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Howler Vs. Tsunami

The smell of the sea was never as poetic in reality as the fantasy suggested, thought Howler. Prose, poetry (heck, even marketing copy about the coast) suggested that the air was fresh, bracingly tinged with salt, perhaps with the scent of hot dogs, French fries, freshly-made doughnuts and candy floss on the air.

The reality was that the smell of brine wasn't too bad, but it didn't smell like something that had the health benefits of an apothecary. Instead the sea minerals smelled exactly like the natural sludge they were. The smell mixed in with the light stench of seaweed, and in an industrial area like this, food smells were a long way away.

Unless someone around here was eating a herring sandwich.

Still, that's not what I'm here for, he thought as he remembered the bounty description that had brought him to this harbour.

Tsunami

Height: 6ft 9in
Weight: 250 lbs
Areas of interest: eco-terrorist
Powers: water and ice manipulation, enhanced strength and durability, enhanced speed...

He continued to read Tsunami's specifics. This was a new supervillain to him. He'd heard of her before – of course he had. The leopard seal had a big, bold personality that got her into the Australian papers at least a couple of times per year, but he'd never met her, much less fought her.

Prior to, and during, his journey to Louisiana he'd formulated a mental plan of how he would approach this fight, how she might take the initiative, and what he could do to counter, overcome, and adapt. Enhanced strength underwater, durability and speed? Chances are she could torpedo boat hulls – with herself as the torpedo.

But would she do that during this fight? What else could she do with that combination of powers?

Tsunami, his intelligence said, had come to New Orleans to plan a major hit on an offshore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. He had guessed that her base of operations would be close to the shore, and his research had led him to the edge of this harbour.

Acts of terrorism took all sorts of background work that wasn't immediately obvious, and that meant that every effective terrorist out there had contacts: a team, people who could get hold of materials, decoys, skilled individuals, people in related industries...

Howler suspected that the owner of one of the shacks or offices here would be playing host to Tsunami and her team. He had done his research during the journey to Louisiana, reading up everything he could about the various property owners of the harbour to find evidence of their political leanings, weaknesses or history of lack of attention paid to their properties. Who would willingly harbour – no pun intended – an ecoterrorist? Second-order suspects could be bought out or threatened but might seek help, and inattentive hosts were unlikely in a harbour as busy as this one.

Howler kept a low profile as he wandered from one area of the harbour to the next. It wasn't long however before he saw some suspicious behaviour.

Three males, a raccoon, a caiman and a rabbit, each dressed for CCTV (as he had taken to calling the jeans-under-baggy-jeans, nondescript trainers and dark, pulled-up hoodie combo) made a beeline for a particular shack, not talking, and carrying bags. As much as they seemed to want to fly under the radar, he had too much experience with spotting people who wanted to go unnoticed.

Oh the irony, he smiled to himself.

They sealed the deal by looking around behind them before venturing out onto the single, narrow pathway to the shack, unwittingly cornering themselves in the process.

He walked quietly after them. The wolf was almost on top of them before the rearmost one glanced over his shoulder. The raccoon widened his eyes, took a breath, and got the very first fraction of the first syllable of a warning out before Howler launched forward. The raccoon struck out a hand, instinctively trying to fend Howler off, but Howler scooped it out of the way with his arm and took the henchman down hard enough that he wouldn't come up again for a few seconds.

The caiman – the closer of the two – hesitated but Howler took the initiative again, double-punching with the full intention that the caiman would protect his face. Of course he did: Howler hadn't repeated his attack on the raccoon (which had been seen by the other two henchmen) for nothing. As he delivered his predictable punches to the caiman he stepped forward so that his knee came up against the back of the reptile's legs – and then threw the henchman backwards so that he collapsed to the boards and slipped down into the water.

He made eye contact with the rabbit. “Where's Tsunami?” and watched for the henchman's response.

That response – the rabbit's expression – indicated a few things but not confusion. Howler was on the right track.

“You gonna tell me where she is, or do I have to put you in a lock first?” he asked. He always liked to give the henchpeople a choice, just in case they'd been coerced into compliance.

The rabbit had frozen but sighed, perhaps even with a measure of relief. That or resignation. “She threatened my grandparents for use of their trawler,” he told Howler, his tone careful despite his Louisiana drawl. “Please... if she knows I told you she'll-”

“Don'tcha worry about that,” Howler told the rabbit. “She won't get the chance. Where's the trawler?”

