Chapter 4

By the time Exercise Period rolled around, Frank knew what he had to do. The only drawback? He’d need some help. And a trip to the infirmary. And also, potentially, an addiction to a powerful but dangerous hallucinogenic combat drug. All of this assumed that he could pull off a covert distillation in the first place. But Frank wasn’t about to let Anton run wild with the Neural Disruptor — nor with Jaynie, for that matter. Not when a little of the old mad science might change things, even here, stuck within the grotesque confines of Sing Sing Correctional Facility.

When his cell finally opened for Exercise Period, Frank headed straight to the weight room. 

The sights, sounds, and even smells of the place brought Frank the first sense of calm he’d known since seeing the previous day’s paper. Dozens of convicts worked out amidst the prison’s many open-plan free-weight stations, all wearing orange jumpsuits, most with their tops down around their waists to expose either white undershirts or, more often, bare, muscular chests. A low buzz of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clank of bars dropping onto racks or onto the concrete floor. The place smelled reassuringly of oiled metal and perspiration. Those smells represented the closest thing to freedom that these men could know, often for years at a stretch. 

The weight room sat inside a central pit where men worked the various stations in groups of three or four, all surrounded by a perimeter set of simple wooden benches where more convicts gathered in extended knots of conversation, mostly segregated along racial lines. 

Frank saw the Owl sitting ready at one of the flat benches but ignored him for the moment. For all that the Owl had once been a violent vigilante with a decided mean streak, a tragic history of family violence, and a penchant for beating up people exactly like Dr. Necropolis, he — Davis O’Connell, once a superhero calling himself “the Owl” — remained the closest thing to a friend that Frank had within the prison. Which didn’t exactly guarantee that O’Connell would agree to help Frank bust himself out. In fact, it probably meant quite the opposite. But the Owl, at least, remained someone that Frank could talk to. Plus, he might agree to help… if he could be made to understand the circumstances correctly.

Business came first, though. Frank’s attempt at manipulating his only friend would have to wait.

Instead of sitting next to the Owl, Frank headed for the weight room’s far side. There Sammy “Razor” Jefferson sat holding court. Razor was serving three consecutive life sentences for a home invasion and triple homicide in a swank, upscale neighborhood in Bronxville, New York, and like a lot of crime bosses, he was a big guy who’d long since gotten good at using his size to intimidate. He stood maybe six-feet-two with dark skin, dark eyes, and plenty of dark tattoos, all offset by his blond-dyed eyebrows and cornrowed hair. He had a muscular enough build, but he didn’t put in the kind of consistent work that a true weight room aficionado like the Owl usually did. Instead, Razor’s strength came from the power and influence he wielded, both inside the prison and elsewhere. 

Six young dark-skinned men sat around Razor, though Frank couldn’t immediately place their ethnicities. Not that it mattered. Razor had famously built his empire on neighborhood lines rather than as a function of race or ethnicity. All six got up when Frank approached.

“Razor,” Frank said. “You mind if I sit?”

Razor didn’t look up. “Suit yourself, Doc.”

Though Razor’s attendants all pointedly walked away, Frank let the moment stretch. Eventually Razor got edgy enough to ask, “So. This a social call? Wha’chu need, my man?”

“It’s not what I need, Razor,” Frank said. “It’s what I’m offering.”

Razor finally looked over and cocked one gloriously blond eyebrow. “You cookin’, dog? I thought you said you was out of that business.”

Frank shrugged and tried to keep his voice casual. “Times change. A man gets bored, wants to make a little extra cash from time to time.”

“Yeah. And sometimes a dog’s bitch makes it into the papers. So what? What you offering, dude?”

“Crank.” By which Frank meant crystal methamphetamine. It would be easy enough to make, and anyway, Frank needed it as a base ingredient for his real project. But Razor didn’t need to know all that.

“Seriously? Fucking crank? Come on, dog, ain’t nobody want that shit in here. Dudes be wantin’ to mellow in here, maybe get loose. Dream, you know what I’m sayin’? Ain’t nobody want no damn crank, Doc.”

