ã€ŠMeatã€‹


 Chapter 1.1

    1.1

    The first thing I notice is the cold. A chill, bone-deep and all-encompassing. It settles around my mind like a dense layer of frost, blocking out sound and feeling, leaving me stranded in the dark.

    I try to move, but something¡¯s wrong. I don¡¯t understand. I try to struggle.

    The environment starts to filter in around me. The sound of car horns, sirens and tense mutterings saturates my existence. My vision fills in, blurry and washed with bright yellow, red and blue stars twinkling in the distance.

    I struggle more. My vision sharpens. People in uniforms hurriedly rush up to me and lift me onto a stretcher. From my new vantage point I can see a truck, motionless a few feet away, headlights still on and blood staining the bumper. Red and blue swirl across the concrete as I¡¯m wheeled into an ambulance.

    The truck¡­ hit me? When I was crossing the street. That sucks. The paramedics close the ambulance door, and as the vehicle starts, the movement makes my vision cloud.

    I¡¯m¡­ my name is¡­

    The ambulance hits another bump. I black out.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Jacob! Don¡¯t slam the door!¡± My Mom calls out from the kitchen as I stride purposefully into the house.

    I call out a haphazard ¡°sorry¡± on my way up to my room, where I drop off my bag with a huff. The beige walls and select few trinkets are only vaguely comforting, and even the sight of my guitar makes me slightly irritated.. I take a couple seconds to stare at the walls and calm my heavy breathing.

    It¡¯s been a couple weeks since my accident, and it seems like everyone¡¯s forgotten about me. Only mom ended up visiting me in the hospital. And it¡¯s not like I really expected anyone to, I¡¯m not really close with them, but it¡¯s¡­ jarring.

    I feel off-kilter. Like maybe I¡¯ve been gone too long, or too much has changed and I don¡¯t know how to be normal about it anymore.

    Maybe getting hit by a truck will do that, I dunno.

    Before I head back downstairs, I check my closet. Thankfully, my stuff is still there, hidden inside an old suitcase that I figured out a long time ago my mom won¡¯t look in. I don¡¯t have a lot of money lying around, so it¡¯s kinda just¡­ a bag of essentials, jeans, a hoodie, black fingerless gloves, an aluminum bat. And a white hockey mask.

    I¡¯m not a serial killer I swear, it¡¯s just hard to find masks that stay on well and aren¡¯t derivative of something, and as much as the media likes to romanticize supers, costumes are expensive.

    Really, the only thing getting superpowers has done for me so far is make my hospital stay bearable.

    That¡¯s going to change tonight, though. The local hero teams are useless and the government ones are preachy morons. I¡¯m not an idiot, I know I¡¯m probably not going to be able to do much directly on my own, but maybe if I shake things up people will finally start looking. People die every other week from some insane power junkie abruptly deciding they need to go on a rampage. It¡¯s so constant that you sort of forget it¡¯s happening until it happens to you.

    I kneel down next to the case and grab the mask. It¡¯s new, so the white surface is still relatively clean. I made sure to get it from the sports equipment place in the plaza, so it¡¯s pretty sturdy. The amount of armor required for hockey and crime fighting is probably about the same anyway.

    Waking up in the hospital isn¡¯t exactly the greatest time to find out you have superpowers, but it¡¯s not exactly the worst either. I had a lot of time to experiment.

    Closing my eyes, I let myself sink into the alien-feeling river of information flowing in the back of my mind. Muscles, flesh, bones¡­ proteins? I dunno. It doesn¡¯t actually give me concrete knowledge of my own biology, just an instinctive sense of it.

    I spent most of my time making minor changes, nudging the boundaries of my power.

    Biokinesis. On a local level, and relatively slowly. Small changes I can usually do in less than twenty minutes, less if I have food, apparently. More extreme stuff takes longer, and I run into ¡®roadblocks¡¯ if the change isn¡¯t possible, or maybe if it¡¯s actively harmful. I haven¡¯t tested that part yet.

    I run a check through my bones and musculature, testing to make sure my changes are still there. Nothing major, just strength and efficiency, but ideally it¡¯ll be enough to give me an edge.

    ¡°Jacob! Come help set the table!¡± My mom calls out, interrupting my brooding. I stuff the mask bag inside my bag and zip it up.

    Downstairs, I help my mom set the table. We set dad¡¯s place, but I don¡¯t know if he¡¯ll show up in time.

    ¡°So how was your day?¡± Mom asks cordially as we sit down at the table.

    ¡°Good,¡± I lie. ¡°Math sucked, but it was fine.¡± I shuffle my silverware around and start eating.

    She puts her hand on my arm, and I try not to twitch. ¡°See, honey? I told you you¡¯d be fine.¡±

    ¡°Mhm.¡± I start subtly bouncing my leg.

    ¡°So that¡¯s good, what else happened?¡±

    ¡°Ah, not much,¡± I say in between bites. ¡°Mostly normal day. Can I be excused?¡±

    She glances at my mostly empty plate. ¡°Sure, honey.¡±

    I hop out of my seat and rinse my plate. ¡°I¡¯m gonna go do my homework,¡± I comment, already making my way up the stairs.

    ¡°Alright, goodnight sweetie,¡± I hear from behind me.

    In my room, I take a long look at the closet. My heart is pounding for some reason.

    I can¡¯t go out yet. There¡¯s no way mom wouldn¡¯t notice. Instead, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, tear my gaze away from the closet door and sit down to do some homework.

    I wasn¡¯t lying about that, at least.

    ¡ª

    A couple hours later, I put down the pen and let out a huff. No more stalling. My hatred of math has been steadily outgrowing my anxiety, and I think I¡¯ve reached my limit.

    I get up from my desk and confidently yank open the closet. Clothes, mask, bat, emergency mace, extra cash, and my phone. I pack everything up into the bag, and shove open my bedroom window. I know this is a bad idea. But I have to do something.

    Deep breath in. Out. I hop over the windowsill and out into the chilling air of Westpoint city. Lights, warm neon colors sparkle along the horizon. My house is in the suburbs, some distance away from the main city, but it¡¯s not too far to walk, and during the day I can see the towering silver buildings and almost constant scaffolding reaching up at the sky from my room. It¡¯s beautiful, from a distance.

    Up close, it¡¯s not. The nighttime floodlights throw everything into stark clarity. The buildings are simple, steel and brutalist, transit is always late, the streets are strewn with garbage and dotted with homeless people. The only place that seems to keep its luster up close is the USMC building at the center of the city, and the huge circular courtyard and shipping booths dotted around it.

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    The city just sort of stops past a certain distance from the center, in a perfectly circular radius bordered by the retracted blast wall. Beyond that is just¡­ forest.

    I fall down into the backyard, the city lights blocked out by our neighbors¡¯ garage. In darkness, I skitter around to our driveway, jumping into a fast walk when I near the corner ¡ª

    Headlights. An engine rumbles close as a car rolls into the driveway. I duck back around the corner. Dad must have just gotten home.

    The engine shuts off, and dad steps out of the car. He looks tired, obviously.

    I wait for him to make his way inside before I jog out onto the sidewalk, face the city, and set off.

    It takes around twenty minutes to get far enough into the city to hide in an alleyway while I change. I spend that time focusing on using my power to shift my hair color from its normal dark brown to a lighter blonde, shedding hair strands along the way.

    In the alley, behind a dumpster, I switch out my outfit, keeping the bat in my bag and hanging my mask around my neck. People don¡¯t really go out at night, or at all, if they can help it, so I should be fine if I stick to the backstreets.

    I start moving. Litter, grime, rats, this place has it all. I try not to pay too much attention, and remind myself to wash my outfit when I get home. Somehow.

    I stick to the alley walls, lurking around buildings, checking corners, hopefully not being entirely clueless about it. I don¡¯t really know what I¡¯m looking for yet, so I just do my best to avoid people and keep an eye out. I stay out of the way of the blinding white nightlights, sticking to the shadows.

    It¡¯s quiet.

    And then it¡¯s not. I hear scuffling from the alleyway around the corner, and I peek my head out slowly. There¡¯s a group of guys, and a taller one in the middle pushing the smaller guy against the wall. I can¡¯t see them too well from where I am, but I can hear the tone of their voices. It doesn¡¯t sound good. I pull down my mask.

    There aren¡¯t too many, only five total, including the guy getting whisper-yelled at. I close my eyes and use my power to give one last quick boost to my musculature, check my bone density, and push myself out into view.

    ¡°Hey,¡± I call out, sliding the aluminum bat out of my bag and letting it drop into my hand. ¡°Break it up.¡±

    I sound like an idiot.

    ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± One of the goons snaps, and they all turn to me, including the big guy. I can¡¯t see their faces, but some of them seem a little shifty.

    It¡¯s the mask. You¡¯d be an idiot not to avoid anyone with a mask nowadays, there¡¯s like an eighty percent chance they either have superpowers or are working for someone who does.

    I was kinda hoping it would be enough on its own, though.

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I say, dismissing the goon¡¯s question. ¡°Just break it up.¡± I twirl the bat, my heart beating rapidly.

    They don¡¯t seem convinced. The big guy snaps his fingers and points at me, and the goons move forward.

    I react. I swing my bat up at the first goon, cracking against his temple, making him crumple to the ground. The other two hesitate. Then, the one on the left moves to pull something out of his pocket.

    I move, again, stepping forward and striking the bat against his skull. He goes down as the last one on my right lunges for me, grabbing my arm and the bat. I shove him off ¡ª it¡¯s startlingly easy ¡ª and use my bat to slam him against the wall of the alley. I knee him in the gut and he goes down, too.

    Standing still in the alleyway, I try to catch my breath and stop shivering.

    I don¡¯t get the chance. A slight cough has me whirling back around, brandishing the bat at the last figure and the victim, who for some reason hasn¡¯t run away yet.

    ¡°Impressive, kid. Haven¡¯t seen you around before. Just get your powers or somethin¡¯?¡± He cracks his knuckles and shakes out his arms. Without the other goons as a distraction, his silhouette¡¯s a little more clear. Purple tank top, baggy cargo pants and a black tattered cowl strapped on by a pair of suspenders.

    I¡¯m beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

    I don¡¯t bother answering, instead, as he takes a step forward, I make a swing at his knees. The bat swishes, but his hand lashes out and catches the end.

    ¡°So what is it? Strength? Durability? Maybe it¡¯s tactical?¡± His hand flexes and the aluminum creaks. I try yanking it away, but unlike the goons he holds firm. The air wavers around his hand as the aluminum starts to crumple and he pulls it ¡ª and me ¡ª closer. ¡°Or maybe,¡± he mutters, close enough now that I can make out his black cloth mask adorned with a messy purple hand, ¡°you¡¯re just a stupid motherfucker who thinks putting on a mask and swinging around a stick makes you a fucking superhero.¡±

    Metal screeches and the bat shears in half, and I stumble back. The air around us vibrates, his hands bubble with glowing white energy, lighting up the alley, and it finally clicks.

    Oh fuck. My first night out as a vigilante and I¡¯m fighting fucking Crush. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

    And then he grabs me.

    His hand feels like a bear trap on my left bicep even without his powers, and before I can try and break free he activates them. Searing pain, globules of energy and a concerning cracking sound cloud my mind, and it takes me a second to realize I¡¯m screaming.

    He lets go, blood streaming from his fingers, and pushes me back with his other hand, the white glow clinging to my chest while I hit the ground.

    I immediately zone out, analyzing my injury with my power and trying to smooth over some of the damage. It¡¯s hard to focus, and I give up after I notice Crush dropping to one knee and lifting up his glowing palm over my torso.

    He swings down and reflexively I bring my working arm up to block him. It doesn¡¯t work. He changes tracks, grabbing my arm while the air vibrates, my skin shredding and my bones cracking. I clench my teeth and taste blood as he yanks my tattered arm out of the way and swings again with his other hand.

    He hits, and this time the bubbling glow bursts with another sickening crack. I retreat into my power¡¯s analysis mode, trying to block out the pain. I can never get an exact diagnosis, but the abstracted information doesn¡¯t paint a great picture.

    I mentally brace, prepared to see another section of my body light up with metaphorical errors, but just as I emerge from the trance-like state ¡ª just enough to see what¡¯s happening ¡ª Crush abruptly looks to his left, arm snapping up in from of his face where a projectile impacts his palm and shatters in a flash of bubbly energy. My power notifies me of a shard embedded in my gut, solidifying my decision to stay in analysis mode.

    ¡°Shit,¡± he mutters, quickly standing up, holding his hands in front of his vitals, ¡°who¡­?¡± The victim¡¯s gone, and someone else steps into the alley, carrying something heavy-looking.

    Inexplicably, the sound of mechanical ratcheting echoes out as the figure hefts their¡­ contraption. ¡°What the fuck are you doing, handsy?! I thought you were cool!¡± Their voice sounds younger and more feminine. There¡¯s a clunk as another metal rod spits out of the mechanism, shattering against Crush¡¯s outstretched hand again as he backs up. Blood dribbles down from the center of his palms.

    ¡°Fuck are you talking about?! Stay out of this!¡± He shouts, edging forward while the other figure reloads.

    ¡°Murder isn¡¯t cool, stupid,¡± they say, cranking the mechanism and pulling it up again before he gets too close. Another clunk as they fire, more shrapnel, and Crush takes the chance to run, tagging the brick alley corner as he leaves with a bright glow, and after rounding the corner entirely he stops just long enough to punch the tagged spot, splitting the brick wall.

    Rubble rains down, joining the blood and shrapnel already littered across the alleyway, sending error pings at me through my power when pieces of concrete fall down on top of me.

    Then, the chunk of building is done falling, Crush is gone, and the alley is quiet. I lay quietly in analysis mode, trying to think of what to do now. If I exit the trance now, I¡¯ll absolutely black out, and I don¡¯t know if my power will regenerate me while I¡¯m unconscious. I might have to just do this manually.

    While I¡¯m trying to stitch myself back together and not panic, my savior cautiously steps towards me and the other¡­ bodies. I can¡¯t see them but I can hear them start to retch.

    ¡°Oh damn. That¡¯s bad,¡± they mutter.

    Wonderful.

    First, I start forming basic seals over my wounds to prevent further blood loss. Then, I decide to start realigning my bones, figuring it¡¯s as good a place as any, and in the meantime the figure takes a few steps closer.

    ¡°Jeez. Sorry kid,¡± they say to themself, softly. They think I¡¯m dead, of course. I try not to get too hysterical, and just focus on reconstruction. I feel like if I think about anything else right now, I¡¯m not going to stop, and then I¡¯m going to bleed out on the ground.

    By the time I¡¯ve mostly repaired my bones, the figure¡¯s made a call and left the scene. I don¡¯t make much note of it. Instead, I move on to muscle and flesh.

    The injuries aren¡¯t anything super abnormal, there¡¯s no burns or radiation. Just snapped bones, pulped flesh and shredded skin. I¡¯ve had enough practice building muscle with my power that I¡¯m able to reconstruct most of it and stitch my skin up over top.

    There¡¯s still chunks of rubble and shrapnel that I have to eject in order to seal the skin, which I do by extending branches of bone to cradle the objects and push them out. The metallic clinks some of them make as they leave my body startle me at first, but I try to push through.

    The scars are deep, since I don¡¯t have any extra meat lying around, but no one should notice as long as I wear long sleeves.

    It takes around thirty minutes total. And then I¡¯m done, apparently. My power tells me I¡¯m all put back together.

    I stay in the trance a little while longer. When I do come back, it¡¯s slowly, bit by bit, until I can feel the hard concrete under me, and the thick layer of dust and blood layered all over the alley.

    I¡¯m shivering, and it¡¯s not because I¡¯m cold, even though it is chilly.

    Instead of reflecting, though, I pull my tattered frame up off the ground, knocking aside chunks of rubble and clouds of dust, stepping over questionably still bodies, and start to walk home with the sinking feeling that I¡¯ve accomplished nothing.

    <blockquote>

    //first time posting to rr, so hopefully the formatting is correct.

    thanks for reading!!!!

    if u enjoyed uh like comment leave a review, all that. and if u REALLY enjoyed it, consider throwing me a tip on ko-fi! the more support i see, the more i can justify writing, so hopefully soon i can start putting these out faster very soon.

    stay silly

    </blockquote>

 Chapter 1.2

    1.2

    ¡°And in other news, what was likely a super powered tussle occurred in an alley along Street 2-B, Subsection Twelve, leaving three in critical condition and a large part of the alleyway collapsed. Authorities suspect this to be the work of registered supervillain Crush, but what ¡ª or who ¡ª could have provoked him is still unknown. More on this after ¡ª¡±

    I turn it off, feeling myself turn a little green, heft my bag and head out to wait for the bus. Mom mumbles a goodbye from the kitchen, half asleep and still nursing her morning coffee, but I don¡¯t bother responding.

    The air outside is cold, and a light cloud of fog blankets the neighborhood. This early in the morning people are still asleep or just waking up, the houses are still fairly quiet and the lights are off. It¡¯s unnerving.

    I can¡¯t help but take a quick look around, just in case. There¡¯s no way Crush would have been able to see my face under all the ¡ª blood and dust, I guess, and he never bothered to try taking my mask. And even if he had, it¡¯d be a future me problem, considering he probably wouldn¡¯t expect me to still be alive, but.

    Still.

    The street¡¯s empty except for the kid who lives across the road, waiting for the same bus I am. I do my best to ignore him.

    The occasional window light filters through the fog, and some engines rumble in the distance. No Crush, though.

    And hopefully no Crush ever again. Last night was a disaster, and if this is gonna work, I have to be smart about it. I raided the kitchen last night, so most of my muscle mass and basic modifications are restored, but during the fight they only really gave me a slight edge. The rest of it was just a bit of luck, and catching them off guard.

    I need to be better. I need to have a plan, a target, and a better understanding of my powers.

    Trudging to the back of the bus and curling up in the back seat, I pull out a notebook. It¡¯s a small, battered black one from back when I was really into supers. Local heroes, villains, their powers, suspected operations and possible matchups, it¡¯s all in here ¡ª from about two years ago. Maybe it¡¯s time to update it.

    I start with organizations.

    Legally, the USMC has three government heroes stationed in Westpoint, working alongside the Brightheart Hero Association. I don¡¯t think they like each other very much, but it¡¯s hard to tell just from their media appearances. Government heroes can be unpredictable, weirdly enough.

    Illegally, the city has four super-led gangs currently active, each with at least two supers. The largest is Panda, ostensibly led by Highlander. They have the highest super membership, but the rest of their manpower comes from mercenaries, and they really only do high profile jobs. Dead End Shack, the gang Crush runs with, is more street level, but they¡¯ve been around for a long time, and their members know how to play the game.

    The bus starts to fill up, and I have to glare at a couple kids who look like they would try and sit next to me.

    So obviously I can¡¯t start with Dead End Shack or Panda, their operations are too sporadic and combat-focused to fight alone. The other two are Mike¡¯s Gang, a drug distribution organization led by someone who¡¯s name is definitely not Mike, and Front 18, the local Nazis. They held a lot of power a few years ago, but ever since Rapture got locked up they¡¯ve been mostly quiet.

    Mostly. It didn¡¯t save Sera.

    I don¡¯t think I¡¯m ready for them yet.

    I scowl. Really not the time moping. In terms of accessibility, Mike¡¯s Gang would be the easiest to do something about. They don¡¯t distribute normal drugs, all their supply comes from Cook, a fairly new villain suspected to have some sort of chemical synthesis power. If I could remove him, the whole operation would crumble. Ideally.

    Issue is, I think he knows this. No one ever sees him in public, no large scale super brawls, no city bombing threats. The man himself is low profile.

    I start by scribbling down some quick ideas before the bus pulls into the school¡¯s lot, and when it does I snap the book shut, vague plans forming. As long as something like Crush doesn¡¯t happen again, I might actually be able to do it right this time.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Wow, Jake, you look awful, did you get hit by another truck?¡±

    I huff and look up from my phone at my spot in the lunch line. Olivia Burns and one of her goons stop next to me, hand on her hip and smirk on her face. Her platinum blonde hair is loosely tied up in a fluffy bun with a pastel pink tie, matching the rest of her outfit.

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Fuck off, Livvy.¡± She¡¯s been like this since freshman year. She thinks she can be a bitch because her dad owns the school, and she¡¯s basically right.

    Other people in line subtly shift and look away while her smile widens. ¡°Make me, bitchboy.¡±

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    I ignore her while she sticks her tongue out and walks off anyway. Instead, I go back to idly scrolling social media and trying to think of a plan.

    Cook¡¯s smart, and the structure of his gang is, too. It operates purely as a drug distribution method, so most of it is split into cells that anonymously receive the product. He never meets personally with anyone outside his close circle, who he assuredly knows very well.

    So how do I get to him?

    The answer doesn¡¯t come to me during lunch, or on the bus ride home from school. I get a couple more harsh words from Livvy during the day, but nothing I can¡¯t handle, and on a whim I decide to stop by Vincent¡¯s on the way home.

    ¡°Hey,¡± I call out from my seat on the bus. ¡°Hey, drop me off here!¡±

    The driver looks annoyed, but she reluctantly slows to a stop at a street corner not far from my house.

    I hop out, and the bus rumbles away, leaving behind a slight cloud of exhaust that I wave away. The house in front of me is a typical suburban home, one with a white painted fence and a decent size garage. It looks almost identical to all the other houses on this street, but similarity is a pretty common theme throughout most of the city, so it¡¯s not exactly surprising.

    This house, though, is dark. The lights are off, and they¡¯ve been that way for the better part of a couple months.

    My best friend used to live here. Her name was Sera Hall, even if few people knew that. She was murdered by a member of Front 18 on her way home from school two months ago. The last time I saw her dad, Vincent, was at the funeral. I even broke into their house at one point. He¡¯s just ¡ª gone.

    I always try once every couple days anyway, though, just in case.

    Walking up the old porch stairs, boards creaking inspires a nostalgic sense of unease. I step carefully up to the door and knock.

    ¡°Mr. Hall? Mr. Hall!¡± I call out, knocking again.

    There¡¯s no answer.

    I knock a little louder. ¡°Vincent! Are you there?¡±

    Still silence.

    I let out a sigh. I was hoping he¡¯d be around to¡­ I dunno, help me with some of this?

    I trudge back down the steps, trying to ignore the churning worry in my gut. Vincent was sorta like a second dad to me. My actual dad¡¯s always working, and when he¡¯s not talking to him is like talking to a brick wall. Even my mom¡¯s like that sometimes; they¡¯re both so hard to pin.

    Vincent wasn¡¯t like that. You could practically read him like a book, and usually you wouldn¡¯t have to. He¡¯d come home from his office job looking like death, and instead of closing off he¡¯d tell you some stupid story about his coworkers, and when he noticed you were nervous about something he¡¯d ask about it, and he felt so safe to talk to that when you did, he would just¡­ accept it.

    I remember being in the room when Sera came out to him and feeling inexplicably jealous. It felt like looking at proof that my parents¡¯ love was conditional.

    I miss him, as much as I miss Sera, I think. It¡¯s been hard without them. I feel like I¡¯ve been stuck since then. Getting my powers was a lucky break, depending on how you look at it. In the hospital, at least, I hoped they would help me start moving again.

    I used to think getting powers would solve my problems, but so far they¡¯ve been pretty ¡ª

    I stop.

    My powers ¡ª I¡¯ve been using them to¡­ repair myself and enhance my musculature, but can¡¯t I just ¡ª

    Cook is isolated from the rest of his gang, and he only interacts with a select few people to distribute his drugs. Those people are the only ones who would know where Cook is, and I can¡¯t just ask them.

    Unless, of course, they think they trust me. My power lets me change anything about my body, not just my muscles. So why don¡¯t I just shapeshift into one of Cook¡¯s inner circle?

    My feet pick up speed on the way back to my house. I have some planning to do.

    ¡ª

    ¡°What? Why not?¡±

    The big guy¡¯s bushy white mustache wiggles. ¡°Tasers¡¯re class two tech, we don¡¯t have the license.¡±

    I groan. ¡°You guys sell guns.¡±

    ¡°Mhm,¡± he responds, ¡°and you¡¯ll notice they¡¯re all mechanical. Not even a laser sight.¡± He leans forward. ¡°We run a tight ship around here, kid. If you want electronics, go to a RadioShack or something.¡±

    I huff. ¡°Do you at least have pepper spray?¡±

    He reaches under the counter and slaps down a bottle of mace. ¡°Will that be all?¡±

    ¡°Fine.¡± I pay for the mace, pocket it, and leave.

    It¡¯s Saturday the next day, and my basic plan is coming together. This time it¡¯s gonna be recon only. I¡¯m gonna get in, find Cook over the course of a week. No fighting, no beating people up, no running into a crush in an alley. Just me and my stellar acting skills.

    At this point I¡¯ve picked up the mace obviously, plus a new notebook and a burner phone. My outfit got trashed by Crush, so it¡¯s sitting in a dumpster somewhere while I bought an equally nondescript outfit that I stored back in my bag.

    And the last thing ¡ª my disguise. I went through the public collection of some semi-recent arrests, picking out guys with similar appearances; close enough so that I won¡¯t have to change as much, but different to act as a reference. It made me a little ill, actually, but I did it anyway.

    Starting with a generic disguise will ideally help me blend in until I can get a good look at one of Cook¡¯s men.

    I walk home, sticking to populated areas, along storefronts, past houses on my way back to my place. It¡¯s habit at this point, even if statistically it doesn¡¯t really help. At least near the suburbs houses are more likely to have Brightheart alarms.

    I go through my barebones plan again and again, and all I can really think about are ways it could fail.

    ¡ª

    It¡¯s noon Sunday, I¡¯m in an alley by Plaza B near the poorer end of the city, and I¡¯m staring at my collection of references. A heavy mix of fear, anticipation, and dread congeal in my gut. I made sure to eat more than usual today, to fuel my power, but it¡¯s really looking like I shouldn¡¯t have bothered.

    I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. I¡¯m doing this for Sera. I can¡¯t just give up now. Westpoint has to be safe to live in.

    I activate my power and dive into remaking my face.

 Chapter 1.3

    1.3

    ¡°Hey, kid. You new around here?¡±

    I¡¯m sitting on a bench in the corner of the plaza, the one just outside of the city. Storefronts still pop up now and again around here, especially since it¡¯s so close to the suburbs, but it¡¯s also close to the more crime-ridden parts of the city, so they never last.

    I look up from my lap. An older woman, thirty, maybe forty years old with pale skin has sat down next to me. Her face is indifferent. She puffs on a cigarette and blows it in the other direction.

    ¡°Uh. Yeah. Yes,¡± I stutter. Still trying to get used to my voice. I modified it to be slightly deeper, and it¡¯s throwing me off.

    The lady chuckles. ¡°Adorable. You do know how close this place is to downtown, though, right? Hanging out alone is sorta risky.¡±

    Yeah, that¡¯s kinda the point. ¡°Oh, uh. I guess.¡±

    She levels a look at me. I¡¯m pretty sure it reads pity. ¡°It¡¯s mostly just Cook that runs this area. He¡¯s not usually violent, but you¡¯re gonna run into his guys at some point if you stay here.¡± She takes another drag at her cigarette and looks away. ¡°Are you staying here?¡±

    She might think I¡¯m homeless. I can work with this.

    I deliberately pause, and then nod. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    I see her frown briefly as she turns back to me, but otherwise her face stays neutral. ¡°Okay. Well, my name¡¯s Ava. I work at the office a little ways down the street.¡± I don¡¯t remember seeing an active office building anywhere nearby during my sweep, but she seems confident.

    It takes me a second to realize she¡¯s expecting a reply.

    ¡°Um ¨C Alex.¡± I blurt out.

    ¡°Alright, Alex, listen. Cook¡¯s guys aren¡¯t really violent, but they can be a little rough. What do you say I take you around, introduce you?¡±

    Wow, that was quick.

    She must see some of the surprise on my face, but thankfully she misinterprets it. ¡°C¡¯mon, don¡¯t be like that,¡± she says, smirking a little. ¡°It¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    I wasn''t expecting it to be quite this easy, to be honest. It¡¯s been a while since I disguised myself, but somehow I was thinking it might take a couple days.

    It¡¯s not over yet though. I still need to make sure she doesn¡¯t suspect me of anything. There¡¯s no way she¡¯d guess I have superpowers, but she might think I¡¯m a fed or something.

    First things first, can¡¯t be too eager.

    ¡°That seems so unreasonably risky,¡± I reply, trying to inject some skepticism into my voice.

    She chuckles. ¡°Okay, fair. But, it¡¯s not like that''s much different from just waiting around for them.¡± Her face visibly shifts to a friendlier expression. ¡°I know I¡¯m probably not the most trustworthy, but it beats getting accosted by patchy thugs, right?¡±

    I take a second, both to think and to sell the impression I¡¯m trying to give off ¨C nervous, indecisive, vulnerable. Ava isn¡¯t necessarily wrong about her offer, but the way she¡¯s phrased it and her general insistence lead me to believe she¡¯s more connected to Mike¡¯s Gang than she would want me to think.

    Which is good. Ideally, I¡¯ll be able to make my way up the ranks naturally, but in an emergency I can always try to get a picture of a higher-level member and disguise myself as them. It wouldn¡¯t be perfect, but it wouldn¡¯t need to be. All I need to do is find Cook, alert the authorities, and hold him there until they arrive. Without dying. Or being arrested.

    So long as Ava doesn¡¯t drag me into an alley and try to axe murder me, this is an ideal scenario.

    I stare at the concrete path under our bench. ¡°Sure,¡± I mutter, still trying to seem hesitant.

    I see her smile out of the corner of my eye. ¡°Good. Let¡¯s go.¡± She stands, and motions for me to follow.

    As I slowly pull myself up off the bench, I catch a glimpse of my¡­ disguise in the reflection across the street.

    The man in the reflection isn¡¯t actually that much older than me, and actually a little shorter. He has thinner eyebrows, a stronger jaw, shorter, lighter hair. His eyes are smaller, and his face reads masculine in a way mine usually doesn¡¯t.

    I mean hey, if I have to look like someone else I might as well look handsome, right?

    Apparently not. Usually I just feel apathetic looking at myself, but now it¡¯s physically difficult. I turn away.

    ¡°You coming?¡± Right, dangerous unsanctioned drug bust. I nod and follow along.

    The sun is sinking down towards the horizon at this point, and the surrounding buildings are cast in long shadows. The plaza isn¡¯t typically super busy anyway, but especially now we only run into the occasional pedestrian.

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    As we walk out of the plaza and along a backstreet, Ava tries to start a conversation.

    ¡°So, any actual reason you were just hanging out so close to nightfall? People don¡¯t usually do that, even in the suburbs,¡± she says casually.

    I hesitate, unfortunately, but hopefully if I go with something believable enough she¡¯ll let it go. ¡°I, uh. Got kicked out.¡±

    ¡°Oh, yeah? What for,¡± she huffs, taking another drag of her cigarette.

    ¡°Liking boys,¡± I mutter. Believable, but false.

    Ava winces. ¡°Rough. Guess that¡¯s why I¡¯ve never seen you around here, right? You lived in a big fancy house over by the suburbs.¡±

    ¡°Mhm,¡± I reply, glancing around. We¡¯re heading closer to the city, near some of the denser housing areas. It¡¯s making me a little nervous.

    The city¡¯s dangerous on its best days.

    We approach an apartment complex, looking a little run-down with stained concrete and rusted metal railings. Ava walks up and buzzes in. ¡°Mikey, got a new one.¡± We wait outside for a minute, and she puts out her cigarette on the concrete wall.

    Then, the door cracks open, and a pair of eyes dart across us. They¡¯re high up, so their owner must be pretty tall, and they widen in recognition when they settle on Ava.

    The door opens, and a large man with dark skin and a leather jacket ushers us inside. He doesn¡¯t speak, and Ava doesn¡¯t try to start any sort of conversation. We just follow him up a rusty set of stairs, up to the third floor, where he knocks on another door about halfway down. Number twenty-six.

    I follow both of them into a small living room, scattered with magazines and someone¡¯s phone laying on a coffee table surrounded by two couches. A smaller guy lounges on the far one.

    He perks up when we walk into the room. The bigger guy, notably, closes the door behind us and stands near it.

    I tense slightly.

    ¡°Is this him?¡± Small guy asks, fishing something out from under a nearby magazine and hopping up off his couch. He walks up close to me and leans over. I move back a little in response.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ava says, not seeming like she¡¯s paying attention.

    ¡°Haven¡¯t seen him around before,¡± small guy comments, glancing at Ava. She shrugs.

    ¡°Neither have I. Says he got kicked out. Y¡¯know,¡± she says, waving her hand.

    ¡°That true?¡± Small guy says, turning back to me. I can tell he¡¯s measuring my response.

    I look down and fidget a little, trying to sell it. ¡°Yeah.¡± I don¡¯t really have to fake being uncomfortable, at least.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he says. He reaches a hand into his pocket and tosses something to Ava, which she catches. Then, before I can react, his other hand shoots up in front of my face, and I hear a sharp snap.

    I jerk back as a potent salty-sweet smell floods my nostrils, coughing. My eyes burn and I start feeling a little dizzy, stumbling backwards. Faintly, distorted, I hear people still talking.

    ¡°Take him back where you found him, give him this and give him the speech, yeah? I got shit to do.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Dick.¡±

    ¡°Fuck off Ava, you know you need me.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need you, Mikey.¡±

    There¡¯s footsteps coming close to me now, I think, but it¡¯s getting really hard to focus. Opening my eyes just reveals¡­ well, the room, but not. The room but cracks of impossible light filter through the corners, and solid walls melt in every direction. Everything moves and distorts, colors change and grow, and I try to take a step forward and almost fall over.

    This is miserable.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, kid, let¡¯s get you back to your bench.¡±

    I feel someone speaking, and then I feel them lift my arm over their back and guide me out the door, down the stairs and onto the street. I think we take a different way in, but I¡¯m not totally sure. Were there even stairs on the way we came in? I stumble down them anyway. Ava can¡¯t seem to stop cursing under her breath.

    The world gets even prettier when we hit open air. The vibrant, fiery orange of the sunset bleeds into the dark blues and blacks of long shadows cast by the tall buildings. We¡¯re not quite in the city, but the structures still stretch into the sky.

    I start to feel nauseous. I lean over.

    ¡°Oh you little bitch, don¡¯t you dare puke on me ¡ª¡±

    I hold it in. For Ava. She¡¯s so nice. Is that toxic? It might be.

    Ava hauls me along, and I don¡¯t remember most of it, which is a shame, since she¡¯s so nice. She mutters to me along the way.

    ¡°You¡¯re high as fuck right now, but I know you¡¯re gonna remember this, so ¡ª¡± she grunts.

    ¡°So I¡¯m gonna run through this once. Number one: you¡¯re hooked on Stew now. EX-9? Seen that on the news or whatever? It¡¯s Cook¡¯s stuff, and there¡¯s no getting out of it now. No cure, no rehab, no detox, nothing. But no worries, because guess what ¡ª¡± she grunts again, and stops for breath. The bench is in sight now, probably. She digs around in her pocket for something before continuing.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna give you this burner. You¡¯re not gonna tell anyone about it, you¡¯re not gonna show anyone, you¡¯re not even gonna open it anywhere near anyone. This is your refill ticket, and lemme tell you, the withdrawal on this stuff is intense. So keep this on you.¡± She drops me on the bench, and I see stars. They¡¯re really very pretty.

    She shoves the burner into my pocket. Or somewhere.

    ¡°Check it every day. If Mikey has a job for you, he¡¯ll call. You do it, it¡¯s usually something like two hours tops, you get your fix. Easy, right?¡± She says, huffing. ¡°Or, I mean, you can get some other sucker to show up in front of him, but I figure you might still be a bit bitter about this. Maybe some other time, yeah? When you get desperate.¡± Ava lights up another cigarette, takes a drag, and sighs. She doesn¡¯t bother to turn away this time, but that''s fine since the smoke twirls into unlikely shapes and shifts to new colors before my eyes.

    ¡°Sorry about your folks, kid,¡± she says. And then she walks away. The sky spins, the buildings crawl towards the setting sun, and I lay on a bench in the middle of an ostensibly crime-ridden plaza alone and high.

    ¡ª

    It takes me some amount of time to come down, and when I do start to it comes with a feeling of overwhelming nausea. I do puke this time, off the side of the bench, and some of the effects linger. It¡¯s dark out now, and for some reason it feels exceedingly quiet.

    Pretty quickly, I activate my power and give myself a checkup. Trying to conceptualize all the information flooding my brain is difficult at the best of times, and this is no different. Harder, actually, with the residual fuzziness from¡­ that.

    All I can really get is some minor differences in my olfactory receptors and some specific parts of my brain. I don¡¯t really understand it.

    I shouldn¡¯t need to totally understand it, though. My power doesn¡¯t help me with new stuff, but it does give me a basic sense of what ¡®works,¡¯ I guess. I take a few minutes to nudge things back into place until I¡¯m fairly sure it¡¯s back to standard.

    Dropping my power, I think I¡¯m starting to feel a little better. Better enough to revert my disguise and come up with a convincing excuse for my parents, at least. Hopefully.

 Chapter 1.4

    1.4

    Two days later, I get a text on the burner while I¡¯m practicing scales. I put down the guitar to check.

    Unknown

    meet @ b plaza 7 third building down 5 pm 1 cap

    Unknown

    8b 10b 2a 3a 1c

    Location, time, and something else. Payment, probably? And then a string of numbers and letters.

    I¡¯ll have to show up tonight. It shouldn¡¯t technically matter if I miss a meeting, but I want to do as many as I can so I can get a better idea of the operation.

    Even if my parents chew me out every time.

    It was bad last night, dad stayed up late to make sure he caught me, so he was pretty pissed. And apparently Stew gives you red eyes or whatever, and he thought I was smoking weed or something? Kind of trashed my room a little. I was lucky he didn¡¯t go too far into my closet.

    It wasn¡¯t that hard to clean up though, and after I was sure they finally went to bed I managed to record mostly everything that happened last night in a fresh notebook that I kept in the closet bag until today. I plan to write down most of what I learn during every meeting, so I can¡¯t have anyone else seeing it. Still haven¡¯t decided where I could hide it best.

    I should have time. In the meanwhile, I pick my guitar back up, and play.

    ¡ª

    At 4:30 pm I exit the house and start on my disguise. I could do it quicker if I wanted to burn energy, but I don¡¯t so I just finished the transformation on the way, sticking to the alleys and the shadows. It gets easier as I get closer to the meeting point.

    The place itself is an overcast street corner by Plaza B, only a little ways down the road, by a dark red brick building. Since it¡¯s earlier in the day this time, cars pass by on the street nearby, and the plaza¡¯s a lot busier than it was. The place isn¡¯t exactly bustling, but the car traffic is significant, and people definitely walk around. The huge parking area in the center is even starting to fill up. Sort of.

    I make my way past all that and onto the corner, where I spot the big guy I remember faintly from Mikey¡¯s house leaning on a wall off to the side, next to one of the more common types of metal benches near the shopping districts. I stay on guard.

    There¡¯s a moment of silence as I step up to the bench. Then he just tilts his head upwards. ¡°Yo. Gordon.¡±

    I blink. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°My name. Gordon. What about you?¡±

    Better stay consistent. ¡°Alex,¡± I say hesitantly. I remember him blocking the door at Mikey¡¯s. Slowly, I sit down.

    Gordon nods. ¡°Hope your first time wasn¡¯t too bad. It doesn¡¯t really get better.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± I¡¯m confused.

    It must show on my face, because Gordon scowls. ¡°Fuck Mikey. He¡¯s my boss, not my friend.¡±

    I nod back. It seems like they have history. So then why does he still¡­?

    I don¡¯t get the chance to continue that train of thought. ¡°He showed up earlier, gave me the stuff already and told me to show you the ropes,¡± Gordon says, kicking himself off the brick wall and starting a stroll down the road. I scramble to follow him.

    ¡°Usually Mikey¡¯ll give you a case. If you take any of it you¡¯re dead, by the way.¡± He glances at a nearby street label and continues without missing a beat. ¡°You shoulda gotten a list of streets in that text?¡± He looks at me for confirmation, and I remember the random string of numbers. I nod.

    He nods back. ¡°Don¡¯t need to know the subsection, you can usually guess who the client is. They repeat, too, so it gets easier. Take the money, fork over a capsule, and leave. Easy.¡± He coughs as we take a crosswalk to Street 8-B.

    All the streets around here are sort of run down, like the plaza. The whole city is brutalist, but around here dishevelment breaks up the monotony, and there¡¯s even a splash of graffiti color dotting the area, along with the deep red of rust and dark shades of grime.

    Gordon moves his stroll along the nearby sidewalks, looking surprisingly nonchalant. I don¡¯t even catch the moment he sees our¡­ client, and before I know it he¡¯s nodding to someone on a bench near us.

    ¡°Hey,¡± he says, sitting down beside them. I stand around awkwardly nearby, but no one seems to care. A couple people walk by, but they don¡¯t say anything.

    The person on the bench looks nervous, but they shove a crumpled mass of dollar bills at Gordon anyway. He seems annoyed, but he deftly stores them away and slides a small metal capsule to the client. They immediately jump up and speed walk away.

    Gordon sighs and pats the seat next to him. I sit.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t recognize him. Must be new.¡± He gives me a look I can¡¯t interpret. ¡°They won¡¯t always be so jumpy. Bad for business.¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡± We sit quietly for a moment. It¡¯s surprisingly¡­ comfortable?

    I decide to hazard a question. ¡°So¡­ why do you work for Mikey?¡±

    Gordon snorts. ¡°Where the fuck else am I gonna get Stew? Cook has a stranglehold on anyone within three feet of one of those capsules, I swear to god.¡±

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    I eye him. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve heard you can¡¯t detox it. Is that true?¡±

    He huffs. ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know anyone¡¯s ever tried. You try going to a rehab center around here asking about it, they shut the fuckin¡¯ door.¡± Gordon looks at me. ¡°Sorry, kid. You¡¯re in it for the long hall.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± I mutter, looking down. Technically, I used my power to clear out most of the drug¡¯s effects. Realistically, I don¡¯t know enough about my biology to say definitively.

    ¡°Still,¡± I say, knowing I¡¯m pushing it. ¡°Isn¡¯t this all kind of¡­ ethically dubious?¡±

    Gordon scowls. ¡°Fuck off,¡± He spits. ¡°You don¡¯t get it. Try me after another four years of this.¡±

    I don¡¯t respond. We sit in silence for another few minutes.

    Then Gordon sighs. ¡°Don¡¯t do all your stops at once, spread ¡®em out. Less suspicious.¡± He gets up  from the bench, and I follow close behind as he makes his way to the next stop.

    The dropoff at Street 10-B goes much smoother. Gordon casually meets the client, exchanges a capsule for another roll of bills, and we hang around for a bit before we move on. The client this time hangs around with us, and it seems like Gordon¡¯s seen them before.

    They seem nice. The cognitive dissonance here is a little staggering.

    On the way to Street 2-A, we backtrack a little, and Gordon continues his instruction.

    ¡°So, you think you¡¯ve got a good enough idea of how this works?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Mm. Alright, then. Your turn,¡± he says, tossing a small black case at me from inside his coat. I fumble with it, scrambling to hide it away in my hoodie while glancing around frantically.

    Gordon chuckles. ¡°Don¡¯t be so tense. Only time you need to get worried is when the heroes show up, anyway. And they basically never show up unless you¡¯re doing higher-profile stuff.¡±

    He looks around as we come up on 2-A. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll point out this first one,¡± he says, gesturing at someone sitting against the wall of a tiny store along the road.

    I cautiously walk up to them. Gordon follows a little ways behind, I think.

    ¡°Hey.¡± They look up.

    ¡°Hey,¡± they reply. They tilt their head. ¡°You new?¡±

    Gordon comes up from behind me, and they relax slightly, smiling. ¡°Oh, hi Gordy! Who¡¯s the new guy?¡±

    ¡°Hey, Sarah! This is Alex. Hemight be taking this route from now on,¡± he says, abruptly patting my head.

    I think I may have a heart attack.

    Sarah. Suddenly, I¡¯m having trouble reaching for the case.

    She stands up and pulls out some cash anyways, though, and Gordon nudges me.

    I fumble with the case again, but I still manage to pull out a capsule, and shove it into her hand before I can change my mind.

    ¡°Oh, woops ¡ª uh, thanks, Alex,¡± she says, almost dropping the capsule. ¡°I have somewhere to be, but I guess I¡¯ll¡­ see you around, huh?¡±

    I nod. She waves, and walks off, leaving us standing on the sidewalk. It¡¯s getting a little later, and people are becoming more and more sparse.

    ¡°Getting cold feet?¡± Gordon asks.

    I stay silent for a minute. Surprisingly, he doesn¡¯t push.

    ¡°I had a friend named Sera,¡± I say.

    I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve been on this street before, but right now 2-A looks abnormally filthy.

    ¡°Mm,¡± Gordon replies.

    I sigh. ¡°Next one.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± he says, pulling a burner out of his pocket. ¡°3-A¡¯s next. I can do this one.¡±

    I nod, and we walk further into the city.

    ¡ª

    I get home at the usual time, and while I don¡¯t think my parents are really pleased by how much I¡¯ve been going out recently, they probably don¡¯t care enough to really do anything about it. I don¡¯t get much trouble from them.

    In my room, I go for my notebook pretty much immediately. I want to write all this down before I forget.

    I plop down at my desk chair and flip it to an empty page to start with the basics.

    Mike¡¯s Gang operates in an extremely disjointed manner. Cook seems to have very minor interaction with most of the cells in his gang, and they essentially operate solely as a personal mercenary company, who only really take jobs from him.

    Because he¡¯s the only manufacturer of Stew, though, he can afford to have his cells operate without actually paying for them; instead he has individual cell leaders facilitate the induction of new members through addiction ¡ª he lets his goons get people addicted on purpose to get new members. Essentially no one in the gang is actually loyal to Cook, but he leverages his powers to make loyalty largely irrelevant.

    That way he can delegate while personally keeping an insanely low profile. He might not even need to show up to most of the distributions, it¡¯s why he¡¯s so hard to catch.

    If I want to find him, I need to work my way up the ladder. Mikey dishes out payment after jobs, and takes the earnings after our routes, meaning he has to get his supply from someone. I need to be there when he does.

    Which means becoming reliable.

    I pause my writing and sigh. This is so much more¡­ gray than I thought it would be.

    I look down at my notebook and its scrawled letters, names, locations, approximate payment amounts.

    Maybe this isn¡¯t worth it.

    I frown. If Cook gets put away, his entire operation would collapse. It would be over. Maybe he wouldn¡¯t get vaulted, but while he¡¯s in jail he wouldn¡¯t be hurting anyone, and the longer he¡¯s in there the worse it gets for Mike¡¯s Gang.

    It¡¯s not like the heroes are going to do anything about it. They¡¯re too busy trying to punch out Highlander, or chasing Clockwerk around the block for twenty minutes after she robs a convenience store. No one else is going to do it.

    And it¡¯s not like someone else wouldn¡¯t do it anyway. Gordon usually does that route. He¡¯d keep doing it if I weren¡¯t there. Me abstaining wouldn¡¯t make a difference.

    But I can¡¯t stop thinking¡­ what if that were Sera?

    I wouldn¡¯t be able to do it.

    Why? Because I know ¡ª knew her?

    I close the notebook. This is difficult.

    I huff. Why is this difficult? It shouldn¡¯t be. Vincent should be here. Sera should be here.

    What would she want me to do?

    Standing up from my chair, I march my way down the stairs and out the door. Mom¡¯s in her room, and dad isn¡¯t home yet, so no one stops me.

    I push out onto the porch and make a beeline to the former Hall residence. I¡¯m not even sure if Vincent still owns it.

    The streets are dark, with only the occasional light on in the houses nearby, and the silence at this hour is deafening.

    The house is empty. I can tell just by looking at it. It¡¯s quiet and dark and ominous.

    It¡¯s fucking lonely.

    I walk up to the porch. I bang on the door. I shout ¡°Vincent! You can¡¯t just leave! Where did you even go!? Vince!¡±

    A door opens next door. ¡°Quiet!¡±

    I stop banging. The door shuts.

    Slowly, I slide to the floor in front of the empty house.

    ¡°Fuck.¡±

 Chapter 1.5

    1.5

    I decide to continue my plan. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s right, but I do know that I need to do something.

    And, disturbingly, it gets easier. After a couple days, I do my first run alone, without Gordon. I pick up the case at the meeting place, and start a slow stroll down town towards the first stop on today¡¯s list. A couple people wander along the sidewalks, poking in and out of stores, never lingering too long.

    The disguise gets easier, too. I manage to tune out the way my skin crawls and my throat shakes every time I speak, at least for the most part.

    The first stop is nearby, and it goes pretty quickly. Gordon likes to stay and chat with the clients, I¡¯ve noticed. I don¡¯t know them as well as he does.

    I do take my time in between stops, people watch, look around inside the few stores that line some streets closer to the plaza. These past few days, it¡¯s been almost nice at points.

    The next spot on the list is a bus stop in the plaza. I end up having to loop back around, and near one end I see the blue overhang, looking grimier than it probably should be. One of the clients I recognize from yesterday sits on the bench under it. Sarah, actually.

    I take my time walking over, trying to seem nonchalant and keeping an eye out for other people nearby.

    By the time I get to the bus stop, no one¡¯s really close enough to see anything I do. I walk up to Sarah and, seeing she notices me, start to pull out the case.

    In the middle of handing over a capsule, a screech fills the air, the sound of metal on metal, and a number of violent clanks ring out, seeming like they''re getting closer.

    I freeze, just as a car-esque rusty iron contraption made of an unstable-looking, barely-there frame filled to the brim with gears, springs, ratchets, and a giant crank sticking out of the back drifts around the corner of the plaza entrance, leaning as it turns, and starts to head in my general direction.

    People around the plaza start running, and I think I hear a couple screams, but I can¡¯t really be sure over the metal cacophony the machine is producing.

    ¡°What the fuck?!¡± I hear Sarah shout as she jumps up from the bench. I¡¯m in the middle of getting my legs to move when the thing slides to a stop at the convenience store next to us, smoking and sparking and smelling like burnt rubber.

    A door pops open, and out hops a shorter girl with messy brown hair, a bandana, and goggles covering her face and a number of extremely unsafe-looking mechanical gadgets scattered around her person.

    Clockwerk.

    She dusts off her overalls and practically skips into the convenience store, slinging one of her machines from over her shoulder into her hands.

    Sarah and I stand stock-still at the bus stop.

    ¡°Should¡­ should we go?¡± she asks. I blink.

    I open my mouth to respond, but I¡¯m interrupted by a bang, and bells jingling as Clockwerk strides back out of the store, plopping a cash register down in her contraption. It creaks and bends to one side.

    She huffs and wipes her brow. Which is interesting considering I don¡¯t think she broke a sweat.

    Then, her gaze darts around, landing after a second on us. I tense. I¡¯m still holding the Stew capsule.

    She scowls.

    In a quick and obviously calculated movement she draws a machine strapped to her hip, a harsh ping sounding out through the plaza. It¡¯s accompanied by a sharp crack and tiny bits of concrete showering my ankles where a 6-inch long metal pike sticks out of the ground in front of me.

    I stifle a hysterical laugh and drop the capsule. Isn¡¯t she supposed to use rubber rods??

    ¡°No drugs at the 7-Eleven!¡± She shouts.

    ¡°S- sorry?¡± Sarah calls out tentatively. Clockwerk snorts, reholsters her bolt gun and hops back into her gear car, speeding off with an initial metallic clunk and a continued cacophony of violent kinetics.

    The plaza is completely empty by now, and Sarah and I get to experience a rare and surreal moment of silence in the city. And then, of course, police sirens sound.

    ¡°Shit,¡± I mutter, scrambling for the dropped capsule and pushing it into Sarah¡¯s hands. She pockets it, glancing around frantically, and tosses me a roll of cash as she jogs out towards the plaza exit.

    I break away and start sprinting at a nearby alley. Thankfully, I know a shortcut.

    I don¡¯t get arrested, which is good because I have research to do.

    ¡ª

    I open my notebook.

    Clockwerk. Independent villain, registered by the USMW since 2016. Typically performs small heists, destroys public property. No recorded kills.

    A three-year career. She¡¯s popular online, for a villain, I remember keeping up with her as a freshman.

    Her power¡¯s some kind of remote ability ¡ª gears just work better for her, or at least that¡¯s what people think. In reality, most supers try to keep their powers vague.

    She¡¯s usually pretty non-combative. It¡¯s how she gets away with stuff without the USMC heroes coming down on her. It makes her bolt gun usage even more jarring. Does she care that much about drug distribution in the plaza? Maybe she lives somewhere nearby?

    I¡¯ll have to avoid her. I make a note.

    Aside from that, Ava and Gordon were at the house when I went to pick up a shipment yesterday. I couldn¡¯t pinpoint why, but I had a sense they didn¡¯t exactly want to be there.

    Which means they had to be. The timing didn¡¯t work out this time, but next time I get a chance like that, I¡¯ll stick by the house and try and catch whatever they¡¯re doing. I have a travel bag packed with essentials I¡¯m planning on taking on future runs, just in case, and I wrote down the date and time of their meeting so that I''ll be able to estimate when it¡¯s likely to happen next.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Next time, the timing will work out. I¡¯ll make it work out.

    ¡ª

    I get my chance the next time I see Ava, actually. It¡¯s early in the morning this time, I¡¯m having to skip my first few classes to be here. I¡¯m sure that¡¯s gonna come back to bite me tonight, basically, but this is important.

    The air is cool and slightly foggy as I jog up to Mikey¡¯s house in a thick coat and a hat. Westpoint¡¯s normally pretty cold, and it only gets colder.

    I knock on the door and wait. It takes a minute, and some muffled voices before the door slowly opens, revealing Ava hovering cautiously on the other side.

    ¡°Oh. It¡¯s you,¡± she says, opening the door wider and abruptly turning to walk away. I sigh and step in, closing the door behind me.

    Mikey¡¯s place is the same as last time, slightly barren in some places while overflowing with magazines and other forms of paper media in others. The whole place smells weird.

    Ava saunters over and plops herself down on one of the couches. I don¡¯t want to push my luck, so I just stand nearby, still a little awkward in spite of how many times I¡¯ve done this.

    Then, another knock at the door.

    ¡°Who the fuck is it now,¡± I hear Mikey shout from somewhere in the kitchen, I think.

    Ava rolls her eyes. ¡°Go check, dipshit.¡±

    He stomps over, and I shuffle out of the way. Muttering to himself, he peers through the peephole on the door before yanking it open. A short, pale guy stands on the other side, looking decidedly well-dressed for this part of town, aside from a few choice patches decorating his collared shirt. He¡¯s looking at his phone, but he slides it into his right pocket when he sees Mikey.

    I catch Mikey plastering on a smile. ¡°Sammy! What¡¯s up?¡± He steps back and opens the door all the way while ¡®Sammy,¡¯ apparently, walks inside. He doesn¡¯t really look at Mikey.

    He looks at Ava, and then he looks at me. ¡°Who are these two?¡± His voice is flat, and his demeanor screams business.

    If this is who I think it is, I have to come up with a plan quickly. I need information, a photo of him or like thirty minutes with his phone preferably. I might have to follow him home.

    I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter. I really want his phone.

    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re thugs, don¡¯t worry about it. Here, I¡¯ll take you out back, and we can talk.¡±

    The well-dressed guy shows himself out to the back porch, with Mikey scrambling to follow. I stand by the entrance, trying to think up some way to get in this guy¡¯s pockets without tipping anyone off.

    Maybe I should just go for it. The face I¡¯m using right now is disposable, and I can heal anything they throw at me.

    Unless it damages my brain, I don¡¯t know if I can heal that. And I need food to heal, so I guess I might have to start cannibalizing less important parts at some point? So hypothetically, if someone were to cut me into an absurd amount of pieces I might not be able to ¡ª

    Maybe that isn¡¯t such a great idea. But I can¡¯t let him leave without knowing where he¡¯s going to go next.

    I¡¯m still brainstorming when Ava interrupts.

    ¡°So what are you after, anyway?¡± She¡¯s leaning back on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. I notice that before I fully process her words and do a double take.

    ¡°What?¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb. I know you¡¯re not homeless. You wear clean clothes, deodorant, I haven¡¯t seen you at any of the nearby shelters. Why¡¯re you really here?¡± She smirks. ¡°Promise I won¡¯t tell.¡±

    I panic slightly. ¡°None of that means I can¡¯t be homeless, technically.¡±

    She chuckles. ¡°Well, if I didn¡¯t know before,¡± she says, taking a drag of her cigarette.

    I decide to stay silent. I also try not to fidget, but I¡¯m slightly less successful at that.

    ¡°Oh come on, spit it out.¡±

    ¡°Why do you even want to know?¡± I shoot back.

    Ava sighs, and turns to look out the window. I follow her gaze.

    There¡¯s a concrete wall a short distance from the glass.

    ¡°You know my old office used to be in a skyscraper?¡± She says, seemingly unprompted. ¡°The windows up there ¡ª they had a purpose. You could see half the city from up there. You could see the sunset.¡± She takes a drag of her cigarette.

    ¡°Whenever I was in the middle of writing a piece ¡ª I was a journalist ¡ª I¡¯d always be staring out of that window. It was sort of a habit.¡±

    She huffs. ¡°Still a habit, actually. I don¡¯t write anymore, but I still look out the windows.¡±

    Ava¡¯s looked older than me since the day I met her, but right now is the only time I¡¯ve seen her so¡­ tired. Vulnerable.

    And then it¡¯s gone. She steels herself, turning to meet my gaze.

    ¡°I don¡¯t write anymore, but journalism is a habit. Indulge me.¡±

    I¡­ don¡¯t know what to do here. Does she think her speech is going to inspire me to spill my guts or something?

    I take a moment to study her face. She looks indifferent. Indifferent, but¡­ curious?

    Before I know it, I¡¯m opening my mouth.

    ¡°I need that guy¡¯s phone.¡± I pause. ¡°I¡¯m going to take down Cook.¡±

    Ava smiles, and even though she¡¯s technically mundane, her smile has an edge to it, one that speaks of righteous malice and decades of experience.

    ¡°Can¡¯t wait.¡±

    She lets out one last puff of her cigarette, puts it out on the sofa, and stands. ¡°Bit of advice, though, when you¡¯re trying to go undercover ¡ª you gotta commit to your character. Get comfortable in your own skin. You¡¯ve been practically trying to crawl out of it since I met you,¡± she says offhandedly.

    I try not to react while she makes an about-face and heads down the hall to the back porch, where I can hear Mikey and the distributor still talking. It¡¯s not until I see her wave me over that I scramble to follow.

    Ava reaches the back door and slams it open, startling Mikey, while the distributor seems largely unaffected.

    ¡°Michael, control your employees,¡± the distributor says.

    ¡°Told you to call me Mikey,¡± he whines.

    She ignores them. ¡°Hey, Mikey! You know who this guy is?¡± She says, thumbing at the distributor.

    He stands up, but Ava keeps talking, stepping out next to the doorway.. ¡°He¡¯s got patches on his shirt, is he important or homeless ¡ª¡±

    The distributor slams Ava against the wall, arm barred across her neck, and I tense up in preparation for a fight. ¡°Michael, if you do not handle this, it will reflect upon your standing with Cook¡¯s organization.¡±

    Mikey jumps up, waving his hands around. ¡°Hey hey hey, let¡¯s uh¡­ let¡¯s all just calm down a little, yeah?¡± I ignore him. I¡¯m still between deciding to punch out the distributor or run when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

    Ava¡¯s teeth are gritted, and her eyes are centered on the distributor¡¯s face, even as he stares at Mikey, but her right hand swishes up. She¡¯s motioning at the distributor¡¯s pocket.

    I step onto the porch and start moving around behind the distributor, on the other side of Mikey.

    ¡°Listen, I¡¯m sorry,¡± Mikey whimpers, ¡°I¡¯ll ¡ª Ava, say you¡¯re sorry.¡±

    ¡°Whatever,¡± she spits. Her tiny hand waving gets a little more frantic.

    Off to the side, slightly behind the distributor, I start to subtly drift my hand near his pocket. He shifts, and I try to adjust. Ava¡¯s hand waving changes direction several times as I creep closer.

    ¡°Michael.¡±

    ¡°Ava! You ¡ª¡±

    I snag the edge of the device and slide it out of his pocket.

    ¡°Fine, whatever. Sorry, patchy dude,¡± Ava spits out. The distributor doesn¡¯t look pleased, but he backs off, leaving Ava bent over, coughing.

    Mikey sighs. ¡°Both of you get the fuck out.¡±

    We leave. Ava very dramatically.

    In contrast, I walk through the cluttered mess of Mikey¡¯s house with as much efficiency as possible. There¡¯s no point in sticking around, I have the phone, I have my chance. It¡¯s time to leave, drop the disguise forever and start planning the actual takedown.

    Finally. I¡¯m so close.

    I stop at the front door, heart beating in my chest while Ava sits back down on the sofa.

    I hesitate, but¡­ ¡°Thanks.¡± I say.

    Ava snorts. ¡°Just go. Make sure he goes in the pit and stays there.¡±

    Slowly, I turn and nod.

    Then, opening the door with a burst of harsh winter air, I step back out into the city and make my escape.

 Chapter 1.6

    1.6

    Back at home, after a nerve-wracking day at school in which I did get chewed out but my parents weren¡¯t called just yet, I sit on my bed watching my laptop try to connect to the stolen phone. I have a phone restore toolkit I found on some backwater forum running, and I¡¯m hoping it does its job along with the bitcoin it¡¯s inevitably mining.

    As interesting as the green loading bar moving at one pixel per minute is, though, my mind can¡¯t help but wander.

    I have to commit to the character?

    I know it¡¯s a weird thing to get stuck on, but it hit me for some reason. My disguise wasn¡¯t meant to be a character in the first place. Obviously, I had to act at least a little in some specific scenarios, but most of it was just me. Or, it was supposed to be, I guess.

    Crawling out of my own skin. It wasn¡¯t that bad, was it? Ava¡¯s the only one who really noticed, so it can¡¯t have been, right?

    I frown. That¡¯s stupid. People ignore things all the time, it¡¯s how we get through the day. I guess Ava¡¯s just more observant than usual.

    The loading bar ticks over another pixel.

    The thing is, though, I didn¡¯t really get a skin-crawling sort of feeling when I was disguised. I mean, it was uncomfortable at first, having a different face, but I got used to it. Did I just not notice how much it was affecting me?

    Would Ava notice the same thing about me now?

    I blink. Am I uncomfortable right now?

    I look down at myself. He looks¡­ average, I think. I don¡¯t really have too many feelings about it.

    I can¡¯t really tell how I feel.

    The loading bar jumps forward a little more.

    What would Sera say?

    She was so timid when I first met her, but in the past year or so she kind of¡­ blossomed. She came out as trans, and it was like all of a sudden she was confident and in-control.

    It was all I could do to try to keep up.

    The stolen phone dings. I can¡¯t see the message yet, obviously, but I keep it in mind. The program''s something like ninety percent done, so it shouldn¡¯t be too long.

    It¡¯s getting dark out. The city floodlights are slowly flickering on around the neighborhood and in the distance.

    I think I wanted to be her.

    It feels taboo. Now that she¡¯s not around, especially.

    It feels repulsive.

    What would she have wanted?

    The program loads, and the phone dings. I lean over and shake the mouse. If nothing else, I know Sera talked a lot about the damage Cook and his gang do to the city¡¯s foundations. That, I can do something about.

    ¡ª

    Cook will be meeting with three of his direct subordinates in a warehouse downtown, likely accompanied by Suckup and a number of armed guards. This is the extent of the information I was able to get from the stolen phone.

    It¡¯s enough. No more waiting, no more planning. No more stalling. As the sun sets over Westpoint, light glittering off the rooftops and spilling into the dark, I yank my bag out of the closet.

    My phone, bat, a couple cans of mace and granola bars, and an outfit. The old one was trashed, so I had to replace the hoodie and jeans, but the mask survived. Mostly.

    Dark stains creep up one side, broken up by hairline cracks. I didn¡¯t have the money for a new one, but it might be better this way.

    I don¡¯t bother sneaking out. Neither of my parents are near the front entrance, my mom¡¯s in her room and dad¡¯s probably in his office. I walk out, and they don¡¯t notice. They probably won¡¯t until a little later, or whenever they check the fridge.

    The spring air is cool, and the neighborhood is quiet. I start the walk downtown. The only other time I tried something like this, I was looking for trouble. This time, I stick to the shadows, avoid people. I check my phone frequently, trying to stay on track for the shortcut I planned out to the warehouse, and on the way I listen to the daily broadcast in one earbud.

    Something hardens in my chest as I move. This is it. This is what it¡¯s all for. The missed school, the distribution, the fucking disguise. It ends here, toppled alongside Cook¡¯s sick empire.

    ¡°Welcome back to the WNN evening hour, where we¡¯ll review the audio record the USMC has generously provided us with from the Forecaster itself! Here¡¯s the clip.

    ¡°¡®Report 4,312, subsection 1: Aberrants 1 through 3: deceased. Aberrant 4: accounted for; 61.306415 N, 73.478564 E. Aberrants 5 through 7: unaccounted for. Aberrant 0: rate increase of 12.3%. Subsection 2: terran weather patterns mundane. Day of 5/20/2019 EST predicted overcast, light rain, 62 degrees eastern, 67 degrees western. Report concluded.

    ¡°¡®This audio has been provided by the United States Metahuman Coalition in accordance with the Public Supernatural Act of 2012. The United States Metahuman Coalition does not unilaterally condone the information included therein or the actions of the information¡¯s source.¡¯

    ¡°And isn¡¯t that lovely, folks? Looks like the Heartbreaker¡¯s on the move again, after its recent departure from what was formerly Surgut. We¡¯ll continue keeping all of you at home posted as it trawls along the eastern territories.¡±

    The reporter¡¯s voice begins to fade into the background as I walk through the city streets.

    Eventually, the warehouse looms among the brutalist black mass of shadowed buildings, a twisted monument to industry.

    As I come up to the back lot, I notice some cars parked outside, guarded by one guy in a heavy patched coat and military-esque straps. He wears a patchy handkerchief over his mouth, and though it¡¯s hard to see in the dark, I think he¡¯s carrying a gun.

    I take a moment to use my power. My available mass is slightly increased due to my cupboard-raiding in preparation for tonight, and I have more snacks stored in my bag just in case. I don¡¯t really know how much they¡¯ll help, but I¡¯ll take anything I can get.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    I run through a check-up, doing some last-minute muscle tuning, but I try to save most of my energy for the next part.

    I crouch behind a nearby van and slowly crawl my way closer. He seems distracted.

    When he looks down to fiddle with one of his straps I dart from the van to the fancy-looking car he stands in front of. He sighs and looks back up as I circle around and close the last few feet to him, bat raised.

    He goes down as soon as the bat makes contact. Maybe he should¡¯ve been paying more attention.

    I turn him over and dig out my phone, flicking on the flashlight. Tall white guy, shaggy dark beard, thick eyebrows. Close-cropped hair. Looks to be¡­ five foot nine?

    I take a couple photos and undress him, starting with his coat.

    T-shirt, slacks, gun straps, coat and mask. They hang off me, a little inconveniently. I kneel down, and get to work on fixing that.

    I leave the gun, though.

    It takes me around ten minutes to nail down the guard¡¯s general appearance. I¡¯ll be wearing the mask, so I can get away with minor inaccuracies, but his voice is going to be a problem. I lengthen my vocal chords just in case, but generally I should avoid talking.

    Once I finish my modifications, I do a couple stretches, kick the guard under the car and make my way to the warehouse¡¯s back entrance. No one¡¯ll know what really happened to him until it¡¯s already too late.

    I reach the back door and shake the handle. It¡¯s locked. I take a second to put my ear up against the door.

    Silence from inside. I make a gamble.

    Bracing myself against the asphalt, I rear back and shove myself forward, shoulder-checking the center of the door and snapping the admittedly sorta flimsy lock clean off. There¡¯s a bang as it hits the wall, and a clatter as broken mechanisms hit the floor.

    I stand in the doorway and wait, listening for movement. Nothing yet.

    Slow, deliberate steps carry me farther into the building and down a grimy hallway dotted with the occasional fluorescent light and metal door lining the wall. The lights flicker and buzz, saturating the air with a distinct edge.

    At the end of the hall I move to take a right when I see another guard just around the corner. I almost panic. Almost. With only the slightest trip, I look the other guard in the eyes, give him a deliberate nod and walk away. His eyes are lidded, his gun dangling next to his crossed arms while he gives a grunt and a half-hearted nod back.

    Taking the right at the end of the hall, aiming towards the storage section of the building, it doesn¡¯t take long before I reach a door at the end of it; metal with a small glass window at eye level.

    Looking through, there¡¯s a small lobby with a glass window facing out to the wider warehouse area. I think I might be able to see movement some distance away out there.

    I grab the handle. It¡¯s unlocked this time.

    I open the door, walk in, and freeze.

    Another guard, this one standing off to the right of the door. I didn¡¯t see him through the glass. He¡¯s shorter than the other two, but he has his hand on his gun, and until I came in I¡¯m pretty sure he was watching the meeting behind the glass intently.

    Which means now, he¡¯s watching me intently.

    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be outside,¡± he barks, eyes narrowing.

    I still have my bag, but there¡¯s no way I¡¯ll be able to grab anything from it before he can shoot me. I¡¯ll have to either walk my way out or incapacitate him empty-handed.

    Thankfully, I¡¯m basically right next to him. Still, it¡¯s going to be close.

    In a last ditch attempt to end this without a fight, I make a nod towards the window, and the door next to it leading to the wider warehouse, hoping the other guy gets the message.

    He doesn¡¯t. ¡°What? The door was locked, how did you even get in?¡±

    The guard takes a step back and starts to lift his gun.

    I call it. Stepping closer, I quickly reach out ¡ª it¡¯s easier than I expect due to my disguise¡¯s arm length, but I adjust easily.

    I snatch the gun from the guard and clumsily swing it over his head with a whack. He grunts and stumbles back, falling against the far wall and pushing a couple plastic chairs to the side. I can tell he¡¯s still conscious as he tries to scramble back to his feet.

    He goes down for good after I give him a few extra hits for good measure.

    One guard in the hallway behind me, one knocked out here, an unknown amount farther into the warehouse along with Cook and Suckup. I can¡¯t take them all out, so the next stage of the plan is a little different.

    I pull out my phone and dial the police.

    It rings once, twice, then a click as the call connects.

    ¡°WPD, what is your emergency?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve run into some kind of drug operation at the abandoned warehouse on 3rd. Registered villains Cook and Suckup are involved,¡± I say, trying not to wince at my deeper, altered voice. It¡¯s beneficial at the moment.

    ¡°Acknowledged. T-minus 15 minutes until arrival, stay on the line.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± I say, tossing my phone to the side where it skitters under a nearby table. And with that, we move on to the last stage of the plan.

    I simply need to distract Cook for five minutes. Without dying. Or being arrested.

    My disguise, first. Don¡¯t really want anyone knowing I can do this, so. I need something distinctly not like any of the guards, and nondescript enough to be disconnected from my old appearance.

    I shed the patchy bandana and focus on my power.

    Something¡¯s been coiling in my gut since last night. If I get caught or killed, this face is the one I¡¯m going to be wearing for the foreseeable future.

    I¡¯m doing this for Sera. What would she want me to do?

    I think she¡¯d want me to be happy. And anyway, I have a shapeshifting power. No reason not to experiment.

    A shorter, lighter body with denser muscles, more delicate features, bone white hair with only a hint of black roots. Slightly pointed teeth, dark blood-red irises that glint in the dark. Ten minutes later, I slide open the warehouse door, an entirely new person.

    Five minutes left. Workable.

    I¡¯d been checking every so often out the window to make sure Cook¡¯s group wasn¡¯t leaving. They weren¡¯t till about a couple minutes ago, they seemed like they were just waiting. Now, sneaking across the warehouse floor, quietly scrambling behind wooden crates and metal scrap, I can see another person tied to a chair. They''re lit by the soft orange light of a lamp stacked on top of some scrap near the wall.

    He¡¯s surrounded by three guards, a younger guy in a cowboy hat, shitty glasses and way too many belts adorned by small patches, and a shorter, middle-aged man in a white lab coat. The only patch on it is on his breast pocket.

    It¡¯s a chef¡¯s hat. As I quietly approach, I can hear them talking. I slip my cracked hockey mask out of the bag.

    ¡°...Just listen to the big guy, yeah? This¡¯s important, dipshit,¡± the guy in the cowboy hat says. Suckup. He can consume matter through touch, and use it to create structures. He usually has canisters on him that boost his power somehow. I adjust my position to get a better look, and¡­ yeah. There. Strapped to his boots.

    ¡°Fuck you guys! I didn¡¯t do nothing!¡± The captive¡¯s agitated. He struggles with his restraints until one of the guards visibly lifts his gun. ¡°Just¡­ just lemme go!¡±

    ¡°Maybe. You¡¯ll answer my questions, first.¡±

    Cook finally speaks up. His voice is understated, but steady, confident. He walks towards the captive, pulling a small canister from somewhere inside his coat.

    The captive leans away. ¡°Wh ¡ª what is that?! Stop ¡ª seriously, you can¡¯t ¡ª¡±

    Cook reaches the man and jabs the thing into his neck. The captive goes limp.

    He drops the canister into his pocket and wipes his hand on his coat.

    ¡°On March 7th at around 2pm, you successfully returned from a distribution run with the product stashed on your person. During the review of the monthly organization census, your deception was discovered.¡±

    Cook adjusts his coat and leans down. ¡°Where did you stash the product?¡±

    ¡°At my apartment. Room seventeen, Street 2-A, under the sink.¡± The captive answers in a daze. My blood runs cold. What did he inject him with?

    ¡°Did you work with anyone else?¡±

    ¡°Not directly. But my motivations were related to my partner, who I share an apartment with. Jake Mendez, twenty-four years old.¡±

    ¡°Did you tell anyone else?¡±

    ¡°No, I did not.¡±

    Cook straightens, and reaches back into his coat. ¡°Acceptable.¡±

    Then, he pulls a gun out of his coat and shoots the captive. The gunshot echoes throughout the warehouse.

    I don¡¯t move a muscle.

    Cook returns the gun. ¡°Time to leave. Collect the others¡± He motions towards the exit door, the one I came out of.

    I tense. I can¡¯t let him leave. I have to do something now.

    I¡¯ll have to improvise.

    I take a breath, slide on my mask, and step out from behind cover.

 Chapter 1.7

    1.7

    ¡°Hey¡­ uh!¡± Ugh, this can¡¯t be my opener again. C¡¯mon, gotta follow it up with something witty.

    Cook turns. His guards snap to attention, training their weapons at my face. Suckup scrambles a little.

    ¡°You ¡ª um, stop!¡± They stare at me.

    I think it¡¯s getting worse. I swallow my pride. ¡°Don¡¯t shoot me! Because, uh, because you¡¯re gonna want to hear what I have to say.¡±

    ¡°Fuck off, bitch-tits, the boss doesn¡¯t want ¡ª¡± Suckup starts. He doesn¡¯t get to finish.

    Cook nods, and I see Suckup¡¯s jaw snap shut. ¡°Alright,¡± He says, motioning for his guards to stand down. They lower their weapons, but they stay alert and in a tight formation around Cook.

    I blink. Okay. Going well so far.

    ¡°I¡¯m ¡ª I¡¯m going to reach into my bag to grab something, okay?¡± I slowly raise my hands into the air. Very slowly

    Cook nods.

    I slide my duffel bag around to my front and dig around for my phone. An idea is starting to form in the back of my mind.

    Once I find it, I hold up the phone in front of me. ¡°That¡­ that thing you did,¡± I say, motioning at the dead guy, ¡°I caught it on camera.¡±

    I hear Suckup spit a quiet ¡°cocksucker¡± under his breath. Cook just stares. ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And ¡ª¡± And what?! ¡°Uh, and I sent it to an offsite server; only I know the location!¡±

    He looks skeptical. I think.

    I huff. ¡°Okay, so it¡¯s not super believable, but are you really willing to take the chance? I¡¯ve seen how you operate; you¡¯re meticulous.¡±

    Cook nods. ¡°Sure. Then, continue.¡±

    ¡°Yeah! Yeah, um, I want ¡ª¡± What the fuck do I want? What would someone in this position be gunning for? ¡°I want money.¡±

    He sighs. Suckup starts turning a little red.

    ¡°How much?¡±

    Shit, uh. ¡°F ¡ª five thousand!¡±

    He nods. ¡°Acceptable.¡±

    Fuck. He can¡¯t leave.

    ¡°Hundred! Five hundred thousand,¡± I cut in.

    For the first time during our conversation, Cook¡¯s expression sours. ¡°I would advise you not to test me, child. There¡¯s only so much I¡¯m willing to invest into preventing a chance at being exposed.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Two-fifty?¡±

    He glares. I check the time. Two minutes.

    Good, almost there. Once the USMW arrive, I¡¯ll take cover and let them duke it out.

    Edging towards a nearby crate, I try to continue stalling.

    ¡°Okay, well, let¡¯s work something out here. Exactly how high are you willing to ¡ª¡±

    And then everything goes wrong.

    A door near the far end of the warehouse bangs open, and in a blaze of sharp fire and shining orange light, a figure bursts into view a short distance from the guards, smoke curling around their form and in front of their feet.

    The guards raise their weapons ¡ª three rifles trained on a haze of black smoke and dust. Before they can fire, though, the smoke moves; a limb strikes out from the darkness, flashes with a blast of heat and light, knocking the closest guard¡¯s gun into the warehouse wall.

    I jump for cover, and it looks like the intruder does too. Sharp cracks and bursts of light flare against the walls of the building, piercing holes in the smoke.

    From my spot behind a crate, I watch Suckup pull a canister from his boot holsters. It¡¯s about the size of a soda can, glass capped with some kind of metal ends. As he leans down to touch the concrete floor, it melts in his hand, emitting a harsh hissing sound and sliding up his arm before any of the liquid metallic substance inside hits the ground. Four crude steel walls sprout up to around waist height around them, growing up from the floor within seconds.

    The guards crouch down at the walls, facing the now-fading cloud of smoke from the intruder.

    A younger, feminine voice sounds out from behind a nearby car. ¡°So, which one of you called the cops? Gotta know who I¡¯m not allowed to blast, y¡¯know!¡±

    Oh my god. USMC Junior division. A high schooler is going to save me from a firefight.

    ¡°It was me!¡± I yell, just in case, and then yelp as concrete shatters next to me. They know where I am now, I¡¯ll have to move soon.

    An appropriate distraction serves itself up a second later. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cook dig a rectangular glass object out of his coat and toss it at the car. A sticky black substance splatters all over the exterior, immediately beginning to hiss and rapidly corrode the car¡¯s chassis, spreading from the initial impact point. The guards raise their weapons.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    The junior hero launches herself up from behind the car, trailing bright tongues of orange flame and casting long shadows against the warehouse walls, leaving thick trails of smoke behind as she soars over the guards¡¯ head. She narrowly avoids scattered gunfire while the guards flinch away from the light. Cook takes a few steps back, rummaging through his coat again.

    I catch a glimpse of her outfit. Black visor, cropped red leather jacket, undershirt and tight leather pants, durable-looking minimalist boots. A yellow logo, a sharp flame in a yellow circle, is plastered in the center of her shirt. The light she¡¯s emitting shines out from flares of heat bursting from her hands and feet.

    Jackie Jet, girl wonder. Fantastic.

    Suckup rears back as well, but manages to get his wits together sooner. He pulls another canister, dissolving it to manifest a steel pike that shoots up from the ground at the junior.

    She reacts, blasting to the side in a burst of heat and light. The waves of hot air wash over me, even under cover, and I can feel myself starting to sweat.

    Falling behind Cook¡¯s squad, and with them disoriented, she lets out another burst, shoulder-tackling a guard into one of Suckup¡¯s steel walls. Something cracks and the guard screams, dropping to the floor as she flares up and bursts away again, leaving behind a thick cloud of smoke.

    I take this as my cue to move, and in a split second decision, I stand and sprint over to the outside of Suckup¡¯s walls, crouching right under it. Then, I slide my bat out of my bag.

    Cook, hacking up smoke, smashes another vial on the concrete and the smoke disperses in a small bubble around him, Suckup, and the last remaining guard.

    ¡°Suckup! Pin her!¡± Cook screams, finally yanking his gun from his jacket, as well as splaying three separate vials of a new substance in his fingers. The guard snaps to position as the sound of footsteps echoes from somewhere nearby. He opens fire immediately, and I see heat flare up from the source of the noise.

    Dammit, high schooler. I stand up and raise my bat.

    Jet comes flying out from behind cover, darting to the side to avoid the last guard¡¯s suppressive fire and beelining for Suckup. I take the opportunity, whacking the guard on the head, then turning to keep track of Jet as he crumples.

    Out of the corner of my eye I see Suckup melt another canister and fire another steel spike at Jet, forcing her to blast sideways and come in from his left. Deftly, he palms another canister and pulls up a wall before Jet can reach him.

    Jet stops before the wall and soars up and over, touching down behind Suckup and looking like she¡¯s winding up for another shoulder-check.

    Then, a crack, and the clatter of shattered glass hitting the ground, and the area around Cook is saturated with a murky orange hue. Jet drops instantly. Cook and Suckup are unaffected.

    Shit.

    Cook whirls around and fires his gun without hesitation, clipping my shoulder. I dip into my power for just a second to stabilize it, then drop back behind Suckup¡¯s makeshift wall.

    I hear the hissing of Suckup¡¯s power, and metal walls start rising around me. I stand and dive out of the forming sphere, running to a nearby chunk of machinery while the crack of Cook¡¯s gun sounds and bullets chew up the ground around my legs.

    At the last couple steps one punctures my calf and I go down behind the machine. It takes about half a minute to stabilize with my power this time, And I can hear Cook start talking from over by the warehouse center.

    ¡°Girl! It is in your best interest to surrender! Our reinforcements will arrive shortly!¡± Cook shouts.

    I stay silent, even as I hear Suckup muttering something into what I assume is a communicator of sorts. I don¡¯t have many options.

    I hear a series of mechanical clicks, and the sound of something dropping to the floor. Then, a slide racking. ¡°If you do not show yourself within ten seconds, I will shoot the junior hero!¡±

    Fuck. Why did they send a highschooler?

    ¡°Ten! Nine! Eight!¡±

    If I don¡¯t stop them here, it¡¯s over. If I get caught here, it¡¯s over. The only way I get another chance is if I leave.

    ¡°Seven! Six! Five!¡±

    She knew what she was getting into, right? I can¡¯t give up on my goal, not yet. Is she worth sacrificing?

    I feel sick.

    ¡°Four! Three! Two!¡±

    I ¡ª I can¡¯t ¡ª

    I step out from behind the machinery. And then the roof caves in.

    Dust and chunks of rubble rain down next to what¡¯s left of Cook¡¯s squad. I can barely hear them shout for just a moment before a whirlwind of light, sound and wind floods the warehouse. Blinding white spotlights roam the walls, pinpoints of blue flutter around behind them, and the only thing I can hear is the deafening drone of turbines.

    Something does manage to pierce the maelstrom, though.

    ¡°All suspects: you are ordered to stand down immediately. Please drop any weapons or utilities, deactivate any powers and drop to your knees. Any resistance will be met with proportional force and absolute swiftness. Your actions during this time can and will reflect upon your time in court.¡± The voice is synthesized, cold and authoritative, but noticeably distinct. In fact, I¡¯ve heard this exact speech before.

    As the spotlights cease their roaming and center on us at the center of the warehouse, I¡¯m able to get a clearer picture of our assailant.

    A large platform hovers above us, boxy and heavily armored, with four inbuilt turbines adorning the corners. Lights along its sides flicker a deep blue.

    Around the room, smaller drones drift along, aiming spotlights at all of us with perfect accuracy and stability. They¡¯re similarly heavily armored, if a bit smaller, sporting only two smaller engines.

    Two larger drones hover behind the figure standing on the platform. A tall, intimidating woman with a mechanical mask reminiscent of a crown. The circular goggles attached to the faceplate shine twin dark blue beams out at us. The rest of her outfit flows down her body into a dress built from circuits and steel, flaring out into something resembling a birdcage.

    Her hands remain held behind her back as her platform lowers to hover just above the ground. Her smaller drones fly over and begin automatically cuffing us with arms that unfold from their underbellies. They aren¡¯t gentle about it either.

    This is Rook. Westpoint¡¯s top hero, and one of the strongest heroes in the country.

    It¡¯s over. I let out a deep, shaky breath as the drone cuffs me and leads me over to the warehouse door. It''s already been pried open to reveal some squad cars sitting outside. A couple guns are trained on me as I walk to the car the drone is leading me to, but I don¡¯t let it bother me. Cook is getting it about ten times worse.

    Three drones follow him into a separate vehicle, a large, heavily-armored police van that looks to contain multiple guards on the inside. I watch him step into the van, head held high and seemingly unbothered, and I don¡¯t know how to feel.

    I look back at the warehouse, towards the highschooler. Jet.

    Smaller drones tend to her, retrieving medical supplies from their chassis and constructing what I think is an emergency stretcher. She¡¯ll be fine.

    That¡¯s good. I step into the back of a squad car, and my drone escort closes the door and flies off. The police officers don¡¯t say a word after that. The driver and his buddy slide back into the car and start the engine.

    The ride is quiet, no sirens or anything. It gives me time to think about what I¡¯m gonna tell my parents.

 Chapter 2.0

    2.0

    Benjamin Moore sits in the back of a heavily armored vehicle. His hands are bound by overengineered cuffs built from some kind of material he¡¯s sure isn¡¯t available to the public. If it were, he¡¯d have gotten his hands on it by now, surely.

    Armed guards sit positioned in the surrounding seats, guns lowered but no less tense for it. They¡¯re anxious, he can feel it even through their bulletproof equipment and faceless black helmets. They expect him to try something.

    He doesn¡¯t know where they got that idea, it¡¯s not as if he has access to a lab here. Though, he supposes it¡¯s better to be cautious for no reason than to be ignorant when it counts.

    Perhaps, then, he should have better prepared for this eventuality. A breakable capsule embedded in his teeth, or under his nail ¡ª  even a launching mechanism subtly stored in his sleeve might have given him a chance at escape, back then.

    He would have had to have been decisive regardless, since the authorities searched him thoroughly during his stay at the temporary holding facility. In the end, this outcome may be optimal, even if it will likely damage his reputation.

    Ah, well. He wasn¡¯t going to stay untouchable forever. He¡¯ll simply have to crack down on his territory when he returns. No one¡¯s going to forget Cook any time soon.

    The vehicle rumbles, and if he weren¡¯t strapped in, a sharp lurch might have thrown him out of his seat. One of the guards noticeably turns their head. A built-in communicator?

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Cook wonders if his sitcoms will be on tonight.

    The vehicle lurches again, violently, and then the world blurs as the small container Cook and his jailers are thrown against their restraints. The vehicle rolls and hits the ground once, twice, three times. Metal screeches and bangs, even as the vehicle holds its structure before sliding to a stop. Upside down, Cook hangs with the guards as they struggle to undo their belts.

    He turns to the guard next to him. ¡°What do you think? The Brash and the Bodacious usually comes on Fridays, but occasionally they¡¯ll have a special.¡±

    The guard whips around to stare at Cook. ¡°Wh ¡ª¡±

    The vehicle doors burst open with a bang, and metal spears shoot through, impaling all the guards. Most of them die instantly. Another slides out of his seat and off the spike with a thump, groaning and crawling away from the entrance.

