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Senile? He could just
picture the headline in one of the more lurid periodicals.
    Peter Fowler was one of a new generation
of independent Hypernet newsies. John admired some of them; their drive
reminded him of times past, when he’d been a cub reporter for The World’s
Journal during his all-too-brief attempt at having a normal life. But a few
of them had the morals of a vulture and instincts to match. This particular journalist
was one of them.
    “I asked you how you planned to meet the
demands for sensitivity training and closer supervision for senior members of
the Legion?”
    “Uh, I’m not sure what you mean,” John
said.
    “I’m sure you are aware of accusations of
racism, sexism and general cultural insensitivity leveled towards Legion
members,” Fowler said, apparently forgetting he was supposed to ask questions,
not make statements. “There are some, shall we say ‘old fashioned’ attitudes
among your members, and a lack of understanding that we live in a
multicultural, more diverse society. The Legion seems to be dominated by white
straight males with outdated views on women and minorities.”
    “I am hearing a lot of comments, many of
which I don’t agree with, and some which are utter falsehoods, and no
questions,” John said in a flat tone that people who knew him would take as a
sign to ease up, and quickly. He almost blurted out that one of the founding
members of the Legion might have been male but also black and gay, and then remembered
Janus had never made his sexuality a matter of public record. Wouldn’t that be
great, outing his friend by accident?
    “Here is my question. Don’t you think you
and other members of the Legion need to do more work to acclimate yourselves to
the mores of the 21 st century?”
    “No, I don’t. Next question. Paula?” John
gestured to the GNN correspondent, but Fowler kept talking.
    “What do you say about claims that your
wife left you because she was afraid of you?”
    Dead silence.
    In a tiny fraction of a second, he could
turn Fowler into a thin red mist. So many ways to kill a human. Easier than
snuffing a candle. He could kill all of them in the time it took to draw a
breath. It would be so easy…
    “Ultimate is not going to dignify that
kind of question with an answer,” Artemis said forcefully, breaking the tense
silence. John had no idea how long he had stood there, fantasizing about
murdering Fowler and everyone else in the conference room. “Mr. Fowler, this
press conference is not a forum for baseless slander,” Olivia continued. “Is
that understood?”
    Everyone was looking at Fowler like
something nasty they had accidentally stepped on. “Understood,” Fowler said
sullenly, blissfully unaware of how close he had come to dying. That was not an
exaggeration. John had nearly snapped. He had never been so close to losing
control over so small a provocation.
    What is happening to me?

 
    Chapter Three
     
    Face-Off
     
    New York City, New York, March 13, 2013
    I mostly prefer to be the man without a
face. Whenever I’m relaxing by myself or with the handful (okay, three) friends
I have, that’s how I look. Nobody has figured out how I can breathe, see or
talk with a smooth layer of skin, flesh and bone where most people have a pie
hole and assorted other orifices. I have no mouth, but people can hear my voice
just fine. It’s a Neo thing. You wouldn’t understand.
    On the plus side, I never have to worry
about getting my nose broken or someone poking an eye out. On the down side,
most people aren’t comfortable talking to me when I go blank. It’s pretty
antisocial. When the damsel in distress woke up, I would definitely put a face
on to greet her. Something soothing and friendly, with a full head of hair.
    I used to have a regular face, but my
stepfather beat it out of me. Sad, isn’t it?
    At the moment, the girl was sleeping in
the basement of the Church of Saint Theodosius, a Ukrainian Orthodox church
presided over by one of my