the pavement.

Orestes has never been to this apartment complex before, and the surprisingly bright and comfy lobby throws him off. The place is adorned with modern furniture in unexpected shapes and amorphous glass sculptures that hang from the ceiling, a bit like but not on the same level as the Chihuly exhibit just a few blocks away. He's been there more than once, thanks to his artist dad, and he recognizes the attempt to emulate Dale Chihuly's technique without matching the finesse--the effortless beauty of the work. This would also be an extremely dangerous place to throw down with a villain, owing to the massive amount of glass both hanging above and making up most of the walls.

A severely dressed young woman with a Bluetooth flashing in her ear sits at the end of the lobby, laughing at something on her phone. She doesn't seem to have noticed Orestes, and it's only when he stands directly in her field of vision that she acknowledges him. Can I help you?

Oh, uh, yes. The overhead fluorescents flicker. He takes a deep breath. I'm here to, uh, visit a friend. Uh-- He looks at the nametag, trying not to ogle its very perky placement. Jessie. He holds up a small paper bag. Breakfast.

Jessie glances over at the prominent clock, which he has only just realized isn't a modern art piece. The monolithic hands of the three-dimensional, twelve-sided sculpture point to where the eleven and three would be. Brunch?

Yeah, I guess.

The lights flicker again, more ominously this time, and he tries very hard to calm down. It wouldn't help to shut down every light bulb and appliance in the complex with his nerves.

She's, uh, not a morning person. Can you, uh, help me find-- He checks the note in his jacket pocket. Apartment 221?

She looks at him dubiously. Shouldn't you text your friend?

I have, but she's probably still in bed.

The dubious look deepens. Jessie may be polite with him, but she's still a white girl, and he's a Black man holding a mysterious package. She stops short of asking to see what's inside. I'll just give her a ring. What apartment did you say?

221.

Jessie types something into her computer, her eyes widen at the result, and she scowls. Oh.

Something wrong?

Jessie rolls her eyes. 221 is on the second floor, northeast corner, straight back from here. Normally, you'd need a keycard to access each floor, but I think someone's moving today, so they probably propped it open. Let me know if you have any trouble.

Okay? That was a switch. Does the name really have that much effect? Thanks.

Finding the apartment isn't too difficult. The complex is built around an inner courtyard with a fountain and just enough space for a couple cars coming through to pick someone up, or exactly one U-Haul truck that is currently blocking a sleek black Lincoln Continental trying to maneuver past to reach the other exit. The town car driver lays on the horn a few times, but the twenty-something woman driving the truck just gives him the finger and continues listening to something on her StarPhone. The door to the northeast corner is open, and Orestes heads in, where the complex is reassuringly drab in stark contrast to the over-produced lobby.

Coming through!

Sure enough, Orestes has to dodge a couple guys in battered workout clothes moving heavy furniture through a wedged-open door, along with a couple of hipster types struggling to carry things that are much lighter but making a solid effort.

He even helps the UW sweatshirt-wearing guy of the pair dislodge a mattress where it's stuck on the stairwell. It's easy enough, as his head tingles a little, and he sees exactly where it's hung up on an errant nail.

Thanks, bruh, the guy says after it's freed, which Orestes acknowledges with a nod as the dude heads away, grunting at the effort. At least the guy didn't call him brother.

Orestes finds apartment 221 at the end of a hallway and is just about to knock when the door abruptly opens to reveal a shockingly elegant redhead in a white and silver spring coat over a chic green dress and fashion-forward silver heels that might be real silver. She looks so out of place in the dull, off-white halls and the darkened, messy room beyond that at first, he thinks she must be some kind of international superspy or at least a movie actress undercover.

Oh. The woman tips down her oversized sunglasses so she can take Orestes in at a glance. Room service?

Uh-- His cheeks grow warm. No, I'm--

Oh, I see. You must be Marcus Orestes.

Um, yes? He blinks at the woman. And you are--?

Leaving. The woman favors him with a twist of her impeccably glossed lips. Do watch out for that one, Mr. Orestes.

Sure?

She sways down the hall, her hips marking out a distracting rhythm straight out of one of his dads' classic noir films--The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep or, and this one seems especially accurate, Black Widow. He's not sure why he thinks of that, but it probably has something to do with his Godsight power. Since he discovered the power last year, he's come to view it as a heightened instinct, and he's gotten better at listening to it.

It does not, however, stop him from looking up and seeing Vivienne Cain framed in the door to the bedroom, wearing an over-sized black t-shirt that says Straight Outta Vodka in big block letters on the front, and apparently nothing else. Seemingly in perfect sync with the cluttered, darkened apartment, her black hair is disheveled, her face entirely free of makeup, and her wine-purple eyes ringed with deep exhaustion circles. There's also a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels in her hand, and she's contemplating it with the intensity of a student taking the SATs. Idly, she rubs at the back of her head, pulling up her shirt to offer Orestes entirely too much view of muscular thigh laced with a snaking thorny vine tattoo, as well as bright purple panties.

Oh. Hey.

Yo. He hesitates in the doorway. I can come back--

Nah, it's fine. She staggers over to the table and drapes herself haphazardly over one of the seats. Vivienne seems to be entirely incapable of sitting normally. Is that vodka? I love a screwdriver in the morning.

Um-- He opens the bag. Donuts. From that Top Pot place you recommended.

Acceptable. He sets the bag down and she rummages through. You didn't go for the dozen?

I barely made rent this week. He clears off some discarded envelopes and a frilly bra from the chair opposite.

Ah, right, starving college student.

Who, uh, was that?

Who was who? She selects a Boston cream covered in chocolate glaze.

That woman. The one who looked like Lauren Bacall circa 1946. And like she just teleported into your apartment.

Oh, Vivienne says. That's Ruby.

Your ... girlfriend?

Don't let her hear you say that word.

Vivienne bites wolfishly into the donut, squirting custard all over her chin. Orestes looks pointedly away.

So, she says, chewing with her mouth open. You don't just bring me donuts. What's up?

It's, uh, about Angel.

Oh shit. Vivienne takes another bite, delicately balancing the custard filling so it doesn't drip, and points the rest of the donut at him. You're finally gonna ask her out and you need advice.

What? No-- He winces. I mean, kind of.

Kids these days. Having devoured the entire Boston cream in under a minute, Vivienne wipes the last of its filling off her chin and licks her fingers clean, one at a time. Then she abruptly stands up. I need a shower. Come on.

What? His face feels warm.

I don't mean join me, Marcus. I mean keep talking to me.

Oh.

He gets up to do just that, then hesitates when she carelessly pulls her shirt over her head and discards it in her wake. He can't help following the vines snaking across her wiry back with his gaze. He gulps down a lump in his throat.

He halts outside the open door to the bathroom while Vivienne turns the water on. He pointedly keeps his eyes low so as not to catch a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror, but that's a disastrous mistake when her purple panties appear on the linoleum floor, casually tossed there. When he hears the curtain close, it's kind of a relief but also a disappointment, the way most of his interactions with the vivacious and entirely too messy retired Lady Vengeance go.

So, uh, about Angel-- he says.

What? Vivienne shouts over the water. I can't hear you out there. Come in.

Ms. Cain--

Stop being you and just come in already.

He sighs and steps into the small, cozy bathroom. Steam rises around the curtain, and Orestes flicks on the fan to disperse it. The toilet is right next to the shower curtain, so that's out as a place to sit. The counter is also covered with all sorts of accoutrements, some of which he recognizes--electric toothbrush, combs, lipstick, industrial size box of tampons,