Hardball

A Midnight Sentinel Adventure By Jens H. Altmann

Copyright Jens H. Altmann

E-Mail: Jens.Altmann@excite.de

“There is always an easy solution to every human problem — nice, plausible and wrong.”

H.L. Mencken: Prejudices

* * *

The man had his revolver at the child's temple, and the Midnight Sentinel had no idea what to do.

“I mean it,” the man said in a shrill voice. “Get lost, or the brat buys it.”

“Sorry, buddy, I can't let you do that,” the Sentinel said. “Let the child go, and we can talk about it. All right?”

The man cocked the hammer. The Sentinel tensed.

“I mean it,” the man said.

Before the Sentinel could think of a reply, another voice spoke up. It sounded cold and mechanical, almost robotic.

“Let the child go,” it commanded.

Both the man and the Sentinel looked up. The speaker was a tall person in some kind of golden body armor. The armored person held its hand outstretched, pointing it at the man with the gun. And at the child.

Look who's read too many Iron Man comics, the Sentinel thought. It would have been funny if the situation weren't so desperate.

“Go away,” the man said, his voice pitched even higher. The Sentinel thought he heard something like the pop of an airgun, just before he thought something whisshed past his masked face. The man with the gun twitched as if he had been stung by an insect.

The child's knees buckled. She collapsed, slipping from her captor's grasp. The man with the gun had time for an astonished look before he followed her into oblivion.

“You should've watched Speed more often,” the mechanical voice said with an audible chuckle.

* * *

“Cassie Harris was never in danger,” the mechanical voice said. It sounded amused. “I solved the situation by firing narcotic darts at them. As you have seen yourselves, she is awake, alive and well.”

The armored figure pointed at another reporter.

“The young lady from the New Harbor Courier,” it said.

Alexander Nichols reached for the remote control, but Imogen Templeton stopped him.

“No, I want to see this,” she said. “Please?”

“All right.” Alex sighed and leaned back in his armchair. “What do you see in that thing?”

“Hardball?” Imogen used the name the armored figure had given itself at the beginning of the press conference. “He saved the child, didn't he?”

“How do you know it's a he inside the shell? It could be a woman. Or maybe even a robot.”

“Don't be silly, robotics aren't that advanced yet. And a woman would never be so stupid to put that thing on. No, it has to be a man in there.”

“Okay, point taken. But what do you see in him?”

“Are you blind? The way he handles the press? You'd never see the Midnight Sentinel hold a press conference, would you?”

“Don't you think that is because the Sentinel isn't about publicity?”

“Oh, don't take that so personally,” Imogen said. She leaned back, put a hand on Alex's shoulder and kissed him. “The Sentinel saved Danny's life. I'll always be in his debt. But he's scary. Not like Hardball.”

“Why did you choose the name Hardball?” another reporter asked on the television screen.

“Hardball's the name, hardball's the game,” Hardball quipped. “I'll always be open to the press and the public, so they'll know not to be afraid of me. But if you're a criminal ...” Here Hardball pointed at a camera, which did him the favor of putting him on in close-up. The metal mask looked menacing. “ ... I'm gonna play hardball with you. The criminal element has plenty of reason to be afraid of me.”

“What about the Midnight Sentinel?” the reporter from the New Harbor Sentinel asked. Alex smiled. The Sentinel had always been positive about the Midnight Sentinel. Trust them to challenge this Hardball character.

“Yes, what about him?” Hardball replied. “I saw someone who matched his description at the scene. He wasn't very effective. If he had been, it would've been all over by the time I got there. Wouldn't it?”

“But the Sentinel has protected our city for 2 years now,” the reporter protested.

Has it been that long already? Alex wondered, briefly thinking back to the night of the costume party. He almost shook his head at the memory. It seemed both longer and shorter.

“Then perhaps it's about time he gets a little help, wouldn't you say?” Hardball replied. “I'm not here to replace the Midnight Sentinel. But two people can do better than one, I think. As we saw here today.”