“Other end of the docks. A Nimble Nomad on one of the docks to the extreme east. Look for the one painted blue and white.”

“Thanks,” said Howler. He turned, and sprinted past the raccoon, back onto land, and across to the other side of the docks.


~*~


The boardwalk, lobster nets, old pieces of nylon rope, smoke-houses and other details of the dock hardly registered in Howler's peripheral vision as he ran. His mind tended to shed all irrelevant thought when he ran like this, as if he was able to leave all of his worries behind. He knew that if he ran faster, he could lose his thoughts entirely, at least until he slowed down again. He often ran just for relaxation.

Heh, he scoffed to himself. He remembered the first time he'd told somebody without irony that he sprinted for relaxation. She'd been an ex-girlfriend of his, and it had become something of a running joke, in both senses of the word.

His scoff turned into a wistful smile. Amber, and the short but beautiful time they spent together. He was single for the time being. It was an unspoken truth within the super community that dating was hard when you had powers. Non-supers often just didn't understand how different life was when you had a superpower. Dating other supers helped in some ways. But dating somebody else who had just as extreme a lifestyle as you did? That made for fireworks, in just as many bad ways as good.

He came close to his destination and slowed just enough that he could check out the different boats from a distance.

There!

Three boats in from the end of the dock was a blue and white trawler. A few unremarkable figures wandered around on its deck. As he drew closer he began to hear its motor rumbling. If the crew's activity was anything to go by, it was about to set off.

He increased his pace, dodging between vehicles, boxes and other boats to keep himself hidden, and then darted for the Nimble Nomad. His feet were loud on the boards so he slowed down enough to run more stealthily, and angled himself to leap onto the deck of the trawler.

He rolled to muffle the sound of his boarding, and pulled his gun to bring anybody who had noticed into a stalemate with him. From there, he would be able to de-escalate. If someone was already primed to shoot him, he would be ready to protect himself.

It turned out there was no need. There were voices downstairs and people in the cabin, but nobody seemed to have noticed. His ears pricked to track every member of the crew, and then he identified one apparently empty spot against the far wall of the cabin. Preparing himself to fight anybody who might be there, he turned the corner, noted that it was in fact deserted, and slipped down into the gap between a couple of metal barrels and a stack of lobster pots with a sigh that might have meant, “Well, that was the easy part.”

His centre of gravity shifted, the motor's pitch heightened, and he knew they were on their way.

He wasn't out of breath from his run so being quiet was easy enough. Howler picked his phone off the hook on his belt and opened the GPS app. The position of the cluster of offshore oil rigs were already programmed in and the device calculated how long it would take the trawler to get there. At the current pace of travel it would take between two and three hours to get there.

With his back to the cabin, he could hear voices inside. One of them was female, and with a broad New Zealand twang.

Chances are, given the command and confidence in her voice, that was her!

Well, now that I know where,/i. she [i]is, I'd best figure out where I am. Howler looked up and down the side of the boat to check that the coast was clear, and sneaked out from his hiding place.

The trawler was big enough to have a fish processing room. By Howler's reckoning either it would be empty (and a great place for him to hide), or the explosives would be here (so he could get a head start on getting them disarmed). He opened the door, turned smartly to slip inside and check behind him to make sure he hadn't been seen, and closed the door.

He took a breath to prepare himself to explore this room, but even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could tell that this was no bomb room, nor was it empty.

Fish. Lots of it. And it had been here for a while.

The stench was bordering on putrid: well-matured fish, guts and all, sat in the sorting hammock. They hadn't been processed, only dumped there and left. Once-silver skins had grown dry and dull, eyes likewise.

How had this happened? Had Tsunami commandeered the boat out in the open ocean, mid-haul? Jesus!

The air was thick with the stink. Howler snorted out the air, dry-heaved, and instinctively took in another breath. It stuck to his sinuses. He could taste it.

His eyes watering, he retreated the way he had come, wrenching open the door and staggering out into the much fresher air outside. He shut the door more loudly than he'd meant to, launched himself at the railing at the boat's side, and tried to vomit into the sea.

A few seconds of coughing, retching and gasping cleared his airways to the point that he could breathe again, and he calmed himself, watching the rippling water dash by.

