The Vodka Room is in a posh area of Integrity City called Feaverwood that’s infamous for being the perfect meeting place for mob bosses. Chances are, if police were to stake out an area of town for a major bust, it would be in this area. It’s not that Feaverwood is a bad part of town because it’s actually pretty clean and quiet. It’s the stuff that goes on behind closed doors that makes it the prime spot for police stakeouts. The Vodka Room, despite rumours of Russian mob affiliations, is actually well known for its jazz music scene. They have monthly contests where the best jazz and blues artists in the city come to pit their talents against each other. Those shows usually round up good reviews in the local papers like the Integrity Word.

I decide to keep a low profile tonight and take a cab to the club around 7:30. I pay the cabbie and sling my backpack over my shoulder. I doubt I’ll need the mask and tights tonight, but I bring them just in case. In this city, you just never know.

There’s a pair of burly men in suits at the entrance to the club. They simultaneously cross their arms as I walk closer to the doors.

“You here for the show?” one of them asks while the other one looks me up and down, sizing me up. I keep my chin high, showing no fear.

“Always; who’s playing?” I ask with a grin.

“The Jazzman,” answers the one sizing me up.

Hot damn! I think to myself. Even if my team-up tonight with Arcana turns to be a bust, at least we’re in for one hell of a show. The lungs on The Jazzman are strong enough to put out a fire. And it did once. He’s got some kind of super powerful breath or something. And he became a jazz musician. Who would’ve thought?

“Awesome, can’t wait,” I say and reach out for the door handle.

The burly man on the right puts an arm out and blocks my way. “You got ID, kid?”

I sigh and pull out my wallet. You’d think at twenty-two that I’d be get ID’d a lot less. The bouncer looks it over several times for good effort, looking back at me over the card several times. For extra measure, if only to tick me off, he passes it to his fellow brute, who looks over it some more..

“Come on, guys. I’m missing the show,” I tap on my wrist where my non-existent watch was.

“All right, all right,” Brute number one replies. “We’re just being careful with the Doc dying last night and all.”

“Oh right, I heard about that,” I say, taking my license back. “Police come and gone, already?”

“Yeah,” Brute number two answers, “the boss wasn’t impressed by all the asking around but they figure natural causes are natural causes.”

“Old man had a bad heart. Not really anyone’s fault.” I feel horrible just saying that.

The brutes nod. Brute number two opens the door for me. As soon as I step into the club, I’m hit with the greatest and loudest sound of a saxophone that I’ve ever heard. I’m only in the foyer, handing over my coat and paying the cover charge and I can tell already that the music is filling the entire club.

I make my way into the lounge where it looks like The Jazzman looks to be just warming up. With his trademark curly hair and glasses, he doesn’t look like your usual SPEC. I guess that’s why he didn’t try for the hero business. I mean, what could he call himself? The Breather? Storm Lungs? Captain Blow? There are reasons that some heroes never get any further than coming up with a decent, original name that hasn’t been used in the comics or isn’t trademarked.

I’m counting the minutes on the clock while I wait for Susan to come in. It’s an enjoyable wait, at least, as The Jazzman is pretty hypnotic; a little too hypnotic, maybe? What if he has such a power with his music that he can excite the heart to the point of a heart attack? It’s such a ridiculous idea but the more that I sit here, thinking about it, the more sense it makes. Well, Susan’s running late, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look around and ask a few questions before she gets here.

I wait for The Jazzman to finish his current set before approaching him at the stage. It doesn’t matter if I’ve heard his songs on his albums before, seeing him play the sax for fifteen minutes straight with no pause to breathe is still the most impressive thing I’ve seen in my entire life.

“Hey,” I nod to him as I step up to the stage. He’s sitting back, sipping on a water bottle but looks as if he hasn’t even broken a sweat yet.

“Hey man,” he nods back in a polite but ‘do you mind?’ manner.

“I’ve got all your albums,” I lie (I’ve only got two of them), “and I still can’t get over how you’re able to do what you do.”

“Thanks. It’s a living,” he shrugs.

Let’s see if I can do this without being obvious, “Listen, I’m doing a report for one of my classes on the effect that SPECs have in our society---”

“Sure,” he straightens up a little, intrigued.