“Uh huh,” Frank replied. “So Hillbilly Jim and his boys, none of them ever did any crank back in the day? There’s no market for it?”

“You think I give a fuck what some bunch’a skinhead-lookin’ crackers want? Fuck them assholes. I ain’t doin’ business with no Hillbilly Jim. Try again, Doc.”

Frank sighed. “Materials aren’t exactly easy to come by in here, Razor. That’s why we’re talking. Crank is what I can cook.”

“How’s that my problem?”

“You’re making a mistake here, Razor.”

“Was that a threat?” Razor asked softly. “‘Cause I know you’re friends with the Owl and all, and I will agree that he is one legitimately scary dude. But for real, I don’t think he gon’ start no war over your skinny ass. I bet if it came down to it, he’d let me stab you just to show he could, and then maybe he’d throw me a beat down on general principles. But that’d just be for show. You know what I’m sayin’? I don’t think he’d actually save your ass or nothing.” 

“Christ, Razor, don’t go gettin’ ideas. All I meant was that you’re missing an opportunity to expand your sphere of influence.”

“Shit. Why don’t you let me worry about my sphere of influence, mutherfucker. Unless you got something else to offer...?” 

Frank shook his head. He didn’t want to do this, but he knew that he either risked everything here, or he’d spend the rest of his life rotting in a cell. The time had come, like it or not, and only Razor could get him what he needed. To all outward appearances, Razor looked like little more than an unrepentant thug, a rapist, and a murderer. However, everyone knew he ran a disciplined, highly effective criminal organization. Even after eight years in prison, the man still commanded an army, both inside Sing Sing and out in the real world, too. Razor’s empire represented Frank’s only real chance. 

Unfortunately, they both knew it.

Frank pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket. He’d written a few long, technical names there, the names of both the reagents he’d need and the stabilizing protein that would form the base of the overall reaction he’d planned so meticulously over the course of the previous night.

“You know, Razor,” Frank said slowly, “we stole one hundred million dollars from the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.”

“Oh lordy,” Razor groaned. “Here come ancient history.” He looked at Frank. “Come on, Doc. Everyone knows you blew that place to shit and got caught. This conversation is startin’ to bore me, man.”

“No,” Frank said. “We hit it twice. Got away clean the first time. That heist didn’t even make the papers. The Feds covered it up. I only got caught ‘cause we went back. My point is, Razor, we got away with it the first time.” Frank looked Razor right in his eyes. “I still have all that money. Millions of dollars’ worth of gold bricks.”

“Uh huh.” Razor sounded skeptical. “So where is it? Why ain’t you livin’ like a king in here, Doc?” 

“It was two tons of gold bricks, Razor. Where would I put it?”

“Come on, man. This is a fairy tale.”

“Is it? And I suppose it was just pure coincidence that Oberon himself just so happened to be in the area when we hit that place?”

Razor ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this.” 

Frank knew he had his man. He slid the list of reagents across the bench. “I’m not just some skinny punk, Razor. I can be a good friend to you.”

“What the fuck is this?”

“That’s what I need. Just a couple of drops of each.”

“And for this you’ll give me a hundred mil.”

“Well” Frank said, “I’ll treat you fairly.”

Razor raised his eyebrows.

“More than fairly,” Frank added.

“And how you know it’s all still there?” Razor asked.

“If they’d found it, the explosion would’ve made the papers.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

Razor looked over, and his eyes got hard. “Doc, you don’t tell me where that money is right now, I’m’a slit your throat.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious, asshole.”

Frank got up. “Come on. Be smart here, my man. That stuff’s not even expensive. Just get me what I asked for. And a couple of stamps of PCP.”

“Like, acid? Old school, seventies shit?”

“Yeah. Can you do that?”

“You fuck with me, Doc, and you’ll regret it. That I promise you.”

“Yeah man. I could say the same. But let’s not, okay? I’d rather be friends.”

“I’ll remember you said that.”

