Alternate Vertigo

Fred was nervous. He was in a dark warehouse, surrounded by his fellow soldiers, waiting.

“Soldiers”. That’s what Latent had called them. But Fred knew what they really were. Hired help, protecting the secrets of a costumed stranger. They weren’t soldiers. They were goons.

Exceptionally well-paid goons, mark you. Fred wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the money. Most of these terrorists had organisations to train the brain-dead in basic skills. This “Latent” clearly had bigger secrets to protect.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Yes, there she was – dressed in black with a red pattern. Well, logo – branding was clearly essential to these people. She was shovelling documents from the large, dusty filing cabinets in the back of the otherwise empty space into a black car with darkened windows.

Like so many super-powered terrorists, Latent clearly wanted people to know she was enigmatic.

It was dawning on Fred why intelligence was such a wasted commodity for goons.

The stupid could just stand in wait without a care in the world. But he could see the truth. Latent was clearing out files. This was a secret warehouse, and someone had found out about it.

Beside him, Bob was sleeping.

"Bob!" he hissed, giving him a nudge. "Wake up!"

Bob didn't wake up. He remained firmly asleep, but outstretched his arms.

Fred looked around, alarmed. Others were beginning to notice.

By now, Bob was miming - holding his arms as though he was fishing. Suddenly, it was as though he'd caught a fish - he was pulling back, spinning the imaginary reel.

"Bob, seriously." He nudged, and shook, and even slapped his fellow goon - but nothing would bring him around.

Oh, God. This was a superhero thing, wasn't it?

At great speed, something flew from one end of the warehouse to the other. Fred tried to follow its path, in time to see it kick three of the men to the ground. The flier landed on the ground and looked up.

Fred didn't recognise him, but the costume said it all. Purple and silver lycra showing off the muscle underneath, covering every inch of the stranger, apart from his dreadlocks. The soldiers were turning to face him, but he was up again - flying like a trapeze artist, spinning and kicking and taking people down with astonishing speed.

Bob was no longer the only sleeping agent. Four others were standing on the spot, performing various mimes. One was dancing, two were running on the spot, and the fourth was trying to swat a fly.

The flier was ignoring them, focusing on the strongest of the men first.

Right, thought Fred. He's probably not responsible for the sleepers. That must be someone else. So let's find them.

Fred ran for the far end of the warehouse, where a ladder allowed access to the upper walkways. He climbed with speed, looking around as he did so.

Yes. There she was. A blue and purple costume, and a strangely-shaped helmet. She was staring intently at the sleeping goons.

As silently as possible, Fred made his way towards her. He reached for his truncheon. This had to be quick. One leap, and -

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!"

Oh, of course, it was his birthday. And where better to spend it than this luxurious hotel, with his wife and children?

The evening was a blur. Cake and champagne, swimming in the pool, a great chat with some Australian tourists. Wonderful.

At the end of the evening, Stephen gave him his present - a DVD box set - with a hand-made card. On the front was an illustration based on a photo of Fred from his time in Iraq. It nearly broke his heart.

Lisa had left her gift at school, so in the meantime, she'd bought him a horrible singing fish from one of the tourist shops. They laughed long and hard at that, until Esme insisted that such a crime against batteries must be stopped at all costs.

After the kids had gone to bed, Fred sat with Esme in the moonlight, enjoying the warmth.

"I love you, Esme," he said.

"Good," said Esme. "But listen. You've done some bad things, Fred."

"Hmm?" He thought about it. Yes, he had, hadn't he? A distant memory now. Yes ... those girls from abroad. Those lorries. Had that really been him? It didn't feel like it.

"Yes, you remember," Esme went on. "That's why I've made an exception for you. I only give people nice dreams, you see -"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's a matter of principle. So you're here on holiday with a loving family." Suddenly, her face was different. Hard. "You don't have a loving family, Fred. And right now, you won't believe me, but when you'll wake up, the loss will hurt, and that'll stay with you."

Fred was on his feet.

"Who are you? What have you done to Esme?"

"You're going to prison, Fred," she said. "Do spend that time thinking about the best way to get all this back, won't you?"

Fred was shaking his head violently. "No, no, this isn't right, this-"

He was in the warehouse. The woman in blue and purple looking down at him. Around him, he could see dozens of his fellow men - all flat on the floor. Asleep? Out cold?

"Sorry you had to miss the fun," called a deeper voice - the flier. "We won while you snoozed."

"Who are you?" asked Fred. He could barely speak. The hotel still felt so vivid.

"We're Alternate Vertigo," said the man. "Give our regards to your cellmates."