I might as well get right to the point. “Are your powers strictly through your lungs? I mean, some people say you have this power over people with your music.”

He looks over me for a second, looking for some kind of alternative reason for the question. I try to put on my best honest face. It’s pretty easy to do when it’s something I’ve been curious about since I started listening to his records.

“Naw, man,” he shakes his head, “I don’t mean to sell myself high but if an artist does what he does well enough, then it’s going to have an effect on people. That doesn’t go just for music, though, mind you.”

“I get you,” I nod.

“I mean, you look at some of these SPECs out there. Not the big, god-like guys. I mean the little ones that you’d think no one would notice. They’re putting their life on the line all the time in the name of saving lives. Some of them just make it look easy, looking like artists themselves. And just like celebrities, if the higher level SPECs go long enough, they get an ego about it, you know? They become real elitists and only save the women that they can get in bed with or the guys that will give them money,” The Jazzman goes on to explain.

I nod, seeing exactly what he means. I can’t help but roll my eyes when all I can picture is Humanity Man thinking he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, bathing in the ovations.

“Listen, I’ll be honest with you---” I start to tell The Jazzman.

“It’s about the Doc, ain’t it?” he nods, taking his eyes away from me while taking a drink from his water bottle again.

“Y-yeah,” I stumble, “it just didn’t sit well with me and a friend of mine.”

“As well it shouldn’t,” he pauses, “because it wasn’t what everyone thought.”

He shifts his eyes to the side of the lounge, by the bar. In one of the finest, most expensive suits I’ve ever seen, I catch a glimpse of a husky man with vodka in his hand. He’s sitting back, rubbing his thick, black beard and watching the scenery.

And then he notices me glancing at him. He also notices that I’m talking with The Jazzman. His eyes go wide like a dear in headlights. He leans over to the bartender, quite flabbergasted and suddenly disappears into the back room.

Almost immediately after the bearded man disappears into the back room, there’s a loud thud heard by the entrance, followed by a second. Then the sound of the door being slammed shut.

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” The Jazzman nods to himself.

“I didn’t pick you to be a fan of Shakespeare,” I say, a bit taken back by the commotion, as well as his statement.

“That poet would’ve made a great jazz musician, man,” he nods again, puts his water down and follows the dapper man into the back room. “Think we’re done for the night, boys,” he says to his band. They start packing up as quick as they can. The Jazzman then looks over his shoulder to me, “You should get out of here, kid. I think it’s gonna get ugly.”

At this point, I’m starting to worry not about my own safety but if Susan is okay. She’s about an hour late now, which is not her style.

I don’t have long to think about it, though. At first, all I can hear is the sound of hundreds of glasses clinging together. Then, I can feel the rumbling growing stronger as the customers within the lounge look to each other in confusion. Out of habit, I do a quick head count and the number reaches twenty-something.

The rumbling grows stronger to the point where I lose my footing and fall back onto the stage. Some of the band members fall on their backs, not to mention the patrons of The Vodka Room. Glasses behind the bar fall and shatter on the tiled floor. The bar tender is trying to yell to people not to panic and slowly make their way to the exit. Probably the best advice I’ve heard today.

I follow the people, trying to blend in when the crowd stops just before the foyer. I hurriedly push my way through to the front of the crowd to see the two large bodyguards laying face down on the floor. The coat check girl is checking them but from what I can tell, myself, they’re only knocked out.

I step past the two guards and the coat check girl towards the door, trying not to lose my balance from all the continuing rumbling. Through the rumbling, I can hear a faint sound of cracking. I know I’ve heard it before, and recently, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“Everyone stay back!” I tell them.

Maybe I should go, you know, change into my costume? But then I realize that my backpack is still in the lounge. Well, better see if it’s safe outside for the people, first, I think to myself.

Just as I reach for the doorknob, the rumbling stops. There’s an eerie silence. The patrons begin muttering to themselves, asking if it’s over.

We’re all startled as some sheer force brings us all down to the ground. The motion feels not unlike an extremely powerful elevator with a pressure that makes you feel a foot shorter. The pressure continues as I manage to find some strength and climb to my feet. I reach for the doorknob and open the door.

I very nearly fall out of the door in shock as I don’t see downtown Integrity City in front of me but, in fact, both cities…far below. Someone has taken the entire club and lifted it high into the air.