Powers by Brian Michael Bendis Page A

sell an innocent, demure façade.
    â€œThat’s right,” Waldo agreed, satisfied and smiling. “The latest in backward-thinking monkey uncle would-be fascists, too afraid to play with fire, too stupid to know when they’re already trapped in a burning building.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know about that,” Judge Boucher stated, putting aside his napkin. “I firmly remain curious about some form of registry or restriction placed on those with powers … those without the responsibility to use their gifts for the relative good. Witness this gang war, for example.” The Powers at the table quietly seethed into their drinks. Thankfully, before things spiraled out of control, the judge stood up and winked at Deena. “Probably a fine time to extricate myself and stretch m’legs. Join me, dear?”
    Out on the porch, settled into a pair of varnished rocking chairs, Deena and the judge ignored the evening chill and looked into the distance. Over the horizon, scattered pinpricks of ongoing battle twinkled in the fading light, like summer fireflies that had lived to see the autumn. Echoes of carnage radiated out from Atlanta, skimming the edge of Tuxedo Park and causing skeletal trees to shiver. Judge Boucher reached into his pocket and removed a fat cigar; once lit, it conjured up a cloud of smoke that rested about their shoulders, obscuring his face in its muddy haze. They rocked in silence, the sounds of debate and boisterous mirth thrumming from back inside the dining room.
    The judge allowed himself a lazy, playful smile. “Not exactly the romantic evening you’d hoped for, is it?”
    Deena hunched, keenly aware of color rising to her face. She felt hot and stupid; her tongue grew three sizes, unable to form a coherent response.
    The judge chuckled. “It’s all right. I got eyes.”
    â€œPlease stop talking.”
    â€œIt ain’t like it’s a secret. Both Eveline and I know about your crush on Aaron.”
    She hid her head in her hands. “Remember when you weren’t talking? Those were good times.”
    â€œAh, let an old man have his fun.” The cigar blazed in the gathering dusk, casting a ruddy look about his face. “Besides, love—or hell, even lust—is nothing to hide. Don’t be embarrassed or keep it secret. Never be afraid to seize love. You’ll regret it when it’s gone and mourn after it’s far too late.”
    She tucked away an errant lock of hair. “I’m not in love.”
    The judge rocked and contentedly puffed. “I’m just happy for the company, dear.”
    â€œI mean…” She searched for the words, feeling them slip away. “I don’t know that it’s love. But I will say—if it’s all right, Judge?”
    He indulgently waved a free hand. “Lay on, Macduff.”
    â€œI will say I’m excited about his passions—the music and being a cop.”
    â€œThat boy has strange taste in music, I’ll give him that.”
    Deena grinned. “Strange wonderful. Nine MM. Little Doomsday. Alison Nightbird, Rocket to Planet X. Everything from hip-hop to grunge to—”
    â€œHmph. Whatever happened to Jimmy Dorian and the Belle City Bass?” The judge tapped his ashes over the porch, scattering them on the gravel below.
    â€œâ€”classic and even country, depending on the artist.”
    Judge Boucher poked Deena in the arm. “And what do you like?”
    â€œWell … I like them all.”
    â€œBut that’s what Aaron likes. You must have had your own opinions, some original thoughts before my boy came along?”
    She shrugged. “I guess.”
    â€œDon’t get lost in another person’s passions, Deena. Have your own beliefs and principles—desires and dreams independent of the man you love.”
    â€œBut, his dreams are mine. And his beliefs. Like …