wildcard:

Bruce Buchanan

 

"Look out! It's that Wildcard chick!"

Terry Johnson barely got the words out before slumping into unconsciousness, courtesy of a well-placed Size 6 women's boot to the cheek. Johnson and a half-dozen other career criminals had been loading boxes of Xanax, Oxycontin, and other highly addictive prescription drugs into the trunks of cars, where they would be distributed on street corners and in barroom transactions throughout Atlanta.

Except this time, the criminals' evening was interrupted by their greatest fear - a petite blonde woman in a pink-and-white leotard.

"Sorry I'm late, fellas, but I'm pretty new to this blind dating stuff. My name is Wildcard and I like long walks, one-day sales and just about any movie with Reese Witherspoon!"

Wildcard slammed a side kick into the jaw of another drug pusher, knocking him to the pavement of the otherwise empty urban parking lot. The men scrambled to lay hands on their 9 mm pistols, but to Wildcard, they might as well have been wading through the molasses her grandmother served with butter and hot biscuits. She vaulted over a Chevy Impala and snatched a particularly burly thug by the shirt before hurling him into two of his surprised mates.

One desperate crook, thinking stealth might work where brawn had failed, tried to sneak behind Wildcard with a crowbar. But a backhand punch sent him to dream street with the rest of his hapless colleagues.

In less than one minute, six street-tough men had fallen to the carefree heroine. The seventh dropped his pistol and ran.

"Hey, come back here! This is a dangerous neighborhood - you can't just leave a girl all alone out here!" Wildcard yelled. She plucked a pink disc from her belt - one of five weighted discs she carried - and threw it across the dark parking lot. The disc slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground.

"Men. They just never listen," she sighed, surveying the now-quiet parking lot.

* * *

The next morning, Wildcard, A.K.A. Elizabeth Bradford, wished she had a problem as simple as seven armed and dangerous criminals. Instead, Elizabeth faced something far more frightening: a classroom full of disinterested 12-year olds.

"Um, good morning, class. I'm Miss Bradford and I'll be your U.S. history teacher this year," she said in the bravest voice she could muster, only to be met by glazed-over stares in return.

The confident chatterbox of the previous evening was gone. In her place was a young woman not too many years older than her students working hard not to show her anxiety. She took a deep breath and forced herself to make eye contact with every student.

"Hello, I'm Miss Bradford and I'm going to be your U.S. history teacher this year. You all have a copy of the class rules at your desk, so I'm not going to read them to you. Does anyone have any questions before we get started?"

One boy's hand shot up. "Hey, Miss Bradford - how old are you?" Giggles bubble up from the classroom - the last sound a new teacher wants to hear.

"Old enough to ignore that question," she said, trying not to act too flummoxed. "Now, what do you know about the Revolutionary War? Anyone?"

"Miss Bradford, I forgot my textbook," one girl said while twirling her hair around a pencil.

"Miss Bradford, can I go to the bathroom?" another student bellowed, not bothering to raise his hand.

"Miss Bradford. . . "

Elizabeth survived the next 65 minutes, taking some solace in the fact that the class didn't descend into complete chaos. Then the bell rang, giving her a five-minute reprieve before starting over again with her second period class. She stepped out into the hallway to supervise dismissal and catch her breath for Round 2.

"It looks like you survived your first four days at Aaron Middle, Elizabeth. The rugrats weren't too hard on you, I hope," said Ben Lajoie. Ben taught English at the school and, as far as Elizabeth could figure, was the cutest guy she knew on a first-name basis. Plus, he had been a big help during her two-week orientation, showing her everything from how to use the temperamental copy machine to which water fountain had the coldest water.

"Yeah, um, I mean, no, um. . . that is to say. . . " Elizabeth stammered.

"Sorry, it wasn't meant to be a trick question. Let's start over with something simpler." Ben extended his hand in a mock greeting. "Hi; my name is Ben, and you are. . . ?"

She laughed as she shook his hand. "I'm Elizabeth. Me no talking English good today! But to answer your original question, it went okay - but you might want to check back with me at the end of the day for a final answer!"

"Sounds good! I'll let you get back to work - but I'll talk to you later," he said, waving as he headed back to his own classroom.

I'll be watching the clock, Elizabeth thought as she practically floated back to the classroom.