Bugger me, he thought, gathering himself. No hiding place there, then.

A little further exploration, and a lot of listening for the crew, revealed to him that everyone aboard was on deck. The crew quarters were silent.

Howler gave those a try.

The space was roughly square with space to sit and relax, a dining table, and a humble kitchen area. It was anything but luxurious: coats, boots and other items were strewn about, but it looked like a function-over-form HQ for the crew.

There was a map laid out on the dining table, and Howler went to check it out. It showed the Gulf of Mexico. On it, he saw a plotted course to a group of oil rigs off the Texas-Mexico border. A three-day trip by sea.

He leaned on the table, frowning at this. A spill on the border. That would cause one heck of a political mess, not just an environmental one. But why would Tsunami want to do that? Did she really consider setting two countries with an already uneasy relationship against each other worth the environmental impact?

Whatever her thoughts, the evidence was right there, on paper. Howler used his phone to take photographs of the map and its plotted course, and looked around the room for more evidence to document.

A cursory glance around revealed no immediate suggestions. Were there any notes in the coat pockets? He went to the crumpled pile of coats on the bench and rifled through their pockets.

He was still working through them when he heard footsteps coming down to the quarters - fast enough that it was clear their maker meant to get downstairs quickly.

“I know you're in there!” called a strong, confident voice with that New Zealand twang. “If you know what's good for you you'll stop right now!”

Howler dropped a coat and dashed to the other side of the table to crouch beneath it.

She came into the room and he saw her shins and feet. Or rather, sea-going boots and some kind of shiny black leggings, like a custom-made wet-suit. “Where are ya? You can't have gone far.” She turned towards the table and ducked down – and he found himself face to face with the fierce spotted muzzle of Tsunami!

She had dapples on her cheeks, much like one would expect on a leopard seal. Her hair was black, windswept and just long enough to get into her eyes, but for now it didn't. Her eyes glared from behind a green eye-mask. He muzzle was broad and strong.

And she smelled of seaweed and fish. It wasn't too strong but he could smell it from a few feet away.

Howler made all these observations in a fraction of a second, before she lunged forward and reached for him. Before he could reach for his weapon she had her fingers around his throat and dragged him out from under the table.

She stood up, and Howler's eyes bulged with more than just the strain of being held by his throat.

Although his briefing had warned him of her size, he somehow hadn't made the connection that Tsunami would be so incredibly tall – and with arms, shoulders, and neck robust enough to match!

Her eyes bored into his for a second – and then she threw him clean across the room. Howler landed against the opposite wall and tumbled to the floor. He did his best to roll into a position more advantageous to his safety and gathered his legs under him.

She was already approaching and he looked up at her.

Tsunami truly was statuesque. She wore a wetsuit under her fishermans' boots and coat. Perhaps that should have detracted from the visual impact of the supervillain – the different pieces didn't seem to go together: the silky black hair with the powerful frame and I'm-going-to-murder-you eyes; the flattering, custom-made green-and-black wetsuit and mask combo with the bog-standard trawlerman's garb. And yet it did.

She was getting very close and Howler finally came to his senses, grabbed his gun, and pointed it at her.

To her credit, she timed her reaction to it very well. So well in fact that he wasn't sure whether she still felt completely in control here or not. As she approached, her eyes flicked to the gun before meeting his eyes again with the same sense of righteous fury that he was trespassing on her space (Howler had to remind himself at this point that the trawler had been stolen and certainly was not hers). She didn't flinch but stopped at the edge of his personal space.

Was that anything to do with the gun or not?

His intelligence hadn't mentioned anything that made her immune to gunshots, but it wasn't unheard of for supers – hero and villain alike – to keep the specifics or certain aspects of the nature of their abilities secret.

Howler had no choice but to keep on levelling the gun at her and hope that she was, in fact, intimidated.

“Well, I haven't seen you before,” she said. It wasn't quite a musing; her words were barked out just a little too hard for that, but it also had a vague air of, You can't be much if I haven't heard of you.

“The name's Howler,” he told her, doing his best to keep his voice steady and calm, and to avoid letting the gun tremble.

“And you think you're going to shoot me,” she dead-panned.

He offered her a grim smile. “I hope I won't have to, miss.”