Frank walked away before Razor could threaten him again. He’d have to watch his back for a while, but he thought Razor would come through. The man might be a thug and a murderer, but he wasn’t at all stupid. Far from it, in fact.

Frank crossed to the other side of the gym. He noted a few eyes following him, but just as many pointedly looked the other way. Once he joined the Owl, the gym seemed to settle, its denizens content to get back to the usual status quo.

“What was that shit with Razor?” the Owl asked. He sat up from where he’d been working on the bench, an easy two-twenty-five sitting on the bar.

There was no point in lying. The Owl could read lips. 

“A little commerce,” Frank replied.

The Owl gave Frank a hard look. “Yeah? So what’re you cooking?”

Frank tried not to shudder.

Lots of convicts tried to use physical intimidation in prison, but the Owl was arguably the scariest guy in the entire place. He stood a mere six feet but weighed a solid two hundred and twenty pounds and maintained a professional athlete’s ripped, efficient musculature, seemingly out of sheer force of habit. His glare scared people because it came from such a relaxed, ready place. He knew he could fuck you up. 

The man had been a legend back in his Diogenes Society days. Trained in a dozen different martial arts, geared up with the finest equipment that his trust fund could provide, and seemingly always madder than a demon from Hell, the Owl had once terrorized New York City’s underworld relentlessly. Even now, he constantly seemed to be looking for an excuse. But though a few had tried him when he’d first arrived at Sing Sing, years had passed since anyone had been that stupid.

“What’d’you care?” Frank asked. He tried to put some muscle into his voice. 

He pulled a forty-five pound plate off of one side of the bar, and across from him, the Owl removed another. That left one-thirty-five, a strictly mortal bench by prison standards, but Frank needed to warm up before things got serious. Besides, even one-thirty-five remained a hell of a lot more weight than Frank had been able to lift before he’d been sent to prison. Becoming friends with a legitimately badass superhero could work changes on a man’s physique. 

Frank got down on the bench, hefted the weight, and let it settle. He then began banging out repetitions, working but not too hard, letting his muscles warm. In the back of his mind, he could still feel his shock and anger at seeing the previous day’s paper. At Anton and Jaynie, at the system, at everything. Against that, the simple physical exertion of lifting weights became a tonic. Rage simmered below the surface for every man in prison, but the Owl had taught Frank to channel that rage, to use it to make him stronger — physically — in the moment. To get something out of the injustice of the world besides a supervillain’s maniacal laughter and a life sentence inside a concrete box. As he started lifting, Frank thought about Anton and Jaynie being together and about ripping his former partner’s face right off of his skull. The thought made him growl. He let his rage flare and pushed it out through his arms and chest, giving it back to a universe that had done nothing but shit on him for far too long.

He sat up once he’d finished his set, feeling marginally better and far more emotionally focused.

“Don’t treat me like I’m one of these cretins,” the Owl said once they’d started changing the weights again. “You’re not the only man who reads the papers, you know? Hell, even Razor saw it. And now it just so happens that you’re cooking something? Shit, man, I bet every con in here knows you’re up to some bullshit, Frank.”

Frank looked the Owl in the eyes. “So what?”

The Owl pointedly put another forty-five pounds back onto the bar and then stared at Frank until Frank did the same on the other side. Ninety more pounds, and the bastard just settled into place like it was no big deal. Which, of course it wasn’t, Frank knew. Davis O’Connell might not have been born with any superpowers, but that hadn’t stopped him from scaring the shit out of those who were. He’d been a superhero and a member of the Diogenes Society in good standing long before the government had abruptly decided to throw his ass into prison for working outside the law.

The Owl got down, lifted the bar off the rack, and briefly held it there. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret,” he said to Frank. He then started banging out reps like he could do it all day.

Frank shook his head. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have.

“Look,” Frank said when O’Connell had finished his set, “that bastard used a Neural Disruptor. I don’t know how he got it, but he did. It must be one of my early prototypes, I don’t know. But you know how dangerous those things can be. Especially the early ones, before I built in all the safeguards.”

The Owl scoffed. “Before you built in safeguards?!”