* * *

Things got even better that evening, after Elizabeth donned her Wildcard costume. A routine patrol netted another drug bust - the seventh that month alone.

Just three months earlier, Elizabeth would've laughed at the notion of spending her evenings prowling across rooftops and punching out bad guys. She had been born with paranormal stamina, strength and agility, courtesy of her father, who volunteered for a classified Army research project long before her birth. The military quietly abandoned the project after the experiments nearly killed him. But the procedures altered his DNA, and while he didn't become a superhuman, his daughter did.

Her greatest attribute - or at least the one that kept her out of trouble - was what she called her "preternatural reflexes." But until that Mother's Day weekend, her uncanny reaction time hadn't played a major role in her life, other than making her the scourge of the college ping-pong table.

But after three months, the crime-fighting business was going surprisingly well. While she didn't feel like a seasoned pro, Wildcard didn't feel like a bumbling novice any more, either. She hoped the same would apply to teaching.

Wildcard arrived home - the modest prefab apartment she shared with her best friend, Lisa Cohn. Their apartment was on the third and top story of building #48, completely indistinguishable from the other vinyl-sided units in the sprawling complex. As usual, she scampered up to the third floor by climbing the metal balconies.

"God, Liz! Can't you use the door like every other roommate? You damn near gave me a heart attack!" Lisa nearly spilled her heaping bowl of ice cream when Wildcard slid open the screen door. The tall, tanned brunette threw a wadded napkin in her roommate's direction.

"Sorry, Lisa. But we don't exactly want all of Atlanta to know about my part-time job," Wildcard said, instinctively swatting away the napkin. "Besides, I thought you and that guy from the bank had plans."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "You mean Thomas? We did - for all of an hour. All he wanted to talk about was his fantasy football team. God, how can someone so cute be so boring?"

Elizabeth slipped off the thin pink mask that covered her eyes and nose and joined Lisa on the couch. "Beats me. At least you can talk to a guy without sounding like Stuttering John! Hey. . . is that cookie dough ice cream?"

"Yeah, I wanna hear more about this Ben guy," Lisa said. "What's he like? Does he have good hair? Does he have a twin?"

"Hmmm. . . what's to tell?" Elizabeth mumbled through a mouth full of ice cream. "I mean, he seems like a good guy, but all I know about Ben comes from our conversations at work."

"Well, maybe you need to do something about that," Lisa said.

"What do you mean?"

Lisa pointed at Elizabeth with her spoon. "What I mean is that you shouldn't wait for Big Ben to make the first move. If the hottie won't come to the mountain, then the mountain must go to the hottie."

BRRNNG!! The phone rang before Elizabeth could answer. "I'll get it, Liz - but super powers or not, you'll get a beatdown if you touch my ice cream again!"

Lisa handed Elizabeth the phone. "It's for you - some guy. It may even be your Prince Charming."

"Ben?"

"Ben? Who's Ben? Don't tell me you don't recognize your big brother Eric!"

Preternatural reflexes or not, Elizabeth nearly dropped the telephone. She hadn't spoken with Eric in three months - not since he went to prison for murder.

Elizabeth had known her estranged brother was a bad seed with a long track record of trouble. But even she was shocked by Eric Bradford's Mother's Day arrest and subsequent confession that he was the Suicide King, the costumed crime lord of Atlanta's underworld. The Suicide King's brutal regime including drug running, extortion and at least two murders. Eric turned state's evidence to avoid the death penalty and was now serving a life sentence in Georgia's maximum security prison.

Before Eric's arrest, Elizabeth planned on living a regular life: teaching school, finding a good guy, maybe doing the house-dog-2.3 kids routine somewhere down the line. But on that horrible May evening, Elizabeth became Wildcard. She knew she could never undo her brother's awful crimes, but perhaps, she thought, she could at least provide some balance.

Eventually, she had come to find her time in uniform to be rewarding, even enjoyable. But hearing her brother's voice over the phone made her wish Elizabeth Bradford had never heard of Wildcard.

"You still there, little Sis? You haven't visited me once - I'm beginning to think you don't like me!"

Elizabeth cursed him for being so calm, when she was so nervous she could barely stand upright. "I. . . I've been busy," she stammered.

Eric laughed, as if he was relaxing by the pool instead of bound in shackles. "Yes, I can see that. What is it you call yourself these days - Wildcard? What kind of ridiculous name is that?"