Alex made a face. He didn't dare turn the TV set off. Imogen wanted to see this crap, and he didn't feel like arguing about this. Instead, he went to the bathroom.

“What a load of crap,” he said to himself when he was sure he had the privacy. Something about Hardball didn't feel right. He'd be damned if he'd let that slide.

* * *

If there was anything wrong with Hardball, nobody else seemed to notice or care. To Alex's increasing frustration, the “Armored Avenger,” as the media soon began to call him, became New Harbor's favorite son. Or daughter, even after three weeks of daily sightings and press conferences nobody had yet figured out Hardball's gender.

Worse yet, Alex couldn't find out anything about him. Or her. Or whatever. Sitting at his desk, he stared at a newspaper article that asked if Hardball might be the most sophisticated robot ever built. Alex considered that unlikely. Sighing, he took a pair of scissors and clipped the article.

“The Hardball fan strikes again,” Pete said from the other desk. Alex managed to fake a smile. “I thought you're a Midnight Sentinel fan,” Pete continued, ambling over to look over Alex's shoulder.

“Perhaps I'm just a fan of masked vigilantes, period?” Alex suggested.

“I like Hardball better too,” Pete said. “I mean, he's much more open than the Sentinel, you know. Not so scared of the press.”

“Have you ever thought that Hardball is a bit too fond of the press?” Alex asked. “The Sentinel does his job and that's it. Hardball catches the crooks and then he holds a press conference.”

The last words of the sentence trailed off as something occurred to Alex. It hadn't occurred to him before, but every time Hardball prevented a crime or caught a criminal, the press showed up very quickly, almost before Hardball was finished. Alex knew how fast the press could be. As the Sentinel, he had sometimes had to hurry to disappear before they could catch up to him. Still it was unlikely that they should catch up with Hardball every single time. Or at least once a day.

* * *

“And what do you think you're doing?” the Midnight Sentinel said. The mugger looked up to where the Sentinel crouched. One of his friends did so too, while the other held on to their victim, an attractive young blonde woman. The Sentinel had a sense of deja vu. He almost smiled under his mask. Alex had noticed the three men following the woman and decided to change into his 'work clothes' to keep an eye on them because the scene didn't look kosher. It turned out his instincts had been right.

“That ain't Hardball,” one of the toughs sneered. The other put on a broad grin and waved a switchblade at the Sentinel.

“Get lost, mask-face, or we'll carve you up like a pumpkin,” he yelled. The Sentinel let himself drop from his first-floor perch and came at the three toughs like a whirlwind. When he was done, he wondered if they'd even realized what hit them.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked the woman, holding out his hand to help her to her feet.

“You're not Hardball,” she said, pressing her back against the wall and pushing herself to a standing position.

“I'm afraid not. Should I be?”

The woman pressed her lips close together. The Sentinel raised an eyebrow under his mask.

Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.

As he turned away, the Sentinel noticed that the woman looked around. He looked in the same direction as she did and thought he saw a golden flash pass by overhead.

Hardball?

The muggers had said something about him not being Hardball. So had the woman. He hadn't been that surprised about it, not after all the press the armored vigilante had gotten.

But how much of a coincidence could it be that Hardball would actually show up?

“You're the Midnight Sentinel, aren't you?” the woman said. “Wow. I mean, I thought you were just an urban legend or something.”

“I suggest you go and find a police officer, while I wrap these presents up,” the Sentinel said. He turned his head to look at her. She stood there for another five seconds before she left.

The Sentinel looked up again to where he had seen that golden glint.

There was something definitely not right here. And it wasn't professional jealousy.

The Sentinel picked one of the muggers up and slapped his face until he came to.

“What ... who ...” he sputtered.

“Not Hardball, if that's who you expect,” the Sentinel said. “And don't bother looking for him, he's gone for greener pastures.

“But it makes me curious, you know ... Everybody I meet tonight expects Hardball. More even, Hardball actually shows up. I don't understand that. I don't like it when I don't understand something. It frustrates me. And I've been known to take my frustrations out on petty criminals.

“You see, it's in your own best interest to explain to me just what the deal with Hardball is.”

