Free Forced Retirement by Robert T. Jeschonek Page A

a moment, regaining her strength while she tried to come up with a plan.
    And tried not to think about her roommate, Mardi...otherwise known as the super heroine, Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras, who had taken the first hit when Epitome had blown down the wall of their apartment. Mardi Gras, last seen trapped under debris and bleeding from a head wound.
    Mardi Gras, the woman Hericane loved.
    Hericane’s stomach twisted, and her heart hammered harder. She had to get back to Mardi fast, had to make sure that she was all right.
    But before she could do that, Hericane had to stop her father. If she headed for the apartment, and Epitome followed her, she would just be endangering Mardi further. Mardi’s powers enabled her to bombard people’s senses with riots of noise and color and smell and texture...but indestructible, she was not.
    Epitome, on the other hand, was indestructible. He had the strength to bench press North America, and he had hair follicles that could jump right off his body and drill through concrete or snip chromosome chains on command. He could fly like a jet fighter plane, just an eyeblink slower than Hericane in his old age. Then there was his trademark “Bonus Round,” an adrenaline-burst crisis state in which he surfed the gamut of way-out powers, a new one every five seconds, as if he were surfing channels on a TV set.
    With all that he had going for him, Epitome would have been unstoppable even if he had been in his right mind. Now that he had lost it to Alzheimer’s--or most of it, anyway--Hericane had lost the option of talking sense into him, making him less controllable and more deadly than ever.
    Epitome did not even have any weakness, other than whatever had brought on the Alzheimer’s. His enemies had only ever managed to hold him at bay with threats against innocent civilians. Even if Hericane had been willing to employ such threats, she had a strong feeling that they would now be useless against her father. If he was delusional enough to try to kill his own daughter, what were the chances that he would stop his rampage to protect bystanders or hostages?
    Not that he had ever seemed to care much for his daughter in the first place.
    Hericane detached from the wall and decided to head for help. If she could make it to the Power Structure headquarters in nearby Paratown, the heroes stationed there would surely race to her rescue. Apparently, the heroes who were based in her own home turf of Isosceles City were all away on business or home sick in bed, as none of them had popped up to lend a hand.
    Unfortunately, just as Hericane drew a bead on the route that would lead her to Paratown, she heard the telltale nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that heralded her father’s approach.
    The screech was a by-product of his use of certain powers simultaneously...in this case, flight and electro-breath. He had tried to have it “fixed” years ago, without success, but the truth was, it never interfered with his crimefighting.
    By the time a target heard the screech, it was too late for the target to get out of the way.
    This time was no exception for Hericane. Even expecting (dreading) that sound’s recurrence if (when) her father figured out her ruse and doubled back for her, she still did not have time to get out of the way of the bolt of lightning bursting out of Epitome’s wide-open mouth. Even possessing the gifts of super-fast reflexes and high-speed flight, she could not evade the sizzling electrical strike.
    Searing current burned through her body like wildfire. Hericane stiffened and dropped like a stone, eyes fixed on the bright blue sky above her as she fell.
    She saw her father plunging after her, fists bunched forward and face etched with fierce determination.
    Sunlight reflected from his golden breastplate, throwing spots in Hericane’s eyes. She had always thought that the breastplate had made Epitome look noble and powerful, like a Roman centurion...but now, it made him look mechanical and