"I - I don't know what. . . !"

"Save it, Sis," Eric said, interrupting her. "I know it's you in that preposterous costume - no one else can do what you and I can do. But don't worry: I actually called to help ol' Wildcard out!"

Elizabeth's nervous energy turned to anger. She realized her brother was the same manipulator he had always been. "Help me?" she exclaimed. "How? The same way you've 'helped me' my whole life by getting into trouble, then running back to Mom and Dad to bail you out of trouble?"

The phone went silent for a moment. Then Eric said softly, "The guys you've been busting - they work for a crime boss out of Little Five Points named Slade. He's a dangerous man, Elizabeth. Some say he's more dangerous than we are.

"Elizabeth, you're my sister and I love you. I remember the day you came home from the hospital. Mom wrapped you in a blanket and handed you to me. She said, 'Eric, take good care of your sister.' I just had to let you know what you were getting into."

Elizabeth started to cry, despite her best efforts to control her emotions. She wanted to believe him. . . until she realized his true intentions.

"This guy took your place when you went to prison," she said, calming her voice. "You want me to take out your trash, don't you?"

"How could you think that, Elizabeth? I'm. . . I'm. . . "

Eric laughed. "I'm not fooling anyone! You caught me. Slade used to be my. . . subordinate until my unfortunate incarceration. Then he started puffing his chest about being the new "King" of Atlanta. Now, I meant what I said about not wanting you to get hurt, but you would be doing me a favor by taking out Slade. It's so hard to enforce discipline from inside a cell!"

Elizabeth took off her pink elbow-length gloves and slammed them on the hand-me-down kitchen table. "I'll get rid of Slade, all right , but I won't be doing you any favors! And 'Big Brother,' you should do yourself a favor and drop your appeals. 'Cause if you ever get out, you'll have to deal with me - and believe me, that won't be any fun."

She slammed down the phone before Eric could respond.

* * *

The rest of the week was relatively uneventful. Elizabeth couldn't say she was truly comfortable in the classroom, but at least she kept her head above water. Wildcard focused her efforts on the Little Five Points neighborhood in hopes of rooting out Slade, but she couldn't find any clues to his whereabouts. She wondered if that was due to her lack of experience as a crime fighter, or if her brother had given her a bad tip.

The real excitement came after first period Friday morning, when Ben casually asked what she was doing Friday night. When she responded, "Not much," he suggested they go to dinner. She quickly agreed before he had time to change his mind.

A real date, Wildcard thought. With a guy who wasn't under house arrest or living in his parent's garage. Wow!

Little Five Points was relatively quiet for a Friday evening, but Wildcard figured that would change in within an hour or two, as the Friday night revelers stumbled in to join the normal crowds of skaters, Goths, and wanna-be hippies that populated the neighborhood.

She figured she had time for one quick pass before heading off for dinner with Ben. She hoped this night's patrol would be as fruitless as the previous four - an attitude she admitted was somewhat less than noble, but even superheroes deserve a romantic evening every once in a while, she figured.

Still, she had a self-imposed duty to uphold. So she perched atop the roof of a local restaurant and scanned the crowd for suspicious faces.

Unfortunately, she spotted one.

One of the hoodlums whom she punched out in the warehouse slinked down the sidewalk - Wildcard knew it was him by the fresh bruises on his cheeks. Didn't know a heel could leave such a nasty mark, she thought. Good thing I wasn't wearing my Kate Spades - I wouldn't want to scuff my best shoes on a face that ugly!

The man slipped through the side door of a darkened nightclub. The club didn't open for several more hours, further arousing Wildcard's suspicions. Could Slade be inside, too?

It's getting late, she thought, checking the thin watch she wore under her pink glove. I really should just call the cops, tell 'em I saw something suspicious. I'm sure they could find a half-dozen reasons to get a search warrant for this place.

But what if Slade really is inside, she thought. And what if he really is as dangerous as Eric says? If so, sending in the police would only get them hurt. Or worse.

"Me and my conscience. . . ," she sighed as she headed for the club.

Inside, the club was empty and quiet. Too empty and too quiet for this time of night. Wildcard looked around at the scratched-up tables and graffiti-scarred walls. Nice place for a first date - for Sid and Nancy, that is, she thought.

