A deafening crash of laser fire and the gasp of a hound clutching his gut could only mean one thing: the trap on the fire escape had worked, and Professor Smith’s laboratory was safe at last.
The white-furred vigilante hadn’t counted on revenge double-backing to him after his latest act of community service, but such were the ways of Haven biker gangs, always wanting the last word. Even if the death was just, and the neighbors two blocks down were now safe from the violence and thievery of gang leader Bruce the Butcher, it was clear someone couldn’t stand to see their racket of fear broken up.
Smith straightened his black smoking jacket and walked onto the terrace. As he had expected, the poor chap was limp as rubbish with a hole in his stomach, dead on the pavement after a 50-foot drop. “Only a hundred million more miles down,” the Professor waved. “Hell will suit you fine.”
The white wolf whirled around and strolled back inside. Content in his restored peace and quiet, he could now return to his greatest pursuit: science.
Vigilantism, for all its excitement, couldn’t compare with the joys of discovery, and as such, Smith kept his lab well-furnished with scores of reports and scientific papers, and all the finest off-the-grid devices he could find. The title of Professor was always more than a nom de guerre, and as such, the chivalrous dandy gave way to a meticulous mathematical mind when in his hallowed sanctum. If it wasn’t for his constitution and commitment to the liberation of all Havenites, he could’ve been a White Coat to rival the Carmino dynasty and their work on A.C.E.S. herself.
Quick was he to tend to the latest experiment, the creation of a black hole analog. He had read every Old World paper he could find, ran his own calculations, and the technique was sound: two lasers, a few thousand rubidium atoms in a gaseous state, bring it down to near absolute zero, and with any luck, the generation of a potential energy cliff could jump-start an event horizon. The joys of the experiment were two-fold: the reproduction of some fascinating astronomical phenomena, and the pleasant fact of using laser-based tech for a harmless good.
Off came the jacket, and on came the gloves, his frilly-cuffed sleeves rolled up and ready for action. He took great care in preparing everything inside his controlled environment, a small, beige metal box, the days of mile-long colliders and conduits now antediluvian in their own right. Everything was prepared via programmable robotic arms, a delicate process that always demanded Smith’s full attention.
Unfortunately, the brash knock on the door disturbed his concentration.
“GOOD GOD MAN!” Smith roared in his sharp English tenor. Before he could chew the bastard out, in swung the door and staring the middle-aged scientist down were three leather-clad bikers. The fattest of the bunch did all the talking.
“Ya can’t bust us Smith.” the black wolf growled. “Not while we’re still standing.”
Fool he was, the Professor had left his back to the door. He could feel the burning stare of six eyes and three barrels on him. One twitch of the hand, and he was good as dead. Carefully, he raised his gloved mitts, clear to show he was unarmed.
“Gentlemen,” Smith began politely. “I’m rather busy at the moment. Whatever score we must settle, let it be in the morning.”
“Not after whatchu did to Bruce, you limey prick!” the gangster bellowed.
The Professor nodded. “Right then.”
With a swift kick, out slid a laser from beneath the metal box. He swung the beam around and landed square on the fat hound’s face. The biker shrieked like mad as eyes, fur, and snout melted under the machine’s raw power. In ten seconds time, he’d have a hole burned clean through his skull.
“One swing either side and you both get the face lift!” the white wolf barked.
Their guns dropped, and the beam switched off, the dead wolf’s body slumping to the floor with a thud.
“Now if you please,” Smith began in a low, ominous tone. “Spack off! And take that blasted fool with you.”
With a tremble in his throat, the skinny gray of the group asked his fearful question. “You mean you ain’t gonna finish the job?”
The Professor crossed the room slowly, eyes locked on the hoods with a mad feral rage, both shrinking to the floor beside their scorched colleague.
“If you ever terrorize another living soul in all several hundred thousand blocks of this city,” he began, lording over them. “I will personally find you out, and kill you. Take this as a chance to reform yourselves. For if you don’t, you’ll end up like this repulsive sack of ground beef you’re going to carry down those 50-foot worth of stairs.”
Like scolded Victorian street urchins, they let out a meek reply of “yessir” and dragged the body away. Smith slammed the door shut and returned to his work, as if nothing had happened at all.