    One gathers their wits enough to aim their rifle and blindly fire at the doorway, but he¡¯s quickly silenced by a returning gunshot.

    After that, the vehicle is blessedly silent.

    ¡°Fuck yeah! We got em¡¯ boss!¡± Suckup shouts from the entrance. He looks to be standing next to someone as a number of lackeys swarm outside along a number of cars.

    Cook clears his throat. ¡°Wonderful. Would one of you be so kind as to let me down, now?¡±

    The other figure waves, and Suckup scrambles to undo the latches and catch Cook on his way down.

    Cook notices this¡­ deference. Interesting. As he stumbles to his feet, the first thing to catch his eye about the stranger are his eyes.

    They shine with a cruel, golden glow in the harsh midday sun.

    ¡°Hello, Benjamin. I believe we have some terms to discuss.¡±

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°Mm, I suppose I can tell you. My name is¡­

    ¡°Seneschal.¡±

 Chapter 2.1

    2.1

    ¡°Nah, I¡¯d like my lawyer, please.¡±

    The officer sighs. Again. ¡°Miss, if you¡¯d just work with us ¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, I want a lawyer.¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°Listen, there¡¯s only so much we can do for you here. But maybe if you ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Lawyer.¡±

    He looks to the heavens. ¡°Please. We can work something out.¡±

    He¡¯s been trying to get me to work something out with him for the past twenty minutes, and I haven¡¯t budged. The guy seems nice, but the white walls lined with steel, the heavy-looking exit door and the one-way glass on one side of the room makes the situation feel distinctly hostile. At this point I¡¯m just waiting for bad cop to stroll in.

    I glare at him. ¡°Not happening. I want legal counsel.¡±

    The officer looks about ready to do something drastic when finally, the door slides open, and someone new enters the room.

    ¡°That¡¯s not how this works,¡± she says, voice filtered and robotic. Lights glitter all over her armor, and her boots clunk on the tiled floor, accompanied by the slight whirring of servos. The door quickly slides closed behind her.

    ¡°R ¡ª Rook?!¡± The officer looks confused, and a little intimidated.

    ¡°Leave.¡± The guard hesitates for a second before scrambling for the door. Then, Rook and I are alone in the interrogation room. She stares at me in silence.

    I look around, awkwardly.

    ¡°You¡¯re a super,¡± she states. I had hoped to keep that to myself.

    I huff. ¡°Sure, fine. How¡¯d you find out?¡±

    ¡°Mundane civilians don¡¯t usually go looking for supervillain meetups.¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡± I lean back in my chair.

    Rook nods. ¡°Before we begin, what should I call you?¡±

    I scowl. ¡°I¡¯m not telling you my name.¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°Not your name. Do you have an alias yet? A nickname, even?¡±

    ¡°Uh, not really.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Then for now, I¡¯ll call you Red,¡± she says. I do a bit of a double-take. Where¡¯d she get that from? My hoodie?

    She pulls out a tablet from a tactical pocket on her dress, seeming to scroll through it for a moment before speaking.

    ¡°You have two options here, Red. The first one is simple, and likely the most beneficial. You join the USMC.¡±

    She¡¯s trying to recruit me? I just got arrested, is that really wise? I stay silent, waiting for her to continue.

    ¡°We will provide you with a stable career path, resources to explore and manage your powers, and regular tutoring in both core and supplementary material. All you¡¯d have to do is sign this, and obviously, fight crime.¡± She lays down the tablet in front of me. It displays a contract, with a line for a signature.

    ¡°What¡¯s the other option?¡± I say, eyeing her.

    I can¡¯t see her expression under the mask, but she sounds like she¡¯d be frowning. ¡°The second option is you reject this offer. You would be listed as an unaffiliated super, and with this incident staining your record, you could be registered as a villain. I think you know exactly how that would go.¡±

    I do. I¡¯m beginning to realize how little of a choice I actually have in this matter.

    I sigh. ¡°Fine.¡± I pick up the tablet, and write down my name.

    She hesitates as I hand it back. ¡°Hm. This is your legal name, correct? Is that what you¡¯d like to be called?¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°No, probably not.¡±

    ¡°Want to tell me what instead, then?¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Dunno.¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll just keep calling you Red.¡± She stores the tablet in one of her tactical pockets and motions towards the door. ¡°We¡¯ll expedite your recruitment some other time ¡ª we¡¯ll contact you. For now, Jennifer will take you home and inform your guardians. Let her do the talking.¡±

    Conveniently, the door opens, and who I assume is Jennifer steps in. She¡¯s a short asian woman with straight black hair tied up in a high ponytail, and a face bordered by short fluffy bangs. Her suit¡¯s only a little ruffled, mostly because she has the jacket part tied around her waist, and her shiny black dress shoes click neatly against the tile, in contrast to Rook¡¯s clunking. She wears slim rectangular glasses with a blocky chunk of tech attached to one side, threaded with wires that lead down the back of her shirt. She stands by the door and nods at the hallway beyond it, readjusting a large book bag hanging from her shoulder.

    The tech is weird. I don¡¯t know what to make of her, yet.

    ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get you home.¡± Cautiously, I rise from my chair and step out into the hallway. It¡¯s decorated similarly to the interrogation room; that is, it¡¯s not really decorated at all.

    Jennifer follows me out, and gestures for me to come along as she walks left down the hall.

    I walk alongside her, trying to get a read. What¡¯s her deal? Is she a social worker?

    ¡°Can I get my stuff back?¡± I ask.

    She glances at me. ¡°Any weapons? Illegal substances?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ no, not unless a bat and pepper spray counts.¡±

    Jennifer nods. ¡°Might not get the pepper spray back, but everything else should be fine. Here.¡±

    She takes a detour into a room on our right, and I follow her. It¡¯s a locker room with a desk near the entrance, staffed by a bored-looking receptionist.

    He snaps to attention when we enter. ¡°Ah, um ¡ª yes?¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°Evidence locker¡­¡± she hesitates, and a light on her glasses blinks blue. ¡° C7? Registered a couple hours ago.¡±

    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± the guy says, pulling out a card from under his desk. ¡°You know where it is, right? Third row from the right?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Jennifer states, already heading to a row of heavy metal lockers, each with a high-tech lock built into the door. She taps the card to the one labeled C7 and opens the door to reveal my bag hanging on a hook inside.

    I take the bag and sling it around my shoulder.

    ¡°Anything else?¡± She asks. I can¡¯t tell if she¡¯s being sarcastic.

    ¡°Nah, let¡¯s go.¡±

    Jennifer nods, and leads the way back out the hall and, finally, towards the set of double doors at the end of the building.

    It¡¯s late, really late. Pushing midnight, and while you can never really see the stars around here, the moon is high in the sky and the city¡¯s floodlights are on in full force. We move through the facility¡¯s lobby and into the parking lot, where heavy duty containment trucks and USMW personnel vans litter the tarmac, along with a mundane civilian car which I assume is Jennifer¡¯s. It stands out among the heavier equipment.

    It makes her stand out as well. Why is she here? Can¡¯t just be for me.

    I hop in the car alongside her, and we drive past the facility walls and into the wider city. The USMC headquarters stands tall and intimidating only a couple blocks away, surrounded by efficient, brutalist armored flooring and two large domes connected to the main pad where the teleporters are stored. Large roads stream in and out of the complex in a tangled mess of highway. They¡¯re always clogged.

    The tower itself brushes the clouds with a sharp, sleek design that looks vaguely like a weapon. Blocky spires stretch even farther from its center and choice spots around its hull, breaking up the idealistic shiny metal plating in favor of more pragmatic tech. Some of it even looks like stuff Rook would make, especially since I¡¯ve never seen it on any of the other hubs.

    We pass by towers of steel and concrete, brutalist overhangs and floodlights connected to ugly offshoots. Wires string across over the road and along alleyways, only occasionally hopping to and from a stray power pole. Everything¡¯s haphazard around here, not much point in putting effort into something that¡¯s going to get lasered or blown up in the next couple weeks.

    ¡°You know my address?¡± I ask.

    Jennifer nods. ¡°I do. Got your file pulled up when we left.¡±

    ¡°Creepy.¡±

    ¡°Necessary,¡± she snipes back.

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Jennifer sighs. ¡°Red, right now we have no clue what you can do. If you go rogue and start vaporizing hospitals, we need to know everything we can. So, yes, really.¡±

    ¡°Huh,¡± I say, turning to study her face. She focuses on the road, but her expression remains carefully neutral.

    While we drive through brightly-lit industrial highways, I note that she¡¯s wearing matte-black gloves, with metal cuffs attached to the ends. Been wearing them since we met, I think.

    The rest of the ride back is made in silence. The uncaring metal blocks give way to slightly more degraded urban areas, where the metal rusts and the concrete¡¯s covered in bright graffiti. Then, even further out, we near my neighborhood, where the houses are almost nice, and backyards actually exist. Further away from the city, you start to see grasslands and woods, and nested somewhere deep in there you can see the tip of the blast wall from the roof of my house cresting over the leaves.

    We roll slowly down the street until we get to my house, where Jennifer expertly parks without hesitation next to my dad¡¯s truck. He¡¯s home, which is¡­ great.

    Jennifer shuts off the car, and I grab my bag as we step out. The lights in the house are still on, which is weird, considering how late it is.

    Or maybe not. Maybe they were worried about me?

    ¡°Anything I should know?¡± Jennifer asks as we walk up to the door.

    ¡°Uh, I¡­ didn¡¯t used to look like this?¡±

    She gives me a side eye. ¡°Really.¡±

    I shrug.

    She seems like she wants to say something for a moment, but visibly drops it. Instead, Jennifer knocks on the front door of my parent¡¯s house.

    I hear rustling and hushed voices inside before the door swings open, revealing my dad standing on the other side, looking a little imposing. He looks angry before he registers who¡¯s on his porch and starts looking confused instead.

    The expression looks comical on him, tall, dark hair with bushy eyebrows and a bushier beard. He¡¯s still wearing his dress shirt and slacks from work at an office building somewhere near the city center.

    He looks between us rapidly. ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡±

    Jennifer clears her throat. ¡°My name is Jennifer Zhao, I¡¯m a primary agent for the USMC. There have been a number of developments I feel you and your wife should be made aware of. May we come in?¡± She says, gesturing past him.

    Dad looks like he wants to protest, but I can see my mom standing a little ways away in the hall, looking nervous. ¡°Come on, honey, let¡¯s see what they have to say.¡±

    He stands aside, and we all shuffle through the house as mom leads the way to the dining room table. I notice leftovers sitting on the counter in a box, as well as a plate of food next to it. It¡¯s probably cold by now.

    We all take our seats, and it seems like my dad can¡¯t hold himself back any longer.

    ¡°So, spit it out. What happened?¡± He huffs. Mom shoots him a scathing look.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know anything¡¯s happened, Richard. This could be unrelated.¡±

    ¡°Get real, Jose¡¯, there¡¯s no coincidences in this fucking city,¡± he barks.

    ¡°This is about your child, legal name Jacob Miller. But it isn¡¯t necessarily bad. Your child is unharmed, I assure you,¡± Jennifer interrupts. Dad, surprisingly, goes silent.

    Jennifer takes advantage of her momentum. ¡°Your child was involved in metahuman activity earlier this night, and as a result your child has been affected.¡± She gestures to me.

    I wave. ¡°Hi.¡±

    My parents stare.

    ¡°Tomorrow morning and subsequently, following a schedule which will be discussed sometime soon, your child will be brought in to USMC headquarters in order to determine if this change is the result of personal or external metahuman effects.¡± Mom starts sweating, and I¡¯m afraid she¡¯s going to have a heart attack. Dad stays silent, staring at me.

    ¡°If it is the former, your child will join the USMC Junior division, and we will do our utmost to provide a clear and stable career path. If it is the latter, we can direct you to several clinics that specialize in metahuman effects.¡± I shoot Jennifer a look. Pretty sure there aren¡¯t any clinics like that in Westpoint.

    She ignores me, taking her tablet out of her bag and sliding it across the table. ¡°The information about the program is here, as well as the initial evaluation we will be conducting.¡±

    Dad grabs the tablet and starts scrolling through it, while mom looks around at us frantically. ¡°I ¡ª how did this happen?!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll likely be briefed during the eval, but for now this is all I can say,¡± Jennifer replies stoically.

    My mother ages about twenty years. ¡°Isn¡¯t there any way you can ¡ª can fix this? What do we do?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll see during the evaluation.¡±

    ¡°Fuck your evaluation!¡± dad shouts, slamming the tablet on the table. It doesn¡¯t break, which seems to frustrate him. ¡°You need to fix this immediately! Our son can¡¯t go to school ¡ª can¡¯t go through life ¡ª looking like that!¡± He says, stabbing a finger in my direction. I reflexively shrink away from it.

    Jennifer¡¯s mask slips a little, and she shoots a glance at me.

    I don¡¯t know what she sees, but she seems to steel herself. ¡°Mr. Miller, I know this is an¡­ unusual situation, but I promise you ¡ª this will work out.¡± She reaches over to slide the tablet away from him. He looks like he wants to fight it, but¡­ his gaze slides to me, and he seems to deflate. ¡°You have my number?¡±

    ¡°We have both of your numbers, and you¡¯ll also both receive an email with the details attached,¡± Jennifer confirms. ¡°I¡¯ll send someone to come by and collect your child some time tomorrow, unless you¡¯d rather make the trip yourselves,¡± she says, looking around at us.

    ¡°No, no, the provided transport is fine,¡± dad rumbles. ¡°Just ¡ª just leave.¡± He stands from the table and walks away.

    Mom scrambles to follow. ¡°Richard ¡ª Richard, you ¡ª I¡¯m sorry, he¡¯s just overwhelmed; Richard!¡± She disappears deeper into the house with dad.

    The dining room is quiet all of a sudden. Belatedly, I realize I¡¯m hunched over and my hands are shaking.

    I didn¡¯t notice.

    I take a breath and try to relax.

    ¡°You made the right decision,¡± Jennifer says, standing. ¡°I look forward to seeing how you progress.¡±

    ¡°Wait,¡± I call out as she heads for the door. She stops.

    ¡°You¡¯re Rook, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    She adjusts her gloves, and the light on her glasses blinks. ¡°I am.¡±

    ¡°You ¡ª you¡¯re the top hero in the entire city basically.¡±

    ¡°...Yes.¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯d you, uh. Personally come to meet my parents?¡±

    Rook looks back at me over her shoulder. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you found Cook,¡± she states. ¡°You¡¯re driven. You¡¯re unpredictable.¡±

    She looks away. ¡°You¡¯re dangerous, Red. I¡¯m hedging my bets.¡±

    Rook opens the door and steps out onto the porch. ¡°Don¡¯t let me down.¡±

    The door closes behind her.

 Chapter 2.2

    2.2

    ¡°And these teeth; Christ, baby, what happened to you?¡±

    My mom sticks her fingers in my mouth as I try to pull on my coat, and I have to bat her away. It¡¯s the next day, and a USMC transport van waits inconspicuously outside. It¡¯s not marked or anything, but dad said that¡¯s expected ¡ª I think he was up all night emailing.

    ¡°Dunno,¡± I reply belatedly. ¡°Car¡¯s waiting.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I know, sweetie, just put these on,¡± she says, pushing a pair of sunglasses into my hands. ¡°We¡¯ll have to get your hair cut another time. At least white is easy to dye¡­¡±

    ¡°Going,¡± I say, zipping up my coat and stepping out.

    ¡°Bye, honey,¡± she mutters, seeming a little absentminded.

    I walk out into the driveway, freezing air tasting my skin for just a moment before I slide into the back of the suspicious van.

    Inside, the tech is more advanced than the vehicle¡¯s deceptive exterior would imply. Nothing on the level of Rook or anything the USMC headquarters runs off of, but from the cushioned bench in the back I can see monitors, switches and dials littering the underside of the dashboard, especially in the passenger seat.

    All of this I can see through a window past a divider placed just behind the front seats.

    Occupying the seats are two guys in blue-collar-esque outfits, sorta like moving guys or plumbers. The only thing to clue me in to their true occupation being small radios attached to their ears, only visible from where I am up close.

    One of my escorts has short black hair and a pale complexion, the other darker, with longer brown hair.

    ¡°You¡¯re Jacob Miller?¡± The passenger, the guy with brown hair, asks.

    ¡°Uh ¡ª yeah,¡± I mutter, choking on my words.

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°I said yes. Yes, I am.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± he says unenthusiastically, messing with the monitor up front.

    The driver turns the key, our van rumbles to life, and we set out into the city.

    ¡°Twenty minute drive, about. We¡¯re taking the long way around,¡± copilot guy says, not looking up from the console. Then, he reaches up behind him and slides a curtain over the window.

    The back of the van is pretty dark, save for a strip of yellow LEDs lining the roof. I pull out my phone to wait.

    Eventually, the vehicle comes to a slow stop, and I hear the sound of doors and footsteps as my escorts come around to open up the back of the van.

    Climbing out, I can see I¡¯m in a small garage, with a couple other vehicles of varying size and shape. They all look like civilian cars.

    Aside from me and my escort, a number of other people in typical work clothes and professional suits wander around the garage, milling through doors positioned at the garage¡¯s corners.

    The black haired guy heads towards the closest of these doors, and I move to follow, brown hair coming up close behind.

    We walk through into a fairly long, white-tiled hallway, near the end of which is a set of double doors leading into a lobby area. Rook, the mechanical one, stands near a seating area talking to someone in a nice suit holding a clipboard. I think I recognize them, actually.

    Rook cuts off her conversation as we approach, nodding at my escort. They both nod back and then leave, back towards the garage.

    ¡°Red, welcome. This is the handler for the USMC¡¯s Junior division, Brian Crane,¡± she says, gesturing at the man beside her. He wears an obviously expensive suit with a metal-plated badge attached to his breast pocket. ¡°You might recognize him from the news, he¡¯s also our liaison with the media.¡±

    He holds out his hand. ¡°Nice to meet you, Jacob.¡±

    Rook¡¯s steel-plated visage turns to him. He seems unfazed.

    I nod at him, and he seems vaguely dissatisfied for a moment before snapping back into business mode. ¡°Welcome to the USMC! For now, at least,¡± he says, retracting his hand. ¡°We still have to get you through evaluation, make sure you¡¯re really a super, and that you¡¯re not going to blow anything up accidentally. Then we can take you to the official facility, where you get to meet the rest of the gang!¡±

    The man ¡ª Crane? ¡ª is energetic, but it seems only as an obligation. He¡¯s good at it, but I can tell it¡¯s a facade. Something he said strikes me, though.

    ¡°Official facility? Is this,¡± I ask, waving nonchalantly, ¡°not, uh, official?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an offsite compound. You¡¯ll be taken to the main tower once you¡¯ve been deemed safe by a metahuman technician,¡± Rook answers bluntly.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Just a precaution, yeah? Can¡¯t have the villains sneaking into the base, right?¡± Crane sings, flapping a hand around. ¡°Let¡¯s get you to the testing room. There¡¯s no point in wasting time, and I¡¯m sure you¡¯re itching to throw your powers around, right?¡±

    Rook isn¡¯t actually here right now, but somehow her humanoid drone manages to look annoyed. ¡°I will accompany you, but I may be called away at any moment.¡±

    ¡°Right! Okay, Jake, ready to see the scientists?¡±

    I can feel a scowl sliding onto my face. ¡°Sure,¡± I grunt.

    Brian actually has the gall to smile wider. ¡°Cool! Right this way, little man!¡± He says, ushering me as well as Rook past the lobby and into another hallway.

    This one has glass windows on either side, revealing similar chambers with computer setups and wide open spaces with what look like test dummies set up on mechanical stands. In one of the chambers, a tall boy holding a glowing yellow sword made of solid light swings at them as they slide along the chamber via tracks running across the floor.

    His name¡¯s Shield Boy or something, I don¡¯t know. The Junior division isn¡¯t usually involved in any of the big-time scuffles I used to be into.

    We reach a chamber near the end of the hall, and Crane taps the door with his badge, which he seems to unlatch from a hook on his jacket. The door slides open with a hiss, and we shuffle inside.

    A lab technician snores in a chair by the standing desk someone rolled over to the chamber center.

    ¡°Excuse me? We have ¡ª wake up,¡± Crane starts, tapping the tech on his cheek as we walk over.

    He snorts and lazily blinks open his eyes, jumping when he sees Crane. ¡°Mmmgh¡­ uh!¡±

    The tech sits up and scrambles for a tablet resting on the desk. ¡°Uh, Rook! And¡­ Jacob?¡± He says, gaze skipping over Crane and landing on me.

    I suppress a sigh. Word gets around fast, I guess?

    Crane answers for us. ¡°Yes, we¡¯re here for a metahuman evaluation. Rook and I were just¡ª¡±

    ¡°Excuse me, I will be absent for the next ten to twenty minutes. Please continue as normal in my absence,¡± Rook¡¯s drone states.

    ¡°Er, right,¡± Crane stutters, collecting himself. ¡°I¡¯d better stay until she comes back. Wouldn¡¯t want to miss seeing our upcoming talent in action.¡±

    ¡°Um. Sure,¡± the tech starts. ¡°Questions first.¡± He scrolls through his tablet for a second before fixing his gaze on me. ¡°How old are you?¡±

    ¡°Uh. Seventeen,¡± I reply.

    ¡°Alright. Do you or anyone in your family have a history of substance abuse?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Are you a victim of any trauma or mental illness?¡±

    I blink. ¡°Not really.¡±

    The tech gives me a look. ¡°Yes or no.¡±

    Does physical trauma count? ¡°Uh. No.¡±

    He squints his eyes but moves on. ¡°Have you noticed anything strange in your life recently?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± Crane lets out a plastic chuckle.

    The tech looks unamused. ¡°Please elaborate.¡±

    I¡¯m¡­ hesitant to tell them everything. It feels dangerous. But I have to tell them something.

    ¡°I healed faster than I should have, in the hospital.¡± The tech looks confused. ¡°After an accident, a while ago,¡± I clarify. He looks down and swipes through his tablet.

    ¡°Ah, I see it. Vehicle accident, and you were discharged a little early.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Plus, I look different. Obviously.¡±

    The tech looks up. ¡°Obviously. Anything else?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a bit stronger than I should be, I think.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. Seems like class A-1-ish. Unlikely it¡¯ll stay that way.¡± The tech reaches under the desk and pulls out a dangerous-looking tool. ¡°We¡¯ve got a durability measure here, and then you can go whack the targets or whatever. Hold out your arm.¡±

    I do as he says, eyeing the tool suspiciously. It¡¯s a conspicuously gun-shaped mechanism with a clear glass barrel. He presses it to my arm and pulls the trigger.

    It jerks slightly, and I hiss as I feel a sting on my arm as blood wells from a point in the center of the tube. I dip into my power for a second to seal it.

    ¡°How¡¯s that,¡± the tech asks, removing the tool and wiping away the blood. ¡°Hurt any?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I bite out.

    ¡°Mmm. Third intensity, maybe?¡± He mutters to himself, adjusting a couple levers on the device. Then he grabs my arm again, pressing the tube to it and pulling the trigger.

    This time, I can see the spike as it stabs out and pierces a good inch into my flesh.

    ¡°Fuck,¡± I shout, tearing my arm away. A large crevice of dark, murky red marks my forearm, dripping crimson down to the tips of my fingers as I grasp just above it with my other hand. If I look closely enough, I can see slivers of off-white through the tiny pool of gore.

    My heart pounds in my ears, and heat radiates from the spot on my arm and the center of my vision. The red expands, reaching out to crawl along my peripherals, pumping with meat and viscera.

    I start feeling a little sick.

    Slowly, I¡¯m able to sink into my power¡¯s river of biological information. It tells me the skin is destroyed in an intermediate area about halfway down the inside of my forearm. It tells me the muscle in this area is also split. It notifies me of a chipped radius, but that the general integrity of the bone is largely intact.

    I leave the bone for later, but I cannibalize some of the denser muscle in my arm in order to seal the meat of the wound. Then, I¡¯m able to seal the skin with minimal expenditure.

    I catch what I think might be an infection somewhere around the wounded site, but it becomes a part of the system when it enters my body, and it¡¯s destroyed when I do a final check with my power¡¯s autocorrect.

    My final verdict is that the muscle mass in that arm is effectively destroyed, and the skin is a bit thinner than ideal near the injury site, but the wound is currently stable.

    When I finally exit analysis mode after what feels like hours, I¡¯m panting heavily and desperately clutching my bicep.

    ¡°Wh¡­ what the fuck?¡± I choke out.

    ¡°Oh, impressive,¡± the tech hums, flicking a lever to drop the front section of the tool into a small receptacle attached to the side of the rolling desk. He attaches a new one with a series of clicks as he talks. ¡°Looks like it consumes surrounding matter, but that was complete restoration in just seconds.¡±

    Seconds. Faster than usual. Wonderful.

    ¡°Okay, we can do a quick strength test, and then I¡¯ll hand out your initial classification,¡± the tech says definitively.

    ¡°W ¡ª wait, can¡¯t we, like, take a break or something?¡± I ask, still heaving. Looking around, Crane stares with a vaguely intrigued look on his face. Rook remains motionless.

    Crane¡¯s expression shifts downward at my protest, though. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with first. We¡¯ve got a lot of paperwork to go through today.¡± He eyes me.

    ¡°I would like to make sure everything goes smoothly.¡± I can¡¯t quite read his face, but just for a moment something seems to slip through. He¡¯s warning me.

    I take a deep breath, and reach out to grab the next contraption the tech is trying to hand me.

 Chapter 2.3

    2.3

    ¡°Class A-3,¡± Rook hums as I follow her through the USMC tower¡¯s grand entrance. ¡°Not outside of expectations.¡±

    After the evaluation yesterday, Crane sent me home and told me he¡¯d contact my parents the next day about the results.

    They didn¡¯t ask me what happened, didn¡¯t really talk about it at all. I think they were trying to pretend nothing happened, but dad couldn¡¯t seem to look at me, and I kept catching mom staring at me from the corner of my eye.

    Anyway. This time, Rook came out to meet me at the transport, without her drone. She¡¯s wearing professional-looking slacks combined with a stylish but more casual sweater.

    Her glasses blink as she talks. ¡°Nothing overtly oppressive, though. You¡¯ll have to work harder to be effective.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I reply, absentmindedly. My head is on a swivel as we walk through the headquarters lobby, studying the sweeping architecture and glimpses of impossible tech through the cracks of the building. Structures of matte black and shining red lines glitter in between the walls, and even outside the building streams of red run throughout the metal surface like veins.

    You see the results of superpowers all over the internet, from news stories or fan cams, but it¡¯s nothing compared to what you get up close. This place, for all its intimidating futurism, oozes personality.

    There¡¯s only fifteen of Citadel¡¯s towers scattered around the world, nine of which are in the United States, and being this close to one of them it¡¯s obvious why.

    ¡°You¡¯re not listening.¡±

    ¡°Mhm, sure.¡±

    I hear Rook sigh. ¡°Pick your battles,¡± she mutters.

    Rook gets us through the lobby and deeper into the building, where a large elevator takes us higher up the tower. The ride takes a couple of minutes, even if it feels like we¡¯re going twice as fast as elevators should be.

    The elevator finally opens, and from inside of it I can see a small hallway leading into some kind of common room, filled with scattered trinkets and equipment, bordered by huge glass windows in place of the right wall.

    ¡°Red,¡± Rook says, before we walk out. ¡°Have you decided on your preferred pronouns? I¡¯d like to know how I should introduce you.¡±

    Introduce me? I panic, a little. ¡°Uh. Girl.¡±

    She takes that in stride. ¡°Then, in we go.¡±

    The hallway opens up as we enter the common area, where a large table bordered by couches and chairs surrounds it. The windows let in a warm, golden glow from the afternoon sky from one end, the other looks artificially blacked out.

    Two kids sit around talking, while a third messes with some electronics in the corner. They¡¯re wearing casual outfits, but seeing them here, in this context, sparks recognition.

    Of the two people talking, one is a shorter girl with close-cropped black hair, wearing ripped jeans and a tank-top. The other is a large boy with medium-length brown hair and a slight tan, wearing a t-shirt and slacks. He¡¯s bent over a notebook and an assortment of worksheets, it looks like.

    The last kid looks like he walked straight out of an old comic book. He¡¯s wearing overalls and covered in so much soot that I can¡¯t tell whether his hair is supposed to be black or not.

    ¡°There¡¯s no way that¡¯s right,¡± the tall boy states, confidently.

    ¡°It is! Check the notes!¡± The girl insists, just as confidently.

    ¡°Maybe I will!¡±

    ¡°You should! I¡¯ve been saying this!¡±

    Rook clears her throat, and both of their heads whip over to stare at us. The kid in the corner doesn¡¯t react.

    ¡°Rook? Who the fuck is that?¡± The girl asks, looking at me. I reflexively grit my teeth.

    ¡°Woah, are those fangs?!¡± She yells, her eyes widening. She jumps up from the couch and runs over, reaching out like she wants to inspect me. I quickly lean away, and while she doesn¡¯t pursue, she doesn¡¯t cease her investigation either. ¡°Are you gonna join the team?¡±

    ¡°She is,¡± Rook interrupts, taking the kid by her shoulders and moving her to the side, ¡°and I¡¯d like all of you to be respectful ¡ª¡±

    ¡°No one told me we¡¯d be getting a new recruit,¡± the other boy protests.

    ¡°You¡¯re not entitled to the inner workings of USMC management. Now ¡ª¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± The kid in the corner finally stops tinkering with his gadget long enough to look up.

    ¡°A gross violation of workplace conduct.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re getting a new roommate!¡±

    I watch Rook visibly deflate, and then rebuild herself and take a breath. ¡°Attention!¡±

    All three kids jump to attention, backs straight and hands behind their backs, seemingly out of habit. Gadget kid scrambles a bit before he gets it, but he does get it.

    ¡°Heroes, this is Red,¡± Rook addresses them. ¡°Red, this is heroes. Cooper Dunn,¡± she starts, pointing at the soot-covered one, ¡°Rory Kessler,¡± pointing at the taller boy, ¡°and Eva Costa,¡± she finishes, pointing at the girl.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°You may also know them by their hero names. Boy Gadget, Shield Warrior, and Rebound.¡± Her face remains stoic when I glance over to her.

    ¡°Right,¡± I mutter. ¡°Boy Gadget. Of course.¡±

    The girl, Eva, twitches her lip.

    ¡°Jackie Jet seems to be¡­ unavailable at the moment. Rory, when she returns, could you introduce Red?¡±

    He nods. ¡°Yessir.¡±

    ¡°In the meantime, get to know each other. Red will be observing during tonight¡¯s session.¡±

    Rory nods again. ¡°Yessir.¡±

    ¡°Suck up,¡± Eva mutters.

    Rory looks scandalized, and starts to open his mouth.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be leaving you,¡± Rook interrupts. ¡°Please behave.¡± Then she does just that, turning and walking into the elevator. The doors close with a ding, and I¡¯m left alone in a room with three strangers.

    ¡°Sooo¡­ what do you guys¡­ do? Around here?¡±

    I swear I¡¯m trying.

    The two boys break from attention. Rory sits back down in front of his worksheets, while Cooper trips over a gadget and scrambles to grab it off the floor.

    Eva shrugs. ¡°I dunno, I got a PS5 in my room, I guess.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Really? Do you get a salary or something?¡±

    ¡°Nah, you gotta apply for stuff. But if it gets approved, you get it for free, so.¡±

    ¡°Weird.¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°I guess. C¡¯mon, I¡¯ll show you around. It¡¯ll be nice to have another girl besides Olivia.¡±

    I twitch. Who?

    She grabs my arm and drags me to a hallway deeper into the building before I can ask. I stumble, but follow obediently.

    ¡°The living room¡¯s out there, obviously, and back here we have a kitchen,¡± she says, motioning as we pass a tiny kitchenette, littered with a couple different cookware and food items. ¡°And then back here are the rooms. There¡¯s a couple extra, Rory and Cooper use them if they want friends over or whatever sometimes. You¡¯ll probably be taking one of them,¡± Eva narrates as we walk past the kitchenette and down a hallway bordered with seven doors, four on one side and three on the other. ¡°That last one down there¡¯s the bathroom,¡± she comments, opening the second door on the left and motioning for me to step inside.

    ¡°And this¡¯s my room! There¡¯s my desk, that¡¯s the bed; got a lot of plushies, all on org payroll, obviously¡­¡± The room is only vaguely emo, littered with maligned gothic prints, dark blues and blacks, dark, practical clothes scattered around the gray carpet, bed unmade and sheets hanging off the mattress. Her desk is as practical as her style, desktop and PlayStation tucked underneath it. She has two monitors, and both of them are kind of huge.

    Off to the side rests another desk covered in¡­ synthesizers? Not scattered, either, she has an actual setup, as well as an electric guitar sitting on a stand next to it.

    I think she sees me staring at it. ¡°Oh, uh, do you play? I¡¯ve been meaning to learn, but, uh.¡±

    ¡°Um, yeah, I play.¡±

    Eva plops down on her bed and nods at the guitar. ¡°Well? Play me a song?¡±

    I shrug, and pick it up. It¡¯s a deep, glossy blue with thick metal strings and a paddle. Two pickups, controlled via switch. I sit down at the chair by her desk and gingerly rest the instrument at my hip.

    I clear my throat. ¡°Got any requests?¡±

    ¡°Nah, just go for it.¡±

    I take a breath, and start picking at the strings. It¡¯s a little out of tune. Hasn¡¯t been used in a while probably.

    I take a second to tighten a couple of the strings, and then start again.

    Slow, melodic, spacey. I play a song I like coming back to. The guitar¡¯s unfamiliar, its weight is odd, and the strings are different from what I¡¯m used to. But I start to slide into a rhythm.

    The notes dance around the room, and they feel like home, and even if that isn¡¯t really a good feeling, it¡¯s familiar. I start to relax.

    ¡°Woah. You¡¯re pretty good.¡±

    ¡°Mhm,¡± I reply, not really paying attention as I transition into the chorus. The song¡¯s still slow, but I start gradually adding strings and using chords as I continue.

    It¡¯s nice. I haven¡¯t had the time to play at home, so, any excuse I can get¡­

    My finger slips, and I miss a note.

    ¡°Ah, uh,¡± I stutter, collecting myself. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not a professional, but I¡¯ve been playing since I was little.¡± I set the guitar back on its stand.

    ¡°What got you into it?¡± Eva asks. ¡°I¡¯ve tried to pick it up, but it never seems to work out.¡±

    ¡°My dad,¡± I answer. ¡°He used to play. Not so much anymore.¡±

    ¡°Ah. Wish I had musical parents,¡± she says, chuckling.

    I shrug. They¡¯re not really musical. Dad stopped playing a little after I was born, I think.

    Eva opens her mouth again, but before anything can come out, I hear a harsh knocking on the door to her room. It¡¯s open, so when I jump and whip around to see the source, I immediately see who it is.

    Olivia Burns stands in the door frame of the USMC¡¯s junior hero dorms.

    Olivia Burns is Jackie Jet? That¡¯s so fucking stupid. I have to clamp my mouth shut before I accidentally blurt out her name like an idiot.

    ¡°Olivia,¡± Eva spits, crossing her arms and standing from her bed.

    ¡°Evvy! Why so hostile? I just wanna see our new recruit!¡± Olivia croons. I have to resist the urge to call her something rude in response.

    ¡°Fuck off, get out of my room.¡± Woah, she really is hostile, though.

    Olivia takes a step back outside the door frame and smirks, and it¡¯s about here I decide I should intervene.

    ¡°Uh, hey,¡± I start. ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± I make a face. Can¡¯t tell her my real name, not in a million years. What did Rook call me?

    ¡°I¡¯m Red,¡± I finish, shrugging.

    ¡°Yeah. Weird name,¡± she deadpans.

    I shrug again for good measure.

    ¡°So your name isn¡¯t actually Jackie?¡± I comment.

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°They said Jackie¡¯s more marketable, and something about opsec? I dunno.¡±

    ¡°Okay, if you bitches are gonna be all buddy-buddy, you can both get the fuck out,¡± Eva sighs, waving her arm around. I blink, but when she starts shooing me, I move out into the hall with Olivia.

    ¡°Toodles, Evvy!¡± Olivia smiles, doing a little wave.

    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Eva spits, closing the door carefully.

    I look at Olivia. ¡°She really doesn¡¯t like you.¡±

    ¡°I think she finds me annoying.¡±

    ¡°You think?¡±

    Olivia laughs, and I can¡¯t help but scowl.

    Olivia follows me as I walk back into the common room. The taller boy, Rory, seems to have gone back to his room, but Cooper remains in the corner tinkering with something. Orange light filters in through the window as the sun sets, and I pick a couch to watch it on. Rook said I¡¯ll be observing a team exercise, and then she¡¯ll have someone take me home, so. I guess it¡¯s time to wait.

    I don¡¯t think I mind, though. Ava was right. You need to be high up to see the sun set around here.

    And then, turning back, I see Olivia watching me with an unreadable expression. I feel a tug on my gut.

    ¡°You¡¯re pretty good.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°I heard you playing,¡± she says, squinting. ¡°You¡¯re good.¡±

    ¡°Uh. I guess.¡±

    She¡¯s silent for a moment. Then¡­

    ¡°Jake?¡±

    Shit.

 Chapter 2.4

    2.4

    ¡°Jake?¡±

    I try not to curse out loud. My skin prickles.

    ¡°Uh, no.¡±

    ¡°Jake. Oh my god.¡±

    ¡°Dunno who you¡¯re talkin¡¯ about.¡±

    ¡°What the fuck happened to you? You didn¡¯t show up to school and I thought you were grounded or something, like. Fuck.¡±

    Playing dumb obviously isn¡¯t working. I feel weirdly vulnerable, stripped raw in unfamiliar territory.

    I keep my face aimed at the window.

    ¡°Do we really have to do this here?¡±

    ¡°Where ¡ª where else would we do it? Were you even going to tell me?¡±

    ¡°You coulda¡¯ called or somethin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°How long have you been like this? How ¡ª why ¡ª you look like a girl!¡±

    I roll my eyes, not that she can really see it, and stand up. I wonder if there¡¯s a lobby somewhere in this building.

    ¡°Only sorta!¡± I say sarcastically, waving my arms around and moving towards the elevator.

    Olivia steps in front of me, and I huff.

    ¡°No, no no no, you don¡¯t get to slip out on me. You¡¯re gonna tell me exactly what happened, now.¡± She crosses her arms and squares up.

    I should really tell her. Give her a summary or something, she¡¯d probably leave me alone.

    I find I don¡¯t really want to say anything to her.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to,¡± I say.

    She scowls. ¡°Why the fuck not?¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯s it matter?¡±

    ¡°Oh, come on, don¡¯t be a little bitch. Don¡¯t tell me you ¡®don¡¯t wanna talk about it,¡¯¡± she simpers, tacking on a whiny voice. ¡°Suck it up, I wanna know.¡±

    I look at the ceiling. Olivia¡¯s silent for a beat.

    ¡°Did getting powers fuck with your head or something? You¡¯re worse than your faggot boyfriend.¡±

    I blink.

    Something like static starts to cloud my vision.

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°You fucking heard me.¡±

    I don¡¯t look at her. I push past her and walk towards the elevator. Pins and needles prickle over my skin.

    Something like noise blankets my body.

    ¡°Sure, run away again,¡± Olivia mutters.

    I enter the elevator and press a random button. The doors close. The elevator starts. Light slides over me from the clear glass at the back, interrupted at intervals by supporting struts.

    The static doesn¡¯t go away.

    The elevator opens to a floor that looks like it¡¯s filled with offices. A number of people in suits stand around waiting in a lobby bordered by several other elevator doors.

    I don¡¯t know what expression I¡¯m wearing, but it¡¯s enough to make one worker closer to the door jump and step out of the way. I think I catch him pull out his phone as I skitter away, but I don¡¯t log it.

    Walking down the office hall, I barely internalize my surroundings. Work area, janitor¡¯s closet, server room. The floor¡¯s fairly empty, for some reason. Maybe it¡¯s late.

    I spot a sign that says ¡®break room¡¯ and stop.

    Pushing open the door reveals a cozy, monotone area with a couch and tiny kitchenette.

    Slowly, I step inside, walk over to the couch and sit down.

    I feel lightheaded, and my hands twitch where they rest on my thighs.

    As the fog clears and the harsh buzz of fluorescent bulbs invades my ears, I think I may have made a mistake.

    Why did I run off like that? I ¡ª what she said ¡ª I don¡¯t know why I couldn¡¯t hold it together.

    I scowl. Stupid. I thought I was so good at playing the game.

    Obviously, I¡¯m not. Ava saw through me. Olivia saw through me. And then I just¡­ crumbled.

    I sigh. I should probably go find Rook or something.

    In a bit. Maybe I can stay here for a bit longer.

    ¡ª

    After a while, the door to

    The break room opens, and Jennifer walks in. Not Rook, Jennifer. She must have the drone(s?) doing something else.

    ¡°I heard you had run off,¡± she says, adjusting her glasses.

    ¡°Mhm.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Dunno,¡± I answer honestly.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    Jennifer shakes her head. ¡°Not good enough.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°The fuck does that mean?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re going to become a hero, Red. You need to know why you do this. Any of this.¡±

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t!¡± I state.

    ¡°Because you¡¯re not trying.¡±

    I stay silent. I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t understand why this is what she¡¯s focusing on. I don¡¯t know what I was expecting with her, but this feels¡­ raw. Real, in a way that feels uncomfortable and distinctly disconnected from what I¡¯d get from¡­ my parents, I guess.

    They¡¯d ask what was wrong, and I¡¯d say nothing, and they¡¯d say I could talk to them, and I wouldn¡¯t.

    Jennifer ¡ª Rook demands an answer.

    I¡­ think.

    ¡°Liv ¡ª Olivia said something to me. I¡­ got angry.¡±

    ¡°So you ran?¡±

    I lower my head. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to hurt her.¡±

    ¡°Hm.¡± There¡¯s a rustle as she presumably shifts position. I don¡¯t look at her.

    ¡°Come with me. You¡¯ll observe the evening session as planned, and then¡­¡±

    I look up. She¡¯s tapping away at her tablet.

    ¡°And then?¡± I prompt.

    ¡°And then, I may have you participate.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Huh?¡±

    She gestures at me, and walks out the door. I scramble to follow her.

    The office floor¡¯s empty, surprisingly. I did notice no one came into the break room while I was in there. Jennifer must have been alerted as soon as I left the dorms.

    Cameras, maybe? I haven¡¯t seen any since we came in, but that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean they don¡¯t exist. Realistically, I have no clue what this tower can do.

    We cross the hall and enter the elevator. She punches in a floor ¡ª a little below this one ¡ª and the doors close.

    ¡°What d¡¯you mean participate,¡± I pester her.

    Jennifer gives me a look. I huff.

    The elevator doors open up to a small lobby, with a receptionists¡¯ desk and a couple chairs lining the wall. Next to the desk, there¡¯s a door with a label reading ¡®changing rooms¡¯.

    Straight across from the elevator is a set of double doors, unlabeled and seemingly heavily armored.

    Rook heads for the receptionist. ¡°Go get a jumpsuit. Women¡¯s are on the left, men¡¯s are on the right; find one that fits.¡±

    I hesitate, but take a step to the smaller door.

    A small hall, and a door on either side. I pick the men¡¯s, out of habit.

    The changing rooms are open, with small stalls bordered by white separators along each wall, and two rows of lockers along the back. The tiles are clean, and the room smells like disinfectant.

    I wander over to the lockers, opening one at random. A white uniform with a dark blue stripe lining the outside hangs in the center.

    Huh. I bring it over to one of the stalls and try it on.

    It¡¯s a little big. The tracksuit hangs off of me awkwardly in some areas, and the legs pool around my ankles a little.

    In spite of that, though, it¡¯s surprisingly comfortable. The whole thing is made of some sort of really soft, lightweight material, so even the small collar refuses to chafe.

    I step back out into the lobby, taking large strides and waving my hands around to get a feel for the suit.

    Jennifer glances at me as she¡¯s standing by the double doors, twirling a plastic card in her hand.

    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°You should size down next time.¡±

    ¡°Sure, whatever,¡± I reply.

    She turns to the doors, and slides the card in a reader to the right. There¡¯s a beep, a light blinking on the reader, and then a clunk. Jennifer reaches over and pulls open one of the doors.

    She nods at the entrance. ¡°Go on.¡±

    I sigh, and step in. Jennifer follows.

    The training area is big. Like, football field big. Large, solid tiles line the entire room, stretching across the floor and the walls. The ceiling is arranged in a similar structure, except the tiles there shine with enough light to make it feel like midday in summer, even with no windows in sight.

    Taking up most of the space is a mock urban setup, concrete flooring and structures mimicking the larger city, fenced in by surrounding poles connected with thin strands of black rope.

    The four junior heroes stand in front of the gate, looking like bored teenagers in professional tracksuits.

    ¡°Attention,¡± Rook says, injecting the same authority into her voice as earlier. They straighten into a line, backs straight, while she nods me over.

    I walk over to the left end of the line, where Eva is. She gives me a weird look as I stand beside her.

    I ignore it. I don¡¯t put much effort into my posture, but Rook doesn¡¯t seem to mind. Yet.

    She moves past us and unhooks one of the ropes. The others automatically file in, and I trail behind them.

    ¡°We¡¯ll be doing a standard warmup,¡± she says, closing the gate behind her. ¡°Then, one-on-one sparring, and a mock rescue. Understood?¡±

    ¡°Yessir!¡±

    ¡°Y ¡ª yessir,¡± I say, belatedly.

    ¡°Begin.¡±

    The others nod, split off, and start¡­ stretching?

    ¡°Red.¡± I turn to look at Rook.

    She starts doing a stretch, tilting her neck, and gestures for me to copy.

    I follow along with Rook as we go through some stretches. Some I recognize from gym class, some I don¡¯t. They¡¯re not as hard as I remember them being.

    Eva and Rory start muttering to each other about something, I¡¯m not close enough to hear what.

    The others finish earlier, and after Rook finishes walking me through it, she turns to face the group as a whole.

    ¡°Alright. Rory, Eva. Cooper, Olivia. Split up, fifteen feet apart. Minimal power use, we don¡¯t have a medic on standby at the moment.¡± They pair up and spread out, pairs facing each other. The section of fake urban area we¡¯re in is set in a wide intersection, so they have space. Mostly. Cooper and Olivia are a little close to the curb.

    ¡°Three,¡± Rook starts. They¡¯re really gonna fight? I guess it makes sense for them to know how, but you don¡¯t usually see martial arts in any of the big fight videos online.

    ¡°Two.¡± The junior heroes prepare their stances. I don¡¯t know anything about fighting, so I have no idea what any of them are, but Rory looks like he should be holding something.

    ¡°One.¡± They tense. I glance at Rook. Is she going to monitor both fights? At once?

    ¡°Begin.¡±

    There¡¯s a flash, both of motion and a literal one, as they launch into action. Rory¡¯s hands light up and glitter, with glowing yellow plates adorning his knuckles and protecting his forearms as he advances on Eva. Olivia¡¯s palms puff smoke as she dashes at Cooper, coming in from a low angle. Very quickly, I find it difficult to keep track of everything.

    I¡¯m distracted from Rory¡¯s fight when Olivia closes in on Cooper, sweeping one arm around his waist with a puff of smoke. She points her other arm straight backwards, and it lights up with a rumble and a rush of heat.

    Then, a distorted thud from somewhere to my left ¡ª the other fight. Switching my attention, I see Rory swinging his armored fists at Eva¡¯s guard, seemingly not making any progress. Every hit is accompanied by a small, unnatural boom, and a slight blur. Rory swings again, and at the last moment Eva weaves ¡ª

    A grunt from the other fight. I whip my head around just in time to see Olivia drop-kick Cooper into the floor, from a different angle than before. Somehow, he must¡¯ve escaped that first grab, and that¡¯s Olivia¡¯s response¡­?

    ¡°Cooper, you¡¯re done.¡± He picks himself up off the ground while Olivia stands around looking smug.

    I look over to the other fight as Rory tackles Eva to the ground and glowing bands encircle her torso and limbs.

    ¡°Eva, you¡¯re done.¡± She huffs. Rory dispels his constructs and stands with her.

    That was quick.

    ¡°Good work, all of you,¡± Rook says, pulling out her tablet and tapping at it. ¡°Rory is today¡¯s MVP. Your decision to bait out Eva¡¯s kinetic unloading was inspired.¡±

    Rory nods seriously. Eva huffs again and Olivia rolls her eyes. I didn¡¯t see that part of the fight, so I¡¯m a little lost. But, Eva¡¯s power¡­ as a hero, her name is Rebound. She can absorb and release impacts, or something similar. Maybe she whiffed the rebound?

    More importantly, how did Rook catch that and call Olivia and Cooper¡¯s fight?

    The woman in question slides away her tablet. ¡°Now, Olivia and Red.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Huh?¡±

 Chapter 2.5

    2.5

    ¡°What?! You want me to fight him?!¡± Olivia shouts.

    ¡°Ugh.¡± I drag my hand over my face.

    Rook frowns. ¡°Her,¡± she corrects. ¡°And I do. If you don¡¯t want to, I¡¯ll have you do extra reps later.¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Fine.¡±

    I sigh, and follow her out into the fake intersection. She takes a spot close to where she was in her last fight, and I find myself standing close to the curb. I make a note of it.

    ¡°So, how long have you been fighting for?¡± Olivia asks, bouncing on her heels.

    ¡°Mh. Maybe a couple hours, total,¡± I respond absentmindedly.

    ¡°Great, so you won¡¯t mind if I stomp you, right?¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Try it.¡±

    She smiles.

    ¡°Ready?¡± Rook asks. I nod, while Olivia just shrugs. ¡°Good. Begin.¡±

    Olivia dashes, which I was expecting. Good. But she doesn¡¯t go for the grab like last time. Instead, she closes in and a flash of heat erupts from her right foot, pushing her leg up into a vicious knee. I¡¯m barely able to track it thanks to how flashy it is, but even pulling in to block it with both arms, I think I can hear my bones creaking. I grunt at the impact, and smoke flows around us.

    Olivia swings her arms forward, and streams of fire spit out, sending her flying back. She skids to a stop a good distance away and slowly starts walking to my right.

    I try to keep track of her while panting and shaking out my hands. I¡¯m wary of trying to use my power in the middle of a fight if I don¡¯t have to.

    ¡°Not bad, Mr. ¡®maybe a couple hours¡¯,¡± she taunts.

    ¡°Trust me, it¡¯s not skill.¡± she laughs.

    Then, her jets flare and she rushes forward again. This time, as the heat and smoke washes over me and I prepare for an attack, she doesn¡¯t follow through. Instead, the jets of flame swivel along her hands and feet, and she tilts to my left, blasting out of my field of view.

    Shit. Is that how she¡¯s so good at maneuvering in the air?

    I feel an impact at the back of my head, a wash of heat, and I go stumbling forward.

    ¡°Yeah, I can tell,¡± Olivia responds, as I hear her boost away again and struggle to pull myself together. My head is pounding, and my hands ache. I turn around, and she¡¯s lazily bouncing on her heels a ways away.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other three watching the fight. They look bored.

    Bored? Hm. No one¡¯s taking this seriously.

    I straighten up. ¡°Eh. Was that supposed to hurt?¡± I say, tilting my head. I watch as Olivia¡¯s expression flattens. Her stance lowers. She lifts her arms up, and jets start up from the backs of her open palms.

    She bursts forward, straight at me. One palm aligned with my face and the other with my sternum, with roaring jets of flame backing them up.

    I pull up my arm to block the one aimed at my face. I don¡¯t block the other one.

    The impacts rattle my skeleton, and I skid back along the intersection with the force of it.

    ¡°Yeah, it fucking was!¡± Olivia shouts, pushing off of me, and instead of disengaging like earlier, she sweeps her arms to the side. Orange streams erupt from her hands and wash against the concrete from her legs, keeping her airborne and sliding her around to my right.

    She sweeps her leg up, redirecting her momentum with another harsh jet of shining fire into a swift, glowing side kick.

    ¡°Gah!¡± I can¡¯t keep up. The kick connects, I hear bones crack, and I¡¯m knocked over into a roll.

    It hurts. I pull myself up. My breaths are short, and I hold a hand to my side.

    ¡°So?! Does it hurt now, Jacob?!¡± She shouts, snarling as she jets forward, throwing everything into her right fist.

    ¡°Olivia ¡ª¡± I hear Rook start, attempting to stop the match. I don¡¯t let her.

    Olivia speeds toward me, in a straight line, unbalanced and insultingly obvious.

    I feel my face stretch into a grin. Now.

    Ducking under her punch, I reach out to snatch her arm as it sails past my face. Immediately, as her legs swing by with her momentum, I can tell I don¡¯t have enough strength to end it. So, taking a risk, I sink into my power. I burn muscle, fat, anything I can from the parts of my body I¡¯m not using, and when that isn¡¯t enough I reach for tendons, ligaments, bone marrow, anything. I only leave the bare minimum my power tells me is necessary for my body to function.

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    I burn most of it to accelerate the process, but the rest is pumped into stabilizing my legs, my back, and boosting the capacity of my arm to its limit. I can feel muscles, especially in my arm, start to bulge, and throb with an unnatural heat.

    Gripping Olivia¡¯s arm with inhuman strength, I swing down with everything I have.

    Whump!

    Her body trails behind, fuming with smoke and sputtering flame, before impacting the ground with a heavy thump.

    Silence, except for the sound of my heaving breaths while I repair some minor strain before resurfacing from analysis mode. As I do, I notice my body, and especially my right arm, is steaming.

    ¡°That¡¯s not my fuckin¡¯ name,¡± I say to Olivia, coughing weakly on the ground in front of me. And then I fall over.

    ¡ª

    It only takes me a couple minutes to redistribute the huge mass of muscle bulking up my arm, but I decide to wait for a stretcher, anyway. A few hours later, while I¡¯m vacuuming up snacks in a cot at the medical wing, Rook comes to visit. I expect to be scolded, maybe even dropped from the team.

    For some reason, I don¡¯t feel as bad about that as I should.

    ¡°You did well today,¡± Rook says, to my surprise.

    It must show on my face. ¡°I engineered this encounter, and expected this outcome. You will not be punished,¡± she provides.

    ¡°Do you usually let your students beat the shit out of each other?¡± I ask.

    She frowns. ¡°No. In the future, you will be disciplined for behavior like this. But only after you¡¯ve been taught proper sparring procedure and rules of engagement.¡±

    Rook pulls something up on her tablet. ¡°This was the exception. I believe both of you have learned something from this engagement.¡±

    ¡°How to hit things really hard?¡± I suggest.

    Rook sighs. ¡°Go home, Red. You¡¯ll observe the rescue exercise another time.¡±

    ¡ª

    It¡¯s only during the car ride home that I realize I may have given away more than I meant to in regard to my power. Stupid.

    Not as if it was doing anything for me before then, I don¡¯t have any reason to lie to the USMC at the moment, but¡­ still. Stupid.

    Well. At least I won. That was¡­ cathartic.

    Olivia¡¯s always liked pushing my buttons. I never really figured out why, but I didn¡¯t usually fight back. What was I gonna do, punch her?

    Throw her, apparently. My whole body, but especially my arm, aches from that stunt. I won¡¯t be able to do it again safely for a while, I think, and it¡¯s unlikely to be useful in active combat. Not unless I know that it¡¯ll end the fight, I guess.

    I stretch, feeling muscles and tendons pull against each other with the movement. My body aches, and it¡¯s not a pleasant ache, but it feels¡­ real. It feels like proof.

    Leaning my head against the glass window of the van, I watch the city skate by under the soft evening sun.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Jacob? Honey, are you ¡ª oh, gosh.¡± Mom greets me at the door, eyes widening as she takes in my diminished appearance. I don¡¯t think I look injured, or anything, but I¡¯m skinnier that usual, and shorter too, I think.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Nice to be back,¡± I provide.

    ¡°Oh, yes, ah¡­ come, come in. We have dinner, and your father¡¯s here this time.¡±

    I nod and step inside, slipping off my shoes.

    The meal is quiet, but only because it¡¯s awkward. Dad complains about the notices the USMC have been sending him instead of his job for once.

    ¡°They want you to stay in a dorm ¡ª in high school! This is ridiculous. They have some kind of agenda,¡± he mutters in between bites, stealing glances at the laptop propped open next to him.

    I wonder if he doesn¡¯t just want to keep an eye on me.

    I lay in bed that night with thoughts of smoke, fire, and steaming flesh.

    ¡ª

    The next day, I¡¯m again transported to the USMC tower. It¡¯s a little later in the day than last time, so when I meet Rook in the lobby, we head straight to the training floor. This time, I pick a uniform from the women¡¯s locker. It fits much better. As I walk out, I notice Rook¡¯s also wearing one, this time.

    Still has her glasses on, though.

    The fake urban landscape looks the same as last time. Actually, I think it looks better. I remember seeing scuffs and scorch marks at the end of yesterday¡¯s matches, but now they¡¯re weirdly absent. I guess they clean up fast around here.

    Another thing I notice. The others are avoiding me.

    Sort of. Rook has them start on a simulation ¡ª something about breaching ¡ª pretty early on, but even before then I get weird looks. For some reason, it doesn¡¯t really surprise me.

    I¡¯m a bit disappointed about Eva, though. I thought we were getting along.

    While the others get started breaking into fake buildings, Rook pulls me into an exercise.

    ¡°We¡¯ll start with hand-to-hand, seeing as that¡¯s likely going to be your specialty,¡± she lectures. ¡°If you can learn to consistently pull off that stunt you did yesterday, we can revisit the style you use, but for now¡­¡±

    Rook settles into a neutral stance, with one hand hovering out in front of her, and the other pulled in close. ¡°Judo. Ideal for non-lethal takedowns. You don¡¯t need to know it to a competitive level, but it can be a useful tool when subduing suspects.¡± She nods at me. ¡°Try to copy my stance.¡±

    I try to approximate her hand position. She drops the stance and walks over to me. ¡°May I touch you?¡±

    I nod, hesitantly. She begins gently guiding my limbs to the correct positions. She¡¯s methodical, almost robotic with her movements, even without piloting her drone. ¡°You should gain some weight if you want to get the most of it. You should be doing that anyway, really, with how much mass your power seems to consume.¡± She pauses her adjustments for a moment to look over at the mock-raid. ¡°Communication, Olivia! Call out your position!¡±

    ¡°I know how to do this already!¡± She shouts back.

    ¡°It¡¯s procedure!¡± Rook returns.

    ¡°Ugh!¡±

    Rook sighs, and returns to her stance across from me. ¡°Contact points are here, and here,¡± she starts, indicating her sleeve and collar. I follow along as she runs through the basics.

    As I¡¯m practicing proper form and Rook is occasionally directing the simulation happening next door, my mind can¡¯t help but wander.

    ¡°Is she like that in, uh. In the field, too?¡±

    ¡°Hm? Olivia?¡± I nod. ¡°She¡¯s¡­ proactive. She¡¯s also a child, as are you. I¡¯m confident she will learn to adhere to procedure.¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡± Rook guides my arms as I hold onto her collar.

    ¡°Tighter grip. Good.¡± She gestures for my other arm. I grab her sleeve. ¡°Do you know her? You two seemed as if you had history.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Yeah, she was my, uh. Ex.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡±

    I roll my eyes and tug on the sleeve I¡¯m still holding.

    ¡°Right, well. Here, spin this way.¡±

    I spend the rest of the session learning judo with Rook while she yells at the others over her shoulder.

    It feels real.

 Chapter 2.6

    2.6

    I move into an empty room in the tower over the next week or so. My dad gives in, conditional on frequent visits, and a couple trucks help me transport my furniture and whatnot from my room at home to the tower. Mom cries when I leave the house, and dad takes time off of work to see me off, which surprises me.

    ¡°Make, uh. Make us proud, son,¡± he stutters awkwardly. I nod.

    The ride to the tower is the same as always, even if this time Rook isn¡¯t waiting for me. Instead, I check in with the receptionist, and she gives me a card with a thin metal frame. It looks expensive.

    I head over to the elevator lobby and take the first one up. A reader by the buttons beeps, and I swipe the card the receptionist gave me.

    Stepping out into the common area of the dorm, I almost bump into Eva as she rushes through the small lobby and into another elevator with a bright red frame around the entrance. The cabin has two levels of rails bordering the inside, both of which she grabs onto as she squeezes in behind the other three junior heroes.

    ¡°Sorry, sorry!¡± She yelps, and then the doors slam closed, and a distinct whir sounds, getting quieter concerningly quickly.

    Odd.

    After dropping my bags in my room, I get a text from Rook imploring me to head to the training floor. It¡¯s the second time she¡¯s texted me, after her initial message making sure she has the correct number. I make sure to take the normal elevator.

    When I reach the training floor, Rook is waiting for me, along with four humanoid drones identical to the one she uses for public appearances. Deep, navy glass carapaces, tall crowns, caged dresses and all. The real Rook stands off to the side, tapping away at her tablet.

    All four drones are completely motionless. Blue lights flicker across their glass shells. It¡¯s intimidating.

    ¡°So, uh. They seemed like they were in a rush,¡± I comment, walking up to one of the drones with my hands in my pockets. Up close, I can spot a reflection of myself in the glossy armored mask. It catches me off guard.

    ¡°Hm?¡± Rook asks.

    ¡°The other juniors,¡± I clarify, staring at my reflection. Paper-white hair, dark red irises, shark-like teeth. I hadn¡¯t put much thought into my chosen appearance back in the warehouse, but looking at it now, it¡¯s definitely bold. Still, I can¡¯t bring myself to dislike it.

    Actually, it¡¯s the opposite. Where I would usually feel nothing looking at myself in the mirror, I feel a sort of warm satisfaction. The kind you get after you nail a guitar riff, or cook yourself a meal. Like, ¡®I made that¡¯.

    Is this how Sera felt?

    I scowl. Almost went a whole week without thinking about her. I don¡¯t know how to feel about that.

    ¡°A home alarm went off. They are currently on a dedicated mission,¡± Rook says, answering my earlier question.

    A home alarm. I know the Brightheart Hero Association sells immediate response alarms, but I didn¡¯t know the USMC used them. Dad¡¯s always saying he¡¯s going to get one, but they¡¯re¡­ expensive. Mom always talks him out of it.

    ¡°What¡¯s the mission,¡± I ask, turning away from the drone to see Rook looking at me.

    ¡°A disturbance in district 2, near the suburbs. Not your neighborhood,¡± she says, anticipating my concern. District 2 includes my neighborhood, as well as the city¡¯s downtown area, where the plaza is.

    ¡°Do you want to watch? They should be broadcasting by now,¡± Rook asks. Hm.

    ¡°...Sure.¡±

    She sits down on the curb, waving me over as she does. A drone flies into view, whirring softly and unfolding into a tiny screen. I don¡¯t catch where it came from. It¡¯s fast, and surprisingly stable.

    Sitting down next to Rook, I watch as the screen flips through a couple different news channels.

    ¡°¡ª Metahuman altercation involving the entire USMC Junior Division and an unidentified super terrorizing the neighborhood. Damage to the target building is substantial, but the fight hasn¡¯t yet spread to the surrounding area, and according to the USMW a control squad is on the way. Here¡¯s Josh with the aerial footage.¡± A well-dressed newscaster reads from a script, detailing the events playing in the footage next to him. The picture moves to fill the screen, and the sound of muffled chopper sounds and the on-site reporter filter out of the drone¡¯s speakers.

    ¡°Thanks, Greg! The perpetrator appears to be a mutant super of some kind, and although he has yet to make any demands, he¡¯s holding up well against our city¡¯s heroes,¡± the reporter narrates as the bad guy throws a sofa at Rory. I catch a flash of light as he adjusts his construct to block, but he still goes flying.

    The house itself is somewhere deep in the suburbs, standing out like a sore thumb with its caved in roof and collapsed walls. Furniture and splinters of floorboard litter the entire lawn, sometimes smoldering from weak fires.

    The perpetrator stands somewhere near what would be the living room, inhumanly tall with deep red skin and a huge crown of tangled horns crawling around his head. He¡¯s muscular to the point of seeming unhealthy, and even from the short time I¡¯ve been watching the fight, I can tell the junior¡¯s attempts to harm him aren¡¯t very effective.

    He¡¯s not fast, but as I watch him catch Eva in a lucky hit and send her tumbling, I conclude that he¡¯s definitely strong.

    You don¡¯t usually see mutant supers, especially not engaging in high-profile fights like this. The public doesn¡¯t like anything too supernatural-looking, it digs at their paranoia.

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    It digs at mine, too. I can¡¯t deny the shock of surprise that surges through me at the site of the perpetrator. I was too young to remember it at the time, but I grew up with footage of the first Disaster leveling New York.

    The opposing super begins stomping towards a neighboring house.

    I look over at Rook. She¡¯s frowning. ¡°Inneffective containment. It¡¯s not part of the curriculum, so we haven¡¯t touched on it much, but they need to practice minimizing damage.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not?¡± I ask.

    Rook shakes her head. ¡°Not technically. Combat and rescue are taught separately, and the USMC sometimes forgets they¡¯re not.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t you¡­ do something about that?¡±

    ¡°It would be irresponsible.¡±

    On the screen, Rory gets back up and his constructs flare back to life. Plates of shining armor, a huge sword and shield extending from his costume. The enemy whacks him again, and he goes flying.

    ¡°Irresponsible?¡± I¡¯m not sure I get what she¡¯s trying to say.

    ¡°There¡¯s an inherent power imbalance. I have the ability to enforce my will more effectively than any of the mundane people managing the USMC,¡± she clarifies.

    ¡°What if you¡¯re right, though?¡± I counter.

    Rook¡¯s expression flattens. ¡°That¡¯s what everyone thinks.¡± She stands, and I barely catch Eva as she finally manages to knock the perpetrator over before the drone¡¯s screen flicks off and it glides away.

    ¡°Let¡¯s continue our lesson from yesterday,¡± she says, settling into a stance. I hop up from the curb, wondering if I accidentally touched a nerve.

    ¡ª

    After a quick lesson in hand-to-hand from Rook, she sends me to one of the office floors to pick up a package, and then back to the dorms.

    My room¡¯s still just a bunch of unopened boxes, but I manage to pull together half a chair to sit down and open the package.

    It¡¯s a laptop. A small, sleek-looking one that almost seems like it¡¯s made of glass. When I open it, the welcome message displays my name, which is creepy, and then switches over to an OS I¡¯ve never seen before.

    There are only a couple apps, one of which displays an alert and seems like a classwork app.

    So, no standardized classes? We just do the work on our own time?

    I click through the app a little. Everything listed is review, at the moment. I haven¡¯t really been paying attention in class recently, but I can probably manage something.

    ¡ª

    After about an hour, I hear commotion outside my room. The others must be back by now. I wonder if they won?

    Probably, the news said the USMW deployed a containment squad. It was only a matter of time at that point. I try to go back to the worksheet I¡¯m working through.

    I don¡¯t get very far before I hear a knock at my door. It¡¯s not closed, so as I look up, I see Eva standing in the door frame as it creaks open. She¡¯s wearing an expression I can¡¯t quite decipher.

    ¡°Uh. Hi.¡±

    ¡°Hey,¡± I reply, closing the laptop. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°I, uh.¡± Her face crumples a little. ¡°Olivia said you were, um. A guy. Is that true?¡±

    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t like Olivia.¡±

    ¡°Not ¡®cuz she lies.¡±

    I study her face. She¡¯s confused, probably. Not angry, though. At least not at me.

    I¡¯m not totally sure how to answer her. I¡¯m not really sure myself. But¡­

    ¡°I¡¯m not a guy.¡±

    She nods. ¡°Okay. Uh. Want help unpacking?¡±

    Hm? ¡°Sure.¡±

    I spend the evening opening boxes and telling Eva about the stuff we find inside.

    ¡ª

    The next day, I wake up in the dorm. My room¡¯s still a bit of a mess, so it takes me a minute to figure out where I am, but the muffled voices coming from outside help me put it together.

    I crawl out of bed and into the kitchen to start digging around in the fridge, not really paying attention to the quiet, early-morning conversation happening around me. I manage to find toast, which is about all I think I can handle at this hour. Not that I know what time it is or anything.

    Sitting at the kitchen table and chipping away at my breakfast, I find it¡¯s not as awkward as I thought it would be. Olivia¡¯s already left the dorm, and Eva¡¯s back-and-forth with Rory stays fairly low-level.

    Eventually, we all filter out of the kitchen. There¡¯s a joint-lesson at some point, but besides that the daily schedule¡¯s pretty lax.

    Today, though, I have an appointment. After finished breakfast, I pull on a half-assed outfit and head down, via elevator, to one of the office floors.

    The floor¡¯s busy, even more so than the other few I¡¯ve been on, and every so often I catch a glimpse of a computer screen, or a slideshow through the glass walls into a meeting room, talking about marketing. It matches what I¡¯ve been told. Texted. By Rook.

    I make my way across the floor toward an office near the back of the building. I don¡¯t bother reading the label beyond the room number, and absentmindedly knock.

    ¡°Come in.¡±

    I open the door. It¡¯s a pretty typical office, with a desk and two cushioned chairs positioned in front. At the desk is an older, balding man in a nicely tailored suit. A small pile of drafting paper litters the desk in front of him, all of it adorned with seemingly different iterations of the same costume.

    ¡°Sit,¡± he says. I sit. The chairs are comfortable.

    ¡°So, I hear you¡¯re in need of a costume.¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Good. I received an initial explanation of your abilities, but I¡¯d like to listen to your interpretation as well. What can you do?¡± He slides a small notebook out from under his desk and clicks open a pen.

    I guess that makes sense. ¡°I can strengthen myself and regenerate.¡±

    ¡°Succinct,¡± he comments.

    ¡°It costs me body mass,¡± I add.

    ¡°Ah, there we are. That¡¯s good to know.¡± He seems to write it down. ¡°You¡¯ll be fighting in close-combat, using martial arts and such. I was originally thinking an armored costume, but seeing as you¡¯re female, I ended up deciding on a ¡®femme fatale¡¯ aesthetic.¡± He slides a design out from under the pile. It¡¯s a black, skintight suit with arm and leg bracers, and a heavy-looking belt around the waist. Red stripes line the sides of the outfit, and the edges of the equipment.

    My face twists reflexively. At least it has pockets? And a helmet, as a small design off to the side implies.

    ¡°I, uh. Dunno about this one.¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡±

    ¡°It looks a bit tight.¡±

    The designer gives me a look. ¡°I have the degree, not you.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°It¡¯s my suit, don¡¯t I get a say?¡±

    ¡°No, you don¡¯t. You¡¯re a public servant now, you have a presence in the public eye. The USMC dictates you must represent the best of the organization,¡± he says, sternly. It¡¯s like he¡¯s reading from a prompt.

    ¡°How does being a ¡®femme fatale¡¯ help me represent the organization,¡± I say mockingly.

    ¡°The current Junior Division needs a darker-themed character to balance out its cast. If this is all you want to discuss, I need to finalize this design,¡± he says, starting to shuffle away the papers scattered over the desk into a small folder.

    He didn¡¯t actually answer my question, but. Is there really a point in arguing? I sigh. ¡°Can I at least get baggier pants?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it,¡± he responds.

    I leave the designer¡¯s office with an odd feeling roiling in my gut.

 Chapter 2.7

    2.7

    A couple days later I get my suit.

    Well, not shipped to the dorm or anything, but Rook shows me to the deployment garage on the bottom floor of the tower, and in one of the lockers I find my suit and some papers detailing my ¡®character¡¯. Digging through the packet, I also find a small¡­ pager? Retro.

    Apparently, my name is Redline, now. A bit on the nose, considering the patterns on the costume.

    Looking closer at the costume, it seems like they¡¯ve included some baggy, tactical cargo pants along with the skintight part of the suit, so. At least there¡¯s that.

    The pants are padded, and adorned with a couple carefully placed plates of armor. The suit also comes with an armored chest piece and elbow pads, all lined in a bright vermilion.

    It¡¯s really not as bad as I thought it would be.

    I take the next couple nights to read through the packet that came with the costume, along with working on the general courses on the laptop. During the days, I have martial arts lessons with Rook, as well as participating minimally in a couple practical drills with the other junior heroes. During this time, Rook usually likes to run through hero standard procedure and rules of engagement, which I sit in on and try to take as many notes as I can.

    A total of four days later, I¡¯m sitting in my still only partially unpacked room working on schoolwork when the pager, sitting on the desk next to me, goes off. Really loudly, and echoing from somewhere else in the dorms as well.

    Struggling to remember the drill we did on this situation, I click the pager and toss it in my pocket, jogging out of my room and towards the dorm elevators.

    I slide into the dangerous, red-outlined one next to Rory, who¡¯s already standing next to the buttons.

    He hits the controls, and we both grab onto the railings. The doors close, my stomach drops and I hear a muffled whoosh.

    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± Rory comments. I stare at him.

    ¡°How??¡±

    ¡°I was two seconds ahead of you.¡±

    I huff. ¡°Really.¡±

    ¡°Yes, really.¡± The elevator stops, and he steps out. ¡°Keep up.¡±

    We¡¯re on the ground floor now, and Rory immediately sprints down the hallway.

    He has a head start, but I catch up fairly quickly, and in no time we round the corner into the changing rooms. I grab my costume and dart into one of the stalls, as Rory does the same. They¡¯re not separated by gender this time, I assume for efficiency.

    I struggle with my costume for a minute before I hear Rory clunking out of the changing room. ¡°You¡¯re slow, again!¡± He calls back as he leaves.

    ¡°Ugh!¡± I complain to no one. The costume still fits weird. I tried it on during the drill and figured it¡¯d be fine, but trying to don it quickly, I¡¯m realizing it¡¯s not. I huff, and activate my power.

    Sinking into the murky red of biological information, I make a number of minor adjustments. Then, I sprint out of the changing room, helmet tucked under my arm, and gloves halfway through being pulled on.

    Rory¡¯s suit is similarly tactical, especially near his joints, but his is more heavily armored, and around his chest, arms and legs he wears heavy-looking white bracers with gold trim. A number of small rods and pucks hang off of his belt. His helmet is also a lot more ornate than mine is.

    He looks at me as I jog into the garage, where a small transport vehicle labelled ¡®USMC¡¯ is waiting.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ shorter.¡±

    I shrug. He drops it, opting instead to hop into the back of the armored van and buckle in. I follow him, closing the doors behind us as he knocks on the vehicle¡¯s back wall and we speed off.

    As soon as we hit the open road, he pulls a small tab from the ceiling, and down comes a screen attached to an arm. It automatically stabilizes as we drive up a ramp onto the highway.

    ¡°According to security footage, registered villain Clockwerk is currently committing armed robbery in District 3, at one of the Caldwell branch locations,¡± Rory starts as he messes with the screen. ¡°Have you read Clockwerk¡¯s file?¡±

    No, but I know the basics. ¡°Skimmed it,¡± I settle on.

    ¡°She has some form of remote kinetic manipulation. Expect kinetic tools and traps.¡± Remote in this case doesn¡¯t actually mean distance. Even if I haven¡¯t really gone through the registered files yet, I know the basics of power classification.

    Remote essentially means she needs a medium to conduct her power through. Clockwerk¡¯s medium is suspected to be, well. Gears.

    Rory pauses for a moment. ¡°I¡¯ll go in through the front. It¡¯s unlikely that Clockwerk will harm the hostages unless threatened, so I should be able to distract her long enough for you to evacuate them.¡± He swipes through the screen and turns it to face me, where I see it¡¯s displaying footage from a security camera angled at a side entrance. ¡°You¡¯ll go around here, quietly move the hostages out of danger, and then join the fight if necessary.¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    I don¡¯t have a better plan. I nod.

    The drive there only takes about five minutes. We pull up to the bank parking lot, and Rory opens the van doors. Two cop cars are positioned right outside, the cops looking nervous as one of them mutters to a handheld radio.

    ¡°Remember the plan?¡±

    I nod.

    He nods back. Then, he hops out of the van, jogging past the cop cars. I drop from the van and follow at his heels.

    As I approach, I catch the cops giving us dirty looks as we run by.

    Hm.

    Rory closes in on the front door, and I head around to the right, watching through the tall glass windows as he kicks the door open.

    Inside the bank, a small gaggle of hostages sit in a semicircle near the middle of the lobby, surrounding Clockwerk. She stands at the center, covered in leather and brass plates and holding a complex-looking machine that might be a firearm.

    It¡¯s not the same one from when I saw her last, but it still makes me nervous.

    Along with her armored knee and elbow plates, she sports bracers with some kind of mechanism attached, and a sling dotted with small brass boxes. Hanging off of her back is a thin leather bag filled with metal bolts, which solidifies my fear about the mechanism she¡¯s holding.

    I move around to the side entrance, watching Rory¡¯s fight through the glass. I want to see how he handles Clockwerk.

    ¡°Clockwerk!¡± He announces, pulling a puck from his belt. ¡°You¡¯re under arrest!¡±

    ¡°Real original!¡± She fires back, hefting the bolt gun.

    Rory doesn¡¯t skip a beat. Bright yellow light flickers into existence over the puck as he drops it onto the ceramic tile in front of him. It takes shape as a tall glowing barrier as he kicks the puck, and it goes sliding across the room. The projection follows like they¡¯re welded together.

    Clockwerk fires her bolt gun, and the bolt cracks the yellow barrier, sending it and the puck spinning off to the side.

    Rory¡¯s already taken advantage of the distraction, running up behind the makeshift shield and closing in on Clockwerk.

    He¡¯s assumed that her bolt gun only has one shot. From previous encounters?

    Whatever the reason, he¡¯s miscalculated. Clockwerk yanks back a handle attached to the side of the gun and fires again. This time, the bolt glances off of Rory¡¯s armor, denting it and making him stumble. As I reach the building¡¯s side door, Clockwerk rips one of the brass boxes off of her sling and points it at Rory.

    I grit my teeth and run inside as I hear a bang go off and see smoke leaking around the corner of the hallway I¡¯m in.

    I run to the end and, after a moment of hesitation, slowly peek my head out of the door.

    I¡¯ve ended up next to the gaggle of hostages. Off closer to the center of the lobby is Clockwerk and Rory, who is¡­ unharmed. And tangled in a net, struggling like a wild animal.

    Clockwerk chuckles. ¡°What, you thought I¡¯d just keep using the same gear forever? Moron!¡± She berates, strolling closer.

    She stops a good distance away.

    I hear a crackle of static in my ear. ¡°Redline, do you read me?¡± It¡¯s Rory¡¯s voice, interspersed with various grunts.

    He¡¯s faking it?

    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± I respond, tentatively. I don¡¯t really know how to work the comms unit.

    ¡°Dammit, she¡¯s not close enough. Listen, focus on evacuating the hostages, I¡¯ll keep her distracted,¡± Rory asserts. I nod, before realizing he can¡¯t see that.

    ¡°Sure.¡±

    The comms cut off. ¡°Let me out!¡± Rory shouts out loud.

    Clockwerk laughs. ¡°No!¡±

    Slowly, I creep forward, and when one of the hostages catches sight of me, I hold up a finger to my mouth ¡ª helmet.

    They nod, and as the others notice my presence, I wave them over. They hurriedly begin to shuffle over to the hallway I entered from.

    After about half of them exit, one of the hostage¡¯s shoes scuff against the linoleum floor. Clockwerk immediately turns. ¡°Hey ¡ª !¡±

    I stand, falling into a sloppy combat stance. Before I can act, though, thin yellow blades snap into existence in a small ring around Rory. He¡¯s hunched over something on the floor, and as he shifts I watch as the blades whirl, cleaving through the net.

    Clockwerk turns back around as the rope falls, and Rory stands up, dispelling the saw and clutching another puck in his hand.

    With his other hand outstretched, he lunges toward Clockwerk, tapping the end of the bolt gun and projecting an orb of yellow light around the barrel.

    Clockwerk responds by lashing out with a forward kick, metal snapping as the mechanism attached to her bracer fires and clunks against Rory¡¯s armor, sending him tumbling. Then she turns and runs in my direction.

    I panic a little. At this point, the hostages have left the lobby and are likely somewhere outside. My only issue is making sure Clockwerk doesn¡¯t escape.

    But ¡ª I really don¡¯t want to get shot. How many bolts does that thing hold?

    She stops as she catches sight of me. ¡°Oh! A new one! What, do you control bikes or something?¡± Huh? Is it the helmet? I try to ignore her and come up with a plan while Rory¡¯s still wheezing on the floor.

    ¡°Nah, that would be too cool,¡± I mutter. If I don¡¯t want to get shot, I have to take the initiative. I¡¯m supposed to excel in close combat. I take a tentative step forward.

    Clockwerk huffs. ¡°Heh. Do I know you from somewhere?¡±

    I falter. What? There¡¯s no way.

    I go for the grab, reaching out to snag her collar. She ducks, and my world turns as my legs slide out from under me and I hit the floor with a grunt. Behind me, I hear boots against tile and the sound of the hallway door swinging open.

    I sigh. This whole hero thing really isn¡¯t working out for me.

    ¡ª

    Back at the garage, I hop out of the van and head to my locker. ¡°Debrief in an hour,¡± Rory calls after me.

    I stash my costume in the locker and pull my clothes back on.

    When I stumble back into my room, sweaty and exhausted, hair and clothes disheveled, Eva looks up at me from her spot hanging off of my bed with more than a little concern.

    ¡°Wow, you look awful.¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡°No, seriously, even I didn¡¯t look that bad when I got back from my first mission.¡±

    Chuckling, I sit down at my desk and flick open my laptop.

 Chapter 2.8

    2.8

    ¡°So why the rubber bolts?¡±

    I¡¯m asking Rook, who¡¯s here in person, in a small break room on one of the upper office floors swiping through her tablet after we conclude the debriefing. She wasn¡¯t exactly disappointed in us for our performance, apparently Clockwerk is consistently slippery in spite of her relatively low rating.

    She¡¯s supposed to be a class-1 or 2, I think? I¡¯m still spotty on power classifications.

    Rook promised to put me through more judo training, and have me participate on mock trials more often. She thinks we need better teamwork.

    She¡¯s probably right, I have no idea what I¡¯m doing. We¡¯re lucky this was just Clockwerk.

    Rook looks up from her device. ¡°Rubber bolts?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. She uses rubber and nets,¡± I repeat, flopping down on the sofa in the corner as Rory dutifully salutes and exits the room. ¡°Her power¡¯s remote kin ¡ª kinetic stuff, right? Why doesn¡¯t she just stake us or whatever?¡±

    I roll over, arms hanging off the edge. ¡°Those bracers were sorta dangerous, I guess, but it¡­ it seems like she¡¯s sandbagging?¡±

    Rook shakes her head. ¡°Every super is sandbagging, Red. For a myriad of reasons. In Clockwerk¡¯s case, it¡¯s likely fear of retribution.¡± She taps her device. ¡°Remote-class supers are more heavily restricted, both in the USMC¡¯s ranks and the court of law. If she were to cause destruction at her peak of potential, she¡¯d likely be incarcerated at the Panopticon.¡±

    The super-prison. Right. ¡°Your powers are remote-class, right?¡±

    ¡°They are.¡± Rook sets down her tablet. ¡°I am limited in my operating capacity, materials and operating range. To change any of these factors, I must submit a request with the USMC, so they can log the change in their database.¡± Her expression sours slightly. ¡°I am also the first under suspicion in the event of an information breach.¡±

    ¡°Is that fair?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a reasonable precaution, I am the most tech-savvy among my peers. If I were to turn coat, I would be prosecuted the same as any other criminal. And like Clockwerk, I would be most likely sentenced to the Panopticon.¡± Rook frowns. ¡°Although, Rodney Burns has been pushing particularly hard for her incarceration.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°Rodney Burns. A chairman of the Brightheart Hero Association,¡± she clarifies.

    I think for a moment. ¡°Livvy¡¯s dad?¡±

    ¡°Livvy ¡ª Olivia?¡± Ugh. Slip-up. ¡°Yes, her father. The BHA is one of our top donors, so he has a fair amount of sway. Hm.¡±

    I only vaguely remember Olivia talking about her dad. I don¡¯t think she likes him.

    She told me once that she dyes her hair blonde trying to not stand out at photo shoots, but I¡¯ve never seen him pick her up from school. It¡¯s always the butler, or whoever.

    I scowl. ¡°So she¡¯d be executed because she¡¯s black?¡±

    ¡°She wouldn¡¯t be executed, she¡¯d be incarcerated in a state-of-the-art super containment facility. And not because she¡¯s black.¡± Rook adjusts her glasses. ¡°Mr. Burns is a valuable ally to the USMC.¡± I twist my head around to look at her.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the same thing?¡±

    Rook¡¯s expression is sour, twisted. I wonder if she believes what she¡¯s saying.

    ¡°Regardless, he and his ilk are the mundane government¡¯s chosen executives. It simply is.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s fucking stupid,¡± I complain.

    ¡°You¡¯re hardly qualified to comment on the topic.¡± Rook sighs. ¡°Get some rest, Red. You¡¯ll be going out more often from now on.¡±

    I climb up off the couch and leave, feeling vaguely nostalgic.

    ¡ª

    The next time I get an alert, it¡¯s not so jarring. The pager dings, notifying me that I¡¯m on patrol duty, and informing me I should report to the garage for deployment.

    It also informs me I¡¯ll be working with Jackie Jet. Olivia.

    I huff, and let my head bang down onto my desk. ¡°Ugh.¡±

    On the way down, I take the normal elevator, and when I reach the garage, I make a beeline to the changing rooms. In the stall, I struggle pulling on my outfit, take a breath, and step back out into the garage.

    Olivia ¡ª Jet? Rook tells me I should get in the habit of using hero names ¡ª stands impatiently by the van. Tapping her foot and everything.

    She glances over at me. ¡°Took ¡®ya long enough, big fist.¡±

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°That¡¯s a stupid fucking nickname.¡±

    ¡°Get off my dick, it took me like two seconds. In,¡± She says, pulling open the back doors. ¡°We¡¯ll circle round to District 1, do a quick patrol. I¡¯ll show your stupid ass how it¡¯s done. Then we go home.¡±

    I roll my eyes and hop in the van. We don¡¯t talk as the vehicle rolls out from under the tower, into the wider concrete garden. I stare out the window at the passing facilities, the check-in stations, the shipping pads. At some point, the looming skyscrapers become smaller, more rustic-looking buildings, some of which still have graffiti, or old-world adornments scattered over them.

    And then every so often we pass by a block that¡¯s cordoned off by semi-permanent USMW warning posts, the buildings inside reduced to mossy concrete chunks.

    We stop at a corner not too far away from the plaza where Cook used to operate.

    ¡°Alright, out. And look alive, they don¡¯t like us too much around here,¡± Jet announces, hopping down from the lip of the van. I shove on my helmet and follow along.

    It¡¯s weird, walking around in-costume in broad daylight. Especially when there¡¯s nothing to actually fight. The streets aren¡¯t empty, and as the van drives off, I notice we¡¯re getting¡­ looks.

    ¡°Uh. Do you usually patrol around here?¡± I ask, following along as Jet starts walking along the sidewalk.

    She makes a face, and I see her usual attitude poke through the professional act she¡¯s been putting on. ¡°Ew, no. Daddy makes them assign the nicer places. Dunno why they have me here with you.¡±

    I heave a deep sigh. ¡°So you don¡¯t know why everyone¡¯s staring at us?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s because we¡¯re heroes. Obviously.¡±

    Looking around, the stares we¡¯re getting as we turn the corner at an intersection are decidedly hostile.

    Because we¡¯re heroes. She¡¯s missing the point.