* * *

When Mayor Levitz announced his plans for a celebration of Hardball's achivements, Alex started to follow the news with a sense of satire. Now that he knew what the deal was, it all seemed terribly funny. And, sadly, predictable.

Not that it mattered. Alex had two weeks to come up with something, and to prepare. Plenty of time.

Or was it? Whatever he did, he didn't want it to have unpleasant consequences for Alex Nichols, and it shouldn't ruin the Midnight Sentinel's reputation either. Therein lay the problem. Hardly anyone knew Hardball's secret. Anything he did, in either of his identities, the people would be on Hardball's side. The press would spin it to make Hardball look good in either case.

Let them worship Hardball, Alex thought in frustration. If they do, that's the kind of hero they deserve.

No. He couldn't allow that.

But what could he do?

That was when he saw Danny read a comic book. The latest issue of Thunderbolts to be exact. It was one of Danny's favorite comics series. He liked it so much, he had made Alex read some of them.

Alex smiled as he remembered the book's premise.

* * *

“We are here today to honor a hero of our city,” Levitz said. He stood on a dais in front of a gigantic poster of Hardball. “A hero who risks his life daily to make certain that we can sleep safely, walk the streets safely. Just as New Harbor's Finest do.” Levitz extended his hand towards Commissioner deFalco, who rose from his seat and took the mayor's place at the microphones. It was difficult to make out his expression as he looked at Levitz before he took his notes from his pocket and began to read without looking up.

“We all owe Hardball our gratitude,” deFalco began. “Like our police officers, who work hard and risk their lives to keep this city safe ...” deFalco looked again at Levitz, who seemed to make a point of not meeting the commissioner's eye ”... Hardball acts without regard for his own safety. Without thought of reward or even recognition. Why else should he hide his face behind a mask?

“But deeds such as his should not go unrewarded. Also, in the last few weeks, a few of the criminals Hardball apprehended had to be released on technicalities, because Hardball is not a duly recognized officer of the law. Therefore, the council of New Harbor has decided to award Hardball the status of a duly deputized officer of the law.”

deFalco clapped his hands. The corners of his mouth hung almost to his armpits. Mayor Levitz joined in the applause, and soon the entire crowd was applauding.

Hardball chose this moment to make his entrance. Jet-pack roaring, he dropped down from a nearby building right behind Commissioner deFalco. The crowd went wild. Hardball raised his hands and stepped to the microphone.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice amplified not by the microphone but by some device in his armor. “Thank you all.” He waited until the crowd had calmed down enough for him to be heard. “Thank you, Chief deFalco and Mayor Levitz, for this singular honor. I am confident that it will make me even more effective as a crimefighter.”

Another round of applause bubbled up. Hardball raised his right hand and waited it out.

“Not that my efforts make much of a difference,” he continued when the applause died down again. “New Harbor is basically a very safe city. We have a very efficient police force. Why are we luckier in that way than other cities of our size? Because we have an administration that actually cares about its citizens. For those of you who haven't realized it yet, this administration is up for re-election this year ...”

Hardball stopped in mid-sentence as three globs of bright red color exploded on his armor. He wasn't the only one who looked around in a panic, trying to figure out where the paintballs had come from. Commissioner deFalco spoke hurriedly into his walkie-talkie. The attending police officers drew their guns. Hardball tried to wipe the paint off his armor.

“What a noble speech,” a mocking voice said from above. Something hurtled down, something that turned out to be a metal spike with a cable attached. “Just a pity it is wasted on scum.”

A man in a brightly colored gray and brown costume slid down the cable to land in front of Hardball. deFalco's groan was audible even to the people in the first row.

“Who are you,” Hardball said.

“Call me the Masked Marauder. I want my cut.”

“Your what?” Mechanically filtered as it was, it was difficult to tell if there was surprise in Hardball's voice.

“My cut. After all the people you paid to lose a fight with you, I figure it's my turn.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hardball protested. He stepped away from the podium. He pointed an accusing finger at the Masked Marauder.

