Free Powers by Brian Michael Bendis

brandy. Another man writhed near the bar, rubbing his temple and attempting to dig out his damaged inner ear. Liberty approached just as the man—wearing a suit, slimmer and older—finally pulled himself up and grabbed for a nearby bat.
    Liberty lifted the cube, pointing it at the second German. “Tut-tut, Bruno. The first round works you over. The second one kills you.”
    Bruno lowered the bat. His accent was more pronounced. “You wouldn’t dare play it again. Every policeman in the city would be down here to arrest you for property damage, assault, and attempted robbery.”
    Liberty frowned. “Robbery? Bruno, you know me better than that.”
    Dolph groaned by the door, and a third man, splayed out on the floor, had yet to show signs of life. I might have killed that one. That will save some time, Liberty realized with a smile. He stowed the cube into his pocket and pointed to a nearby barstool. “Sit. I’d like Dolph to join you. We can do this der einfache Weg or die harte Tour, if you’ll pardon the cliché. It’s four in the morning, I’m expecting fireworks to kick off at any moment, and I don’t particularly have the time to be clever.”
    Bruno nodded, dumbfounded, and pointed at a particular stool, making sure that it would serve. Liberty gestured toward it. “Please, sit.” Bruno grinned. Something moved behind the hooded man.
    He ducked left just as Dolph lunged right. Liberty easily sidestepped the big German and clotheslined him with a forearm. Dolph doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and Liberty snatched the Aryan’s white-blond hair with his right hand. His left hand still remained in his pocket, fastened to the other tool he couldn’t wait to reveal. He tossed Dolph into a set of tables, breaking several and scattering chairs. Dolph didn’t get up. Bruno, meanwhile, had launched himself from the stool. Liberty was forced to swivel and grab him by the throat. Bruno’s neck was thick and veiny, but the man in the mask crushed his windpipe with relative ease. Bruno turned red and then blue. Finally, Liberty lifted the German and heaved him over the bar, into broken glass and shattered bottles. Bruno slid down, out of view. The third German— Johann, the hooded man reminded himself—stayed where he was, completely unconscious and possibly dead.
    Liberty sniffed and stretched. He flexed the fingers on his right hand and caught his breath. Then, finally, he removed the item in his left pocket and pulled it taut with both hands. It glistened and twanged in the moonlight filtering in from the smashed window. Morning was only hours away, and he could hear people on the street, stirring as car alarms blared in reaction to his sonic volley.
    Liberty shrugged and started toward the closest German.
    â€œI suppose that means we do it die harte Tour, ” he said to no one at all. “Not to worry, meine Freunde . That’s what I’d been hoping for.”
    He hunkered down and got to work.

 
    6
    December. Monday afternoon. 12:37 P.M.
    Traffic snarled as they neared Twenty-Eighth and Gallaher, slowing to a halt ten feet from Deena’s destination. Honking the horn, she craned her neck to see the snow-covered terminal ahead, rearing above the holiday shoppers, crowned with frost and graffiti. Crowds weaved around Ellis Station, ten-dollar-an-hour admins hustling past on coffee breaks, careful not to slip on patches of ice. The office drones were interspersed amid cheerful tourists, late commuters, and—more relevant to Deena’s concerns—a multitude of police officers. A barricade had been erected across Gallaher, blocking off two of the street’s four lanes. Three cruisers stuck ass-backward into traffic, forcing away drivers and cabs in order to cordon off space for approaching, blaring ambulances. Lights splashed red and blue against the station’s exterior walls, and the hubbub of