    I remember Gordon telling me to keep an eye out for them back when I was pretending to be a distributor. Is it like that?

    No, that would be stupid. Cook¡¯s distributors are disposable, but there¡¯s not usually very many of them at a time.

    I wonder how he¡¯s doing?

    We round the block and continue on to a storefront. Small shops line the street, vehicle parts, groceries, clothing. I see a swastika with the number 18 spray-painted with it on the window of a store nearby.

    I scowl. Creative.

    It gets busier the farther we get into the downtown area. Soon enough, there¡¯s not really enough space for people to cross the street when they catch sight of us. It¡¯s around then that Jet stops, hand shooting up to touch her ear.

    I try to remember how to turn on my comms. Rook said there was a button¡­ I fumble for a moment.

    The comm crackles to life. ¡°Alert on 5th, USMC patrol prepare to intercept. Looks like one suspect, armed with class 1 tech.¡± That¡¯s mechanical stuff, right?

    ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± Jet says, taking off. I scramble to follow her as we take a few steps onto the road, bypassing pedestrians.

    We come up on a gas station, Jimmy¡¯s something-or-other, worn down, dilapidated and from the looks of things, currently being robbed. It¡¯s broad daylight, but the fluorescent lights still somehow cast a harsh glow onto the rows of rusty shelves and people huddled behind them.

    There¡¯s four. Victims, I mean. Two are crouched down in the back, one is behind the desk, and the last is laying on the floor in front of the register. The perpetrator stands above them, pointing a firearm at the cashier.

    His hands are shaking.

    Jet sprints, then flies, streaks of flame sprouting from her limbs and propelling her straight through the glass window of the store, sending shards flying. She catches the perpetrator by the back of his head and slams it into the tile with one hand, a sharp crack audible even from outside.

    Something sick boils in my gut as I run to catch up.

    The man struggles under her grip, trying to lift his head up, but she doesn¡¯t let him. Jets flaring up again, the force shoves his head back down, this time cracking the linoleum and leaving blood splattered against the floor. He¡¯s limp, and again Jet pulls his head up.

    I grab her arm. ¡°What the fuck are you doing?!¡± I spit over the comms.

    ¡°Taking out the trash, Redshit. What did you think was gonna happen?¡± She says acidly. I tighten my grip.

    ¡°Put him down.¡±

    She rolls her eyes and drops the guy¡¯s head, making me scramble to set him down gently. ¡°Whatever.¡± I watch as she stomps out the door, barking into her radio on her way out.

    In the store, the other two people stay hidden behind the store shelves, whispering barely-audible comforting mantras to each other while the cashier continues to cower behind the register, tears streaming down their face.

    And it¡¯s only then that I notice the last victim, lying face-up with blood pooling around her neck. It streaks in between the store tiles and into the cracks Jet left behind, mixing with the criminal¡¯s in a false swirl of the same shade of red.

    I feel sick. Rotten. Insects crawl beneath my skin and feast on me like I¡¯m crushed under burning rubber tires on a highway, birds peck at my blackened bones, still slick with ¡ª

    ¡ª

    ¡°Nothing¡¯s going to happen to her,¡± I say.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Rook asks.

    ¡°Olivia. Her dad¡¯s a chairman. She¡¯s not even going to be temporarily suspended, right?¡±

    Rook turns to me, and her eyes speak of distant sorrow. ¡°Red. She followed procedure.¡±

    Sanguine humor pulses behind my eyes.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Yeah, when we do takedown practice, Rook usually has us go by the USMC professional standard,¡± Eva says. ¡°She even brought in Megalith once to give us pointers.¡± She frowns. ¡°He got rough. His power¡¯s not exactly delicate, but¡­¡±

    She sighs. ¡°My mom sat in on one of our training sessions once, and she said it reminded her of Western Europe. She moved here as a kid, you know? And¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re saying USMC takedown tactics remind your mom of European warlords.¡±

    My head pounds.

    ¡ª

    ¡°¡ª transport was attacked yesterday, leading to an estimated 12 casualties among the guards and transport staff. Authorities say it¡¯s likely Cook was able to escape during the attack, and even more likely that the attack itself was staged by him or a number of his accomplices. We have our local USMW manager here to¡­¡±

    He escaped. He fucking escaped. My throat burns.

    ¡ª

    Why¡­ am I here, again?

 Chapter 2.9

    2.9

    The next time my pager rings, I almost ignore it. But it rings again. So, I pick it up.

    It¡¯s a deployment alert. For everyone, this time.

    Something curdles in my gut as I jog out of my room.

    The fast elevator¡¯s full when I get there, Rory, Eva, Cooper, and Olivia standing around in the corners. I see Rory open his mouth to tell me I¡¯m late and spit out a quick ¡°zip it.¡±

    Miraculously, he shuts up, and I situate myself in the center of the elevator. I try not to look at Olivia.

    The elevator drops, and I have to crouch a little to maintain my balance, but we reach the ground floor relatively quickly and file out. The others leave me behind as they sprint towards the lockers. I jog along behind them.

    By the time I jog out to the garage, everyone¡¯s seated around the van. And so is¡­ Crane? The Junior Division handler.

    ¡°Redline! Glad you decided to show up!¡± He calls out, smiling. I elect not to answer.

    ¡°Well, regardless. Your briefing today is as follows; an unidentified mutant super has been spotted near the center of District 3.¡±

    ¡°Another one?¡± Eva asks.

    ¡°There is currently no evidence that these two individuals are related, in activity or ability,¡± Crane recites. ¡°The USMW Containment Division has successfully established a quarantine around the neighborhood. Your assignment is to enter the quarantine zone and subdue the individual. You are authorized to use complete force.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Can¡¯t they just take care of it?¡± I mutter, snarkily.

    Crane smiles wider. ¡°The USMW? But then, how would we get footage of all your pretty faces?¡±

    He can¡¯t be serious.

    Crane, seemingly noticing my expression, laughs. ¡°At some point during your operation, you¡¯ll have backup from the Brightheart Hero Organization. When they arrive, your assignment will have ended.¡± He motions at the van. ¡°Well? Hop to it.¡±

    We jump in the van, but before Rory ¡ª Shield Warrior has a chance to close the doors, Crane motions for us to pause. ¡°Oh, ah ¡ª one more thing, before you go. We have reliable intelligence that Einherjar and a large portion of Front 18¡¯s membership was caught in the quarantine. Subduing them is your secondary priority, so remember to keep an eye out! You¡¯ll get their location in the debrief on the way.¡±

    He winks. I think I¡¯m having trouble breathing.

    Shield Warrior nods curtly, and slams the doors closed behind us. As the driver pulls out of the garage and onto one of the highway ramps leading out of the tower, I spot Crane through the window, grinning and waving from his spot by the door.

    I feel like I¡¯m going to puke. I can still remember the story on the late night news, watching it from the stairwell after spending the day locked in my room, feeling nothing.

    It¡¯s a stupid fuckin¡¯ name.

    I keep my head down and try not to think about it. This is my first big mission. Can¡¯t get distracted.

    The audio packet we get as a debrief mentions a known Front 18 base, a reputable tattoo parlor at the edge of the quarantine zone. It¡¯s the only thing I end up retaining.

    When the van rolls to a stop at an intersection, we all climb out and try to get a good look at all the expensive equipment the USMW isn¡¯t using over the heads of a crowd of onlookers. Rumbling echoes over the tops of two-story houses and white picket fences, only broken up by the matte-black barricade erected in the middle of the road. It looks multiple feet thick, and metal legs dig into the earth and tarmac below it, securing it to the ground. A number of small doors line the base of the wall, and a contingent of vehicles including a large truck sit parked along its length. It isn¡¯t the only structure like this we¡¯ve seen on the way here.

    None of the vehicles are actually big enough to carry that entire wall, though, so I figure there must be some super tech involved. The USMW isn¡¯t usually open about their equipment, so I guess it could be anything.

    A number of reporters dot the sea of heads, pushing towards the van and spitting questions at our little group. In our media training lessons, we usually just get told to not talk to them.

    So we don¡¯t. Shield Warrior pushes past the crowd of people and speaks to one of the soldiers, while I follow Eva and the others toward the wall. I only really catch snippets of their short conversation, but I do hear the soldier mention something about a disturbance at one of the other checkpoints, on the other side of the zone.

    He¡¯s still here? Why doesn¡¯t he just fly out? I was expecting him to have ditched. Is he taking something from the hideout, something he can¡¯t carry on his own?

    Or maybe it¡¯s not an object. Front 18 has been bleeding membership ever since Rapture was caught.

    It only takes a second longer before the soldier comes with us, coming to a stop next to one of the doors in the wall.

    ¡°Go on in. You know the drill,¡± he says, swiping a card. The door slides open and we file through.

    I definitely don¡¯t know the drill, but everyone else seems to, so I don¡¯t bring it up.

    ¡°Boy Gadget, anything on radar?¡± Rory ¡ª Shield Warrior asks.

    ¡°Y ¡ª yeah, and it¡¯s big. Seismic activity too, from the looks of it,¡± he mutters, messing with, well, a gadget he pulled from one of the many utility belts strapped to his person.

    His costume strikes me, at that moment at least, as a bit haphazard. Maybe he forgot some of it back at the garage? What he¡¯s wearing now essentially boils down to an armored jumpsuit, decorated in belts and pockets of a startling variety of shapes and sizes.

    He¡¯s also wearing a pair of high-tech looking goggles on his forehead, but I don¡¯t remember those from his debut. They must be new.

    ¡°Seismic? As in, it¡¯s generating earthquakes?¡± Shield Warrior replies.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°No, it¡¯s, uh. It¡¯s just really, really big.¡±

    Shield Warrior stays silent for a moment as we walk. ¡°It¡¯ll be easy to find, at least. We¡¯ll confront it and focus on damage control. Detain any Front 18 members and aid any civilians along the way. Got it?¡± He says, looking over his shoulder at us.

    We all nod.

    ¡°Good. Move out.¡±

    The others break into a jog, startling me into running to catch up.

    As we jog closer to the center of the quarantine, the rumbling grows louder. Eventually, distinct thumps are audible, along with the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Anxiety churns inside of me the closer we get.

    And then, all of a sudden, the noise magnifies. We all stop in our tracks.

    ¡°It¡¯s ¡ª it¡¯s coming toward us!¡± Boy Gadget yells, the device in his hand beeping frantically.

    Shield Warrior takes a step forward as plumes of dust just barely rise above the field of suburban homes. ¡°Jet, Rebound ¡ª¡± He cuts himself off as a small contingent of guys dressed in Front 18 colors and vaguely tactical gear round the corner of an intersection, just in front of the source of the noise.

    I catch him hunching over slightly. ¡°Jet, Rebound, on me! Redline, Boy Gadget, subdue the suspects!¡±

    This time, we all explode into action. Boy Gadget and I split off from the other three while they sprint, or in Jet¡¯s case fly, toward the intersection. The gang members look like they¡¯re trying to cut through the backyard of a house a little ways down the street, and it seems like both my temporary partner and I have decided to cut them off.

    I can¡¯t help but be distracted, though, as a house on the corner of the intersection explodes, and out of it soars a monster.

    Not a Disaster. Not quite.

    The thing looks like an eel, stretching far enough behind the destroyed buildings it¡¯s climbing over that I can¡¯t see the end of it. Its head is the size of a car and muscular, grotesque, mammalian limbs sprout out in intervals along its flank, clumsily crushing concrete and drywall trying to hold its gargantuan weight.

    Its eyes are lopsided and numerous, favoring the left side of its head, and underneath its jaw a number of thin, slitted mouths lol open in addition to the main one. Its mouths drip with saliva and its eyes leak fresh tears.

    ¡°It¡¯ssss¡­ aaalllllll¡­¡± The thing wails in discord, many voices reverberating from its flabby neck, fighting to be heard. ¡°It¡¯sss aaallllll sooooo¡­ beautifuuuulll¡­¡±

    I force myself to keep running. Shield Warrior manifests a sword, the blade snapping into existence with a yellow flash and sparkle, then tosses it to Rebound, who takes a position a little ways behind him.

    Jet takes a different approach, burning her way across the sky toward the thing¡¯s head.

    ¡°Iiiit¡¯sss sooo¡­ aaaiiieee muuussstt¡­.¡± It grumbles, raising an arm even as Rebound slams the sword into a fumbling limb and Jet snags its neck, swinging herself around to ride it.

    ¡°Cruuusshhh aaalllll offf iiiiit¡­¡± The creature finishes, swinging down its arm at Shield Warrior. I just barely see him throw up a barrier before the house I¡¯m running behind obstructs my view.

    I try to ignore the heavy thump and the way the ground shakes as we run.

    The gang members don¡¯t get very far before Gadget and I round the corner on one of the houses, kicking up dirt as we sprint out onto the street. I pick up speed as I approach the group, tackling one of them to the pavement while Gadget throws something into the center of the rest.

    I hear a click and flinch as a flash of light goes off behind me, sending the Nazis stumbling.

    Gadget immediately gets to work zip-tying the goons as ominous moans and thundering crashes sound from a little ways down the street, and after a moment of disorientation, I snag a roll of them off of his belt and help.

    My hands shake a little as I fumble with the zip-ties.

    In the middle of struggling with the bald guys rolling on the pavement, I note that the fight with the monster seems to be going¡­ not terribly. Jet¡¯s still hanging on to its neck, focusing a stream of flame against its slick hide. Shield Warrior seems to have successfully blocked that attack from earlier, if not without substantial damage to both the construct and the pavement.

    Rebound, after the creature rears up again, steps out in front and holds up her hands, catching the thing¡¯s limb before it slams into the shield again. The air distorts around the impact point, dissolving into a fog of static even as she¡¯s thrown back down the road.

    She¡¯s not thrown back as far as I expected. Did she absorb the impact?

    ¡°Redline! Over here!¡± I look over to see Gadget struggling to hold down one of the Nazis, a brightly-colored cylinder grasped in his other hand. A small pool of blood leaks through the cracks in the tarmac below them. ¡°Hold him down, I need to stabilize him!¡±

    I hesitate for a second. But only for a second.

    While I¡¯m pressing down hard on the guy¡¯s shoulders, Gadget stabs the cylinder into his neck with a click and a hiss. Down the road, Shield Warrior slices at the monster¡¯s limb with a sword he conjured around one of his metal rods.

    ¡°Do not move from this position,¡± Gadget orders the downed criminals. ¡°The USMW has established a quarantine around the entire neighborhood. If you are found ¡ª¡± His speech is interrupted by another thump and a roar in the background, and he grits his teeth. ¡°Just don¡¯t move!¡± He nods to me, and we leave the goons behind to join the larger battle.

    Shield Warrior deflects another of the thing¡¯s advances, attempting to find stable footing before taking advantage of its size to take another slash at its limb before it can move. Jet gives up on her initial assault, swinging herself up with bursts of fire closer to the thing¡¯s head.

    Gadget, when we get closer to the beast, unclips another device from his belt and lobs it in the general direction of the fight. I hear comms crackle just before it goes off.

    ¡°Disruptor!¡±

    Shield Warrior turns away, and Jet shifts her body to the opposite side of the creature as another bright flash soaks the surrounding area. The monster screams and rears back in response.

    ¡°Yoouuuu¡­ yoouuu caaan¡¯t!¡± It wails, dissolving into a mess of discordant noises.

    Gadget stops a distance away, and I stop with him. ¡°I only have a limited amount of those, so we need a plan to use them!¡± He shouts over the comms.

    Down the road, Rebound staggers to her feet and begins moving to rejoin the fight.

    ¡°Rebound! Aim back towards the perimeter!¡± Shield Warrior shouts, moving around to set up a larger barrier. Rebound makes a beeline for it while the monster reels, limbs flailing and haphazardly slamming against the shield.

    Jet seems to realize the plan. Instead of trying to directly burn the thing, she twists around to get a better grip on its pseudo-shoulder and points an arm away from it, producing a jet larger than I¡¯ve seen from her with one hand.

    The creature leans to one side, struggling to brace itself against the pavement. ¡°Ceeaaaasssee¡­!¡±

    Rebound skids to a stop under it, pulling back her fist.

    I don¡¯t even see her next movement. There¡¯s an impossibly heavy thud, on the same level as the monster¡¯s blows, a blast of wind, and then the thing topples, fluids spraying from its eyes and mouths, sounding an unintelligible roar.

    ¡°We¡¯ll lead it towards the barrier; civilians are less likely to crop up, and we may be able to convince the USMW to assist!¡± Shield Warrior announces. ¡°Rebound, on me! We¡¯ll bait it ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Einherjar would get away.¡± I¡¯m speaking into the comms before I can stop myself. ¡°He¡¯s our secondary priority.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not the first priority. Follow orders, Redline!¡±

    ¡°If we let him go, he¡¯ll ¡ª¡± I stop myself. ¡°Rory, please.¡±

    The monster stirs and groans. Rory remains silent.

    ¡°Fine. Redline, pursue the secondary objective. Recon only.¡±

    I nod, even though he¡¯s not looking in my direction, and break into a sprint, traveling deeper into the quarantine zone.

 Chapter 2.10

    2.10

    ¡°Take a right, then it¡¯s at the end of the ¡ª¡± I hear a crash over the comms. ¡°The street,¡± Rory finishes, panting heavily. I feel a little bad for making him do this while trying to fight a monster.

    A little. ¡°Remember, it¡¯s the tattoo parlor,¡± he reminds me over the radio. As I round the corner, jogging into a more commercial area inside the quarantine zone, I see the parlor. It¡¯s strange to see something like this in such an upper class area of the city, but apparently the neighborhood pretty much unanimously agreed it was a nice place.

    It looks like a nice place, too, in the sense that the place looks particularly expensive. They have a nicely-decorated nameplate hanging above the door, the windows are clear of flyers and clutter. From what I can see out here, the booths are clean and the desk up front is nice and tidy.

    The place is also, at the moment, infested with Nazis. And from the way they¡¯re moving around the lobby, this isn¡¯t a new development.

    Three of them. They seem nervous, at first glance, but they lounge on the couches and mess with the equipment like they own the place. They¡¯re also all openly carrying firearms.

    This is a good sign. For the most part. It means Einherjar might still be here.

    It also means I¡¯ll have to be careful not to get shot. I¡¯ll need to be quick. Maybe I can use the tattoo chairs?

    Something like that. No time to plan. As I come up to the parlor, I break into a sprint. When I reach the front door, I¡¯m running full tilt, bursting through with a bang and heading straight for the guy closest to me.

    All of them cry out, not expecting my advance, and I¡¯m able to get my hands around the first guy¡¯s tactical vest before any of them can react. I fall back on my meager judo training, shifting my grip and heaving him overhead, slamming him onto the carpeted floor with a hard thud.

    Before I can seize my momentum, though, I feel my head snap to the side with a frightening amount of force, and belatedly, a harsh bang filters into my mind.

    One of the guys farther into the shop holds a handgun pointed at my helmet. I feel myself getting a little hysterical, but I try to shove it down. I kick away the gun laying next to the guy I flipped, and then dash back behind the front desk, the sound of gunshots and small geysers of wood chips following behind me. I take a moment hidden behind it to take a breath and listen.

    I hear the two remaining Nazis whispering to each other during a pause in the gunshots, and then sudden footsteps. Are they approaching the desk? I tilt my head upwards.

    A gun barrel slides over the counter and down towards me. I react, grabbing the barrel and pulling it down and away from me, barely avoiding the shot my assailant gets off before I rip it from his hands. Then I spring up from behind the counter, tackling the other one over the desk and onto the floor. His head hits the ground hard, and I think he goes out cold. It¡¯s easy to snatch his handgun and quickly aim it at the only one left standing.

    I don¡¯t actually know how to use a gun, but I¡¯m not planning on shooting him anyway.

    ¡°On the ground,¡± I say, panting. He nods quickly, and drops.

    I quickly fumble with a ring of zip-ties stashed in my utility belt. Two of them are out cold, and the last one doesn¡¯t resist.

    I consider knocking him out, too. He absolutely deserves it.

    Something cold lodges in my throat.

    I don¡¯t knock him out. After I¡¯ve finished zip-tying them, I head into the back. There isn¡¯t a lock or anything in the back room, and for a second I think I¡¯m going to have to find a secret room or something, but no.

    The hideout is here. Einherjar is not.

    I feel a hot flash of rage flicker beneath my skin.

    The back room is very obviously connected to Front 18, maybe as a hangout, or a safe house. Minor bits of equipment, vests, weapon attachments, all of it lies scattered around the room. On the desks, tables, some of it sitting on the floor, and all of it decorated with their distinct yellow, black and white colors.

    As well as the gear, it seems like they left behind some documents. Walking over to peer at the paper littered over the desks, it looks like leftover internal paperwork. Heavily redacted.

    Is that odd? This is supposed to be a gang.

    I clench my fists. This is basically nothing. They took everything important and left ¡ª maybe they were already gone by the time we got there. The disturbance at the nearby checkpoint must have been them leaving, not an initial encounter.

    I raise my shaking hand above the counter.

    ¡°Motherfucker!¡± Papers flutter off the wooden surface, gliding to the concrete floor.

    I take a breath. It¡¯s fine. Next time. Next time.

    Next time.

    Sighing, I spread my hand flat against the wood grain. I should probably call this in¡­

    Something catches my eye, nestled underneath the remaining paperwork. A small, black notebook, tied together with a slightly mangled ribbon.

    I take it, on a whim. Opening it, it seems¡­ coded? The main body of text is illegible, but it looks like someone already took a crack at decoding it, and left notes in the margins. Their work is definitely subpar.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Guess that makes sense? From what I can understand, the notebook documents¡­

    I squint. Is that¡­?

    Front 18 movement records, specifically as they relate to Einherjar. And¡­ a psychological profile?

    My eyes widen. Who did they take this from?

    I snap the notebook closed, and, impulsively, slip it into a pocket on my belt. Then, I check in.

    ¡°This is Redline, reporting in. I found the Front 18 hideout, it¡¯s just leftover equipment and some¡­ documents I can¡¯t really make sense of.¡±

    My radio crackles. ¡°Good,¡± I hear Rory¡¯s voice respond. ¡°I¡¯ll notify USMW on my end. Be advised, the Brightheart Hero Association has arrived on-scene, and they will be handling suspect apprehension from this point forward.¡±

    I sigh. Great. ¡°Got it, Rory.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Shield Warrior on the field.¡±

    ¡°Whatever you say.¡±

    The comms cut out. I resolve not to tell them about the notebook. Not yet.

    ¡ª

    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking get you,¡± Olivia spits abruptly on our way to the changing rooms. ¡°How come all of a sudden now you¡¯re on board with the whole crime fighting thing?! Like, three days ago you were getting all pissy about me beating up that robber ¡ª and then on literally our very next mission you absolutely have to go after the Nazi for completely pure and just reasons, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    I don¡¯t respond, even as we enter the room and I take off my helmet.

    ¡°What happened to the fucking confidence, y¡¯know?! You used to be so ¡ª so manly, back in high school! And now, it¡¯s like ¡ª¡± She cuts herself off as I hang up the helmet. It strikes me as weird, actually. I turn to face her, and she¡¯s staring at me with something foreign written across her face.

    ¡°It¡¯s like you really did die in that accident. I don¡¯t know you anymore. I don¡¯t even know if you know you.¡±

    I don¡¯t mean to, but I end up letting the silence hang. ¡°...I don¡¯t. I never did. It was an act,¡± I say honestly.

    Her face crumples. ¡°All of it?¡±

    I think back to that last year, before Sera died.

    ¡°No. Not all of it.¡±

    Olivia heaves out a sigh, shoulders shuddering behind her ducked head. Then, she pulls herself inward, and stabs a finger into my chest. ¡°You better pull yourself the fuck together, Red! I¡¯m not gonna be teammates with a bitch who doesn¡¯t know what she wants!¡± She shouts, turning and marching into one of the changing stalls, grumbling something obscene under her breath.

    I stare at her as she leaves. She just called me Red? And used my pronouns? And called me a bitch?

    Even as I start walking towards a changing cubicle on the other side of the room, I can¡¯t really keep a slight smile off of my face.

    ¡ª

    Something I would have never expected from Rory; he is absurdly good at Tekken. So is Eva, actually, but I¡¯ve come to expect that from her over the past few weeks. Rory, on the other hand, I would not have guessed in a million years.

    ¡°How are you even doing this; there¡¯s so many fuckin¡¯ buttons!¡± I shout, wrestling with the old Xbox controller. Eva cackles and Olivia smirks from her spot on the sofa, pretending to ignore us.

    ¡°There¡¯s only around twelve on the controller ¡ª¡± Cooper points out, as Rory hits me with a low and I forget to block.

    ¡°The move list is like seven pages!¡± I retort, watching my character pull himself up off the stage¡¯s floor. At least I¡¯ve learned Rory¡¯s preferred wake-up move by now, he¡¯ll definitely go for another low. And even if he doesn¡¯t, his character¡¯s normals are pretty slow.

    ¡°You absolutely do not have to know all of the moves in order to be proficient,¡± Rory points out as his fingers contort over the controller and his character throws out a blinding move wreathed in special effects that I¡¯ve never seen before. It kills me instantly.

    I slide to the carpet from my spot perched over the back of another sofa, dropping the controller to the cushions in front. ¡°Oh my god. Oh my god. That¡¯s not even a real move. You made that up.¡±

    He chuckles. ¡°That move was introduced in Tekken 2.¡±

    ¡°Fuuuuck,¡± I respond. ¡°Eva, avenge me.¡±

    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am!¡± She snatches the controller. Eva¡¯s much better at this than me.

    ¡°Punch him!¡± I shout encouragingly.

    ¡°Go low!¡± Cooper calls out next to me, pointing out a route for Rory.

    The fight is heated, so much so that I barely miss the moment Eva kicks the controller out of Rory¡¯s hands and his character goes down on-screen.

    ¡°Sorry. Didn¡¯t see that coming,¡± Cooper says.

    Rory lets out a put-upon sigh while Eva and I cheer.

    ¡°Well, I think this might be an omen,¡± he says, collecting the fallen controller. ¡°Who¡¯s taking my place?¡±

    ¡°Olivia hasn¡¯t gone yet?¡± Cooper suggests.. We look at Olivia. She rolls her eyes, and motions for Rory to pass her the controller.

    Olivia¡¯s not good at the game, but she plays a grappler, and only Rory knows how to tech grabs.

    ¡°Don¡¯t let her grab you!¡± I suggest. Eva¡¯s character gets thrown across the screen.

    ¡°Try blocking?¡± Eva blocks reflexively and gets grabbed again.

    ¡°...Dodge?¡± Olivia¡¯s character uses a different grab this time. We have a collective moment of silence.

    ¡°Augh!¡± Eva exclaims. ¡°Red!¡±

    ¡°What do you even do against that?¡± I mutter.

    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ die,¡± Olivia comments, smirking.

    Eva throws the controller at me. ¡°Your turn!¡±

    ¡°Huh? Wait ¡ª¡± Olivia starts the game and sumo throws me immediately.

    ¡°Rory! How do you break grabs!¡± I plead. She throws me again.

    ¡°You just ¡ª¡± I accidentally press a button, and my character breaks the grab.

    ¡°Nevermind, I figured it out,¡± I say, starting a really basic combo.

    ¡°Yes! Yes! Yes!¡± Eva chants, grabbing my shoulders. I drop the combo.

    Olivia throws me again.

    ¡°Ugh.¡± Eva and I sigh simultaneously.

    ¡°I have work I need to finish,¡± Rory announces, standing to leave. ¡°I¡¯ll see you all in the training room.¡±

    ¡°Love you too!¡± Eva calls sarcastically, waving.

    ¡°Actually, I also kinda need to do the worksheet still,¡± I say. I¡¯ve been putting it off.

    ¡°Oh, you too? Help me with mine, I don¡¯t get it,¡± Eva insists.

    ¡°Neither do I,¡± I point out.

    ¡°Help me anyway! We¡¯ll get it with the two of us!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works,¡± I mutter, standing from the couch. ¡°Buh-bye you two.¡±

    ¡°Bye,¡± Cooper chirps, while Olivia fake-yawns.

    I had actually been planning to look at the notebook tonight, but as Eva snags her laptop from her room and steals my bed, I scrap the idea. The cipher¡¯s complex enough that it¡¯d probably be a good idea to come up with an excuse that lasts more than a couple days in a row.

    Not for the first time, I wish I could talk to Vincent. He loved ciphers. He didn¡¯t get much time off from work usually, but both him and Sera had a thing for puzzles.

    Whatever. I¡¯ll make it work on my own.

 Chapter 2.11

    2.11

    The next day, they have us visit our parents. It¡¯s mandatory, written into the contract they signed or whatever. Maybe it¡¯ll be nice to not be cooped up in the tower for a change.

    The place isn¡¯t exactly a prison, but¡­ one time I tried to go down to the garage, just for kicks, and a receptionist I hadn¡¯t noticed before at the bottom stopped me. When I asked Rook about it, she said something about being a liability, and I¡¯m reminded of the reason she gave for recruiting me, back then.

    ¡®You¡¯re dangerous,¡¯ huh?

    After collecting my bag for the two-day stay, I stop by the cafeteria floor for breakfast before I head down. It¡¯s not, like, a school cafeteria, and I think it might be automated, but the food¡¯s better.

    Are the cafeteria workers scared of us or something?

    I eat on the elevator down, and toss the tray in a trash can near the door to the garage. The others left a little while ago, I¡¯m pretty late.

    Instead of the standard deployment vans with the scary-looking armor and USMC logo tacked on, a more discrete vehicle waits for me, more similar to the times I was driven to the tower from my house. There¡¯s just the one driver this time.

    I step into the car, and we roll out of the garage, through one of the quieter exits.

    The trip isn¡¯t long, even the lower-level suburbs are pretty close to the tower, but the traffic ends up being bad. I mess with my phone while the driver struggles with the other cars clogging the highway.

    And then we¡¯re rolling up to the driveway to a small, suburban house, unused bench on the porch and all. My house.

    My parents¡¯ house? Whatever.

    I hop out of the car and stroll up the porch stairs. I¡¯d considered giving Vincent¡¯s place a shot, but. Well. He wouldn¡¯t be there anyway.

    I knock a couple times on the door, and hear shuffling from inside.

    The door opens, and my mother stands on the other side. She looks shocked, at first, before she composes herself. ¡°Oh ¡ª J ¡ª Jake, sweetie, come on in.¡± She waves me inside.

    It hurts, a little, but I guess it¡¯s not fair to expect them to adjust right away. It¡¯s fine.

    ¡°We were just about to have dinner,¡± she says as I drop my bag by the door. ¡°And¡­ well, your father¡¯s in a mood today. Try not to upset him, okay? You know how hard he works.¡±

    I nod, and we enter the dining room, where dad¡¯s sitting at the table scrolling on his phone. ¡°Honey, Jake¡¯s here.¡± Her voice sounds a little strained.

    Dad barely looks up from his phone, and when he does, it¡¯s to give me a weird look. ¡°They want me to come in early tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I¡¯m sorry about that,¡± mom comforts him. We sit at the table.

    It¡¯s fish and broccoli. I don¡¯t mind it.

    ¡°Well, Jake¡­ tell us about something. What¡¯s the USMC like?¡± Mom asks.

    ¡°Eh ¡ª I don¡¯t actually know how much I¡¯m allowed to say,¡± I mutter, hesitating as I start on the salmon.

    ¡°They had us sign fuckin¡¯ NDAs,¡± dad spits.

    ¡°Richard!¡±

    ¡°What? It¡¯s true! Fucking government,¡± he grumbles.

    Mom sighs.

    ¡°They, uh. Have us do a lot of training,¡± I say.

    ¡°Anything to get rid of¡­ that,¡± dad asks, motioning to me.

    He means my appearance, I think. Rook told him it might not be permanent, so I guess he¡¯s latched on to that. It¡¯s fine.

    ¡°Not really. More like rescue drills, and stuff.¡±

    A small silence.

    ¡°Well¡­ do you know what your costume is going to look like yet?¡± Mom prompts.

    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s got. A helmet,¡± I start, lamely.

    Before I can continue, a slam. The dishes shake in time with dad¡¯s fist against the table.

    ¡°That was you?!¡±

    I blink, not that it matters. I haven¡¯t really been making eye contact out of habit, and I¡¯m not gonna start now.

    ¡°Uh. Yes?¡±

    ¡°They have you ¡ª dressed up like that on live television?!¡±

    ¡°The costume designer said they needed a ¡®femme fatale¡¯,¡± I mutter.

    ¡°Femme ¡ª they¡¯re doing you up like some ¡ª some fag! See, Jose¡¯ I knew this was a fucking awful idea, they said they were going to fix him ¡ª¡±

    Of course that¡¯s his issue with it.

    It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s ¡ª

    ¡°What if I don¡¯t wanna be fixed.¡± Oh man.

    Dad stops talking. I clench my fists.

    ¡°No one asked me about any of this. Maybe I like looking like a girl.¡± I sound like a kid.

    ¡°...Honey?¡±

    ¡°Like, if I wanted to use girl pronouns, and maybe change my name.¡± I clarify helplessly.

    Another moment¡¯s silence.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Son, there are¡­ treatments for this kind of thing¡­¡± dad starts.

    I bury my head in my hands. ¡°Whatever.¡±

    Mom touches my shoulder, and I try not to react. ¡°...We hear you, sweetie. Maybe your father has a point about finding a¡­ treatment.¡± She gives me a pat. ¡°Whatever happens, you¡¯ll always be our son, okay?¡±

    Whatever. It¡¯s fine. They can¡¯t actually make me do anything.

    ¡ª

    The next two days pass slowly and awkwardly. I¡¯ve never been very close with my parents, but we used to have a weird sort of understanding. I was expected to be the model son.

    Obviously, this is now just straight-up impossible. I don¡¯t think they know how to talk to me anymore.

    After my two days are up, I step out onto the porch without much fanfare. Dad¡¯s already left for work, and mom only says a short goodbye. An inconspicuous USMC car waits for me outside.

    I slide into the car.

    The ride is silent, and I can¡¯t get my thoughts to settle. It¡¯s not that I¡¯m actually thinking about anything, it¡¯s just¡­

    Maybe I can apply for a pair of headphones. Haven¡¯t had a pair for a while now, but¡­

    Everything¡¯s just too loud.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Do they ever let us out of this tower for anything actually fun?¡± I complain on the elevator ride up, back at headquarters.

    ¡°You gotta apply before you go anywhere,¡± Eva replies, sitting on her away-bag. ¡°Like, two days before.¡±

    ¡°Why.¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°I dunno. Security?¡±

    I drag a hand down my face. ¡°...How long¡¯s the form?¡±

    Eva laughs. ¡°I got it, I got it. Maybe we can drag Rory along with us.¡±

    The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡°Nah, there¡¯s a really good Indian place my parents take me to every time I visit. Rory loves it,¡± she says, waving a hand and slinging her bag across her back.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never actually had Indian.¡±

    ¡°Huuuh? Really?¡±

    I smile, a little embarrassed. ¡°My folks never take me anywhere¡­¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°Well now it¡¯s an emergency. You¡¯re gonna love it, I promise!¡± We drag our bags into the common room, where Cooper¡¯s holed up on the couch with a blanket. ¡°You doing alright, Cooper?¡±

    ¡°Mmnngh. No.¡±

    ¡°Bad visit?¡± Eva asks.

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Me too, sorry,¡± I offer. He holds out a hand.

    I fist bump him.

    Eva gives me a little wave to get my attention, and jerks her head towards the couch lump.

    I shrug.

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°We¡¯re gonna go to Momo¡¯s in, like, a couple days. Wanna come?¡±

    A thumbs up from the lump.

    ¡°Cool! Just gotta get the paperwork, now.¡± She mutters as we step towards our rooms. ¡°I¡¯ll see you in a bit, Red. Have to put all this away.¡±

    ¡°Mh. Me too. See ya.¡±

    Instead of unpacking, after I close the door to my room, I drop my bag on the floor and make my way to my guitar. I hadn¡¯t taken it with me because it felt like too much of a hassle, especially with the amp.

    It¡¯s heavy. I flick it on with a click.

    Leaning back in my chair, guitar in hand, I start on a slower, melodic freestyle. Time stretches a little, flowing in between the notes, and before I know it, Eva¡¯s leaning in the doorway.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t even start, did you?¡±

    ¡°Hah! No,¡± I reply, smiling.

    She sighs, and smiles back. ¡°Want some help?¡±

    ¡ª

    After a short training session on our day back, in which Rook compliments my improving judo skills, she gives a short lesson on riot suppression. I¡¯m not sure how much of these post-training lessons are meant to be supplementary, but all of them so far have felt important.

    This lesson especially, with the constant unrest in the city. We don¡¯t usually have full-blown riots, but when we do, they get violent.

    ¡°Typically, during a civilian engagement, your handler, or a superior will directly coordinate with you in the field. In general, though, you will want to remember two things,¡± she says. ¡°One: stoicism. You must stand firm at your post, regardless of what happens. If your presence is needed elsewhere, your coordinator will tell you. And two: restraint. Power use during an altercation with a civilian is typically optically challenging. The USMC would prefer you keep any power use defensive or inconspicuous.¡±

    ¡°Oh, so when the cameras come out, that¡¯s when we¡¯re supposed to exercise restraint.,¡± I comment. Olivia rolls her eyes.

    ¡°The cameras are always out, Red. Olivia¡¯s little stunt on patrol last week is all over the internet right now. She will likely be placed on suspension once confirmation from Mr. Burns comes through,¡± Rook counters.

    Now it¡¯s my turn to roll my eyes.

    She sighs. ¡°When mundane law enforcement decide to break up the riot, you may be asked to capture specified individuals. In this case, you are still technically advised to use restraint, but abilities such as mobility options are typically not disallowed.¡± Rook clears her throat. ¡°In extreme situations, you may be asked to participate in the active suppression. This is when you are encouraged to use the flashiest aspects of your powers. Do not hurt anyone, but the goal is still to frighten them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve all seen examples of this approach at some point or another,¡± she says, almost offhandedly. ¡°I¡¯d like to show you an older example, but one that is relevant all the same.¡± A drone floats down from the ceiling, buzzing softly as a screen detaches from its underbelly and extends outwards.

    The screen flicks on, showing footage from a riot in¡­ Memphis, I think? Before the city died, effectively, and all the major hero corporations packed up and left. It¡¯s a huge riot, one I remember seeing on the news years ago.

    The footage looks like it¡¯s being taken on someone¡¯s phone, shaky and uncoordinated as it is, but I catch a pretty definitive glimpse of Beale Street flooded with people, and a contingent of police officers barricading the center road. A couple heroes flank them, one of which I recognize.

    Vanguard, standing at the head of the rowdy, jeering crowd, sleek, serpentine silver armor glinting in the sunlight like dragon scales. He lifts his sword, raising it to the sky, and ¡ª

    The footage whites out for a second, and when it fades back in, the camera shakes and waves violently. I only snatch short clips of the harsh winds and explosive sound that must¡¯ve been present, clothes flapping, people sent tumbling. I sort of get the impression towards the end of the video that they are falling over each other to run away from Vanguard¡¯s golden, flaming weapon.

    ¡°Reports from this incident attribute minimal casualties and zero deaths from Vanguard¡¯s approach here. This is efficient and effective power use. I expect you all to follow his example.¡± Rook waves, and the drone¡¯s screen retracts as it flies away.

    ¡°¡­My power isn¡¯t that flashy,¡± I say.

    Rook nods. ¡°I¡¯m not saying all of you should unleash your powers all at once. Oftentimes it¡¯s more effective to have one single demonstration. Support your teammates whenever you can.¡± She nods definitively, and pulls out her tablet. ¡°That will be all. You are dismissed.¡±

    ¡ª

    Two days later, the entire team goes to Momo¡¯s. The entire team. I wasn¡¯t originally going to invite Olivia, but¡­

    Momo¡¯s is a cute little place at an intersection closer to the poor side of town, and while I¡¯m there I find out I actually do like Indian food.

    Still, the experience is a little sullied by the pale surgical mask and brown contacts the handler has me wear. I was half expecting more, but apparently the helmet is enough that people probably won¡¯t connect some random kid with white hair to Redline.

    Rory brings his laptop with him when we go, saying something about ¡®staying diligent¡¯ and ¡®efficient productivity¡¯, but he completely forgot about it when we got to the restaurant. We spent the time pestering him about his favorite dishes and people-watching the intersection from our booth at the window.

    Eva offered to take Cooper and I out next time we had to visit our parents, assuming we could get away for a minute.

    Cooper declined, but I¡¯m considering it.

    And as I am, we all collectively notice a commotion outside. While we weren¡¯t looking, people filtered into the streets, crowding along the sidewalks. They¡¯re holding signs, banners, there¡¯s enough of them that I can¡¯t see the end of the march from our seat at the diner. Police cars block off opposite sides of the intersection as they march past, looking anxious as they clutch the radios pinned to their vests.

    They look angry.

    What a fucking coincidence.

 Chapter 2.12

    2.12

    ¡°What the¡­?¡± Eva mutters, staring out the window with the rest of us.

    ¡°We should go see what¡¯s happening,¡± Rory asserts.

    ¡°We¡¯re not even on duty, Rory,¡± Olivia points out.

    ¡°It¡¯s still our responsibility.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this, but Olivia has a point, right? What would we even do?¡± I start, hesitantly.

    ¡°Nah, fuck that,¡± Eva interrupts. ¡°I wanna see what¡¯s happening.¡± She slides out of her chair and marches to the restaurant¡¯s front door, while we all scramble to follow her.

    Stepping out onto the street is overwhelming. Immediately, a rush of noise and an almost physical presence settles around us with the sheer amount of people crowding the intersection. The road is packed, and almost everyone has a sign of some kind, or a banner. Up front, the crowd¡¯s thinned out a little, but only because it looks like the crowd is marching in that direction.

    Through gaps in the crowd, I can see riot vans joining the typical police cars on both sides of the intersection, and a small squad of them pulling up in front of the march. Someone at the front takes the moment to turn around and lift a megaphone to their lips.

    ¡°Justice for Simon Gorman!¡± They shout, and the crowd responds in turn, pushing up against the anti-riot personnel setting up on all sides of the intersection.

    Rook said Olivia¡¯s stunt with the convenience store robber was all over the internet. I glance at Olivia and something in my chest goes cold.

    Did he die?

    Olivia seems to shrink in on herself. It¡¯s novel to watch.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, let¡¯s get closer,¡± Eva shouts, carving a path closer to the front of the march, where I can see another van rolling up to the barricade. This one, in contrast with the riot vehicles, is shockingly colored in the Brightheart Hero Association¡¯s striking red and gold, with their logo plastered on the side. We reach close to the front of the march, somewhat off to the side near one of the barricaded intersections to the right side of the road, just in time to watch two heroes exit the large vehicle.

    A tall woman hovers out, arms held in a vaguely regal manner. Her costume is skintight and a stark, cream color, with gold bracers and anklets. A gold headband with a small gem inset on her forehead wraps around her face and eyes. Iridescent energy warps the air around her hands, eliciting gasps from the crowd.

    The man behind her doesn¡¯t float, and in fact the concrete cracks beneath his feet as he steps down from the van, and it lurches up, relieved of the weight of his impressive-looking steel-gray power armor. The suit twinkles with points of blue light, clashing with the separate theme of the sleek silver lance he carries with him.

    Stellara and Lancer, the de facto leader of Brightheart¡¯s hero team. An electronic crackle sounds, and then a robotic tenor bursts out from Lancer, nothing like Rook¡¯s smooth voice modulation.

    ¡°Citizens, please disperse. You are not authorized to gather. Brightheart has jurisdiction to use force if you do not comply.¡± The lance¡¯s tip slams against the ground as Lancer pulls his suit of armor forward, servos audibly whirring and plates shifting along its surface.

    ¡°Fuck off, corporate hack!¡±

    ¡°Fucking company bounty hunters!¡±

    ¡°Bootlickers!¡±

    ¡°Justice for Simon!¡±

    The crowd doesn¡¯t disperse, and in fact it seems to get more fired up the longer the heroes stick around. People start yelling, chanting, waving their signs and their banners. The person with the megaphone uses it abundantly.

    ¡°Justice for Simon!¡± The megaphone shrieks, riling up the crowd while they push against the riot shields deployed in rows at the ends of the intersection.

    ¡°...Maybe this was a bad idea!¡± I comment, struggling to be heard over the noise.

    ¡°What?!¡± Eva shouts back, obviously not hearing me.

    Then, Stellara raises her hand.

    On TV, her blasts sorta look like spilled oil, or those bubble-blowers you get at the dollar store, but twisted in on itself. In real life, it starts with a flash of bright white light, and ends with me and everyone within a twenty-foot radius of Stellara on the ground. The people closer to her writhe and try to scramble away, while those at the edge rush to help them up, stumbling through a thick fog of shimmering light that stretches like cobwebs over the area. The light curves up and over the raised and cracked tarmac from the crater her blast leaves.

    There was probably a sound, but my ears are ringing, and I can¡¯t quite remember what it might have sounded like besides loud.

    I use my power to fix my ears ¡ª mostly ¡ª and scramble to my feet. Sound fades in, of people screaming, shouting, Lancer¡¯s robotic voice announcing something to the crowd ¡ª I stumble to the side. Eva and the others were knocked down in the blast, I need to help them up ¡ª

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    A couple people from the crowd beat me to it, pulling them back behind the front line. I struggle to stay with them, trying to ignore the occasional comment or affirmation from the people around me.

    ¡°Hey, kid, are you alright?!¡± Some guy asks me as I stumble farther into the center of the crowd, next to the others. He has to shout to be heard, or maybe his ears are still ringing. I¡¯m about to answer, when static sounds from back at the front of the march, pushed back by now from the blast.

    ¡°F ¡ª fuck off¡­!¡±

    The megaphone¡­?! They¡¯re still going?!

    In fact, the march hasn¡¯t decreased in intensity at all. People are pulling themselves and others off the ground, producing first-aid kits from seemingly nowhere, and moving forward.

    So in response, the police throw tear gas. It whistles through the air, clanks against the ground, and explodes in a fwump. The area is covered, I can¡¯t see anything beyond the thick gray cloud in front of my stinging eyes. My throat burns, and I stumble back ¡ª

    Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the clunk-hiss of Lancer¡¯s power armor, and the scuff of boots on pavement.

    ¡ª

    ¡°¡ª riots across the city in response to the hospitalization of one Dewey Stevens, who was injured during an interaction with the United States Metahuman Coalition¡¯s Junior Division. In spite of the USMC¡¯s efforts to deescalate the situation, crowds of people are becoming violent in the city streets tonight, and show no sign of stopping¡­¡±

    ¡°This was a miserable idea,¡± I comment, trying to ignore the news blaring on a TV hanging in the corner outside the cell. Not like a prison cell or anything, it¡¯s a large barred area with a couple benches in the back of the police precinct. Our little group sits in the corner, trying to avoid the arrested protesters crowding the rest of the cell.

    Olivia snorts. ¡°Whatever. Dad¡¯ll get us out.¡±

    ¡°No he won¡¯t. He¡¯s too busy lobbying the government or whatever,¡± I shoot back.

    ¡°Fuck off!¡± A couple people stare at us, and Olivia ducks her head. ¡°Fuck off,¡± she says, quietly this time.

    ¡°¡ª the USMC has since declined to comment, referring to their standing policy of containment and subduing of disturbances, a precedent set decades ago in response to high-profile incidents still fresh in the public¡¯s memory. We all remember Orca.

    ¡°Still, some voices in the community are proposing the dissolution of government metahuman regulation, seemingly as a result of a perceived history of violence among the current administration¡¯s members. Do any of these arguments hold any water? Well, we have our very own Derek Price here on the air today, administrator of Westpoint¡¯s branch of the United States Metahuman Watch. Derek, what do you think?

    ¡°Well, Jolene, I think that we live in a very difficult age, and it¡¯s easy to be¡­ frightened, I suppose, by someone with so much responsibility. But ultimately, heroes are a very important part of our society, you know, they¡¯ve been around since 1979 ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Hey!¡± I call out to the guard sitting lazily in her folding chair outside the cell. ¡°Can you change the fuckin¡¯ channel!¡± I get a few woops of agreement from the other cellmates.

    She gives me a look, but haphazardly changes it anyway.

    ¡°...attack in Raleigh, North Carolina, the Disaster colloquially titled ¡®Heartbreaker¡¯ decimated a large part of the city, costing taxpayers tens of millions of dollars in damages. Thankfully, casualties were kept to a minimum, sources estimating closer to 200, in large part due to the USMC tower, and the Forecaster¡¯s prior warning. Citizens were informed of the danger extremely early, and were able to evacuate into the tower¡¯s facilities within a few days, meaning the USMC¡¯s defensive capabilities could be raised in record time.

    ¡°The USMC administration reports huge growth in approval ratings following this attack, though we¡¯ll have to wait and see if this growth lasts. In other news, we¡¯ll have the Forecaster¡¯s next report in about an hour, so stick around after these messages.¡±

    I huff. ¡°This is worse!¡±

    The guard shrugs, and ignores me. I put my head in my hands.

    ¡ª

    It¡¯s past evening when a USMC representative comes to collect us, and by the time we get home we¡¯re all exhausted. Rook wants us down on the training floor anyway, but at least she¡¯s specified we don¡¯t have to change into our uniforms.

    We filter in one by one after a couple minutes stalling in our rooms, and take our seats on the varied fake architecture.

    Rook clears her throat. ¡°I don¡¯t know who approved your little ¡®outing¡¯, but it won¡¯t be happening again. Not until this all blows over, at least.¡± She sighs. ¡°But that¡¯s not why I¡¯ve brought you here. We¡¯ve found information on the¡­ creatures you¡¯ve been encountering.¡±

    I blink. ¡°All of them? At once?¡±

    Rook shakes her head. ¡°Initially, we had assumed there was a new mutant super in the area. The USMC isn¡¯t unaccustomed to dealing with supers of this variety, but the creatures we had observed during your fights seemed more extreme than usual.¡± One of Rook¡¯s screen drones descends from the ceiling, extending out its TV arm. It flickers, and displays a photo of¡­ someone. They¡¯re wearing a well-tailored gray suit that fits nicely onto their large build, along with black leather gloves and combat boots. The photo is grainy, and taken from a distance.

    They also have a wolf head.

    ¡°This is Full Moon. Some of you might recognize her, from her debut years ago or from your own personal experience. She has a form of enhanced durability and seemingly endless stamina. She also has¡­ extra features.¡± The screen flickers, now displaying a news broadcast on the topic, something from years ago. ¡°Her and her accomplice, Timepiece, arrived in the city and advertised themselves as a mercenary company using a number of high-profile robberies. Since then, they¡¯ve been lying low, taking jobs with discretion. The USMC has made it a policy to avoid giving them publicity, and they seem content with this.¡±

    Rook adjusts her glasses. ¡°They are tactical, intelligent, and while their features are¡­ abnormal, they are not as extreme as the creatures you have encountered. As such, the USMC has had our suspicions since the start, and it¡¯s only now we are able to come close to proving anything.¡±

    ¡°You have proof?¡± Rory asks.

    She nods. ¡°We have witness testimony of a suspicious person loitering outside the Westpoint Memorial Museum. The witness describes a man of slightly-above-average height, wearing a dusty trench coat.¡± She clears her throat.

    ¡°As the witness tells it, they watched the suspect circle around the museum entrance for some time before entering an alleyway nearby. The witness reports seeing the creatures emerge from ¡®the shadows,¡¯ interacting with the suspect, and leaving.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly an airtight proof, but the higher ups have decided that this is sufficient to conduct an investigation.¡± The drone folds up and flies off, buzzing. ¡°All this to say, you¡¯ll likely be on standby for investigation or apprehension in the coming weeks. While you¡¯re on the field, you¡¯ll be expected to keep an eye out and report back anything you notice. Clear?¡±

    ¡°Clear!¡± We echo back.

    Rook nods, again. ¡°Good. With luck, the criminal will be identified swiftly.¡±

 Chapter 2.13

    2.13

    The cipher is absurd. Even dropping the classes I¡¯m meant to do, I¡¯ve only managed to decode bits and pieces. I think it needs a serial number, or a pass phrase or something to reference, but obviously I don¡¯t have the author on hand and I know almost nothing about them. I¡¯m trying to decode a personal cipher with next to no starting information, and it is not going well.

    I thought having Rook on my ass about classwork would be worth it if I could get through the cipher, but. Well.

    At the very least, I think I¡¯ve determined the cipher must be a¡­ a log. A record, of some kind, with notes in the margins every so often regarding the information presented. All the dates I¡¯ve managed to decode are recent, and it seems to focus largely on current-day criminal activity.

    Obviously, but I think it¡¯s important to note. This isn¡¯t just idle observation. Whoever wrote this notebook wanted something, and I can¡¯t figure out what.

    I¡¯m legitimately considering turning the notebook in for professionals to look at when my pager goes off.

    I think I¡¯m starting to hate it.

    It¡¯s the whole team again, all of us piling into the fast elevator and desperately holding on to the railings as we plummet to the bottom of the USMC tower. We hit the bottom and jog over to the changing rooms, don our costumes, and meet out in the garage.

    Crane is there waiting for us, next to the usual vehicle. Rook seems to be taking a more¡­ hands-off approach, and has been for a little while now. Crane is officially our handler, so it makes sense.

    I still think I hate him almost as much as I hate the pager.

    ¡°Welcome, Junior Division!¡± He says cheerily. ¡°I hope you enjoyed your little outing?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d like to apologize, Mr. Crane,¡± Rory responds, stepping forward. ¡°It was irresponsible of me to ¡ª¡±

    ¡°No no no, it¡¯s perfectly fine, Rory. Focus on the present!¡±

    ¡°...Yes, sir.¡± He seems displeased, but it¡¯s hard to tell under that mask.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± Crane continues, ¡°you¡¯ll be pleased to know that another one of those, ah¡­ creatures popped up. In a mall, at the edge of the commercial district. This¡¯ll be a chance for you all to do a little¡­ detective work!¡± He steps back from the van as the doors swing open. ¡°The USMW Containment Squadron will fill you in when you arrive. Good luck!¡± He ushers us inside.

    By now, the trip feels routine. The buildings scrape by in a silky blur, while the tower shrinks into the distance. Not disappearing, not quite. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anywhere in the city you can¡¯t see it if you¡¯re up high enough.

    When we arrive at the mall, we¡¯re greeted by the familiar sight of USMW vehicles and barricades, surrounding the old Westpoint Downtown Mall. It¡¯s an old building, and usually a fairly empty one, only barely kept alive by what¡¯s left of the city¡¯s dribble of welfare that doesn¡¯t go to repairing destroyed skyscrapers.

    It used to be a hot spot for supervillain activity, back when the city was still new. I¡¯d guess that¡¯s why people stopped coming. Now it¡¯s a stark, gray thing, perpetually empty and under construction.

    We hop out of the van as soon as it screeches to a stop, and Rory ¡ª Shield Warrior, dammit ¡ª slams open the back doors. The van drives off, kicking up gravel that pings against the plates of my armor.

    Shield Warrior moves to intercept the USMW representative that jogs up to meet us.

    ¡°Junior Division. Good to see you,¡± the rep says, tone flat. ¡°There are around twelve hostages still inside the mall.¡± He starts, leading us towards the barricade. ¡°You¡¯ll need to rescue them. You have the authority to request resources from us if you manage to communicate with the reported perpetrator, but from what we can see, it¡¯s¡­¡± He trails off. ¡°Flies. Our sources report flies.¡±

    Shield Warrior nods hesitantly. I think he¡¯s been caught a little off guard. ¡°Thank you, sir. We¡¯ll do our best.¡±

    The representative nods. ¡°Good luck.¡± He touches the pad besides the door, and it slides open with a heavy mechanical clunk.

    We enter the barricade, and walk up to the large rotating door set into the front of the mall. Rebound has to lean onto the glass with her shoulder to get the glass panels to creak and spin enough to let us slip into the wider wing.

    ¡°We need to get our bearings first,¡± Shield Warrior comments as we look around at the decaying storefronts. ¡°We need a map. There should be one at the center intersection, at the end of this wing.¡± He pauses. ¡°We may have to split up when we get there, cover the other two wings faster. Just recon, at least.¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s unwise. We have no idea what the new¡­ creature can do, yet,¡± Cooper ¡ª Gadget counters.

    Shield Warrior nods. ¡°Keep an eye out.¡±

    And then we move. I try to watch through the rows of glass panels, glancing up to the second floor overhangs and further down the wing to where I think I can barely see a lonely terminal standing at the center of the intersection. The mall is quiet, save for the scuffing of our boots against the tile, and a faint¡­ buzzing sound?

    And with that sound on my mind, I find I¡¯m noticing bugs dotting the walls, swarming between the tracks of broken escalators, the pillars holding up the overhang hiding insects crawling behind their girth.

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    It¡¯s creepy. I can feel myself tense.

    We reach the center of the mall in only a few minutes. It¡¯s not a huge mall, only three wings arranged in a t-shape, with the wing we¡¯ve entered in being one of the shorter ones.

    The map details this pretty clearly. Gadget pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of it, causing the flies crowding the edges of the terminal to shift and writhe. The flash highlights a large black mass clinging to a spot on the map up on the second floor, right next to the big cheery star labeled ¡®you are here¡¯.

    ¡°What? What is that?¡± Rebound comments.

    ¡°It¡¯s a bug dot.¡± Gadget clarifies.

    ¡°We¡¯ll check it out,¡± Shield Warrior decides. ¡°Rebound, follow me. The rest of you, take the escalator on the opposite side.¡± Then his voice gains a static buzz. ¡°Switch to comms, stay quiet.¡±

    We split up, Gadget leading the group with Jet and I following him close behind as we scale the silent escalators up to the second floor overhand. Shield Warrior and Rebound take the other escalator, one of the few working ones in the building, closer to the spot on the map. The bug spot.

    Are we sure this is even related to the other monsters we¡¯ve seen? So far it¡¯s just bugs. And aside from the ones oddly clustered against the laminated plastic map board, they¡¯ve been pretty normal.

    Normal, except they¡¯re fucking everywhere. As we emerge onto the overhang, just behind Shield Warrior and Rebound, the flies settled on a thick layer against the tiled floor, walls, even the escalator railings begin to stir, and I¡¯m suddenly very glad for my full-body suit.

    In the middle of this little atrium, positioned just above the central map area, sit five people, kneeling down on the tiled floor. Their clothes are disheveled, their hair unkempt, some of them have tear tracks staining their faces. All of them are absolutely covered in a thick layer of flies from the neck down.

    Not ¡ª not in the horror sense, from my position by the escalator I can¡¯t exactly tell, but I don¡¯t think the flies are hurting them. They¡¯re just crawling and writhing, against the hostages and along the tiled floor, up to a foot away from each of them.

    A deep sense of unease permeates the air, even as Shield Warrior and Rebound shake off their hesitation and move to help.

    The hostages, noticing our arrival, look up, panic in their eyes.

    I double-take. Panic?

    Shield Warrior jogs up to them, a large flat board manifesting in a flash of light, like a paddle, and just as he reaches out to the hostages, and they collectively lean away ¡ª

    Before I can call out a warning, voice my unease, a huge, insectile limb tipped with a vicious-looking talon emerges from behind the closest hostage, extending up in anticipation.

    And then it moves. Shield Warrior notices just in time, swinging around the paddle to catch it with his other arm and giving him the leverage to hold up as the talon slams down on him, cracking the construct with a harsh snap.

    While Shield Warrior holds the talon in place, struggling and sliding back against its seemingly immense strength, Rebound hesitates, static and distortion peeling off of her in waves. Then, she leaps into motion, stepping forward with a hook that blasts the taloned limb into pieces with a ripple of noise.

    Shield Warrior turns, like he¡¯s about to give an order, before the mass of flies covering the floor shift and another talon, warping and twisting into place, rises from the ground behind him.

    ¡°Rory!¡± I call out, taking an instinctive step.

    He twirls, forming a shining crude blade in his hands with a sharp yellow flash and slicing the limb off at its base. The end falls to the floor and dissolves into a mess of writhing insectile flesh, buzzing and lifting off the ground in waves.

    The mass shifts again, and I hear a crackle over the comms.

    ¡°We need to protect the ¡ª¡± Shield Warrior starts before he¡¯s tackled by something that lunges at him from under the forming mass of flies. It¡¯s about the size of a large dog, all talons, and spines, and it knocks him back into a nearby clothes rack as a spiked shield snaps into existence between them. From then on, all I can hear over the comms are strained grunts.

    Rebound makes an about-face and rushes to help. Gadget, Jet and I all break into a run as well, but a quick glance at the swarm of flies congregating around the hostages spikes the unease settling in my gut, and I make a decision.

    I turn and run towards the hostages instead, shouting over the comms. ¡°Jet, over here! We need fire!¡±

    She stops suddenly, and hesitates. But only for a moment. With a burst of orange flame, she corrects her course and speeds over to the hostages, flies curling and buzzing away from the puffs of smoke and haze of heat emanating from her hands. She catches up, and we turn to face the mass of flies holding the hostages.

    Near the tangled mess of clothes that Shield Warrior¡¯s struggling against, I watch Rebound stop again, releasing waves of distortion, and after a moment she swings with a heavy downward strike, cracking the tiles and sending out a shockwave. The force has Shield Warrior¡¯s opponent scrabbling, chunks of insectoid matter sloughing off and buzzing erratically before dissolving completely.

    I stop just short of touching the hostages, while Jet leans in, emitting a constant, low-level stream of flickering yellow heat, distorting the air and making the bugs curl and shrivel. They skitter away in a loose swarm, some of them faltering and dropping out of the air from the heat.

    While Jet heats the area up, I try to ignore the stifling warmth, stepping around behind her to try and see where the flies are headed. From what I¡¯ve seen so far, they can form from basically anywhere there¡¯s enough ¡ª

    I pause. The flies aren¡¯t organized, but they¡¯re all heading ¡ª

    I tilt my head just in time to see a huge mass of chitin drooping down from the steel girders lining the ceiling, just above Jet. I spin, grabbing her by the torso and pulling her around and out of the way as the spiked mass of insect launches itself straight at the ground, cracking tile in a large crater around it and sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

    ¡°Fire!¡± I shout, dropping to my knees in order to avoid the inevitable heat.

    Jet slaps her hands together in front of her and cranks up the force, bracing herself against an enormous blade of flame that carves through the creature in seconds. The air boils around us and leaves a blackened mass of carapace smoking on the floor, flies streaming out of it at its edges.

    The flame cuts out.

    And just as Shield Warrior gets to his feet and the swarm of flies skitters away from the blistering heat, I already see two new lumps of chitin bursting from the mass consolidating in the shadow of a nearby checkout terminal.

    ¡°Keep the heat going, I¡¯ll play defense,¡± Shield Warrior crackles over the radio. He moves to step in front of us.

    A small, metallic object sails across my vision. It clatters against the hard floor, disturbing the flies crowding around it. It beeps, once, twice, and then emits a harsh shriek. If I wasn¡¯t wearing a helmet, I would follow the others¡¯ example and clap my hands over my ears.

    The forming lumps immediately dissolve, and the swarm scatters, filtering out through the nearest vents, doorways, any opening they can find in a speckled stream of insects.

    The device¡¯s shriek cuts out, and the storefront is silent save for the faint sobs of the small group we saved.

    No bugs. No creatures. Just blackened dots and a faint layer of soot.

    I hear a breath from back near the escalators. ¡°Sorry. Took me a sec to recalibrate it,¡± Gadget says, clutching a complex looking tool in his left hand.

    ¡°You got any more of those?¡± I huff.

    He looks apologetic.

    We all groan in unison.

 Chapter 2.14

    2.14

    While Rebound and I try to calm down the hostages, I keep half an eye on Shield Warrior discussing our next steps with the others.

    ¡°If you really only have the one¡­¡± He sighs. ¡°Can it be activated again?¡±

    Gadget nods. ¡°It¡¯s just a wave disruptor. Originally, I think it was supposed to be a stun device, but since it utilizes sound, it wasn¡¯t hard to tweak it to act continuously.¡± He ducks his head. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯ve been trying to keep away from making, uh. Explosives.¡±

    ¡°Right. Okay. Here¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do,¡± Shield Warrior states, gesturing. ¡°You¡¯re going to escort these five to the exit with the device. I was concerned we¡¯d have to split the team in order to escort everyone efficiently, but if you can get this done on your own, the rest of us can move to clear the rest of the building.¡±

    Gadget nods again. ¡°It should be fine.¡±

    ¡°Good. Introduce yourself to our tag-alongs, and then we¡¯ll head out.¡± He turns away and puts a hand to his helmet, I assume radioing in to notify the surrounding USMW Squadron of the plan.

    Gadget steps up to our little huddle just as we¡¯re getting them to pull it together.

    ¡°It ¡ª it¡¯s just the sensation, y¡¯know? Oh my god, I can¡¯t ¡ª are you sure you got all of them?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure. It¡¯s over now, miss, we just need to get you out of here,¡± I try to reassure the woman patting herself down for any sign of insects. She doesn¡¯t find any, I suppose because whatever we were fighting has a sense of efficiency.

    ¡°Listen,¡± Rebound starts, raising her voice a little. ¡°Boy Gadget here is gonna take all of you to the entrance. He¡¯s got a, um. Thingy. That¡¯ll deter the bugs, so you¡¯ll be safest if you go with him. Just follow his lead, got it?¡±

    They all nod slowly, so Gadget smiles and flips the device in his hand in response. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll keep all of you bug-free! Come on, let¡¯s get a head start.¡± He gestures for them to follow as he jogs lightly down the broken, rusty escalator and into the wing we entered from. The victims stay close behind, and they seem a little calmer than they were.

    It catches me kind of off-guard, actually. I didn¡¯t know he was so good at this.

    Shield Warrior nods his head towards the other escalator, closer to the central atrium. ¡°This way, we¡¯ll take another look at the map, see if we can get the USMW to keep an eye out for more bugs.¡±

    We take our own path down to the ground floor with our eyes peeled for anything buzzing. It¡¯s quieter than it was when we arrived, without all the flies.

    Well. Without most of the flies. As we step off the escalator and get a good look at the map, I notice that the cluster of black insects squirming against a spot on the map hasn¡¯t disappeared.

    It¡¯s not gone, it¡¯s just moved. This time, it¡¯s indicating somewhere near the end of the west wing ¡ª to the right of the one we came from.

    We all take a second to stare at the bug dot while Shield Warrior radios the squadron outside.

    ¡°...Why is it telling us where it is?¡± I ask, breaking the silence.

    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s being cocky?¡± Rebound suggests.

    Jet rolls her eyes. ¡°Who cares why. It fucked up, didn¡¯t it? Let¡¯s go get the damn thing!¡±

    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t assume it¡¯s telling the truth,¡± Shield Warrior instructs. ¡°Recon is still necessary. Still, it¡¯s at least worth checking out. Redline, Rebound and I will inspect the marked location. Jet, fly out to the other wing, and keep an eye out for bugs.¡±

    ¡°Ugh!¡± Jet complains.

    ¡°When you¡¯re done, you can fly back. We will likely need you if the creature shows up again,¡± he placates.

    ¡°Whatever,¡± she says, stepping away and blasting streams of heat from her limbs, carrying her in a low hover that leaves the mall tiles stained with soot and wafting smoke.

    ¡°Keep up,¡± Shield Warrior says, breaking into a jog in the other direction. ¡°We¡¯ll want to make it to the end of the wing before she finishes searching, at least.¡±

    We dutifully follow along, and I elect not to bring up the sinking unease I felt staring at that location on the map.

    ¡ª

    ¡°At the moment, our best defense is a careful application of Rebound¡¯s power. Once Jet arrives at our location, her heat will be essential. But, in the event that we encounter the creature before her, a defensive strategy centered around your shockwaves would be ideal,¡± Shield Warrior says, jogging a couple steps ahead of us.

    ¡°How¡­ did you do that, by the way? I thought you just reflected stuff,¡± I probe.

    She shrugs. ¡°My power lets me absorb any kinetic forces acting on my body, including my own. I basically just activate my power and try to move a whole bunch. Then, I can release all that energy at once from my fists.¡±

    ¡°Ah. So you¡¯re taking kinetic energy from your entire body and packing it into a point at your hands.¡±

    She nods. ¡°Yeah! I don¡¯t usually use it like that when I¡¯m fighting something stronger than me, but obviously flies aren¡¯t going to give me much energy to work with, huh.¡±

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Still, the nature of the technique means you will need time to charge it regardless. I¡¯ll act as a bastion, and Redline will be our lookout. Sound acceptable?¡± Shield Warrior proposes.

    ¡°Mhm.¡±

    ¡°Sure, big guy.¡±

    The location we¡¯re meant to be going to starts becoming more clear the closer we get. The flies have returned, skittering and buzzing between the cracks of abandoned buildings, clustering in chitinous clumps along the walls and corners and only getting more dense as we get closer to our destination.

    An electronics store, large enough to be a building on its own. The glass doors are shattered and ringed with a thick layer of insects.

    The interior seems normal enough aside from the obvious, with a small help desk next to the larger reception area, framed by aisles of products and thick square pillars made from something like plaster.

    Rebound tightens her stance, and I unlatch my tonfas from my belt. I don¡¯t have much practice with them, but it feels better than nothing.

    ¡°Is this¡­¡± She starts, staring intently at our surroundings as we pass through the fly-ridden entrance and into the reception area of the store.

    The entire building is infested with them, clustered into balls of chitinous flesh in every nook and cranny. Far more than the small swarm we encountered earlier.

    And just as we near the help desk, there¡¯s movement from one of the aisles close to us.

    It¡¯s a hostage ¡ª more than one, stumbling out from behind shelves of old tech, and my first instinct is again to step forward and help.

    I don¡¯t. As the full seven people stumble out into the light, wide, sharp talons pressed against each of their necks become visible in the sterile white of fluorescent lamps.

    Each of them has a small but dangerous-looking insectoid growth latched onto the backs of their necks, chattering softly and angling their many sharp limbs at any vital points they can reach.

    I subtly turn on my radio. ¡°Rory!¡± I whisper. ¡°What do we do?¡±

    His voice crackles back. ¡°I ¡ª don¡¯t know yet. We need to remove the creatures quickly enough¡­¡±

    ¡°If neither of you come up with anything, I¡¯m gonna start punching them really hard,¡± Rebound mutters.

    ¡°I ¡ª¡± He¡¯s interrupted by a shadow forming in the middle of the reception area. Dark spots squirm as a mass of bugs droop down from the ceiling in an enormous teardrop, writhing and clinging to each other on their desperate journey to the dusty carpeted floor.

    Before it touches the ground, a long, spined limb bursts from the center of the mass, spraying bugs across the area and shredding carpet as it slams into the floor. More limbs follow, bursting out and digging into the soft ground as the swarm folds in on itself, consolidating into chunks of hard black chitin and interlocking plates.

    And finally, a vaguely insectoid head, complete with mandible-like features and too many antenna, heaves itself out of the muck of bugs with a cry.

    ¡°I w ¡ª wouldn¡¯t be so hasty, chil ¡ª children!¡± A voice calls, interspersed with chattering and inhuman clicks. ¡°My c ¡ª claws are sharp, and m ¡ª my wit is sharper!¡± The voice is thin and reedy in spite of its volume. It sounds more like a poor imitation of speech than anything real, like air being pushed through a tube in a vague sort of pattern.

    ¡°It can talk?!¡± Rebound hisses, tightening her stance.

    Shield Warrior raises his hands in a placating motion. ¡°We¡¯re calm, we¡¯re calm! What¡­ what do you want?¡±

    ¡°Hmmm¡­ I d ¡ª don¡¯t know. Maybe a snack?¡± The creature replies, and a hostage behind it cries out in pain.

    ¡°Okay! Okay. We get it. You¡¯re in charge.¡± Shield Warrior shouts, and the growth stops pressing the tip of its talon against the soft parts of a hostage.

    ¡°Mh? Oh, of c ¡ª course. Now, then, I was thinking s ¡ª something like¡­ a duel.¡± The insect replies.

    ¡°A¡­ duel?¡±

    ¡°Yes, a fight. One on one, me against, let¡¯s see¡­ the r ¡ª red one, over there,¡± It decides, casting one of its long claws towards me.

    A shiver crawls its way down my spine. ¡°Me?¡± I say reflexively.

    ¡°Redline, I expressly forbid you from participating,¡± Shield Warrior starts over the radio before he¡¯s interrupted by a chittering laugh.

    ¡°Yes, you! I think y ¡ª you¡¯d be an acceptable appetizer!¡± It clacks at me, taking a threatening step closer. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll even give you a re ¡ª reward.¡±

    Chunks of flesh start to protrude from the creature, changing from a dark, almost-black to a softly glowing orange and swelling until they hang off of it like grotesque lanterns.

    ¡°For every p ¡ª piece of shining flesh you ca ¡ª carve from my body, I will release one m ¡ª morsel from my care.¡± It chatters, head tilting. ¡°How is that? T ¡ª tempting?¡±

    ¡°Redline ¡ª¡± Shield Warrior starts.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have another way to release the hostages!¡± Rebound hisses, a frustrated expression creasing her masked face.

    ¡°Still, this is wildly unorthodox ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can you get me in contact with Jet?¡± I interrupt.

    Shield Warrior hesitates. ¡°... I can.¡±

    Jet¡¯s voice crackles over the radio. ¡°What? What is it. I¡¯m kind of busy staring at empty fuckin¡¯ stores, y¡¯know.¡±

    ¡°How fast can you be at the end of the west wing?¡±

    ¡°If I rush? A minute, maybe.¡±

    ¡°And if you¡¯re trying to be discrete?¡±

    I hear Jet sigh over her end of the radio. ¡°I dunno, three? Listen, Red, I don¡¯t usually do discrete.¡±

    ¡°You know, children, you ha ¡ª have to be decisive when seizing a meal,¡± the creature intones, and the smaller insects tighten their grip on their victims, eliciting a terrified sob from some.

    ¡°Fine!¡± I hear myself shouting. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll do your ¡ª your contest.¡±

    ¡°Good! Food is so much b ¡ª better when it doesn¡¯t resist!¡± The thing chitters, heaving its mass from side to side.

    I begin to walk forward, reaching up to grip my helmet in both hands.

    ¡°We¡¯re in an electronics store near the end of the mall. The perpetrator is in here with us, and it¡¯s holding seven hostages,¡± I mutter over the radio.

    ¡°Wh ¡ª Red, what? What are you ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Counting on you, Livvy.¡± I pull the helmet off, taking in the pungent stink of life wafting off of the creature in front of me, and toss it to the side, ignoring the protests from my teammates.

    Pulling my tonfas from my belt, I begin moving in a slow circle to my left, keeping a close eye on its movements. The creature lumbers closer, limbs twitching and mandibles dripping in anticipation.

    ¡°Ready to die, appetizer?¡± It wheezes.

    ¡°Something like that,¡± I respond airily.

    And then I lunge.

 Chapter 2.15

    2.15

    The way it stands now, there¡¯s no way I can count on popping all of the¡­ targets dotting the creature¡¯s body, especially not with how scattered they are. The thing is the size of a horse, with two large talons emerging from its neck, and smaller limbs dotting its flank. It¡¯s mostly covered in chitinous plates, but where flesh is exposed I can discern a strange, corded texture, not unlike muscle.

    I¡¯m not exactly high on reserves. I haven¡¯t made any major changes using my power, and I¡¯ve just been eating enough to stay mostly in shape, and using my power to make up the rest. Which means I¡¯ve only been eating a little more than I used to. I won¡¯t be able to do any large alterations or heal any serious wounds without compromising mass from some other part of my body.

    This fight isn¡¯t one I¡¯m going to win; it¡¯s one I¡¯m going to survive. I¡¯m going to need to be quick, take minimal damage, and destroy the glowing orange tumors in the safest way possible. I¡¯ll destroy a couple of them in my initial rush, and play keep away until Jet arrives.

    So, I make the first move. Gripping my tonfas, I drop into a slight crouch before leaping in a low dash towards the monster, closely tracking the movements of its front limbs as I close in.

    It swings with its left talon, a lumbering motion that I easily duck under, even as it splinters the tile beneath me. I fall into another crouch and pull back my right tonfa for a right hook with as much power as I can muster, aimed directly at a tumor on its underside.

    The weapon connects with a sickening thud, and the pustule bursts, spraying neon orange liquid over my face and arm. I don¡¯t have the time to blink the fluid out of my eyes, so in response to movement from the corner of my eye, I drop into a backwards roll, barely avoiding another swipe from the creature¡¯s jagged blades.

    I blink away the gunk just in time to hear the thing grunt and watch one of the insect-things attached to a hostage let go and buzz its way on a collision course with the main body. It slams into the thing¡¯s flank, melting and sliding under its skin with a sound like wet mud.

    ¡°N ¡ª not bad, appetizer! I may yet enjoy this!¡± The monster croons as Rebound edges around behind it, beckoning to the released victim. It lopes towards me, raising one of its larger blades above its head.

    I stand and sidestep the resulting strike, wincing as wind from the force of the blow brushes my face and strands of my paper-white hair flutter detached in front of my nose. The talon buries itself in the tile with a crack, and I take another step back as the second talon descends into the ground next to it, spraying tile against my armored shins.

    Too close for comfort, but it¡¯s made a mistake; both limbs are occupied. I step around its arms, preparing to sprint forward and slam my tonfa into the tumor on its side when, just as I¡¯ve shifted my weight forward and committed to the strike, a third limb bursts from its flank. It¡¯s long and jagged like the other two, and it lashes out from above with surprising speed considering it just formed.

    I kick the ground, halting my momentum and jerking my torso backwards. The talon skims my chest, tearing up armor and carving a thin spray of blood from my skin. It craters the tile, most of the shrapnel deflecting off of my armor, but I can feel sharp stinging as a couple shards pierce the suit and lacerate my shins. I think I hear one of the others cry out.

    The creature twitches, and I can¡¯t shake the thought that the attack was meant to be fatal.

    I hesitate, just for a second. My first instinct is to use my power, seal the burning pain in my chest, but I can¡¯t do that and act at the same time.

    The creature doesn¡¯t wait. All three talons are currently still buried in mall tile, but it¡¯s still able to lurch closer as another talon bursts from its flank, warping and sliding from the main body into another overhead swing.

    I yank myself backwards to avoid the strike, and then again and again as more and more full, bladed limbs emerge from the thing¡¯s body, reabsorbing the former ones embedded in the ground as it goes. It barrels forward like a semi-truck, throwing out overhead slashes one after the other in alternating patterns, while I desperately back step the storm of talons.

    My back hits one of the square pillars, and I twirl around behind it to avoid the next strike, ignoring the screaming pain stretching up from my torso to my shoulder.

    The creature chatters, and I can hear it struggling to free itself from the pillar.

    I take a moment to activate my power, letting the pulsing red film settle over me and the constant stream of biological information flow through my brain.

    I seal the gash along my chest, as well as the smaller cuts along my shins, repairing skin and smoothing over musculature just enough to be operable.

    The creature chitters on the other side of the pillar, even as I can hear its limbs grinding against the plaster and concrete. ¡°More than I ex ¡ª expected, appetizer! Keep this up, and I may save you for last ¡ª perhaps you¡¯d be better as d ¡ª desert!¡±

    I grit my teeth. I need to be faster. If Jet gets here before I can get it to give up more of the hostages, she might not be able to free all of them fast enough.

    Plaster splinters and cracks, and the creature heaves itself free. ¡°Come, meal! Prove your life!¡±

    While it chortles, I spin back around the opposite side of the pillar, raising my boot and stomping on its leg. The limb snaps under my heel, and even as it dissolves and tries to reform, the thing falls, just slightly.

    It¡¯s enough. I grip the tonfa in my left hand and drive it straight into the glowing tumor at its neck, bursting it and spraying miscellaneous liquid over my arm.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The monster screeches, and every bladed limb that¡¯s buried into the floor bursts into a flowing swarm of insects, clouding my vision with their dense mass. I stumble backwards startled, and before I can reorient myself, the swarm is gone, and the creature¡¯s pulling back an enormous multijointed limb dotted with spines.

    It blurs, and I feel the impact reverberate throughout my body with a sharp crack. The world spins, and my boots briefly leave the ground even as I¡¯m launched back, skidding across the tile and dropping to my knees.

    And then the pain hits, radiating from a point on my chest outwards. I choke down a scream and a fair amount of blood, trying not to breathe too heavily.

    The creature chitters, and slowly stalks closer. Is it not going to attack¡­?

    I decide to take advantage of its apparent hesitance. A red film clouds my vision.

    My sternum and several of my ribs were broken in the strike, and from what I can tell there¡¯s a large amount of internal bleeding and minor abrasions.

    I¡­ I don¡¯t think I have enough left-over fat to completely repair bones.

    ¡°Hmm? What¡¯s wrong, m ¡ª meal? That was only the first blow,¡± It taunts, voice warbling. I¡¯m only distantly aware of it as I¡¯m stitching myself back together, but I still feel the fear creeping in.

    ¡°Maybe you aren¡¯t as filling as I¡¯d thought you¡¯d be. Maybe I¡¯ll move on to the ne ¡ª next course sooner than I thought,¡± It says. I finish my repairs and exit the trance, preparing to make the first move again, when I catch movement outside the store.

    I look away immediately, struggling to maintain my composure. I just need to hold out a little longer.

    I lift my head to face the monster and wiping the blood from my lip. I can¡¯t take much more damage. I need to buy time.

    Gritting my teeth, I make a gamble.

    ¡°So,¡± I wheeze, ¡°why the game¡­ if you¡¯re just gonna eat all of us anyway?¡±

    ¡°Red?!¡± I hear called out from behind me.

    I shake my head subtly. ¡°The map markers, the hostages. What¡¯s the point?¡±

    The insect thing stalks closer, its clawed, digitigrade legs scraping against the tile.

    ¡°You¡¯re daring, meal. And durable. Well, I suppose¡­¡± It tilts its head, antenna twitching.

    ¡°This little excursion was a distraction, a task assigned to me by the terrible one who calls himself Faust. A dusty creature, you know, not fit for a meal,¡± it mutters.

    ¡°...A distraction?¡±

    ¡°As you say. A curious thing he is, you know? St ¡ª strange¡­ one would think he would be greater.¡±

    I glance back at the other two. Shield Warrior¡¯s leaning to the side with a hand to his helmet, while Rebound stands protectively in front of the hostages. I jerk my head towards the giant insect. Rebound shrugs, a little desperately.

    ¡°But¡­ we¡¯re not the only heroes in the city?¡± I ask, turning back to it.

    ¡°Heroes? Ah, you tiny great ones. I suppose not, but you are the only ones watching him. Isn¡¯t that strange?¡± The thing stomps the ground, sending shards of ceramic scattering. ¡°Your master, a pathetic, greasy thing, great one though it may be,¡± it warbles, ¡°it watches our terrible one and he will do nothing. Frustrating, yes?¡±

    The creature rambles, and I watch as Jet slowly creeps through the entrance and settles into a crouch. I subtly motion for her to stop, and she stills, setting her hands onto the tile in a runner¡¯s position.

    ¡°And he is obsessed with that pretentious museum, of all places!¡± The thing screeches, stepping closer until it¡¯s practically spitting in my face. I tense. ¡°He won¡¯t let me eat this world, he won¡¯t even let me eat a couple morsels! What kind of ¡ª¡±

    I grip my tonfas and dart around to the thing¡¯s right, ducking under a talon. Another one swivels over its neck from the other side, carving a thick gash into my upper left arm and spraying more blood onto the now-pinkish tile. I drop the tonfa in my left hand.

    ¡°Did you think I would not predict ¡ª¡± It starts. I ignore it and the pain, dropping my other tonfa as well and hauling myself up onto its back in one smooth motion. It immediately starts to buck, and I grab hold of a protruding spine with my uninjured arm to secure myself.

    One of the tumors sits in front of me, near the base of the monster¡¯s neck. My left arm isn¡¯t usable even if I take the time to patch it up, and my other arm is occupied.

    I don¡¯t hesitate. All at once, I activate my power while leaning forward, taking a second to stop the bleeding in my arm, sharpen my teeth and slightly increase my bite force.

    Then, I bite. The pustule bursts, flooding my mouth and nose with an overwhelming sickly tang, spraying all over my face as I tear it away from the thing¡¯s body and let go of the spine I¡¯m clinging to.

    The monster screams and curses in its wheezing, warbling voice while I tumble onto the floor.

    Spitting out the mess of glowing pus and stretchy skin, I shout. ¡°Well?! My point, right?!¡±

    ¡°W ¡ª waste! Waste!¡± It crows, even as a third insect detaches from its hostage and slams into the main one. ¡°Not even worth the effort!¡±

    ¡°Fine with me,¡± I mutter, raising my hand and pointing sharply across the cluster of hostages.

    The creature tilts its head.

    Jet leaps from her crouched position, firing at full blast from her palms and heels, kicking up dust, grime, and smoke. She clears the distance from the store¡¯s entrance to its center in less than a second, nothing more than a shining blur across my vision.

    She skids to a halt a good distance away, down one of the wider aisles, and slides into a low crouch, gloves and boots smoking.

    ¡°You¡¯re crazy, Red,¡± she says, panting.

    The smaller insects are piles of melting ash and flesh, dripping off and onto the floor.

    A grin I didn¡¯t even realize I was wearing stretches wider. ¡°Checkmate, bug.¡±

    Shield Warrior snaps a barrier into place in front of the three hostages near him. Then, he slides a puck across the tiled floor to the other four, a tall, rectangular barrier following it and sliding into position in front of them.

    Beside him, Rebound leaps forward, static flowing off of her in waves. The creature splits down the middle, flesh melting and stretching where it separates and tries to move out of the way.

    It doesn¡¯t matter. Rebound touches down and the distortion around her pulses, a crater erupting and carving through both instances of the creature with the shockwave.

    One of them bursts into a swarm of struggling insects immediately, but the other tries to retaliate, screeching and reforming its body into something that might have a huge upper talon.

    It doesn¡¯t finish before Rebound spins, fist connecting with it dead center with a crack.

    The last insectile monster bursts into a cloud of flies.

 Chapter 2.16

    2.16

    ¡°Protocol in these situations is usually to contact a USMW medical squadron ¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine, Rory, I can heal pretty quickly,¡± I interrupt. ¡°You guys head out, I¡¯ll catch up.¡±

    He pauses his metaphorical hand-wringing before letting out a huff. ¡°Fine. Don¡¯t be late, we need to inform HQ of the possibility of museum robbery,¡± he says, standing. ¡°And remember to take your helmet. These suits are expensive, and the USMC doesn¡¯t appreciate having to re-appropriate illegal tech.¡±

    I nod, slumping against the display case behind me. That fight was draining on its own, and on top of my general fatigue, I¡¯m now missing a good bit of stored fat from using my power, and blood from having to use it in the first place.

    I haven¡¯t told Rory about the calorie requirements of my power. I think he might object to the way I¡¯ve been eyeing that pastry shop across the hallway.

    Rory stops a short distance away. ¡°...Well done.¡± And then he walks away.

    The others gather near the store¡¯s entrance. Eva gives me a small wave. Olivia stares resolutely in the opposite direction, but her fists are clenched, and I think they might be shaking.

    I grin, and do a quick salute.

    Eva smiles, and Olivia marches out of the store, while the others follow along.

    They leave, and I let out a sigh. I really need to ask for a granola bar or something.

    After taking a minute to breathe, and watch the few remaining flies try to squirm away, I haul my aching body upright, staggering towards the pastry shop.

    I leave my helmet on the floor where it is. It¡¯ll get in the way.

    The shop itself is tiny, so I end up reaching over the glass divider and snagging a couple donuts from the display, keeping one eye on the outside hallway, where a small, leftover swarm of flies meanders about.