“Fuck you, Davis.”

“No, fuck you Frank.” The Owl sat up, and now it was his turn to stare. “You really want to help people? Help the FBI. When they come here to ask you about it, and you know they will, draw up a copy of the plans and give it to whichever agent comes around to interview you. Otherwise, don’t sit here and pretend that you care about the little people. I told you, I’m not one of these cretins. Stop treating me like one.”

“You’re insane, do you know that?”

“I used to dress up like an owl and beat the shit out of street criminals. My emotional problems have been well documented.”

They switched out the weights again, and Frank added a ten pound plate to each side. He banged out a set at one fifty-five, and for a while they just worked like that. The Owl placid but menacing; Frank furious but determined not to lose his cool. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, though, and the Owl never stopped eyeing him sideways.

Finally, Frank couldn’t take it anymore. “Doesn’t it piss you off, man? I mean, you were the fucking Owl. You were a badass.”

“I’m still the Owl, Frank. Don’t make me prove it to you.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m saying! All those times you saved the City, all that shit with the Diogenes Society, and what do you get? They locked you in a box with Doctor Necropolis! You call that justice?”

“I knew what I was doing was illegal.”

“Oh bullshit! If that’s the problem, then where’s the rest of the Society? Why aren’t they in here with us?”

The Owl gave Frank a hard look, but he didn’t say anything. He clearly didn’t want to give Frank the satisfaction of seeing that he knew Frank was right.

“That’s what I thought,” Frank said, pushing his point. “You didn’t want to lick their boot heels, and that’s what scared them. Shit, Davis, you’re not even ultrahuman. You think I don’t get it? I’m the only man in here who gets it, and you know it as well as I do.”

“You were trying to sell secrets to the Chinese!”

“I was trying to sell an invention of my own design to a willing buyer. Those assholes talk about the power of the free market, but you try to do something that they don’t like, and fucking forget about it. That example only proves my point.”

“So fucking what?” the Owl snapped. “Life gave you a raw deal. So? That doesn’t excuse the rest of it. You turned the Federal Reserve Bank into a smoking hole in the ground, and thirty-two people died! You deserve to be in here.”

“That is not what happened.”

“They died as a direct result of your actions!”

Frank blew out a breath, forced himself to sit back down. He ran his fingers over his scalp and breathed, trying to get himself back under control. 

“Fine. I deserve prison,” he said at last. “I’m here, aren’t I? That still doesn’t change the facts. Oberon hit that place like a burning freight train, and the government used the ensuing disaster as an excuse to nationalize the Diogenes Society alongside an entire class of its own citizens. If you’re ultrahuman right now, you have to join the Army, period. Refuse, and good luck getting a job, paying taxes, living your life… whatever. It’s harassment straight down the line. And even if you’re not ultrahuman, you still might have to join if you scare them badly enough.”

“It’s about power, Davis. It always has been.”

“And these are the people you want me to trust with plans for my Neural Disruptor? Come on, man, you didn’t get put in here because you’re some stooge. Those assholes will weaponize the Disruptor on a scale I’d never even consider. I’m not doin’ that shit, man. No way in hell.”

The Owl shook his head. He looked tired, for once. Frank wondered if maybe prison’s harsh realities had finally gotten to him. “What do you want, Frank? ‘Cause I’m not gonna help you turn this place into a pen full of drug-addicted zombies or whatever. Honestly, I can’t imagine what you’d even get out of something like that.”

Frank smiled. “Dude. That’s not what I’m asking. Not at all. I just need you to send me to the infirmary.”

“You what?”

“You know, I need some stitches. Eight, maybe ten. Something to get me there and a reason to stay for a couple of hours.”

The Owl smiled, and in that smile, Frank saw a kind of pure, unlooked for joy sitting right alongside the man’s naturally violent malevolence. The Owl fell straight into a ready stance, and all at once, Frank felt far less sure of his plan.

“Shit Frank, you should’ve just led with that. I’ve been wantin’ to beat you down for a good, long time, you piece of shit.”