Mom, I'm Bulletproof

Chapter 13.2: The Source of Your Power

Arthur couldn't move with the weight of Proscenium's armor holding him down, several inches of metal thick all around him. At the points where the joints met, the metal dug into his skin.

Arthur screamed in pain. Normally, the armor was filled with energy which guided its movements, providing its raw strength. Now, though, he was an old man – nothing but brittle bones and sagging flesh.

Arthur heard Critique get up and walk toward him. Arthur no longer had Proscenium's sharp senses. He was instead forced to see through the small eyeholes of Proscenium's frowning theater mask. His head turned to the side, but he could see only mostly the floor.

"It took a while," Critique said. "But we finally figured you out."

Lying on his stomach, Arthur pressed his palms against the floor and pressed upward, but the armor would not budge.

"We wondered," Critique said, "What was the source of your power?" How, exactly were you able to transform from physical matter to molecular instability and solid again? It was a mystery."

It was hot inside the armor now, and Arthur started to sweat, adding to his discomfort.

"We sought a scientific approach at first," Critique said. "We experimented with cellular density and artificial humidity for some time, but we never could replicate the exact conditions by which you swoosh about this city, appearing and disappearing at will. Science, sadly, offered not explanation. Then we turned to magic."

Arthur closed his eyes, trying to force his body to move, but this had no result.

"I know, I know," Critique said, "there's no such thing as magic, right? But something had to explain the mystery man of Theater City – something had to be done."

Clearly feeling much better, Critique walked in a circle around Arthur. "So I sought out the few hidden sources of magic in the world. I consulted with the Seekers of the Taal, I debated with the New York Homeless Men's Magicians Circle, I tried and failed to find the StoryShadow of Fiction Island, and I barely survived a fight with the Warrior Shamans of the Mojave."

Critique now playfully sat down on Arthur's back. The armor was so thick, Arthur barely felt him.

"What I found is that the world of magic is a complicated and often unpleasant commodity, well-hidden for a reason. As the Warrior Shamans chased me out of the desert, leaving me in a state barely alive, the truth of magic occurred to me. What they do is not what you do. No, magic is not the source of your power."

Critique then sprawled out on the floor, mimicking the pose Arthur was stuck in.

"Therefore," Critique said, "if your powers do not come from science, and if they do not come from magic, what does that leave?"

Critique stood up and walked in a circle around Arthur.

"That's when it hit me," Critique said. "Your powers come from a source deeper and richer than science and magic. I informed my masters. They decided that you must be stopped so our great work can finally move forward."

Critique's voice no longer sounded like his, but more like someone else speaking through him.

"We sought the criminals of Theater City to test you. We guided the Hecklers into attacking you, to reveal your methods to us. We used the source of your own power against you – not science, not magic, but something else."

"No," Arthur said.

Critique continued. "The power of metaphor."

Arthur gritted his teeth. Those words were more painful than any pieces of armor weighing him down could ever be.

"And now," Critique said, "I understand your metaphor, which means I control your power – and your future."

Critique snapped his fingers again. A white-hot burning pain shot through Arthur's spine, causing him to scream.

"How fitting," Critique said, "that I, the one who lives to tear down the meaning and substance of art, be the one who tears down your metaphor."

The heat subsided, and Arthur found that the relief brought some clarity with it.

Arthur took a few breaths and whispered, "Can we cream within this wooden 'O' the very casques that did affright the air at Agincourt?"

"What?" Critique said.

"Let us, ciphers to this great account, on your imaginary forces work..."

"What are you saying?"

"Attest in as little a place as a million..."

"I know these words."

"Upon your imaginary forces work..."

"This speech is a tired old cliché, just like you."

"Gently to hear..."

"Stop it."

"Kindly to judge..."

"Shut up."

"Our play!"

It worked. Arthur's body disappeared, transforming into raw energy raging inside Proscenium's armor. Newly energized, Proscenium rose onto his feet.

Critique clapped his hands. "Impressive. But I still have your metaphor deciphered. All I have to do is say one word and..."

Proscenium reached forward, faster than Critique could react, and forced his thumb and forefinger into the man's mouth. Proscenium found Critique's tongue, got a good grip on it, and pulled.

Critique's entire body fell forward as Proscenium ripped out his tongue. Blood gushed from Critique's mouth as he grabbed his throat and gazed up at Proscenium with shock in his eyes.

Proscenium dropped the tongue to the ground and stomped on it with his boot.

"I should have done that a long time ago," he said. 

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Next: Thunder.