    I think I¡¯m starting to get a good idea of whose notebook I¡¯d found, back at the nazi hideout.

    Faust. What a dramatic name. Still, if the USMC¡¯s findings are correct, that was his giant eel destroying the suburbs, and this was his creepy bug monster terrorizing the mall. If I want to decipher that notebook in any reasonable time frame, I need to know more about him.

    Stumbling out of the pastry shop, croissant in hand, I watch as the last remnants of insects press themselves in between the cracks of the windows and rotating exit doors, out into the parking lot.

    They¡¯re moving slowly, but it¡¯s obvious they¡¯re heading towards a predetermined destination.

    I take a moment to use my power, smoothing over my injuries and restoring some lost muscle mass, and push myself through the revolving door and out into the open air, keeping an eye on any stray flies.

    ¡ª

    Following the trail of flies isn¡¯t exactly easy, but I get better at it as time goes on. It seems to prefer moving through the few wooded areas sanctioned by the city government, so I end up stomping through brush and past small oak trees a number of times. Never for very long, though, and soon enough the thin path of bugs trails its way to a sort-of abandoned residential area.

    The place is a little trashed, but it¡¯s obvious there¡¯s construction work happening, what with the gigantic mover parked in the middle of the road. The city only has a couple of them, but this amount of destruction definitely warrants its use.

    The thing towers over the houses surrounding it, metal beams crossing and intertwining into a skeletal monolith sat on top of six huge tank treads. A reinforced structure points upwards off one of the corners, topped with a complex-looking crane and pulley system.

    As advanced as it is, though, the structure isn¡¯t new. I think I remember having a class on them in school ¡ª they were an important landmark in terms of reconstruction efforts, especially after Disasters. But they¡¯re old. Rust and grime crawls up the thing¡¯s bulk, tarnishing the solid metal and almost creaking in the wind. I¡¯m not even sure the super who made them is still alive.

    Still, it¡¯s likely the neighborhood will be up and running within the month. The former residents will be able to apply for disaster recovery as soon as they finish, and they¡¯ll probably get a discount, considering I think it was one of the USMC¡¯s heroes who caused the damage.

    The trail settles. Flies buzz, meandering in conflicting directions in a large radius around the neighborhood, no longer leading in a clear direction. It could mean the creature¡¯s escaped, but still¡­

    I work my way along the streets, peeking into the windows of abandoned buildings, discretely checking for any signs of human activity. If I don¡¯t find anything, fine, it was a bit of a long shot anyway. But if I do¡­

    One of the houses spills light from a window near the back. I approach cautiously, hugging the wall underneath it and only slightly peeking my head up to peer inside.

    It looks like a bedroom, with a battery-powered lamp resting on a desk inside, next to a small filing box. Some other stuff lies scattered around the room as well, food packaging, articles of clothing¡­ a coat hangs on the door.

    I look left, then right. Then, I examine the window.

    It¡¯s unlocked. I push it open and crawl inside.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    The space is cramped, but homely, in a way that makes it obvious this was the only room being used. Shielding my eyes from the bright yellow glow from the lamp, I tentatively slide open the first drawer of the filing box.

    Holding it up to the light, I start to decipher¡­ a schedule? There¡¯s something penciled in for about a week from now, labeled ¡®SNCHL + PNDA MEET¡¯.

    Carefully digging through the rest of the box doesn¡¯t really reveal anything else. Faust isn¡¯t as busy as he seems, I guess.

    I close the box, making sure not to disturb anything else in the room, and sneak back out of the window, shutting it behind me. I don¡¯t know if Faust is still using the place or when he¡¯ll be back, but I think I need to call this in.

    ¡ª

    ¡°I hope you know how irresponsible you¡¯ve been,¡± Rook tells me, standing over her desk in front of me.

    I shrug. ¡°I dunno, I thought catching supervillains and saving the day was pretty responsible.¡±

    She holds up a hand. ¡°We will get to that, do not worry. Right now, I am talking about your callous disregard for operational security. Really, Red, did you have to waltz around in public with your suit on? You realize your face is all across the internet by now, correct?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not like I can really go out in public any other way,¡± I complain, rolling my eyes. ¡°How else was I supposed to get my hands on a phone?¡±

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have been out there in the first place,¡± Rook stresses. ¡°Your actions today were completely irresponsible.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m helping catch the bad guy! Isn¡¯t that the point, helping people? Stopping the bad guys before they can hurt anyone else?¡±

    ¡°That is not what this is about!¡± Rook shouts, banging a fist onto her desk.

    My expression turns flinty.

    It isn¡¯t? I don¡¯t ask.

    Rook steels herself. ¡°I realize you want to help, Red. And that is admirable. But you have been handed a great deal of power, at a very young age. You need to understand what, in our society, is your responsibility, and what isn¡¯t.¡± She clasps her hands and leans forward. ¡°You can¡¯t take matters into your own hands like this. You ¡ª all of us have too much power to be leveraging it against others.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°I¡¯m not leveraging anything, I¡¯m trying to help ¡ª because of my powers, I can help, so I want to.¡±

    ¡°And how do you know that you are helping?¡±

    I stare at her. ¡°Are you serious?¡±

    Rook¡¯s expression tightens. ¡°The situation you have found yourself in now may be cut-and-dry, but this won¡¯t always be the case. You can¡¯t assume that you will always be correct in every scenario.¡±

    She sighs, adjusting her glasses. ¡°The consequences of your mistakes will always be greater than those of the mundane population. Supers hold too much potential for damage to be trusted to operate independently. I know you want to help, but you need to step back. You need to trust that the USMW has everything under control. Understood?¡±

    I grit my teeth and nod.

    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll be placing you on leave for the next week. You¡¯ll have plenty of time to think about everything we¡¯ve talked about.¡±

    I open my mouth ¡ª

    ¡°And before you ask, nothing has been decided yet regarding the information obtained in the approved USMW search conducted last night. Once a plan of action is decided, we may be able to reevaluate your leave. Clear?¡±

    ¡°...Clear.¡±

    She nods. ¡°You¡¯re free to go.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°Red.¡±

    I try to sidestep Rory, who¡¯s standing in the living area, arms crossed. He steps back into my path.

    I scowl. ¡°What?¡±

    He narrows his eyes. ¡°You know what.¡±

    Eva hops up to rest her arms on the back of a couch by the window. ¡°Hey! What happened?¡±

    I roll my eyes, stuffing my hands in my pockets. ¡°I followed the bug.¡±

    ¡°You ¡ª you¡­!¡± Rory seems at a loss for words.

    Eva isn¡¯t. ¡°What the hell, Red!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a big deal,¡± I start, trying to push past Rory.

    ¡°Yes it is?! Why didn¡¯t you tell us?¡± Eva says.

    I twitch. ¡°Would you have done anything about it if I did?¡±

    Eva groans.

    ¡°We would have called in to our handler, informed him of the situation, and proceeded from there. It would be up to him to determine our next steps,¡± Rory informs me.

    I try to resist a sneer. That guy¡¯s a creep. I wanted to make absolutely sure I got my hands on something that would help me decipher the notebook, and it doesn¡¯t seem likely they¡¯d allow me access to sensitive evidence. They barely ever let us out of the tower.

    I can¡¯t tell them this, and as much as I am justified, I can¡¯t justify it to them.

    ¡°Fine. I¡¯m¡­ sorry I did that without telling you guys,¡± I say, swallowing my pride.

    Eva sighs. ¡°I guess it¡¯s fine ¡ª¡±

    ¡°An apology won¡¯t be nearly enough to absolve you. Has Rook¡­¡± Rory interrupts.

    I wave a hand vaguely, stepping around him. ¡°She already said I¡¯m on leave. No missions, I guess.¡±

    ¡°...If that¡¯s what Rook has decided,¡± Rory says hesitantly.

    ¡°Yep,¡± I say, passing the living room. ¡°For now at least. Anyway, I got a thing I need to work on.¡±

    ¡°Oh, uh, bye?¡±

    ¡°...Good night, Red¡­?¡±

    I walk to my room and close the door softly, settling down into my desk chair. There are a couple things I need to get done.

    That stupid notebook isn¡¯t going to be finished anytime soon. I pick it up and flip through idly.

    Still, I¡¯ll need to keep working on it. Maybe I¡¯ll figure out the cipher through sheer, random chance. It gives me something to do, anyway.

    I also need to talk to someone about getting something calorie-dense that I can take on missions. It¡¯s annoying having to break into pastry shops, or inhale granola bars or whatever just to operate my power. I need something more efficient to use if I¡¯m going to keep doing stuff like this.

    That fight was closer than I would have liked. I can still taste the tang of¡­ whatever that was.

    I should also consider altering my body beforehand, so I don¡¯t have to do it during the mission. I don¡¯t need anything super lethal for the usual missions, but I don¡¯t know if Faust is going away any time soon. Something¡­ ¡®built-in¡¯ might help me be more effective.

    A muscle augment, maybe? I don¡¯t know enough about muscles. to really construct anything more effective than what I have now. Or¡­ claws? As much as the bug thing hated vibrations, Rory¡¯s sword construct wasn¡¯t ineffective, exactly.

    I stow away the ciphered notebook for later, and pull out a larger one. Writing my ideas down usually helps me put them in order.

 Chapter 2.17

    2.17

    ¡°...Promise we are doing our utmost to respond to the threat these creatures pose, and we have made valuable strides in ending this once and for all. Any other questions?¡± Rory asks, decked out in Shield Warrior garb, standing up on a podium in one of the larger rooms in the USMC tower.

    I¡¯d tell him to loosen up a bit, but I¡¯m not actually in the same room with him. Instead, I¡¯m laying on the couch in our living area while the others go out and do a press conference or whatever.

    I yawn. I¡¯ve been torn between thinking of my leave as a good or a bad thing, but at the very least I¡¯ve found I don¡¯t do very well sitting on my ass. There¡¯s only so much banging my head against the wall with that notebook I can do before I start going crazy.

    Thankfully, I¡¯ve got an appointment with one of the power technicians in about fifteen minutes.

    Maybe I¡¯ll get there early, beat up some of the test dummies they have lying around. I roll off the couch, dropping the remote onto the table and stumbling over to the elevator just outside. The normal one, this time.

    I step in, press the button, and sleepily push past the knot in my stomach as I descend. It¡¯s only as the doors open on the lower floors with a ding that I realize I¡¯m still in my slippers.

    Whatever. The walk to the testing grounds isn¡¯t too long, and as much as I get some odd stares, no one stops me or anything. Even if they don¡¯t know me personally, I think I catch a couple of them staring into ¡ª at, I guess, my eyes.

    It¡¯s almost enough to make me regret choosing an appearance that¡¯s so flashy.

    Too late now, anyway. I want help with my powers, but I don¡¯t want to tell the techs everything. It feels disadvantageous, somehow.

    The hall gets quieter as I approach the testing areas, and finally I reach one at the end that¡¯s occupied.

    Sort of. It¡¯s just the one tech. The same one I saw earlier in my stay, actually.

    I suppress a sigh. At least he¡¯ll be succinct?

    I knock on the glass sliding door, and he whips his head around. He blinks, waves, and fumbles with something in his coat before the door slides open with a whoosh.

    Stepping inside, I notice he¡¯s looking a little more haggard than usual.

    ¡°Yo. I¡¯m here for a, uh. Consultation?¡± I say.

    ¡°Ah, yeah, it¡¯s you. You¡¯ve been a real pain in the ass for me, y¡¯know?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°Nothing. Uh, I¡¯ve got a couple new notes here, and a new classification, but did you have anything¡­ specific you wanted to talk about?¡±

    I huff. ¡°Yeah. I need something calorie dense. It helps accelerate my healing.¡±

    ¡°Mhm, that checks out.¡± It does? ¡°I can check with shipping and manufacturing, get back to you within a couple days. Anything else?¡±

    Nothing I want to share with him. ¡°You said something about a new¡­ classification?¡±

    ¡°Oh, yeah. Congratulations, you¡¯re officially a¡­ class A-4XOX!¡± He says sarcastically. ¡°The other guys think you¡¯re a snowball, but I¡¯m not so sure.¡±

    ¡°Snowball? How ¡ª okay, where are you getting all this? We met once.¡± I point out.

    ¡°All your movements as a member of the USMC are recorded, didn¡¯t you know? No privacy for government jobs, heh.¡± He glances at the ceiling. ¡°Oh, and uh, a snowball is a super whose powers increase in scale exponentially. It¡¯s a colloquial thing. Snowball, cardhouse, mad scientist, y¡¯know. They¡¯re not official terms, but, well¡­¡±

    He reaches over to his desk and pulls out a folder. ¡°Here¡¯s your reclassification papers, it should give you an idea of what I mean. Now, if there isn¡¯t anything else?¡±

    I take the folder. ¡°...You think I¡¯m a snowball?¡±

    ¡°Ha!¡± The tech barks. ¡°No, the other guys in the lab do! I think it¡¯s way too unlikely. The last real snowball we had was, god, Everyman, maybe? If you¡¯re a snowball, I¡¯ll eat my own hat.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have a hat.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m hedging my bets,¡± he says, half-winking like he doesn¡¯t quite know how to do it. ¡°Anyway, I have to get back to work. See ya, champ,¡± he says, standing and walking out of the testing chamber.

    I open the folder. There¡¯s a couple different files, most of which detail how I¡¯ve used my powers since I joined the USMC, and the rest suggesting new methods to try.

    I don¡¯t even remember half of this stuff. I try to suppress the urge to glance at the ceiling.

    I snap the folder shut and leave the testing room. I think I might need to be more careful.

    ¡ª

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The next few days are spent. Just spent. I work on the worksheets assigned to me, I jam in the corner with my guitar, I stare out at the concrete jungle laid out below the tower, tracing the circular line of impenetrable walls bordering this small patch of civilization.

    I don¡¯t take out the notebook. I have no idea whether they know about it, but it hasn¡¯t been confiscated yet, and whenever I think about taking another look I can¡¯t escape the feeling of being caught red-handed.

    Instead, I¡¯ve been subtly looking up biology facts on my laptop. I think I¡¯ve hit a wall in terms of how strong I can make my muscles without crossing the line into inefficiency, but I still need some way to increase my output.

    I can either take the efficiency hit and hope that those new calorie bars I asked for work better than I expect, or I can take a different route.

    Realistically, I only need that kind of power in a very specific scenario. Maybe there¡¯s a way I can store that power until I need it?

    I go to put down my guitar before I remember how likely it is I¡¯m being watched.

    I¡¯ll plan it out in my head first.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Red. I would like to speak to you,¡± Rory says, stopping me on my way to the kitchenette for a snack. I¡¯m in the middle of a worksheet, but I thought I¡¯d take a quick break, anyway.

    ¡°Sure. What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed ¡ª I¡¯ve been informed, that you may be having an internal conflict with regard to your employment at the USMC,¡± he says, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

    I blink. ¡°I¡­ guess? By who?¡±

    He looks sheepish. ¡°Rook asked me to speak to you. But ¡ª¡± he starts, seeing the frown on my face, ¡°I do legitimately understand the feeling, and I wanted to help of my own accord.¡±

    ¡°...Okay.¡±

    Rory sighs, looking slightly constipated. ¡°When I first joined¡­ when I first acquired my power, I was unsure of many things. The changes in my life ¡ª they were very sudden. I was in an accident ¡ª obviously,¡± he says, waving a hand, ¡°and afterward, it felt as though my entire existence was uprooted, as if everything before then was only a¡­ a dream.¡±

    He shakes his head, and walks over to the cabinet, taking out a packet of tea. ¡°I was so, so unsure. I was always asking questions, of my parents, of the lab technicians, of Rook. It was¡­ difficult to tell what was correct ¡ª what was right.¡± He fills a mug with water, and drops the bag in, watching it float along the surface.

    ¡°The USMC has many resources at its disposal. It¡¯s not¡­ it¡¯s not unreasonable to trust that they know what they are doing,¡± he says, popping the cup in the microwave. It¡¯s a little unexpected.

    And so is this conversation. I have trouble formulating an answer under his expectant gaze.

    ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ I¡¯ll try to keep that in mind,¡± I settle on.

    He nods, and smiles as the microwave beeps. ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad I was able to help,¡± he says, retrieving his mug.

    I consider making myself a cup as well.

    ¡ª

    ¡°So, I heard you went off and did something stupid,¡± Cooper says idly. I lean over the back of the couch and watch him mess around in a video game.

    ¡°I thought it was pretty smart,¡± I comment.

    He shrugs. ¡°I guess it¡¯s a matter of perspective.¡±

    ¡°¡­And what¡¯s yours?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t really care,¡± he says, mashing X on the controller. ¡°USMC service is mandatory, obviously, and even if it wasn¡¯t¡­¡± He sighs. A game over screen flashes.

    ¡°I want to apply for a commercial license after I turn eighteen, actually.¡±

    ¡°You can do that?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, ¡®course. Some of them even have websites, y¡¯know?¡± Cooper clicks a few buttons on the controller to restart the level. ¡°People pay a lot for enhanced tech.¡±

    ¡°Not gonna stick with fighting the good fight, then,¡± I say dryly.

    ¡°No, I¡­¡± He pauses the game. ¡°I¡¯m not so sure this is the good fight.¡±

    I push myself back onto my feet. ¡°¡­Me neither.

    ¡ª

    ¡°They found him?¡± I ask, sitting up from the couch, and trying not to seem too eager.

    I don¡¯t think it works. ¡°They found where he¡¯s going to be. We think the higher-ups are going to have us coordinate an ambush, catch him off guard,¡± Eva says, giving me a look.

    ¡°Why? Can¡¯t they just send Rook to knock him out?¡±

    Eva shrugs. ¡°I guess they could. I can¡¯t imagine Rook losing. But they¡¯ve taken a pretty big PR hit recently, so I think they want a cleaner win. It¡¯d look bad if he had an aspect of his powers we didn¡¯t know about and took out a few buildings before he went down.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°He¡¯s going to hurt more people in the meantime.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but¡­ he¡¯d hurt more people without the USMC there to lock him up.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not what it¡¯s about,¡± I whine.

    ¡°You can¡¯t really hate the USMC; yes, hate, I know how you feel; when they¡¯re the only thing standing between the city and total destruction,¡± she points out.

    ¡°Yes I can, they¡¯re not mutually exclusive. And just because technically the city¡¯s not dead yet doesn¡¯t mean they couldn¡¯t be doing better. They should be doing better,¡± I growl.

    Eva scratches her neck and looks down.

    I try to break the awkward silence. ¡°I ¡ª sorry, I don¡¯t want to be a downer.¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°No, maybe¡­ maybe you¡¯re right. I just wanted to let you know, since Rook said you¡¯d probably be back on the team by then.¡±

    ¡°The t ¡ª the team, right. When is it happening?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll probably sortie the day before, so in a couple days. I¡¯ll, uh. See ya there?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Great,¡± she smiles. And then she leaves.

    I lay back down on the couch. The sun¡¯s setting, and a pit of dread buries itself into my gut.

    Somehow, this feels like the end of something.

    ¡ª

    Livvy stops me on my way down the elevator. Rook cleared me for duty yesterday, just in time to be put on the ambush team, and I got the pager notification about ten minutes ago. It¡¯s not actually an emergency, we have some time to mobilize and prepare, but I¡¯ve been squirming in my skin for the past week.

    So when she snags my arm as I stride out into the hallway, I immediately feel a sense of soft aggravation.

    ¡°Yes, Olivia?¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Fuck off.¡± She lets go of my arm and huffs.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna do something stupid, aren¡¯t you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been told I already have,¡± I point out.

    ¡°Fuck off, you know what I mean. You¡¯ve been doing that thing, where you ¡ª you brush everyone off while you work yourself up to¡­ whatever this¡¯s gonna be. And I know I shouldn¡¯t be askin¡¯ it¡¯s your choice or whatever¡­¡± She drags a hand down her face. ¡°I¡¯m not ¡ª I¡¯m not askin¡¯ you to spill your guts or anything, but¡­¡±

    Livvy crosses her arms and stares at the floor, squeezing her eyes shut. ¡°The last time this happened, we didn¡¯t talk for, like, years.¡±

    I stand there next to her, a little stunned.

    ¡°¡­I didn¡¯t really have anything like that in mind, actually,¡± I mutter.

 BREAK 2.A

    2.A

    Somewhere, in the world, there is a city. An enormous, sprawling thing, built of harsh blocks of concrete and steel, the only notable landmark being the black shining spire casting long shadows across the dense artificial jungle. The shadows stop just as they touch the ten-foot-thick blast walls surrounding the edge.

    Somewhere, in the city, is a neighborhood. Not a rich one, not comparatively, but not a poor one, either. Rows and rows of identical suburban houses trace the flattened landscape, twisting and turning into a maze of perfect lawns and white picket fences.

    Somewhere, in the neighborhood, is a house. It looks just the same as all the other houses, walls painted a stark white, with two small rocking chairs seated next to the front door.

    The door opens.

    ¡ª

    A child drifts. She wakes, up, goes to school, says all of the appropriate words, does all of the required tasks¡­ and then she goes to sleep. Then, the next day, she does it all again.

    There are small variations, of course. Sometimes one of the others will say something new, or unexpected, and the child will have to guess the appropriate response.

    She never has to guess twice.

    The child is good at this. The routine, the expectations, the days rolling by like a foggy morning that forgets to end.

    So good, in fact, that not one of the others has seen it. They only see what she wants them to see; a good, well-behaved young lad with a bright future ahead of him. Someone at the top of his class, with a stable relationship and his life in order.

    Somehow, they don¡¯t see the rot. The gnarled, twisting thing at the center of her heart, crawling its way through her veins, desperately scrabbling for a chance to break the surface of her skin.

    She won¡¯t let it.

    And so the days roll by.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Hey, babe, what¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°Hey, Jake! Y¡¯know, the usual. Penny was acting up again in History. Swear to god, I¡¯m gonna kill that bitch.¡±

    The child laughs. It¡¯s the correct response, here.

    ¡°How am I gonna kiss you if you¡¯re in jail?¡±

    ¡°Mhm. Speaking of which.¡±

    The child plays her part.

    ¡°¡­Oh, didja see the new kid?¡±

    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so ¡ª who is it?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a little fuckin¡¯ runt, y¡¯know? Got those silly glasses too ¡ª the circular ones. Kinda fun to mess with.¡±

    The child stifles her initial reaction. She¡¯s learned since the last time.

    ¡°I guess I¡¯ll have to meet her at some point. Is he from¡­?¡±

    ¡°No, no, not a foreigner. He¡¯s from the¡­ downtown area, apparently.¡±

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°Ah, I see.¡±

    ¡°Hafta¡¯ teach him the pecking order soon. Here ¡ª meet me outside, at lunch. Bet I can come up with something by then.¡±

    The child smiles. It¡¯s an effective one. She¡¯s had to work to perfect it.

    ¡°Sure, Livvy. Anything for you.¡±

    ¡ª

    That day, the child meets another. She is small, frail, and avoidant.

    She has that same spiral of rot twisting inside her. The others ¡ª they see that she is other, they understand the difference, but they do not see, not really. The decaying core of someone that was once human lies splayed out for them to poke and prod and break and still they see nothing.

    The child thinks she is not as good a liar as she thought.

    She affects an air of disdain.

    ¡°Think he¡¯s had enough?¡±

    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon, Jake, you barely started!¡±

    The child rolls her eyes. ¡°Nah, this is boring as hell. I¡¯m sure he gets it.¡±

    She leans forward. ¡°Right, little guy?¡±

    The other smiles, serene, if not a little smug. ¡°Something like that.¡±

    ¡°Jake. Kick his ass.¡±

    The child stares. The other stares back, shrugging almost nonchalantly.

    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think I will.¡±

    The child walks away.

    ¡ª

    The other is not¡­ rotting, like she should be. The child has been breaking script, and even if she knows it is wrong she cannot seem to help it. She can¡¯t bring herself to act out the daily show, to conform to her role anymore. She feels as though some crucial thing has been shattered, something changed irreparably.

    And the other will not rot.

    The child must know why.

    ¡°Hey, dipshit.¡±

    ¡°Hey yourself, blockhead.¡±

    Blockhead? The child hesitates, despite herself.

    Still. She makes herself sit down, next to the other in an empty area of the school¡¯s cafeteria.

    ¡°¡­How are you doing it?¡±

    ¡°Doing what?¡±

    ¡°They ¡ª we treat you like shit.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Uh.¡±

    The other takes a bite of her food.

    ¡°Well. My dad¡¯s usually pretty stressed out lately. I don¡¯t wanna make him worry more than he has to.¡±

    ¡°And anyway, I¡¯m kind of used to it by now.¡±

    The child ponders.

    ¡°You¡­ don¡¯t have to be. Right? You could just be normal.¡±

    The other shakes her head. ¡°No. It¡¯s either this, or¡­ nothing.¡±

    Nothing. The child thinks she knows what that¡¯s like.

    ¡°Well, hey. You can call me Sera, yeah? My pronouns are she/her. I like hibachi and reading trashy fanfics. How about you?¡±

    The child shrugs. ¡°You know my name.¡±

    The other stares.

    A sigh. ¡°¡­I like carpentry and keeping up with the Dolphins. Nice to meet you.¡±

    The other snorts. ¡°The football team? No the fuck you do not.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know. I could be a football fanatic.¡±

    ¡°I bet you don¡¯t even like carpentry either.¡±

    Against her will, a smile stretches across the child¡¯s face. All of a sudden, lying isn¡¯t so easy.

    ¡ª

    Slowly, the child changes. It isn¡¯t quick, or drastic, but it is¡­ something. One day, the child has a thought.

    She doesn¡¯t really like the Dolphins anyway.

    The posters on her walls all come down, scrawled over with permanent black and red sharpie. They end up stuffed into a box in the back of her closet.

    When her parents ask, she says she plans to replace them.

    Meanwhile, the other changes so quickly it makes the child¡¯s head spin. She changes outfits, interests, nail polish, all swapped out almost weekly. She seems to revel in the change, the simple act of trying something new.

    The child doesn¡¯t quite understand. The thought of exposing herself like that is completely foreign, terrifying in some fundamental way she can¡¯t explain. She knows the play, she¡¯s memorized her lines and she is good at lying. To do otherwise, is¡­

    One night, the other asks the child if she wants to paint her nails. She agrees.

    The child finds she doesn¡¯t really enjoy painting her nails.

    ¡°Well, ¡®least we found something you don¡¯t like, yeah? I think it¡¯s a start.¡±

    ¡ª

    The child distances herself. The people she would perform for no longer know her, and as a result, she no longer feels the need to keep them close. They keep speaking to her and expecting someone else.

    She has stopped humoring them. Her responses are short, curt, efficient. She knows the lines, but she will not say them.

    A small act of self-definition.

    The lights dim, the audience moans, and actors scramble for purchase.

    The play is falling apart.

    ¡ª

    On the last of those halcyon days, the child sleepily stumbles down the stairs, clicking on the TV while she prepares breakfast. It¡¯s a weekend, so thankfully she can take as long as she wants.

    The child is looking forward to a meet up with the other ¡ª with Sera. She¡¯s always so passionate, so full of life. So determined to do the right thing, always. The child hopes she can be even half of what Sera is.

    She idly glances at the TV while reaching for a dish.

    The child drops her bowl.

    It shatters.

    ¡ª

    There is only one rule in this city. One fundamental truth that stands in spite of divine constructions and impossible feats saturating every last backstreet corner.

    Nothing lasts.

    The child would do well to remember this.

 Chapter 2.18

    2.18

    Muscles are complicated. They¡¯re strong enough for most things, and generally pretty efficient, but like anything else, they have their limits. At some point, the kind of power I need to produce would require muscles too large to fit on my body.

    I need more available force, but I don¡¯t really want to sacrifice my agility for it. I¡¯ve been relying on my power to tell me what¡¯s viable in terms of increasing my muscle efficiency and power, but it never really gives me a clear picture of the optimal construction. It gives me a complete ledger of everything currently happening in my body, and then when I make a change, it tells me whether the change will ¡®work¡¯.

    If I want more power, I¡¯ll need to look elsewhere.

    Obviously, I can¡¯t develop a muscle blueprint from scratch, so my first thought was animals.

    The issue here, at least with mammals, is the same as in humans. Animals have a similar size restriction, and the majority of the time, their muscles are specialized towards their niche in the ecosystem. I can¡¯t afford to have a niche, not with the kind of stuff I somehow always end up doing.

    One exception, interestingly enough, is bugs. Spiders, specifically. They still have muscles, of course, but their legs are primarily controlled by a mini hydraulics system ¡ª the fluid is still pressurized by muscles connected to the inside of their exoskeleton, but the legs themselves are animated by fluid.

    Hydraulics¡­ are used by construction vehicles, right?

    I spend a night nose-deep in my notebook, in spite of my reservations about surveillance. I keep my notes simple and vague, just descriptive enough to remind me what I meant, but hopefully confusing enough to be dismissed at first glance. I also take the time to stock up on calorie bars, in preparation for the modifications. I plan to make them right before the ambush, so I¡¯ll need to burn extra to speed up the changes.

    I try to avoid the others. It¡¯s not hard. They¡¯re always on a mission, or training or whatever. The forced leave is a convenient excuse to be a shut-in.

    Livvy¡¯s words sink into the back of my mind. I¡¯m planning for something. I¡¯m just¡­ not sure what, yet.

    Durability is the easy part. Obviously size is still an issue, as well as material ¡ª I can¡¯t make anything out of a material that isn¡¯t already in my body.

    Also, again, my agility. Can¡¯t make anything to heavy, or too restricting.

    Still, I just need something that can prevent damage to my bones, at least initially. Bonus points if it¡¯s cheap calorie-wise to repair.

    I settle on a number of small scale lattices. They¡¯re effective, at least against slicing or piercing, and they should still help increase my general durability by adding a more solid structure to my body. Not as bone-breaking resistant as I¡¯d have liked, but they¡¯re usually made of keratin, which is cheap to produce, at least. They¡¯ll also allow me to keep my agility.

    Finally, I decide to add a blade. Something that extends from my left forearm, nestled in between bone and under skin until I need it. It¡¯ll be complex, and it¡¯s not like there¡¯s really anything I can copy from nature to make it work, but¡­

    Two days before Faust¡¯s scheduled meet, I wake up at the crack of dawn, throw on some baggy clothes, grab a couple calorie bars, and make my way down to the training rooms. I take my pager, just in case.

    I¡¯m let in without much fuss, passing by a janitor mopping the hallway and stepping quietly into a training room at the back of the floor.

    The dummies are stored, and a cart with an assortment of measuring equipment sits stashed in a corner. I make my way to the back wall and take a seat.

    I open my notebook.

    I start with the muscle changes. Looking into hydraulics, it seemed like their main use is in applying sustained force, like when lifting and moving heavy objects. They aren¡¯t usually as effective when producing instant force. So, if I used hydraulic muscles, I¡¯d get really good at lifting things, but less good at punching them.

    Not ideal. Plus, I don¡¯t exactly have a steady supply of industrial hydraulic fluid, so they wouldn¡¯t be as efficient as they¡¯re supposed to be.

    Instead, I¡¯ve planned out a ¡®pressure booster¡¯ system. Pressurized chambers of air stored in each of my limbs, feeding into piston-like organs attached next to my existing muscles. When I release the pressurized air, they¡¯ll expand the pistons rapidly, boosting the force of one movement from one limb each.

    In combat, I¡¯ll be able to release them when I know I¡¯ll have an opening, catching my opponent off guard with a strike strong enough to break concrete.

    Or at least, that¡¯s the idea. I won¡¯t be able to store enough air to produce force for more than about half a second, and the chambers will take about a day to refill through openings at the backs of my elbows, but assuming I can manage them effectively¡­

    This should help.

    My power slides over me as a slippery film of red, clouding my vision and feeding me a stream of information that filters through my consciousness like fine sand.

    There are a few issues with the placement of the piston organs, and initially I have trouble making sure the pressure chambers will hold up to the force they need to withstand, but any catastrophic errors are corrected by my power, and I¡¯ll take the time to test them before any serious combat.

    The pressure booster installation goes well. I take the time to resurface from using my power and tentatively move my arms.

    It¡¯s weird. The easiest way to describe it is, it¡¯s like there¡¯s something inside my arms and legs. Which, obviously, but¡­

    Next up is the scales. At some point I¡¯d like them to grow naturally, but for now, I¡¯ll just create them manually. As such, it¡¯s not really necessary for me to implement any of the adjacent functions reptiles usually have regarding their scales.

    It doesn¡¯t take very long for me to cover every larger surface of my skin with thick, off-white scales. My shoulders, my outer arms, forearms, my shins. My neck, and a large part of my chest, all of it gets a fairly thick layer of frosted-glass plates, a little larger than you would normally see on a lizard of ¡ª well, my size.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    They¡¯re crude, but they¡¯ll do for now.

    Lastly, the blade.

    The plans for this one aren¡¯t¡­ totally finished. I have an idea of how I¡¯ll design the extension system, pretty simple musculature with a locking system made from dense bone struts, but I¡¯m a little stumped on how I¡¯m going to expand the thing.

    I wanted to plan it out more, maybe make a couple prototypes, but the date¡¯s getting closer, and the next operation could be announced any day now.

    I leave the blade half-finished. Maybe I can work on it some more after I test the pressure boosters.

    I let my power drop and immediately startle. My pager vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and it almost jumps out of my hands as I fumble for the button.

    The screen lights up. Rook wants me in the briefing room on one of the lower floors, suited up as soon as possible.

    Well. Guess I¡¯ll have to skip the testing bit.

    ¡ª

    I stand in the center of my room, the place I¡¯ve been living for the past couple months, stashed away in the tallest building in Westpoint. I hold in my hands my old, cracked hockey mask. Looking back, I never really got that much use out of it.

    I slip it into my bag, along with my personal notebook, and Faust¡¯s smaller ciphered one.

    Time to face the music.

    ¡ª

    The meeting room is a large one near the bottom of the tower, and not one I¡¯ve actually been to before. Usually deployment is standard procedure, so planning out the encounter is always secondary to arriving on time.

    This time, though, we have the advantage. If Faust hasn¡¯t realized his stuff¡¯s been tampered with, he¡¯ll arrive to his appointment on the specified day, meaning we can take the time to develop an effective strategy.

    And, it seems, gather reinforcements. Stepping into the meeting room with the other members of the Junior Division, I¡¯m met with the gazes of a couple other people sat around the meeting table aside from Rook.

    The first wears a practical combat uniform labeled ¡®USMW¡¯. His graying hair is cropped close, and only stubble dots his face. I assume he¡¯s the USMW¡¯s coordinator.

    Next to him sits a younger man, with a mane of thick brown hair, the top part tied at the back of his head in a haphazard bun. He wears weirdly-shaped sunglasses, ten-sided glass panes with a slight yellow tint to them, and his stubble grows in a scruffier manner than the coordinator¡¯s.

    He¡¯s also wearing a tank-top, shorts, and looking extremely unimpressed.

    Across from him sits a greasy man in a suit, seeming fairly unremarkable. I can¡¯t tell his affiliation, he¡¯s not wearing any identifiers. Maybe he¡¯s with the police?

    We filter in and take our seats.

    ¡°Juniors, welcome. If that¡¯s everyone, we¡¯ll begin the briefing,¡± Rook begins, standing from her chair at the head of the table and clicking a small remote. Behind her, a screen lights up.

    ¡°As you all know, the USMW has been monitoring the situation in Westpoint involving multiple sightings of unregistered supers. Normally, this would be rare, but not abnormal. However,¡± Rook says, clicking the remote. The screen flickers, displaying a formatted list of some of the monster sightings, including that first one with the big muscle guy.

    ¡°The frequency and variance of these events is what caught our attention. As you can see, the first encounter was generally standard, and we expected to locate the rogue super soon after the encounter ended. This did not happen.¡±

    ¡°Instead, the super somehow slipped our surveillance. Then, less than a month later, a similar incident.¡± Rook points to the encounter with the giant eel, listed under the first one. She sounds genuinely annoyed.

    ¡°From this point, we¡¯ve managed to connect the emergence of these unidentified creatures with a spike in gang activity downtown, with close to forty suspected members going missing in recent months, as well as a string of obscure robberies and public disturbances.¡±

    ¡°The pattern continues, and with definitive evidence from an anonymous party,¡± I try not to look around nervously, ¡°we¡¯ve managed to establish grounds for an ambush.¡± Rook pushes up her glasses.

    ¡°Commander, if you¡¯d like to take it from here?¡±

    The older man in combat gear nods, and leans forward. ¡°Commander Burke, pleasure,¡± he grunts, eyes sliding over everyone at the table. ¡°We¡¯ll be setting up a stake-out. The place is an old motel downtown, slated for demolition, but y¡¯know nothing gets done over there.¡±

    Burke swipes a thumb across his nose. ¡°We expect to see the target, as well as some of Panda¡¯s goons, an¡¯ at least one of their supers. Obviously, this estimate¡¯s gonna be wrong. We¡¯ve prepared within acceptable margins,¡± he says, nodding at the other two men at the table.

    The man in the suit folds his hands over the table. Sunglasses guy rolls his eyes.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± he mutters.

    ¡°The real issue is the target. We have data on the constructs he¡¯s made so far, but we¡¯ve got no idea when or how he can make them, or if he can make more ¡ª the best strategy here, is to catch ¡®im off guard.¡± Burke vaguely waves a hand at the screen. Rook takes the hint, and clicks the remote a couple times.

    ¡°We¡¯ll establish a large-scale discrete quarantine around the building,¡± Burke starts, pointing at the screen. It displays a wire-frame layout of the apparent location, as well as small markers dotted around it.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be split into strike squads, an¡¯ positioned at different entrances. At least one team will be able to get to the target, and dispatch him quickly.¡±

    Burke sighs. ¡°As such, you¡¯ll all be working with at least one heavy hitter.¡± He waves his hand again, and Rook switches the slide.

    ¡°Here are the teams. The Brightheart Association¡¯s requested to work as a contained unit, and I¡¯ll oblige,¡± he comments, haphazardly waving at the suit guy.

    Suit guy nods back. Guess he¡¯s corporate, not police.

    The rest of the teams are listed on the screen. I scan the list, searching for my name.

    Team One lists Rook. Just Rook. Makes sense.

    Team Two lists Shield Warrior, Rebound, and Boy Gadget. Who¡¯s the heavy hitter on that team?

    Team Three lists Lancer and Beeline. Brightheart Association heroes.

    Team Four lists Decagon, Jackie Jet, and ¡ª Redline. Me.

    Decagon¡­ I think he¡¯s a USMC hero, but he¡¯s not usually on the news. Is he¡­?

    I glance at sunglasses guy, who¡¯s scowling.

    ¡°Dude. Are you serious? I can¡¯t be stuck babysitting,¡± he whines.

    Burke¡¯s expression hardens. ¡°If you can¡¯t handle it, I¡¯ll mark you an infraction and remove you from the operation.¡±

    ¡°Ugh. Fine. You¡¯re the boss.¡± Decagon, apparently, pushes away from the table and starts spinning around in his chair like a toddler.

    Burke scowls.

    ¡°You¡¯ll all be sent a digital copy of this briefing and its specifics. Memorize them.¡± Burke lets out a huff and leans back in his chair. ¡°Any questions?¡±

    ¡°How viable is a film team during this operation?¡± The suit guy ¡ª Brightheart liaison, I guess ¡ª asks.

    I catch Burke¡¯s eye twitching. ¡°Not very. If the association insists, I¡¯d authorize use of the USMW¡¯s on-duty recording equipment ¡ª¡°

    The liaison smiles, and holds up a hand. ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary, I¡¯m sure we can come up with something on our own.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Burke grunts. ¡°Anything else?¡±

    Decagon cuts in. ¡°Yeah, uh, how long d¡¯you think this whole thing is gonna take? ¡®Cuz I got a date at like, seven-thirty¡­¡±

    I watch with a sort of sick fascination as Burke ages another fifty years in real time.

    ¡ª

    I spend the night looking over the information I¡¯m sent on my pager, which is admittedly not much, before I send myself to bed. It¡¯s difficult.

    It¡¯s not the anxiety, I don¡¯t think, but I end up laying wide awake in bed for most of the night.

    The next morning, the piercing alarm of my pager startles me awake at a ridiculous hour.

    ¡°Ugh.¡± This is gonna suck.

 Chapter 2.19

    2.19

    ¡°Let¡¯s go, let¡¯s go, move out, people! We¡¯re supposed to be arriving in about ten minutes, so get moving!¡±

    The thunk of heavy footstep and rustling of machinery fills the garage as USMW infantry files into their respective vehicles. Engines spark and roar in unison, filling the space with a sort of frantic cacophony.

    My own boots join the ruckus as I walk out onto the thick concrete floor and towards an open vehicle occupied by my team.

    That¡¯s Jet, and Decagon. Someone must¡¯ve told him we¡¯ll be out all day, because he looks pissed. He¡¯s also wearing the exact same outfit he wore to the meeting, plus a pair of sandals.

    Nearby, Commander Burke cuffs some younger guy over the head. ¡°Stop whinin¡¯ an¡¯ get in the fuckin¡¯ truck.¡±

    He sighs. ¡°Your vehicle¡¯s over there, missy,¡± he says to me.

    ¡°Uh huh.¡± He follows along, barking at the squads loading up around us as I head towards my van. ¡°So, are you gonna be joining us?¡± I ask.

    He snorts. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m plannin¡¯ to live long enough to collect my pension. Git.¡±

    I step up and into the van, and he slams the door behind me.

    The engine starts, and the machine rumbles.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Still nothin¡¯. Stand by,¡± Burke¡¯s voice crackles over the radio. My team, Team Four, sits in the back of our vehicle, trying to pay attention to our comms without falling asleep.

    We arrived at the location, or rather a little ways away from it, at around seven-thirty this morning. We¡¯ve been sitting around waiting for about three hours.

    ¡°This is boring as fuck. Why didn¡¯t they ask Tony t¡¯ do this? I swear to god that guy could sit stone faced for hours,¡± Decagon complains.

    He¡¯s been complaining the entire time. Initially, I¡¯d wanted to maintain an air of professionalism in front of the USMW officers.

    ¡°Who the fuck is Tony, dipshit?¡±

    Obviously, this is not viable. Jet whacks the older man on the shoulder to emphasize her question.

    ¡°Hey ¡ª can you stop hitting me?! Tony¡¯s ¡ª Megalith! You know Megalith, right?¡±

    I do know Megalith. The third and final super in the USMC¡¯s arsenal, at least here in Westpoint. He can control rocks. Big rocks.

    ¡°Hah? I don¡¯t watch the news, stupid,¡± Jet fires back, whacking him again. At this point I think she¡¯s doing it to fuck with him.

    ¡°Why not ¡ª¡°

    The radio crackles. ¡°We¡¯ve got contact. All units, mobilize.¡±

    One of the USMW officers chuckles. ¡°Ready to beat some bandits?¡±

    Decagon squints. ¡°You¡¯re a ghoul, y¡¯know that?¡±

    ¡°We have visual via Rook¡¯s intel. Looks like¡­¡± There¡¯s a crackling. ¡°The target is identified, tall latin-american male with graying hair and a trench coat. Accompanied by one of the constructs on file¡­¡±

    Burke¡¯s voice trails off for a second. ¡°Construct One identified. Second construct unregistered. Additional surveillance via Rook has also detected seismic activity consistent with Construct Two¡¯s behavior. Team Two, caution is advised.¡±

    He clears his throat. ¡°Panda members registered as Highlander and Runick identified. They are secondary. Stick to the objective.¡±

    ¡°Team One, deploy,¡± Burke starts.

    ¡°Team One, deploying,¡± I hear Rook reply.

    ¡°Roger. Team Two, deploy.¡±

    ¡°Team Two, deploying,¡± I hear Shield Warrior bark.

    ¡°Roger. Team Three, deploy.¡±

    I hear a voice I don¡¯t recognize filter over the comms. ¡°Deploying.¡±

    ¡°¡­Roger. Team Four deploy.¡±

    That¡¯s us. I wait for Decagon to respond.

    He blinks, slowly.

    ¡°¡­Team Four. Deploy.¡± Burke sounds annoyed.

    Decagon lolls his head back. ¡°Ugh! Fine!¡±

    ¡°Deploying, deploying! Whatever,¡± he mutters into his earpiece. Decagon hauls himself from his seat in the vehicle, stretching his back while Jet and I step forward and push open the doors.

    We hop off the edge of the van, onto the hard concrete of a parking lot. ¡°Roger. All teams, assume breaching positions,¡± Burke orders.

    ¡°God, he¡¯s such a hardass.¡±

    Jet and I both break into a sprint as soon as we hit the tarmac. I¡¯ve studied the layout Burke sent us fairly extensively, and our assigned entry point is a back entrance straight ahead. Jet follows my lead.

    I take note of the USMW vehicles dotted discretely around the building, and the stream of drones floating into position above them. Team Two¡¯s meant to be covering the exits, Team Three will breach from an entrance on the other side of the building, and Rook will break in through the roof. Of course.

    ¡°Red ¡ª Red, I was thinking, and ¡ª¡° Jet interrupts herself in order to propel herself forward with a burst of flame. ¡°We really need to ditch that guy.¡±

    ¡°Which guy,¡± I ask pointlessly as we reach the entry point and crouch next to the doorway.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°You know which guy! I mean, really, look at him!¡±

    We both turn to watch Decagon struggle to run in sandals.

    I sigh. I hadn¡¯t really wanted another infraction so soon¡­

    ¡°Fine. First chance we get.¡±

    She grins. ¡°Yes!¡±

    Decagon reaches the entry point, huffing. ¡°You girls¡­ are really¡­ killing me here,¡± he chokes out. ¡°Cut a guy some slack, yeah?¡±

    Our radio crackles. ¡°All teams, prepare for breach!¡± I stand up and grip the door handle.

    ¡°Three!¡±

    ¡°Two!¡±

    ¡°One!¡±

    Decagon pushes up his glasses with the heel of his hand. ¡°Welp. Showtime.¡±

    ¡°Breach!¡±

    I wrench the door open.

    Standing in the motel hallway are five tall men wearing black combat uniforms accented in a deep red and trimmed in a slick gold. They all wear full-face helmets and carry assault rifles that look straight out of a hard sci-fi book.

    Decagon¡¯s glasses slide off his nose a little as soon as he removes his hand.

    ¡°Shit.¡±

    All three of us frantically dive out of the way as the crack of gunfire and the sharp sound of bullets whizzing past erupts from the doorway.

    I hear shouting over the radio. ¡°Team Three reporting! We¡¯ve encountered a squad of heavily armed mercenaries ¡ª breach delayed!¡±

    ¡°Guess we¡¯re not the only lucky ones!¡± Decagon shouts, grinning. ¡°Looks like 12th Hour Dogs. Almost had me there!¡±

    Then, he starts to glow.

    Just slightly, a thin shimmering veil of gold emits off of him, moving in shifting streams of small gossamer light. As the gunfire drops off, he peeks his head around the door frame, ducking under another stray gunshot.

    ¡°Peekaboo!¡±

    The shimmering veil around him sharpens into a thick ring of golden light, spewing waves of heat and distorting the air around it. A number of superheated rays of light pierce through the doorway, turning at unnaturally sharp angles and slicing straight through the mercenaries¡¯ weapons.

    ¡°Much better. Now, uh, just sit tight for a bit, alright?¡±

    The beams thin, losing some of their intensity and curling in on themselves in jagged spirals wide enough to cage all five of the mercs together.

    The heat wafting off of the beams is stifling, not to mention the thick half-ring shimmering around him.

    I try to keep my silence, but I find my will quickly degrading. ¡°How ¡ª what the fuck does that have to do with a ten-sided shape?!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I told my PR team!¡± He shouts, strolling in through the doorway, and shifting his lasers to force the mercs out of the way. ¡°Now come on, we might still finish before seven-thirty.¡±

    ¡ª

    We advance through the run-down motel, eyes darting over the crusty lining and peeling wallpaper, tensing at every flickering light and creaking floorboard.

    Or, at least, Jet and I do. Decagon seems content to stroll through the motel like nothing¡¯s wrong, hands in his pockets, shimmering with bending streams of golden light.

    It¡¯s annoying. I share a commiserating look with Jet.

    ¡°Mercs in the next room,¡± He mentions idly.

    I stare at him. ¡°How do you know.¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°You don¡¯t hafta¡¯ believe me.¡±

    Jet ducks back behind him and tries to get my attention with a jerk of her chin. I nod towards the door supposedly leading to a room of mercenaries. She shoots me a thumbs up.

    I roll my eyes.

    Decagon walks up to the door and casually swings it open.

    Another five mercenaries stand with their backs to us, seeming as if they were in the middle of a conversation. As soon as they see us, they twirl around, raising their weapons.

    ¡°Hey, fellas ¡ª woah!¡±

    Jet swings her arms back and puts her flames on full blast, rocketing past the group of mercs, tackling one as she flies by, skidding to a landing on the rugged carpet and breaking in to a run.

    Using her stunt as a distraction, I drop into a crouch, favoring my right leg.

    I instinctively grit my teeth. Hope this works.

    Flexing a muscle I hadn¡¯t had before today, I launch myself past the mercenary group.

    Something in my leg stretches, snaps into place with a sharp crack, and suddenly the limb¡¯s extended. Wind rushes past my face and steam spirals around me as I put on a short burst of speed, only barely catching myself against the moldy floorboards some distance away.

    Somehow, I manage to remember to reorient myself and start running.

    ¡°Ugh, seriously?! You guys¡­!¡± I glance behind me just in time to watch Decagon almost effortlessly duck and weave between bullets and frenzied attacks. Golden beams occasionally dart out and slice through weapons, or to limit movements, emitting a low drone.

    We round the corner into another hallway before he has a chance to recover. Keeping up our current speed, I tap into the radio. I¡¯m pretty sure we¡¯re supposed to be going up.

    ¡°¡­encountered by friendly suppression drones, top floor third hall¡­¡±

    Good enough for me.

    Another few corners and we run into ¡ª and past ¡ª one of Rook¡¯s drones, a new model with a large lens attached to the front.

    I hear Rook¡¯s robotic voice filter through my earpiece. ¡°I¡¯d hoped you would retain something from our earlier conversation.¡±

    ¡°I did!¡± I fire back. ¡°This time I¡¯ve got the chairman¡¯s kid with me!¡±

    Jet flips me off.

    ¡°Got any tips for us,¡± I continue. ¡°Where are we headed?¡±

    Rook sighs over the radio. ¡°Head straight here,¡± she starts, and I direct Jet with my other hand while she speaks. ¡°Then take a right at the end of the hall. There should be a stairwell to your left. Take that to the top floor. Team Two is holding off the larger construct in the alleyway outside, and I¡¯m taking care of the two Panda operatives, but there¡¯s a possibility of a separate combatant participating elsewhere in the building.¡±

    ¡°¡­Got it.¡±

    ¡°Please try not to be a problem.¡±

    ¡°Too late.¡± I switch off my radio.

    We sprint straight down the hallway, following Rook¡¯s instructions as fast as possible until we reach the turn.

    Rounding the corner, we come face-to-face with another group of five mercenaries.

    And, inexplicably, just as we run straight into this heavily-armed group, another small-time villain skids into the hallway at the exact same time.

    Clockwerk.

    Their attention seems split. I try to get over my shock and make eye contact with the shorter girl. It¡¯s hard, what with the helmet, but I see her eyes sharpen and hope we¡¯ve come to the same decision.

    Jet leaps, fire leaving a burning streak behind her, and barrels boot-first into the nearest merc¡¯s skull with a crack, sending him flying.

    Clockwerk crouches, pulling something from her pocket and aiming it towards another two mercs. I hear a small click as her hand moves, and the contraption blasts open, wrapping her targets in a weighted net. They drop their weapons, stumbling to the floor and struggling to move.

    I take the chance to step towards one of the last mercs, batting away his weapon and deflecting his responding attack. I can tell he¡¯s well-trained, but thankfully not superhuman. I push past his defense with brute force and punch him in the throat.

    While he goes down wheezing, the last mercenary aims her assault rifle and fires a couple precise shots, piercing my chest twice and just barely grazing my skull.

    I twitch and activate my power, trying to stabilize, as Jet launches herself into a flaming roundhouse kick, knocking out the last mercenary immediately.

    ¡°Red!¡±

    ¡°Oh wow ¡ª is she gonna be okay?¡±

    I have extra calorie bars in my pockets, so I can afford a little more stability in my repairs. I burn extra fat and muscle near the injured sites, enough to completely repair the fundamental structure, even if it leaves a nasty scar.

    I leave the head wound alone. It¡¯s not serious.

    Dropping my power, I straighten my posture and reach for a calorie bar.

    ¡°Woah. Creepy,¡± Clockwerk comments. I ignore her.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I grunt, pushing past Jet and stepping over the felled mercenaries towards the door. I lift my helmet a little to take a bite. ¡°No time to hang around, y¡¯know. Let¡¯s keep moving.¡±

    Jet looks hesitant, but she follows me as I yank open the door and start sprinting up the stairwell.

 Chapter 2.20

    2.20

    ¡°Highlander and Runick have been identified attempting to flee, dispatching Team One to intercept. Primary target is still engaging with preliminary forces on the top floor.¡±

    Burke¡¯s voice crackles over the radio as three sets of footsteps climb the decaying staircase, heading for the top floor.

    ¡°Why, exactly, are you here?¡± I ask Clockwerk in an attempt to distract myself from the twinge of my fading injuries.

    ¡°Maybe I needed a room!¡± She fires back.

    ¡°Bullshit.¡±

    ¡°What can I say, it¡¯s rough out there!¡±

    We reach the final floor, and Jet lets out a burst of flame from her boot, splintering the door and flinging it open. On the other side is an identical moldy hallway.

    Clockwerk darts out and immediately starts sprinting to the left.

    ¡°Hey ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Sorry! Got places to be, y¡¯know?!¡±

    Jet tenses like she¡¯s about to chase before I stretch out my arm. ¡°No time. Burke, what room¡¯s the target in?¡±

    The radio crackles. ¡°Redline. He¡¯s in the dining hall, a few doors down,¡± he states.

    I watch a little longer as Clockwerk flees down the hall and around a corner. Technically, we could go after her.

    I turn towards the dining hall.

    Jet follows as we sprint across ragged carpets and rotting floorboards.

    We hit the end of the hall and turn to see another group of mercenaries fighting off a larger group of Rook¡¯s drones. The drones dodge and weave in erratic, but calculated patterns, deftly wielding tasers on extended limbs to aim for spots in their enemies¡¯ armor.

    Seeing them for the third time now, I notice a couple things about their attire. Decagon called them the 12th Hour Dogs, right?

    Their outfits are high-tech, practical, but with a certain flair to them. Their padding¡¯s a deep, but rich, crimson, trimmed with gold outline all the way up to the standing collar around their necks, as if they¡¯re wearing suits under all that armor.

    The full-face masks I¡¯d noticed earlier cover their faces, but not the top or back of their heads, allowing more range of motion than a full helmet would, with the slightly strange addition of two triangular spikes sticking up from where their ears would be if they weren¡¯t covered.

    Each of them has a badge on their breastplate, adorned with a logo. A full circle with ticks around the inside, centered by a snarling wolf¡¯s head.

    Distinct. And, obviously, dangerous. I glance at Jet.

    She grins.

    Jet bursts forward in a spiral of flames from all limbs, forcing the mercenaries to duck out of the way as I sprint through behind her. They stumble, disoriented, but as they try to recover and counterattack, the drones position themselves deftly in between us and them.

    ¡°Close one, Redline,¡± I hear Rook comment over the radio.

    I ignore her jab. ¡°How far are we?¡±

    ¡°Next right.¡±

    We reach the end of the hall, tearing up carpet, and make our way towards the flimsy set of double doors.

    The floorboards bend and creak with every step, the yellowed lights flickering and gathering moths, the sounds of unnatural violence wafting out from beyond the boundary.

    Jet pulls back a fist and emits a burst of flame from the back of her hand, blasting the doors wide open.

    Inside is a large dining hall, moldy carpets ripped and torn to shreds, ancient wooden tables splintered and cast aside, electric bulbs casting a weak yellow glow over the decaying room.

    The back wall is covered in a row of large windows, drapes rotting and falling off their rods, blocking the light attempting to shine through and turning it a mottled green against the broken floorboards.

    A number of Rook¡¯s drones flit around the room, blinking a harsh electric blue in contrast to the grimy tone of the building. They swarm like flies around a crimson, hulking creature, a large crown of twisted horns and bulging muscle adorning its skull. The thing rages silently, swinging its fists and occasionally pulverizing a drone in its flailing.

    Towards the back of the room, in front of the draped windows, there stands a man, back facing us. He wears a black trench coat, gray slacks and dark hiking boots. His hair looks like it was originally a stark black, but now it¡¯s tarnished with streaks of gray.

    In his left hand, he holds a small, black notebook, the bookmark ribbon hanging off the bottom end as he splays open the pages with his deft fingers. In his other, he flips a small coin, the room¡¯s meager ambient light reflecting gold off its surface as it spins.

    Something twisted an inhuman hangs off of his leg, a bony shriveled wretch with ashen skin and thinning hair, lines of shining gold tracing like cracked porcelain over its skin, eyes and teeth glinting like rare metals.

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    Faust snaps the notebook closed, sliding it into his pocket. He flips the coin one last time, and the wretch leaps desperately, snatching it out of the air with its teeth.

    ¡°Mammon. We have visitors.¡±

    As the man finally turns to face us, I feel my stomach drop.

    The room tilts, and warps, I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I can¡¯t help but let a name slip past my lips.

    ¡°¡­Vincent?¡±

    Jet shoots me a look. I ignore her.

    Faust¡¯s expression is lined with something profound. A thick layer of stubble climbs along his jaw.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ children.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well ¡ª¡° Jet retorts. ¡°We¡¯re still gonna kick your ass!¡±

    He hesitates. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a chance to retreat.¡±

    ¡°Fuck off!¡± Jet fires bursts of flames from her hands and takes a step.

    Faust¡¯s expression deepens. ¡°Unfortunate. I¡¯m¡­ sorry.¡±

    ¡°Satanas. Incapacitate.¡±

    The hulking creature ¡ª Satanas ¡ª clears another batch of Rook¡¯s drones with a sweep of its bulging arms and locks its gaze onto us. The remaining drones try to slow it down, but ¡ª

    Nothing seems to budge it.

    The thing lowers its stance and starts to charge, all nine feet of inhuman muscle shaking the ground with every step. It charges closer, barreling towards us at unnatural speeds and pulling back its enormous fist.

    I can¡¯t bring myself to move.

    Jet leaps out in front, catching the fist and cranking her flames up to full blast. Streams of fire burst from the backs of her hands, kicking up dust and heating the air around us. The flow of whipping wind makes a sound not unlike a jet engine.

    Just barely, she holds back the creature¡¯s bulk.

    ¡°Red! Get your head in the game!¡± She grunts.

    I can¡¯t ¡ª I can¡¯t¡­!

    Jet skids further back along the padded floor as Satanas heaves, smoke and flame streaming out in plumes as she tries to regain her footing.

    I can¡¯t leave her.

    Dropping into a crouch, I duck under her arm and streaks of red-hot fire, diving forward and leaping up to grab hold of Satanas¡¯s outstretched arm.

    Without having to worry about burning me with her flames, Jet redoubles her output, sharp cones of fire flaring outwards and starting to push Satanas back.

    I push off the ground, swinging myself up to wrap around the thing¡¯s arm, pulling back my leg and using my leverage to snap a kick at its face.

    It doesn¡¯t react. I curse internally.

    Pulling back again, I remember the feeling of flexing a new muscle.

    I spend another pressure booster.

    My leg snaps out so fast I can¡¯t track the movement, spitting out a burst of steam with a sharp hiss.

    I hear a loud crack, and feel a stabbing pain as Satanas¡¯s head snaps back, reeling. I let myself slide off the monster¡¯s arm and roll away, and I watch as Jet turns her thrusters forwards to gain distance as well.

    Both legs are out. I can only do that two more times. I assess the situation.

    Satanas itself is going to be enough trouble to deal with once it recovers, not to mention the unknown. Mammon, I think he called it?

    Jet¡¯s likely still fatigued, and I¡¯m down two pressure boosters. What about Rook¡¯s drones¡­?

    Glancing around the room, all I see are piles of scrap metal dotting the floor. When did that happen?

    Faust spares us one last look before he turns and begins to leave.

    ¡°Stop him!¡± I shout reflexively.

    Jet fires up her thrusters, speeding towards Faust in a flying tackle.

    Faust stops walking.

    ¡°Mammon.¡±

    The creature that was just moments before pathetically clinging to his pant leg vanishes in a blur of motion. Floorboards splinter, plaster erupts, small craters appear on every surface in succession on a collision course with Jet.

    Her thrusters swivel and emit a sharp burst of fire as she halts midair, narrowly avoiding the shriveled blur.

    ¡°Jet¡­!¡± I start, too late to do anything.

    Mammon slams into the ceiling and snags chunks of splintered wood in its hands, bending its neck to stare at Jet.

    It leaps, and Jet releases an explosion of force, dodging against the burst of air it leaves behind

    The thing plows into the floorboards, tearing up an enormous divot as it skids to a stop. Jet fires off two more bursts of fire, reorienting and launching herself at its back.

    I watch Mammon¡¯s eyes widen, sparkling overgrown crystals tearing through stretched eyelids as it bends itself around.

    And then, a heavy boom. Mammon tackles Jet out of the air, ignoring her attempts to produce a counter-thrust and cratering through the drywall on the other side of the room. Both of them disappear into a plume of dusted plaster.

    Faust¡¯s voice sounds louder in the relative silence. ¡°Satanas.¡±

    I tense. It recovered?!

    I whip my head around in time to see Satanas prepare a heavy downwards slam.

    The blow whips past my face as I drop into a backwards roll, ignoring the sting of wooden shrapnel from the impact.

    Satanas hefts its bulk and leans into another charge, pulling its shoulder forwards into a ramming position.

    Faust is still standing near the room¡¯s exit, seemingly content to observe. Why isn¡¯t he running?

    Is he nervous about continuing without a bodyguard?

    I can¡¯t wait for him to change his mind. Satanas charges, and I step to the side and position myself in front of its head. As it approaches, I take a small leap upwards, grab hold of its crown of horns and heave myself over its head, landing cleanly on its broad, muscular back as it tries to slow down.

    I step off, transitioning into a sprint as I hit the ruined floor.

    There¡¯s a thud from behind me, and a thick red bar of solid muscle fills the right side of my vision.

    An impact, the world around me spins and blurs before coming to an abrupt stop as I slam back into the ground. Pain lights up my entire torso, halting my movements and constricting my breathing.

    I activate my power immediately, realigning bones and applying temporary sutures, sealing any major tears using surrounding fats, trying to preserve as much muscle as possible. I resurface just in time to twist out of the way as Satanas plants a foot where my head would be.

    I stagger to my feet, eyes locked on Satanas and its body movements. Its body twists, and the muscles in its arm bulge, and in response I scramble into a sloppy duck as it whips out a swipe fast enough to disturb the air around us.

    I drop into another roll, shoving off my helmet in the same motion and sliding out a calorie bar from my pocket.

    It¡¯s gone in two bites, and I take a second to redistribute the calories it provides and rebuild some of the structure I¡¯d lost from the earlier attack.

    Faust still stands in the corner of the open room, eyes locked on his notebook.

    Ugh.

    Satanas lets out an animalistic huff. I can¡¯t take another hit like that, and it¡¯s too good at restricting my movements. I need to stun it again, preferably long enough to get to Faust before it recovers.

    I detach my tonfas and prepare a combat stance.

 Chapter 2.21

    2.21

    The motel really is dying. The yellowing lights flicker, the rotting floorboards bend underfoot, and every crevice is littered in creeping mold and decay.

    My shoulders heave, and my breath comes out in bursts. I try to focus.

    Satanas tenses, its muscles bulging as it hauls its hulking body into motion, the horns covering its body shifting as its skin is stretched with the movement.

    Its musculature is only vaguely similar to a human¡¯s so it¡¯s difficult to predict the creature¡¯s exact movements.

    Thankfully, it really likes to telegraph its attacks.

    Satanas lunges, lashing out with a wild punch aimed straight at my head. I jump to the side, dodging the blow and trying to remain in close quarters even as its momentum carries it farther forward.

    It stops earlier than I expect, slamming a heavy foot into the ground to halt its momentum, and swinging the other fist at me in a wide sweep.

    I duck, and feel the wind whip against my hair as a veritable wall of muscle passes above my head.

    I need an opening ¡ª

    Satanas preserves its momentum further, carrying its arms around and up into a downwards slam, shattering floorboards and forcing me into a sloppy roll, struggling to regain my footing. I barely manage it in time to look up and see Satanas dragging both fists against the ground in a two-handed sweep, tearing the floor up around it.

    No time to dodge. I solidify my stance, still kneeling, and hold up my tonfas.

    The impact rocks my body, sending sparks of pain shooting up my arms and sending me skidding across the room, guard broken and bones shaking.

    ¡°You should give up,¡± I hear from behind me. ¡°You¡¯re only hurting yourself by continuing. I¡¯d agree to a temporary ceasefire.¡±

    Satanas advances, heavy footsteps shaking the ground.

    I grit my teeth and use my power to quickly repair the lacerations I sustained from the attack.

    Faust sighs. ¡°¡­I don¡¯t want to do this.¡±

    Satanas pulls back a fist, face screwing into an empty expression of contempt.

    I stand up.

    ¡°Just ¡ª don¡¯t kill her.¡±

    The fist descends.

    There. Finally.

    I drop the tonfa in my right hand, shifting into an offensive stance and pulling my arm back, level with my waist. Satanas¡¯ arm closes in, and when it reaches within a couple feet of my body, I lash out, spending my third pressure booster.

    A jet of steam bursts out, quickly blown away by the impact of our hands colliding, sending out a shockwave strong enough to shatter the bones in my right hand and send lacerations spiraling up my limbs. The pain of blocking Satanas¡¯ earlier attack feels like nothing compared to the white-hot terror coursing through my entire arm.

    Satanas itself isn¡¯t doing much better. Spurts of black liquid appear in small lines along its arm, and its constant expression shatters slightly as its arm starts to go limp. Its mouth hangs open, and it moves to cradle the ruined arm.

    I ignore it, making an about face and immediately breaking into a sprint towards Faust.

    No time to make repairs. I ignore the shooting pains as my limp arm is jostled with every step.

    Faust¡¯s eyes widen, and he takes an instinctive step back.

    He puts away that damn notebook, and pulls out a small box. From this distance, I can¡¯t quite tell what it¡¯s made of ¡ª but it looks ornate, a glossy black lined with polished gold. He flips it open and pulls something out.

    A small, plastic keychain, dotted with spots of glitter and shiny plastic beads.

    It¡¯s Sera¡¯s.

    What ¡ª what is he doing?

    Faust slips the box back into his coat pocket and closes his hand around the keychain.

    His hand bursts into infernal flames, glimmering an unnatural ruby red and immediately flooding the room with the scent of sulfur and thick smoke. He crouches down, lightly touching the floor with the tips of his other hand, and a small sigil springs to life, burning with hellish fire around him.

    ¡°Come, Belphegor!¡±

    A tiny, bulbous thing no larger than a small dog crawls out from behind the flames, spitting and gurgling.

    ¡°Exempt me from your influence and follow me for twenty spans!¡±

    The flames snuff out, and when he opens his hand, a small cloud of ash drifts away.

    My vision darkens, and I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I¡¯m not sure what kind of face I might be making.

    Vincent. You ¡ª fucker.

    The next step I take falters ¡ª as soon as those flames disperse it¡¯s like I can feel a physical weight pulling down on me, and a sickly aura emanating from that thing at his feet. Glancing behind me, it seems like Satanas is having trouble moving as well, even as it attempts to recover.

    ¡°Slow¡­ down¡­ sleepy¡­ time¡­¡± The creature gurgles, stubby limbs scrabbling for purchase.

    I stumble, boots landing heavily on the floor as I struggle for each step forwards.

    ¡°¡­You¡­ you¡­¡±

    My breath comes out in huffs. It¡¯s getting harder to breathe.

    ¡°¡­You pathetic, flighty motherfucker! Is this what you¡¯ve been doing for the past half a year?! Running around, spitting out one-liners and burning keepsakes?!¡±

    I huff, dragging myself closer. Vincent seems spooked.

    ¡°Did you think you could just run off and squat in a house on the other side of the city for no reason?! Did you think nothing would happen?! Did ¡ª¡°

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    My throat closes. I push through.

    ¡°Did you think no one would miss you?!¡±

    Vincent takes a hesitant step back. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Don¡¯t you fucking dare run away again!¡±

    He turns away.

    I activate my power. I need to destroy Belphegor as soon as possible, but I¡¯m out of pressure boosters in both legs, and it seems like the dampening effect is getting stronger the closer I get to it.

    I just need enough for one good leap. Digging through the fat and shattered bones of my right arm, I consume a large portion of the stored energy to fuel a quicker change. Then, I convert everything that¡¯s left to muscle, as dense as I can make it and specialized for exactly one movement.

    Dropping my power, I reach forward with the bloated arm, cords of muscle snaking under my skin as my fingers grab hold of an uprooted floorboard and propel me closer to Belphegor in one smooth motion.

    I lift my leg and use the last of my diminishing strength to stomp on the bulbous mass.

    ¡°No¡­!¡± It lets out a shriek and splatters against the wood floor.

    All at once, I can move.

    I hear a thump from behind me. I¡¯m not the only one who can move again.

    My brain kicks itself into overdrive. I need to get to Faust ¡ª I should incapacitate him as soon as possible, but I don¡¯t know for sure that his constructs will disappear if I do. I don¡¯t have the firepower to deal with Satanas if that isn¡¯t the case.

    How do I take out Faust and avoid Satanas at the same time?

    I spread my arms, lower my stance, and charge, barreling into Faust and shattering the glass behind him, sending both of us flying out the fourth-story window.

    There¡¯s a building just a short distance away, separated by a slim alleyway. I cling tightly to Faust as I ignore his struggling and the burning pain in my right arm and turn us around so that I take the brunt of the fall. My back slams into the concrete rooftop and I manage to keep my composure enough to kick Faust away, sending him sprawling.

    We both stagger to our feet. I clutch my remaining tonfa in my left hand, assuming a combat stance that allows me to shield my ruined arm.

    Faust also prepares a stance. It¡¯s sloppy, and primarily defensive, but it looks like he knows how to fight.

    He¡¯s not going to make the first move, so I will. I take a reckless step, lashing out in a quick jab using my tonfa. Faust pulls back, bracing with his forearms and deflecting the blow.

    I pick up the pace, throwing out two more fast strikes, aiming at and around his face. He blocks effectively, as expected, pulling his arms up in a closed guard and rolling slightly to disperse some of the force. I try to press the advantage by aiming a stomp at his foot.

    He reads me effectively, shifting his boot out of the way and trying to disengage.

    I don¡¯t let him. Flipping my tonfa around to use as a blunt weapon, I press his guard, aiming several additional strikes at his upper torso.

    He remains defensive, pulling up his guard and attempting to roll with the attacks. I throw out a particularly vicious strike and push the advantage, leaning in next to him.

    He forgets to guard his stomach. I push off the ground, slamming a knee into his gut and forcing him to reel backwards, stance forgotten.

    Faust retches, trying to recover his composure. I relax my grip, dropping my remaining tonfa.

    Again, he reaches into his coat and pulls out that box.

    My resolve cracks.

    ¡°You¡¯re just going to throw away everything that¡¯s left of her? For what? What could your goofy fucking creatures possibly get you that¡¯s worth this?!¡±

    Faust¡¯s expression is stricken. And then, it breaks into something resembling realization.

    He speaks, almost a whisper.

    ¡°¡­You¡¯re ¡ª¡±

    I clench my one working hand. ¡°Shut up!¡± I lash out, desperately.

    Faust ¡ª Vincent ¡ª blocks easily. ¡°You left! You locked yourself away in that house for weeks, and then when that wasn¡¯t enough, you ran away!¡±

    I throw another wild punch. Vincent¡¯s defense starts to look haphazard.

    ¡°I needed you! I needed someone who understands how it feels!¡±

    Another punch. My knuckles ache. Vincent¡¯s head snaps back, and blood sprays. He¡¯s not trying to defend himself anymore.

    ¡°And you wanna know the worst part?!¡± I raise my fist, hand shaking.

    I hesitate. Vincent¡¯s salt-and-pepper hair covers his eyes, and a thin trickle of crimson falls from under his nose.

    The sun is bright, the sky is clear ¡ª stark shadows are cast at our feet, and the Westpoint skyline glitters on the horizon.

    Tears I hadn¡¯t noticed before now stream down my cheeks.

    ¡°¡­The worst part is, I get it. Because ¡ª because I¡¯ve been doing the same thing.¡± I choke.

    ¡°But ¡ª I just ¡ª¡°

    I take a breath.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you come back?¡±

    The wind whistles, tousling my hair. I hear an echoing thud from somewhere in the distance.

    Vincent raises a hand to his face. He lightly touches his nose, and his fingers come away red.

    He murmurs something.

    ¡°¡­I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­!¡±

    ¡°However,¡± he interrupts. ¡°This¡­ I know what this looks like. And I know I owe you an explanation.¡±

    Faust lifts his head, and his eyes glint with a sulfuric light. ¡°You should realize how important this is. I can¡¯t allow any more children to die in this city.¡±

    He pops open the case, and removes a gilded necklace.

    I flinch involuntarily. ¡°Vincent ¡ª¡°

    Faust discards the box, cradling that rose-gold plated necklace gingerly in his hand.

    The stench of sulfur hits my nose.

    Flickering crimson flames sprout up around him, climbing up his coat, drifting off in plumes from his shoulders and forming a pillar of vermilion fire around his hand.

    Faust¡¯s eyes pierce the stark daylight shadows with pinpricks of red.

    The necklace starts to catch, the wind begins to pick up, and an enormous magic circle seems to spring to life around him. I¡¯m forced to take a step back, shielding my face from the phantom heat.

    ¡°Everything is a bargain! A sacrifice! I¡¯ve been deep in the city¡¯s underbelly, I¡¯ve seen the worst downtown has to offer! I know just how deep the roots of corruption spread!¡±

    Faust sweeps a hand out to his side, throwing out a wave of sparks. His eyes take on a manic spark.

    ¡°It¡¯s all the way to the top! Every inch of those shining, glittering towers is crawling with something despicable!¡±

    He clutches at his face. ¡°I¡¯ll reach into the very heart of this city and grasp the source! I¡¯ll pull every miserable worm kicking and screaming into the firelight! I¡¯ll burn everything, just like they did to me!¡±

    ¡°For this, I¡¯ll sacrifice anything that¡¯s left!¡±

    Faust raves, almost vibrating with energy and fire, a plume of red flame tall enough to surpass skyscrapers.

    He speaks of bargains and sacrifice, and of having nothing left. He speaks as if I¡¯m not standing right here.

    Faust clutches the necklace in his fist. He speaks, and his voice echoes.

    ¡°Come, Luci ¡ª¡°

    ¡°They haven¡¯t taken everything!¡± I call out, taking a step against the sulfuric pressure oozing from him.

    The wind howls. Faust¡¯s eyes focus on me.

    I take another step.

    ¡°You still have ¡ª¡°

    I grit my teeth.

    ¡°You still have me!¡±

    Vincent¡¯s manic expression falters.

    The storm of ethereal heat calms, slightly.

    Then, all at once, he tenses, eyes rolling back in his skull. The pillar of crimson fire snuffs out faster than it appeared, and Vincent collapses into a heap on the concrete roof.

    One of Rook¡¯s basic combat drones floats behind him, a small manipulator arm extended from its chassis and tipped with a mechanical syringe of some kind.

    It¡­ sedated him?

    I stare at Vincent¡¯s crumpled form.

    The necklace lies dented on the ground next to him. The chain must have snapped in the scuffle.

    I let myself drop to the floor, submitting to the medical drones¡¯ on-site examination.

 Chapter 2.22

    2.22

    The transport vehicle they put him in is secure. It¡¯s a larger vehicle, more like a truck than a van, with thick metal doors and an intricate locking mechanism.

    They cuff him in brutalist metal restraints. Nothing too over-the-top, it¡¯s not like supers are usually bothered by cuffs anyway.

    He¡¯s still asleep. The sedative hasn¡¯t worn off.

    I cradle the broken necklace in my working left hand.

    Two USMW officers sit on either side of the door, rifles in hand.

    They shoot me looks every so often, when they think I¡¯m not looking. Maybe they¡¯re suspicious.

    The only reason I¡¯m on the damn truck in the first place is because I had to beg Commander Burke for a seat. He¡¯s sitting up front right now, riding shotgun, and I guess he¡¯s weak to puppy eyes because it didn¡¯t take much to make him cave.

    ¡°Gee, if you want him dead that badly, y¡¯know you can just say so. They¡¯d probably agree with you!¡±

    I turn to stare at Clockwerk, sitting next to Vincent on the bench and clad in similar restraints.

    ¡°What?¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Really? I¡¯d say you¡¯re glaring daggers at him, but they¡¯re more like swords. What¡¯d he even do, anyway?¡±

    ¡°No ¡ª¡° I shake my head. ¡°I mean ¡ª what do you mean they¡¯d agree with me?¡±

    One of the USMW officers leaning against the door speaks up. ¡°Destruction of property, public endangerment, unregistered use of powers, suspected large-scale abduction ¡ª she means he¡¯s headed to the Panopticon, kid.¡±

    I blink. ¡°That¡¯s a death sentence,¡± I state, sounding more calm than I feel.

    The officer shrugs. ¡°Better him than us.¡±

    I stare.

    Clockwerk chuckles. ¡°Ladies and gents ¡ª your public servants!¡±

    One of the officers walks over and cuffs her over the head with the butt of his rifle.

    ¡°Agh! Quit it, shithead!¡±

    He leans over to spit on her boots before returning to his post.

    The truck jostles. We must have hit a pothole, or something similar.

    ¡°Soo¡­ did you not want him dead?¡±

    ¡°¡­No. No, I don¡¯t.¡±

    The officer, the talkative one, snorts. ¡°You don¡¯t get to make that call.¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ you could.¡± Clockwerk smiles.

    She ignores the glares coming from the end of the truck.

    ¡°I mean, it¡¯s not like those two bozos could stop you. You¡¯ve got powers! All you gotta do is take them out, break our cuffs, and we can scram!¡±

    ¡°Hey, zip it ¡ª¡°

    ¡°I¡¯d even help!¡± She continues. ¡°Just get these cuffs off, and I¡¯ll beat up anyone you want!¡±

    ¡°You¡­!¡±

    ¡°I mean, you want to save him, right?¡±

    The officers look like they¡¯re about to do something drastic, the talkative one seems to be getting red in the face.

    Clockwerk stares directly into my eyes with a lilt to her voice and a wide smirk.

    I stand. The officers freeze.

    ¡°¡­Why were you at the motel?¡±

    Clockwerk¡¯s smirk widens. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll tell you if you get us out of here.¡±

    I let the silence hang. Then, I drop back onto the bench with a huff.

    ¡°Maybe next time.¡±

    Our little guards relax slightly.

    She pouts. ¡°You¡¯re kind of a square, y¡¯know that?¡±

    I snort. ¡°Square? The fifties came and went, dude.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s part of the brand!¡±

    It¡¯s definitely not.

    The ride progresses quickly, if not smoothly. I take the time to try and memorize Vincent¡¯s face, clutching the broken necklace and ignoring the boiling feeling in my gut.

    ¡ª

    They kick me out of the truck as soon as we enter the garage. Well, they don¡¯t kick me out, but a lower-ranking USMW member arrives to tell me Rook wants to talk, and the other two officers pester me until I leave.

    ¡°My doors are always open, bud!¡± Clockwerk calls out as I hop out. I ignore the strange looks from unloading personnel around me.

    Rook stands near the door to the main building. When I arrive, she pokes the button next to it and waves me through.

    We walk down the white, clean hallways in silence.

    ¡°Rook.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Red?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s going to happen to Vincent ¡ª Faust.¡±

    She gives me a side-eye.

    ¡°In this case, he will be restrained until such a time he can be transported to the Panopticon. Likely within a couple weeks.¡±

    ¡°No trial?¡± I comment.

    Rook sighs. ¡°Red. You know as well as I do that high-profile incidents involving supers don¡¯t go to trial. He¡¯s committed provable acts of property damage and large-scale theft, as well as the now-confirmed,¡± she stresses, ¡°abduction and execution of several fugitives.¡±

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    ¡°Property damage shouldn¡¯t justify his death.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not just property damage ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Those guys were Nazis.¡±

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t excuse his actions, Red.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not the point!¡± I shout.

    Rook stops.

    ¡°I ¡ª I know he¡¯s done bad things. I¡¯m not saying he should be excused, but ¡ª he ¡ª¡°

    I grit my teeth. ¡°Does he really have to die?¡±

    She adjusts her glasses. ¡°¡­It¡¯s not about whether he has to die. It¡¯s about maintaining the authority of the mundane people. We can¡¯t just do whatever we¡¯d like in this city, even if we think we¡¯re correct.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve covered this, Red. You¡¯re missing the big picture.¡±

    The hall is silent. I stare at the ceramic tiles, fist clenched.

    When did I¡­?

    My mouth moves on its own.

    ¡°¡­Yeah. I guess we have.¡±

    Rook frowns. ¡°Look, I know this might be hard, but ¡ª¡°

    A muscle in my left arm flexes, corded muscle twisting underneath my skin.

    My forearm splits, a thin red line tracing down the center and releasing a spray of blood and a serrated spear of bone that extends out an extra foot.

    The bone is reinforced, intertwined with muscle and sinew into a solid organic blade.

    Rook¡¯s eyes widen as droplets of blood splatter her dress, and I spin, pulling the blade into a stabbing motion aimed at her head.

    In a flash, a swarm of small hexagonal machines array themselves in a barrier, intercepting my attack and pulsing an electric blue, emitting a deafening screech and throwing off sparks where the blade makes contact.

    There¡¯s a beat, and then the lattice pulses again, sending out a thrum and an impact powerful enough to send me skidding along the tiles.

    I stand, blade arm hanging down and dripping blood.

    ¡°Shut up!¡± I shout, voice raw. ¡°I¡¯m sick of your logic ¡ª your backwards justifications!¡±

    Rook¡¯s defense lattice splits, revealing a hardened expression.

    ¡°I¡¯m sick of going out every day just to stomp on the weak! I¡¯m sick of bein¡¯ told I¡¯m doing the right thing!¡± I take a breath. ¡°I can see the big picture just fine, Rook. I¡¯m not gonna to bend over for you just because you¡¯re too scared to do anythin¡¯!¡±

    My muscles are screaming, my vision is foggy, but for some reason I get the sense I¡¯m seeing more clearly than I have in a long time.

    ¡°You wanna know why I was at the warehouse that night?! Why I spent weeks gettin¡¯ my hands filthy downtown, why I risked my life trying to fight a supervillain with nothin¡¯ but a shitty mask, an aluminum bat and a desperate hope?!¡±

    My voice cracks.

    ¡°It¡¯s because I wanted to help people.¡±

    I let out a breath, resolve hardening.

    ¡°So, maybe this is selfish of me, but¡­¡±

    Something clicks inside my mind.

    My teeth grind, and I feel my face stretch instinctively into a feral smile. I take a step, raising my blade to point at Rook. ¡°I¡¯m not going to let him die.¡±

    Rook¡¯s eyes tighten behind her mechanical glasses. She prepares a more defensive stance, as the shield bots float in a lazy orbit around her.

    ¡°I see you¡¯ve chosen a side.¡±

    Sections of paneling lining the walls pop out with a mechanical hiss, shifting to the side. Seven smaller drones array themselves in a hostile formation centered around Rook.

    It¡¯s less than I expect. I¡¯ve seen the kind of firepower Rook can muster with some of her larger models, not to mention the humanoid drone she uses normally, I have no idea what that thing does.

    These ones, if I remember correctly, come equipped with a basic taser and medical capabilities, including a powerful sedative delivered by simple manipulator arms.

    If they can¡¯t be here immediately, I should assume more powerful machines are on the way. I¡¯ll have to incapacitate her before reinforcements arrive.

    I give myself two minutes.

    Rook¡¯s glasses flicker, and the drones advance in formation, emitting a soft electronic whine.

    Three of them split off from the pack, darting through the air and arraying themselves into position surrounding me. One curves around behind me, hovering behind my neck, another dropping to float next to my right leg and the last stopping in front of my torso.

    In a flash, tasers are extended and sparking.

    I react, hopping up and to the side, tilting my head slightly and avoiding the drones positioned at my leg and neck. While I¡¯m still airborne, I lash out with my blade arm, impaling the final drone. Its metal shell crumples easily, throwing off sparks from the impact.

    I land lightly on my toes, twisting my blade arm and heaving the attached drone into the one at neck height, leaving a large dent and sending it flying.

    It¡¯s not dead yet. The drones back off, darting away and forming into a slowly rotating layered circle around me.

    I push the destroyed drone off my blade with my boot, kicking it to the side.

    Trying to keep an eye on all of them is impossible.

    Before I can decide on a course of action, I spot one breaking formation and darting towards me, seemingly trying to ram.

    Again, it¡¯s fast. If it hits me, I might break a bone.

    I launch myself into a backstep, letting it glide past me while I focus my attention on the two additional drones approaching from my left.

    They speed up, and when they get close enough I perform a harsh twist of my blade arm, knocking them off-course.

    Another drone advances from the same direction, and this time I¡¯m expecting it. I¡¯m leveling my blade arm, preparing to impale it, when I catch a flash of movement at the edge of my vision.

    Behind me¡­!?

    Hovering next to my ruined right arm are two separate drones, one holding a sedative and the other extending a taser.

    She must have spotted my injury ¡ª really going all-out, huh, Rook?

    I attempt to twist, but even trying to move that arm sends sparks of pain shooting through my shoulder.

    The needles make contact, and my muscles jolt. My vision darkens further, and almost immediately I find it difficult to maintain consciousness.

    Not good. I need to remove the sedative. I activate my power.

    My biology unfolds in front of me, and somehow, it¡¯s different. The information presented by my power, the scope of it ¡ª it¡¯s not increased, but it¡¯s more accessible in some way I can¡¯t quite pinpoint.

    The sedative is an extremely harsh compound, but it¡¯s administered in extremely small doses. It¡¯s not difficult to dissolve it into something more harmless, and despite the speed at which I perform the fix, it takes significantly less calories than I expect.

    Less than a second has passed. I only hesitate for a heartbeat.

    I repair my ruined arm. Not completely, and some of the fat is still missing from my earlier stunt, but the structure is enough to let me move it effectively above baseline. Then, I seal the open wound around my bladed arm. Not like I¡¯ll be needing to put it away any time soon.

    It takes only minimal energy.

    I don¡¯t know why my power is suddenly so efficient, but I can¡¯t waste this opportunity.

    I resurface from my power. The drone¡¯s sedative is emptied, and the taser charge has been spent.

    There are still four more besides these two, all of which I assume have similar tools. These drones are dangerous, and I need to remove them as soon as possible.

    My eyes snap open, and I grab hold of the drone closest to me with my newly-repaired right arm, slamming it into the other one. They collide, outer shells mangled, and I follow through on the swing. The twisted mass flies through the air at the last cluster of drones.

    They weave through the air, deftly avoiding the makeshift projectile. It doesn¡¯t matter.

    I take two steps, jump, and swing, activating the final pressure booster in my blade arm.

    The arm arcs out in a wide sweep, cleaving a jagged tear through all four remaining drones in a half-circle of released steam and thrown sparks.