“Oh, but I'm sure you do,” the Marauder said. “You're just a media machine. You haven't done anything useful in your life.”

The Masked Marauder ducked under the dart that shot from Hardball's finger gun. He retaliated by firing another paintball from his paintball gun, this one going straight to Hardball's face. The armored figure staggered backwards, desperately trying to wipe the paint off its face.

“I'll get you for this,” the metallic voice said.

“Forgive me if I don't hold my breath waiting,” the Masked Marauder replied, agilely darting towards Hardball. He made as if he were going to hit the armor, then changed his mind and just gave it a push. Hardball staggered back and fell off the dais.

Hardball lay on his back like a turtle, arms and legs moving, but unable to get back to his feet.

The Masked Marauder stood at the edge of the dais, admiring his handiwork. A shot rang out. The bullet barely missed him. Startled, the Marauder turned, looked at the police officers, and ran.

Ran directly towards the reporters.

“Ask him why he can't get up by himself,” the Marauder said, in passing, to one of the reporters. He also tossed the woman a videotape. “And ask him about Clyde Wallace.”

With that, the Marauder vanished.

* * *

“I can't believe it,” Imogen moaned. She aimed the remote control at the TV set as if it were a gun and turned the set off.

“I told you he's too good to be true,” Alex said. He couldn't help it, he felt smug. To compensate, he put his arm around Imogen.

“A fraud,” Imogen said. “That bastard was a fraud.”

“I'd wondered how he powered his armor,” Alex admitted. “Considering his power consumption, he had to fake those fights. No other choice. I mean, you saw how quickly that power was drained during his encounter with, what's his name, the Marauder.”

“And everything just a part of Mayor Levitz's campaign to get re-elected. 'A superhero you can trust, working for the Mayor.' I get sick just thinking of it.”

“I wonder, does that make the Marauder a good guy?”

“Probably not.” Imogen was suitably scandalized. “I just wonder why the Midnight Sentinel didn't do anything.”

“He can't be everywhere, I suppose,” Alex said. He took the remote control from Imogen's hands and turned the TV back on. He had seen the same report before. They were about to show his favorite part.

“Clyde Wallace,” the thug said on the screen.

“You seem surprised to see me, Clyde,” a muffled voice said from the off. “Why is that?”

“Wuz expecting someone else.”

“Who were you expecting, Clyde?”

“Hardball.”

“You mean because he has kept the city clean of scum like you?”

“Naw. Because he hired us. Pretend to mug someone, let him bust us, and we don't do time because we get out on a technicality.”

“I am amazed,” the muffled voice said. “You mean you would fake a crime to let him arrest you?”

“Heck, yeah. My buddy Ronny Coleman got me the job. He already worked for Hardball too. Man delivered as promised, and he pays well.”

The TV cut to the reporter.

“Fake heroics, designed to keep a politician in office,” the woman reporter said. The TV identified her as Carmen Jones. “Will this have consequences?” She half-turned and held out her microphone to Commissioner deFalco.

“Of course it will, Ms. Jones,” deFalco said gravelly. “My office will cooperate with the office of the district attorney to see if and what kind of charges we can level against Robert Wayne. Uhm, it turned out that Robert Wayne is Hardball's real name. Neither Mr. Wayne nor Mayor Levitz will come out of this unscathed, I promise you.”

“Thank you, Commissioner deFalco,” Jones said, turning back to the camera. “The sad thing in this case is not that the people wanted to believe in Hardball. These are cynical times, and cynical times need heroes. No, what is sad is that unscrupulous politicians decided to use this need to further their own ends.

“This is Carmen Jones for NHWX.”

Alex turned the TV set off.

“I think it's my turn to take out the garbage,” he said as he got up from the couch. “I'll be right back.”

Alex went to the kitchen to get the trash. On the way out, he stopped and pulled a paper bag from behind the sink. He opened the bag.

“Better to get rid of you before I get an identity crisis,” he said. He smiled at the gray and brown costume of the Masked Marauder before he stuffed it into the garbage disposal.

THE END