She realized she probably was stepping into a trap, but she wanted to find Slade and frankly didn't see any other way to do it. She wished she had a little more experience in the more subtle points of crime-fighting.

"So you're Wildcard? Funny. I thought you would be bigger," a voice boomed from the corner of the dark club.

Slade stepped out into the center of the room. The crime boss looked ever bit as menacing as his reputation - he was tall and thickly muscled, wearing Doc Marten boots and black jeans. Multiple piercings adorned his shaved bald head.

"Not that it matters, though. You picked the wrong man to screw with, chickie!" he said, taking off his black leather jacket to reveal strange, geometric tattoos all over his arms and chest.

"Well, my friends always say I've got bad taste in men!" Wildcard replied. She tensed and prepared to move, as Slade's hands began to emit a dim purple glow.

That glow became a sphere of energy - which Wildcard barely avoided. The globe blasted a hole through the back of the club.

"You should've minded your own business, slut!" Slade screamed. "These tattoos aren't just for show. The designs are long-lost symbols that link to an extradimensional energy source - and I'm the conduit!"

Great. I've picked a fight with the Energizer Bunny from Hell, Wildcard thought. Or is that redundant?

She jumped toward the villain but before she could strike, Slade hurled another sphere of crackling energy. This one brushed by Wildcard's thigh, ripping through her costume and burning her leg. She screamed in pain, but still had the presence of mind to roll behind the thick metal and wood bar.

God, that hurts! It feels like someone ironed my costume - with me in it! At this rate, I'm going to last about as long as Ashlee Simpson's career unless I can turn this thing around!

Wildcard plucked one of her throwing discs from her belt, leaned around the bar and flung it. The disc smashed Slade's mouth; blood and broken teeth dribbled to the black concrete floor.

"You. . . bitch!" Slade groaned, clutching his shattered, bloody mouth.

Not wanting to give him Slade time to regroup, Wildcard sprinted toward the injured crime boss. He wildly hurled another energy sphere, which sailed over Wildcard's head.

"Missed me, gruesome!" she said, moving in to finish the fight. "And that's the last chance you're gonna get!"

"I wasn't aiming for you, slut!" he sneered. Wildcard looked up just in time to see the large ceiling fan - before it and half the roof collapsed upon her.

"Uhhhh. . . oh, God!" she moaned as she pushed her way out of the debris. Her preternatural reflexes saved her from being killed, but her legs felt like warm Jell-O. She knew she couldn't dodge another attack, and Slade confidently moved in to finish the battle, his hands crackling with dark energy.

Slade plunged his energy-charged hands toward Wildcard's face, intending to incinerate the young heroine. She grabbed his wrists to desperately fend off the attack, but she could feel her grip weakening.

Only one chance. . . otherwise, Aaron Middle will need a substitute history teacher Monday! she thought.

She slammed his hands together. The energy was directed back into Slade's body, in effect short-circuiting him.

"GAHHH!" Slade's eyes bulged as he screamed; his body stiffened and shook. He slumped to the barroom floor unconscious. Wildcard's elation at having won the fight quickly ended when she saw the digital clock on the barroom wall - 7:53 p.m.

"Ohmanohman - I'm way late!" she said.

* * *

Elizabeth limped to the restaurant at 8:21 p.m., after calling the police and quickly changing clothes. Her thigh still burned like the dickens and her back ached from being hit with a 200-pound ceiling fan, but she figured she could get through the evening on adrenaline and enthusiasm.

"Hi; I'm here to meet Ben Lajoie - he's probably already here," Elizabeth said to the greeter as she checked her teeth for lipstick smudges.

"You must be Miss Bradford," he said. "Mr. Lajoie asked me to give you this note."

Elizabeth's stomach turned somersaults as she carefully opened the folded piece of paper, as if gently handling the note could somehow change what she knew it would say:

Elizabeth,

Sorry we missed each other. I tried to call, but you didn't answer.
I hope everything is okay.

Ben

Elizabeth crumpled up the note and shoved it into her purse. She hoped Lisa still had enough cookie dough ice cream to soothe her pain

So far, Wildcard has given me a non-existent social life, driven away the one good guy I've met lately - and nearly gotten me killed, Elizabeth thought.

And the funny thing is, I can't wait to do it all over again tomorrow.