    The scraps fall to the floor, smoking, and I land heavily on my feet, breathing heavily.

 Chapter 2.23

    2.23

    Piles of cleaved scrap litter the hallway, and the remnants of a thick cloud of steam are still dissipating.

    I¡¯m tired. But It¡¯s not over yet.

    I turn to Rook, who¡¯s wearing a tight expression. Only her defense lattice remains, and I¡¯m ahead of schedule. It¡¯s been about a minute and a half.

    Still, I can¡¯t resist.

    ¡°What, not gonna tell me it¡¯s not too late? That I can still be the good guy?¡± I mock, taking slow, deliberate steps towards her. She doesn¡¯t look impressed.

    ¡°No, you¡¯ve made your position very clear.¡± Her expression¡­ softens? ¡°As much as I may have misjudged you, it seems you¡¯ll always be extraordinarily determined.¡±

    For a moment, I¡¯m caught off-guard.

    Just for a moment. I curl my expression into a mean smile and break into a sprint, lunging with my blade arm outstretched.

    The lattice reacts instantly, arraying itself into a solid shield wall. My blade collides with it, forming a hail of sparks and an ominous pulse, just like last time.

    Unlike last time, when the second pulse arrives, I relax my arm.

    My blade is flung backwards, wrenching my arm out of my socket and chipping the sharp end slightly, even as my body remains planted in front of the lattice.

    I drop into a full leg sweep, lashing out under the lattice and knocking Rook off her feet. The lattice starts to reform, but before it can I lunge under it, kicking out with a heavy stomp towards Rook¡¯s face.

    Her mechanical glasses shatter, and I hear her let out a grunt. The lattice drifts, formation broken.

    One minute, fifty-two seconds. I try to ignore the urge to help her up as I lift my boot from Rook¡¯s face.

    In spite of the scuffs and bloody nose, Rook wears an expression that feels best described as disgruntled.

    I pretend to dust off my costume. ¡°Well. See you on the streets, old lady.¡±

    Then, I take off. I need to get to Vincent¡¯s transport before they get around to moving him, and I want to try to find Clockwerk somewhere along the way.

    As I round the corner heading to the garage, I could swear I hear a chuckle from the floor behind me.

    ¡ª

    Sprinting into a hallway closer to the garage, I run into Clockwerk, as well as two USMW guards escorting her. They¡¯re armed, but not alert, and it looks like she still has most of her gear on her, besides the bolt gun at least.

    Perfect.

    I pick up speed, and when they finally notice me and start to raise their weapons, I drop into a slide, stopping at their feet and positioning my right arm behind me.

    I launch myself upwards, feet first, landing a kick to the face that results in a harsh crack and the guard crumpling immediately.

    I lever myself into a standing position just in time to watch Clockwerk, elbow the other guy in the nuts. I make it a point to hook my boot around the first one¡¯s dropped gun and kick both of them off to the side.

    Clockwerk seems to start with a sarcastic quip, but stops herself when her gaze lands on me. ¡°Whoa, girl, are you doing alright? Jeez, that¡¯s¡­ a lot of blood.¡±

    I blink, and do another general check using my power. I¡¯ve sealed all the immediate wounds¡­ ¡°What are you talking about.¡±

    She winces, and then chuckles. ¡°Ah hah. I just mean it¡¯s¡­ I mean wow, it¡¯s really everywhere. Do want, like, a band-aid, or ¡ª¡°

    I scowl. ¡°No time.¡± I grab her arm and pull her into a run. ¡°If you want to escape, you¡¯re going to help me.¡±

    ¡°Oh ¡ª oh, great! Fantastic! I was beginning to think you¡¯d never ask, actually!¡± She shouts, a little nervously as she follows me at a sprint. ¡°I was just thinking ¡ª is that a sword?! In your arm!!¡±

    ¡°What? Yeah, of course,¡± I reply absentmindedly.

    We grind to a halt in front of the garage door. I start explaining the plan.

    ¡°Okay, so ¡ª the plan is simple. We¡¯re going to immediately make a break for the holding truck ¡ª¡°

    I¡¯m interrupted by retching sounds next to me. I turn to look.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    Clockwerk tries to cover her mouth with her hand. ¡°N ¡ª nothing! Uh, but, could you maybe put away the flesh knife¡­?¡±

    My expression flattens. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be escaping if it weren¡¯t for the flesh knife, y¡¯know! Be grateful!¡± I wave the flesh knife at her.

    She starts turning a little green. Is it the fingers? They¡¯re not operable now that the bone¡¯s torn through most of the muscle in that area, so they¡¯ve ended up being a little floppy.

    ¡°It¡¯s not that bad,¡± I reason. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a supervillain? Get over it.¡±

    ¡°No, yeah, I ¡ª sure, sure, just ¡ª are you sure there¡¯s no way to ¡ª¡°

    I kick the door open and tilt my head at her.

    She huffs. Still, we both sprint out and towards the still-idling transport vehicle.

    Thankfully, it doesn¡¯t seem like they¡¯ve moved him yet. Unfortunately, it seems as if they were about to. A large amount of USMW soldiers congregate near one end of the garage, all armed and in formation. They notice us almost as soon as we burst into the garage.

    I tug Clockwerk along as we make a beeline for the truck. Bullets start flying sooner than I would¡¯ve liked, the crack of gunfire echoing around the garage and bits of concrete kicking up from the pinpoint impacts.

    We reach the truck and duck behind it, next to one of the tires. The USMW soldiers still lay down a moderate amount of suppressing fire, but we¡¯re protected for the moment.

    Then, the gunfire stops. It¡¯s replaced by the distinct sound of boots on concrete.

    We need to get into the truck.

    Clockwerk must have a similar idea, because she darts to the side, closer to the driver¡¯s doors.

    They open, and the driver in question steps out, sidearm raised.

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    Clockwerk reacts quickly. The guy steps out, and she closes the gap before he gets a chance to fire off a shot, batting his gun aside and pulling him the rest of the way out of the vehicle.

    She waves me in, and we both scramble into the driver¡¯s side, slamming the door shut just before the squad of USMW soldiers forms a blockade around the vehicle.

    ¡°I hope you know how to drive,¡± I mutter. The truck¡¯s bulletproof, and very expensive, so no one starts shooting yet. Instead, a couple officers run up to try and yank open the doors while Clockwerk flicks down the locks.

    She starts fiddling with the keys. ¡°Yeah, of course! Definitely! For sure!¡±

    Not encouraging. Still, no time to worry. I climb over the controls and make my way to the back of the truck.

    Vincent sits slumped on the bench where I left him, cuffs on and lights out.

    I grab the cuffs and tear at them with my blade arm. They snap easily, and clatter to the floor.

    Vincent slumps farther, and I have to steady him with a hand. I grimace. We could really use his help at the moment.

    I find myself wishing my power worked on other people.

    The heavy thumps from the officers outside increase in tempo, and the vehicle rocks slightly. Clockwerk still hasn¡¯t started the engine.

    What do I do if we can¡¯t get out of here?

    If Vincent¡­

    My eyes drift downwards, towards my bladed arm.

    Wait.

    I look up, staring at Vincent¡¯s peaceful, sleeping face.

    What exactly counts as ¡®myself¡¯? How does my power determine what exactly I can manipulate? Is it something intrinsic to my body, my cells? Or¡­

    I hear shouting from outside, but it¡¯s hard to focus on. Instead¡­ if my power allows me to manipulate biology throughout my body, and it¡¯s not intrinsic to me, then it has to determine the cut-off point somehow. It¡¯d have to measure distance, or physical connection to other organic matter in some way.

    This is a last-ditch effort, but if we¡¯re going to get out of here, we¡¯re going to need some more firepower. If my power works the way I hope it does, it just needs a sufficient connection to biological matter in order to manipulate it. So, if that is the case¡­

    I lift my blade, and insert it gently into the flesh on Vincent¡¯s arm, piercing the skin and pushing until I touch bone.

    He doesn¡¯t twitch. Strong sedative.

    I let out a low, soft breath, and activate my power.

    My biology unfolds in front of me ¡ª and so does Vincent¡¯s.

    It¡¯s not like a mind-link or anything, I can¡¯t feel what he¡¯s feeling, but in terms of my power, I get a complete readout of his status just like I would for myself. It only takes a moment to identify the foreign elements in his body and burn them, consuming a minor amount of calories from my own body to fuel it. Then, I stop the bleeding from my incision and remove the blade.

    He jolts awake, eyes darting around before settling on my face. I don¡¯t know what he sees, but he calms down slightly. At least, until he registers my arm.

    Before he can say anything, a harsh banging, from the back door this time, shakes the truck. I hear the distant crackle of a megaphone from outside.

    Rook¡¯s voice, distorted in the way that signals she¡¯s using her humanoid drone, rings out. ¡°All occupants, exit the vehicle immediately! I¡¯ll give you until the count of ten!¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯ve got a plan, now would be the time!¡± Clockwerk shouts back. ¡°They¡¯re surrounding the truck!¡±

    I grit my teeth and rack my brain. We likely can¡¯t just drive out now, not without running over multiple people. Plus, I haven¡¯t seen Rook¡¯s humanoid drone in action yet, but it¡¯s not unreasonable to assume that it¡¯s at least capable of halting our movement.

    We need a way out. I can¡¯t think of one.

    Vincent stands. His expression¡¯s softened to something¡­ accepting?

    ¡°Vincent¡­?¡± I say. My voice sounds smaller than I¡¯d like.

    He looks down, and gently takes my hand. The one I¡¯m holding Sera¡¯s necklace in.

    ¡°Ten!¡± Rook¡¯s mechanical voice pierces the air.

    Vincent speaks, barely a whisper.

    ¡°¡¯Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing ¡ª with wavelengths, just as light and sound have¡¯.¡±

    He looks up. ¡°That quote ¡ª you know it, right?¡±

    ¡°Nine!¡±

    I blink. ¡°What? Of course I ¡ª Vincent ¡ª¡°

    ¡°There¡¯s an abandoned house on 7th ¡ª that fight, the one that was on the news. Under a floorboard near the back corner, I keep a number of encoded notebooks.¡± His voice is raw, ragged.

    ¡°Yeah, I know, I¡¯ve been there. What are you ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Eight!¡±

    Vincent brushes a hand over the necklace.

    It¡¯s a silver chain, with a small, heart-shaped pendant engraved with the initials ¡®C.C.¡¯ No idea what it stands for. The necklace itself came from a thrift shop down the road.

    We used to jokingly try to guess what it meant. Sera¡¯s bet was Chris Crowley. I remember hating that.

    The memory still stings.

    ¡°Seven!¡±

    ¡°¡­You two were very close. I still remember the day she came home from school after meeting you. The light in her eyes¡­¡±

    Tears start to form on his face. ¡°I think that, even in some small way, you ¡ª saved her, in a way I couldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°She used to avoid talking about anything that happened at that school. It seemed almost taboo, you know. I think she didn¡¯t want to worry me.¡±

    ¡°But then she met you, and it was like ¡ª like nothing seemed to bother her. Maybe someone made fun of her outfit, but you rolled your eyes at them, so it was okay. Maybe some girl called her a slur, but you flipped them off, so it was alright.¡±

    ¡°Six!¡±

    His voice shakes. ¡°Maybe the world was cruel in ways I couldn¡¯t protect her from, but ¡ª but you were there when I couldn¡¯t be, and I have a feeling you don¡¯t understand how important that was.¡±

    Vincent makes eye contact.

    ¡°I need you to know; what happened that night ¡ª¡°

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault.¡±

    He cups my hand, and pushes the necklace towards my chest.

    ¡°She would have wanted you to have this.¡±

    ¡°Five!¡±

    I look Vincent in the eyes, desperately trying to communicate ¡ª I want to tell him how wrong he is, how much of a miserable, confused ass I was, how much she saved me ¡ª

    I want to remind him that the least I could¡¯ve done was make sure she wasn¡¯t torn in half two blocks from my house.

    He leans forward, and wraps me in a fragile, desperate embrace.

    ¡°I love you.¡±

    ¡°And¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Four!¡±

    Vincent turns, unlatches the door, and steps out.

    I stare at his back. The broken necklace feels like it could shatter at any moment.

    ¡°Three ¡ª¡°

    Rook stops the count. ¡°Is this meant to be your surrender?¡±

    I can¡¯t see his face. Even so, I can hear the slight melancholy smirk in his voice as he drops down off of the truck.

    ¡°Not quite.¡±

    Vincent bursts into a pyre of scarlet flames, and a huge runic circle spreads across the concrete beneath his feet. The wind inside the garage whips, harsh enough to shake the blockade of USMW soldiers, destroying their footing.

    My eyes widen. I thought he needed a sacrifice¡­?!

    He lifts his left arm, and another pillar of swirling fire erupts around it.

    ¡°Come, Lucifer.¡±

    The crimson tongues of sulfuric gas snuff out in a storm of black feathers, covering the garage in a haze so thick I can¡¯t see even a foot past the exit of the truck.

    The vehicle lurches, engine revving as Clockwerk steps on the gas and the thick, pulsing cloud of smoke and feathers and unfolding chaos slowly shrinks behind us. Soon enough, we break out into open air.

    I grip the handle next to the back door, and make myself pull the latch closed.

    Abruptly, the cabin is silent, save for the quiet rumble of the engine.

    I climb back into the passenger seat.

    ¡°¡­Sorry,¡± Clockwerk offers.

    I grunt, and wipe a hand down my face.

    There¡¯s a beat of silence.

    ¡°So¡­ my name¡¯s Chloe. What¡¯s yours?¡±

    I stare out at the glittering skyline, plodding along while we speed down the highway.

    My gaze drifts to the broken necklace.

    I start muttering, absentmindedly.

    ¡°Y¡¯know, I was thinking something like¡­¡±

    ¡°Claire.¡±

 Chapter 3.0

    3.0

    Jennifer Zhao sits quietly in her office, sipping on a modest cup of hot tea. The bags they store in the rec room on this floor are always disgusting, so she keeps a small box of the better stuff in the bottom drawer of her desk. It helps to center herself, to calm her nerves and allow her to think clearly.

    It¡¯s not working as well as she¡¯d like. Her mind is a storm of half-formed thoughts, ideas, improvements ¡ª she can¡¯t seem to keep herself from thinking of what she could have done better.

    None of the ideas bouncing around inside her skull are particularly helpful. Sure, she could have detonated the defense lattice the moment Red had closed in, injuring herself and possibly mortally wounding the child, and she could have ordered an almost-lethal dosage of the sedative from her scout drone after catching the child off-guard, but ¡ª

    None of these things were going to happen. And as much as Jennifer¡¯s genius mind can provide combat alternatives, when it comes to the words she¡¯s said, she seems to draw a blank.

    Frustrating, to let such a promising division member slip away like that. Not to mention the damages her little escape caused ¡ª it¡¯s going to take months to requisition the materials to rebuild her forces.

    Still, it could have been worse. Faust may be missing an arm from that ridiculous stunt, but it¡¯s possible he could have chosen to sacrifice more. It had been two minutes of intense combat and protective measures on her part, and there might actually have been casualties if it had gone on any longer.

    Jennifer places her mug of tea gently back onto her desk. It¡¯s dark out, and the stark white of her office lamp is starting to get on her nerves. She closes her laptop, shuffles away her remaining paperwork, and steps out of the office.

    ¡ª

    Commander Luka Burke stands in the records room, near the labs, sifting through the records of a certain individual¡¯s abilities. The records are thin, which is to be expected, but they are not incomplete. Rook is, if nothing else, thorough.

    He¡¯d been warned Redline was a flight risk, her handler had made sure to emphasize the possibility, but while Burke would never admit it, the kid surprised him. He¡¯d heard the warning, categorized it and applied it in his mind, and still the child was strangely unreadable.

    A learning experience. Burke knows, in spite of popular opinion, that you¡¯re never too old to pick up a new trick.

    Regeneration, suspected enhancement aspect¡­ body modification? Versatile. Thankfully, the girl hasn¡¯t thought to expand the definition of her abilities. She¡¯s still in the early stages.

    If he needs to, he can have her captured and detained. He mentally logs Redline as a low priority and shelves the file.

    As important as information gathering is, Burke likely won¡¯t be encountering her any time soon. The girl has committed a federal offense, and as such, if she tries to return to the headquarters or to any sort of normal life, it¡¯s probable that she¡¯ll be discovered and prosecuted.

    For better or worse, the kid¡¯ll merge with the rest of Westpoint¡¯s criminal ecosystem.

    Idly, Burke wonders if she¡¯ll choose her own villain name, or if the forums will choose it for her.

    ¡ª

    Olivia Burns isn¡¯t having the best time. To be fair, neither is the training dummy her rocket-powered leg slams into for practically the fiftieth time today.

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    The dummy rattles, padding shredded and falling off, covered in soot and scorch marks. Olivia¡¯s shin is starting to ache.

    She ignores it.

    The strike training provides a rhythm, a motion she can put everything into without distractions. It helps her focus, helps her find balance.

    It¡¯s supposed to. Her leg impacts with another sharp thwack.

    It rarely seems to do what it¡¯s supposed to.

    It¡¯s just ¡ª fucking Jake ¡ª Red, whatever, Olivia absolutely knew she was going to do something stupid.

    This specific dipshit plan, though, wasn¡¯t something Olivia predicted. This dumbass, reckless, completely irresponsible, totally unhelpful plan ¡ª

    Another thwack. The real issue Olivia is having here is comprehending what in the fuck Red was thinking ¡ª what exactly was going through her insane little brain to spit that pile of garbage out.

    ¡®Oh yes, I¡¯m just gonna beat up Rook in the middle of the USMC headquarters, break two supervillains out of containment and run off with a USMW issue suppression vehicle! Surely this will have no outstanding consequences! I am very intelligent!¡±

    Thump. Not!

    The dummy tilts under the force of Olivia¡¯s strike, tongues of flame reaching towards the ceiling.

    She just can¡¯t understand why Red would ¡ª

    Olivia snorts quietly to herself. Why would Red leave? Better question is why wouldn¡¯t she?

    Great job Livvy, you managed to make the most goody-two-shoes girl on the planet become a supervillain just to escape your shitty ass. Your father would be proud ¡ª

    Thump.

    Olivia huffs out a breath, smoke drifting from her legs and arms.

    Fuck.

    ¡ª

    A man sits quietly on a couch in his apartment. His hair is unkempt, but not dirty, and only a small brush of stubble graces his chin. He wears baggy, but practical pants and a tank top, his heavy jacket cast aside for the moment.

    He sits quietly on his couch, reading a book.

    At that same moment, the man is also making breakfast, taking a shower, and negotiating a mercenary contract about a mile from the apartment.

    And yet, the stove is cool, the water is not running, and the 12th Hour Dogs remain unpaid.

    Curious.

    There is a knock on the door to the man¡¯s apartment.

    A number of things happen at once.

    The man steps out of the shower, turns down the burner and calls out a greeting, and picks up a loaded gun sitting on his table, all at the same time.

    While the man plates his food, he greets the visitor. ¡°C¡¯mon in, Nick, the door¡¯s unlocked ¡ª take yer shoes off at the door, yeah?¡±

    While the man steps out of the shower, he walks calmly towards the door, and swings it open, ignoring the shocked cries of his visitor, and casing the hallway of his apartment building. No tails, and no ambush.

    While the man picks up his gun, he strides quickly to the door, swings it open, and drags the visitor in, placing the gun against his temple.

    ¡°Well, how¡¯re you settling in, kid?¡± The man asks, sliding a plate across the table.

    ¡°Were you followed?¡± The man comments, standing naked in the apartment complex hallway.

    ¡°Who are you ¡ª how did you find this place.¡± The man demands, pressing the barrel against the child¡¯s skull.

    ¡°Ah, y¡¯know, beats juvie.¡±

    ¡°No? Dude, what are you doing¡­¡±

    ¡°P ¡ª please, you t ¡ª told me to meet you here ¡ª¡°

    The clink of a plate. The click of a door latch. The crack of a gunshot.

    About a mile away, on the exact same day, at the same exact second, Highlander makes a phone call.

    ¡°Hey. Yeah, he¡¯s clear. Yeah. Hey, bud, can you swing by my apartment later? I think I left my door unlocked.¡±

 BREAK 3.A

    Interview 1

    Conducted via Ava Fisher, The Spearhead.

    Interviewee is Jennifer Zhao, Rook.

    Height: 6¡¯1¡±

    Weight: 152 lb

    Blood Type: B-

    Interview begins.

    FISHER: Thank you, for agreeing to meet me, Ms. Zhao.

    ZHAO: It¡¯s required, by the department head, as well as our board of directors.

    F: Still.

    Z: Mh. I trust that The Spearhead knows better than to publish my legal name in their paper?

    F: ¡®Course, don¡¯t worry about it.

    Z: I suppose. Where would you like to start?

    F: How about something simple. Ms. Zhao, what¡¯s your favorite color?

    [A PAUSE]

    F: Don¡¯t give me that look. Gotta have something for the fans.

    [ZHAO HUFFS]

    Z: I find myself often enjoying a sky blue.

    F: Ah, nice. I¡¯m partial to orange, myself. Sunsets really do it for me.

    [RUSTLING OF PAPERS]

    F: Alright. How about your favorite food?

    Z: Hm.

    F: Take your time.

    [A PAUSE]

    Z: I used to buy egg tarts from the local bakery, as a child.

    F: Really?

    Z: Yes. I found myself missing them, recently, so I decided to learn how to make them myself.

    [ZHAO SIGHS]

    Z: It¡¯s been¡­ informative.

    [FISHER CHUCKLES]

    F: I bet. Could never pick up that kind of skill, myself.

    Z: Mhm.

    [RUSTLING OF PAPERS]

    F: Okay, and¡­ have any likes? Dislikes? Any coworkers you wanna drag on-record?

    Z: I¡¯m not sure I understand.

    [FABRIC SHIFTS]

    F: That was a joke. Just ¡ª tell us a little about yourself, yeah?

    [A PAUSE]

    Z: I like¡­ my workshop. And working with the Junior Division, as well.

    F: Alright, good. Any dislikes?

    Z: Simon.

    [FISHER LAUGHS]

    F: That was quick! And, uh, Simon is¡­?

    Z: He¡¯s known as Decagon to the public. He¡¯s also insufferable.

    F: I¡¯ll be sure not to tell him that.

    Z: No, you can.

    [FISHER SNORTS]

    F: Okay, then I will.

    [A PAUSE]

    [RUSTLING OF PAPERS]

    F: And, uh. Maybe you answered this already, but if you want to elaborate¡­ do you have any hobbies?

    Z: Does my workshop count as a hobby?

    [FABRIC SHIFTS]

    F: You tell me.

    Z: Perhaps not, I use the equipment for work, anyway. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve¡­ had a hobby¡­?

    F: You make egg tarts?

    Z: That is true. I do make egg tarts.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    [RUSTLING OF PAPERS]

    F: Okay. Last question. How do you view your position?

    Z: My position?

    F: In life, in the USMC, anything. What do you think, about where you are?

    [A LONG PAUSE]

    Z: I am a tool of the USMC. I believe most people know this, intellectually, but many fail to internalize it. Everything I do is at the behest of the USMC. Not out of the goodness of my heart, or because I think it is in any way necessary ¡ª often times I do not agree with even the fundamental principles of the organization.

    [ZHAO SIGHS]

    Z: But, what else am I meant to do? I can¡¯t simply deconstruct the government ¡ª or, rather, I could. But that is exactly why I shouldn¡¯t. Even if I believed myself perfect, an absolute beacon of morality, not all supers would be as¡­ benevolent, as I. Supers come in shades, same as people. The only difference is how stark those shades become.

    Z: I might take over the government, manage effectively for a decade, and then be deposed by some other despotic tyrant who would undo all of my progress in the span of a week.

    Z: The world cannot be governed by roving warlords. It cannot.

    [ZHAO SIGHS]

    Z: Let the humans figure things out on their own. My only role is to make sure their cities do not collapse before they do.

    [A PAUSE]

    F: Wow.

    Z: You might not be granted permission to publish that segment. If not, simply say that I enjoy my position at the USMC, and I do my best to work with them in order to help those in need.

    F: Yeah, sure. Uh. Thank you for your time, Ms. Zhao.

    Z: It¡¯s no trouble. Good luck, Fisher.

    F: You as well.

    Interview ends.

    Interview 4

    Conducted via Ava Fisher, Discredited.

    Interviewee is Claire Miller, Redline (Discontinued).

    Height: 5¡¯10¡±

    Weight: 196 lb

    Blood Type: Variable

    Interview begins.

    FISHER: So. You ready?

    MILLER: Uh. Yeah. How ¡ª how does this work?

    F: I ask you questions.

    M: Right, yeah.

    F: And then you answer them.

    [A PAUSE]

    M: For the record, I¡¯m giving her a death stare right now.

    F: For the record, it¡¯s severely lacking.

    M: What can I say, I¡¯m learning from the mid-est.

    F: I am not mid.

    M: You¡¯re so mid. What¡¯s the question?

    F: What¡¯s your favorite color?

    [FOOTSTEPS]

    M: [DISTANT] I¡¯m leaving.

    F: No, you aren¡¯t. If you leave, I won¡¯t let you use my kitchen.

    [FOOTSTEPS, RETURNING]

    M: White.

    F: Original.

    [FABRIC SHIFTING]

    M: It¡¯s sterile. Used to go for red, but¡­

    F: Sure.

    M: Next question?

    F: Favorite food?

    M: Ah. Friend of mine used to like to pick up hibachi from a place near my house. Probably that.

    F: Anyone I know?

    M: No. Not around anymore.

    [A PAUSE]

    F: I¡¯m sorry.

    M: Don¡¯t ¡ª it¡¯s fine. I lived in the suburbs, I would¡¯ve gotten over it.

    [MILLER CHUCKLES, BITTERLY]

    M: I would¡¯ve if Vincent didn¡¯t decide to throw a fit and get himself arrested. That¡¯s ¡ª not important. What¡¯s the next one?

    F: Mh. Got any likes? Dislikes?

    M: Uh, sure? I like, um. Lurking forums, sometimes. I dislike talking to people.

    [FABRIC SHIFTS]

    F: Sorry to disappoint, then.

    [MILLER SNIFFS]

    M: As you should be.

    F: Alright. Any hobbies?

    M: Yeah. I play guitar. I¡¯m alright, not professional, but my parents insisted I pick up an instrument, and, well. I think they reget it ¡ª regretted it.

    F: Yeah?

    M: I¡¯ve got an electric, and a loud-as-fuck amp.

    [FISHER SNORTS]

    F: You would.

    M: What¡¯s that mean?

    F: You¡¯re a constant disruption.

    M: Aw, you do care.

    F: Sure. What do you play?

    M: Some covers, lotta grunge. Sometimes I try and learn a new riff. That kind of thing.

    F: Ever thought about playing on-stage?

    M: Nah. It¡¯s just a hobby.

    F: Playing venues can be a hobby. You¡¯ve got the time.

    [MILLER LAUGHS]

    M: Guess I do. Ideally, I¡¯ll be getting busier, though.

    F: Mh. Last question.

    M: Hit me.

    F: What do you think about your position?

    M: I¡¯m not USMC anymore.

    F: Just, in general. Where you are now?

    M: Ah. I¡­ don¡¯t know. I¡¯m trying to keep my head down and help as many people as I can.

    F: Why?

    M: Why what?

    [A PAUSE]

    F: Why help people?

    [A PAUSE]

    M: That friend of mine, the one I mentioned ¡ª she wanted to help people. She can¡¯t do it anymore, and I¡­ I¡¯m in a unique position. If she can¡¯t do it, I¡¯ll do it in her place.

    F: Is that the only reason?

    [A PAUSE]

    M: Yeah.

    [FABRIC SHIFTS]

    F: Okay. Why keep your head down, though?

    [MILLER SIGHS]

    M: Didn¡¯t we talk about this?

    F: For the record.

    M: It¡¯s practical. You stick your head up around here, you get nailed down. I don¡¯t wanna get nailed.

    F: That¡¯s not always the case.

    M: When is it not? You¡¯ve seen the people we visit every other week, you¡¯ve talked to them ¡ª

    F: They¡¯re mundane.

    M: What?

    F: They¡¯re normal. They have no defense against super drugs, or gang members that can collapse buildings. They have flat heads, so they get nailed down.

    [FABRIC SHIFTS]

    F: You have power. An ability ¡ª something intrinsic, that gives you a critical edge, and at least some of the training necessary to take advantage of it.

    M: I¡¯m not better than anyone else.

    F: Maybe not at most things. But this?

    [FISHER HUFFS]

    F: Your head isn¡¯t flat, Claire. It¡¯s sharp.

    [A PAUSE]

    M: Sharpened points hurt people, Ava.

    F: So do hammers.

    [A PAUSE]

    M: I¡¯ll see you around.

    F: Don¡¯t be a stranger.

    [MILLER SCOFFS]

    M: Maybe.

    Interview ends.

 Chapter 3.1

    3.1

    ¡°Blood is¡­ redder than you would expect. Against the white tile, it looked almost cartoonish, a wash of stark crimson against a faded backdrop.

    When the droplets started to cloud the water, that¡¯s when it started to feel real.

    I remember fading, slowly encroaching darkness, and then ¡ª

    A dais. A large, stone dais, stained with liquid gold and littered in black feathers, surrounded by an expanse of flat, dusty rock in all directions.

    Something about it felt almost familiar.

    I¡¯m beginning to suspect this experience isn¡¯t exclusive. They don¡¯t tell us much about how people get their powers, and what little exists is difficult to find, but superpowers are not random occurrences, not really.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 1, page 3

    It¡¯s not exactly subtle, the huge vehicle with a giant USMW logo tacked onto the side barreling down the highway, but Clockwerk (Chloe?) somehow makes it work. She drives like she expects the other cars on the road to simply move out of the way, and more than once she seems to confidently swerve into oncoming traffic just for the fun of it.

    Nobody honks, or anything, who in their right mind is gonna honk at a certified government vehicle? We quickly make out way downtown, and with an unexpectedly small amount of hassle.

    Clockwerk parks the truck near an abandoned parking lot ¡ª I can tell it¡¯s abandoned just from the cracked concrete and exposed drainage grates, the heaps of gravel strewn everywhere, the general state of disrepair. Clockwerk immediately locates a spot at the back, sandwiched between a couple buildings, and effectively invisible from the main road.

    She parks the truck and violently yanks on a rusty metal rod that I¡¯m just now noticing, jammed haphazardly into the ignition.

    The rod shrieks as it grinds against the truck¡¯s metal chassis.

    I wince. ¡°Is that safe¡­?¡±

    Clockwerk rolls her eyes. ¡°Fuck no. Get out, we gotta get moving.¡± She gives the metal staff one last pull, dislodging it and shoving it into an oddly specific pocket in her pants.

    We hop out of the truck.

    ¡°We¡¯re just leaving it?¡± I ask.

    Clockwerk stares at me like I¡¯ve grown a second head.

    ¡°You want to keep an extremely expensive piece of USMW equipment? Where? In what world does this not get me arrested immediately? They track that shit, y¡¯know!¡±

    ¡°It just feels ¡ª I dunno, wasteful, to leave it!¡± I protest. ¡°Think about how many, uh, like, heists you could do with this thing!¡±

    Clockwerk scowls at me, wiping a thumb across her cheek. ¡°Is that what you think I do all day?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve talked to you like three times max, and the first time you literally were.¡±

    She huffs. ¡°God forbid a girl have hobbies.¡±

    ¡°Look,¡± Clockwerk starts. ¡°I get the urge, I really do. But I need to be keeping a low profile. If they start sending the heavy hitters after me, I¡¯m actually fucked.¡±

    She twirls to look at the vehicle, and I watch as her gaze turns analyzing. ¡°¡­I¡¯ll have to come back and disable the tracker tonight anyway, so we don¡¯t have to roll it back up to them on a silver patter or anything, but I am not keeping the thing at my house. ¡®Kay?¡±

    Clockwerk¡¯s eyes turn back to me, and they¡¯re oddly paralyzing.

    I sigh, and force myself to perform a nod.

    She squints, and her eyes dart over to my arm. ¡°And anyway, we really should get going, I¡¯m worried you¡¯re going to keel over.¡±

    I blink, and glance down. The blade is still extended, and I think a large portion of the nerves in that arm have been destroyed. A thick film of organic matter coats the center wound, so I¡¯m not bleeding out or anything. The remaining arm sort of feels tingly, with a backdrop of intense burning pain and heavy aches.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± I reply.

    She snorts, and unties a cardigan wrapped around her waist, moving to cover my arm. ¡°Sure you are. Don¡¯t make a scene, we¡¯re taking the back alleys.¡±

    Clockwerk guides me through the back alleys of the downtown area.

    The buildings here are just tall enough to be claustrophobic, but they seem to be in a constant state of construction. Exposed beams, partially-layered concrete, bundles of material line the grimy sidewalks and exposed stretches of cracked tarmac. Every so often we pass by, or under, in one case, a mover. Usually, they prioritize the richer areas, but there¡¯s always one or two active farther downtown.

    No one bothers us. In fact, most people seem pretty twitchy about our presence, for the short time we remain in one place.

    Eventually, we reach a large metal shack, constructed from what seem to be flimsy sheets of aluminum placed right on top of an empty stretch of broken concrete.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    Clockwerk quickly herds me inside. The interior is¡­ homely. Surprisingly.

    A small collection of furniture occupies one side of the shack, obviously built from scrap wood and salvaged metal, but nothing overtly dangerous, and everything is layered in a sturdy covering of plushy fabric. A small couch with clean, if patchwork cushions, decorates that end of the shack, adjacent to a contraption that looks like it really wants to be a television, and a thick block that seems like it should be a cooler.

    A thin, modest carpet covers the floor in that area, which looks as if it¡¯s been shored up my a number of well-placed sheets of plywood.

    The rest of the shack is littered with¡­ mechanics. Gears, rods, coils, bits of scrap metal, all piled up in a random array of miscellaneous salvage, with only the hint of a sturdy metal desk peeking out from underneath.

    Clockwerk grabs me by the shoulders and sits me down onto the couch, careful to position the cardigan under my arm. I think she¡¯s trying to make sure I don¡¯t stain the couch with any fluids.

    That¡¯s silly. I¡¯m sure I completely sealed that wound.

    She¡¯s muttering to herself now, and pacing across the room.

    ¡°Insane fucking wound, I dunno how I¡¯m gonna pay for that¡­ might have to amputate if we¡¯re going to a conventional surgeon.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I comment. ¡°I¡¯ll repair it. Just takes some time.¡±

    ¡°¡­You¡¯re sure?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Couple hours, probably.¡±

    ¡°Okay. Okay, yeah. We¡¯ll talk in a bit, then. You, uh, want somethin¡¯ to eat?¡± She shrugs.

    I slip another calorie bar out of my pocket and scarf it down.

    ¡°¡­Nevermind,¡± she mutters.

    I lean back on the couch, and activate my power.

    The constant trickle of information flows through my mind, almost soothing in its completeness. I don¡¯t actually retain any of it easier than I was, but the river itself feels wider, almost.

    First, I get to work sealing any internal wounds, repairing basic muscle and bone structures, and healing minor wounds. There¡¯s a lot to do, so while I¡¯m making sure everything else is in order, I do a background analysis of the extended blade.

    An over-sized shard of bone, chipped already from use and attached via a web of tendons and exposed muscle. It¡¯s safely held in a slapdash layer of hardened organics ¡ª basically anything I had on hand, blood, pus, phlegm, compressed into an off-yellow shell around the wound.

    Kind of gross. I finish up the basic repairs and start deconstructing the blade and moving the material back into the bones in my arm through the inside, being careful to make sure all of it is inert and stored somewhere it won¡¯t be a problem.

    As I get to the base of the blade, I start using my power to peel off sections of muscle, sealing any blood vessels along the way, and stitching together the larger wound. The makeshift organic seal is easily destroyed and recirculated, and I manage to finally close the wound with little mess.

    The nerves are difficult, mostly because I don¡¯t really know how they work. I guess I could just mirror the structure of nerves in my other hand¡­?

    Sort of. The issue is my capacity to retain the diagnostic information that my brain gives me. The records stream past my consciousness like a fast-moving river, it¡¯s difficult to retain large amounts of information for longer than a couple seconds. I¡¯m having to switch my ¡®perspective¡¯ between both hands constantly, and I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve gotten everything exactly right.

    But my power is telling me it¡¯ll work, or at least that it won¡¯t fail catastrophically.

    I resurface, the thin red film sliding out from behind my eyes and thrusting me back into reality.

    The shack doesn¡¯t really have windows, just a couple of slits near the roof from which beams of clouded sunlight would filter through, but now even those have gone dark. A small lamp lights the corner of the shack, casting a warm yellow glow.

    Clockwerk looks to be tinkering with something at her table, under a harsher desk lamp. The muttering and occasional metal clanking is oddly soothing.

    I slump, moving my gaze up to the ceiling. I hadn¡¯t realized I was so tense.

    Without all the heavy emotions and constant adrenaline, my situation is starting to rear its ugly head. I¡¯m going to have to find somewhere to stay the night, and then¡­

    Ugh. Maybe Clockwerk will give me some tips on supervillainy.

    The longer I think about it, the worse it gets, too. What the fuck was I thinking? All my shit is back in my room ¡ª my guitar, my computer, my fuckin¡¯ posters. And my friends ¡ª I¡¯m pretty sure we were friends, but at this point it doesn¡¯t seem super likely it¡¯ll stay that way, what with us being on opposite sides now, and ¡ª oh my god I¡¯m gonna have to fight them, right, because I decided it would be a fantastic idea to try to break a registered supervillain out of the USMC headquarters ¡ª

    Not that it mattered, anyway.

    Ugh.

    ¡°Watcha¡¯ thinkin¡¯ about?¡± Clockwerk comments. I turn my head to see her peering over curiously.

    Does it show on my face?

    ¡°Did you make this place?¡± I deflect.

    She shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s just scrap metal and a hijacked power line. Stuff breaks all the damn time, but it¡¯s somethin¡¯ to do, so, y¡¯know.¡±

    Her gaze slides back over to me. ¡°Or, I guess you wouldn¡¯t, Missus Superhero.¡±

    I snort. ¡°You don¡¯t have to rub it in.¡±

    Clockwerk rolls her eyes. I think she does that a lot.

    ¡°Whatever. Listen, you can crash here for a little while you figure your shit out ¡ª just don¡¯t touch my junk and we¡¯re good.¡±

    Oh. That¡¯s nice of her.

    ¡°¡­Thanks.¡±

    There¡¯s a beat of silence. Then, a clank as Clockwerk puts down her tools.

    ¡°Hey¡­ you didn¡¯t do all that just ¡®cuz I told you to, right?¡±

    I blink.

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not that special, sorry.¡±

    She flips me off, and I find myself chuckling.

    ¡°So. Why did you do it?¡±

    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Slowly, I reach into my pocket and pull out Vincent¡¯s notebook, and the broken necklace tied around it.

    ¡®Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing ¡ª with wavelengths, just as light and sound have¡¯. That¡¯s what it was, right?

    I wonder if he meant for me to use a dash or a semicolon?

    ¡°You know, when my friend died, I thought she¡¯d left me with nothing.¡±

    The necklace glints in the soft lamplight, casting a sharp glow across the notebook¡¯s black velvet surface.

    ¡°I¡¯m beginning to think she left me everything.¡±

    I pull myself up and lean forward, resting my forearms over my knees.

    ¡°Hey, I hear you have a pretty serious drug problem downtown,¡± I comment. The pieces are slowly starting to fit themselves together in my mind.

    ¡°What the fuck d¡¯you know about it,¡± Clockwerk waves a stray screwdriver in my direction.

    ¡°Not much,¡± I shrug. ¡°But ¡ª the stuff that Cook makes; Stew, right? Hallucinatory, heavily addictive. No known treatment.¡±

    ¡°More like no attempted treatment,¡± Clockwerk mutters. ¡°Millions of dollars in ad campaigns and still not a single clinic. You¡¯d need to contract another super just to¡­¡±

    She turns to stare at me.

    ¡°I know you said you want to keep a low profile,¡± I smile, ¡°but what do you say we make some waves?¡±

 Chapter 3.2

    3.2

    ¡°Front 18 collapsed some time ago. With the arrest of their top contributor, Rapture, there wasn¡¯t anyone else left in the gang to act as firepower. You would think hunting down the remains of a broken criminal organization would be easier than taking on the top gangs in the city.

    It¡¯s not. Why, exactly, is this guy so hard to find?¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 3, page 12

    A stream. I find this description of my power is usually the most accurate. It¡¯s a constant flow of information and diagnostics, too dense to understand all at once. Picking out details is difficult. Smaller bits are hard to find and harder to hold on to.

    It helps to just let the information rush past me, taking it all in one step at a time, and when I find I don¡¯t need something¡­ letting it go in favor of something else.

    My power is very good at feeding me big-picture information, but when it comes to specifics ¡ª

    Unless, of course, the specifics indicate extreme changes, or, in this case, damage.

    I resurface just in time to feel the sting on my forehead and watch the dirty tennis ball bounce against the concrete ground.

    ¡°Wow, you didn¡¯t even try that time!¡± Clockwerk shouts, already winding up another ball.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna be honest, this whole negative reinforcement thing isn¡¯t really working for me,¡± I comment, holding a hand up and rubbing my forehead.

    The borrowed clothes Clockwerk was gracious enough to give me sit oddly against my skin, especially in the cold city air. We¡¯ve temporarily stolen an empty lot further downtown.

    Another ball bounces off my skull. ¡°Ahg!¡±

    ¡°This was your idea.¡± She complains. ¡°What is even the point, anyway? My arm¡¯s gettin¡¯ tired.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t move while I¡¯m using my power yet, and I¡¯m probably gonna need to if we have to make any quick escapes ¡ª stop throwing shit at me!¡± I whine, ducking under a third ball.

    ¡°We? Who¡¯s this we you speak of?¡± Clockwerk counters, palming another ball. I scramble to find a projectile of my own.

    ¡°We both know you¡¯re coming with,¡± I mutter, snatching a discarded tennis ball and tossing it her way.

    She ducks out of the way, and the ball impacts the concrete building behind her, sending out a harsh crack. It splits on contact, spraying soft bits of tennis shrapnel.

    Clockwerk turns back to me, eyes wide. ¡°You, miss, have a ridiculous throwing arm.¡±

    I wince. ¡°¡­Sorry.¡±

    She smiles. ¡°Nah. I like a bit of danger.¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°I know a couple guys closer to the residential zones ¡ª I think I can get them to work with us.¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do that?¡± Clockwerk leans over and bounces a tennis ball against the ground.

    ¡°They get to go first, obviously.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t just leave a gang around here, not that easily. What are you gonna do when Cook hunts them down looking for this mysterious cure you¡¯re handin¡¯ out?¡± Clockwerk states.

    I hesitate. ¡°¡­Would he even know it exists?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll find out eventually, especially if your ¡®guys¡¯ drop off the map with no side effects.¡±

    A thump, as Clockwerk¡¯s ball touches the ground and rises to meet her palm.

    ¡°We can¡¯t do this without someone pre-established within the organization.¡± I scowl and brush back my hair.

    Abruptly, Clockwerk¡¯s eyes take on a sharper glint. ¡°If you¡¯re gonna bring someone into a project like this, you gotta be able to protect them.¡±

    I grit my teeth. ¡°We can protect them through anonymity. By the time Cook knows anything, his little empire will have collapsed.¡±

    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Ambitious.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. ¡°But¡­ I don¡¯t want to hurt anyone if I don¡¯t have to.¡±

    Unbidden, my eyes drift to the mark on the wall, and the shredded bits of tennis ball littering the ground.

    Clockwerk follows my gaze before I can school my expression.

    She snorts. ¡°Fine. We¡¯ll try it your way.¡±

    A fifth ball impacts my cranium.

    ¡ª

    Clockwerk does so happen to have a spare hat. And glasses. This time, though, I¡¯m not so confident it¡¯ll be enough.

    Trucker hat, thick sunglasses, dusty t-shirt, jeans, a cardigan wrapped loosely around my waist ¡ª the outfit isn¡¯t typical of me, but it doesn¡¯t exactly seem subtle, either.

    Threads of snow-white hair poke out from under the brim, and as much as Clockwerk is trying to convince me my eyes aren¡¯t visible, I can tell she¡¯s trying to ignore the sharp glint of red as I turn away.

    ¡°Clockwerk ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Chloe!¡±

    ¡°Chloe,¡± I correct myself. ¡°There is no universe in which I¡¯m not spotted immediately wearing this. The hideout isn¡¯t that far from my house, and ¡ª¡°

    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine so long as you don¡¯t go tryna have your picture taken,¡± she reassures me, adjusting the hat by the brim. More paper-white stands fall out and rest against my cheeks.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    I try to brush them away. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°People don¡¯t call in supervillain sightings as much as you think downtown. Not good for your health. And anyway, the whole ¡®evil monster girl¡¯ thing helps with your intimidation factor!¡± She points out, wearing a wide smile.

    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t need to intimidate anyone, if this goes well,¡± I grumble.

    Clockwerk ¡ª Chloe barks out a laugh. ¡°It won¡¯t! Count on it!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a buzzkill.¡±

    ¡°I dunno what you mean,¡± she retorts, strapping on faded belts and pouches of equipment. ¡°I¡¯m the life of the party!¡±

    Chloe boots the door to her shack open with a loud clang, and marches out into the street.

    I quickly follow along, pointing her in what I hope is the right direction. I remember where Mike¡¯s hideout is in relation to my house, but it¡¯s difficult to tell where I am among the crumbling buildings.

    Thankfully, the streets are fairly empty. Occasionally, we pass by a shifty-looking person or two, or a car slowly rolling over the cracked pavement nearby, but for the most part, the streets are empty.

    Not so different from the rest of the city. People prefer to take the back alleys, or better yet, to not go out at all. Only place I ever saw that was packed was when my dad took me to his office when I was really young. The parking lots over there are always packed.

    It doesn¡¯t take much time to find the hideout once I orient myself. The run-down building isn¡¯t nostalgic, exactly, or familiar.

    At least it¡¯s still here. Hopefully no one¡¯s moved out. I wouldn¡¯t put it past anyone involved with a local gang, but the place had looked lived-in last time I was there, so hopefully Mikey isn¡¯t in the habit of just up and leaving.

    ¡°This the place? Not much to look at, huh.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not,¡± I acknowledge. ¡°It¡¯s just a distribution cell. Four people total, most likely. Unpowered.¡±

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°What¡¯re they like?¡±

    ¡°Mikey owns the house. He¡¯s scared of Cook, but I think he enjoys the power trip. Gordon usually accompanies him. I think he feels guilty about it,¡± I finish, scratching my cheek.

    ¡°It¡¯s not super likely anyone else will be there. Usually we only stop by for pickup.¡±

    ¡°We?¡± Chloe raises an eyebrow.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I wince. ¡°It¡¯s ¡ª I wanted to get to Cook.¡±

    She stares, and I try not to fidget.

    Then, Chloe shakes her head, reaches into her belt, and pulls out a metal rod. It¡¯s not complex or anything, but the rudimentary hilt is enough to suggest that it might be a baton.

    I take it, hesitantly.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna have a much easier time of it now, that¡¯s for sure,¡± she comments.

    ¡°I hope not,¡± I reply.

    She snorts. ¡°Whatever. Ladies first.¡±

    Chloe unlatches her bolt-gun from its harness and carries it casually by her side.

    I grip the baton and take a breath. ¡°Intimidation, right?¡±

    ¡°What can I say, I like going loud,¡± she smiles.

    I pause, and pull down the sunglasses slightly, and glance at Chloe for approval.

    She shoots me a thumbs-up. ¡°Oh, and show those pearly-whites. It¡¯ll help your aura of evil-monsterness.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± I huff, and climb the stairs, Chloe right behind.

    Intimidation. I can do that.

    I reach the front door, raise my leg, and kick it down.

    The wooden door splinters at the handle and bangs open immediately.

    It¡¯s difficult to stomp in the worn sneakers Chloe loaned me, but I make an effort to give my stride some presence, in spite of the sporadic yelling coming from the living room.

    The place is almost exactly like I remember. Typical middle-class housing, covered in a thick layer of paper magazines. Don¡¯t even know where the guy gets these, honestly, they¡¯re a little vintage.

    In the living room, I recognize Mikey and Gordon, who have both leapt up from their spots on the couch.

    ¡°Yo,¡± I start, wearing a sharp smile and twirling the baton. ¡°Miss me?¡±

    Gordon looks confused. Ah, right.

    Mikey¡¯s hand shoots into his pocket ¡ª he¡¯s wearing a heavy jacket that makes him look almost top-heavy ¡ª and pulls out a black metallic object.

    If I had the time, I might sigh dramatically. Should have expected this.

    The gun in Mikey¡¯s hand jerks, letting out a loud crack and showering the room in a brief yellow shine. Immediately, I feel a burning pain in my neck, and a spurt of blood forces itself past my lips.

    Chloe, luckily, is quick on the draw. She¡¯s already pulling out a net trap while I instinctively slap a hand against the wound.

    It¡¯s pouring blood. Ah, and I can¡¯t breathe, either. That¡¯s gonna be a problem for this next bit.

    As Chloe disarms Mikey and wrestles Gordon to the floor in my periphery, I dip into my power and repair the gunshot wound.

    Luckily, the bullet passed all the way through. The hole isn¡¯t clean, but it missed my spine, and repairing the trachea isn¡¯t a huge deal.

    Coming back to reality, my neck, palm, and a thick stream down my chin is streaked with a thick coat of blood. Chloe stuffs the gun into a pouch, and stands over Mikey, boot planted on the back of his hand.

    I crack my neck, shake my head and try to wipe some of the blood off my face.

    ¡°Wow, right for the jugular. Thought we were friends, Mikey.¡±

    His eyes are wide. ¡°Wh ¡ª who the fuck are you?!¡±

    ¡°Aw, come on, you remember me, right?¡± I smile, and I¡¯m pretty sure all the blood makes it look a little ghoulish.

    It has the intended effect. I can see Mikey trying to figure out what I want him to say in real time.

    I stroll over and plop myself down on the couch. ¡°Hm. Here, lemme try and refresh your memory. Six-foot-one, blonde hair, black roots? Square jaw, scary-looking brown eyes¡­? No?¡±

    I¡¯m not seeing any kind of spark on Mikey¡¯s face. That¡¯s probably fine, he doesn¡¯t need to know who I am. Gordon, however¡­

    ¡°Your name¡­¡± He mutters. ¡°¡­Alex?¡±

    That¡¯s the one I used at the time. Seems so long ago, now.

    ¡°Bingo,¡± I grin. ¡°See, I knew I wasn¡¯t so forgettable.¡±

    ¡°What do you want, bitch?!¡±

    I feel my eye twitch involuntarily. Mikey is loud.

    ¡°Ah, well, I guess I¡¯ll give you the pitch.¡± I lean forward.

    ¡°Cook seems to think he¡¯s untouchable, or somethin¡¯. He thinks his little concoctions are unbeatable.¡± My eyes wander, until they make contact with Gordon¡¯s. A new expression seems to be blooming on his face.

    ¡°They¡¯re not.¡±

    ¡°Fuck off!¡± Surprisingly, it¡¯s Gordon that protests.

    ¡°Cook¡¯s stuff is absolute! There¡¯s not some fuckin¡¯ ¡ª miracle cure, or whatever you¡¯re selling! This is bullshit!¡±

    I tilt my head. It¡¯d be in his best interest if there was a miracle cure. Why is he arguing?

    Looking closer, Gordon¡¯s face is a vicious, messy conglomeration of anger, despair, and¡­

    Hope?

    Oh. He¡¯s scared.

    I drop down my right arm, letting it hang off the couch. ¡°I can see you¡¯re not convinced. So, how about a trial run?¡±

    My blade is long since destroyed, repairing the arm from scratch was hard enough, and I didn¡¯t have any plans or references to reconstruct it from. Still, it¡¯s not difficult to form a thin spine of bone and quickly push it through the skin of my wrist, sealing the wound behind it.

    I hold up the finished bone needle, ignoring the sharp ache from the base of it, and give Gordon a significant look.

    His expression tightens. ¡°There¡¯s always a catch.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. I guess there is,¡± I acknowledge. His eyes narrow.

    ¡°The catch is, you help me bring this,¡± I wave the needle around, ¡°to the rest of the city.¡±

    ¡°¡­Do I have a choice?¡±

    I let the smile drop off my face. ¡°Yes. You do. If you refuse, I¡¯ll find someone else.¡±

    His fists clench, and for a moment I think this little confrontation is about to turn even more violent ¡ª but then, he relaxes, and holds out his wrist.

    ¡°Fine. Show me it works.¡±

    ¡°Perfect.¡± I reach out, and slide the needle under Gordon¡¯s skin.

 Chapter 3.3

    3.3

    ¡°Supers rarely go into detail about their powers. There are often entire forums dedicated to denizens of the internet trying to play detective for their favorite superhero.

    Just as often as they pop up, they are usually shut down. The workings of an individual¡¯s powers are apparently a matter of national security.

    It¡¯s difficult to understand why until you have one of your own. This power I¡¯ve been given ¡ª it is not simple, and perhaps more importantly, it is not kind.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 2, page 17

    Vincent¡¯s notebook is¡­ sporadic, to say the least. After a little experimenting, in which I discover that he did in fact intend there to be a dash, I manage to start successfully decoding the notebook.

    As much information is densely packed into it, though, it isn¡¯t a practical record, not really.

    It¡¯s more like a journal.

    I¡¯m finding it difficult to even open. The thing sits in my pocket like a hot coal, a thing of such extreme potency that even looking at it causes my vision to swim and my throat to close up.

    I figure the best way to deal with it is exposure therapy, which is why I¡¯m sitting on Mikey¡¯s porch staring at the thing right now.

    Strange that such a small object can hold so much contempt for me specifically.

    ¡°You done brooding?¡± I hear Chloe¡¯s voice from beside me.

    We¡¯ve sealed the house, and I asked Mikey very nicely to gather any distributors currently working for him here in about an hour. They should be arriving any minute now.

    ¡°Am I brooding? Is this what brooding is?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯ve got the scary aura and everything. What¡¯s so bad about that little book that you gotta vaporize it with your eyes?¡± She comments, leaning against the doorframe.

    ¡°The bad part,¡± I mutter, ¡°is that I have to open it.¡±

    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Usually that¡¯s the easy part.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°How much do you know about Faust?¡±

    Chloe shrugs. ¡°Not much. Creepy-lookin¡¯, but the whole demon thing goes kind of hard. Seemed to like you well enough.¡±

    ¡°I knew him before he¡­ got his powers. He¡¯s been journaling,¡± I explain.

    ¡°¡­He wanted me to know whatever is in this book.¡±

    Chloe pauses, and I look over to her.

    Her face is a mask. I¡¯m beginning to think she¡¯s good at that.

    ¡°You must have meant a lot to him.¡±

    I turn back to the book, resting gently in my hands.

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    We share a beat of silence. The city isn¡¯t loud downtown, but creaking buildings and skittering pests make for sufficient background noise.

    It¡¯s windy out. Colder than usual.

    Abruptly, I spot two women walking along the sidewalk closest to the house. They don¡¯t stand out more than anyone else, but anyone walking the streets of downtown is often subject to scrutiny.

    The taller woman is older, with competent makeup and a style that seems like it wants to be professional, but got strangled before it could get there. Her expression is apathetic, but I can sense a hint of calculation as her gaze sweeps towards the porch I¡¯ve made my temporary residence.

    Ava. Weirdly, I kind of missed her.

    The girl next to her wears a hoodie and jeans. Her hair is a messy black, and her bangs hang low enough to cover her eyes.

    ¡­Do I know her?

    I stash the notebook. Best to ditch the intimidation factor at this point. I push up my glasses and put on a smile, making sure to keep my mouth closed.

    ¡°Yo! Long time no see!¡±

    Ava stops in front of the porch. The other girl goes to climb the stairs, and Ava catches her arm.

    She sighs. ¡°Listen. I don¡¯t know you. Is this a sting, or are we under new management?¡±

    ¡°Dude,¡± Chloe starts, leaning over to dramatically whisper in my ear. ¡°She fucking got your ass, man. Legitimately, it¡¯s so over for you.¡±

    ¡°Ugh,¡± I huff, rolling my eyes and batting her away. ¡°Silence, minion.¡±

    I turn back to Ava, and point a finger in her direction.

    ¡°You¡¯re under new management. Her too, if she distributes here.¡±

    Ava, looking a little disgruntled, tips her head. ¡°Yeah? Whose?¡±

    ¡°Mine.¡±

    ¡°¡­And you are?¡±

    I stand from the modest bench next to the entrance, and nod towards the door.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t we continue this inside? Don¡¯t really wanna say it more than once.¡±

    Ava looks hesitant. I can see her scanning my face, even if I¡¯m not certain what it is she¡¯s looking for.

    The other girl looks a little nervous. And, actually, now that I¡¯m thinking about it, she seems more than a little familiar. I think I actually have seen her before. Where¡­?

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°Oh come on, don¡¯t just stand around in the cold! We don¡¯t bite, promise!¡± Chloe announces.

    Ava seems to deflate. ¡°Supers,¡± she mutters, stomping up the porch stairs and marching inside. ¡°You¡¯re all fucking crazy. Can¡¯t catch a break in this damn city.¡±

    The smaller girl trails along behind her, and I really should remember her name ¡ª when did I meet her? Maybe it was ¡ª

    Oh. I barely manage to resist blurting out her name.

    Sarah, right? I think I met her during a¡­ drug run. Out in the residential plaza.

    Seeing her here puts a foul taste in my mouth, one that isn¡¯t entirely foreign.

    We file in after them, Chloe graciously closing the door behind me, and settle into Mikey¡¯s living room.

    Gordon stands in the corner next to a window with the curtains drawn, keeping a close eye on Mikey, who has taken to pouting. I haven¡¯t asked him too, it seems more like something he does on instinct.

    Ava takes her place in the plush armchair, and Sarah stands awkwardly to the side.

    I tilt my head as Chloe flops backwards onto the couch with a thump.

    ¡°You don¡¯t wanna sit?¡±

    ¡°No, I just ¡ª anywhere? I, um ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Anywhere¡¯s fine,¡± I reply, struggling not to sigh. I think I might have to reset the vibe a little.

    "Look. All of you are free to walk out that door anytime you want. After,¡± I specify before any of them can bolt, ¡°you hear the pitch.¡±

    Ava fishes a cigarette box from her coat and starts to light up.

    ¡°Really.¡±

    She huffs. ¡°Whatever. Spit it out so we can all go home.¡±

    ¡°Fine. How many of you like working for Cook?¡± I start. No one raises a hand, as expected.

    ¡°Alright. How many of you like being dependent on his product?¡±

    Again, no one responds. I take this as a good sign.

    I nod. ¡°What if I told you I could solve both of these problems?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d call you a liar,¡± Ava comments.

    ¡°Okay, fair,¡± I wince. ¡°But I¡¯m willing to put my money where my mouth is.¡±

    A breath. I feel like I should be worried about this, but the USMC has all the details already.

    ¡°I have a biokinetic power. Right now, if you allow me, I¡¯ll heal anything you want, including any foreign substances or addictions.¡±

    I cross my arms. ¡°I¡¯ll do this regardless of your final decision. But, if you¡¯re willing to help me, I might be able to do the same thing for other people in the city.¡±

    ¡°Cook¡¯s a super, too. Are you sure you can completely detox a powered chemical?¡± Gordon points out. He¡¯s cooled down since our earlier confrontation, but I can tell he¡¯s not quite convinced.

    I decide to be honest. ¡°I can¡¯t guarantee there won¡¯t be complications, or lingering effects. What I can tell you, is that I performed this process on myself, and haven¡¯t noted any adverse reactions.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll also say that I¡¯m confident in my power¡¯s ability to react to any unforeseen situations.¡±

    ¡°You would be,¡± Ava mutters. ¡°How do we even know you¡¯re telling the truth? What, we just have to take your word for it? If your power¡¯s as adaptive as you think it is, you could be doing anything to us.¡±

    For a moment, I consider revealing my identity. She still doesn¡¯t know who I am, which I think is part of why she¡¯s using such a hostile approach.

    I don¡¯t think it would be appropriate. I¡¯ll let her know later.

    ¡°You¡¯re just gonna have to trust me. I don¡¯t have any reason to do anything harmful to you.¡±

    She rolls her eyes. I huff.

    ¡°Look at it this way. I need someone with strong connections to Cook¡¯s distribution cells so that I can pull this ¡ª any of this, whatever you want to believe it is ¡ª off. I need your cooperation, and short term it would make sense for me to follow through on that.¡±

    ¡°Trust me now,¡± I finish, adjusting my glasses, ¡°and I¡¯ll prove to you that I¡¯m on your side.¡±

    ¡°A detox would be nice, but ¡ª¡°

    Sarah starts to speak, but cuts herself off when I turn to acknowledge her.

    ¡°But,¡± she forces out, ¡°the gang wouldn¡¯t¡­ take that well. I don¡¯t have the money to switch cities ¡ª I don¡¯t think any of us do.¡±

    I nod. ¡°I¡¯m not saying something like this wouldn¡¯t be dangerous. I am saying that I¡¯ll do everything in my power to protect you. And so will Clockwerk,¡± I comment, nodding to the girl face-down on the couch.

    I hear a grunt that I hope is affirmative.

    ¡°So. What do you think?¡±

    There¡¯s a stretch of silence. And then, Gordon lets out a sigh.

    ¡°Fine, fine. Get it over with.¡±

    ¡°Perfect,¡± I say, walking over to sit him down on the couch. Chloe is mercilessly pushed off the edge.

    ¡°Does Mikey have snacks around here? This might take a while.¡± I extend my wrist and activate my power, protruding a thin needle of bone.

    ¡°It¡¯ll hurt for just a little,¡± I mutter. I position the needle over his wrist, steady my hand, and plunge it in, trying to ignore Gordon¡¯s shaking and occasional sharp hiss of breath.

    Gordon¡¯s body is deteriorating. Not in a life-threatening sense, or at least an immediate one, but the wear and tear of daily life, as well as whatever obscure compound Cook has created, obviously takes a toll on his body. A general lack of fitness, brain damage from substance abuse, and a notable nutrition deficiency make themselves known as soon as I activate my power.

    A lot of precise work, but thankfully the majority of this is something my power can handle for me. First of all, though, I take to disconnecting his nerves from the forearm down, to numb the pain.

    Through the dull, semi-sense I get while using my power, I can tell Gordon¡¯s stopped squirming as much.

    That¡¯s probably a good sign.

    It¡¯s not going to be difficult to repair Gordon¡¯s physical health and fitness, as well as repair any lasting internal injuries. What is going to be difficult is the brain damage. I¡¯m going to have to go slowly and carefully, making sure to keep as much of it intact as I can, while still repairing the damaged portions.

    I take a mental breath, bottle up my nerves, and get to work.

    ¡ª

    Three hours later, Gordon¡¯s¡­ ¡®operation¡¯, is done. He tells me it felt strange while it was happening, but afterwards he feels like he could run a mile, no sweat.

    He could run three, I¡¯m sure. I didn¡¯t have time to give him any extensive modifications, but I included the basic muscle enhancement package I used when I was first starting out, if a bit more efficient. He¡¯ll need to work if he wants to keep up that physique, but at least it gives him a head start.

    Jury¡¯s out on if the detox worked. He said he feels better, but we¡¯ll have to wait and see what, if any, side effects remain.

    I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s happy about it. Maybe this is more like a leap for him, than an escape. Maybe he¡¯s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

    I step out onto the porch, where Ava leans against the railing, cigarette almost burning away between her fingers.

    ¡°So ¡ª¡° I start.

    ¡°I heard. Alex, right?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Sorry I didn¡¯t tell you earlier.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine. Good instinct.¡± She takes a drag. ¡°So I heard you bagged your guy.¡±

    I sigh, and lean against the railing next to her. ¡°Yeah, and then he escaped like a week later.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s how it goes for the bigger villains around here. They have a lotta help.¡±

    Ava lets out a breath. I watch as the cloud swirls in the cold evening air. ¡°Are you gonna try again?¡±

    ¡°¡­I don¡¯t know why I would. It doesn¡¯t seem to help.¡±

    Silence, for a beat. Then, her eyes slide towards mine. ¡°This thing you¡¯re trying to do; it conflicts. Not just with Cook, either. This city is densely packed with all kinds of freaks ¡ª you¡¯re going to need to make some room.¡±

    I look down. ¡°I don¡¯t want to¡­ kill him. Or anyone. I¡¯m doing this because I want to help.¡±

    Ava snorts. ¡°Then I think you¡¯ve got your work cut out for you. Naivety doesn¡¯t last long in Westpoint.¡±

    She pushes off the railing, and turns to head back inside, smoke swirling around her.

    ¡°Still, though,¡± she says, stopping by the door. ¡°You¡¯ve got guts. I have to admit, I¡¯m a little curious where you¡¯ll go next.¡±

    ¡°So, try to make it interesting, yeah?¡± She smiles, and the expression feels sharper than mine.

    Ava steps inside, letting the door close with a thwump behind her.

 Chapter 3.4

    3.4

    ¡°Sometimes I stare at the crates of chalk and sentimental paintings scattered around the living room, and I wonder why it had to be me. Surely there¡¯s someone smarter, stronger, someone who better understands the function of this thing ¡ª this desperate city at the edge of nowhere?

    Sometimes I wonder if those people have already come and gone, and people like me are all that is left.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 12, page 23

    Thwap. Chloe¡¯s fist collides with my braced arms, forcing me to deflect. It puts her off balance, opening her up to any number of disruption tactics.

    I choose a simple throw, lunging forwards and grabbing onto her shirt at the neckline. It¡¯s standard practice, as I was taught at the tower.

    Chloe isn¡¯t one to cooperate. She grabs my wrists, and then as soon as I move to perform the throw, bites down full force on my left arm.

    ¡°You¡­!¡± I let go instinctively, and Chloe seizes the chance to dart forward, grab my shoulders, and launch her knee into my gut.

    I grunt, but the muscles in that area are too dense for the blow to do much.

    She doesn¡¯t seem to be expecting this. When I reach down and grab her leg, yanking her off-balance and pulling her into a tackle, she doesn¡¯t resist. Not immediately, at least.

    We hit the concrete with a collective thump, and I establish a hold.

    ¡°You fight like a rabid animal,¡± I comment.

    ¡°Yeah, well, you fight like a robot. Lemme up!¡±

    ¡°I dunno¡­ maybe I¡¯ll just call pest control.¡±

    Chloe scowls, and chomps down on my arm again. At this point, I¡¯m gaining surface-level dents all over my wrists.

    ¡°Ugh.¡± I release her, and wipe my arms against the borrowed cardigan. ¡°Slobber.¡±

    ¡°Hey, that jacket¡¯s one of my nice ones!¡± she seems affronted.

    I wipe some more for good measure. ¡°Don¡¯t drool on it, then.¡±

    She rolls her eyes.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, let¡¯s go again.¡± I¡¯ve been pestering her for a fight since we got back to the shack last night ¡ª it wouldn¡¯t do to get rusty, and I wanted something to clear my head.

    I hadn¡¯t actually gotten her to agree until this evening, so I want to make it count before she decides to scramble off the roof of this abandoned building we found nearby.

    Chloe groans. ¡°But it¡¯s so not fair. You have like, inhuman endurance. I¡¯ve kneed guys twice your size, and they went down squealing!¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Gotta keep up with the team somehow.¡±

    Not true anymore. I try not to let the thought sting.

    She throws her arms up. ¡°Yeah, but you also dented the sheet metal last night just ¡®cuz of your thrashing! Dented metal! In your sleep! How strong are you?¡±

    I wince. ¡°Sorry. Again.¡±

    Chloe sighs. ¡°Seriously, I thought your power was regeneration, or something. What a pain.¡±

    ¡°¡­It¡¯s a little more broad,¡± I admit, crossing my arms. ¡°Human muscles are efficient, but they¡¯re evolved, not designed. It¡¯s not so difficult to increase the density and maximum output, just means I need to eat a little more.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. You know any Muay Thai?¡±

    I tilt my head. ¡°You do?¡±

    Her expression closes off. ¡°¡­Yeah. Learned it from my dad.¡±

    I get the feeling prodding would not be welcome here.

    Chloe moves, settling into a stance I¡¯m unfamiliar with. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll show you some basics.¡±

    ¡ª

    The movements may be unfamiliar, but the feeling of motion, of training this fleshy creation to move how I intend it to, is not.

    Chloe¡¯s instructions are slow, halting, incomplete, but not insufficient. She seems as if she¡¯s reconstructing her own lessons in real time, pulling from an experience far away in the past, digging up old memories in order to form something coherent. Half the time I feel like I should be telling her it¡¯s okay if she doesn¡¯t remember.

    Eventually, we settle into a rhythm. The sun crests the city skyline.

    As long as I¡¯ve lived here, as bad as it gets¡­ the sunset is always beautiful.

    ¡°So¡­¡± Chloe starts, hesitantly. ¡°What are you planning, after¡­ all this?¡±

    I snort, almost breaking form as I continue the motions. ¡°After¡­? I don¡¯t know if there is an after. It seems like things just keep going wrong around here.¡±

    ¡°What? What does that mean ¡ª you¡¯re just gonna keep running around, putting out fires?¡± She replies, sounding confused.

    ¡°Putting out fires¡­ I guess that¡¯s one way to say it,¡± I mutter.

    Chloe stops, and stares at me. ¡°Oh my god, you¡¯re serious.¡±

    I pause, and meet her gaze. ¡°¡­Yes?¡±

    ¡°I hope you know that¡¯s not how any of this works,¡± she comments, placing her hands on her hips.

    ¡°Huh? What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I just ¡ª I don¡¯t know what you think you¡¯re doing. You can¡¯t just make things better through the power of ¡ª of hard work and friendship, or whatever the fuck.¡± Chloe flips her hair back, affecting an exasperated air.

    I narrow my eyes. ¡°You were on board with the detox plan.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a good plan! Makes things easier for me around here. I¡¯m just saying you can¡¯t expect it to last.¡±

    Is that how it is?

    ¡°¡­Why not?¡±

    And Chloe¡¯s mask starts to break. Her exasperated, mildly annoyed demeanor snaps into something, sharper, more brittle.

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    ¡°Because nothing lasts! You think you can come barging in and fix everything, like it¡¯s so easy for little-miss-perfect-superhero ¡ª you don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like! You have no idea how bad it gets! And you¡¯re¡­!¡±

    She seems to catch herself at the last moment.

    ¡°Why?!¡±

    I pause, and open my mouth to respond ¡ª

    ¡°No ¡ª no, don¡¯t answer that.¡± Chloe huffs, recollects herself. ¡°You should fucking stick to the charity shit. You can¡¯t change anything else.¡±

    And she stomps off to the roof exit, brushing past me without a second look.

    I stand alone on the rooftop, wind brushing my hair aside, and sun shining a deep orange onto my face.

    ¡ª

    The door to the shack is unlocked. I can assume I¡¯m not being kicked out or anything.

    Metal clangs and shrieks from Chloe¡¯s desk, where she¡¯s tinkering with a contraption that seems equipped with way too many springs. I close the door behind me.

    ¡°¡­Hey.¡±

    Chloe stops tinkering, and swivels around in her chair, lifting a pair of tinted goggles from her eyes.

    ¡°What,¡± she sighs. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna kick you out or anything, if that¡¯s what you were thinking.¡±

    I blink. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ good to know. But I, ah, wanted to talk about ¡ª¡°

    ¡°I¡¯m not gonna talk about shit with you, sorry. You don¡¯t get to know my backstory.¡±

    ¡°Right, no, of course not, that¡¯s fine,¡± I wince. ¡°I just, uh¡­ maybe I¡¯ll talk, and you can, um. Listen, if you want to?¡±

    She leans her face against a hand and motions for me to continue.

    I take a breath.

    ¡°¡­I had a friend, who¡­ died ¡ª was killed, a few months ago. And I¡¯m not saying this to ¡ª to de-legitimize anything you¡¯ve told me, or to try and compare our situations,¡± I clarify as I watch Chloe¡¯s face twist slightly, ¡°but¡­¡±

    But she was killed. She was killed violently in a back alley downtown and no one was there to help. All the heroes were busy, doing ad deals, running press conferences ¡ª

    Brutalizing petty thieves.

    I can feel my vision blurring, my blood pumping through my veins.

    ¡°But,¡± I choke out, dragging a hand down my face and trying to force myself to calm down.

    ¡°¡­If it¡¯s impossible for anything to change, then it means her death didn¡¯t mean anything. And it has to mean something. So things have to change.¡±

    I let out a breath. ¡°Does that¡­ make any sense?¡±

    Chloe¡­ smirks. ¡°Yep. It¡¯s terminal.¡±

    ¡°What is,¡± I huff.

    ¡°The crazy. It¡¯s permanent. Sorry.¡±

    ¡°Yeah alright, goober,¡± I say, helping myself to the couch nestled in the corner. ¡°Sorry for trauma dumping or whatever.¡± I snag a blanket off the floor and throw my arm over my eyes.

    Silence from the workbench. Then¡­

    ¡°I think I get it.¡±

    I lift my arm. ¡°Really?¡±

    Chloe smiles, and it¡¯s a little fragile. ¡°Yeah. Really.¡±

    ¡ª

    The sound of Chloe¡¯s tinkering seems to vary. Sometimes, the shriek of twisting metal and power tools is almost overwhelming, a sickening cacophony compounded by the thin sheet walls of her makeshift home.

    And sometimes, she takes out a small pocket watch. A silver, modern-looking thing, with a polished chrome shell and a simplistic face design. She digs out tiny, delicate tools from deep in her desk drawers, pulls over a professional-grade magnifying glass, and quietly adjusts the gears, the winding mechanisms, all of it producing a soft metallic undertone.

    I fall asleep to the sound of ticking, echoing delicately throughout the shack.

    ¡ª

    I wake up to the feeling of being violently jostled by a small steampunk girl at five in the morning. Or around that time, I don¡¯t have a clock or anything on me.

    I remember dreaming, but the exact scenario evades me. It seemed¡­ intense.

    I shake it off.

    ¡°Wh ¡ª I¡¯m up, I¡¯m up ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Wake up, princess,¡± Chloe grins down at me. ¡°I¡¯m out of money, so we¡¯re going to the bank.¡±

    I try desperately to blink the sleep out of my eyes as Chloe shoves a hat and sunglasses into my arms and drags me out the door.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ what? What¡¯s happenin¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Money, dude, get your act together!¡± She pulls me along until we¡¯re crossing the empty street outside of the shack, headed towards¡­ I have no idea, actually.

    ¡°There¡¯s ¡ª ugh. There¡¯s no way you¡¯re going to just peacefully withdraw some funds.¡± I¡¯m starting to wake up a little, and I¡¯m realizing that I am definitely not prepared for a confrontation. My muscle density isn¡¯t as toned as I¡¯d like, I left my calorie bars at home ¡ª not to mention the tonfas, and the fact that I only have three pressure boosters online at the moment ¡ª

    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon, it¡¯ll be fun! I do this all the time!¡± Chloe pulls a bandana around her face, and hands me a similar one. They¡¯re sepia-toned, and patterned like something out of an old western movie.

    ¡°These are so tacky¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll wear it, and you¡¯ll like it!¡± She announces, tying the cloth and slipping down a pair of goggles. We¡¯re nearing the more industrial part of the downtown area, and apparently a small bank as well.

    I quickly tie up the bandana.

    ¡°Sometimes, when I need a lotta money quickly, or, y¡¯know, I want the attention, I¡¯ll go in and to an actual stick-up or whatever.¡± Chloe pulls a metal rod from a bag at her bag, that I¡¯m really only just noticing.

    ¡°Usually, though, the real money is either digitized, or just¡­ lying around in these convenient little boxes!¡± She tosses me a rod. ¡°Here, help me pry this open!¡±

    ¡°This feels a bit ¡ª uh, sudden,¡± I comment as we walk up to the front of the bank and stand next to the ATM. I notice a guy stepping out of his car nearby, and immediately pausing upon catching sight of us. He starts to reach for his phone.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine ¡ª use that freaky strength of yours for once!¡±

    I can¡¯t believe I¡¯ve been dragged out of bed at such an ungodly hour to destroy a downtown transfer machine. This is ridiculous.

    ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± I tell her.

    Chloe ignores me, winding up and slamming the metal rod into a gap between the concrete wall and the ATM¡¯s plastic casing. The casing itself splinters, but doesn¡¯t break.

    Chloe starts trying to lever the casing off the wall while that guy I spotted a second ago shoots concerned glances at us and starts whispering into his phone.

    ¡°Chloe. That guy¡¯s literally calling the police.¡±

    ¡°What kind of ¡ª hrng ¡ª supervillain ¡ª guh ¡ª are you, anyway?¡± She¡¯s not having much luck with the casing.

    ¡°Are you sure you do this all the time?¡±

    She huffs, and I¡¯m not sure whether it¡¯s from frustration or exertion. ¡°Usually I go to the one a little ways out. But this place is new, and we don¡¯t even have to drive, so¡­¡±

    ¡°Ugh.¡± Chloe lets go of the rod. ¡°What a bust. Gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way¡­¡±

    I glance over at the bystander. The police likely won¡¯t be here for another few minutes.

    Looking back at the ATM, I flex my left hand. Still three pressure boosters. And I guess if I¡¯m gonna be a supervillain¡­

    ¡°Where¡¯s the money stored?¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± Chloe stares at me in confusion from under her thick rimmed goggles. ¡°Uh. In a case around here, I guess,¡± she says, waving to an area behind and just below the keypad.

    I grip the metal rod in my left hand, and pull that arm back, taking a solid stance. Then, I activate the pressure booster.

    A muscle in my arm contracts harshly, spitting out a cloud of steam and intense force. I hear a heavy bang, the shriek of torn metal, and a car alarm going off somewhere nearby.

    ¡°Holy fuck, what the hell was ¡ª¡°

    The metal rod is driven into the machine at an angle, so I let go of the makeshift weapon and lift my right leg over it.

    I activate a second pressure booster, propelling my leg against the rod and embedding it into the concrete hard enough to shatter the material around it and rip the internals out onto the sidewalk.

    ¡°Oh my god, what in the goddamn fuck did you do ¡ª¡° Chloe coughs, waving smoke from her face. I do the same, and as it slowly clears, I can see a couple large trays attached to some kind of mechanical array sitting in the open air.

    They aren¡¯t in good condition, but the money itself seems fine.

    ¡°Woah.¡± Chloe breathes. ¡°That¡¯s fuckin¡¯ awesome.¡±

    I barely hold back a grin. ¡°The cops are coming, stupid. You brought a bag for a reason, right?¡±

    Chloe does grin, shoveling cash into her sack as the sound of sirens echoes between steel buildings some distance away.

    ¡°Y¡¯know, monster girl, maybe you¡¯re not so bad.¡±

 Chapter 3.5

    3.5

    ¡°Today, I¡­ summoned something. It calls itself Beelzebub, a name I am painfully aware is a vague reference to a creature described often in demonology, and occasionally in biblical works. It¡¯s a thing of flies and rot, and speaks with a voice more similar to the stirring of insects than any actual speech.

    The implications of this development are more than a little concerning. Does this thing call itself Beelzebub because I learned the name some time ago, and it is drawing from my subconscious? Or does my power allow me to access a legitimate plane of fire and brimstone, where creatures bear names identical to that of biblical monsters?

    Or is there another explanation?

    If nothing else, the creature has an appetite. It¡¯s cleared my entire fridge by now, and I¡¯ve yet to leave it alone for more than ten minutes.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 6, page 14

    We meet back up with the crew the next day, in order to discuss the plan. We need a way to convince a large number of people of the validity of the service, transport those people to me as discretely as possible, somehow ensure their safety after the procedure is complete, all while avoiding detection from the leader of one of the city¡¯s largest gangs.

    Already a tall order, but the main issue is logistics, and by extension, protection.

    I have a couple ideas, but I¡¯m far from being an expert, so I want the input of the people actually affected. And this way, I¡¯ll be able to complete the procedure on the rest of them as well.

    Everyone ended up opting for it, especially after hearing Gordon¡¯s glowing testimony, and I¡¯m more than willing to oblige.

    Chloe and I stroll into the house sometime in the evening, after the others have already arrived. They seem to be deep in a tense silence, shooting the occasional glance at Mikey.

    I¡¯d considered ejecting him from the operation on the grounds that he¡¯s a likely security risk, but it¡¯s his house, and it¡¯ll probably be better to keep him close by, anyway. For now, we¡¯ll just have to deal with the blow to morale.

    ¡°So Mikey,¡± I start off casually, ¡°got any snacks around here?¡±

    He groans. ¡°Check the pantry.¡±

    Maybe I will. While Chloe settles onto the couch in the living room and starts chatting up the other visitors, I wander over to the kitchen and start digging through the closets.

    It¡¯s a lot of junk food, which is fine for me since I usually end up converting the calories directly into the material I need, but I¡¯ll have to remember to pick up something more filling next time. Maybe I can get Chloe to give me some tips on grocery store theft.

    I grab some bags of whatever and wander back to the sitting area.

    ¡°¡­casings on the ATMs over there, it¡¯s a huge pain in the ass!¡± Chloe¡¯s in the middle of saying, apparently regaling Sarah with our little adventure yesterday. Sarah looks a little disturbed actually, with the admittedly kind of visceral descriptions of crime coming out of Chloe¡¯s mouth.

    I sit down next to her, and distribute the bags onto the living room table.

    ¡°¡­and then Claire just winds up and then out of nowhere there¡¯s this woosh ¡ª¡°

    ¡°As entertaining as this is,¡± Ava interrupts, ¡°we¡¯re here for business, aren¡¯t we?¡±

    Chloe pouts.

    ¡°Yeah, we are,¡± I acknowledge. ¡°Sorta. The goal is to detox as many people in Cook¡¯s sphere of influence as possible. I think requiring payment would be counterproductive.¡±

    Ava nods, a little hesitantly. ¡°I understand the reasoning, but it¡¯s gonna be a hard sell. ¡®Free procedures¡¯ around here are usually just a euphemism for mad scientist guinea pig jobs.¡±

    I grimace. ¡°Hopefully, as we get the ball rolling, we¡¯ll become more credible by way of word of mouth. The first ones should be the hardest.¡±

    ¡°The first ones might not be as hard as you¡¯re expecting, y¡¯know,¡± Gordon comments, snagging a chip from a nearby bag. ¡°People are desperate. Desperate people do stupid things. It¡¯s why mad scientists put out offers like that anyways.¡±

    Ava snaps her fingers, pointing in his direction. ¡°Good point. Might be a good idea to lean into that, as well. People will be less suspicious if they think they know what¡¯s going on.¡±

    ¡°Good to know,¡± I comment. ¡°Ah, do any of you have a notebook or something¡­?¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± Chloe announces, pulling a sketchpad from a pocket behind her. She pats around for a pen, and yanks out a worn-down black one from her jacket pocket. ¡°Want me to take notes, right?¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± I reply.

    ¡°As for the actual process¡­¡± Ava mutters. ¡°It might be better to take you to the¡­ patients, I suppose, rather than taking them to you. What do you need in order to do it?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, if I stock up beforehand.¡±

    ¡°Good. We can arrange a time and place in person, and have you come out to their house, or somewhere they feel safe. It should help receptiveness, as well as obfuscate our operations to an extent.¡±

    ¡°Scheduling is gonna be a pain,¡± Gordon comments.

    ¡°We should have a coordinator,¡± Ava determines. She turns to look at me.

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    I blink. ¡°Do you want to do it, Ava?¡±

    She adopts a confused expression. ¡°I ¡ª ? No, I was deferring to the leader of the operation. You should make the decision, or coordinate yourself if you¡¯d like.¡±

    ¡°Mm. That¡¯s not how I¡¯m seeing it,¡± I scowl, shaking my head. ¡°I¡¯m the distributor ¡ª the product. I don¡¯t have any experience in micromanagement.¡±

    ¡°Want me to write that down,¡± Chloe murmurs, a sarcastic lilt coloring her voice.

    ¡°Please don¡¯t.¡±

    Ava pauses for a beat, almost like she¡¯s expecting me to retract my statement.

    ¡°¡­I can handle coordination and scheduling. It¡¯ll give me something to do, anyway.¡±

    ¡°Perfect,¡± I smile.

    She sighs. ¡°The next issue, I believe, is protection. How are we going to guard the, ah, patients?¡±

    ¡°¡­Actually,¡± I say, hesitantly, ¡°we might not have to.¡±

    Chloe gives me a look. ¡°Claire.¡±

    ¡°Let me clarify ¡ª I¡¯m not saying we shouldn¡¯t take measures to ensure we¡¯re prepared for combat, I¡¯m just saying maybe combat shouldn¡¯t be our priority.¡±

    Ava crosses her arms. ¡°Mhm. A direct confrontation likely wouldn¡¯t go well.¡±

    ¡°Then what¡¯s your plan?¡± Gordon asks.

    ¡°The lower a profile we keep,¡± I explain, ¡°the less we¡¯ll have to put into weapons, or defensive personnel. A militia isn¡¯t feasible at the moment, so instead, if we have the patients return to their normal duties, we can detox people without raising suspicion.¡±

    Gordon makes a face. ¡°We¡¯ll have repeat patients. A lot of them.¡±

    ¡°How often did you check whether anyone else the cell took the drug, when you were distributing,¡± I ask.

    His expression turns slightly thoughtful. ¡°¡­Never, I don¡¯t think.¡±

    I nod. ¡°The only real issue is that people will still end up distributing. If we manage to expand operations effectively, at some point there won¡¯t be anyone to distribute to, and the issue will solve itself.¡±

    Chloe snorts.

    ¡°Bit optimistic,¡± Gordon comments.

    I scowl. ¡°¡­Maybe. Still, it works as an initial defense that doesn¡¯t require so much manpower.¡±

    I brush back my hair, stretching my arms and being careful to avoid hitting Chloe beside me. Maybe I should go on a walk or something.

    Across the coffee table, I catch sight of Ava staring at me.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just ¡ª¡° she starts, stops. Starts again. ¡°You really think we¡¯re doing this.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean ¡®think¡¯?¡± I frown.

    She¡¯s silent for a moment.

    ¡°You know, most supers in this city start a gang for the money, or the power or whatever.¡±

    ¡°Not a gang,¡± I protest.

    ¡°Never heard of a gang that does charity work,¡± she continues, ignoring me. ¡°It doesn¡¯t seem sustainable. Gangs in the city survive by eating each other. How are you gonna do that while you¡¯re trying to help people?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why it¡¯s not a gang.¡±

    Ava chuckles, and rubs her hand against her temples. ¡°I need a smoke. Back in five.¡±

    She hauls herself off the couch and heads out onto the porch.

    I huff. ¡°Okay. Anyone want, I dunno, coffee? Tea? A glass of water?¡±

    I get a couple of responses in the affirmative, and get up to start preparing some drinks.

    ¡ª

    I¡¯m in the middle of putting on a kettle I found collecting dust in the back of a cabinet somewhere when Sarah approaches me.

    ¡°Yo. What¡¯s up?¡±

    She leans over the counter and puts her chin in her hands. ¡°You¡¯re, uh. Weirdly chill for a supervillain.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been a ¡ª a supervillain,¡± I say, trying not to stumble over the word, ¡°for less than a week at this point. Plus, we¡¯ve met before.¡±

    She blinks. ¡°Really? When?¡±

    ¡°I used to, uh. Distribute. I went by Alex?¡±

    Sarah narrows her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re ¡ª you were ¡ª what? Is this superhero bullshit?¡±

    I nod, digging around in another cabinet trying to find some teabags. ¡°Basically.¡±

    She hesitates for a moment. ¡°Huh. Do you still go by Alex?¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± I grunt, reaching farther back and snagging a box. ¡°I prefer Claire.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Cool.¡±

    A beat as I pull out the box and set it to the side for now. Next, I take to searching for some glasses. Does Mikey organize anything around here?

