Powers by Brian Michael Bendis

rumored to be inventing anti-Powers technology for the FBI. Cohen absently pawed at Deena’s leg, and she cheerfully set his hand aside each time. She kept an eye glued to the door, halfheartedly listening to breakdowns of the day’s games (Lions won, Cowboys lost), perking up slightly when Waldo launched into an alcohol-soaked diatribe regarding Atlanta’s criminal element.
    â€œThing about these murders,” he mouthed off to the deputy mayor and the judge, “isn’t about motive, but—”
    â€œDear,” Deena’s mother acidly ventured from across the table, “let’s allow our guests to enjoy this delicious meal sans cops and robbers.”
    Waldo chuckled in reply. “How do you know it’s delicious? You didn’t cook it.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Hey! Get the Cubans out here. They’re the ones … they…” He stifled a belch as his guests ignored the awkwardness. Someone handed him a drink. It might have been the judge; it might have been Deena.
    Mom, however, sweetly kept digging. “Yes, but the children—”
    â€œChildren? They’re outside, riding the dog.”
    â€œWe don’t have a dog.”
    â€œYeah? Maybe it’s one of the Cubans, then. Ha!”
    â€œDear! Not in front of the guests … or your daughter.”
    All eyes turned Deena’s way, and her face conspicuously flushed a dull red. “Mom…” she deflected, “I like hearing about Dad’s job. I want to hear about…” She turned to Dad. “What was it again?”
    Waldo settled back. “Liberty murders. Coupla costumes over in Druid Hills.”
    Deputy Mayor Hanover dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Best to table this…”
    â€œKids need to know current events. Keeps them abreast of what’s happening in their own front yard. Nothing wrong with the truth.”
    Mom snorted into her wineglass, and the judge neatly stepped in to cover the tension. “Druid Hills? By the CDC? That’s troubling.”
    Waldo quaffed a swallow of Infinity Gold. “Hardly,” he responded after wiping his mouth on a sleeve. “The Soldier’s crew has things covered. Ain’t that right, crew?” The assembled Powers around the table silently confirmed her father’s half-sober conjectures. Even Deena, knee-deep in college applications, had seen the reports in the AJC; Downtown Atlanta had been levied a stringent curfew, and portions of the National Guard were stationed throughout the city, lending a hand to contain the resultant damage. The mayor had granted emergency powers to the both newly established and necessary Federal Powers Bureau along with a team of deputized Powers: names and masks like the Citizen Soldier, Diamond, Zora, Olympia, and Z. They flew around in capes and costumes, beating the tar out of other capes and costumes without ever coming closer to ending the violence. Frankly, she hoped it never ended; maybe she’d see some super shit in action. Maybe Dad or Aaron would put the holy beatdown on some dude with a death ray. For now, the Homicide Division had let the Soldier’s goons contain the devastation. But as far as Deena could ascertain, two-thirds of said goons currently sat around her dining room, stuffing their faces with Eveline Boucher’s cheese-and-onion pie.
    Amateurs, Deena sniffed. Aaron would never stand for affluent supercops eating mushroom puffs while the city burned to the ground. That’s why he isn’t here, I bet—he’s on the job. I get it. I’d be there, too.
    â€œFact is,” Waldo went on, ignoring the undercurrent of tension, “we can’t be sure who’s at fault. Maybe it’s one of those morons with the lightning tattoos—”
    â€œThe Human Front,” someone supplied. It might have been the judge. It might have been the deputy mayor’s wife, too flushed and engaged to