    ¡°¡­Claire,¡± I hear from behind me, and there¡¯s a tone to Sarah¡¯s voice that sets me on edge. ¡°¡­I don¡¯t know if I can do this whole gang thing.¡±

    Not a gang. I just barely keep from blurting out my kneejerk reaction, mostly for one reason.

    She sounds like she¡¯s about to cry.

    I stop reaching into the cabinet and turn to look at her.

    Sarah¡¯s head is bowed, and her hands are clasped over the countertop, trembling just slightly. I can¡¯t make out her expression, but I can make an educated guess.

    I have literally zero experience actually comforting people. Livvy never did like to tell me when anything was wrong, and Sera usually preferred journaling to any human contact. I feel a little like I¡¯m flying blind.

    Still. I think I can do something.

    I take a moment to plan my approach. Then, I move around the counter to lean next to Sarah.

    ¡°Hey. Look at me, alright?¡± I say, voice deliberately softer.

    Sarah turns to look. Her makeup¡¯s running ¡ª I¡¯ll have to grab her a tissue in a moment.

    For now, I try to inject as much earnestness as I can into both my face and my voice.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to do anything you don¡¯t want to,¡± I state honestly.

    She sniffles. ¡°¡­Are you sure¡­?¡±

    I smile, sardonically. ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll manage. You shouldn¡¯t have to worry about it.¡±

    Sarah huffs out a wet laugh. ¡°That¡¯s fair. Sorry¡­¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t apologize,¡± I tell her. ¡°Here, let me go find a tissue box.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°So, how are we handling funding?¡± Ava asks, all business once again.

    Maybe the smoke break helped convince her.

    ¡°I dunno,¡± I answer. ¡°I think it depends on the scale of theft Chloe thinks we can pull off.¡±

    Chloe pauses her note-taking to crack her neck. ¡°When it was just me, I made it a point to be sporadic about it. We¡¯ll still need to keep a lower profile, which will be our main bottleneck, but the individual jobs could probably increase in scope. Might be able to hit somewhere closer to the industrial district¡­¡±

    ¡°How much are we thinking, for just one job?¡± Gordon asks, sipping on a hot mug of tea. He tries to hide it, but I can tell he¡¯s burnt his tongue.

    ¡°Won¡¯t know until we pull one, but on my own it was around 20K on the higher end.¡±

    Silence.

    ¡°¡­Twenty thousand dollars?¡± I choke out. ¡°Where did it all go?¡±

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°You try getting your hands on that much in cash, you find ways to spend it quick.¡± She puts her pen to her lips.

    ¡°Can¡¯t do more than one of those every few months, though, so more like 5k monthly.¡±

    Ava seems to take a breath.

    ¡°I can work with that.¡±

 Chapter 3.6

    3.6

    ¡°First attempted heist, final notes;

    Could have gone better.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 8, page 39

    The hiss of a spray can is harsh against the almost-silence of the city, bouncing around and reflecting back in on the small alley where I swing the canister around madly at a small backing of cardboard.

    My old suit lays on top, equipment and all. Separated out, of course, nothing¡¯s gonna stick if I can help it. Still, minimal effort.

    I swing the spray can again, carving another bright red streak across the formerly glossy black uniform.

    Ugh. It¡¯s exhausting, it¡¯s annoying, and it has to be done in an hour because someone couldn¡¯t be bothered to tell me we were doing anything important today; ¡®oh by the way, what are you gonna wear?¡¯ Seriously?

    God. It¡¯s been like three days, and I¡¯m already robbing a bank.

    The red spray paint coats on thick enough to dribble down, leaving smaller trails of crimson along the suit. I toss the can and pull out a darker shade.

    I already emptied the thing¡¯s pockets. Vincent¡¯s notebook, a number of calorie bars that I intend to save, and the mask.

    The scuffed, broken thing I used way back then. It rests off to the side now, far enough away that I won¡¯t get paint on it.

    I considered replacing it.

    Not happening. I¡¯m lucky I got out with any kind of keepsake at all.

    The darker shade gets layered on top of the lighter one, no attention paid to the creases or gaps left in between, where the red cuts off, giving way to a stark black. The dark red blends in nicely.

    It looks a little like blood.

    I toss away the can, grab the suit and shake it out a little. The paint drips, flakes and crinkles in between the compound fabrics. The thing is less decorated, or painted and more completely ruined. The only part still intact might be the structural integrity ¡ª it¡¯ll stop a knife. Or a bullet.

    Perfect.

    I scoop up the suit, the belts, pockets, tonfas, and my mask, and head back to the shack

    ¡ª

    Chloe whistles as I step out from the shack, fully armed and mask hanging at my hip.

    ¡°Wow. That¡¯s some high-tech shit you got going on, there. Is that a flexible carbon-fiber compound?¡± She asks, and I have to bat her hand away while she starts trying to poke the fabric over my midriff.

    ¡°I have no idea. Doesn¡¯t seem to help as much against blunt force trauma as I¡¯d like.¡±

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t,¡± she agrees. ¡°That¡¯s what the plating is for, right? It¡¯s still a fabric, no structural integrity. Should help prevent shrapnel from projectiles, and it¡¯s usually perfect against cutting implements¡­¡±

    I trace my hand over the scuff marks closer to my hip.

    Back at the raid, the one targeting Vincent¡­ I got shot then, and I didn¡¯t bother to analyze the wound, but¡­

    The resulting tear is minimal. It looks like the bullet just barely punctured the suit, going far enough to rupture skin and draw blood apparently, but not far enough to do any lasting damage.

    ¡°Huh.¡±

    ¡°Alright, enough gawking. C¡¯mon, we¡¯re taking ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Stop. If you tell me we¡¯re taking that fucking monstrosity you have in the back alley, I am running away,¡± I state.

    Chloe smiles.

    I am not fast enough.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Ha haha!!¡± Chloe shouts, taking a turn sharp enough to grind the vehicle¡¯s tires against the pavement and spit up enough smoke to cloud our vision.

    ¡°Yes! I missed this!¡± She declares, taking a hand off the wheel in order to wave it around and immediately making my heart drop in response.

    ¡°Hands on the wheel!¡± I counter, desperately gripping the feeble railings on either side.

    She doesn¡¯t. Instead, she laughs maniacally and makes another hilariously dangerous turn.

    The tires screech, the metal chassis shrieks, and I can barely hear myself think over the sound of Chloe¡¯s clockwork vehicle emitting harsh clangs and sharp ticks every second.

    It¡¯s built more like a small go-cart than a proper vehicle, and from what I can tell it¡¯s powered by an enormous spring bank strapped to the back of it, topped with a cartoonishly over-sized toy crank.

    Upon hearing my request, she¡¯d dragged me behind the shack, ordered me to turn the thing two full rotations, dumped me in the back seat and taken off.

    I still have no idea what the plan is, actually.

    ¡°Hey!¡± I shout. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?! You didn¡¯t tell me!¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah!¡± Encouraging. ¡°It¡¯s nothing special! The bank we¡¯re going to ¡ª it¡¯s at the edge of downtown! Low payout, low security! They practically expect it to be robbed!¡±

    ¡°Only issue is, of course,¡± she shouts, swerving past an oncoming vehicle, ¡°that they expect it to be robbed! Last time I checked, there was a standard-issue Brightheart alarm installed on the desk! We¡¯re gonna get in, then make a beeline for the button!¡±

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Sounds more than a little risky. ¡°What happens if we don¡¯t make it in time?!¡± I call out over the cacophony.

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll have five minutes before a Brightheart Association hero arrives at our location!¡± Another harsh drift around a corner and through an intersection. I thank whatever god is up there that traffic is so sparse today.

    ¡°How confident are you that you can take on, say, Splash Zone?!¡± Chloe asks, turning around to look at me quizzically.

    I¡¯m sure my eyes must be bugging out of my skull. ¡°Eyes on the road!¡±

    I can¡¯t tell over the noise, but I think she snorts. Mercifully, she turns back around.

    ¡°Well?!¡±

    I pause. Splash Zone¡­ conditional hydrokinesis, average track record¡­ usually seen dealing with small scale petty theft and optics tasks. I think.

    ¡°¡­We could probably take him!¡±

    She nods. ¡°Good! How about Lancer?!¡±

    I scowl. He was at the riot. Some kind of remote-case super dealing in sporadic instances of extremely effective weapons tech.

    ¡°Probably not!¡±

    Chloe tilts her head. ¡°Stellara!¡±

    I begin staring holes through the back of her head. ¡°Are you fucking with me?!¡±

    She laughs. ¡°We¡¯re coming up on the bank now! Just follow my lead and we¡¯ll be fine!¡±

    The vehicle seems to speed up as a large commercial building bordered in bright red and proudly displaying the bank¡¯s logo up top comes into view.

    Chloe waits until the last second to wrench the wheel sideways, sending the vehicle skidding across the parking lot and screeching to a halt next to the front door.

    I let out a wheeze.

    Chloe steps out of the car and slings her bolt gun over her shoulder, and I scramble to follow, slipping my mask over my face.

    The suffocating feeling is almost nostalgic.

    Chloe strides confidently, ignoring the panicked looks she¡¯s being shot through the glass doors. She walks right up to the entrance, raises a steel-toed boot, and lashes out.

    Both of her boots are clad in some kind of rusty iron contraption, one that extends violently as she kicks forward, bending the metal doorframe and shattering glass.

    People scream and start running for the exit, and a number of guards struggle to draw their weapons.

    Four of them, at first glance. Chloe has no armor.

    I break into a run, boots hitting the tiled floor with heavy thunks until I manage to slide into place in front of her.

    The guard closest to us finally manages to level his gun and fire off a desperate shot. The crack echoes, my ears ring, and the bullet ricochets off my chest-plate, jerking my shoulder back.

    Chloe barks out a laugh. ¡°My knight in black leather armor!¡± She drops into a crouch, hefting her bolt gun and firing off a shot.

    The bolt expands in mid-air, tackling the guard in a tangle of steel cables.

    She lowers the bolt gun, changes targets, and refocuses.

    Bang. Another bolt wooshes through the air, small strips of metal along the sides flying outwards as it leaves the barrel and deploying another large net of cables.

    At this point, the remaining two ¡ª no, three, I¡¯d miscounted the first time ¡ª guards are starting to get the message, and I still need to keep the fire off of Chloe.

    I lean forward and start another sprint towards the guard near the center of the lobby.

    My gambit pays off.

    Her eyes widen, and she raises her weapon. I hear two shots, one glancing off  my left shoulder plate, the other grazing my thigh. No one¡¯s aiming at Chloe anymore.

    I just barely manage not to stumble from the impacts, and the instant I close in on that first guard I snatch the gun from her hands and kick her in the chest.

    She goes down, and I turn just in time to watch another net bolt clobber the guard farthest from me.

    The last guard starts visibly trembling as I advance. ¡°Fuck, man,¡± he mutters.

    I pause. Can¡¯t I just¡­?

    ¡°Drop the gun and we¡¯re cool,¡± I order.

    He grits his teeth. ¡°No can do, kid.¡± He grips his weapon and aims it in my direction.

    I tilt my head. ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°Bank policy. Sorry.¡± And then he fires.

    Or tries to, at least. Right as his muscles tense and his arms jerk into motion, an expanded net bolt captures his arms, tangling them around and sending him spinning to the tiled floor.

    Chloe follows up quickly breaking into a dead sprint towards the counter and the cowering bank teller.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, Red! Alarm, remember?!¡±

    I curse, and follow her over.

    She immediately vaults over the counter-top, shoving aside the teller and crouching down to look at something under the desk.

    ¡°Dammit,¡± Chloe mutters, dragging a hand down her face while I stare down from over the desktop.

    ¡°Too late?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says, jumping up and jogging towards a door in the back. ¡°Follow me, we¡¯ve got five minutes to crack the safes and get out of here.¡±

    She stops to slam the but of her gun against the door¡¯s handle, snapping it and swinging the door open. I quickly follow her into a room lined with polished lock-boxes, built into the walls.

    I snort to myself. What, no giant vault door?

    Hearing Chloe digging through her pockets, I turn to her. ¡°So. What now?¡±

    She pulls out a crowbar ¡ª not a full-sized one, more like something that¡¯s been cut in half for ease-of-transport ¡ª and hands it to me. ¡°Start cracking safes, I¡¯ll pull out the valuables.¡±

    ¡°Ah. How many?¡±

    ¡°Until I say stop,¡± she grins. I roll my eyes, grip the crowbar in both hands and jam it forcefully into the nearest gap in lock-boxes.

    The metal crumples, and the tool pierces easily. Experimentally, I yank downwards on the bar, tearing out the metal tray and letting it hit the carpeted flooring with a thunk.

    Chloe snatches up the tray and starts picking through the contents. ¡°Great! Just about two hundred more in here to go!¡±

    I groan, and pry open another box.

    From what I can tell by idle glances, most of this stuff is documents, and stuff. Only occasionally will we come across a hefty amount of cash.

    Guess it¡¯s a good thing we can comb through these so quickly.

    As I¡¯m wrenching apart flimsy metal cases, a thought crosses my mind.

    ¡°That guard, back there. Said something about bank policy?¡±

    ¡°Oh, when he was trying to shoot you?¡± Chloe asks, sifting through a particularly dense case. ¡°Yeah, they¡¯re required to put up a certain amount of resistance. Still, once you put them down, they¡¯ll stay down. Perks of the contract, I guess,¡± she snorts.

    ¡°They¡¯d risk their life for a security guard job?¡±

    ¡°Jobs aren¡¯t easy to get, and if you break the contract you get blacklisted.¡± She shrugs. ¡°S¡¯just how it is. C¡¯mon, I think we got enough.¡±

    Chloe seals her pockets, kicks aside some stray boxes and marches out into the lobby.

    And then she stops. I peek around her to try and see what¡¯s going on.

    A man stands in the center of the lobby, seemingly analyzing the scene. He¡¯s wearing an almost skintight yellow suit, wrapped in stark black stripes and only revealing the slightest hint of armoring under the bright patterns. The suit rises into a full cowl, adorned by a pair of futuristic rounded goggles resting over his eyes.

    His head snaps around to stare at us as soon as we exit the room.

    ¡°Damn,¡± Chloe mutters. ¡°That was not five minutes.¡±

 Chapter 3.7

    3.7

    ¡°The summons are telling me that I am quote, ¡®weak and squishy,¡¯ and that I should quote, ¡®claim thy strength¡¯. I don¡¯t think they understand quite what they are talking about.

    Still, better efficacy at hand-to-hand combat would be useful. I don¡¯t know how much I will be able to learn over a shorter time frame, but I don¡¯t expect this to be a quick endeavor.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 8, page 9

    I rack my brain, combing through hours upon hours of background news stories trying to identify this guy. His suit¡¯s definitely memorable, there¡¯s no way I would have missed him, but ¡ª

    I¡¯m coming up blank.

    I unhook my tonfas.

    Yellow Suit Guy notices, and quickly shifts into a more threatening stance. ¡°Stop! Under Article 6 of the Bennet Accords, Brightheart incorporated reserves the right to ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Beeline,¡± Chloe mutters under her breath, hefting her bolt gun and scanning the exits. ¡°High mobility, brief invulnerability, low impact. Dodge and scram.¡±

    ¡°Bit on the nose,¡± I whisper back.

    She chuckles, and Beeline wraps up his monologue.

    ¡°¡ª Will be detained! Drop your weapons!¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± Chloe says, unclipping a net trap from her belt. Beeline drops into a runner¡¯s stance just as she sends it skidding across the tiled floor.

    The net springs, and we bolt, immediately sprinting towards the front entrance. I shoot a glance back in time to see the net touch Beeline ¡ª and then fall through him as a bright yellow flash of light erupts and suddenly he¡¯s standing on the other side, unimpeded.

    I narrow my eyes. Teleportation? Intangibility? Either would be a pain to deal with.

    Chloe kicks open the glass doors, cracking them against the outer concrete walls, and we both practically throw ourselves into her jerry-rigged vehicle.

    Back inside the lobby, I watch Beeline start to run.

    I hear a clank from the car¡¯s engine. It doesn¡¯t start.

    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon, not now!¡± Chloe growls.

    I glance at her nervously. ¡°Did you break something?¡±

    Beeline reaches the front doors, and slams them open with both hands.

    ¡°Of course not! Just gotta¡­¡± She shoves something into place with another metallic thunk.

    The engine whirls, crying out in a flurry of mechanical clicks, and the wheels grind against the tarmac. The vehicle explodes into motion, moving just fast enough to speed past Beeline as he erupts into another blinding flash and a brilliant yellow beam spears out from where he was standing.

    We reach an intersection, Chloe drags the car into a sharp turn, and I watch the beam flash again, restoring Beeline at the end of it.

    ¡°Did we lose him?!¡± Chloe shouts, and I see another flash.

    A yellow streak of light shoots out past the intersection, briefly blinks back into a humanoid shape, and bursts into another blinding stream, this time chasing us down the street.

    ¡°No!¡± I inform her. Beeline¡¯s shining form casts a harsh glow across the surrounding buildings.

    Chloe grunts, and takes a hard left, tires screeching against the pavement. Beeline is fast, and even as he pops back into existence to reorient, he¡¯s gaining on us quickly.

    ¡°Keep taking those turns!¡± I shout, hauling myself out of the seat and planting my boots on either side of the chassis below me.

    Beeline approaches, rapidly closing in on the back end of the vehicle and slowly coming closer to the road ¡ª

    Chloe takes another violent turn, and I drop down, slamming my tonfas against the railings for support.

    I look up, and Beeline blinks back into place in the middle of the road, whips his head around, and bursts back into his light form.

    I blink. Does he need to be looking?

    Refocus. Either way, he¡¯s still gaining, that maneuver didn¡¯t gain us more than a second of leeway.

    This close to the back of the vehicle, light against the surroundings seems more dim ¡ª like taking a photo next to a lamp. The exposure is distorted, and I can feel a steadily increasing heat, even under my mask.

    ¡°Can¡¯t shake him ¡ª we¡¯re on a highway! No more turns!¡±

    I swear under my breath. I need some way to throw him off track ¡ª

    The blooming star in front of me snaps, and Beelines boots emit a clang as he clings to the back of the car.

    Our eyes lock. I can¡¯t see his eyes, but his lips are set in a firm line.

    He throws the first punch. It¡¯s sloppy, but obviously considered enough to not throw him off-balance. I brace my legs and pull up a tonfa, deflecting the blow. Quickly, while his other limbs are occupied with holding on to the car, I lash out with my other tonfa, striking him in his chest.

    My heart drops into my gut as soon as he lets go ¡ª the blow was enough to dislodge him out of shock if nothing else, and I watch in almost slow motion as he falls backwards, mouth dropping open as he turns his head to stare at me ¡ª

    A bright flash, a second later, and again he¡¯s gripping the car¡¯s railings at the back.

    I grit my teeth. He needs to look at where he¡¯s going, right?

    This time, I throw the first punch.

    I drop down, throwing out a strike to his gut. He reacts immediately, seemingly on-guard, now, and pulls in his left arm to block.

    I pull back the tonfa and strike again, watching as this time he winces, shifts his position, and grabs the tonfa at its base.

    I jerk the weapon, experimentally. It slips, slightly, but not enough to dislodge it. The rumble of the clockwork machine underneath reminds me that any unnecessary harsh movements would be unwise.

    Shit. Beeline grunts, and takes a heavy step up the back of the vehicle.

    Reinforcing my grip on the tonfa, I lean backwards, dragging him closer, and throw a couple strikes to his skull.

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    He tenses, yanking on my other weapon and twisting his neck to avoid the attacks, all the while keeping his face trained on me.

    ¡°Red! Any longer and he¡¯ll have reinforcements!¡±

    I grunt. Time¡¯s up. I¡¯m beginning to think I should do something drastic.

    ¡°Just give up! You¡¯ll be given a lighter sentence if you stop resisting!¡± Beeline shouts.

    He¡¯s close enough that I think he¡¯s getting spittle all over my mask.

    My head is throbbing, my legs are killing me, and I feel my resolve start to crumble.

    ¡°Get off ¡ª¡±

    I grunt, pulling back my tonfa and slamming it into his gut.

    ¡°The fucking ¡ª¡°

    Another grunt as I strike again, in the same area, and he tries to move his arm to block.

    ¡°Car!¡±

    I pull back the tonfa, but instead of going for his gut, I aim higher. The stick cracks against his jaw, twisting his head sideways from the impact ¡ª

    He reels, and I seize the opportunity. I yank back harshly on the tonfa he¡¯s holding onto, lift my leg, and kick him in the chest.

    Beeline falls, his leg cracks against the tarmac, and he disappears into a beam of light aiming straight into a nearby alleyway.

    ¡°Go, go, go!¡± I shout.

    ¡°You lost him?!¡±

    I watch as a flare of yellow erupts from the alleyway, even as we keep gaining distance. ¡°Yeah, for now! Drive!¡±

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ll drive alright,¡± I think I hear Chloe mutter over the roar of the clockwork engine.

    Abruptly, the straightaway ends, and Chloe makes another harsh turn ¡ª we¡¯re visibly entering an area closer to downtown. The roads wind more, and shortcuts become dirtier and harder to track. Slowly, I stop seeing flashes of light at random intervals coming from just behind us.

    Finally, I let out a slow breath, watching the buildings speed past. No sign of any heroes. I can¡¯t even hear sirens.

    ¡°I think he¡¯s gone,¡± I call out.

    ¡°Thank fuck.¡±

    ¡°¡­What now?¡±

    Chloe grunts. ¡°We¡¯re stashing the car. Can¡¯t be too careful.¡±

    I sigh, and settle down in the back seat, letting the wind brush against my hair.

    ¡°Are you sure we can¡¯t just¡­ get a job?¡±

    Chloe barks out a laugh. ¡°You¡¯re ambitious, I¡¯ll give you that!¡±

    ¡ª

    Large stacks of tied-together banknotes, antique watches, jewelry, assorted paperwork and important-looking documents ¡ª there¡¯s more variety than I was expecting, especially seeing it all laid out on Chloe¡¯s desk.

    To be fair, I¡¯m not entirely sure what I was expecting.

    ¡°And we¡¯re just gonna¡­ sell it?¡±

    ¡°Not all of it,¡± Chloe explains, running through her pockets yet again and somehow finding another trinket that she sets down onto the desk. ¡°I¡¯m gonna need to sort through it all and find out what¡¯s valuable. The money is fine, obviously, just need to sell it to someone who can remove the marks.¡±

    She lifts a stack of banknotes off the table and flips through them. ¡°The jewelry is a little more complicated. Can¡¯t sell all of it at once, and it needs to be appraised. I¡¯ll try and do an initial pricing myself, and separate it into groups, take each group to a different shop.¡±

    I step closer to the desk, combing over the assortment of items.

    ¡°And the¡­ the documents?¡± I ask, inspecting a decorated one near me that seems like¡­ a title? For a vehicle, it looks like.

    ¡°Sometimes you get contacts that go out-of-city, and they usually like that sort of thing, but it¡¯s not consistent,¡± she mutters. ¡°If I can¡¯t find one, there¡¯s a couple people I know that specialize in ransom, and they¡¯ll pay to get a hold of basically anything irreplaceable.¡±

    I blink, and turn to her. ¡°¡­Ransom?¡±

    Chloe nods, sorting through some of the remaining documents. ¡°Yeah, withholding personal documents or other items for money.¡±

    ¡°No ¡ª I know what ransom is, I just ¡ª is this ethical?¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°This whole superhero schtick better not be infectious.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°I¡¯m serious. I don¡¯t wanna steal the deed to someone¡¯s car or whatever¡­¡±

    ¡°Too fuckin¡¯ bad,¡± Chloe grunts. ¡°That¡¯s how things work around here. You want money, you gotta take it from someone else.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°Was it at least a rich people bank¡­?¡±

    ¡°Rich people banks have two minute response times, not five. Too high profile.¡±

    I don¡¯t respond.

    Chloe¡¯s eyes soften, slightly. ¡°Listen, I¡­ I know it sucks. Not everything¡¯s gonna be as clean as you want it to be.¡±

    ¡°You just gotta push through. Keep going. Okay?¡±

    I grunt, and cross my arms. ¡°¡­Sure.¡±

    She smiles. ¡°Great! Now help me sort the trinkets!¡±

    I huff, plopping myself down in the chair next to her. ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re not like, half bird, or half raccoon, or something?¡±

    A chuckle, as she starts picking through our haul. ¡°Trinkets are universal, Claire. Everyone likes trinkets. It¡¯s the one thing everyone can agree on!¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll start sorting by metal ¡ª or color, at least, some of them might not be legitimate.¡± Her hands are deft, confident as she easily slides bits of jewelry out and into their respective piles, seemingly knowing from a glance what they¡¯re likely to be made of.

    I start poking through my own section, and find it¡¯s more difficult than I expect. My hands are hesitant, slow to pick out the brass from the gold, the silver from the pearlescent. I make my way through, carefully.

    The child¡¯s hands, off to my right, dart out and snag something valuable from the desk. I turn to look at the interruption.

    A shorter kid, dressed in almost-rags and covered in soot up to their elbows., hair stained black down to the roots and smudges dotting their face.

    They snag another trinket.

    I frown. ¡°Hey.¡±

    They look up, and tilt their head.

    ¡°You¡¯re getting soot all over it, it¡¯ll be harder to sell. Here,¡± I say, grabbing a nearby cloth and gently taking the ring from their hands. I polish it quickly but thoroughly, and start to hand it back.

    The kid reaches, and I pull back slightly. They stop, grab the rag instead, and carefully take the ring and slip it into one of their many pockets.

    ¡°See? There you go,¡± I smile.

    ¡°Who¡¯re you talkin¡¯ to?¡± Chloe mutters absently, completely absorbed by her task.

    ¡°Dunno,¡± I answer. Then, I go back to picking through stolen jewelry.

    It doesn¡¯t take too long, with all three of us working at it, even as Chloe demands we switch to cataloging pieces that are more likely to be legitimate. Every so often I ask her about a piece I¡¯m holding, and she¡¯ll explain properties that might point her towards a specific decision.

    Most of it flies over my head, but it¡¯s relaxing after the adrenaline rush earlier.

    We¡¯re nearly finished, when I heave a short sigh. ¡°I should probably do some maintenance.¡±

    Chloe tilts her head, not looking away from her inspection. At some point, she¡¯d started using the magnifier attached to the edge of her desk, and spending longer with each piece.

    ¡°What d¡¯you mean?¡±

    I don¡¯t think she¡¯s listening, but I explain anyway. ¡°A large portion of my body is made up of custom structures; more efficient muscle construction, bone supports, stuff like that. Stuff that isn¡¯t included in my DNA.¡±

    ¡°Whenever a custom structure breaks down, my body attempts to rebuild it in the image stored in my DNA, adding on obsolete structures to the crafted ones,¡± I say, stepping back from the desk and moving towards the more homely end of Chloe¡¯s shack.

    ¡°If I want to keep my modifications, I need to either alter my DNA to include them, or I need to use my power to constantly repair them. DNA is too complex for me to work out, so I go with the upkeep method.¡±

    I lean back on the couch, making myself comfortable. I¡¯m going to be sitting here for a while.

    ¡°It¡¯s mostly only necessary if I¡¯m doing a lot of physical activity and my muscles degrade, or if I take an extensive injury during a fight, I have to use my power before I¡¯m anywhere near full operating capacity.¡±

    ¡°Hm. You should keep that to yourself from now on,¡± Chloe mutters.

    I blink. ¡°But you asked¡­?¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°No, I mean ¡ª that information is sensitive. Don¡¯t go telling the specifics of your powers to someone you can¡¯t trust.¡±

    I hesitate.

    ¡°¡­I trust you.¡±

    A pause.

    Chloe snorts. ¡°Sure.¡±

    ¡ª

    The self checkup goes well, initially. Only minor repairs seem necessary. My muscles obviously need tuning, after that much exertion, and a quick run-through with my standard modifications seals anything I might have missed. For a moment I consider trying to re-implement the blade I used during my escape.

    Then, I notice something. Dotted around the outsides of my brain, which is likely why I didn¡¯t notice it ¡ª I try to avoid changes to my psyche out of principal. Still, this is so intrusive that I have no idea how I haven¡¯t been experiencing immediate effects.

    A thin lattice of¡­ something, spreads its way along the space between my brain and my skull, dotted with a few small nodes connecting it.

    Experimentally, I try to destroy a chunk, checking to see if my power spits out an error ¡ª it would tell me if doing anything was directly dangerous, at least.

    Nothing. The section of the lattice dissolves easily, and nothing else happens.

    I destroy the rest of it, and deactivate my power. What could that possibly have been? It seemed intrusive, but I haven¡¯t noticed anything changing about my mental state, and Chloe didn¡¯t seem to notice anything either ¡ª

    Wait. I narrow my eyes. That kid¡­?

    ¡°Hold on ¡ª !¡±

 Chapter 3.8

    3.8

    ¡°This would be easier if I had help. I can¡¯t involve innocents, I know this, but sometimes the task before me feels insurmountable.

    I know it would be worse for anyone else. I have acquired power that no-one else has access to; it would be irresponsible not to take advantage of that.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 3, page 52

    ¡°I can¡¯t ¡ª how did I not notice her?!¡±

    ¡°Them,¡± I correct absently. The kid didn¡¯t exactly introduce themself. ¡°It¡¯s superpower bullshit, probably best not to dwell on it.¡±

    The¡­ normalizing effect, for lack of a better word, isn¡¯t permanent, thankfully, and as soon as I brought up our mysterious thief, Chloe seems to have adapted.

    Sort of.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen them like five different times, too! Oh my god, the jewelry ¡ª that¡¯s like a thousand dollars down the drain!¡±

    Chloe collapses to the floor of her shack, devastated. I think it¡¯s only partially an act.

    I shrug. ¡°We can always do another heist.¡±

    Chloe shoots me a glare from her spot on the floor. ¡°An hour ago you were puking your guts out after we had to fight one guy!¡±

    ¡°I get carsick!¡±

    ¡°You do not! You were fine in the van!¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Honestly, kid looked like they needed it.¡±

    A sigh. ¡°Yeah. Maybe. We weren¡¯t going to be arming people anytime soon, anyway.¡±

    ¡°Guess not,¡± I reply, scowling faintly.

    ¡°So. Where do we sell all this?¡±

    ¡ª

    A week passes quicker than I expect. It¡¯s¡­ odd, not having access to the internet, or any of the amenities of the USMC tower. I¡¯m forced to make my own entertainment, especially while Chloe¡¯s busy tinkering at her desk.

    At some point she pulls out a welder, and I decide it would be wise to make my escape.

    The shack itself is surrounded by a fairly abandoned street corner, so finding a nice rooftop isn¡¯t difficult. I find I like the view.

    For the most part, I work on ease-of-use for my power. It got a¡­ boost, I guess, after my fight with Rook. It seems like it¡¯s just efficiency, so I have to eat less when making changes, and the threshold for modifying my body without consuming existing energy is lower. I can make bigger changes faster without as much loss.

    It still doesn¡¯t solve my core problem, which is that I can¡¯t use it while in combat. Or while doing anything, really. I¡¯m lucky that so far no one¡¯s been able to take advantage of my mid-combat spacing out, but I know that it isn¡¯t going to last.

    I spend my time letting myself sink deep into my power¡¯s trance-like state, and attempting to move. The most I can manage is forcefully breaking the trance, which isn¡¯t helpful.

    When I¡¯m not trying (and failing) to forcefully develop a new aspect to my power, I¡¯m keeping up maintenance on the part¡¯s I¡¯ve already modified, and considering some additional ones. The blades, for example, aren¡¯t as useful against weaker opponents. I don¡¯t want to kill anyone.

    Against Rook, though, it was invaluable. And maybe the intimidation factor will help me end fights quicker.

    I¡¯m not particularly convinced by my own arguments.

    For the finished product, I¡¯m beginning to think that past me had the right idea, not designing an extension system. It¡¯ll hurt, but modifying my arms so that they split easier, and just regenerating them later would save me a lot of time and headache. Plus, they would be faster to deploy, which could be life-saving in an emergency.

    Much to think about. Another time.

    I come up from my power, brushing my hair aside. The sunset isn¡¯t usually visible in Westpoint, but, well. Roof.

    It¡¯s another reason why I chose this spot.

    The city still glitters.

    I shake my head. Better get back to the shack before dark.

    I stand, waving my arms and legs around to disperse any lingering aches, before turning and wandering my way back down through the building. It¡¯s an old, crumbling thing, and as I cast my gaze along the cracked walls I consider relocating next time I need a quiet spot.

    Not exactly OSHA compliant around here.

    The shack is quiet when I arrive, Chloe¡¯s just hanging up some of her tools, and she shoots me a grin when she sees me step inside.

    ¡°Yo. We should go visit your buddies tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Buddies?¡± I question, frowning.

    ¡°Yeah, buddies. Goons, henchmen, whatever you wanna call ¡®em,¡± she says, waving a hand. ¡°See if they¡¯ve made any progress.¡±

    We¡¯d left the house about a week ago, and I¡¯d asked if Ava had anyone she thought would want a¡­ checkup? I¡¯m not totally sure what to call it. Regardless, she¡¯d said she would look into it.

    ¡°Should really get a phone,¡± I mutter.

    ¡°Too traceable. Even your goons having one is a little iffy.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not my goons.¡±

    Chloe raises an eyebrow. ¡°Sure?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not! I don¡¯t have goons! I have volunteers!¡± I protest, falling back onto her couch.

    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Volunteers you enticed with a life-changing medical procedure,¡± she points out.

    I pause. ¡°¡­Is it really a medical procedure?¡±

    ¡°Semantics, Claire,¡± she counters, rolling her eyes.

    I let the silence hang, for a moment.

    ¡°Is this really okay?¡± I ask, voice smaller than I would like. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know how else I can protect them. If I do the procedure and any of them leaves the gang, they¡¯d be hunted down immediately. I can¡¯t let that happen.¡±

    Another pause, this time not from me.

    ¡°I¡¯m not condemning you,¡± Chloe finally responds, swiveling her stool to face me. ¡°I¡¯m just saying¡­ face reality. This is how things are. Don¡¯t deny it.¡±

    I sigh, and close my eyes.

    ¡°¡­They¡¯re my goons¡­?¡±

    ¡°Damn right. Now go the fuck to sleep, we¡¯ve gotta visit your goons tomorrow.¡±

    ¡ª

    We walk to Mikey¡¯s house. I almost ask why we don¡¯t take Chloe¡¯s car before I remember where it is. And how loud it is. And dangerous.

    I¡¯m half-tempted to start spending that heist money on an actual vehicle.

    The walk isn¡¯t actually that bad. Ten minutes at most. Standing out in the middle of the street with my hair feebly hidden under a baseball cap, though, is giving me some serious anxiety.

    ¡°Are you sure there isn¡¯t a better way to do this?¡± I pester.

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°Just dye your hair or something if it bothers you so much ¡ª actually, can¡¯t you just, like use your power and change colors anyway?¡±

    I scowl. ¡°No! I like my hair. I worked very hard on it!¡±

    ¡°Really.¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡±

    She snorts. ¡°Well, it gives you presence, so I guess there¡¯s that.¡±

    I huff. ¡°You can¡¯t talk. You put gears onto all of your gadgets.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s part of my power!¡±

    ¡°Really,¡± I counter, smirking.

    ¡°You¡¯re the worst!¡± Chloe announces, throwing up her hands and all but shoving me onto Mikey¡¯s porch. We barge into his living room still bickering about aesthetics.

    ¡°You just can¡¯t handle the style,¡± I tell her, ignoring Mikey¡¯s outraged stare as I waltz into his kitchen and start raiding the fridge.

    ¡°What style? You look like an OC I drew in eighth grade.¡±

    I mock-gasp. ¡°You ¡ª !¡±

    ¡°Girls,¡± Ava sighs, leaning against the wall in the living room. ¡°Let¡¯s remember why we¡¯re all here.¡±

    I peek my head over the refrigerator door. ¡°¡­Sorry.¡±

    Chloe snorts. ¡°Whatever,¡± she mutters, parking herself onto the couch. I follow behind, taking a seat next to her. Looking around the room, I notice Sarah and Gordon are absent. It sends a twinge of worry through my gut that I try to repress. I really need to get a phone.

    I take a sip from the drink I¡¯ve stolen. It¡¯s some kind of sparkling water. Mango flavored¡­?

    Not something I would have expected out of Mikey. The man is currently trying to scowl me off his property.

    ¡°So. What do you have for me,¡± I say, turning to Ava.

    She sighs. ¡°No one wants to bite. Not really. I¡¯ve floated the idea ¡ª subtly ¡ª but half the time people think I¡¯m joking. Only ones who go for it are the truly desperate. Not usually my crowd, but¡­¡±

    Ava takes a drag. She¡¯s already smoking, of course.

    ¡°We take what we can get. I¡¯ve got a candidate ready whenever you are, but from there it¡¯ll just be by word of mouth. You¡¯ll have to gain a reputation before you start doing anything on a larger scale.¡±

    I frown. ¡°A reputation would be bad. I don¡¯t particularly want to be noticed.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to if you want to expand this thing without kidnapping people of the street,¡± she points out. I scowl.

    Ava thins her lips. ¡°With any luck, you¡¯ll be talked about more like a fable; stay under the radar that way. Regardless, I¡¯ve only been able to get a couple bites, so you¡¯ll be doing them one-by-one for now.¡±

    ¡°Fine. When can I meet them?¡±

    ¡°Today, actually. We can head over in a couple hours.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. She doesn¡¯t usually have much going on.¡±

    Cryptic.

    ¡°Alright. Anything else?¡±

    Ava shakes her head. ¡°Not yet.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°Okay, uh. One more thing.¡±

    ¡°¡­Does anyone have an extra phone?¡±

    Chloe chokes on nothing. Ava sends me an aggrieved stare.

    ¡°No, seriously ¡ª I wanna keep up-to-date on things ¡ª ¡°

    ¡°Here.¡±

    I blink. What ¡ª ?

    An object sails through the air, and I catch it on instinct. A phone¡­?

    ¡°It¡¯s a burner,¡± Mikey grunts. ¡°Do whatever ya¡¯ want with it. I¡¯m gonna go take a shit.¡±

    The man heaves himself off the couch and wanders down the hall.

    ¡°That¡¯s new,¡± Ava mutters, taking another drag of her cigarette.

    I mess with the burner phone, trying to find the power button. It¡¯s an older model, it looks like, but I manage to turn it on and everything seems to work.

    ¡°D¡¯you think it¡¯s bugged?¡± I ask, not really expecting an answer.

    I get a pair of shrugs in response.

    ¡°Well. I guess it¡¯s fine for now,¡± I decide. ¡°Let¡¯s go see that patient.¡±

    ¡ª

    Ava has a car. Thank fucking god. I don¡¯t know how she does it.

    It¡¯s not exactly a brand-new vehicle, but it looks well-loved ¡ª a bit beat-up, but nothing if not reliable.

    ¡°Get in, kiddies. Don¡¯t touch my dashboard,¡± she warns, casting an accusatory glance at Chloe. The girl in question attempts to look innocent.

    Her success is arguable.

    The drive is short. Ava actually seems to take us deeper into the downtown area, crossing through abandoned construction zones and buildings crawling with rust.

    I take note of how comfortable she is driving in the rockier areas. Does she come here often? Where does she find the time? Maybe she lives somewhere nearby?

    Taking another look around, I hope not. Where the downtown area closer to Chloe¡¯s shack had a ramshackle vibe to it, this place feels actively dangerous. It¡¯s all shadowed overhangs and sharp, rusty edges.

    We stop near a crumbling residential area, Ava motions us out of the car, and we follow her up to the entrance. She slowly pushes the door open.

    ¡°Maeve? Are you here?¡± She ducks around the corner, and swears; Chloe and I follow close behind.

    The house is grimy, and it¡¯s current occupant isn¡¯t any better. The woman¡¯s practically wearing rags, slumped against the far wall like a marionette. Ava crouches down next to her, gently touching her cheek to push her face forwards.

    My breath catches in my throat.

    ¡°Hey. Hey, come on, are you alright? Come on¡­¡±

    The woman¡¯s eyes flutter open. She looks kind of out of it.

    She mumbles something, and Ava sighs. ¡°Standard medical practice goes out the window here. Are you¡­?¡± She turns to me, hesitantly.

    It takes me a second to understand what she¡¯s getting at.

    ¡°Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I was gonna do a full checkup anyway.¡± I dip into my power, extend a thin needle of bone, and slowly slide it into the woman¡¯s wrist.

    She¡¯s not¡­ injured, really. I have no experience with substances, and my power only really tells me the function and chemical makeup of biological matter, but it seems like she has a large amount of mundane drugs in her system. Cook¡¯s synthetic stuff is present, but in less amounts than I expected.

    She¡¯s also severely malnourished, and suffering from some kind of chronic illness. I¡¯m not sure I can remove that permanently.

    I relay all this to Ava after I do a quick sweep, removing some of my own fat stores to fuel a quicker process, remove the substances from her body, tweak her brain chemistry, and bring her back to peak health.

    Ava grunts as I remove the needle. ¡°So she¡¯ll be okay?¡±

    I pause. ¡°No? She¡¯s going to be well-fed for like, a day, and then everything¡¯s going to come crashing back down unless she gets some kind of stability.¡±

    Ava shoots me a glare. ¡°You know what I meant.¡±

    I don¡¯t respond.

    It was so¡­ easy. It took me all of two minutes to clear almost every medical condition this woman had.

    The thought makes me sick.

 Chapter 3.9

    3.9

    ¡°Finally, I have convinced Beelzebub to tell me of his origin. What he tells me is not¡­ unexpected, exactly. Still, I hesitate to take his word as fact. Regardless of the strange¡­ aesthetics of my ability, I acquired it the same way everyone else does; or so I assume.

    Is it more likely that Beelzebub is a construct created with a world of demonology in mind? Or is it perhaps more reasonable that out of all of the supers with a theme, an aesthetic that goes beyond marketing, that only mine is real?¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 2, page 23

    It doesn¡¯t take long for Chloe to sell all the shit sitting around in her little shack. She tells me it¡¯s because stuff like that is better sold as fast as possible ¡ª less evidence if you get bagged.

    I think she just noticed the not-so-subtle glances I¡¯ve been giving it for the past couple days. It¡¯s difficult to not feel bad, especially after sifting through all that jewelry and seeing the unique designs, engraved names, worn-down edges and insides.

    It¡¯s not their actual value I¡¯m worried about. Financially, everyone we stole from will have lost basically nothing, I know that. Banks in Westpoint legally aren¡¯t allowed to let you sign on unless you use an insurance policy; one which they usually provide, for a fee.

    Dad used to complain about it all the time. Said the policies cost more than the stuff you keep in there anyway, and anything he didn¡¯t want to lose he just kept at home.

    Obviously, not everyone agrees with him, considering the sheer amount of distinctly sentimental stuff lying on that desk.

    At the same time, it¡¯s startlingly easy to¡­ not dismiss, exactly, but ignore the vague feeling of guilt I get from it. It¡¯s for the greater good, right? From a purely utilitarian standpoint, the harm I¡¯m inflicting is greatly outweighed by the good I¡¯m doing ¡ª saved lives has to be worth a couple missing rings, surely.

    I sound like ¡ª like a supervillain. I sound like a supervillain, and I can¡¯t really find it in me to be broken up over it.

    Well. Maybe I should work on being less dramatic.

    While Chloe¡¯s out selling some of the legal documents we stole, and I¡¯m lounging in the corner of her shack, the burner phone chimes. I roll over and snatch it from its place on the floor.

    It¡¯s a number I don¡¯t recognize, but that¡¯s to be expected. I can tell by the wording of the message, it¡¯s from Ava.

    She tells me to meet her on the corner of a street, just a little ways from here. She doesn¡¯t specify why, or how, really.

    Probably for the best. I¡¯m pretty sure I know what this is about.

    I roll further, off the couch and transitioning into a march towards the shack exit, picking up my hat and glasses along the way.

    Trucker hat, sunglasses, tank-top and jeans. Perfect attire to perform supernatural miracles for the general populous in.

    Chloe isn¡¯t exactly a fashionista, but I¡¯ll take what I can get. We¡¯re already similar in build, and wherever we¡¯re not I end up adjusting using my power.

    She insists we go steal me a new wardrobe. I¡¯ve been having little success stalling that particular idea.

    I step out onto the street, checking the address. It would be a long walk for a mundane person, but with my stamina it¡¯s practically nothing. I check the street for cars, and then set out.

    The sun stands high in the sky today, and I¡¯m somewhat glad for the sunglasses ¡ª even the crumbling buildings around here have shattered glass or large window panes lying around, reflecting giant spots of light across the ground.

    I spot Ava standing at the intersection before she sees me. Keeping my steps light, I sidle up next to her.

    ¡°Yo.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t startle, which has me scowling internally. Instead, she calmly looks over, flicking her cigarette onto the street.

    ¡°You ready?¡±

    I huff. ¡°Yeah. Who is it this time?¡±

    She turns, and stalks into a nearby building. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡±

    I don¡¯t reply. The place is abandoned, again. I¡¯m starting to wonder if there¡¯s more decrepit buildings around here than usable ones.

    That¡¯s probably not an incorrect assumption, actually.

    Ava walks in, and nods at an elderly man lying on a couch nearby. He pulls himself upright, and stares at me.

    I try not to shuffle.

    ¡°This the chick?¡±

    Ava rolls her eyes. ¡°This is the, uh¡­ Doctor I told you about,¡± she says, sliding me a glance.

    I shoot her a glare. She shrugs.

    Shaking my head, I move to step up next to the couch, and stop when the old guy seems to tense.

    Hm.

    ¡°Do you¡­ give consent to a general wellness body modification¡­?¡± I ask tentatively.

    It¡¯s Ava¡¯s turn to shoot me a look, apparently.

    ¡°It¡¯s the principle.¡± I mutter.

    The older man sits up a little straighter. ¡°Sure, man. Whatever you want.¡±

    I nod, and take a knee next to him. Dipping into my power, I quickly eject a bone needle, and move to take his arm.

    His eyes widen, and he jerks away. ¡°Woah, what ¡ª what in the fuck is that?¡±

    I frown. ¡°It¡¯s superpower bullshit, and it¡¯s gonna hurt. I don¡¯t have to do it if you don¡¯t want to, but ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Nah ¡ª¡° He chokes out. ¡°Nah. It¡¯s ¡ª it¡¯s fine. Get it over with, lady.¡±

    A sour feeling curdles in my gut. ¡°Two minutes,¡± I say, gently taking his arm and positioning the needle. ¡°Two minutes, and then it¡¯s done.¡±

    It slides in smoothly. I burn some extra fat from my own stores to make the changes go a little quicker ¡ª they¡¯re small, basic things, so it¡¯s not too expensive. Foreign substances, malnourishment, muscle atrophy. In this case, mild arthritis as well, which I can partially fix.

    Arthritis is sometimes genetic, if I remember correctly, but it usually takes a lifetime for symptoms to build up. Fixing it now should last as long as it needs to.

    After a final check to make sure everything works, I seal the puncture wound and remove my needle.

    The man gasps, retracting his arm and rubbing it with his other hand.

    He seems shocked.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    I walk out before he can say anything. Ava can deal with the ¡ª the fuckin¡¯ networking, or whatever.

    ¡ª

    The days continue to pass by. After another week, I end up going to two more ¡®appointments¡¯, and Chloe finally goes to collect her car. I¡¯m not sure exactly how necessary her paranoia is, but I¡¯m not willing to call her out on something I don¡¯t actually have any experience in.

    Plus, the thing¡¯s a hazard. The longer it¡¯s away from the shack, the safer both of us are.

    The appointments go well. As well as can be expected, considering¡­

    I sigh and lean back into the couch I¡¯ve made my residence these past couple weeks. I can¡¯t help but feel like I could be doing more. Most of my time is spent laying around Chloe¡¯s shack, and I¡¯m starting to feel like a leech. I need to ¡ª to do something.

    ¡°I need a way to get at more people,¡± I mutter.

    Chloe chuckles. ¡°People eater.¡±

    ¡°And I need to do it,¡± I continue, ignoring her, ¡°without drawing attention. That¡¯s our shield, right now, but we still needa¡¯ expand the operation, somehow.¡±

    She hums, but doesn¡¯t respond.

    A series of small clicks from over at Chloe¡¯s work desk catch my attention. I swing myself off the couch, and stalk closer.

    ¡°Watcha¡¯ doin¡¯,¡± I mutter, leaning over her shoulder.

    Her hands, undoubtedly in the middle of a very complex operation involving a number of tangled brass gears, springs and wires, freeze abruptly. She lowers the piece clutched in a pair of tweezers into place, and then sighs.

    ¡°I¡¯m makin¡¯ stuff, Claire.¡± She adjusts the magnifier arm so that it rests closer to her project.

    Looking closer doesn¡¯t really shed any light on the thing¡¯s purpose for me. It really is kind of a tangle of metal scrap, loosely falling out of a brass¡­ shell? There¡¯s a couple metal rings laying nearby, as well as some kind of glass lens.

    ¡°What¡¯s stuff?¡± I ask.

    She huffs out a laugh. ¡°It¡¯s a pocket-watch.¡±

    I squint. ¡°Why¡¯re you makin¡¯ a pocket-watch¡­?¡±

    ¡°I went and finished repairs and maintained all my other shit, so¡­ gotta make somethin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°That right?¡±

    She turns, and gives me a side-eye. ¡°You ever have a thing you just¡­ gotta do? Not all your, like, bleeding-heart shit. Something personal.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Touched a nerve?¡±

    ¡°Ugh.¡± I lean back, dragging a hand down my face. ¡°Nah, jus¡¯ remembered. Left my fuckin¡¯ guitar.¡±

    ¡°Uh. Huh?¡±

    I make a one-eighty, grab my hat and glasses, and make to slip out the door. ¡°Imma go steal an axe.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna what? Hold on, it¡¯s like ten after nine ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s fine,¡± I tell her, trying to compose myself at least a little for the trip. ¡°It¡¯ll be quick. In an¡¯ out.¡±

    She huffs. ¡°You don¡¯t even know where it is, dude.¡±

    ¡°I do!¡± I protest. ¡°It¡¯s uh.¡±

    Very quickly I realize that I only know how to reach the guitar shop from my house in the suburbs.

    I scowl.

    Chloe chuckles. ¡°C¡¯mon, I¡¯ll take you.¡±

    She herds me out the door and onto the darkening streets. The roads themselves are lit with a stark wash of fluorescent light dotting the sidewalks, but especially downtown the lights are seemingly always flickering, or off-color, or straight-up missing. The lights never usually reach the alleyways, anyway.

    Chloe leads me to the guitar shop in relative silence.

    It¡¯s nice. Aside from the sirens echoing between buildings, and the distant sound of gunshots. Or explosions.

    City¡¯s lively tonight.

    We step into the guitar store, and the familiar jingle overhead feels almost welcoming.

    ¡°Welcome to Jack¡¯s, be with you in a sec.¡± I hear a familiar voice from the front desk, the store clerk that helped me buy my first guitar. I¡¯m pretty sure the old guy¡¯s been working here since I was born, and he¡¯d always give me a wave when I came in to buy extra strings, or pedals or whatever.

    I sigh. The theft plan isn¡¯t looking as appealing, now.

    I¡¯m about to start perusing the aisles of instruments when I notice who he¡¯s talking to at the desk.

    I freeze. Livvy¡­?

    She¡¯s not in her hero outfit, but it¡¯s obviously her over there, with ¡ª is that my guitar? On the desk in front of her?

    Without turning around, I flail a little and grab Chloe¡¯s arm, dragging her into a nearby aisle.

    ¡°Wh ¡ª Claire?!¡±

    Livvy¡¯s head whips around.

    ¡°Shh!¡± I hiss, pressing my back against the shelves.

    ¡°What are you doing?!¡± Chloe responds, reasonably.

    ¡°Shut up! I don¡¯t think she¡¯s seen us yet ¡ª¡°

    I poke my head around the shelf and almost run headfirst into Livvy¡¯s crossed arms.

    ¡°Agh!¡±

    She glares. ¡°Red?!¡±

    I start sweating. ¡°Uh. Dunno. Who you¡¯re talkin¡¯ about?¡±

    ¡°You ¡ª !¡±

    ¡°I can see you two need some time to yourselves,¡± Chloe mutters, turning to stalk along the back of the store.

    I try not to cringe as the full weight of Livvy¡¯s attention lands on me.

    ¡°Listen ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Red, wh ¡ª what did you do?¡±

    ¡°I ¡ª¡° My throat feels tight all of a sudden. ¡°I had to do something.¡±

    Her glare softens, a little. ¡°What happened?¡±

    I swallow, glancing over to the front desk. The guy looks distracted, but I make sure to keep my voice low.

    ¡°That Faust guy, the supervillain? It was ¡ª it was Vincent.¡±

    Her eyes widen. ¡°Sera¡¯s dad? That Vincent?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I ¡ª I hadn¡¯t seen ¡®im since she, uh, died, an¡¯ he was saying all this bullshit about, like corruption? And ¡ª¡°

    My eyes are starting to sting. It¡¯s stupid. I¡¯m like five months from being an adult, I should be breaking down like this.

    ¡°They said they were gonna send him to the¡­¡± I wave my hands around. ¡°The Pit. The Panopticon. Super prison, whatever you wanna call it.¡±

    Livvy¡¯s face slowly starts to morph into understanding.

    ¡°You tried to break him out. Fuckin¡¯ hell.¡±

    I press a hand to my forehead. ¡°¡­Yeah.¡±

    Abruptly, I find myself being pulled into a tight hug. ¡°You¡¯re an idiot.¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°Please be careful.¡±

    ¡°I will.¡±

    A sigh, from her. ¡°Your guitar and amp are both over there. I brought ¡®em ¡®cuz I didn¡¯t know how to maintain any of that, and I figured they¡¯d be able to tell me around here.¡±

    I huff a short laugh. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    Livvy pulls back, and fixes me with another glare. ¡°You will find a way to keep in touch.¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± I nod.

    She nods back. Then a small grin splits her face, and she throws a punch at my arm. ¡°Go collect your new girlfriend while I tell Jared you¡¯re not gonna steal anything.¡±

    I scowl and punch her back. ¡°Fuck off.¡±

    Livvy rolls her eyes. ¡°Whatever,¡± she announces, stalking back over to the front desk.

    I find Chloe wandering through shelves at the back of the store, shrouded in a strange amount of darkness.

    ¡°Didja sort it out?¡± She asks.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I grin. ¡°Got my guitar back, too. C¡¯mon.¡±

    ¡ª

    I almost have a heart attack when we get back to Chloe¡¯s shack and I realize I need electricity for the amp to do anything, but she gestures towards an outlet in the corner, and all is well.

    When I ask where the power comes from, she tells me she has a generator.

    I poke my head outside for a moment and catch sight of some kind of gear-laden contraption topped with a heavy-looking crank, spinning and whirring slowly.

    I won¡¯t pretend to understand how that works.

    Thankfully, the amp, the guitar, my pedals, it all still works. The strings need a bit of tuning, which Chloe complains about, but once everything¡¯s tightened correctly, I can just ¡ª

    Play.

    I don¡¯t bother going through any standard practice, or warm-up or anything. I bang out chords, riffs, any bits of songs I half-remember, just an endless stream-of-consciousness. The axe practically growls in my hands, chomping at my fingers after every chord, roaring through every note.

    I miss a note, produce some sort of unholy cacophony through the layers of violent distortion. It doesn¡¯t slow me down, but it does make Chloe bark out a laugh.

    I return it, deliberately launching into a more complex riff, ending in a higher octave, and bringing it back around to land on a hard beat.

    She starts head-banging, a mockery made better by how much effort she puts into it, culminating with a thrown chair on her part and hastily covered instrument on mine.

    By the end, I¡¯m breathing heavy and sweating buckets, and I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve woken up everyone in about a mile radius.

    Chloe drops herself into the stool next to her work desk with a huff.

    ¡°Y¡¯know¡­¡± She says between breaths, ¡°you¡¯re pretty good.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Enthusiastic¡­ I guess.¡±

    We take in the silence, for a moment.

    ¡°Hey. You said you wanted to reach more people, right? Without anyone noticing?¡±

    I tilt my head. ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Dude. You got the perfect excuse, already.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    She grins. ¡°Get on stage, baby.¡±

 Chapter 3.10

    3.10

    ¡°Of course I¡¯ve considered leaving the city. If I sell the house, get rid of my belongings¡­ I¡¯m sure my wife left behind some of her jewelry. It¡¯s likely I¡¯d be able to gather more than enough to visit the Transport Station. Hell, if I was feeling bold, I¡¯d summon one of the greater demons and scale the blast walls, try and brave the wild, avoid¡­ whatever¡¯s left out there.

    I¡¯m not going to do that. My daughter lived here. My daughter died here.

    I will do the same.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 2, page 41

    Think about it. The advice Chloe gives me before we tuck in for the night is vague, to say the least.

    I¡¯ve never played at a venue, before. At home, music was usually an annoyance. I¡¯d try and play it at midday, on the weekends, any time when my parents were out of the house and the neighbors were least likely to be home. It never really registered as something I could¡­ perform.

    Not my main concern, regardless. Music as a cover for treating patients?

    It feels like there should be some reason it doesn¡¯t work. After rolling out of bed the next morning and grumbling something resembling a greeting at Chloe¡¯s shambling form, I shoot Ava a probing text. She¡¯d probably know better than me.

    I take the time to grab breakfast from Chloe¡¯s mini-fridge and stumble out onto a nearby roof to try and wake myself up.

    I¡¯ll let Ava handle it, I decide. She¡¯s smart. For now, I¡¯ll focus on myself.

    Speaking of which, I try to recall the mental notes I¡¯d posted last time I tried to use my power while moving.

    It hadn¡¯t been going very well. The limitation seemed like something fundamental ¡ª my power¡¯s efficiency got a boost after the incident at the USMC headquarters, but its flexibility remains the same.

    I still don¡¯t know why that happened, or else I would try and make it happen again.

    As frustrating as it is to admit, it seems like I¡¯ve hit a wall.

    I huff into the cold morning air, tearing into a half-frozen breakfast sandwich while I watch the sun crest over the looming skyscrapers off in the distance.

    Maybe I need another approach. I activate my power, descending into the familiar red trance, but instead of making any active changes, I just¡­ watch.

    I move my attention towards my brain and take the time to observe.

    I have no idea how powers work. Obviously. I don¡¯t think anyone really gets it, in spite of the rambling posts you sometimes come across on some of the local forums.

    Still. There has to be at least some grounding in reality, right?

    No, of course not. Supers are by definition, supernatural. We have no idea how they work.

    Something still bugs me, though, analyzing the streams of electrical impulses firing through my gray matter.

    Since I¡¯m perceiving my power at all, especially as additional medical information injected directly into my skull, there has to be a change in brain chemistry, or electrical signals somewhere.

    Maybe I¡¯ve been going about this the wrong way. Obviously, using my power takes up too much brain capacity to use it and try to perform motor functions at the same time. What if instead of trying to reduce my power¡¯s usage, I increase my brain¡¯s capacity?

    There¡¯s a thought. I drop my power and take another bite of my sandwich, flopping down onto the concrete roof.

    It¡¯d have to be something simple ¡ª I don¡¯t need or want to replicate the entire structure, I just need something to handle the information while I take care of more important things, like dodging bullets.

    I sink back into my power, and experimentally, I try to extend out a portion near the end of the brain.

    I stop. My power tells me it¡¯s not workable. Usually, this wouldn¡¯t be much of an issue, I¡¯ve brute-forced things before, but this time I¡¯m more hesitant. If I fuck something up here, it¡¯s basically over. I might not even have the capacity to reverse it.

    Is it because the change is being made actively? Changing my brain using my brain sounds a little recursive. Maybe it¡¯d break down halfway through the process.

    So instead, how about I create the structure alongside my existing brain. A mesh, like that kid¡¯s power made around my brain, with enough simple structures to store information but not complex enough to interfere with usual functioning. I¡¯ll keep it separate for now, and only connect everything at the end, when it¡¯s finished.

    I tentatively start on the design, taking care to insulate the structure against my existing neural pathways, and following my power¡¯s direction religiously to make sure there aren¡¯t any extreme failings.

    It ends up larger than the kid¡¯s neural lattice, and a little thicker, but prodding the connection I prepared at the base of the brain stem tells me it should¡­ function.

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    I don¡¯t connect it yet. Instead, I finish my sandwich and wander back into Chloe¡¯s shack.

    ¡°Didja think about it?¡± She asks, not looking up from her workbench.

    ¡°Sort of. I don¡¯t mind, but I want Ava to sign off on it.¡±

    I can¡¯t see her face from here, but I can tell she¡¯s rolling her eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t be a square, Claire. It¡¯ll be fun!¡±

    I wave her off. ¡°Still need to find a place, and some extra players.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll figure it out. I got a couple spots in mind, anyway.¡±

    I sigh, and check the burner. Ava¡¯s sent a vague text about meeting up in person, along with the address for another patient. She¡¯s suggested waiting until some time tomorrow.

    Well. No time like the present.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna fuck with my brain. If I die, you can keep the suit,¡± I tell Chloe, and get only a distracted ¡®mhm¡¯ in response.

    I plant myself down onto the couch, somewhere I¡¯m sure I won¡¯t fall over and crack my skull open if I pass out.

    I sink. The neural lattice still isn¡¯t finished, even after the basic structure is completed. Really, it¡¯s just a mass of unspecialized neural mass pasted along the inside of my skull, meant to operate more like backup storage than a brain.

    If I hook it up to my noodle now, it¡¯ll probably just disrupt a whole bunch of electrical signals and leave me brain dead.

    I need a gate. Something to decide what information should be passed back and forth between my actual brain and the offloading structure.

    Looking closer, there¡¯s a conveniently high amount of activity near the¡­ I think it was called the Parietal Lobe?

    Skimming textbook excerpts on educational forums during my stint at the USMC isn¡¯t usually the recommended start for neuroscience, I¡¯m sure, but I work with what I have.

    Realistically, If I attach the neural lattice there, or even replace a small section where the signal originates from, It¡¯d process through the lattice instead. Then, I think I can add a gate at another point in the lattice, so I can access the information my power provides whenever I need to.

    Maybe a smaller muscle fiber, or something?

    I don¡¯t really have a notebook on hand to sketch anything out in, but the structure I¡¯m trying to make isn¡¯t that big. I make a couple iterations inside my head, just as a proof-of-concept.

    It¡­ seems to work. My power isn¡¯t throwing any errors yet, especially after the fourth iteration.

    It isn¡¯t even throwing any errors when I feign connecting it to my brain, just to check the validity.

    I don¡¯t know if that means it¡¯ll work the way I want it to, or not. I have no idea whether my power considers permanent changes to my personality, or brain chemistry as harmful, or functional.

    For a moment, I consider putting it off.

    But ¡ª I¡¯d put it off, and then do what? Sit around some more? Drop by a convenience store, or something?

    I need to be doing something.

    It¡¯ll probably be fine. Worst-case scenario, I can reverse it easily enough.

    I deconstruct the previous iterations of my gate mechanism, and hook it up to the neural lattice. It fits fine, and the gate itself functions.

    Only one thing left to do. I can¡¯t relocate my power¡¯s signal to the lattice until it¡¯s connected to my brain, so.

    I don¡¯t sit around and wait for the fear to set in. I focus my attention, burning some extra fat to speed up the process, and ¡ª

    ¡ª

    A twisting, spiralling tower brushes against the sky, mottled and glistening a sickening red sheen. Its roots creep along the shattered rock and dust, gracing the surrounding land with its gentle touch.

    The tower rises, stretches, reaching for something higher than the blackened clouds.

    It opens its eyes, and ¡ª

    ¡ª

    There¡¯s a ringing, in my ears ¡ª no, not in my ears, sound pierces through my skull just fine but in the background a distinct screech accompanies me as I swim through blurry vision and lacking motor skills.

    I ¡ª I think I have a headache.

    Not good. Do we even have ibuprofen around here?

    ¡°¡­laire. Claire! Hey, bitch, are you good?¡±

    Chloe makes her presence known with a non-lethal, but still fairly violent, slap against my cheek.

    I groan. ¡°What¡¯s your damage¡­?¡±

    ¡°You are not gonna talk to me about damage, miss. Had steam comin¡¯ out your ears,¡± she mutters.

    ¡°That¡¯s a fun metaphor,¡± I reply idly.

    She snorts. ¡°Not a metaphor. Literally like, huge puffs of steam ¡ª look, it¡¯s still all foggy around here.¡±

    I glance at the ceiling, and sure enough, the shack seems to have been layered in a quickly-dissipating white cloudy film.

    I pull myself upright. Steam? I burned a little extra fat to speed up the change, so I guess that might be it. I pushed the speed a little, so maybe it only appears when I¡¯m making changes in a rush ¡ª

    A snap, Chloe¡¯s fingers in my face ¡ª I jerk back, startled.

    ¡°Back with us?¡± She asks, expression twisted towards concern.

    Zoning out? That¡¯s not good. Did something go wrong with the procedure? My power told me everything checks out, but that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean there aren¡¯t side effects¡­

    Chloe¡¯s still looking at me. I try to pull myself together.

    ¡°I¡¯m ¡ª I¡¯m fine. I think.¡±

    She frowns. ¡°I dunno much about the stuff you do with your powers, but I¡¯m beginning to think you did something stupid.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I brush her off, reaching for the burner phone I left laying around nearby.

    I click it on. ¡°Ava says to tell you that you¡¯re sick in the head. And also to ask if you know any good spots.¡±

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°Nice little bar over at 12C. Tell her I¡¯ll handle it.¡± Her gaze refocuses. ¡°You gonna be alright for it? Was thinking we¡¯d do it in a few days, but if you¡¯re ¡ª¡°

    ¡°No,¡± I interrupt. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t look convinced, but¡­ ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll hold you to it.¡±

    I let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding. ¡°¡­Thanks.¡±

    ¡°Go fix whatever you did to your noggin,¡± she mutters, waving me off. ¡°I¡¯ll go tell our hosts when we¡¯re coming.¡±

    I nod, and let myself drop back onto the couch.

    ¡ª

    Nothing appears to be wrong with my modifications, when I check them over with my power. In fact, the activity in the neural lattice seems to be at standard.

    And it¡¯s not like I don¡¯t notice the difference. It¡¯s slow, and a little stiff, but as I sink deep in my analysis, I find I¡¯m finally able to pull my limbs into some semblance of motion.

    The zoning out still worries me.

    I try to ignore it. I¡¯ll need to get some rest for Chloe¡¯s little concert.

 Chapter 3.11

    3.11

    ¡°I¡¯ve discovered how my power works ¡ª what it asks of me, in return. At first I thought it to be¡­ logical, specific. I know some supers dabble in technological aesthetics, it didn¡¯t seem like a reach.

    If only I should be so lucky.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 2, page 12

    ¡°I told Sarah you were gonna play a gig.¡±

    I look up from the sidewalk, giving Ava my most unimpressed stare. She is unfazed, as always.

    ¡°Why?¡± I clarify, when no answer seems forthcoming.

    She takes a drag of her cigarette. ¡°She asked. Said she can sing, too.¡±

    ¡°¡­Really?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Up for it?¡±

    ¡°If this is some kind of pity play I¡¯m gonna eat you and then spit you up in an alley.¡±

    Ava rolls her eyes. ¡°No you won¡¯t. You¡¯d fuck up your hair.¡±

    I scowl, even as she lets out a dry chuckle.

    ¡°¡­Are you sure this is a good idea?¡± I mumble. The crisp evening air weaves through nearby buildings.

    ¡°No.¡±

    I huff.

    ¡°Nothing¡¯s ever sure.¡± She eyes me. ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean you should stop. Go get on stage with your friends, have some fun. Might even earn a friendlier reputation, that way.¡±

    I squint at her. ¡°Friendlier?¡±

    ¡°You know what they¡¯re calling you, out here?¡± She asks, smirking. ¡°The Doctor. Ominous, right? You roll in, miraculously heal their wounds, and storm out. Not exactly typical bedside manner.¡±

    ¡°What am I supposed to do, stick around and tell them all about how their condition¡¯s gonna degenerate in a week if they don¡¯t magically acquire a better standard of living?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°It¡¯d save me the trouble.¡±

    Oh. Abruptly, the tension drains, and I sigh. ¡°¡­You¡¯ve been doing that instead of me.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°¡­Do you think I should be doing more?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not in a place to dictate how much anyone should be doing. You¡¯re already past the bare minimum. I¡¯m not gonna fault you for being imperfect,¡± she says, tilting her head.

    I frown. ¡°That¡¯s not a no.¡±

    ¡°¡­Everyone should be doing more. It¡¯s just¡­ not always reasonable to ask of someone.¡± Ava sighs. ¡°Don¡¯t push yourself. You¡¯re a kid. We can talk more after your gig.¡±

    She grins. ¡°Which I will be going to, by the way. Break a leg, or whatever.¡±

    I roll my eyes, hauling myself to my feet. ¡°I won¡¯t be doing that. Try not to be embarrassing.¡±

    Ava laughs. ¡°No promises.¡±

    ¡ª

    The guitar case is heavy against my back as I trudge into the bar. It¡¯s a bit of a seedy place, right on the edge of downtown and the commercial district; close enough to attract some higher-paying customers, but not close enough to have to start paying fees.

    Or so I¡¯ve been told by Chloe, who is currently nowhere to be seen. Maybe she¡¯s backstage or something. Still, it¡¯s not difficult to spot Sarah and Ava chatting with a guy in possibly the rattiest band shirt I¡¯ve seen in my life, at a table near the¡­ playing area.

    It¡¯s not exactly a stage, but the amps are set up to the sides, and there are a couple microphones stashed haphazardly nearby.

    I set myself cautiously in a chair and set the case down beside me.

    ¡°Come on,¡± Sarah¡¯s saying, seemingly trying to whittle the guy down for something. ¡°It¡¯ll be fun! When¡¯s the last time we played together. It was like, a year ago now?¡±

    ¡°I have barely touched a drumstick in that amount of time,¡± he mutters.

    Sarah bumps his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll remember once you¡¯re in front of one, I¡¯m sure.¡± She turns a little, and notices me.

    ¡°Oh! Claire! You¡¯re finally here!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m an hour early¡­?¡± I point out. Ava snorts, rolls her eyes and takes a sip of a small glass she¡¯s nursing.

    ¡°Ah.¡± She seems chastised. ¡°I ¡ª me and a couple friends used to play here, and we¡¯d always show up early ¡®cuz no-one wanted to help us set up. But, well. Guess we got pretty good at it, since we¡¯re already done!¡±

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    I glance over. The setup seems about as good as it¡¯s going to get, to be honest. ¡°Cool. Who¡¯s this?¡± I ask, gesturing at the other guy.

    He ducks his head. ¡°Oh, this is Garrett! He drums, so I figured we could bring him on for the night.

    Garrett nods. ¡°H ¡ª hi.¡±

    He¡­ seems harmless. I stick out my fist, more than a little hesitantly. ¡°Nice t¡¯ meet you.¡±

    He bumps it. Cool.

    ¡°So, uh,¡± I start, trying to find a way to move the conversation forward. ¡°Wanna do a warm-up or something?¡±

    Ava makes a noise. ¡°Got someone for you, before you do.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Sure. Where?¡±

    She nods, taking another sip from her drink. ¡°Got a couple, actually. One near the back, blonde guy, table five. Next is, uh.¡± She pulls her phone from her pocket, and squints at it. ¡°Girl at table two, wearing¡­ a collar?¡±

    I lean back in my chair, gaze sweeping the bar. It¡¯s not exactly empty, but it¡¯s not packed enough for me to have any difficulty finding both patients.

    ¡°Alright,¡± I mutter. ¡°Be right back.¡±

    I stand and turn to head over to table five, tossing a quick ¡°watch my guitar for me,¡± over my shoulder as I go.

    The first guy¡¯s easy. I slide into the seat next to him with little fanfare, and he seems to recognize me as soon as he looks over. His eyes widen, and he jerks back a little.

    ¡°You ¡ª you¡¯re¡­?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Yeah. Do you consent to a full-body modification? Any pre-existing conditions I should know about?¡±

    He settles. ¡°N ¡ª no. Just get it over with.¡±

    I nod, again, taking his hand and slipping a small needle beneath his skin using my power. I can feel him tense, but thankfully he doesn¡¯t move beyond that.

    It doesn¡¯t go quicker, exactly, but it¡¯s getting easier with practice. It doesn¡¯t take longer than a minute for me to go through the full checkup, and extract the needle.

    The guy sighs, shaking his arm out a little, and gives me a look. I¡¯m not quite sure what it¡¯s supposed to mean.

    ¡°¡­Thanks,¡± he tells me, standing from the stable and leaving the seedy little bar.

    I¡¯m¡­ not stunned. But I stay at my seat for a little, just to make sure I have my bearings.

    He thanked me? I don¡¯t¡­

    I decide not to go down that train of thought. It¡¯s not hard to find the other patient, and thankfully this one is less nervous. I slide into the seat next to her while her friends are distracted, and she seems fairly adept at avoiding attention, so even while I sit next to her and stare out into space for a full sixty seconds, no one bothers me until I finish the procedure.

    She doesn¡¯t thank me. I don¡¯t stick around to let her. Before the warm-up, assuming we¡¯re even doing one ¡ª and isn¡¯t that just a disaster waiting to happen ¡ª I head over to the bathrooms. They¡¯re single-stall, thankfully, and I¡¯m able to slip inside and lock the door behind me. I give it a wiggle, just to make sure the lock is secure.

    I sigh, turning to the sink and twisting the knob. Cold water splashes across my hands as I dip them below the porcelain, cupping a small amount of slightly misty liquid.

    I grimace, but figure I can clear any diseases I might catch from grimy bar-water, and splash my face.

    The chill is a welcome shock. I lower my head, resting my hands on either side of the sink and watching water slowly drip down my chin.

    I look up.

    ¡ª

    I don¡¯t think it¡¯s so bad, actually. It means you¡¯re passionate! Driven! A lot of people sort of forget, y¡¯know?

    It¡¯s so easy to stop caring ¡ª things happen every week, it feels like. Why should anyone care about something that doesn¡¯t concern them? The whole city is struggling. No one has the time to care.

    And¡­ you do it anyway. You care. Maybe too much, sometimes, but¡­

    I think that¡¯s better than not at all, don¡¯t you?

    ¡ª

    My grip tightens on the sink edges ¡ª the glossy white cracks under my grip. My eyes are wide in the mirror, irises visibly twitching, and I can see my composure shattering in real-time.

    I didn¡¯t realize¡­ I looked so much like her.

    I¡¯d crafted this body on a whim, assuming I¡¯d be thrown in jail for the rest of my life ¡ª I¡¯d been prepared to throw away everything, and I wanted ¡ª

    I don¡¯t really know what I wanted. I still don¡¯t. Why¡­ do I look like her?

    I lean closer. If my hair was a little shorter, my eyes less piercing, my coloration not so blindingly white¡­

    The mirror shatters. I blink, and my fist is embedded deep into fractured glass, covered in surface-level abrasions. I carefully remove it, trying to avoid the glass shards that detatch and clatter to the floor, ignoring the tremors that seem to shoot through my entire body.

    I bow my head. I take a breath. Can¡¯t fall apart now, I have to keep it together, just a little ¡ª

    Keep it together. Another breath.

    I take a moment to seal my bloody fist, and surreptitiously rinse off the blood under grimy bar water.

    The bar hasn¡¯t changed by the time I return, pushing the door open with one hand and shielding my eyes with the other, but it feels louder, somehow. Maybe it¡¯s becoming busier, as we get closer to nighttime?

    I shake it off, and head back to Ava¡¯s table. Sarah and the other guy ¡ª Gavin? Gareth? ¡ª stand off to the side, messing with some of the equipment.

    I slide into the chair next to Ava. ¡°So. No warmup?¡± Chloe wasn¡¯t super specific about when we¡¯d be starting, and I still haven¡¯t seen her around, but it¡¯s getting later. The concrete outside is beginning to shine that distinct orange that it does towards sunset.

    She shakes her head. ¡°Think of the whole thing as practice, kid.¡± Her cheeks retain a slight flush, and I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯s at least a little drunk.

    I shrug. ¡°Sure.¡± Glancing around, the bar is definitely more crowded than it was before I left the bathroom.

    ¡°Claire! Come on, let¡¯s get your guitar set up!¡± Sarah calls out, waving me over.

    I grab the case, thankfully still where I left it, and wander over to their little area.

    Sarah¡¯s pretty good with tech stuff, I learn. She¡¯s obviously done this before, a lot, apparently, and she seems excited to be on-stage again. She talks about the set-up process in much more detail than is really necessary, and her enthusiasm brings a slight smile to my face. I make it a point to engage, ask questions, even when Guy ¡ª that¡¯s not his name, but I totally forgot what it is ¡ª shoots me exasperated looks over his drum set.

    We finally get set up, and start testing the equipment. The bar¡¯s pretty loud at this point, and it¡¯s not like anyone decides to quiet down at the couple experimental riffs I jam out, but I get a couple whoops from nearby tables, and Geoff ¡ª really, what is his name, it¡¯s kind of embarassing at this point ¡ª interjects with some well-timed percussion, which ends up being kind of fun.

    Before long, the warm-up starts to transition into a weird, sort-of jam session, and when I look up to see Chloe leaning against a table nearby I can feel a ridiculous grin stretching across my face.

    She smiles back, and ¡ª

    Every day since I left the USMC headquarters, it¡¯s felt like the world is ending ¡ª crumbling under my feet with every step. But ¡ª sitting on this shitty stool in a dirty bar at the edge of town, playing nothing with some acquaintances I met last week ¡ª

    It¡¯s nice. For once, nothing is collapsing.

    And then, a man steps from the crowd, wearing a patchwork coat and mask, and pulls out a gun.

 Chapter 3.12

    3.12

    ¡°This city is not a city. It is an arena. One where there are no stands, and the spectators are trapped in the ring.

    Well. They will have their fight.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 2

    Chloe¡¯s eyes widen, I drop the guitar, and we both lunge. Time seems to slow down as the guy hefts his weapon.

    Chloe gets there first. She slams her palm into the rifle, darts forward, wrenches it from his grip and drives the butt into his stomach with a sick thunk.

    He goes down. I glance around, trying to see past the panicking bar-goers, trying to hear over the screams ¡ª there. Two more, near the back. I lock eyes with Chloe.

    She nods, and unclips something from her belt, twisting and lobbing it towards the gunmen. I don¡¯t stick around to watch, but the piercing crack shattering what little calm had settled after the first guy was dispatched tells me it didn¡¯t go exactly according to plan.

    I turn, grab Sarah¡¯s arm, and shove her to our right, pointing at the bar. Garrett, or whatever, is already moving, and he catches Sarah¡¯s arm as she stumbles, pulling her behind the high counter.

    I start to follow, pushing past fleeing customers as they crowd around the exits, when another gunman shoves his way through the clambering mass ¡ª next to the bar.

    I dart forward as he arms himself. He sees me immediately, and the jolt of recognition only seems to spur him into action.

    I drop into a crouch, sweeping out a leg and sending him crashing to the wooden floor. He grunts, scrambling for his fallen weapon.

    Stepping over, I kick it away, and turn to slide back behind the bar, giving his head a good stomp along the way.

    My sneakers slide against the floor, and I slam my back against the counter, breathing heavily. I can still hear gunshots from beyond the feeble barricade.

    I look over. Sarah and Garrett are here with me, clinging to each other and looking petrified.

    I feel the same way, but I try not to let it show on my face.

    Further down the bar, there are a couple other people I don¡¯t recognize, including a shorter kid with scruffy hair and tattered clothes that set off alarm bells in my head, and ¡ª Ava.

    Thank fuck.

    Another gunshot, the thunk of boots on wood, and Chloe leaps over the counter, landing heavily in front of me, swearing.

    She regains her bearing quickly. ¡°Stay back, dipshits! Any of you peek over the fucking counter and I stick rebar between your eyes!¡±

    She hefts her bolt gun, the one she usually only uses nonlethally, aiming over the top of the counter.

    I try to calm my breathing. It¡¯s not working.

    ¡°We ¡ª we need to get out of here.¡± I glance towards the exits. The bar¡¯s empty by now, save for¡­ well.

    The exits are unblocked, for now. I have no idea how we¡¯d reach them without being filled with holes.

    Chloe swears. ¡°I ran out of nets ¡ª we¡¯re pinned down!¡±

    Fuck. I don¡¯t ¡ª I can¡¯t ¡ª

    Boots hit floorboards. They¡¯re advancing.

    ¡°Claire,¡± Chloe starts, turning to me, ¡°can you¡­?¡±

    I close my eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt anyone.¡±

    I hear a sigh, and open my eyes to focus on her face. She settles into a seated position behind the counter, visibly composing herself as she lays her bolt gun across her knees.

    Her eyes are steely when she looks at me. ¡°Claire ¡ª¡°

    Boots hit floorboards. Her eyes narrow, flicking briefly over the counter. ¡°Claire. You can¡¯t back down, now. This is what you signed up for. And ¡ª¡°

    Her voice trembles. ¡°And I know it¡¯s hard. You still have to fight. You want to change things, right? This is the cost.¡±

    The cost. The cost. I don¡¯t know what kind of face I¡¯m making right now, but it must be ghoulish because Chloe¡¯s expression starts to twitch.

    I don¡¯t want to hurt anyone. I¡¯m doing this because I want to help people ¡ª what¡¯s the point of that if I have to maul people to do it? Does the good I¡¯m doing outweigh the harm I¡¯d inflict if I stepped up above that bar?

    Should I really be operating off of such nebulous constraints? Good and evil can¡¯t be empirically measured, so is there really a point in trying to do moral calculus here?

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    I turn my head. Sarah and Garrett still clutch each other tightly, desperately, really. A couple people I don¡¯t know have dissolved into sobs behind the bar, and Ava looks¡­

    She looks almost relieved.

    I grit my teeth. Maybe¡­

    Maybe it doesn¡¯t have to be so complicated. I have people here, now, that need help. So I should help them.

    I lock eyes with Chloe. ¡°¡­Fine. Fine. Don¡¯t flake out on me when this escalates,¡± I grunt, not totally sure whether I¡¯m referring to now, or¡­ after.

    She grins. ¡°I¡¯m counting on it. You go play hero, I¡¯ll get these idiots out of here. Maybe I can come back and take some potshots after.¡±

    I nod. Breathe in. Breathe out. I plaster a fragile smile across my face, turn, and step above the counter.

    There are six gunmen, all wearing patchy coats and wraps. I remember their type, from back at the warehouse. Their rifles still aren¡¯t anything top-shelf, as far as I know, but having them at all kind of speaks to their presence.

    They heft their guns, but hesitate to shoot. Do they recognize me?

    I widen my grin. ¡°What, scared?¡±

    None of them respond, but one of them takes a step back. Seriously? I¡¯m, like, five-nine right now.

    I activate my power and perform a quick internal check. Aside from some leftover scarring over my fist from that little incident in the bathroom that I¡¯ll have to fix later, everything¡¯s in good condition. Muscles, check, half-finished blade, check, all four pressure boosters, check.

    At least the physical portion of this issue won¡¯t be as difficult as the moral one.

    I step down from the bar, taking a couple deliberately slow steps closer. ¡°Hey, if you really don¡¯t want to, maybe you can just pack it up? We can always reschedule.¡±

    I hear shuffling from behind me, and suppress a grimace. I¡¯m still in front of the bar, and the gunmen¡¯s attention is locked to me ¡ª I need to find a way to circle around, or¡­

    One of them seems to finally pluck up the courage, and I don¡¯t bother suppressing the way my lips stretch.

    Perfect.

    The guy stomps forwards, setting his rifle against his shoulder, and I lunge.

    The rest react, lifting their guns while I trigger a pressure booster, letting out a sharp hiss and a small cloud of steam, darting around behind the first guy and yanking the gun out of his grip as I pass.

    He grunts, turning with the motion but failing to hold on to his weapon. I reach up, snaking my arms around his torso and gripping both ends of the rifle as I bar it against his chest before he can turn completely.

    The other gunmen hesitate, which is good for me when I decide to raise a leg and kick him into the gunman to my right, not sticking around to watch them topple as I dart to the left.

    I duck under the man¡¯s instinctive swing with the butt of his rifle, grabbing his ankle and pulling it out from under him. He hits the ground with a thud, and I take a second to kick his gun away and stomp his head into the ground before moving on.

    The motions make me vaguely sick, but the adrenaline coursing through my system overpowers the feeling.

    Three more, plus maybe one of the two that fell over, off to the side.

    The gunman farthest from me manages to raise his weapon before I can slip behind his comrade, firing off a couple shots that light up the room and make my ears ring. Sharp bursts of pain pepper my torso.

    A wide, black barrel aligns itself with my head.

    I twist my neck, ignoring yet another burst of nausea as the gun goes off next to my face, pushing myself onward, gripping the rifle by its smoking barrel and shoving the butt into the man¡¯s face.

    He crumples, and I take the couple seconds until he hits the floor to seal my wounds and stop the ringing in my ears.

    The bullets remain embedded in my stomach, for now. I¡¯ll have to remember to take care of that.

    Two more. Surprisingly, the one closest to me drops his gun, and pulls a combat knife from his belt.

    I blink, but force myself into motion.

    He swipes, grip straight on the blade, aimed at my neck. I pull my arm up, grunting as his arm impacts mine, lashing out with a jab at his nose. He jerks back, throwing out a clumsy kick that still catches me in the stomach.

    I grunt, stepping back, and pivot around so that he remains between me and the last goon with the gun. I take a second to check on the downed guys ¡ª

    They¡¯re still on the floor. A couple are conscious, but the other two look to be out cold.

    I grit my teeth and make a decision.

    Darting forward, I catch knife-guy¡¯s desperate swing on the meat of my left arm, yanking it to the side and firing a pressure booster to power a punch to his gut.

    He folds, and before he can hit the floor I¡¯ve fired the booster in my other leg, leapt to the final gunman, and fired a final booster as my fist impacts his skull.

    I heave a breath and look around. All six down. The bar counter looks empty as well, so it seems like Chloe got everyone out.

    Hopefully. I scowl, and stalk towards one of the back exits. Better to leave now, just in case they sent more. Thankfully, that fight didn¡¯t take long, but I spent all of my pressure boosters, so ¡ª

    A grunt, rustling clothing, the clatter of metal against metal. I whip my head around ¡ª

    One of the gunmen recovered, and he¡¯s aiming his rifle ¡ª

    Bang. There¡¯s a thud as a body hits the floor.

    It¡¯s not mine. I scan the bar, and my sight locks onto ¡ª a kid. Messy hair, ratty outfit, sooty brow. They¡¯re holding an old firearm in one hand, smoke drifting from the barrel.

    I know this kid. I take a step and open my mouth ¡ª

    They turn, make eye contact for a moment, and then sprint out of the bar, letting the door slam closed behind them.

    I grit my teeth. No time to follow.

    ¡ª

    I end up taking the back alleys back to Chloe¡¯s shack, hoping I¡¯m not being followed. I keep an eye out behind me and make sure to take a couple turns in the shadier parts of the city just to be safe.

    After a little while, skating far enough out of the way that I¡¯m certain it¡¯s unlikely for me to be followed, I take a break, leaning against the wall of an alleyway.

    I close my eyes.

    Patches. I recognize those uniforms.

    Cook. Intellectually, I know he escaped imprisonment. He seemed like the type more concerned with efficient criminal organization than anything else. I wasn¡¯t expecting him to¡­

    I don¡¯t know why I wasn¡¯t expecting this. Did I think I could duck my head and everything would work out?

    ¡­The first time I confronted Cook, I was alone. I was ready to throw everything away. I think¡­

    I put my head in my hands. I think I have a lot more to lose, now. Tonight¡¯s only solidified that feeling. If Sarah, or Ava, or ¡ª Chloe. If any of them had gotten hurt because of me, I¡¯d ¡ª

    I can¡¯t lose anyone else. Keeping my head down isn¡¯t working. I need to try something else.

 Chapter 3.13

    3.13

    ¡°I¡¯ve been told I should be keeping a low profile. As you can imagine, this is very difficult for me. I should hope the people of this city appreciate the effort I put into becoming a supervillain. The things I do for justice, truly.

    I kid. I will do what I need to do, no more, and no less.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 3, page 77

    ¡°You¡¯ve been real quiet.¡±

    I grunt.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, tell me what¡¯s on your mind. Is it about last night?¡±

    ¡°Mm.¡±

    Chloe huffs. ¡°I, uh. I know we don¡¯t know each other that well, but. You can talk to me, yeah?¡±

    I roll over on the couch to face her. ¡°¡­Cook¡¯s not going to stop now, is he?¡±

    She winces. ¡°Probably not.¡±

    I nod. ¡°This can¡¯t happen again. It¡¯ll only go worse.¡±

    ¡°¡­Yeah.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°I need more information. I need to be able to track his movements. I need a way to¡­¡± I trail off.

    ¡°We.¡±

    I blink, and Chloe gives me a crooked smile. ¡°You¡¯re uh. Not alone here.¡±

    ¡°Guess not.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡­ what to do with them.¡±

    Ava huffs a laugh. ¡°No one¡¯s ever sure what to do with kids.¡±

    ¡°No, I mean ¡ª¡° I roll my eyes. ¡°The kid just killed someone in front of me. I don¡¯t ¡ª that kind of thing affects you.¡±

    Ava raises an eyebrow. ¡°If you¡¯re feeling that bad about it, I can recommend you a retired psych guy, but ¡ª¡°

    I shake my head. ¡°Not for me.¡±

    She nods. ¡°Ah. Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Mhm.¡±

    Ava leans over, and flicks her cigarette over the railing. ¡°You could just let them go. They¡¯ve survived this long, I¡¯m sure they can handle themself.¡±

    I stare at her, and she laughs. ¡°Yeah, yeah, alright. Why don¡¯t you just go talk to them. They¡¯re a kid, but ¡ª so are you.¡±

    I scowl. The thought doesn¡¯t sit right with me. It¡¯s kind of hard to conceptualize.

    ¡°I¡¯ll talk to them.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°Hey.¡±

    The kid nods. They still haven¡¯t let go of their gun, and no one really seems inclined to take it from them.

    To be fair, I can¡¯t exactly wipe the normalizing effect from everyone at once ¡ª it takes effort to do it to myself, actually, which is why I¡¯ve left it in place. Even knowing intellectually that the kid shouldn¡¯t have a gun, removing it somehow makes its way down my list of priorities.

    At least the safety¡¯s on.

    They look up. ¡°¡­Yeah?¡±

    Their voice is scratchy, rough with disuse. I make a mental note not to push them.

    ¡°My name¡¯s Claire,¡± I offer.

    They blink, and then shrug. ¡°¡­People call me Racc.¡±

    I can¡¯t help the way my lip twitches. ¡°Yeah? Why¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°They say I look like a raccoon,¡± they respond, deadpan.

    I snort. ¡°Is that why you¡¯ve got the whole¡­¡± I wave a hand over my face, ¡°thing going on here?¡± I¡¯d thought the whole ¡®sooty bandit mask¡¯ thing was a bit strange.

    They give me a sickeningly innocent look. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    I think I¡¯m beginning to get a better read on this kid.

    I lean forward, frowning a little. I don¡¯t really want to ask, but the rational part of my brain is suggesting I should.

    ¡°So. What¡¯s up with the gun?¡±

    Their hand tightens around the grip.

    I grimace. Well, if it had to be anyone, at least I can survive getting shot.

    ¡°Not gonna take it from you. I just wanna know what the deal is. Reassure me?¡±

    Racc¡¯s expression doesn¡¯t change much, but their lip twitches downwards. ¡°¡­People do crazy stuff when they think everything¡¯s normal.¡±

    I¡¯m about to ask for an elaboration, but their body language shutters, and they pull the gun closer. I sigh, and leave them to curl up on the bed.

    Okay. Self-defense. I can work with that.

    ¡ª

    ¡°You¡¯re crazy.¡±

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    I groan. ¡°You already think I¡¯m crazy, why are you so surprised now?¡±

    Gordon shakes his head. ¡°Yeah, but ¡ª I¡¯m just reiterating it. It¡¯s important to me that you know exactly how crazy I think you are.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not anything I haven¡¯t done before, you know that,¡± I point out.

    He frowns. ¡°If I remember correctly, that little stunt didn¡¯t exactly go according to plan, did it?¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Nah, it went perfectly. The issue was, fucker didn¡¯t want to stay in jail.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯d better not be trying anything suicidal,¡± Gordon warns, eyes narrowed.

    ¡°What? When have I ever ¡ª¡° He cuts me off with a glare. ¡°¡­It¡¯s not. It¡¯s just recon, I promise. I don¡¯t want anything like back at the bar to happen again, so I need to know what¡¯s going on.¡±

    Reluctantly, he nods. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, alright. I¡¯ve got someone you can talk to.¡±

    ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡°Claire,¡± he says, before I turn to leave. ¡°¡­You¡¯re not the only one who wants that guy to rot in prison. Maybe you could¡­ ask for some favors. Like you did for us.¡±

    I nod. ¡°I¡¯ll think about it.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°Yo.¡±

    The patient looks up from the bench. Once I¡¯ve confirmed he¡¯s noticed me, I slowly take a seat on the bench next to him.

    He nods. ¡°¡¯Sup.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°You consent to full-body modification?¡±

    He nods again.

    ¡°Anything I should know about?¡±

    ¡°Uh. Got some metal in my leg. Is that gonna fuck it up?¡±

    I shake my head and take his hand. ¡°Nah. Ready?¡±

    He takes a breath. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    It¡¯s over in just a couple minutes. The metal plate in his leg is small, and in the end I decide to leave it and the structures around it alone.

    I seal his wound and release his hand. He breathes heavily, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow.

    ¡°Um. Wow.¡±

    ¡°Any questions?¡±

    ¡°What¡­¡± He seems hesitant. I try to relax my posture, make myself look less intimidating. I don¡¯t think it works.

    He continues anyway. ¡°What exactly¡­ did you do?¡±

    ¡°Full check-up, basically. Repairing musculature, strengthening bones, rewiring your brain a little, to remove the primary reason you contacted us. You¡¯re starting from zero, basically. Your body is, physically, perfectly healthy.¡± I nod at his leg. ¡°Except for the plate, but that¡¯s not a huge deal.¡±

    I look down. ¡°It¡¯s not a perfect fix. You¡¯re still human, and you¡¯ll still be affected by your material conditions.¡±

    The guy sighs. ¡°So¡­¡±

    I nod. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°Nah, uh. See ya ¡ª or, uh, not, I guess.¡± He moves to stand.

    ¡°Wait.¡±

    Blinking, he sits back down.

    ¡°I can¡¯t really be everywhere,¡± I start. ¡°But¡­ say you had a chance to contribute to this little¡­ thing, we¡¯re doing. Would you?¡±

    He seems shifty all of a sudden. ¡°I ¡ª is this a protection racket, because ¡ª¡°

    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s ¡ª¡° I sigh. ¡°It¡¯s just a couple favors. You wouldn¡¯t have to do anything you don¡¯t want to.¡±

    Narrowed eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you expect me to trust that.¡±

    I¡¯d roll my eyes if I didn¡¯t think that¡¯d scare him off. If I really wanted to force him into something, I wouldn¡¯t be talking with him.

    Instead, I go with something a little more neutral. ¡°The stuff we¡¯d want you to be doing only works if you¡¯re helping willingly. No use asking some random civilian to kill someone when you can have a professional do it instead.¡±

    Oddly enough ¡ª or, well, not really that odd, I figured being blunt might help ¡ª he seems to relax. ¡°Guess that makes sense,¡± he mumbles.

    I think I¡¯ve almost got him, but ¡ª

    He still needs an incentive. It feels dirty, dangling this over his head, but I really can¡¯t be everywhere. Not yet. Maybe never, if I end up getting assassinated before any of this gets off the ground.

    So, I take a breath. ¡°¡­If you accepted, I¡¯d be in regular contact.¡±

    He perks up. ¡°So you¡¯d¡­?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t smile, but his resolve appears to harden. ¡°Alright. Okay.¡±

    I smile, and pull out a pen and notepad. ¡°Great. Got a phone number?¡±

    He rattles it off, a little absentmindedly. I nod, jotting it down.

    ¡°Ah, and ¡ª what¡¯s your name, by the way?¡± I ask, curious.

    ¡°Duncan.¡±

    My smile widens, and I make sure to make eye contact.

    ¡°I have a feeling this is going to be a very successful partnership, Duncan.¡±

    ¡ª

    I stare at the mirror. I don¡¯t look like Sera anymore.

    I don¡¯t really look like me anymore, either, whoever that¡¯s supposed to be. My hair¡¯s shorter, scragglier, my cheekbones higher ¡ª I look a little like I just crawled out of a dumpster, actually.

    It¡¯s to sell the disguise. I¡¯ll probably end up having to wear patches too, apparently.

    It¡¯s disquieting, seeing a face like that looking back at me. I can¡¯t decide if it¡¯s better or worse than the other one ¡ª the twisted reflection, the poor imitation of my dead friend.

    Why did I do that¡­?

    Revolting. I tear my gaze away from the glass, muss up my hair a little more, and step out of the bathroom. Ava said she had someone for me to meet.

    Mike¡¯s place has been getting more homey, recently. I think he and Gordon have been talking, because the magazines have been sorted nicely in a couple shelves they must¡¯ve dragged in from the shed or something, and some of the clutter isn¡¯t even his. Chloe usually prefers to stay at the shack, but recently I¡¯ve been pretty busy, and it¡¯s more effective to talk in person than it is over the phone, so¡­

    Ava¡¯s standing by the open window, cigarette already lit ¡ª I¡¯m half-tempted to give her another checkup, with how much she smokes ¡ª and another person in a leather jacket and patchy scarf lounges on the couch nearby.

    ¡°Red,¡± Ava greets me. Guess she figures a pseudonym would be safer here? I¡¯m not sure I understand, considering my chosen name isn¡¯t on any documents, but I decide to go along with it.

    ¡°This is Eileen. They¡¯re gonna give you an in with some of the big guys ¡ª suppliers that get closer to Cook than we do.¡±

    The person in question grunts. ¡°Yeah. So long as you keep your end of the deal, I¡¯ll keep mine.¡±

    I turn to Ava. I trust her to manage this kind of thing, but if it¡¯s important, I¡¯d like to know.

    She seems to catch my drift, even before I open my mouth. Kind of impressive, considering I look totally different, now.

    She shrugs. ¡°Nothin¡¯ you wouldn¡¯t have done. They give us an in, we give them an out. Simple.¡±

    I nod. It works.

    ¡°Can you give me a rundown on who I¡¯m meeting?¡± I ask Eileen.

    They nod. ¡°Yeah, uh. Top-level distributors, sort of. Makes ¡®em sound professional when I say it like that, but they¡¯re not. Just a couple guys who¡¯ve been around longer than the others. Good at bein¡¯ subtle ¡ª enough to go under the radar when they go from wherever Cook¡¯s lab is on any given day.¡±

    ¡°He moves it around?¡± I ask.

    They shrug. ¡°Yeah. Dunno how.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°Alright. Continue?¡±

    ¡°Right, well. They have meetings, twice weekly. Sometimes they bring side-pieces or whatever with them, you see a lot of junk rats hangin¡¯ around there. Way I see it, I bring you with, you keep your head down, and you can listen in.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°I have to pretend to be your date?¡±

    Eileen suddenly looks uncomfortable. ¡°Uh. Nah, not really. But that¡¯s probably what they¡¯ll assume. S¡¯how it is.¡±

    ¡°Whatever,¡± I mutter, rolling my eyes. ¡°Fine. When¡¯s the next meeting?¡±

    They smile, a little. ¡°It¡¯s, uh. Tonight, actually.¡±

    ¡°Great. Enough time for details.¡±

    ¡ª

    I sit on the roof, the one closer to Chloe¡¯s shack, guitar in hand. There¡¯s no outlet up here, and even if there were it¡¯s not like this block would have power anyway, but it¡¯s fine.

    I play anyway. It sounds like shit without an amp, obviously, but that¡¯s not really why I¡¯m playing it.

    I strum the guitar, and I feel a little more like myself.

 Chapter 3.14

    3.14

    ¡°It has become difficult to go out in public recently. I was never the most sociable, but it feels as though I have been backsliding. The¡­ manifestations of my power are not comforting, but they are surprisingly not always bad company.

    This is likely not ideal, but. Well. It is not as if it matters in the long run.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 7, page 48

    Cook¡¯s meeting isn¡¯t anything special. It¡¯s kind of boring actually. It takes place at some random house in the wealthy area of the residential district. The host ends up being a blonde guy in khakis, and I¡¯m really only able to pay attention to some of the specifics that I write down on a little notebook in the bathroom.

    And then I wander out, ditch Eileen, and head back to the shack. All in all, uneventful. I manage to get some records for shipments, vague allusions to some of the routes, and¡­

    That¡¯s about it. Not much. Still, I write everything down, and organize it into something legible for later. I make a note down near the end to pass it all off to Ava, as well. Maybe she can do something with it.

    I grab a change of clothes from Chloe¡¯s shack and take ten minutes to readjust my face before heading out again. Racc¡¯s been staying at Mikey¡¯s house, and I¡¯ve been getting ¡ª inexplicably ¡ª chains of texts from him complaining about missing silverware.

    I take another random back-alley route, on a whim, and arrive fairly soon afterward.

    Walking up to Mikey¡¯s place, I can hear faint crashes coming from in side. And¡­ yelling?

    I sigh, and knock on the door.

    It flies open almost immediately, and I have to suppress a twitch.

    ¡°Oh thank god,¡± Mikey says, gasping in the doorway. Behind him, I watch a pan fly across the room. ¡°That kid is a fucking nightmare.¡±

    I do not snort. I do not. ¡°They¡¯re not so bad.¡±

    There¡¯s a particularly loud crash from the kitchen, and Mikey¡¯s expression turns to one of horror. ¡°My plates.¡±

    He turns back to me. ¡°Please take them out. Out of the house. Anywhere but here.¡±

    I smirk. ¡°Sure.¡±

    He herds me inside and hurries into the kitchen, bodily jumping in front of Racc, who¡¯s waving a pot around with two hands disturbingly close to some of the dishes.

    ¡°You little shit ¡ª quit trashing my kitchen!¡± Mikey hisses, throwing his arms out and trying to snatch the kid¡¯s makeshift weapon. They easily duck out of the way.

    At this point, I couldn¡¯t hold back a smile even if I wanted to. Idly, I wonder how he¡¯s so stressed about this. Maybe Racc¡¯s power has a toggle?

    Still, Mikey¡¯s not the only one who uses dishes around here.

    ¡°Hey.¡± They turn, blinking innocently.

    I nod at the still-open door. ¡°Take a walk with me?¡±

    They nod back, and drop the pot, wandering over to the door. Mikey lets out a sigh of relief, and starts to clean up.

    We head out onto the street, and I take a moment to glance at the kid out of the corner of my eye.

    They¡¯re a little twitchy. Their eyes dart around, looking at nearby alleys, doorways, stuff like that.

    I frown. ¡°Hey, if being outside makes you nervous, we can go back in. Or, uh, a friend of mine owns a shack a little ways away.¡±

    They shake their head. ¡°¡­Open spaces.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at a little alcove nearby. ¡°How about over there?¡±

    Racc leans over, considering. After a moment of hesitation, they nod.

    They scamper over, plopping themself down on a bench and looking around nervously. I try to suppress a chuckle as I amble behind them.

    ¡°So,¡± I start, lowering myself onto the bench. ¡°Where to now?¡±

    They blink. ¡°Uh¡­ huh?¡±

    ¡°You, uh. Have any plans for where you¡¯re going next?¡± I ask.

    ¡°¡­Sure.¡±

    I raise an eyebrow. ¡°Really?¡±

    They squirm. ¡°Why do you care? Just drop me off at the police station,¡± they mumble.

    That¡¯s¡­ not ideal. I don¡¯t know how to deal with children, and this child obviously has not had it easy. Realistically, it wouldn¡¯t be the worst idea to set them up with a foster family, if my suspicions here are correct.

    Issue is, I don¡¯t have the resources to do that, and I don¡¯t trust the police to do it either. Racc isn¡¯t out on the street because they want to be, after all.

    ¡°I, uh. I don¡¯t like seeing sad kids,¡± I deflect. ¡°If you wanted¡­¡±

    Ugh. I don¡¯t know whether this is the right decision, but¡­

    ¡°You could stay at the house, if you like,¡± I offer. ¡°I¡¯d come around as often as I can, and my ¡ª my associates would visit as well.¡±

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    They still seem hesitant.

    ¡°It¡¯s not an obligation. You can leave whenever you¡¯d like,¡± I clarify.

    Racc ducks their head, mumbling.

    ¡°What was that?¡± I ask.

    ¡°¡­I¡¯ll stay. For a little.¡±

    My lip twitches upwards. ¡°Cool. Just, uh. Try to stop breaking stuff, please. Plates are kind of expensive.¡±

    They scowl. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    I nod, and we take a minute to sit on the bench, stewing in a sort-of comfortable silence.

    ¡°Hey, uh. One more question,¡± I ask hesitantly.

    Racc side-eyes me.

    I smile. ¡°Where¡¯d you get that gun?¡±

    ¡ª

    As I¡¯m dropping Racc off back at the house ¡ª and studiously ignoring Mikey¡¯s pleas for mercy ¡ª I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

    By the time I look, it¡¯s gone. But¡­ I could swear I had seen a patched-up coat ducking into an alleyway.

    I take a detour down that alley, but I don¡¯t end up finding anything. I try to convince myself I¡¯ve imagined it.

    It doesn¡¯t work.

    ¡ª

    I toss the notebook to Ava and drop to the concrete sidewalk with a huff. All this espionage stuff is really kind of a pain.

    Even so, I managed to sort through a lot of it, and I¡¯ve kept an index of the people I¡¯ve made the offer to, and marked those who accepted. It¡¯s stored near the back of the notebook, with any info I¡¯d obtained by sneaking into Cook¡¯s meetings cut down significantly.

    The raw data remains scrawled into the messy pages near the front, just in case she catches something I missed. I find I¡¯m relying a lot on her, these days.

    I lift my head, staring at the cloudy sky above us. ¡°You think Gordon has any experience arms dealing?¡± I ask idly.

    Ava snorts. ¡°About as much as the rest of us, probably.¡±

    I sigh. ¡°Need someone to look into a dealer near the docks, but I don¡¯t wanna ask you to do everything.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t do it yourself?¡±

    ¡°Got another ¡®secret meeting¡¯, or whatever,¡± I drawl, voice thick with sarcasm.

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Makin¡¯ me wish I worked corporate again, kid.¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± Ava chuckles. ¡°This is the busiest I¡¯ve been in years.¡±

    That seems more like a bad thing, to me, but if she¡¯s okay with it¡­

    I¡¯m still going to ask Gordon to check out the dealer. Maybe Chloe can lend him a bolt gun or something.

    ¡°So are we arming ourselves now?¡±

    ¡°N ¡ª no. Not now, at least,¡± I scowl. ¡°Unless ¡ª you think we should¡­?¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± Ava shakes her head. ¡°Just curious.¡±

    I drag a hand down my face. ¡°I¡­ need options. I don¡¯t know how to deal with any of this, I don¡¯t even know where to start. I guess I just want ¡ª¡°

    I pause while I think about how to word it. Things have been moving quicker since the attack at the bar, but at the same time it feels like I¡¯m going nowhere. I need to be doing something, but I don¡¯t really know what.

    So I¡¯ve been¡­ hoarding, I guess.

    ¡°I want tools in my toolbox, before I start making any plans,¡± I conclude. ¡°I can¡¯t make a plan if I don¡¯t know what my options are. Even if I don¡¯t really want to use them,¡± I admit.

    Ava hums. ¡°Makes sense.¡±

    I perk up. ¡°Really?¡±

    She snorts, seeing my expression, and reflexively hides her mouth. ¡°Yeah, it does.¡±

    Ava turns back to the notebook, idly flipping through the pages. She chuckles at some of the earlier notes, ones which I know from personal experience are written in scrawling handwriting and include a few choice swears, but she seems to focus in upon reaching the back.

    ¡°¡­This is good stuff,¡± she mutters eventually.

    I tilt my head. ¡°Really? Thought it was kinda boring.¡±

    ¡°Well, it is,¡± she admits. ¡°But if we can get a more complete picture¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll work on it,¡± I mutter, pushing myself up from the ground. Thankfully, the sidewalk around here isn¡¯t too grimy, but I do need to get moving.

    The clouds drift. It¡¯s not a sunny day today, and according to the Forecaster, it¡¯ll stay that way for the rest of the week. The buildings near the commercial district, usually shining high above the city, reflect a dull gray instead, and even the crumbling downtown area seems somehow darker.

    I give a nearby streetlamp a half-hearted kick. The bulb flickers, but remains dark.

    They¡¯re supposed to turn on when we¡¯re overcast like this, and I¡¯m sure if I made the trek over to any of the fancier residential areas, they would be. Here, though, we get basically none of them.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna head back to the shack. Text me if you need any help deciphering that,¡± I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and preparing to walk back.

    ¡°Mm,¡± Ava replies. ¡°Claire?¡±

    I turn. ¡°Yeah?¡±

    She gives me a funny look, closing the notebook and storing it in her coat. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re doing pretty good, you know.¡±

    Huh. I¡­

    I give her a slight smile. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°Hm? A bolt gun?¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Yeah, I mean. I don¡¯t want to just send him out there empty-handed. Why, you wanna do it instead?¡±

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°I got shit to do, sorry. You should get used to sending your goons out, anyway.¡±

    ¡°Still not goons!¡± I protest. ¡°And ¡ª¡°

    I huff. ¡°They¡¯re not disposable either.¡±

    ¡°Maybe I can just wait a week, and go to the docks myself,¡± I mutter, flopping back onto Chloe¡¯s couch. I¡¯ve spent so many nights on it by now it might as well be mine, actually. ¡°You sure you can¡¯t lend a hand?¡±

    Chloe eyes me, looking conflicted. I try to put on puppy dog eyes, but they must not be very good because she simply snorts and looks away.

    ¡°My power doesn¡¯t work like that,¡± she offers. ¡°Shit I make only works for me.¡±

    Chloe grabs a contraption from her workbench and tosses it to me. I catch it automatically, turning it over in my hands. It looks like a small, brass gearbox, with a large crank attached to one end. I make sure to keep my fingers away from the other end, where some of the gears are exposed. They look extraordinarily dangerous.

    ¡°Try and crank it,¡± she says.

    I shrug and do as she asks, shifting my grip on the box and attempting to pull the crank.

    Attempting being the key word. I manage to force it a couple inches around, but the shriek of metal stops me from going any further.

    Chloe laughs.

    ¡°¡­Is this supposed to do something?¡± I ask, shooting her my most unimpressed look.

    ¡°Oh, yeah, it¡¯s uh. Doesn¡¯t really matter. But!¡± She lights up. ¡°Reason you can¡¯t turn it is ¡®cuz the gears are overstressed ¡ª ratio¡¯s incorrect. My power doesn¡¯t really let me build new things. It just lets me bypass the gear stress,¡± she explains.

    ¡°Huh. Is it just gears?¡± I ask. She shakes her head.

    ¡°It¡¯s anything mechanical, as long as the individual pieces are small enough. Took me a while to figure out how to do anything with it,¡± she chuckles.

    I turn the box around some more, peering into the internals. I don¡¯t really understand any of it, but Chloe¡¯s power seems extremely versatile.

    I hear a ding. My phone¡­? I put down the box, and dig around in my pockets.

    Retrieving the device, I flip it open and read the offered message.

    I frown. ¡°Ava says we¡¯ve got a few patients, this time. Wants to try doin¡¯ em all at once.¡±

    ¡°Huh. I¡¯ll come with.¡±

    I hum in acknowledgment. ¡°We¡¯ll see how it goes, I guess.¡±

 Chapter 3.15

    3.15

    ¡°Sometimes, I do not like what this city has molded me into.

    Selfish, I know.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 8, page 52

    The sun is pretty bright today, thankfully. Chloe complains about the lack of cover, but I¡¯m just thankful that the sunsets are sticking around for a while longer. Sometimes the city remains overcast for months, and I still vaguely remember flicking on a flashlight on the way home from school.

    My mom bought me that.

    I put the thought aside, shielding my eyes with an outstretched hand against the afternoon sun.

    ¡°Ugh,¡± Chloe grunts, laying horizontally on a nearby bench while I cast my gaze over the plaza. It¡¯s not the same one I met¡­? Her at, months ago, but it¡¯s not too far away.

    ¡°Way too fuckin¡¯ bright,¡± Chloe mutters. I sigh. She¡¯s been complaining about the heat for the past thirty minutes, and it¡¯s almost enough to make me reconsider bringing her along.

    Almost. Ava had seemed confident in my ability to heal a couple people in a row. And it¡¯s not like I don¡¯t agree ¡ª something like that would be fairly easy.

    I still have a bad feeling about it. Something wriggling at the back of my mind, telling me I¡¯ve forgotten something.

    I drop my arm, huffing. Maybe it¡¯s just leftover paranoia from that night at the bar. I¡¯ve more than learned my lesson from that, and as much as I¡¯m glad the sun is out, I can¡¯t say I don¡¯t understand Chloe¡¯s hesitance.

    Nothing for it, really. Until I find a way to deal with Cook, the paranoia¡¯s here to stay, I think.

    ¡°Claire!¡± I whip my head around in time to watch Ava walk briskly, hands in her jean pockets, along the opposite sidewalk. I give her a wave, and she nods back. Subtly checking my phone, I note that she¡¯s as punctual as always.

    I also note that she has a couple tag-a-longs. Three, to be exact. A taller person with scruffy black hair leads two shorter people by the hand, shoulders hunched and heads ducked nervously. A parent, or an older sibling, maybe? The state of their clothing, as well as their posture, suggests their living conditions might not be very stable.

    Obviously. They¡¯re coming to me for help, after all.

    Ava glances across the street, motioning for the patients to follow as she jaywalks over to us.

    I scowl. ¡°Really?¡±

    She laughs. ¡°You¡¯re one to talk!¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Whatever. These the patients?¡± I ask, motioning behind her. The taller kid ¡ª I¡¯ve already classified all three as children in my head ¡ª remains resolute, but the other two ¡ª

    One flinches, and the other ducks their head further. I make a note not to perform any more sudden movements.

    Ava grunts. ¡°Mhm. You can probably guess why separate meetings wouldn¡¯t go down particularly well.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Sure. So, who¡¯s going first.¡±

    The taller one steps forward. ¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±

    Protective, I note. Probably for the best. I nod, and slowly approach. ¡°My power allows me to perform biological modifications to myself and anyone I¡¯m connected with. I¡¯m going to extend a needle in order to make that connection. Get it?¡±

    They nod. I warp the flesh under my wrist, extending the needle. The kid startles, but quickly gather themself. ¡°And you¡¯re just gonna¡­?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to slide the needle into your wrist, and perform a number of general modifications to ensure your body is in peak physical condition. Kind of like a check-up,¡± I explain. ¡°Any pre-existing medical conditions you know about, that you think I should be aware of?¡±

    I think being blunt is my best bet here, but it¡¯s not an easy thing to describe without sounding ridiculous.

    The kid looks vaguely sick. ¡°N ¡ª no.¡±

    ¡°Alright. Then, are you ready?¡±

    They take a deep breath. ¡°¡­Yeah.¡±

    I nod. ¡°Hold out your arm.¡±

    They do, and just as I carefully take their wrist and turn it palm-up, I hear a soft thwip near my ear.

    The kid¡¯s torso jerks, a thin red stream erupting from their shoulder ¡ª

    A grunt from Ava, a vicious curse from Chloe ¡ª the other two kids look like they¡¯re two seconds away from screaming ¡ª

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Who the fuck would want to assassinate a homeless kid?!

    I dart forward, grab the kid around their waist, attempting to hold them up, and bark at the two remaining civilians.

    I jerk my head to the side. ¡°Go!¡±

    Both of them panic, but the sound of my voice seems to shock them out of their stupor, and they scramble around the corner. I wrap an arm around the wounded kid¡¯s shoulders and shout back over my shoulder.

    ¡°Help me out!¡± Ava comes up next to me and shares some of the load, supporting the stumbling young adult with both arms while I risk a glance back at the bench.

    Chloe¡¯s already up, bolt gun in hand, kneeling next to a nearby trash can and scanning the buildings opposite to us. If I remember correctly, the bullet did come from that direction ¡ª

    She¡¯ll be fine for now. Ava and I drag the last kid around the corner and set them down heavily on the concrete. I watch them visibly suppress a hiss of pain.

    I scowl. ¡°Gonna heal you, okay?¡±

    They nod, shakily. I take only a moment to wish I could be a little more gentle.

    I jam the still-protruding needle into their wrist, activate my power, and slam everything into place. I eject the bullet, patch up the wound, and use what little fat stores the kid has left in combination with my own to do the entire check-up in less than a second. By the time I remove the needle, they look about to puke.

    ¡°You good?¡± I ask, resisting the urge to tell them to suck it up. We can¡¯t waste time here ¡ª

    A crack rings out, and then another couple follow in quick succession. I glance over past the building in time to catch Chloe ducking her head as concrete bursts in little pockets near her. She ducks her head, and begins digging through her pockets, bolt gun hefted against her shoulder.

    ¡°Chloe!¡± I call out, before cursing myself. Stupid.

    Her head jerks up, and we make eye contact.

    The gunshots let up. ¡°Got attached, ¡®ey Doc?! Boss really didn¡¯t think you were the type!¡± A rough voice, from somewhere down the street shouts. It takes me a second, but I recognize the thick accent and wheezy undertones.

    ¡°An¡¯ wit¡¯ the Rat, too! Guess you know what they say ¡®bout vermin, huh!¡±

    Suckup. Fuck, what does he do again? Some kind of matter manipulation¡­? The voice moves closer.

    ¡°How ¡®bout you just fork over the goods, Rat, an¡¯ maybe we¡¯ll let ya scurry away? That way, none of this got to¡­ escalate.¡±

    Chloe scowls. ¡°Drop the guns, and maybe I¡¯ll consider it,¡± she barks, yanking something from her pocket.

    ¡°Hah! That¡¯s a good one ¡ª¡° She chucks the device over the trash can towards Suckup. I hear a clank as it hits the ground, a couple surprised shouts, and a sharp hiss.

    The sounds of whirring and metal impacting concrete resume, and smoke starts to pour out from the corner. Chloe grins, darting to her feet and sprinting the distance from the trash can to our location.

    Behind her, Suckup screeches, and the ground beneath my feet starts to rumble. Just as Chloe slides against the sidewalk next to me, the trash can she¡¯d been hiding behind crumples, impaled by several concrete spikes that erupt from the ground.

    I must be wearing some kind of baffled expression, because Chloe snickers as she drags me down the sidewalk at an almost sprint, motioning for the civilians to follow. ¡°C¡¯mon, we¡¯ll take the tunnels,¡± she hisses.

    ¡°The what?!¡± I protest, lagging behind while I try to herd everyone after her. Ava is more than cooperative, but the taller patient ends up having to half-drag the kids around the block.

    Chloe ducks into the next building, kicking open the rotten door. Inside is ¡ª

    It¡¯s abandoned. I don¡¯t take the time to look it over. Chloe makes a beeline towards a wooden pallet leaning against the back wall. I stand next to the open door, every muscle in my body wired with tension.

    Boots on concrete, getting closer. Suckup¡¯s berating one of his henchmen, sounds like.

    I turn back at the sound of wood splintering, seeing that Chloe¡¯s kicked the pallet aside and is ushering the other four through a large hole in the wall, revealed by her forceful debris clearance.

    Chloe waves me over, but I hold up a hand, leaning slightly out of the doorway.

    Suckup, clad in patchwork leather and a ratty hat, still adorned with thick metal canisters, stomps down the street. He¡¯s flanked by a number of armed militia ¡ª I don¡¯t have time to count before he snatches up a canister and slams his boot into the ground.

    The concrete under his shoes ripples, lurching outwards and forming a number of sharpened spines that reach towards the doorway.

    I duck inside, shielding my face with an arm against the explosion of dust and flying concrete shrapnel torn to pieces by the wave of spikes.

    ¡°Dammit Claire, come on!¡± Chloe¡¯s shout spurs me into motion, and I push myself out of an ungainly stumble, sprinting for the tunnel.

    ¡°You tryin¡¯ ta¡¯ hide, Doc?! Cook said you liked doin¡¯ that!¡± Suckup cries, voice muffled by layers of concrete and steadily growing quieter as Chloe and I sprint through the tunnels. We catch up with the others easily, and as soon as they see us Ava hustles the kids into a run beside us.

    The tunnels blend together in a sick slurry of broken concrete and half-hearted coverings. We sprint past shattered concrete pillars, darting through thick patches of dark and past blinding openings, broken windows and forgotten door-frames.

    I glance back every so often in an attempt to keep track of Suckup, but it¡¯s difficult to see him through all the scattered openings, and ¡ª

    The shock of turned earth makes me stumble, and abruptly, a cluster of stone spires plows through the wall behind me. The patients ¡ª I don¡¯t know which ones ¡ª shriek, and I barely make out Ava¡¯s very creative string of curses as she helps them along.

    Chloe drops to a knee, pulls out another device from her pocket, and tosses it out of a nearby window.

    Suckup screeches, and we break into a run before another series of spikes takes out the wall, carving through concrete and rebar, making the foundations of the building rumble.

    ¡°He¡¯s alone,¡± Chloe huffs, breaking into another run beside me. ¡°Left!¡±

    Ava grabs the taller kid and hauls them into another tunnel off to the side, obeying Chloe¡¯s barked instruction.

    ¡°The militia ¡ª ?¡± I grunt, dread worming its way through my gut. Chloe starts to go for the left opening, following the civilians, when I check for Suckup.

    My eyes widen at the sight of a dark figure just beyond a small hole in the wall up ahead. On instinct, I grab Chloe¡¯s arm and dig my heels in.

    The ground in front of us erupts, spines angled towards the wall tear through stone floors, shattering furniture and piercing the ceiling.

    Chloe drags me off to the side while I stare at our now-blocked-off exit, shoving me through another tunnel and away from the stone barrier. ¡°We can get back to them through here,¡± Chloe assures me, ¡°Just ¡ª¡°

    We burst into a larger room, a lobby, seems like, and freeze immediately.

    This time, I get an accurate count. Two, near the exit, one, next to the hostages, another in front. All armed. Suckup is still somewhere outside.

    I don¡¯t stay frozen for long.

 Chapter 3.16

    3.16

    ¡°Violent and extremely dangerous. Still, not as unstable as some of his ilk ¡ª can be counted on to act predictably in regards to his employer.

    The employer in question is a more pressing matter. He is vain, egotistical. A megalomaniac. It should not be this difficult to pin him down.

    And yet, that acquisition last night¡­

    I¡¯ll remain vigilant. For the first time in a long while, I feel as though I¡¯m close to piercing the veil.

    It isn¡¯t¡­ a good feeling.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 22

    I take in the situation. Four militia, total. I need to neutralize the ones closest to the hostages immediately, and find a way to defend them from the remaining two by the door.

    Chloe partially solves that first task. Her bolt gun whips up with startling accuracy, bolt springing from its casing with a thunk and embedding itself into the closest militia¡¯s arm. Blood sprays. I ignore it.

    The guy drops his weapon, screaming, and I dismiss him. The henchman right next to the hostages is raising his weapon.

    I make a quick risk-assessment, fire a pressure booster in my leg, and engage the blade hiding beneath the skin of my right arm.

    A long spire of bone pierces through my middle and ring fingers, bisecting my forearm and extending to twice its length before locking into place. I don¡¯t bother taking the time to seal the wound ¡ª losing blood is still losing mass, but ideally this fight will be over before I need to do any serious healing.

    For now, speed over resilience. I cross the room in under a second, steam trailing behind me and bone-sword pulled back behind my head.

    I swing, dragging the blade across the man¡¯s chest, catching against his arms and tearing the firearm from his grip. Blood sprays.

    I ignore it.

    Before the other two can react, I dart around the injured henchman, hook my blade around his torso, and pull him to the side, effectively covering the hostages with his body. He struggles, and the blade bites deeper.

    A flash ¡ª a sharp staccato of light and pressure, repeated ¡ª and the body jerks in my grip.

    Blood ¡ª not now.

    I can¡¯t tell whether any of the bullets penetrate. I push the body forward, planting a boot on its back and leveraging it into another dash. From off to the side, another bolt lodges itself into the left militia guy¡¯s shoulder. He screams, stumbles, and I write him off temporarily.

    My blade swings right, carving through the man¡¯s forearm, and just as I do, I register a reedy voice, muffled behind nearby concrete.

    ¡°Listen, Doc! If ya wanna keep the street rats right-side-out ¡ª !¡±

    I tune him out. So he was able to follow us? He must have coordinated.

    Not well enough. There aren¡¯t any windows here.

    ¡°Shut it, lapdog!¡± I bark, ensuring my voice is projected before I plant my feet, activate another pressure booster, and leap clear of both remaining henchmen.

    Not a moment later, the wall between Suckup and our little room shatters, rows of stone spikes cleaving concrete like wet paper and engulfing the henchmen in a thick cloud of dust.

    They¡¯re ¡ª

    I heft the arm-blade, leaping above the spikes and landing in the newly-made entrance to the building, stepping carefully across stone spires and ducking under falling rubble from the impact.

    My eyes adjust quickly to the outside light, and ¡ª

    The street is empty, save for Suckup. The wave of rippling stone solidified immediately after it formed, and as such it transitions into a malformed ramp at the man¡¯s feet.

    Suckup¡¯s scowling, as I make my way past the settling dust. I keep my gait steady, slowly picking my way across the disturbed terrain, until the sun hits my face.

    Then, his expression changes. I can¡¯t identify it. Maybe he¡¯s¡­ angry? His henchmen are indisposed.

    His outfit, adorned with metal canisters, is lacking. He¡¯s down to¡­ seven, total, along with a crumpled one resting discarded on the street next to him.

    I shouldn¡¯t assume he can¡¯t use his power without them, but he¡¯s been using them for a reason. I take a step.

    Suckup takes a step back, snatching a canister from around his waist. ¡°Y ¡ª you!¡±

    ¡­What? This doesn¡¯t match any of his previous behavior.

    He visibly steels himself. ¡°You got a lotta nerve, missy!¡± He shouts. ¡°Cook ain¡¯t one ta¡¯ take kindly ta¡¯ wastin¡¯ assets!¡±

    The man grins, even as his posture screams tension. ¡°But, ah, he¡¯s not the unreasonable type, ya¡¯ see? Maybe if ya¡¯ lay down willingly, he¡¯ll stay away from those street rats you¡¯re so fond of!¡±

    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    Empty, baseless promises. Cook isn¡¯t someone to respect the wishes of a dead woman. I take another step.

    ¡°Heh,¡± Suckup chuckles. ¡°Don¡¯t, ah. Don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn ya.¡±

    His hand clenches around the canister, and with a heavy crunch, it warps under his grip. He slides a boot forward, and from under it, a smaller cluster of spikes break the pavement.

    I dart to the right, blade skimming the ground as I turn on my heel, lunging into a full-body thrust at his torso.

    His hand tightens again on the canister, the material seemingly being pulled inwards towards his palm. A thick wall of gray stone pulls up between us, my blade cracking against the makeshift barrier, but not shattering it.

    The stone at the base of the barrier ripples, and I lean back, watching as another spike shoots past my nose, displaced wind blowing against my face.

    Interesting. Does he have more precise control over materials closer to him? He couldn¡¯t produce spikes past walls earlier, or he would have ¡ª

    I cut that train of thought and leap backwards, sneakers skating against shattered concrete as the spike above me expands into another cluster, smaller spines piercing outwards like some kind of deranged sea urchin.

    I break into a run, circling around the cluster, and see Suckup cast aside another canister. I take note. Six left.

    He snatches up another one, and it crumples immediately as a low rock wall bursts into place some distance around him, adorned with nasty-looking blades held high enough to prevent me from jumping over.

    I narrow my eyes. He¡¯s made a fortress in the middle of the street, and he¡¯s the only one with a ranged option, here. I could get past his fortifications, but not without sustaining significant damage.

    I could do it, but I¡¯d be down a considerable amount of resources.

    Suckup laughs, tossing away the used canister and taking another one. Five left, but¡­

    Another wave of spikes, and I lean into my run, muscles burning, stone breaking stone just behind me. Bits of shrapnel slice my clothes, carving thin red lines across my skin.

    No time to seal any of that. The wave halts, Suckup tosses away a canister, and I slam my boots into the ground, forcing a stop. I reach back, grabbing hold of a spike with my not-blade hand in order to haul myself on top of it in one smooth motion.

    I need to get closer. Laser-focusing on the structure of the wave before me, I sprint along the warped stone wave, aiming for the place where it intersects with Suckup¡¯s little makeshift wall. If I can just cross the distance before he can ¡ª

    I¡¯ve already used both the pressure boosters in my legs. He doesn¡¯t even take the canister off his belt before another cluster of spikes erupts from under me, and I¡¯m having to throw myself off-track.

    Pain blossoms along my side, alerting me to a series of long gashes torn along my torso.

    I grit my teeth. Not fast enough. Not close enough. I ¡ª

    I hit the ground, ignoring the shock of pain that jolts through me and darting back to hide behind a cluster of spikes.

    ¡°Hah! Finally running away, missy?!¡± I scowl. I¡¯m missing two pressure boosters, and the amount of blood leaking from my blade-arm is becoming unconscionable. I have no way to reach him without sustaining serious damage. I might have been able to outlast him had I gone into the fight with that kind of mindset, but now¡­

    I jam a hand into my pocket and extract my phone, dialing a number my parents had forced me to learn by heart just last month. The device buzzes, and I take the time while it connects to seal some of my external wounds.

    I take note of the egregious internal bleeding still present in my organs, but I don¡¯t have time to do anything more than push things around a little.

    The line clicks. ¡°USMC Emergency Hotline, please state your emergency.¡±

    I clear my throat. ¡°Hi, I¡¯d like to report a disturbance involving a super on ¡ª¡° I cut myself off, lurching away from my hiding spot to duck under another array of spikes shooting out from behind me and curving inward, nullifying my attempt at escaping.

    ¡°That¡¯s not gonna work on me!¡±

    I resume speaking, sprinting through rough terrain in an attempt to avoid Suckup¡¯s grasping spines. ¡°Involving a super on downtown 5th street, by the intersection.¡±

    ¡°Ma¡¯am? Ma¡¯am are you alright? What¡¯s ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Please send powered authorities to contain the situation as soon as possible,¡± I state, hanging up. A particularly vicious cluster sprouts next to me, and I twist instinctively to minimize the damage. I sustain injuries across my forearms, and a thin slice against my cheek. I stumble.

    I don¡¯t know how long it¡¯ll take before the USMC arrives. The commotion during the call should lend my report some credence, but response times in downtown areas are infamously slow. I don¡¯t know if ¡ª

    Another cluster, off to the side ¡ª is he getting desperate? I go to sidestep the growing spikes, and ¡ª

    Pain, blossoming, curling outwards through my gut. I glance down.

    I¡¯ve been¡­ impaled. The spine twists through the air with more precision than I thought the man capable of. I¡¯m surrounded by malformed spikes, and Suckup is only barely visible through his manufactured forest, some distance away.

    ¡°Heh,¡± he mutters, voice echoing through the empty alleyway. ¡°Gotcha.¡±

    He likely thinks he¡¯s killed me. This isn¡¯t the case, obviously, but it could be, very soon. I take a moment to stem the bleeding from my wound, making sure to keep it visually similar, and gather my resolve.

    I need to keep him busy.

    I open my mouth to reply, and dissolve into a fit of coughing, gritting my teeth against the sharp jolts of pain wracking my body.

    ¡°Not so scary now, huh, Doc!¡± The guy looks almost ecstatic. How do I get him to keep talking¡­?

    ¡°So, uh,¡± I start, digging through my memory for anything that¡¯ll get him to respond. ¡°That offer from earlier still open?¡±

    He laughs. ¡°You¡¯re a funny one! Nah, nah, that ship sailed a long time ago, sweet-cheeks!¡±

    Ugh. ¡°Why even offer it in the first place? You seemed pretty confident earlier.¡± I try not to rasp, but it¡¯s getting to be a little difficult, forcing words out.

    Suckup¡¯s grin falters, even as he hunches his back in a futile effort to cover it up. I catch it anyway.

    ¡°Th ¡ª that¡¯s ¡ª !¡± He sputters. ¡°Can¡¯t blame me for tryin¡¯! These things are expensive, ya¡¯ know!¡± Motioning to his remaining canisters. Four? Five? He might have one clipped to the back of his belt, I don¡¯t remember.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure the boss will be thrilled to fork over a couple more,¡± I deadpan, and ¡ª there. Some kind of unintelligible expression darts across his face. I try to drive the point home. ¡°Maybe if you were actually any good at this, you¡¯d have been able to do it without using any. You already know he only keeps you around because you¡¯re easy to ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Shut up!¡± He screeches. ¡°You don¡¯t know shit, you fuckin¡¯ bitch! If the boss wasn¡¯t so busy palling around with his new friend, he¡¯d ¡ª !¡±

    I blink. Friend¡­? Is this ¡ª I may have accidentally stumbled across something important. I could free myself now, use this distraction to slip away, but¡­

    ¡°Oh, so he¡¯s found a replacement already ¡ª¡°

    Suckup screams, grabs a canister from his belt, and ¡ª I¡¯ve pushed him too far. I start to haul myself off the spike, sliding my torso backwards and attempting to not jostle the wound ¡ª

    Even as I move, Suckup¡¯s already stomping the concrete, throwing forth another wave of spikes, and in the split second before they reach me, I realize I won¡¯t be able to dodge.

    And then ¡ª a blur, pain against my gut, arms around my waist ¡ª I struggle, twisting my neck upwards to get a good look at my abductor, and ¡ª

    Olivia. Jet. They¡¯ve arrived.

    Somehow, the realization does not fill me with relief.

 Chapter 3.17

    3.17

    ¡°These records, transactions, suggestions of communication consistent across factions. Evidence that has taken considerable effort to acquire, not to mention my relative anonymity. If it were anyone else¡­

    This information points to only one reasonable conclusion. There is someone else here. Someone I do not know.

    Concerning.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 51

    ¡°Heal!¡± Livvy barks, hauling me bodily out of the line of fire as the other three members of the Junior Division burst onto the scene. Jets of flame flare out behind her, uncomfortably hot burning right next to me.

    ¡°Pushy,¡± I mutter, dipping into my power and sealing the gut wound. I also take the time to restore some of its structural integrity. It¡¯s likely I¡¯ll be moving around a lot, soon.

    Livvy touches down, boots skidding against pavement, and lowers me to the ground with surprising gentleness.

    It¡¯s not necessary, of course. I twist myself out of her grasp and leap back, coming to rest in an anticipatory crouch. Livvy blinks. ¡°H ¡ª hey!¡±

    My eyes scan the surroundings. There¡¯s an alley nearby, which could work, especially if I can manage to find another one of those tunnels. My fr ¡ª the Junior Division isn¡¯t just going to let me go after what¡­ happened here.

    ¡°R ¡ª Red? What ¡ª¡°

    A heavy thud, the ground shakes. I whip my head towards the sound, and watch Suckup burst out of an enormous cloud of smoke, canister clutched tightly in his hand and a lengthening pillar of stone propelling him over the rooftops. He quickly drops down into an alley, but I catch a glimpse of several stone protrusions wrapping around him before he hits the ground.

    ¡°Jet!¡± I hear Rory call out. ¡°Change of plans! Apprehend the suspect!¡±

    She turns back to face me, and we make eye contact. I don¡¯t know what she sees, but between all the blood, and the bone sword sticking out of my arm, I have no doubt I look like shit.

    She takes a step back, hands smoking. I try to ignore how much that hurts.

    Livvy¡¯s expression hardens, and I think she¡¯s about to attack, but¡­

    ¡°Red. C¡¯mon. We ¡ª we can talk this out.¡±

    That¡¯s new.

    I falter, the tension in my frame starting to bleed out, even as much as I try to hang onto it. I know intellectually, that I can¡¯t. It¡¯s just ¡ª

    Been a long day.

    I open my mouth ¡ª

    Impact, against my skull, the world blurring, a second impact, face against concrete ¡ª I strain my neck, peeking through gloved fingers ¡ª Eva. Her gloved hand holds me down, and she starts to raise a boot.

    ¡°Stay down, Red,¡± she growls, and if I¡¯m not mistaken, her voice cracks, a little.

    I jerk out of the way, and her boot hits concrete. I lever myself into position, pulling back my left arm, and fire my second-to-last pressure booster, sweeping her off her feet. She hits the ground with a thud, and I break into a sprint.

    The pounding in my ears, the shock as my boots hit the pavement ¡ª things are starting to blur together.

    A glint of light, an armored figure ¡ª they rear back, tossing a puck at my legs that quickly unfurls into a glowing wheel. Vaguely, I remember that Rory¡¯s constructs don¡¯t have mass, but those spokes ¡ª

    I jump, using a nearby piece of rubble to supplement my leap, not paying attention as the projectile skates by. I risk a glance back, and ¡ª

    A small device, flying towards me. I step back, and activate my last pressure booster, steam spurting from the blade set into my arm. It whips out, immediately cleaving the object in two, both halves sparking as they hit the concrete behind me.

    In front of me, all four Junior Division members stand in sequence, arrayed across bits of rubble and shattered stone spikes.

    I¡­ wasn¡¯t expecting them. The pounding in my head somehow begins to get louder. Rory takes a step forward, and he seems like he¡¯s about to say something.

    I turn, and run down the alleyway, ignoring the shouts of alarm from behind me, and darting through any nearby crevice I can find. To the left, I stumble across another hastily-covered tunnel entrance, and I kick it aside, scrambling through the darkened corridor on the other side.

    I pay close attention to the sounds of the buildings, keeping track of the subtle creaking, the scuffing of my footsteps, as well as the not-so-subtle panic of the Junior Division members outside.

    Soon enough, I dart through a room, and see the civilians, huddled against a wall down a hallway to my right. I slide to a stop in front of them.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°Suckup fled, but we¡¯ve got the Junior Division on-scene, now. We need to ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Claire.¡±

    Chloe cuts me off, and I blink, suddenly registering the scene before me.

    Chloe and Ava lean on the crumbled brick wall, breathing heavily and wearing downcast expressions. On the other side of the room, two kids sit next to a body, shuddering.

    A trail of blood traces its way through a doorway on the far side of the room.

    I¡¯m not sure what kind of face I must be making. I shamble closer, ignoring the way the kids flinch, laser-focused on the patient in front of me.

    If it were under ideal circumstances, I¡¯d form another bone needle. These are not ideal circumstances.

    I rear back and jam my blade into the patient¡¯s shoulder, ignore the cries of alarm from around the room, and immediately activate my power.

    Fatigue, muscle strain, multiple lacerations. Lower down, puncture wound in the gut. Internal bleeding, fatal blood loss. I burn the remains of my own calorie stores, restoring the basic structure of their torso, and their flesh ripples, warping into place.

    They don¡¯t move. I check higher ¡ª minor fractures along their jawline, poorly healed cartilage around their nose ¡ª I push past the mild distaste I feel at peering into their mind and assess their brain function.

    It¡¯s¡­ I ¡ª I don¡¯t ¡ª

    I don¡¯t know how to replicate electrical signals, and even if I did, I have no idea what they looked like when the kid was ¡ª

    I step back, withdrawing my blade and carefully sealing the wound. The kid slumps. The other two are crying now, and as I look back to Chloe and Ava¡­

    Ava shakes her head. Chloe shrugs. I take another step back.

    ¡°You have two minutes,¡± I hear myself say, and I¡¯m having trouble convincing myself that that¡¯s me. I keep my eyes peeled for any signs of movement from behind the boarded-up windows, muscles tense and adrenaline refusing to fade.

    I keep careful count of the time, and in combination with watching the exits, I manage to keep myself going for just a little longer.

    Just as my count reaches completion, I hear a commotion from somewhere next door. It¡¯s as good a que as any. I lean forward and scoop up the body in my left arm, carefully slinging it over my shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re leaving. Ava, take them with us,¡± I remind her, gesturing towards the other two. I take a moment to scan the exits, judge the distance between us and our potential pursers, and dart deeper into the building.

    Chloe catches up quickly, muttering directions to me, and soon enough, we emerge out onto the street.

    We aren¡¯t followed.

    ¡ª

    Chloe doesn¡¯t bother taking us on a scenic route this time, not with this much dead weight. I follow along dutifully, even as the aches in my arms and legs grow almost unbearable, and my mind descends into a thick fog.

    She herds me into one of Mikey¡¯s guest rooms, has me set down the body, and Ava starts making some calls. I find myself staring at the wall in the hallway for a time before Chloe finds me.

    She takes my hand, and leads me out onto the porch. There¡¯s a bench. We sit.

    I stare.

    ¡°¡­Claire¡­?¡± I¡¯ve never heard Chloe be¡­ hesitant, before. The strangeness of the situation is almost enough to knock me out of my fog.

    I turn to look at her. She sits next to me, on the bench, expression pinched into one of¡­ melancholic concern, I guess. She¡¯s still holding my hand.

    I decide not to pull away. ¡°¡­Three people are dead because of me.¡±

    Her face crumples, slightly. ¡°It ¡ª wasn¡¯t your fault.¡±

    I pause. ¡°Maybe¡­ not morally. But ¡ª I had a task to perform, and I failed to perform it successfully.¡± My hand tightens around hers, involuntarily. ¡°I wasn¡¯t smart enough ¡ª I wasn¡¯t strong enough.¡±

    Chloe doesn¡¯t seem to have anything to say about that.

    ¡°¡­What are you gonna do now?¡± She asks.

    I look away, casting my gaze out at the empty street. The dark here is crushing. The weight on my shoulders is suddenly impossible to bear. I hunch forward, ducking my head and placing my face in my palm.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I whisper, and before I know it, tears are leaking through the gaps in my fingers. ¡°Chloe ¡ª what am I doing? I¡¯m running things like I have any idea about any of this, but ¡ª but I don¡¯t. I¡¯m stumbling around in the dark banging into things and people are getting hurt. Why am I doing that? Why did I think I could do any of this? Why ¡ª¡° I choke down an undignified sound. ¡°Why are you people still with me? It¡¯s obvious I¡¯m out of my depth. Why can¡¯t someone else ¡ª¡°

    I hear Chloe move on the bench next to me, and an arm wraps tentatively around my shoulders, cutting off my train of thought. She pulls me closer, and in spite of the tension still wracking my frame, I allow myself to lean into her touch.

    ¡°When we first broke out of the USMC building, I thought you were an idiot,¡± Chloe admits. A wet laugh forces its way out of my throat.

    ¡°Thought?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yeah. I still think you¡¯re crazy, but¡­¡± She hesitates.

    ¡°Claire, this ¡ª all of this is different. I ¡ª things feel possible, when you¡¯re around.¡± She takes my hand. ¡°I know today¡­ sucked. I¡¯m not asking you to get over it, or anything. Just ¡ª¡°

    Another pause. ¡°Just remember that we¡¯re with you, okay? I¡¯ve got your back. Ava¡¯s got your back. Even Mikey looks like he¡¯s mellowed out a bit, since you broke into his house.¡±

    ¡°We,¡± I correct.

    I feel Chloe shift beside me, and I can tell without looking that she¡¯s rolling her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re the scary one, you get all the credit for any crimes we do.¡±

    I chuckle, and this time my voice only wavers a little.

    We sit quietly in the dark. The cool air is biting, but somehow¡­ grounding. I feel the chill settle in my bones, I feel Chloe¡¯s warmth beside me, the subtle sound of her breath, and slow movement of her chest. I feel the hard wooden bench digging into my back.

    I take a breath. In, out.

    ¡°¡­Thanks.¡±

    Chloe snorts. ¡°Any time. Wanna head back inside?¡±

    I nod, standing from the bench and stretching out my limbs. ¡°Yeah. Can you go round up everyone else?¡±

    She tilts her head. ¡°Might be a little before Ava¡¯s free, but sure. Why, though?¡±

    I turn around, and force a smile. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking. I¡¯m not strong enough to protect everyone the way I am now, I know that. But if I play this right¡­ maybe I don¡¯t need to be.¡±

    ¡°What are you thinking?¡±

    ¡°Just that ¡ª the way Suckup looked at me, at first¡­¡± My smile falters. ¡°Maybe I could¡¯ve ended that fight before it started. I fucked it up, back there, but if I can do it right, this time¡­¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to be strong enough, as long as I¡¯m scary enough. Right?¡±

    Chloe snorts. ¡°Yep. Still crazy.¡±

    ¡°But¡­?¡± I widen my smile.

    ¡°It¡¯s different,¡± she admits.

    Well. Good enough.

 Chapter 3.18

    3.18

    ¡°Shock and awe. Well, I always was a bit of a theater kid.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 4

    Both my biggest issue, and my greatest asset, are that people don¡¯t know me.

    Being unknown means I can stay under the radar. I can avoid the attention of the more powerful supers, as well as the major gangs. It becomes easier to make moves when no one cares enough to look.

    Obviously, this defense isn¡¯t foolproof. People have gotten hurt on my watch, and the ease of being unknown is beginning to lose its luster. Cook is able to control people through fear. I can do the same.

    Not to helpless civilians, though. Instead, I¡¯ll do it to him.

    I don¡¯t explain the entire idea to the others ¡ª the plan itself is half-baked at best right now, and I need a better idea of the resources available at my disposal before I work on anything concrete.

    Chloe seems to pick up on the idea, and the others must notice some of the manic energy I can feel pouring off my demeanor, because they accept the change in track fairly easily. Mikey, actually, seems weirdly enthused.

    I have Ava start going through our contacts, picking out people willing to relay information, rumours, people willing to sit in on conversations with any of Cook¡¯s distributors. I ask Gordon how willing he¡¯d be to visit the docks, get in contact with a weapons supplier, taking care to remind him he¡¯d have backup.

    I continue to meet patients, and I give all of them a similar proposal. After a couple of days, I think I¡¯m starting to see everything fall into place.

    All I need now, is an actual plan. I¡¯m about to leave the house to visit a patient, when Racc confronts me in the hallway. Chloe and I have been staying here a lot recently, out of convenience, but I think she might be getting homesick.

    At least her and Racc seem to have been getting along.

    ¡°I¡¯m coming with you.¡± I snap out of my thoughts as the kid makes their intentions known. My first instinct is to allow it, but mentally reviewing that train of thought reveals it as a fabrication. Logically, I know I shouldn¡¯t allow a child to come with me on an outing like this.

    So, against what feels like common sense, I try to make the logical decision. Even if Racc does have a way to turn off their power, I don¡¯t want to pressure them, yet.

    I frown. ¡°You aren¡¯t. If I get attacked again, I can¡¯t guarantee your safety.¡±

    They scowl. ¡°It¡¯s not like anyone can actually hurt me.¡±

    ¡°Your power works by normalizing social interactions, right?¡± I ask. ¡°If you run into someone who can see violence as completely normal, they¡¯d be able to attack you just fine.¡±

    Racc rolls their eyes. ¡°If we run into any psychos, I¡¯ll make sure to scram.¡±

    Well that makes perfect sense ¡ª no, it doesn¡¯t. I narrow my eyes, fighting off the unnatural sense of calm. ¡°I¡¯m able to argue with you about it, right? It¡¯s not impossible someone else could, too.¡±

    Racc scowls. ¡°If you don¡¯t take me with you I¡¯m going to go break all the dishes.¡±

    I grunt. ¡°You¡¯re a menace.¡±

    They grin. ¡°So you¡¯re taking me.¡±

    I don¡¯t reply, but I also don¡¯t stop them when they skip out the door after me.

    Racc doesn¡¯t chatter, exactly, but multiple times throughout our trip I find them ducking into a back alley and rifling through a dumpster, muttering to themself. I try to make conversation, a couple times, but it seems they don¡¯t like being interrupted ¡ª they shut down any conversation with a sharp glare.

    It¡¯s weirdly endearing.

    As much as I¡¯d like to devote more of my attention to them, though, I¡¯m more concerned with our surroundings. Hopefully it takes Cook more than a couple days to come up with a new ambush, but I make sure to keep an eye out, anyway. It¡¯ll be good to get into the habit, I think.

    The patient gives me an odd look as Racc chases down a can in the street, so I roll my eyes and wave a bone needle in the guy¡¯s face until he drops it. I finish his check-up a little faster than normal so I can keep an eye on the road, but thankfully it remains clear.

    Honestly not sure why the city still has them sometimes, to be honest. Feels like only the construction machines get any use out of them.

    The patient is walking away when I see him. Racc¡¯s gotten into another alleyway by now, but I can¡¯t find it in myself to break line of sight to go look.

    He¡¯s not as tall as he seemed, that night in the alley, but he¡¯s still huge. And, getting a better look at that cowl, it looks like it¡¯s more well-made than anything else he¡¯s wearing. His white tank top is as ratty as ever, and those black cargo pants have a concerning amount of holes in them.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Seeing him out on the street like this is¡­ jarring, especially as he lowers the cell phone from his ear and turns to stare at me from across the street.

    I struggle to unclench my jaw, and stuff my hands into my pockets.

    ¡°¡­Yo.¡±

    His shoulders shift, and it takes me a moment to realize Crush is¡­ laughing?

    ¡°Do I know you?¡± He rumbles.

    I shrug. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    He slips the phone into a pocket, and cracks his neck. ¡°You here to fight?¡±

    I pause. I¡­ should be fighting him, right? He¡¯s obviously a threat. Right? I look him over. His posture is¡­ relaxed, if a little intimidating. And he hasn¡¯t attacked yet.

    Maybe this is an opportunity.

    ¡°¡­Nah,¡± I say neutrally, attempting to school my expression into something more amenable. ¡°I¡¯d rather talk.¡±

    The man shrugs. ¡°Then talk.¡±

    I take another moment to think. ¡°How do you feel about Cook?¡±

    ¡°Hah. What kinda question is that?¡±

    I tilt my head. ¡°I¡¯m going somewhere with this. Humor me?¡±

    ¡°Sure. Why not.¡± Crush reaches up to scratch the back of his head. ¡°He¡¯s a skeevy bastard. If he wasn¡¯t so good at fuckin¡¯ hiding, I¡¯d have popped his skull like a grape a long time ago.¡±

    I try on a smile. ¡°Then we agree.¡± I take a moment to look over the surrounding area, checking for hidden militia members, or any sign of Racc. Nothing.

    I can¡¯t see Crush¡¯s face behind that mask. It¡¯s difficult to predict him.

    I proceed anyway. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s a world in which we work together to solve this¡­ issue,¡± I offer.

    Crush is silent, for a moment. And then, his shoulders jerk. He hunches over, and a raspy laugh starts to echo from across the street.

    I ensure my smile remains plastered onto my face, but internally, I immediately start scanning my surroundings for an easy escape route.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ arrogant,¡± he says, finally, after a deep breath. ¡°What makes you think you¡¯d be better at solving our problems than we are?¡±

    I duck my head slightly in acknowledgment. ¡°Worth a shot.¡±

    ¡°Mm. Y¡¯know, something tells me I¡¯m gonna be seeing you around more often, now,¡± Crush says, almost idly. He takes a step off the sidewalk, and into the street. ¡°It¡¯d be a shame, to part ways without getting to know each other.¡±

    My heart beats frantically in my chest, and I¡¯m desperately hoping it doesn¡¯t show on my face. I shift my stance. ¡°I¡¯m, ah. Really not all that interesting,¡± I deflect. Poorly, if the way he¡¯s advancing is any indication.

    ¡°You better be lying,¡± he mutters, ¡°for your sake.¡±

    Crush¡¯s hands light up in balls of starkly-glowing white energy, drifting up from his palms. He approaches, lifting a hand, and ¡ª

    I flex my right arm, and it splits down the middle, releasing my flesh-blade. I close the distance, foregoing the use of a pressure booster in favor of more control, and quickly regretting that decision as Crush¡¯s hand shoots up and wraps around the blade.

    It snaps almost immediately with a discordant hum, the shock of it traveling up my arm and sending spikes of pain down my spine.

    I grit my teeth, and drop down into a crouch, activating a pressure booster in my leg and kicking one of his out from under him.

    Crush grunts, and against my expectations, provides little resistance as his leg snaps back from the force of my attack, pitching forward far enough that his other hand makes contact with the concrete ¡ª

    Another menacing hum, the light under his palm growing brighter, and the pavement begins to crack. I scramble to my feet, taking a hasty step back, but before I can escape, the broken concrete spreads.

    The humming reaches a crescendo, and the ground around Crush explodes, dust and stone shrapnel flying everywhere. I lose myself in the noise, for a moment, before my back hits the road, and I deduce that I¡¯ve been thrown backwards.

    I attempt to leap gracefully back into a combat-ready stance, and only partially succeed. As they dust clears, I take a moment to seal a number of minor cuts from the shrapnel.

    I find myself seriously considering wearing my armor under my usual clothes.

    The cloud of dust parts before me with startling speed and intensity, revealing a figure, palms cloaked in bubbling white energy, charging towards me. He lunges, open hands closing in for a full-body grab, and I dart backwards, keeping my destroyed blade close to my side.

    Crush pivots, hand lashing out in a wide swing, which I manage to duck under fairly easily. He¡¯s not slow, exactly, but his movements are wide, uncoordinated.

    It has me on-edge. The image I have of him in my head doesn¡¯t line up with¡­ this. I narrow my eyes as I step away from another obvious attempt at a grab.

    And then ¡ª he¡¯s too close. His boot strikes my shin, something shattering under the weight, and with his newfound leverage he reaches downwards, palms humming with power.

    I stifle a scream, activating a pressure booster in my right arm and smacking his away, while I force my leg to twist out from under him. I hear another sickening crack as I attempt my escape, and another heavy lance of pain, but I try my best to ignore it.

    I duck his second hand, and as soon as he realizes it won¡¯t connect, Crush pulls back his hands and darts forward. Having ditched the wide, sweeping attacks he¡¯d used earlier, now he lunges in short, controlled bursts, ones that take all of my concentration to push past the pain in my leg and avoid.

    The pain is quickly becoming unbearable, though, and Crush¡¯s offense isn¡¯t letting up. I make a split-second decision, activating the remaining pressure booster in my leg and propelling myself clumsily backwards, down the street.

    My back hits the pavement, again, but I don¡¯t take the time to lament it. I use the time it takes Crush to reach me to soothe my back, as well as realign the bones in my leg and restore some of the structure. I¡¯m not sure what it looks like from the outside, but by the time I finish, Crush is again, approaching at high speeds.

    He reaches me, and I scramble to my feet, already stepping back instinctively, before Crush leans down and begins to drag his palm across the pavement. The action is slow, methodical, and for a moment I forget to remind myself how dangerous he is.

    I pay for that mistake very quickly, as suddenly the motion jerks into a frenzied sort of speed, and Crush¡¯s white glow pulses against the tarmac. Cracks erupt along the black material, and in a flash, the shattered concrete is speeding towards me in a thick cloud of shrapnel ¡ª

    I dive to the side, dropping into a clumsy roll, and frantically scramble out of the road, chest heaving and vision blurring. Crush is ¡ª

    Stronger than I thought. Somehow. My mind is already working overdrive, switching gears completely towards plans of escape, but before I can attempt any of them, I catch sight of something that makes my heart stop.

    A small figure, shiny black object clutched tightly in their hands, standing just behind Crush.

    Racc.

 Chapter 3.19

    3.19

    ¡°Unfortunately, the other denizens of the city are no help. I do not have the kind of leverage they want, and I have no desire to gain it.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 12

    Racc.

    I suppress the cry of alarm that tries to force its way out of my throat and make frantic eye contact with the kid as they creep closer to the ensuing fight. Their expression is determined, and even though I know they understand my intention, they dutifully ignore me.

    I resist the urge to curse as Crush leans down and throws another chunk of road at me, tearing another large divot in the ground as I¡¯m forced to yet again dive out of the way. I backtrack, dancing past overturned rubble in an effort to keep Crush facing away from the kid, and thankfully, it seems to be working. It¡¯s difficult to tell with that mask, but he doesn¡¯t seem to have noticed Racc.

    Crush steps forward, choosing an unbroken section of terrain to throw, and I prepare to dodge, but ¡ª

    Racc trips over a piece of concrete, cursing, and Crush¡¯s head whips around.

    They immediately recover and try to salvage the situation with a well-placed shot to Crush¡¯s skull, and the sound of the bullet firing is only overpowered by the shriek of metal tearing itself apart against Crush¡¯s palm.

    Racc curses, again, and I find my composure rapidly crumbling.

    ¡°The fuck are you doing?!¡± I shout, leaning over to see past Crush. The kid rolls their eyes.

    ¡°Saving your stupid ass, what¡¯s it look like?!¡±

    I grit my teeth. ¡°I assure you, child, I was doing perfectly fine before you showed up!¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah, of course, you look perfectly fine to me,¡± they snark, gesturing to my bloody clothes and shattered weapon.

    I open my mouth to bite out a retort, when a soft mutter pierces the air, and reminds me of the reason behind my dishevelment.

    ¡°So that¡¯s¡­¡± The bubbling energy drifting off Crush¡¯s palms dissipates as he reaches up to scratch the back of his cowl. He turns, staring at me from over his shoulder.

    ¡°You know this kid?¡±

    I scowl. No way to deny it, now. Even as I keep my silence, he nods slowly.

    ¡°Gotcha.¡±

    Crush turns, power sparking to life in his palms, a harsh, droning buzz filling the air as he steps slowly over broken rubble and approaches Racc. The kid lifts their weapon, and Crush raises a hand in turn, carefully tracking the weapon as it jerks back and forth, target changing shakily.

    Racc fires, once, twice, and both projectiles shatter against Crush¡¯s palm.

    Crush advances. Racc takes a step back.

    My body moves before I decide to. I dart forward, lamenting my lack of pressure boosters, skating across the cracked pavement and leaping off a larger chunk of concrete to land just past Crush, and in front of the kid. I lunge, broken weapon extended and aiming straight at his windpipe.

    He dodges, the blade skates past his throat, and he catches my arm in one hand. The limb immediately crumples.

    His other hand reachs for my skull.

    I dip into my power, burn the remaining muscle in my forearm, and disconnect the limb entirely from my elbow down, not bothering to staunch the spray of blood.

    Crush stumbles, and I duck his grasping hand, twisting to elbow him in the gut with as much force as I can muster without a pressure booster.

    He grunts, and takes a step back. I stand before him, breath coming in short bursts and blood dripping from my remaining stump.

    Crush idly holds my severed arm, staring at it for a moment. Then, he drops it to the ground, shaking his head.

    ¡°You¡¯re fucking crazy.¡±

    I snort, despite myself. ¡°I get that a lot.¡±

    I hear a sigh. ¡°Think I got what I need. Try not to get yourself killed. Maybe if you¡¯re worth something next time I see you, I won¡¯t try to smear you across the pavement.¡±

    He pauses. As much as I try to read into his body language, that cowl is infuriatingly effective. He stares, and I have no idea what he¡¯s thinking. Another head shake, and he turns, walking down the street and kicking stray bits of rubble from his path.

    He¡¯s¡­ leaving? I resist the urge to call out, to scream obscenities at his retreating form.

    He¡¯s just fucking leaving. ¡°The fuck¡­?¡±

    I glance at Racc, behind me. They look a little green in the face, but they shrug anyway. ¡°Dunno, man.¡±

    I sigh, casting one last look at the retreating figure. ¡°We should leave, just in case anyone decides to come see what all this was about,¡± I mutter, absentmindedly reaching for the kid¡¯s hand.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    They take a step back, and I blink, realizing abruptly that I probably look like something out of a horror movie.

    I take a moment to seal the wound on my arm, and make sure everything else is functional. I don¡¯t have the time or resources to repair the arm at the moment, so I remind myself to stop by Chloe¡¯s shack and pick up the last of my calorie bars before trying anything else.

    ¡°S ¡ª sorry,¡± I huff. ¡°Are you¡­ alright?¡±

    They give a shaky nod, head ducked. I take a breath.

    ¡°¡­Where to?¡±

    I tilt my head, thinking. ¡°We¡¯ll stop by a friend¡¯s place, and then head back to the house. You alright to walk?¡±

    Racc rolls their eyes. ¡°Obviously I can walk.¡±

    I shoot them a half-hearted glare. ¡°Are you alright to walk a lot,¡± I clarify.

    ¡°Pssh. I¡¯ll be fine,¡± they whine, waving a hand dismissively.

    ¡°If you say so,¡± I shrug, and start walking. To their credit, the kid does manage to keep pace, even while I duck into a nearby alleyway, and begin taking a scenic route.

    Still, I decide to take it slow. For my sake as much as theirs. Even if my biology is relatively stable, at the moment, I can tell I won¡¯t last much longer without more intensive care.

    Racc follows behind at a significant distance, head darting back and forth and jumping at shadows.

    I try to respect their need for space as best I can.

    ¡°Never bringin¡¯ you anywhere ever again,¡± I mutter, and in hindsight I¡¯m glad they don¡¯t seem to hear me. We make surprisingly good time, and before long I start to recognize the shattered buildings we shamble past.

    As I step out onto the street, catching sight of the shack nestled into the opposite corner, my foot catches against a bit of upturned concrete.

    Not usually an issue, but here it only serves to remind me of how heavily exhaustion drapes across my shoulders. I stumble, vision blurring.

    Maybe¡­ maybe I¡¯ll just take a second to, uh. Psych myself up. I¡¯ll just¡­

    I close my eyes, and take a breath. In¡­

    ¡°¡­Claire?¡± I blink, and Racc¡¯s standing next to me, hand extended hesitantly. I release my held breath, and try to shake the fog from my mind.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Let¡¯s just ¡ª¡° I try to lift my boot, and, to my eternal surprise, it does not go well. My legs crumple, aching muscles finally deciding to give out at the worst possible moment, and ¡ª

    A strangled yelp, and my momentum is halted by a pair of surprisingly strong arms latched around my torso, gently guiding me to the ground. I struggle to focus, vision fading in and out ¡ª when did it get this bad? And ¡ª

    Racc looks distressed. They maintain their distance, but their hands twitch, like they want to act but aren¡¯t sure what they should be doing.

    ¡°Calorie bar,¡± I mutter. ¡°Shack, over there, mini-fridge at the back. Might as well grab all of them.¡±

    They nod, and turn to leave, but stop when I call their name.

    ¡°Racc.¡± They tilt their head.

    I sigh. ¡°Sorry about¡­ all this.¡±

    Racc doesn¡¯t reply, but they do scamper across the street and start attempting to break into the shack.

    A wheezy chuckle forces its way out of my throat at that. The kid seems determined to live up to their namesake. I can only hope they don¡¯t trash the shack too much.

    Time blurs, and before I know it, a gray-and-black fuzzy blob encroaches on my vision, pushing an object into my hands. The blob says something, I¡¯m pretty sure.

    I look down, and dimly register the given object as a calorie bar. How sweet. What a kind indistinct blob. I somehow muster the energy to stuff the bar down my throat, and dip into my power.

    Dissolving the bar¡¯s calories directly lets me use it without waiting for it to digest, and slowly, conserving my available energy, I begin to stitch my body back together.

    Half-healed fractures, torn muscles¡­ the biggest issue is, seemingly, the lack of blood. Must have slipped my mind in the heat of battle.

    I open my eyes, and even if they cloud of exhaustion I find myself hovering in doesn¡¯t entirely dissipate, I no longer feel like I¡¯m on death¡¯s door.

    I sigh.

    ¡­Not enough leverage, huh?

    I pick myself up off the ground, trying on a smile in an attempt to ease the anxious look on Racc¡¯s face. ¡°Thanks, kid. You¡¯re a lifesaver.¡±

    They huff, and roll their eyes. ¡°Whatever.¡±

    I laugh. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back to the house, huh? I¡¯ll let you break as many dishes as you want.¡±

    Racc¡¯s attempt at remaining calm at that suggestion is feeble at best.

    ¡ª

    ¡°So? What do you think?¡±

    They guy adjusts his beanie, glancing out at the surrounding plaza. It¡¯s not much to look at.

    He¡¯s nervous. I keep my smile plastered onto my face, even as Ava rolls her eyes from the corner of my vision.

    The patient sighs. ¡°¡­This¡¯ll help?¡±

    My perpetual grin softens involuntarily. ¡°That¡¯s the idea.¡±

    ¡°¡­Fine. Yeah. I¡¯ll get the others in on it.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I chirp. ¡°We¡¯ll contact you with the details.¡±

    He nods, and we part ways.

    I stuff my hands in my pockets and begin walking down the street, Ava following just behind me. I hear her breathe out, and smoke curls out in front of my vision.

    ¡°How do you feel about some more extensive modifications? I¡¯m not going to do anything you¡¯re unwilling to deal with, but it could be helpful to have a bit of extra durability, just in case,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m going to need to update my own as well, and without consistent access to my calorie bars, I¡¯ll need to find a consistent source of organic fuel. Maybe we can co-opt a meat packing plant at some point¡­?¡± I¡¯m rambling, but it helps to have the plans spoken aloud. Maybe I¡¯ll stop by a store on the way home and pick up a notebook?

    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of it,¡± Ava states, snapping me out of my musings. I glance at her over my shoulder questioningly.

    She nods, and gestures vaguely. ¡°Organic fuel. High calorie food, right? I¡¯ll find something. And, if you can write up a report on the kind of modifications you¡¯re thinking of, I can probably convince the others to give it a shot.¡±

    I stop, and turn to face her properly. ¡°¡­I don¡¯t want you doing too much work.¡±

    Ava laughs, and it sounds more like a wheeze.

    I frown. Maybe I can convince her to get that checkup sooner rather than later.

    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m in my element,¡± she denies. ¡°Sending Gordon on fetch-quests is the reason I get up in the morning.¡±

    Her face softens. ¡°But seriously. Don¡¯t think I can¡¯t see how much you¡¯re already doing. Even Chloe seems like she¡¯s working up to something. And, to be honest¡­ if this works, you¡¯re only gonna get more busy.¡±

    Ava chuckles, sticking her cigarette back between her teeth. ¡°Think of it like¡­ seizing stable employment by the horns, yeah? Everyone¡¯s gonna have their work cut out for them. I¡¯m just getting my part done ahead of time.¡±

    I huff. ¡°¡¯Course.¡±

    Ava brushes past me, ambling down the street. ¡°C¡¯mon, kid, those new dishes aren¡¯t gonna buy themselves.¡±

    I stifle a groan. That child is going to end up killing me before anyone else does.

 Chapter 3.20

    3.20

    ¡°I suppose I am lucky my ability is naturally intimidating.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 32

    ¡°You¡¯ve already got a stranglehold on the population here,¡± Chloe points out, ¡°and you¡¯re willing to take advantage of it. Take it a step further. Hell, if you end up meeting with that arms dealer, you could have some serious manpower on your hands.¡±

    I shoot her a scowl. ¡°I am not at all confident in my ability to negotiate with an arms dealer.¡±

    Chloe scoffs, waving a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, I¡¯ll teach ya.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s wildly concerning.¡±

    ¡°But helpful!¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°We¡¯ll still have to delay it slightly, if I can¡¯t guarantee everyone will show up where I need them to.¡±

    Chloe blinks. ¡°Your goons, or Cook¡¯s?¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Both.¡±

    She tilts her head. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to predict your own, especially if you¡¯ve prepared enough of them. They¡¯d all register as low-priority, and from there you just need something to entice Suckup.¡± Chloe frowns, scratching her chin. ¡°I think you¡¯d have an easier time getting at him than Cook. Maybe wait until Cook¡¯s already preoccupied, and set out something else for Suckup to go after?¡±

    I nod. ¡°I could ask Ava to spread rumors about something like the concert happening again. Something bigger, so Suckup¡¯s presence is deemed necessary. If we time it right, Cook will be busy, and a large part of his militia will be dealing with¡­ everything else.¡±

    Chloe grins. ¡°Exactly. Nobody likes Cook, and since you have something they want, you can get them to do anything. When you give the word, the whole gang¡¯s gonna be busy.¡±

    I stifle a sigh. ¡°You make me sound like a supervillain.¡±

    The girl shrugs, leaning back on her stool. ¡°You kind of are, y¡¯know. Just like me! Supervillain besties.¡±

    This time, the sigh escapes my lips, unbidden. ¡°¡­How are we going to handle weapons?¡±

    Chloe laughs. ¡°Well, in lieu of any arms contracting, we do have a couple other options¡­¡±

    ¡ª

    The next time I sit in on a meeting with Cook¡¯s distributors, Suckup decides that today is the day he crashes the party, and I see my chance.

    He¡¯s complaining about some kind of material transfer, which I make sure to take mental note of, when I approach. Some of the other distributors shoot me annoyed glares, but aren¡¯t willing to risk interrupting the guy just to shoo me away.

    I take a seat next to him, and put on my most attentive face. He doesn¡¯t seem to realize I¡¯m there, at first, but when he does, he takes my intrigued expression and excited nods as the utmost encouragement. I¡¯m only half-listening to his rant, memorizing some of the more important bits, but Suckup either doesn¡¯t care about my lack of genuine interest or doesn¡¯t notice.

    The man pauses his rant in order to take a drink from the glass in front of him, and one of the distributors jumps at the chance.

    ¡°Sir, this is all very interesting, but ¡ª¡°

    ¡°Yeah, I know it is, ¡®s why I¡¯m tellin¡¯ ya,¡± he slurs. I¡¯m not sure whether I¡¯ve gotten lucky, here, or unlucky.

    The distributor scowls. ¡°Sir, this woman is ¡ª¡°

    Suckup scoffs. ¡°If ya think I¡¯m needin¡¯ ta¡¯ know anythin¡¯ about anythin¡¯ from a low-life lackey like you motherfuckers,¡± he chokes out. ¡°You¡¯re uh. Wrong.¡±

    He seems like his head is about to hit the table any minute now, actually, so before he can pass out, I perform a bit of subtle probing.

    ¡°Speaking of low-life lackeys,¡± I say, subtly, ¡°I heard there¡¯s gonna be a meetup soon. With, ah, whats-her-name¡­ the Doctor?¡±

    Suckup¡¯s head snaps up. ¡°Wh ¡ª where? When¡­?¡±

    Fuck. Uh¡­ we¡¯ll probably need at least a week, but I don¡¯t want him getting bored or anything ¡ª didn¡¯t he say Cook was going to oversee a shipment on¡­ what was it¡­?

    ¡°Six days from now, on the twelfth. In the west plaza, you know the place? Here, I¡¯ll write it down for you,¡± I assert, tearing a page from my notebook. Glancing down at my notes, it seems like the date is correct. So long as nothing interferes, the date should be perfect.

    I won¡¯t count on it, but it¡¯d be stupid not to take the chance offered to me.

    Suckup snatches the note from my hand as soon as I finish writing it, and goes back to rambling drunkenly. I note with only a little relief that he still manages to slip the paper into his pocket, and I can only hope he gets a chance to actually read the thing at some point.

    It¡¯s not difficult to slip out of the meeting after that, but the glares from a number of the distributors have me feeling paranoid. I take the long way home, and make a note to switch disguises next time.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    I also make a note to have Ava try and corroborate Cook¡¯s suspected location with some of our other contacts, just in case.

    ¡ª

    Gordon sighs when I stroll casually into the meeting room.

    I¡¯ve been calling it the meeting room in my head these days, but Mikey still insists that it¡¯s his living room. He has been repeatedly proved wrong by now.

    ¡°Why is it that whenever you want to meet me, it¡¯s always about a scheme? Why can¡¯t we ever just grab a coffee, or something?¡±

    I frown. ¡°I hate coffee.¡±

    Gordon looks like he wants to sigh some more, but realizes that it would be excessive. He settles for an exasperated glare. ¡°What did you need, Claire?¡±

    I huff. ¡°¡­I¡¯ll try and be around more. Maybe you can help me take the kid somewhere that doesn¡¯t include spontaneous murder villains.¡±

    He blinks, but to his credit seems to brush it off immediately. ¡°¡­Sure. Don¡¯t worry about it, I know you¡¯re busy.¡±

    I nod. ¡°So, ah. How do you feel about arms dealing?¡±

    Gordon acquires a dark expression. ¡°I will not be arms dealing for you, Claire. I have never dealt an arm in my life.¡±

    He¡¯s going to need convincing. If he really doesn¡¯t want to do it, I can have Ava find someone else, but¡­

    I trust him more than I do anyone off the street, to be honest.

    I flap my hand dismissively. ¡°C¡¯mon, dude, just one arm? Just a couple? For your old pal? I¡¯ve been meaning to pick up a couple extra.¡±

    He shoots me a look. ¡°¡­You¡¯re joking, right?¡±

    I smile. The answer to that is between me and my planning notebook, which I only recently picked up from Chloe. I guess she noticed how much I like carrying them around.

    Gordon sighs. ¡°¡­I don¡¯t want to die for you Claire. I¡¯m willing to make this work, but¡­ you gotta give me something.¡±

    Reassurance? I can do that. I only really need him to initiate contact, and from there, after a rapport is established, meetings wouldn¡¯t be so sketchy.

    Still a little sketchy. My smile turns lopsided. ¡°You don¡¯t actually have to do any negotiating beyond what I tell you. Just gotta show up, relay a couple things, and once we¡¯re in contact you can probably scram. You¡¯d have Chloe by your side, and me on standby, so it¡¯s extremely unlikely you¡¯ll sustain any permanent damage.¡±

    My voice drops, slightly. ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t promise you won¡¯t be hurt. If you don¡¯t want to participate, I can find someone else.¡±

    Gordon sighs.

    ¡°No. No, that¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll do it. I said I would.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t just do it because you said you would,¡± I comment, tilting my head.

    He glares, half-heartedly. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±

    I search his face. His expression is set, his body is tense¡­ but not in anxiety, exactly, even if there is some of that. He seems resolved.

    I roll my eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna die, don¡¯t even worry about it. Easy job, in and out.¡±

    The guy has the audacity to roll his eyes back at me. ¡°As if. When do we leave?¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Tomorrow. We¡¯re on a bit of a time crunch. Sorry.¡±

    Gordon gives in, and sighs again. He reminds me vaguely of a steam engine, during times like these. ¡°I should have guessed. I¡¯ll pack my things, meet me here in the morning.¡±

    ¡°Good to have you on board,¡± I reply, shooting him my most dazzling smile.

    He seems unaffected, but he does go to pack his things. I count it as a win.

    ¡ª

    Chloe¡¯s bouncing a tennis ball against the living room wall while Mikey glares nervously whenever it veers too close to any of the shelves when Gordon arrives at the meeting room. He takes one look at Mikey attempting to snatch the ball out of the air and decides to brave the morning chill instead.

    ¡°Meet me outside when you¡¯re normal,¡± he mutters, and I wonder idly if he wants to stand out there forever.

    Dutifully, though, I dart into a side room, pulling on my slightly-tattered ¡®heroics¡¯ costume, and pulling on a jacket over top. It¡¯s not much in the way of disguise, but it doesn¡¯t have to be, so long as I stick to back alleys.

    I forego the helmet, as has become habit recently, deciding instead to go for my old, cracked hockey mask.

    It feels like things have been moving so quickly, recently, that I haven¡¯t had the time to put it on. I always get caught without a mask.

    Honestly, bringing one now feels sort of weird, but it¡¯s marginally better than going in jeans and a t-shirt. At least the armor¡¯s intimidating.

    I stroll out onto the porch, finding Gordon and Chloe already waiting for me. Chloe doesn¡¯t really have a costume, but it seems like everything she wears contributes to the steampunk rat aesthetic she has going on, and today she¡¯s decided her brass-plated goggles are required to enhance that look.

    Gordon¡¯s tall, but that¡¯s about all he has going for him in the ¡®interesting looks¡¯ department. Other than that, he just looks like some guy.

    He¡¯s kind of perfect for that.

    I nod at them. ¡°Let¡¯s head out. Which way is¡­?¡±

    Chloe rolls her eyes. ¡°We¡¯re not walking, you psycho. C¡¯mon, I stored the wind-up car over here,¡± she asserts, bouncing over to a small nook around the back of the house.

    I stuff my hands in my pockets and move to follow, but before I set foot off of the porch, Mikey pokes his head out the door.

    ¡°Get back soon,¡± he hisses under his breath, shooting me a scowl. ¡°The fucking kid is sleeping, you have to get back before they wake up.¡±

    I snort. ¡°Aw, come on, can¡¯t handle kids?¡±

    Mikey¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°I swear to god that child is some kind of demon, and I am in no position to stop them. Return promptly!¡± The door closes.

    I stifle a laugh, and follow Chloe out to her contraption.

    ¡ª

    The ride over to the docks takes a bit of time. It¡¯s not far from the usual downtown area, but the city is big, and the docks are some of the largest.

    The air begins to change, the closer we get to the water. It doesn¡¯t turn salty, or anything so cliche; Westpoint being stuck right near the center of Tennessee doesn¡¯t really allow the city access to any saltwater. Still, the river is wide enough that the far bank would be barely visible, if the blast walls didn¡¯t continue out into the water.

    The docks used to be fairly busy when I was younger, if I remember correctly, but since then transportation methods have changed drastically. Nowadays, there¡¯s a cleaner section up north used for private boats and joyrides, but the rest of the docks remain almost completely abandoned. The destruction isn¡¯t so bad in this area, but seemingly only because there¡¯s nothing worth destroying around here, anyway.

    Chloe¡¯s death trap rumbles to a stop, and she yanks a control of some kind as the thing shuts off.

    I groan. ¡°Can¡¯t you just drive a normal car? Like a normal person?¡±

    She laughs. ¡°What? And ruin my brand?¡±

    Gordon shrugs. ¡°I didn¡¯t think it was that bad.¡±

    I stare at him. ¡°Dude. You¡¯re supposed to be the normal one.¡± He at least has the grace to adopt a slightly embarrassed look.

    Chloe keeps laughing.

    ¡°Whatever. Everyone out of the disguised meat-grinder, we¡¯ve got shady arms dealing to do.¡± I climb past the haphazard safety rails, and the others follow as we move into position. I flick my phone out, and Gordon does the same, testing the connection.

    It¡¯s not great, but it¡¯ll work for what we need to do.

    I¡¯m not about to be caught off-guard again.

 Chapter 3.21

    3.21

    ¡°Smuggling isn¡¯t done, in the city. With the blast walls in place, travel beyond is severely limited to those able to bypass the protections, and survive the journey through untamed wilds.

    That¡¯s not to say the outside world is crawling with monsters, or any such nonsense, no matter what some internet boards would tell you. No, it¡¯s simply that the only remnants of civilization outside the walls are naught but rubble by now.

    Disasters have forced us to consolidate. It¡¯s difficult to smuggle when the roads are nothing but ash and dust.

    And, after all, why pay for illegal transport at all, when the USMC facilitates safe, easy transportation from their headquarters? The only downside is the wait times. Corporations always seem to get priority.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 18, page 20

    ¡°You good to go, G?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me G, Doc.¡± I grimace, shooting a small glare out the window of the abandoned building I¡¯ve taken residence in, towards a small figure standing on the street below.

    ¡°Not you too,¡± I complain. ¡°I sort of hoped defecting from the government would let me pick my own supervillain name.¡±

    Gordon snorts, the sound fuzzy over the phone. I watch him make a similar motion some distance away. ¡°You shoulda¡¯ picked it earlier, then.¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Whatever. There¡¯s still time. Maybe if everything goes well, the wider public won¡¯t even know the Doctor existed.¡±

    ¡°Optimistic.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be a downer, G. Here, how about you help me workshop?¡±

    I hear a groan over the speaker. ¡°How much longer until the shady dealer arrives? I¡¯d rather deal with them.¡±

    I ignore him. We¡¯ve still got around twenty minutes to go, and I¡¯d noticed he was getting twitchy a while ago.

    ¡°My power¡¯s at least a little bit medical, so it¡¯s not like ¡®Doc¡¯ is a bad name,¡± I start, thinking out loud, ¡°But it¡¯s only really intimidating in a specific context. Evil doctors make me think experiments, fucked-up surgeries, that kind of thing, which is counterproductive if I want to continue healing people.¡±

    Another groan, deliberately louder, this time. Well, he doesn¡¯t have to be listening for me to air my thoughts.

    ¡°Visually, I end up pretty bloody a lot of the time, so maybe it¡¯d be more effective to reference that? The USMC seemed to think so, going with Redline, but I can¡¯t continue using that name without at least loosely associating myself with them, which wouldn¡¯t end well.¡± I hum, tilting my head. ¡°Anything more explicit runs the risk of being too edgy to take seriously, and doesn¡¯t produce the image I want¡­¡±

    Gordon finally sighs. ¡°¡­Well. What kind of image do you want? What kind of message?¡±

    I shrug, even if he can¡¯t see it from a distance. ¡°Dunno. Something scrappy, maybe. More grounded. The USMC, and Brightheart especially always seem a little¡­ distant.¡±

    ¡°Pretty sure that¡¯s on purpose.¡±

    ¡°All the more reason to, uh. Not do that.¡± I lean a little out the window, feeling the breeze on my cheeks. ¡°¡­Maybe something like¡­ Rodent? Cockroach? Because I¡¯m hard to kill?¡±

    Gordon snorts. ¡°Unless you start growing bug parts, I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s gonna make that connection. You¡¯re¡­ not growing bug parts, are you?¡±

    I shudder. ¡°No. I will not be doing that.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± A pause. ¡°So¡­?¡±

    ¡°Mm¡­ Patchwork?¡± I mutter. ¡°No, not that. Reminds of Cook. Roadkill?¡±

    My eyes narrow. ¡°Maybe¡­¡±

    The phone crackles with Gordon¡¯s startled exclamation. ¡°C ¡ª Claire!¡± He hisses.

    I snap back into focus, eyes darting down to Gordon¡¯s place on the sidewalk as he peers into an alleyway. ¡°Yeah?¡± I prompt, looking away for a moment in order to locate Chloe, who gives a short wave as we make eye contact from her spot across the street.

    ¡°I think this is the guy¡­?¡±

    I suppress a huff. ¡°If you¡¯re sure. Go ask him if he¡¯s here to meet someone. Say you¡¯re here to speak for an associate, and then put the phone on speaker.¡±

    Gordon mutters something about bait and getting a pay raise, which I block out in favor of shoving myself back from the window and creeping further into the building. I step slowly through the hallway, trying to find a better vantage point to see the alley from.

    The device in my hand emits a low buzz, and I think I make out a soft rustling as Gordon moves. ¡°¡­Hey, uh. Hello, sir?¡±

    I resist a snort. Sir? Really? I poke my head out a different window, squinting in an effort to see clearly across the street.

    From what I can pick out, the guy Gordon speaks to is wearing a fine suit, and carrying a smaller briefcase. I hear muffled sound over the speaker as the figure shifts, and I assume he¡¯s speaking, but his words don¡¯t make it across.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Yeah. Yeah, uh, I¡¯m speaking for C ¡ª an associate.¡±

    Another muffled reply.

    ¡°Ah ¡ª sure.¡± Gordon pulls the phone from his pocket.

    ¡°Good evening. You are the client?¡± The voice is clipped, authoritative. I frown. I know I shouldn¡¯t let my expectations color this interaction, but I was expecting someone more¡­ shady? This guy talks like he has money.

    ¡°I am,¡± I reply after a pause, mimicking his precise tone.

    ¡°You contacted us about the possibility of purchasing weapons. This is a preliminary meeting, to discuss supply, pricing, and the possibility of future business. After this meeting concludes, you will be provided a separate contact that you or an associate can reach at a later date.¡±

    I nod, again realizing that no one is around to see it. ¡°Understood.¡±

    ¡°Good. First things first, how many weapons are you looking to buy?¡±

    Mm. I lean my head against a hand, resting my elbows on the windowsill. Might have to start winging this. It¡¯s not that I haven¡¯t thought about the specifics of arming a militia, but I¡¯m not yet totally certain how many people I¡¯ll have at my disposal, or how much I¡¯ll be able to pay for it.

    Or if I even should. This is all too well-organized, it¡¯s beginning to get suspicious. It seems unlikely to be a set-up specifically for me, but¡­

    At the very least this dealer is more well-equipped than I expected.

    ¡°Enough to arm a small militia,¡± I respond, trying to keep the hesitance from coloring my voice.

    The figure in the alleyway shifts in a way that suggests a nod. ¡°Preference for the make and model?¡±

    ¡°Small arms, handheld. Do you provide ammunition?¡±

    Another nod, I assume. ¡°For a price. Smith & Wesson, SD9 2.0 9mm Luger, twenty instances, as well as two full magazines for each¡­ twelve thousand dollars.¡±

    I let myself wince, seeing as he can¡¯t exactly see my face, but resist the urge to gasp out loud.

    That¡¯s¡­ a lot of money.

    ¡°¡­When do you need it?¡±

    A sniff. ¡°You¡¯ll be contacted at a later date with a drop point for the payment. Upon delivering the payment, your product will be shipped to a separate drop point, which you will be informed of upon delivery. The opportunity will remain open for one month following this meeting.¡±

    ¡°Though¡­¡± And the dealer¡¯s tone takes on a harsher streak. ¡°You¡¯d best remember your manners in this regard. We won¡¯t be kept waiting.¡±

    I scowl. This is dissolving. Better to wrap it up. I lever myself up and out the window, ensuring my mask is secure against my face. Gripping the edge of the windowsill, I swing myself over to land on the fire escape, making my way sedately down the rusted stairs and keeping a close eye on the alley.

    ¡°Understood. We¡¯ll be prompt.¡± Even if we don¡¯t end up using the weapons, I find myself wary of getting on the wrong side of this type of thing.

    I hit the ground just as the dealer hands Gordon a slip of paper and oozes a few more ominous warnings. As I make my way closer to the alley, scanning the nearby docks, I catch sight of movement out of the corner of my eye.

    Another figure ¡ª a little taller than me, wearing heavy gloves, knee and elbow pads, and ¡ª a bandana. They stalk forward as the dealer makes to leave, and I try to reconcile the sight.

    Weird outfit, especially since they¡¯re not carrying a skateboard or anything.

    It immediately puts my heart in my throat. I glance back at Chloe¡¯s spot and see a similar expression of tension gracing her face as she hefts a bolt gun.

    My pace speeds up, and even if the strangely-dressed figure doesn¡¯t seem to notice, their stride gains confidence as they round the corner into the alley where Gordon is standing and open their mouth ¡ª

    I¡¯m moving before I can really process what¡¯s happening, flesh-blade extending with a sickening crunch as flesh parts, and a sharp hiss heralds a pressure booster being fired in my left leg. I dash, kicking up steam behind me, blade angled in a low swipe.

    The stranger turns their head at the sound, eyes widening as they sidestep the attack.

    ¡°Woah!¡± They twist, transitioning into a smooth hook that I barely manage to duck under, and bring their knee into a vicious strike to my gut. I lower an arm, tanking the hit but being forced to skid back across the concrete.

    Gordon startles, stumbling. I deliberately move my focus away from him, but try to make sure to keep him in the corner of my eye.

    The stranger takes a quick step, and I move to intercept. Before I can follow through, though, they dart to the side, taking advantage of my movement to slip past and make for Gordon.

    I consider using a pressure booster.

    The stranger steps, and the concrete next to them shatters. For a moment, I think it has something to do with their power, before they stumble aside, revealing a long piece of rebar protruding from the ground.

    I glance back. Chloe¡¯s reloading.

    I move to pursue the stranger. They regain their balance, entering a more stable stance, before their gaze flicks to the side.

    Distracted? I risk a look beside me just in time to watch a spectral figure whirl into place, edges fuzzing like static, colors shifting fast enough to make me vaguely ill. Past all the obvious visual distortion, the thing looks like an exact copy of the person in front of me.

    Down to the last detail apparently, because it strikes with a sharp hook that catches me directly in the face.

    My head snaps back, and I stumble, shaking off the starburst of pain that explodes in front of my eyes. The clone fades, but in its place another one seems to burst into motion, driving a knee into my side and sending me sprawling.

    I scramble to my feet, struggling to lift my un-bladed arm to deflect a number of jabs from the real stranger, and finding they¡¯ve advanced closer into my range than I¡¯m usually comfortable with, especially with the sword out.

    From the confident glint in their eye, they know that as well as I do.

    I scowl, brushing aside another jab, and find myself completely unprepared as they feint a hook, duck under my arm, and kick the back of my knee.

    I don¡¯t fall, but I stumble, and another buzzing clone appears prepared with a jab to my throat that I can¡¯t help but take head-on.

    The thing looks to be pushing to continue its attack. I haul my leg into a low kick that shatters the projection like glass, and follow through into an instinctive roll.

    I¡¯m on my feet in an instant, which isn¡¯t enough to gain any breathing room. This person¡¯s hand-to-hand is already more than competent, in spite of its obviously self-taught nature, and combined with their ability to create projections it makes for an opponent that can sustain pressure in a fight indefinitely.

    I can¡¯t match them in combat, and though I might be able to in endurance, they¡¯re expending less energy than I am by using those clones.

    But ¡ª the clones are fragile. With a strong enough blow, I should be able to shatter any close enough, and break through their guard to incapacitate them. I¡¯ll need to use one ¡ª no, two, most likely, and aim for their arm to ensure I don¡¯t accidentally decapitate them ¡ª

    I lean forward in preparation, hefting my blade, when I hear the scuff of boots behind me, a soft breeze on the back of my neck, and suddenly a blade is held to my throat.

    I freeze.

    Wonderful.

 Chapter 3.22

    3.22

    ¡°Almost there. Hang on, Sera.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 33

    The blade isn¡¯t the issue. I can deal with a slit throat. The issue is, obviously, that they don¡¯t know that. If I break the hold now, I lose my advantage. Plus ¡ª

    I turn my head slightly, gaze locking onto Gordon¡¯s nearby. He¡¯s frozen as well, and doesn¡¯t seem to have registered how little danger I¡¯m in. That¡¯s good, in that he won¡¯t give anything away, but bad in that ¡ª

    He¡¯s frozen, as well. If I break away and heal the throat wound, my attacker will realize that physical injury doesn¡¯t affect me, and be forced to find an alternative method to subdue me. Namely¡­ Gordon.

    At least, that¡¯s what I would do, in their place. I don¡¯t know enough about these two to predict them accurately.

    I sigh, and lower my blade arm slightly. ¡°Leave me and my¡­ associate. We can end this without anyone getting hurt.¡±

    The person in front of me snorts, carding a hand through their hair. A voice from behind flows smoothly as the knife against my throat loosens. Seems like they don¡¯t want a fight, either.

    Still, knife-guy puts up a token effort. ¡°You¡¯re not exactly in a position to be negotiating.¡±

    I go to shrug, but reconsider. ¡°I¡¯ve got a sniper. This guy knows,¡± I nod at the person in front of me, who scowls.

    ¡°Ugh, right.¡±

    A sigh, and knife-guy relents a little more. ¡°You¡¯re awfully calm for someone being held at knifepoint.¡±

    Mm. It¡¯s probably past time to drop the charade, especially now that Gordon¡¯s managed to quietly make a decent bit of space between us. I let my mouth stretch into a wide grin, one which I¡¯ve picked up manages to consistently make people uncomfortable.

    I lean into the blade, letting it scrape across my throat and manage to suppress a flinch. The arm holding it jerks back almost reflexively, and my captor mutters a swear as they release me. They cautiously make their way around to join their accomplice at the alleyway exit, and I¡¯m treated to a better look at their appearance.

    Their outfit is similarly ragged, with the addition of a number of colorful bandanas tied around their arm, and under the sleeves of their jacket an assortment of expensive-looking watches glimmer against their dark skin.

    Something tickles the back of my mind, and I¡¯m fairly sure I¡¯ve seen these two somewhere. Watch-guy eyes me.

    ¡°¡­Doctor, right?¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Not for long.¡±

    They stare for another moment, before taking their friend by the arm and marching out of the alleyway.

    I sigh, letting my shoulders droop. Why is everything around here so tense?

    I turn, glancing over at Gordon. He seems fine.

    ¡°You alright?¡±

    He puts his face in his hands. ¡°Never ask me to be bait again.¡±

    ¡ª

    ¡°So. We¡¯re armed, now.¡±

    ¡°Not yet. Still have to get the money, and pick up the actual product.¡±

    Chloe waves a hand. ¡°Semantics. I¡¯ll handle the money.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± I ask, raising an eyebrow.

    ¡°Sure. You¡¯ve been pulling your weight ¡ª I¡¯ll pull mine.¡±

    I chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s not how this works ¡ª but, it¡¯d help. Thanks.¡± I sigh. ¡°And speaking of pulling my weight,¡± I mutter.

    Chloe squints. ¡°You¡¯re not planning something ridiculous again, are you?¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°What? No. When have I ever done that?¡±

    ¡°Last time you said you were gonna do somethin¡¯, you laid down for five minutes and woke up with steam pourin¡¯ out your ears.¡±

    Ah. Right, that did happen. ¡°I¡¯m going to need more firepower if we¡¯re going to pull this off,¡± I reason.

    ¡°Can you do it without giving yourself brain damage? Like you did last time?¡±

    Probably not. ¡°Yeah, of course,¡± I lie.

    Chloe gives me a flat stare. ¡°¡­Just so long as you know that if you turn into a vegetable or whatever, the rest of us are fucked.¡±

    My expression softens, even as I try to reign it in. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, Chloe. It¡¯s mostly physical modifications this time, I¡¯m not planning on doing anything else to my brain. As long as I have enough material, I¡¯m practically immortal.¡±

    I scowl. ¡°Speaking of which, I need to stop by a grocery store or something, I¡¯m out of the calorie bars. Gonna have to eat a lot.¡± It¡¯s going to be a pain, but I think I can use my power to cycle food from my stomach, so it should be possible to down everything at once, even if it¡¯s annoying. It¡¯d be nice if there was a way to skip the ¡®eating¡¯ part and just toss everything in at the same time, but¡­

    I frown. Maybe¡­?

    Chloe drops her wrench back onto her workbench, and hops up from her seat. The sound startles me from my musings, and I watch curiously as she meanders towards the door.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    She shoots me a look over her shoulder. ¡°You comin¡¯? Figure I better come with, make sure you don¡¯t get into any more trouble.¡±

    I resist the urge to roll my eyes again, lest I strain them any more than they already are. ¡°Sure.¡±

    ¡ª

    Thankfully, my burner phone can access the internet. Unfortunately, Chloe¡¯s shack is nowhere near an accessible connection. I end up having to do my research and collect material at the same time.

    By the time I flop back down on the couch, though I think I have a pretty good handle on what I want to do. It¡¯s going to be¡­ a lot, but¡­

    I don¡¯t really have a choice in this, anymore. I couldn¡¯t walk away, even if I wanted to.

    And I don¡¯t think I want to.

    I let out a breath, staring at the assortment of meats and other high-calorie food items arrayed before me.

    Chloe gave me an odd look when I suggested including raw meat, but I told her I had a plan for it, and she seemed content to let it go. Thinking about it, now, though, maybe it¡¯d be a better idea to let her know. She seemed disturbed by the flesh-blade when we first met, and the stuff I have planned is only really going to get worse.

    ¡°Hey, Chloe, do we have a tarp or something?¡±

    She eyes me. ¡°¡­What for?¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Might get bloody, not sure. Probably going to be disturbing. I can probably find an abandoned building or something if you want the shack to yourself.¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°I think I got a tarp somewhere out back, just give me a sec¡¯.¡±

    ¡°¡­You sure?¡±

    Chloe stops halfway out the door. She pauses, and lets out a breath. ¡°Do what you gotta do, Claire.¡±

    She goes to get the tarp, and I spend the time scrolling through the burner trying to brush up on the plan.

    At its core, these changes are meant to be intimidating. Everything I do from here on has to reflect that. Crush made it clear that I¡¯m not¡­ respected by the surrounding gangs. I need to give them a reason, and while I don¡¯t want to hurt people if I don¡¯t have to¡­

    They just need to think I will.

    First, I need a way to consume all the food we bought quickly and efficiently. Ideally, the method that I settle on will be usable in battle, too. I¡¯d been thinking about modifying my jaw and a number of internal organs in order to accommodate larger quantities of material, but in the end I decided it¡¯d be too complicated. Why modify an existing organ when you can just cut the middle-man and make your own?

    Plus, this has the added benefit of being creepy as fuck. I close my eyes and lay down on the tarp, activating my power. My senses remain muted, but with the neural lattice I can sense a definite awareness of my real-life surroundings that isn¡¯t usually there, even if it feels buried under miles of metaphorical sludge. I¡¯m pretty sure I could try crawling somewhere like this, if I had to.

    I shake my head internally. I need to focus if I¡¯m going to get this right first try. Don¡¯t want to fuck up the tarp more than I have to.

    I turn my attention to my abdomen, and immediately run into an issue. The organ I have planned is fairly large, and most of the internal space in my torso is¡­ in use.

    I was already planning on making myself a larger frame, so it¡¯s not too much of a detour, but if I want to get it done in a reasonable time frame, I¡¯d prefer the added benefit of additional fuel. I guess¡­

    I¡¯ll make a smaller version to start with, and increase the size along with the rest of my body.

    I focus my power, separating my internal organs from the skin of my abdomen and creating a small, sealed pocket beneath the skin. Against the inside walls, I layer thick barriers of flesh, and start to form connections to a couple different existing organs.

    [Stomach mouth, recharging pressure boosters, completed blade arms, two auxiliary arms under originals, increased height, weight, muscle capacity, possibly redundant hydraulic muscles?]

    Flesh twists and dissolves, muscles forming and stretching, spikes of bone piercing the skin, blood streams out of an open wound. I¡¯ve lost more than a little fat to this change, but ideally I¡¯ll be able to get it back if this works as intended. I run through one last check, just to make sure nothing catastrophic has occured, and then drop my power.

    I blink, sight fading into reality, and notice that the tarp¡¯s already stained.

    Oh well. That¡¯s what it¡¯s for. I push myself up into a sitting position, ignoring the odd feeling of weight around my gut.

    ¡°So? What kinda nightmare you got for me this time?¡±

    I suppress a laugh at Chloe¡¯s jab, and lift up my shirt. Set across my abdomen, held together by an array of blood-red tendons, is a wide cage of teeth. Experimentally, I flex the new muscles around the organ, and the ¡®jaws¡¯ lazily stretch into a yawn.

    Chloe starts to turn green, as expected. ¡°Oh Christ. Really? That¡¯s ¡ª what even?¡±

    I huff. ¡°It¡¯s intimidating! I needed a way to eat stuff without having to shove it down my throat all the time ¡ª this works!¡±

    She makes a face. ¡°It¡¯s creepy.¡±

    ¡°In an intimidating way! No one¡¯s going to want to fuck with the girl with a ¡ª¡° I make an aborted motion to lean over and snatch an apple off the table when the maw abruptly snaps shut. Chloe looks disturbed.

    ¡°¡­Woops.¡±

    She opens her mouth like she¡¯s about to say something, pauses, and defaults to a weak laugh instead. ¡°Whatever you say.¡±

    I snort. ¡°It¡¯s only gonna get creepier from here.¡±

    Chloe¡¯s expression shifts. ¡°Well. Guess I¡¯m gonna have to get used to it.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°I guess.¡± I toss a couple packs of salmon into the maw, and try not to shiver at the way serrated teeth tear through meat and plastic.

    Still, it works. With some slight boosts to my metabolism, the food is deconstructed in under a minute.

    Now, for the hard part.

    ¡ª

    Even downtown, the sunset around here is always beautiful.

    Not that I¡¯d know what it¡¯s like anywhere else, I¡¯ve never been outside the city, but every so often you come across a photo or two on some obscure forum that someone managed to bring along while moving, or just visiting, or whatever, and I¡¯m pretty confident that Westpoint takes the cake.

    It¡¯s the buildings, ironically enough.

    Well. Maybe not ironically. They¡¯re tall enough to touch the clouds and covered in wide sheets of reflective glass, it¡¯s no wonder they look pretty under the expanse of orange light at this time of day. It¡¯s just¡­

    Recently, it¡¯s been hard to see them as anything but grotesque monuments to the type of people I hate the most.

    I still watch the sunset. It¡¯s still beautiful. But now, instead of the nostalgic sort of peace that used to warm my core, something else flickers.

    I lean forward, planting a heavy boot on the railing of the balcony, feeling the weight of my new frame shift. I keep my movements slow, deliberate, trying to adjust to the new sense of power.

    Additional modifications take space, and if I¡¯m going to be adding extra mass, I might as well add the muscle to go with it. My face remains largely the same, but I stand at around seven feet, and a number of hydraulic muscles stretch between my limbs to support the weight and boost my lifting power. Pressure boosters still sit dormant in all four limbs, as well as two additional ones set into my core where a pair of blade arms fold themselves against my torso. Now, though, the boosters are equipped with a reload function, an array of muscles that should allow them to pull in enough gas to fire in under two minutes. The cage of teeth set against my torso has been built up, stretching wider along my widened abdomen.

    The body, where before it just felt like being particularly fit, now moves like industrial machinery ¡ª oily fluids shifting through artificial muscles, denser bones thunking against the concrete, hissing as pressure boosters expand and contract to account for the extra pressure.

    It¡¯s almost enjoyable, in the way I¡¯d imagine driving a forklift is enjoyable. Piloting a heavy piece of machinery has a way of making you feel unstoppable ¡ª or so I¡¯ve been told.

    The difference is, you can step off a forklift.

    I watch the sunset, and I tell myself that this machine is the same way. I¡¯ll shed this skin once Westpoint is safe.

    I take a breath, and put my foot on the gas.

 BREAK 3.B

    A young man stands idly on the balcony to his apartment, leaning over the railing and toying with a cigarette. He checks his phone. 12:58 PM.

    He sighs. The gun in his pocket feels like a lead weight, burning against his thigh, even if he knows he doesn¡¯t have to use it.

    12:59.

    When that kid had made the offer, she¡¯d promised he wouldn¡¯t have to do anything dangerous. He hadn¡¯t really seen the point of that. If something¡¯s not dangerous, it¡¯s not worth doing. So, when she mentioned that plan of hers¡­

    The gun in his pocket burns, but the pain feels almost like freedom.

    1:00.

    The man pulls himself upright, and stalks back into the building, where his supervisors are having a meeting. He won¡¯t kill any of them ¡ª he doesn¡¯t think he could, even if he wanted to. Instead¡­

    A distraction, she¡¯d called it. He can work with that.

    ¡ª

    ¡°I¡¯m really sure you shouldn¡¯t be here, kid,¡± Clockwerk grumbles behind the wheel of her clockwork vehicle. She swerves, tires drag against pavement, coming to a stop in the plaza. Judging from the grunt she hears behind her, the kid finally stopped clinging to the rigging ¡ª about a mile too late. Wonderful.

    Clockwerk leans out the side of the car-thing, absentmindedly grabbing her equipment with her other hand while she stares at the kid.

    ¡°No you aren¡¯t,¡± they grumble, peeling themself up off the pavement. Racc shakes their head and hops to follow along as Clockwerk stomps out into the plaza.

    She scowls. ¡°Your little trick doesn¡¯t work on me, pipsqueak,¡± Clockwerk mutters, only half lying. Maybe she hadn¡¯t been able to care when the kid started crawling all over her beloved scrap-mobile, but whatever eldritch presence follows the kid around never said she has to be nice.

    Ugh, and if the kid gets hurt, Claire¡¯s actually gonna kill her. Maybe there¡¯s some way to convince the little shit to go hang out in a convenience store or something¡­

    Clockwerk ponders this as she hefts a large pack behind her, pulling it over her shoulder and dropping it with a metallic thunk. Brown folds drift to the ground, revealing a large, cylindrical contraption. Clockwerk smirks, sliding out a wrench. ¡°Hey, shitrat. Store over there makes amazing fuckin¡¯ donuts, if you wanna fuck off for five minutes while I set this up.¡±

    Ideally they will be gone for longer than five minutes. Hey, a girl can dream.

    Racc snorts, pulling a gun from their waistband. ¡°You¡¯re not slick. We¡¯re getting donuts after we kill bad guys.¡±

    Apparently, a girl cannot dream. Clockwerk¡¯s in the middle of priming her device when she catches sight of a familiar face marching into the plaza, and she decides the machine¡¯s as good as it¡¯s going to get.

    ¡°Your power work if your opponent doesn¡¯t know it¡¯s you?¡± She mutters, leaning closer to Racc. The child shrugs.

    Wonderful. ¡°Hey! Lookin¡¯ for someone?!¡± Clockwerk shouts.

    An array of patchy mercenaries split, making way for a familiar figure in a tattered outfit draped in metal canisters.

    Suckup scowls. ¡°Damn right. Where¡¯s the bitch?¡±

    Clockwerk shrugs. ¡°Busy, probably.¡±

    The man¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°With. What.¡±

    She laughs. ¡°I bet you¡¯d like to know! Hey, uh, whatever you¡¯re thinking of right now? It¡¯s probably worse!¡± And just as Suckup¡¯s eyes widen, and his hands dart to pull out his phone, Clockwerk spins her contraption around and stomps on an extended petal.

    The machine explodes, small metal devices erupting from its internals streaming with white gas, and in a moment the plaza is filled with smoke.

    ¡ª

    Cook is late. He¡¯s not really sure how it happened, actually, it just seems like one thing leads to another, these days. You accidentally drop a pack of salt in your coffee one morning and suddenly your entire fringe operation decides to try a rebellion all at once.

    Well, it¡¯s nothing that serious, so Cook isn¡¯t worried, but it¡¯d be nice if that idiot subordinate would take some initiative for once. Cook ended up having to take the calls himself. Hopefully that tip the moron had mentioned goes well, and he¡¯ll finally learn to make himself useful.

    So, really, things are looking up since he¡¯d gotten out of that transport, with only one major setback.

    He¡¯s. Late. The lack of professionalism irks him. So, maybe he¡¯s rushing as he herds his mercenaries out of the truck, so sue him. Maybe he doesn¡¯t notice until one of them discretely taps his shoulder that there are one less sets of footsteps following along as he marches down a short side-street.

    ¡°Sir.¡± He¡¯s about to verbally bite the man¡¯s head off, when finally, he does notice.

    ¡°¡­Where is the fourth?¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Not sure. We passed an alley, and¡­¡± The man looks disturbed, which isn¡¯t in his job description, Cook is sure.

    Cook swipes a hand over his head, sliding the other into his coat pocket. ¡°We¡¯re being ambushed. Form up, facing away from me while I call for reinforcements.¡±

    The mercenaries turn, forming a haphazard array on the sidewalk while Cook pulls his phone from his coat and makes a call.

    The line picks up. ¡°Are you available?¡± There is a response. ¡°Who is?¡± There is a tentative response. ¡°And you¡¯re certain?¡± There is a nervous response. ¡°Send them. Don¡¯t bother returning to work tomorrow.¡± The line ends.

    ¡°¡­Sir?¡± A mercenary turns his head to look at Cook hesitantly.

    Cook sighs, taking a moment to close his eyes. ¡°We will be waiting some time for reinforcements.¡±

    When he opens his eyes again, the mercenary is gone.

    In his place stands a monster. A thing two full heads above him with long white hair and gleaming red eyes, a frame that would make grown men shake poorly covered in a long, stitched trench coat. Below its boot lies the mercenary.

    He didn¡¯t see it take him down. Concerning. The monster raises its head, and stares at him. Its movements are smooth, calculating, inhumanly so.

    It smiles, and from under its coat, a pair of long, insectile claws, bloody tendons and exposed muscle stretching between thin white bone, extend.

    Cook¡¯s remaining mercenaries open fire.

    ¡ª

    Clockwerk ducks as bullets whiz over her head, reaching out and blindly dragging the kid down with her. Thankfully, the kid has the sense not to take potshots, and Clockwerk takes the time to slip a couple net-claymores from her belt and array them around her machine. They¡¯re not motion-activated, or anything, but multiple heavy footsteps should be enough to set them off.

    Boots against concrete approach, and Clockwerk takes that as her que to drag Racc along as they dart to the side, creating some distance from her previous location, backing away into an area less saturated by smoke.

    The shadows shift, the sound of stone grinding pierces her ears, and three wide rock pillars burst out from the smoke, spiraling wildly. Clockwerk sidesteps, ducking under a stray pillar and keeping one hand on the kid to keep them close while she unslings her bolt gun. Judging from the origin point the pillars stretch from¡­

    She pulls the trigger, and the gun jerks in her grip. She hears a scream, and a shadowy figure falls.

    Clockwerk drops into a run while she pulls another bolt from her bag, the kid shooting potshots as they follow along behind, making their way around the edge of the smoke cloud.

    A loud clang echoes, the shadows shift again, and Clockwerk recognizes the sound of her nets activating well enough to know when to drop into a crouch and shoot out another bolt.

    It hits, if the strangled shout she hears in response is any indication, and her eyes widen as the ground beneath her starts to rumble. She turns her head to glance at Racc. ¡°Kid ¡ª !¡±

    Pillars shoot out between them, forcing Clockwerk to dart back, and Racc to stumble away in the opposite direction. ¡°Nice shooting, dipshit!¡± She shouts, shoving another bolt into her gun and sprinting in the opposite direction to the ratty teenager. Suckup lets out a string of unintelligible curses, and this time the rumbling is intense enough to knock Clockwerk off her feet.

    She lands in a crouch in time to watch as Suckup, with a wordless shout of rage, sweeps his arms out.

    A spiraling cage of stone spires whips out from his feet, blowing away the cloud of smoke and throwing the remaining mercenaries like ragdolls. Clockwerk coughs and shields her eyes against the rush of smoke, considering if she should try another insult to draw the villain¡¯s attention away from Racc, but ¡ª

    Suckup ignores the kid completely, even as they shakily level their weapon. He crouches, slams his hands against the concrete, and jumps. Propelled by an erupting spire beneath his feet, he flies forward, hands outstretched, and Clockwerk grins as she drops her boltgun and clutches a gauntlet.

    She doesn¡¯t usually get the chance to use these, but if he¡¯s going to hand the opportunity over on a silver platter¡­

    Clockwerk twists her torso, pulls back her fist, and swings. Her fist makes contact, a mechanism in her gauntlet switches, pressure is released, and the mechanism fires, the full force deposited directly into Suckup¡¯s jaw. The man¡¯s momentum is immediately halted as he spins once midair and drops to the concrete.

    Clockwerk huffs. ¡°¡­That was a bitch to do. Hey, come help me drag him to the car!¡±

    Racc nods, and for once in their life, resolves not to break anything.

    ¡ª

    The monster tenses, even as bullets tear their way through it, and Cook takes a step back, raising his arm.

    It doesn¡¯t help him when the thing lunges, barreling into him and throwing him out onto the street. Behind it, a number of ¡ª civilians¡­? ¡ª emerge, brandishing firearms and rendering his bodyguards less than useless.

    Unfortunate. Cook staggers to his feet and pulls a vial from his jacket. He tilts it over his shoulder, and where it splashes against the torn skin on his back, the wound starts to close.

    ¡°Resorting to petty thuggery, are we? I¡¯d say something about how the mighty have fallen, but you were never really very mighty, were you?¡±

    The monster laughs. ¡°¡¯Petty thuggery?¡¯ Like that¡¯s somehow beneath you? Don¡¯t fool yourself into thinking you¡¯re anything more than a common criminal. Your organization has been dismantled in two days by a teenager.¡±

    Cook can feel his eyes narrow reflexively. Dismantled¡­? Last he¡¯d heard, his distributors were handling it.

    He pulls out his phone. Dials.

    The monster lets him.

    The phone clicks. ¡°Status report.¡±

    He hangs up. The monster¡¯s smile widens. ¡°Embarassing.¡±

    Cook twitches. The thing doesn¡¯t know what it¡¯s talking about, obviously. Can¡¯t it see? Can¡¯t it see his power, his accomplishments? Does it really think this is enough to destroy him?

    Well. Maybe he ought to show it. ¡°You¡¯re fooling yourself if you can¡¯t see what I¡¯ve built! My work! My empire! I¡¯ll show you the results!¡±

    He throws his coat aside, pulling a larger canister from its place in his pocket-lined outfit, glittering with foreign, colored fluids. The canister injects automatically as it¡¯s pressed against his shoulder, and Cook doubles over, clutching the injection site.

    Fire spreads through his veins, under his skin, each beat of his heart echoing loud enough to tear him apart. He can feel his left arm bulge, ripping fabric with each pulse, bones creaking under the strain. He¡¯s never used this specific concoction on himself, before, it being a relatively new invention, but ¡ª

    Well, that¡¯s what science is for, right? He¡¯s a genius ¡ª an intellect head-and-shoulders above the rest ¡ª his work is unparalleled. Cook grits his teeth against the wave of pain wracking his bulging, muscled limb, and swings it back.

    He looks up at the monster, and its arms ¡ª all four of them ¡ª spread out in anticipation.

    It¡¯s still smiling.

    He¡¯ll wipe that ridiculous expression off the face of the planet.

    ¡°You¡­ lowly, back-alley worm. You rotten parasite. You think my work will crumble so quickly?¡± He snarls, voice grating. ¡°I don¡¯t kill for fun, you know. I¡¯m a man of business. Of progress. And yet¡­¡±

    Cook grins. ¡°I believe I¡¯m going to enjoy this.¡±

 Chapter 3.23

    3.23

    ¡°Showtime.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall

    The impact slamming into my upper torso would have immediately pulped my internal organs if it weren¡¯t for the significant amount of work that¡¯s gone into reinforcing my bone structure and muscle fibers. Instead, I¡¯m only flung back, cratering the brick wall of a nearby building as I feel a number of ribs snap inside me. I activate my power and begin stitching together strips of bone, but a grotesque fist of inhuman proportions strikes out through the still-settling dust, shattering the remaining brick wall and driving me further into the building.

    I tumble against the hard concrete floor, fighting past the pain to land at least somewhat upright and halting my momentum in an effort to continue re-attaching my ribs correctly.

    Cook stomps through the doorway, muscles bulging against his patchwork outfit and veins pulsing with a sickly purple color. His left arm drags behind him, flesh ballooning outwards in a strangely-shaped limb the size of his torso.

    He lunges, and as much as I¡¯m technically capable of moving while using my ability, the sudden attack breaks my concentration, leaving my ribs unrepaired. Cook¡¯s boot knocks a leg out from under me, forcing me to take a knee, and I abandon the idea of healing myself for the moment.

    My right arm splits, a jagged bone knife erupting from the center wrapped in sturdy, glistening tendons. Steam hisses, spurting in a geyser of mist from my shoulder as I activate a pressure booster, propelling the blade arm in a vicious swipe at Cook¡¯s torso.

    The man doesn¡¯t dodge, I¡¯m not even entirely convinced he really processes what¡¯s happening, but he does flinch back slightly. The blade impacts his mutated shoulder, shearing off a chunk of flesh and a patch of his coat.

    Blood sprays, and Cook ignores the relatively minor wound. He crouches, swinging that enormous arm around for a tackle.

    I react, burning another pressure booster even as I set the spent one to expanding, stealing air from the surrounding area and compressing it into the tiny sacs set behind my shoulder blades.

    The spent booster sends me sailing through the air in a leap over Cook¡¯s head, and I take the chance to spend a pressure booster in my abdomen, where the two extra insectile blade-arms rest against my torso. The right one extends, carving a deeper gash along Cook¡¯s shoulder, extending the prior wound I¡¯d given him.

    Three boosters now, refilling. They should be ready in about a minute. I don¡¯t think I need them to finish the fight, but Cook¡¯s liable to bleed out even if I don¡¯t continue.

    Actually, maybe I can get him to bleed out faster.

    I smirk as he turns around. ¡°Can¡¯t say I expected a science guy like you to go all monster mode, but maybe throwing a tantrum is just part of your modus operandi.¡±

    Cook snarls. ¡°Insolent!¡± He tears a small metallic rod from his coat using his normal arm, and jams it into his neck. The wounds on his shoulder don¡¯t heal, exactly, but an almost crystalline shell hardens over them, and his pupils shrink to pinpricks.

    Ah. And my ribs are still broken. This has backfired spectacularly.

    He swings his mutated limb around, forcing me into a long backstep as I release the blade hidden in my other arm preemptively, darting to the side as he carries the momentum upward, transitioning into a heavy slam that shatters concrete where I was just standing.

    I step in, striking out with an unpowered swipe, my modified muscular structure still doing wonders even without the booster as the bone blade cleaves through mutated flesh, tracing a line up the malformed arm.

    Cook grunts, bending the arm to lunge forward in a hasty shoulder tackle. I brace myself, taking the blow without too much damage and skidding across the ground.

    He¡¯s quick, I note. Not physically, but he has a good sense of weight and momentum, and more battle sense than I would expect, looking at that monstrous limb. I can¡¯t help but wonder if he¡¯s actually practiced with it before, or if he¡¯s picking all this up on the fly¡­

    Then, Cook takes a step back, drawing what looks like a small spray gun from his coat. He quickly latches it against a canister strapped to his belt, depresses the trigger, and sweeps the device in a wide arc.

    I¡¯m not close enough to stop him, but when he stashes the spray gun and reaches for a smaller canister ¡ª an antidote, maybe? ¡ª I decide that whatever poison he¡¯s made can be easily dealt with later. I break into a run, dashing through the steadily-thickening cloud of smog.

    I take a breath ¡ª

    ¡ª

    I used to think deer were stupid. I still think that, but it¡¯s not as if they really had a choice in the matter ¡ª they¡¯re deer. They run around, eat all your plants and freeze in the face of oncoming traffic.

    Stupid.

    Even darting across the room in a body large enough to make grown men cower, muscles creaking, fluids compressing, pressure boosters hissing, and blades of flesh singing through the air, I can¡¯t help but freeze at the sound of a blaring horn and burning yellow lights.

    ¡ª

    The impact bowls over me, shattering my panic, and even through the half-haze of tires on pavement and blurry vision I can tell my senses are being distorted. There is no truck, there are no tires, and the attack sending me flying across the room was not thrown by any kind of vehicle ¡ª but the adrenaline coursing through my veins has yet to get the memo, I guess.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Scared, roach? Scuttling away already? A minor setback, and you¡¯re crawling back under the floorboards? Miserable wretch. Perhaps being pulverized is too good for you,¡± the man howls, and his voice blends with the heavy crunch of bone and the sickening thump of rubber over flesh.

    I grit my teeth against the panic, dipping into my power. It¡¯s not exactly a simple compound, but my power is easily able to highlight which areas of my brain are being affected, and from there it¡¯s only a matter of normalization. The rate my power heals the damage outstrips Cook¡¯s toxin by a surprising amount.

    The real issue is, I don¡¯t know how to dodge attacks while having my power up at the same time. Trial and error proves the modifications I made allow some range of movement, but I have no idea if it¡¯s going to be enough.

    Another truck breaks the fog, blackened shadows tearing at its sides as my power works to destroy the hallucination and reveal the man behind it, and my decision is made for me.

    At first, hauling my muscles in the correct direction feels like swimming through honey ¡ª they buck and strain against me, and it¡¯s all I can do to concentrate on the movements as well as keeping my power active. Every time I think I have it down, my power slips or vice versa, and as Cook¡¯s enormous mutated limb barrels down at me, I find my focus slipping further.

    My adrenaline spikes, and ¡ª

    ¡ª

    Twisting, twisting spire of flesh and gristle and bone, stretching across torn rock and sundered land. Turning, turning, sweeping man and beast into cauldron tall and great.

    Tall enough to reach past the clouds. Great enough to brush the edge of ¡ª

    The thing reaches, crawling ever skyward, desperate to touch, desperate to feel, desperate to know. It gathers its followers of tooth and claw and fang and it ¡ª

    ¡ª

    ¡ª feels like trying to drive two cars at once, on two separate roads, but as Cook¡¯s fist descends, I manage to push back the hallucinogenic haze and neatly step to the side.

    His arm sails past, and I lash out with both my main arm and my smaller one, carving two new wounds along his flank. At the same time, I set to work reorganizing my brain structure and sealing the internal bleeding in my torso. Ribs crack and organs squelch as they realign, and I don¡¯t miss a beat as I turn on my heel and dash towards Cook.

    As much as it pains me to admit it, Cook might have an advantage in the endurance department, here. Any emergency repairs I perform need to be carefully rationed, what with the hallucinogenic burning up my calorie stores. I¡¯d prefer to end this quickly.

    I¡¯d also prefer to end it out in the open. No point in a beatdown if no one sees it.

    I plaster on a grin, pulling back all four limbs and driving them into Cook¡¯s writhing torso before he can rebalance. He responds by screaming, eyes wild and limbs twitching, before he scrabbles against his coat and desperately flings something in my face.

    From what I can tell, in the split-second before they detonate, they seem to be a collection of small, spherical capsules.

    They burst, flooding the space between us in a sheet of thick white foam, immediately coating my torso and most of my face. The substance burns my skin and eats through my coat, and I have to kick my ability into a higher gear just to keep up with the damage.

    I¡¯d stored a good amount of extra material before this fight, but I¡¯ve already burned through almost half of it ¡ª and then, Cook pulls out the fire.

    He pulls out another device, flicks it, and a spark leaps from the end and catches against the foam. It ignites into a full blaze of heat before I can register the fact that this guy apparently carries around portable napalm in his pockets.

    Once I do register it, though, a number of escape methods flit through my mind before I settle on something. The foam itself is sticky, and the heat it generates is intense enough to melt skin. It¡¯s possible the foam will burn itself out before long, but since Cook¡¯s ability is involved, it seems unwise to assume the substance will behave according to traditional laws of physics.

    I can¡¯t just stop drop and roll, not with the way the foam clings, but I need to remove it somehow.

    I skip to my last resort almost immediately. Temporarily dropping my control on my body, I focus my power, preparing a wave of changes to take place as fast as I can manage without using too much of my stores. Just as the heat starts to break my skin, I trace an outline where the stuff meets my flesh, and detach the upper layer of epidermis.

    I leap to the side, partially blinded as blood streams from exposed muscle on my face, using the pile of flaming pseudo-napalm as cover to stomp forward and plant my boot in the middle of Cook¡¯s chest.

    I grin as his head snaps up. He doesn¡¯t pale, exactly, but he looks vaguely disgusted.

    The expression doesn¡¯t last after I activate the pressure booster set into my leg.

    The wind whips past my face as the force of the impact propels Cook through the open hole in the wall and tumbling out onto the street.

    A spotlight sweeps across the road, coming to a rest over the man as he surges to his feet, muscles rippling and fists clenched. From my vantage point halfway in the building, I can see the beginnings of a USMC quarantine line setting up about a block away.

    My grin widens, and I soften my gait as I walk out of the building. A wheezing laugh forces its way out of my chest, and Cook¡¯s eyes narrow dangerously.

    Another spotlight swings around to pin me to the tarmac, and I have to resist a flinch.

    ¡°Ready to fall, kingpin?!¡± I shout over the dull roar of helicopter blades and distant sirens.

    Cook is silent, for a moment. ¡°What is this, some kind of display? A public lashing?¡± He smiles crookedly. ¡°It¡¯s not as if the street trash follows me for my image.¡±

    I shrug. ¡°Guess you¡¯re lucky I¡¯ve got the other end of your employment deal covered, too, then.¡± I splay my blades, letting my coat billow behind me.

    Cook¡¯s bulk shifts, considering. Then, he tenses.

    ¡°Hah¡­ I know what you are, child.¡± His mutated arm lifts into the air, pauses, and then hammers into the earth, cratering the tarmac and letting out a crack sharp enough to split the air around us.

    ¡°You¡¯re me!¡± He screams, expression manic. I resist the urge to twitch. ¡°These underhanded tactics, this strategic dismantling ¡ª you¡¯re not like those other barbarians, those thugs! You think before you act! You utilize your god-given intellect!¡±

    ¡°I can tell ¡ª don¡¯t think I can¡¯t ¡ª you think you¡¯re doing this for the greater good, but I know! I can tell the real reason you pick apart my assets, twisting them to your will ¡ª you¡¯re doing the same thing I did, all those years ago!¡± As he rants, Cook¡¯s enormous hand tightens around the displaced chunk of pavement, cracks forming in the earth as it begins to separate.

    He twists his body sharply, and pulls ¡ª the earth cracks, shards of stone tearing up as Cook wrenches a chunk of rock from the ground and hefts it above him, bits of broken stone raining down his palm.

    Cook pulls his arm back, winding up. ¡°Well, compatriot?! You¡¯re so sure you can do it better than I can?!¡± The arm halts, and Cook¡¯s pupils shrink to pinpricks.

    ¡°Show me!¡±

 Chapter 3.24

    3.24

    The chunk of pavement explodes into a cloud of shrapnel in Cook¡¯s palm, whizzing past and tearing up the ground around me. I throw my arms up, deflecting a number of shards as they tear through my flesh but thankfully glance off hardened bone.

    Cook leaps, the spotlights overhead swerving wildly to follow him through the air. I track his movement, darting to the side as he lands heavily against the pavement, spikes of rock erupting around him. I plant my boot, halt my momentum, and register the distinct shift in three separate sacs of air as my pressure boosters refill.

    I grin. Perfect.

    I take a step, twist my torso, and fire a pressure booster. My left arm swings down, scoring a deep wound across Cook¡¯s waist and forcing him to his knee. I turn, using the momentum to wind up another swing, and fire another pressure booster from the blade arm lashing out under my right one. It catches him in the gut and sends him tumbling over the ground.

    All at once, Cook restabilizes, surging to his feet and stabbing another small capsule into his neck. The wounds crystallize, but as he shifts his stance I can tell he¡¯s favoring his other side, now.

    He moves like he¡¯s about to go for another lunge, and I prepare to dodge, but abruptly he comes to a stop. He glances downwards for just a second before rearing back and plunging his fist into the ground.

    The impact already kicks up a good bit of dust, but as he drags his fingers through the tarmac, a cloud starts to pick up in front of him. I take a step with the intent to stop whatever he thinks he¡¯s doing, but ¡ª

    Movement, shadows shifting within the cloud. I turn on my heel and break into a run just as the area behind me erupts into a shower of shattered rock. I sprint to the side, circling around the makeshift smokescreen and narrowly avoiding the thrown projectiles from inside it.

    I note the next rock that barrels through the air behind me, counting in my head as I run, and by the time the next bursts out from behind the dust cloud I¡¯m ducking to the side and dashing in close.

    I stop just in front of the cloud, right arm pulled back, and launch myself into a sharp thrust with a pressure booster.

    There¡¯s a sharp crack of wind, and the cloud disperses immediately, revealing a furious supervillain leaning just far enough back to escape my blade.

    He rallies, swinging his arm around in another haphazard attempt to hit me, but I¡¯m beginning to pick up on his tells in that regard. I leap, barely passing over his head, and descend behind him, using my remaining pressure booster in my smaller left blade arm to score a deeper wound against his back, ignoring the accompanying spray of blood.

    He screeches, stumbling, and I lash out with a harsh kick to the newly-opened wound, digging in and activating my last pressure booster on instinct.

    A crack, and he¡¯s tumbling through the air and slamming into the wall across the street.

    He falls, brick crumbling around him, and struggles to pick himself back up. He settles for resting on a knee, panting.

    I grin, stalking forward and spreading my blade arms wide. He scowls.

    I¡¯ve won. We both know it. And he¡¯s sort of right, in a way, isn¡¯t he?

    I¡¯m gonna do this better than he ever could.

    I open my mouth to gloat a little ¡ª who knows, maybe the cameras will pick some of it up ¡ª when I¡¯m interrupted by a loud, industrial whirring sound.

    I freeze. The whirring picks up, and it sounds more like a harmony rather than a single noise the longer I listen to it. Actually, it reminds me of ¡ª

    I tense, eyes widening, unconsciously making eye contact with Cook. He seems to come to a similar conclusion as a swarm of electric lights crest the nearby buildings.

    I¡¯m dropping into a crouch, and Cook¡¯s bracing himself against the brick wall when a swarm of gleaming metal cascades over the crumbling landscape, smaller machines arraying themselves in a large dome around us, and a number of larger ones taking up long-range firing positions from a distance.

    Drone lights flick on, and a siren blares as a larger, humanoid machine drifts into view, standing on a mechanical platform with a particularly obtuse propulsion system.

    Rook¡¯s posture is rigid, lights glinting against hard metal, and the glare of neon blue electric eyes pierces the encroaching night.

    ¡°You are under arrest for destruction of property, and criminal behavior while in possession of a supernatural ability.¡±

    Her eyes flash. ¡°Surrender. This is not a request.¡±

    Yeah, fuck that. I glance at Cook again, and we make eye contact ¡ª I despise the fact we¡¯re on similar wavelengths here, but I¡¯m stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I delay any longer, she¡¯ll likely call reinforcements, and then I¡¯ll have to deal with multiple of those humanoid drones.

    Five or six emergency utility drones and a defense lattice? Easy. Two or more fully-armed high-level combat drones, plus the swarm of however many have us surrounded?Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Not likely. My best option here, is, unfortunately, to break away the same time as Cook in opposite directions and hope Rook prefers rat over roadkill. I take a breath, feeling a pressure booster in my leg finally click into place.

    At least there¡¯s one.

    I grit my teeth, watching as Cook¡¯s muscles tense and he heaves himself off the wall. I activate the booster immediately, turning and lashing out in a four-way cross motion and clearing the way through excessive force and plumes of sparkling smoke.

    A group of drones goes down, and I have my exit. I dart through the hole, even as the drones begin to array themselves in a wider formation, and I begin to hear a mechanical buzz spin up behind me.

    Bullets start streaming past, tearing up the concrete next to me, and I duck into an alley. Spotlights swerve, the larger one stopping out on the street while a number of smaller flashlights swing around to follow me through the cramped brick walls. I run, taking random turns but keeping my general heading outwards, aiming past the quarantine.

    Drones duck down into my path, descending from over nearby buildings, firing potshots that light up the darkened corners with their muzzle flashes. I weave, taking a couple hits to my torso, and concentrate on regenerating, only dealing glancing blows as I pass by.

    I take a left, sprinting out onto the street, and grimace as seven USMC marines and an armored truck collectively shift their attention in my direction.

    The quarantine wall is right behind them.

    I duck under another hail of bullets, dart close and shoulder-check a guy into his friend behind them, step to the side, drop and sweep the legs out from another, move into a crouch and roll behind the vehicle ¡ª

    I stand, moving to try and climb the wall or something, when I hear a metallic clunk and a harsh whine from my left.

    I whip my head around, and wind throws my hair from my eyes. Rook hovers on her platform a short distance away, facing me as a swarm of smaller drones carry chunks of interlocking metal, connecting automatically as they drop into her waiting hands.

    The parts form a long, silver metallic cylinder, with an entrance like a jet turbine at the front. The last piece clicks into place, and the barrel starts to spin.

    I huff. ¡°¡­Fuck.¡±

    The world goes white ¡ª spinning, blurring, exploding brick and cascading debris, barreling through the air again, slamming against the hard ground and going into a tumble ¡ª

    Whatever that thing is, it hits me so hard I think I plow through the entire building, and it¡¯s only thanks to reflex that I manage to regain my wits so quickly. I immediately set to work restabilizing myself, trying not to let the way my bones are pulverized in some areas get to me, and struggle, bloody and battered, to my feet.

    Torn muscles, hastily-repaired bone, continuous internal bleeding ¡ª a number of pressure boosters on my left side have burst, and even sewing them back together with my power does nothing to refill them, and so at the moment I¡¯m down to precisely zero.

    I can still hear the drones. I turn, stumbling towards the quarantine wall, jamming my blades into the shuttered gaps and hauling myself up and over. The walls are really only meant to be deterrents, I¡¯m sure, so I¡¯m able to scale it in time to drop into the shadows just as a small swarm speeds by overhead.

    Once I¡¯m sure they¡¯ve passed, I let out a breath, staggering to my feet and dragging myself down the road.

    Maybe¡­ maybe there¡¯s a convenience store or something I can break into on the way back to the shack.

    ¡ª

    ¡°Breaking news today, as an as-of-yet unidentified super appeared at the edge of our residential district, causing middling property damage and fighting notorious gang leader Cook to a standstill. Evidence suggests this super is also connected with a number of incidents deeper into the downtown area, including a shocking scene involving Suckup, a registered villain and high-ranking officer in Cook¡¯s hierarchy. Authorities say they are tracking the new villain¡¯s movements as we speak, but in the meantime we have USMC liaison Brian Crane here with us to discuss some of the particulars. Brian, how are you doing today?¡±

    ¡°Doing good, Lindsay, the promotion¡¯s been treating me well.¡±

    ¡°Good thing too, with a new super on our hands ¡ª something Westpoint hasn¡¯t seen in a few years now, is that correct?¡±

    ¡°It is! I believe the last one was four years ago, when Cook began making waves downtown with his specialty serums.¡±

    ¡°And speaking of, isn¡¯t Cook the other participant here? Do you think there could be a connection between Cook¡¯s relatively short experience and this encounter?¡±

    ¡°Ah, good catch. It¡¯s possible, especially given the fact that neither combatants shied away from the cameras at any point during the fight ¡ª sometimes, reports from other cities mention villains that enjoy chasing the spotlight, and our new super might have a similar mentality. But in my personal opinion, that doesn¡¯t seem to be the case here.¡±

    ¡°Really? And why is that?¡±

    ¡°Well, Lindsay, if it was a flashy battle she wanted, our newly-minted villain likely would have preferred to go the route of Clockwerk, who consistently participates in small-time criminal activity and, as you know, sustains quite the following online.¡±

    ¡°Disturbing, what the youth get up to when their access to the forums is unmonitored.¡±

    ¡°You said it. Anyway, targeting a violent gang member as her debut just doesn¡¯t seem like the actions of someone who only wants attention ¡ª that, combined with the rather gruesome sight with Suckup, more suggests a territorial dispute to me.¡±

    ¡°Oh, Suckup, downtown¡¯s resident punching bag. We won¡¯t be showing the images live on-air, unfortunately, but any curious watchers can see it under the ¡®On-The-Scenes¡¯ tab on our website, provided you upgrade your membership for just 4.99 a month! It looked like a real doozy, Brian, is there anything you can tell us about the man¡¯s current medical status?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s currently in custody, Lindsay, but as far as I know, the only lasting wounds are psychological. The, ah¡­ tendons he was found strung up in were tested, and while the material was confirmed to be disturbingly human, DNA tests verified that it did not come from the man himself. Still, it was quite the grisly sight, wasn¡¯t it? This villain certainly knows how to send a message.¡±

    ¡°Sure, Brian. And, speaking of messages¡­ the name?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±

    ¡°The name, painted on the wall in the back. Red is a bit macabre, considering, but at least it¡¯s on-theme. What do you make of it?¡±

    ¡°Well, Lindsay, I know I shouldn¡¯t root for the villain ¡ª it¡¯s against my employment contract, you see ¡ª but I believe we¡¯ll be seeing a lot more of Carrion in the coming days.¡±

    ¡°Ha! You heard it here first, folks, this villain¡¯s one to watch out for! Thank you so much for coming on, Brian, and to all you viewers out there, be sure to stick around for the next segment, where we¡¯ll be giving an exclusive first-look into Brightheart Hero Stellara¡¯s latest makeup line! Excited, Brian?¡±

    ¡°Thank you for having me on, Lindsay. I¡¯ve got to say, I¡¯m ecstatic.¡±

 Chapter 3.25

    3.25

    ¡°And, unfortunately, the enemy of my enemy is still my enemy.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 21

    ¡°So, who¡¯d we get?¡± I ask, boots clunking against the hard tiled floor as I stalk down the hallway.

    Chloe snorts, almost jogging to keep up with my pace. I catch a wince out of the corner of my eye as her bolt gun jostles against her back, and I slow down a little. ¡°Well, we got your nemesis, and his pet gang leader tagged along too.¡±

    I roll my eyes. She means Crush, and, I assume, the leader of Gutter Coffin.

    ¡°Then, ah, Highlander showed up, somehow before we got confirmation that his invitation was delivered. He¡¯s got Runick and Construct with him, and two other supers that I¡¯m not sure if they¡¯re affiliated. Remember those two in the alley? With Gordon?¡± Chloe tilts her head.

    I nod. Competent, I remember, but conflict-averse. It¡¯s interesting they¡¯d decide to throw their weight in now.

    Hopefully less knives are involved, this time.

    ¡°Yeah ¡ª Kickback and Jumpcut. Some kind of time manipulation for both of them, apparently. They¡¯re all waiting in the barroom ¡ª you¡¯re welcome for finding this stupid place, by the way, it was a huge pain ¡ª but what¡¯s the play, here?¡±

    I come to a stop in front of a pair of double doors leading out into the bar area. The place is a little grimy, likely because it¡¯s been abandoned for a couple months now, I think, but it¡¯s workable. Chloe and a couple volunteers spent a day sorting it out a little, so even if it¡¯s not cozy, really, it¡¯s at least vaguely dignified.

    As I take a moment to review the guests at play, I find myself leaning towards a similar approach for the meeting itself.

    ¡°¡­We¡¯ve already made an impression with Cook, and it was enough to pull them in this far. There¡¯s no reason to draw any more attention,¡± I mutter. Chloe nods, shrugging.

    ¡°It¡¯d be a pain if we had to deal with them and whatever¡¯s left of Cook by the time they¡¯re done with him,¡± she points out.

    I grunt. ¡°We¡¯ll¡­ facilitate. Try to be unobtrusive. I¡¯ll present our findings, maybe push for an offensive motion, but otherwise¡­¡±

    ¡°Gotcha. Don¡¯t worry, Carrie, I¡¯m as unobtrusive as they come,¡± Chloe chirps, and I try not to snort.

    The nickname¡¯s new, as is the complete name it comes from. I¡¯d had to pick something that wasn¡¯t as¡­ clinical as ¡®Doctor¡¯ ¡ª something related to my relatively feeble image, that¡¯d help me inject some presence into Westpoint¡¯s newest ¡ª well, supervillain, I guess.

    I chose Carrion. Blood and viscera, discarded corpses. It seemed fitting.

    I physically shake myself out of brooding, take a deep breath, and step through the double doors.

    Immediately, my ears are assaulted. Really, you¡¯d think these people would have a little tact.

    ¡­Maybe not, actually.

    ¡°Shut the hell up, funny man!¡± A high-pitched shriek pierces the air.

    ¡°Aw come on, kid, can¡¯t take a joke? Crush, tell her to live a little, yeah?¡±

    A crunch, the sound of splintered wood. ¡°Don¡¯t antagonize the boss.¡±

    ¡°She practically antagonizes herself!¡±

    ¡°You ¡ª !¡±

    The scene I walk in on is nothing short of ridiculous, even given how much I should have expected it. On one side of the table, Crush grips the edge hard enough to splinter, seeming as though he¡¯s only barely able to restrain himself from doing something drastic, while next to him a short girl in an oversized leather jacket points viciously across the table. I forget her moniker, but if I remember correctly, it¡¯s something ostentatious.

    On the other side, a scruffy man in a black and white coat idly flips a coin, seemingly unconcerned with the situation he¡¯s been put in. His two lackies, standing tense at either side, are more bothered than he is. Highlander isn¡¯t the most intimidating gang leader, but his career suggests an uncanny amount of luck. That, plus the startling amount of supers in his employ ¡ª Runick and Construct are just the tip of the iceberg.

    Standing awkwardly next to the table are the two¡­ teenagers? I remember encountering in the alley. Both of them look absurdly uncomfortable.

    Kickback and Jumpcut. I¡¯m still not quite sure I understand why they¡¯re here.

    I suppress a sigh, ignore the incessant shrieking, and plop myself down at the table. Chloe comes to a stop beside me, putting a hand on her hip and wearing her most ¡®this is very boring¡¯ expression.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Surprisingly, the fight immediately breaks up. The kid turns her attention my way, and I catch Highlander¡¯s lips quirk up slightly at my plight.

    ¡°Hey! What took so long, weirdo?!¡± The kid¡¯s frizzy hair bounces as she swivels, extended finger waving around in front of her like a weapon.

    It¡¯s an effort to keep my calm smile from fracturing at that. Weirdo? That¡¯s¡­ a new one.

    ¡°Sorry about that, had to grab a bite to eat. You know how it is,¡± I chirp, relaxing my posture and resting my head on a hand. ¡°So, about Cook.¡±

    The kid ¡ª who I really have to learn the name of, honestly ¡ª scowls. ¡°That miserable worm and his dumb, stupid drinks! I wanna squish ¡®im!¡±

    Highlander shrugs. ¡°Hey, he¡¯s good for business.¡±

    ¡°Squish! Like a grape! I¡¯ll do it to you, too, if you don¡¯t be quiet!¡±

    I shrug as I interject. ¡°It seems we agree on this, at least. Cook needs to be dealt with. I can point you in the right direction.¡±

    The kid narrows her eyes. ¡°How do I know this isn¡¯t some trick! You look like a liar, anyway!¡±

    Ouch, kid. ¡°I have my own reasons, obviously, but we all want Cook gone. We only need to cooperate long enough for that to happen. From there, well¡­ I can¡¯t stop you.¡±

    I cast a meaningful glance at Crush, hoping to see some spark of understanding not present in the child across from me. It¡¯s difficult to discern his intention under that cowl, but his body language shifts, and he seems¡­ displeased? Is he actually expecting me to defer to the literal baby over him?

    I think I¡¯ve misread the situation with those two. Thankfully, Highlander seems to be amenable ¡ª or maybe that¡¯s just because of the ever-present smug grin pasted to his face. Kind of hard to tell.

    Interestingly, Kickback and Jumpcut look reluctant to cut in. Instead, their eyes dart over to Highlander, as if waiting for his reaction.

    The child scoffs, and plops back down in her seat. ¡°Well, obviously.¡± Crush gives her a pat on the back while Highlander leans in.

    I take note of their interaction. It¡¯s certainly not an expected one.

    Highlander sets his elbows on the table, palms a coin, and flips it. He idly catches it without looking, slaps it on the back of his hand, and takes a look.

    It¡¯s heads. I have no idea what that means, and the lack of knowledge sends a spike of anxiety through me. Is he using his power?

    How would I be able to tell if he was? It¡¯s not like anyone else has figured it out, and he¡¯s been active in Westpoint for years.

    Highlander smiles. ¡°Alright, missy, I like your style. Hit ¡®em hard and fast, right? My kind of gig. Just point me when and where, gotcha?¡±

    My eyes narrow. He shouldn¡¯t know most of that. Actually, his wording implies he really shouldn¡¯t know any of that ¡ª he already has an extremely detailed understanding of the purpose of this meeting, and I¡¯ve barely said twenty words to him. Is this¡­?

    I force my own smile to widen, and pull a sheaf of papers from my coat. A bit faux-professional, maybe, but sue me for not trusting the wackjobs with remembering dates, times, or locations.

    ¡°In here is a record of a number of Cook¡¯s supply houses. He uses these as drop-off points for a majority of his product, as well as storage for a large amount of very expensive equipment,¡± I drawl. ¡°There are three copies. Do with that information what you will.¡±

    Highlander snatches a sheet, glancing at it with a bored expression. The kid across from him scowls and makes a harsh motion with her fingers.

    The sheet is ripped from his grasp, and the child catches it deftly mid-air. She grins, and wipes a drop of blood from under her nose.

    Jumpcut quietly and discretely takes a sheet while the others are distracted.

    I suppress a sigh, and draw myself up when I see Highlander refocus his attention.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not nothing. How¡¯d you come by all this, anyway?¡±

    I dip my smile into a smirk. ¡°Same way I¡¯ll get you the man¡¯s direct location if you coordinate with me the day-of.¡±

    Highlander, while unsurprised, is receptive. ¡°Good deal,¡± he smiles. He pauses, smoothly palming his coin and popping it into the air with a ping.

    ¡°Tell you what,¡± he announces, glancing down at the result. ¡°You call this number,¡± he says, whipping out a small notecard and scribbling a small line near the top, ¡°the day before, give the guy on the other end a time and location, and me and my buddies here,¡± he waves behind him, ¡°will humor you. We go in, we cut down Cook, deal¡¯s done. Make sense.¡±

    I nod. ¡°More than workable.

    Highlander¡¯s smug expression sharpens. ¡°I¡¯m glad we could come to an agreement, Carrion. C¡¯mon, you four, let¡¯s blow this shitty place.¡± I blink as Highlander lazily rocks himself to his feet, and both his underlings, as well as Kickback and Jumpcut, begin to follow him out of the bar.

    They¡¯re affiliated? Reluctantly, if the look on Kickback¡¯s face is anything to go by.

    Interesting. I turn to the kid. ¡°And you?¡±

    She scoffs. ¡°As if I¡¯d let that two-bit gambler show me up! You¡¯re gonna remember the name Girl Of Death!¡±

    ¡­Really? Crush shoots me a glare, and I manage to suppress a sigh. ¡°Any way for me to contact you?¡±

    ¡°Crushy, give her the thing!¡±

    Crush tosses me a burner phone, which I pocket with a nod. I¡¯m about to muster up some pleasantries when she hops off her chair and marches towards the door.

    The bar door creaks, and then slams shut with a bang.

    I take a deep breath, and let out a loud sigh, head slumping against the table.

    ¡°Uuugghh. Why, pray tell, are all the supers around here absolutely fucking insane?¡±

    Chloe laughs, dropping into the seat next to me and slapping me hard on the shoulder. ¡°It builds character! Literally! No one wants to fuck with the crazies!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m learning that,¡± I grunt. Chloe laughs.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be dramatic, I think that went well!¡±

    ¡°Highlander¡¯s gonna be a pain,¡± I mutter. ¡°I don¡¯t know how he¡¯s getting his information, and he specified pretty clearly he¡¯s only on board until Cook is out of the picture. We¡¯d better be ready to cut and run quickly near the end.¡±

    Chloe slings an arm around my shoulder, and I haphazardly try to throw her off with a squawk. ¡°Stop worrying! Seriously, you¡¯re gonna get yourself all worked up, and I¡¯m pretty sure you haven¡¯t found a way to upgrade yourself out of sleeping, right?¡± Her eyes narrow. ¡°¡­Right?¡±

    I sigh. ¡°Right. Fine.¡±

    Her expression softens. ¡°Why don¡¯t we go visit an actual bar? There¡¯s this really cozy one near the residential district, we can swing by my place and pick up your hat n¡¯ stuff on the way?¡±

    I hesitate. Seems like all the bad stuff in my life recently happens in a bar.

    Well. Maybe this¡¯ll be a way to kill that streak. I huff, and nod.

    Chloe¡¯s grin is practically blinding as she drags me out of the building, filling the empty city air with gentle ribbing and mindless chatter.

 Chapter 3.26

    3.26

    ¡°Like vultures, the lot of them.¡±

    ¡ª Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 25

    Walking down the street in broad daylight with two supervillains bickering in full costume is not exactly how I imagined this going.

    ¡°You sure you don¡¯t wanna stop at a Toys R Us or something? Get you a barbie? Or a hot wheel ¡ª I don¡¯t judge.¡±

    ¡°Shut your jaw or lose it, fuzzy.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, a good hot wheel really hits the spot nowadays. I had a whole box of them when I was a kid ¡ª especially the dino ones, you know those?¡±

    ¡°No! Of course not!¡±

    ¡°Eh? Maybe Wonder Woman-shaped cars are more your style?¡±

    ¡°Gah!¡±

    Ad infinitum. Highlander strolls along with an almost lazy gait just behind the kid, who I¡¯ve elected to call G mentally, and not at all out loud if I can help it.

    Since yesterday, Highlander¡¯s elected to don a pair of tinted sunglasses in addition to his black-and-white ensemble, but the kid¡¯s outfit remains relatively similar, with a heavy leather overcoat that¡¯s several sizes too big for her, and an all-black shirt and pants combo.

    This time, though, she¡¯s got a matte-black beret leaning off her head.

    I follow along behind in a ratty trench coat and practical jeans and tank-top, straining to keep a placid smile on my face. We¡¯re walking through the docks, at the moment, and one of Cook¡¯s supply houses looms a little ways down the road ¡ª I¡¯d been expecting it to be a little more difficult to find, but after Suckup received his beating, it seems like his lips have gotten looser.

    ¡°Well, what about you, hot stuff? Batman, Superman ¡ª Doctor Doom?¡±

    Is he still talking about cars? I give him a condescending smile. ¡°I was more of a Bakugan kid, myself.¡±

    Highlander barks a laugh. ¡°That tracks!¡±

    Huh? How does it track?

    ¡°Bakugan is for nerds!¡± G shouts, stomping down the street and taking a hard left, stepping up to the doors of a large warehouse out next to the water. She lifts her hand, clenches her fist, and whips her arm to the side.

    There¡¯s an audible buzz in the air, and the screech of torn metal as the doors crumple and fly off, landing in a shower of sparks, scraping against the pavement.

    G wipes a line of blood from her lip.

    ¡°Drama queen,¡± Highlander sing-songs, stepping jauntily into the warehouse and drawing a gun from his belt.

    I slip off to the side, keeping a close eye on the other two gang members ¡ª this warehouse, unlike some of the others around here, is pretty full ¡ª crates of material, spare vehicles, all of it lies in an organized fashion around the warehouse, making for a surprisingly dense maze of objects.

    A maze I fully intend to take advantage of as Highlander casually twists on his heel and fires his gun around a corner.

    Surprised shouts tell me he¡¯s hit his mark, and a large crate next to G begins to rattle.

    The crate I¡¯m standing behind, actually. I step to the side, finding new cover, as the crate sails across the room and slams into a cluster of goons running along the wall.

    The crack of Highlander¡¯s gun continues to echo, and I catch glimpses of the man strolling casually through the warehouse, peeking behind stashed vehicles and stepping around corners, gun waving around almost aimlessly.

    Almost. He¡¯s a really good shot. Or, maybe that¡¯s just because he seems to only ever take shots he know¡¯s he¡¯ll hit.

    Every so often, I see him idly flip a coin in his other hand, glance at it, and change directions on a whim.

    It seems important. I make a mental note.

    G, on the other hand, seems to prefer waving her arms and throwing everything in the room around aimlessly with psychic power. A constant stream of blood drips from her nose, one which she has to wipe away every few seconds, but that doesn¡¯t really seem to bother her. It certainly doesn¡¯t stop her from laughing maniacally at every stray box that shatters against the far wall, or every goon she decides to pick up and spin like a helicopter.

    She doesn¡¯t even seem to be breaking a sweat. I¡¯d assume that her bleeding out would be more of a concern, but the blood she loses doesn¡¯t seem to be anything drastic ¡ª just messy.

    They¡¯re not even trying, and this ¡ª I¡¯m assuming ¡ª heavily fortified crime base is practically crumpling.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    A shout from nearby draws me from my observations, and I suppress a sigh. At least I don¡¯t have to do this in front of the other two.

    One of Cook¡¯s hired goons ¡ª and, I assume, some of his buddies close behind ¡ª rounds the corner, startling at the sight of me but quickly readying his weapon.

    I quickly drop into a crouch and activate a pressure booster in my leg, blasting forward, catching his face in the palm of my hand and slamming it into the concrete.

    I take stock. Three just around the corner, group over near the center of the warehouse, currently gawking as a cloud of bullets hangs in the air in front of G.

    I focus on the ones in front of me, taking a heavy step and grabbing the front goon by the arm and dragging him in front of me in time for one of his pals to fire a spray of bullets into his back. I slip to the side and into a shoulder-check, knocking that second guy on his back and stomping on his weapon, crumpling it around the middle.

    The third guy tries his luck in close combat and fails miserably as I haphazardly bat his rifle away and punch him in the throat. I turn to re-assess.

    Shit. One of the goons from earlier decided to retreat, scrambling through the towering crates and into my line of sight, frantically raising her weapon. Getting shot doesn¡¯t really slow me down, but I don¡¯t want to be wasting energy so early, here ¡ª

    Bang. Blood sprays, and the henchwoman drops dead. I turn to Highlander, standing inexplicably beside me, twirling his gun.

    He gives me a daring grin.

    I don¡¯t dare drop my placid smile. ¡°¡­Thanks, guy.¡±

    ¡°All in a day¡¯s work!¡± He chirps, then sighs. ¡°So many hired guns, so little time. Oh, well, let¡¯s move on.¡±

    ¡­Let¡¯s. Highlander walks off further into the warehouse. G rounds a corner, cackling as an array of formerly-well-bundled steel beams fly through the air and pulverize anything near the wall they impact.

    I move to follow, and then stop. Groans echo out through the warehouse, when they¡¯re not overshadowed by the boom of telekinetically thrown crates and the crack of gunfire up ahead.

    ¡­I can¡¯t exactly drop everything just to help out Cook¡¯s henchmen, not when I¡¯m actively attempting to depose him.

    So¡­ a compromise. I make my way across the room, dipping into my power to extend a needle from my wrist, and taking a moment or two to stabilize them. A lot of them won¡¯t be waking up anytime soon, but they¡¯ll have no lasting damage, and none of them are going to die.

    I can¡¯t do much for the ones that are already dead.

    I¡¯ll just have to make sure this works. I finish up in under a minute, and dash farther into the compound.

    ¡ª

    The warehouse opens up soon enough, into a small courtyard bordered by a couple other large buildings and industrial equipment. Forklifts, portable elevators¡­ a lot of it looks like it hasn¡¯t seen use in some time, but the sheer amount of material here is vaguely intimidating. I don¡¯t have much experience with mad scientists beyond Chloe, who seems content sticking with her current arsenal and usually settles for routine maintenance at her desk. Cook uses chemical weapons, as far as I¡¯ve seen. Would it make sense for him to use any of this? Maybe it was left over from when he acquired the building? The docks weren¡¯t always quite so¡­ abandoned.

    Highlander hums, spinning a gun on his finger. ¡°Which way, which way¡­?¡± He flips a coin.

    G scowls. ¡°Are you some kind of idiot? You¡¯re still throwing that coin around?¡±

    ¡°Hey! My grandpapi gave me this coin!¡± I glance at it as it slaps against his palm. It looks like a regular quarter to me.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t care if the president himself flew down to give it to you, we got the tag-a-long for a reason, dumbass!¡±

    Oh, that¡¯s me. I open my mouth to mention reports I¡¯ve gotten about the smaller building closer to the water when Highlander seems to come to a decision.

    ¡°Aaaand¡­ this way!¡± He marches off. Towards the small administrative building I was about to point out.

    I follow along absentmindedly, as G complains and jabs him in the gut, restarting their bout of constant bickering.

    It¡¯s definitely some kind of subtle power ¡ª and I¡¯m sure he¡¯s using it at this point, likely has been every time I¡¯ve seen him. That coin he brings everywhere likely has something to do with it as well ¡ª it¡¯s possible the thing¡¯s a diversion, with the way he flaunts it, but it¡¯s equally possible he¡¯s just like that.

    Or maybe he does need the coin, but he knows how obvious it would make it if he tried to hide it, so he makes it part of his character.

    I suppress a scowl. I think I¡¯m beginning to see why all the supers in the city are so¡­ colorful, with their personalities. Highlander is infuriatingly difficult to get a read on. Even G is a little hard to navigate without knowing more about what sets her off.

    I tentatively add ¡®locked doors¡¯ to that mental list as she growls and whips a hand out, blasting two heavy metal doors off their hinges and into the building proper.

    ¡°Come on out, you two-bit lab rat!¡± I start to wonder if this kid might have read a few too many golden-age comics, and stifle a snort as the effect is ruined by the way she wipes a sleeve against her bloody nose.

    Highlander seems to have a similar thought. ¡°What happened to all those big-girl curse words you like so much?¡± He drawls, smirking.

    She sniffs. ¡°Don¡¯t need ¡®em.¡± She whips her head to the side.

    I¡¯m not able to hide my own slight smile fast enough.

    G stops, stares, and I freeze in turn. Her eyes narrow, her posture shifts ¡ª

    ¡°Hey.¡±

    All at once, a heavy presence of something blankets me, weighing down my shoulders, pressing insistently against the back of my head. It¡¯s almost like gravity itself decides to take issue with my existence, and it¡¯s everything I can do just to stay standing.

    I hunch over slightly with a grunt, gritting my teeth under the onslaught. Somehow, I manage to catch the kid¡¯s eye.

    She stares back impassively, eyes lidded and nose tilted upwards.

    She doesn¡¯t bother wiping away the blood.

    ¡°You¡¯re the tag-a-long here,¡± she says. ¡°Remember that.¡±

    The pressure abates, and I let myself gasp in a breath.

    ¡°Y ¡ª yes, ma¡¯am,¡± I reply, not trying too hard to play up the shaking in my voice as I throw up a hasty salute.

    Fortunately, she seems satisfied with that. Not-so-fortunately, Highlander seems to give me a considering look afterwards ¡ª at least, as much as I can tell watching him from the corner of my eye. As soon as I glance over, he looks pretty convincingly disinterested.

    ¡­It¡¯s easy to forget, with the way that they banter, that these people are monsters.

    Hopefully, pointing them in Cook¡¯s direction is enough. G struts confidently down the hall, ignoring Highlander¡¯s pointed jabs as he twirls his gun, and I force myself to follow.

 Chapter 3.27

    3.27

    Grimy tile, upturned tables, suspicious burn marks, and stainless-steel incomprehensible chemistry equipment. Cook¡¯s lab has all the makings of a mad scientist¡¯s lair.

    I¡¯m not sure if the trashed sections and splintered wooden shelves add or detract from the whole experience. Highlander seems to think it¡¯s charming.

    ¡°Love what you¡¯ve done with the place, bud! Really complements the whole ¡®dumpster-diver chic¡¯ you have going on!¡± He backs up a step as Cook whips out a sprayer and layers the area with a settling purple fog that looks to eat away at the floor under it.

    Cook doesn¡¯t reply, in stark contrast to our scuffle a few nights ago. The look on his face is almost pained as he ducks around releasing smoke and attempting to dodge the potshots Highlander shoots him from across the room. It¡¯s hard to get a good look at him, but I do note that I can see a bit of crystallized red poking out from underneath his shirt ¡ª he must have retained some injuries. That plus the bags under his eyes paint a harrowing picture.

    That, at least, is encouraging. The ridiculous state of his lab, less so for my purposes. While Highlander chases the mad scientist around the room, I dart off to the side and start rummaging through the shelves, sifting through paperwork and trying to ignore the supervillain banter.

    It¡¯s a load of poorly-printed notes, stained ink, crumpled paper¡­ sheafs of files using chemical notation I have no hope of understanding. Not what I¡¯m looking for. I sigh and duck around Cook as he stumbles into a nearby desk, taking careful note of which way Highlander¡¯s gun is facing, and make my way towards the back of the room.

    Filing cabinets line the wall, and even if they¡¯re a little dented a couple of them look to be occupied. I jimmy open one of the drawers and start sifting through.

    A groan sounds out from the younger supervillain somewhere behind me. ¡°Come on, man, we don¡¯t have all day! Finish him off already!¡±

    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re too hasty. He¡¯ll never learn his lesson if I don¡¯t knock him around a little.¡±

    ¡°He won¡¯t have to learn shit if you just take care of it, moron.¡±

    The crack of a gunshot. I glance over, and somehow Cook still isn¡¯t dead. He¡¯s injecting another vial of something-or-other and skittering under a desk.

    I turn back to the cabinet. Material lists, equipment orders¡­ bank manifests? Or something similar? Something involving a large amount of money.

    Obviously Cook would be moving a large amount of money. I¡¯m like ninety percent sure that¡¯s most of what his operation is for. Looking closer, though¡­ where exactly is this money coming from? If it¡¯s profit from his¡­ business, wouldn¡¯t it be listed as such, instead of as additional income? Is Cook the type to obfuscate records like this? I was half-expecting them to be encoded, actually.

    I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m reading this correctly. I snatch some of the papers, stuff them into my coat and turn towards a desk near the back of the room. Landline, decade-old laptop, blueprints stapled to the walls ¡ª this stands out among the clutter as something a little more personal. In fact¡­

    Resting haphazardly on the desk is a small, black touchscreen device. His personal phone? Was he really not expecting us?

    I gingerly pick it up, activating my power for a quick second to make sure it¡¯s not poisoned or something, and click the power button.

    It¡¯s unlocked. Arrogant, or tech illiterate? You¡¯d think a mad scientist would be good at this kind of thing, but he seems partial to paper records.

    A loud crash from the center of the room heralds G¡¯s entry into the fight. I ignore them. Ideally, I¡¯d like to get my snooping done before they finish, and I end up having to answer some awkward questions.

    I crack open Cook¡¯s ¡ª I assume ¡ª phone. It¡¯s sparse ¡ª few pictures, mostly lab-related, essentially no apps, next to no contacts save for a couple labeled in shorthand.

    ¡®PLNT1¡¯ looks to be one of Cook¡¯s distributors, as well as PLNTs two through five. The last, though, ¡®ENFC¡¯, is more interesting. It¡¯s one of his men, obviously, but it seems more like they personally know each other, and Cook mentions preparing ¡®additional canisters¡¯ for this contact more than once. Suckup, then?

    But if that¡¯s the case, why¡­?

    ENFC: m serious

    ENFC: nothing I can do cook

    ENFC: boss was clear abt it

    ENFC: sorry

    Boss? Who ¡ª

    A gunshot, a scream ¡ª I whip my head around, and Cook is clutching his chest with a haggard expression on his face. His eyes wild, his head jerks frantically until he locks his gaze onto mine. ¡°So this is your answer?!¡± He screeches. ¡°Hiding behind your betters?! Despicable! Cowardly!¡± He barks a laugh. ¡°Shrewd! You¡¯d do well in this city! It¡¯s only a shame you have no idea what you¡¯re dealing with!¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    My eyes widen. I take a step. His laugh devolves into a harsh wheeze as a cluster of rebar arrays itself behind him.

    Shlunk.

    Blood spills from Cook¡¯s lips, and the light fades from his eyes, along with any answers I might have gotten. I can¡¯t heal him now, not in view of the other two, and even if I did, there¡¯s no guarantee he¡¯d cooperate, but ¡ª

    I grit my teeth, push past the slight wave of nausea at his speared corpse. and pocket his phone.

    I turn away, plaster on a smile, and walk towards the exit. ¡°Our agreement is over.¡±

    G rolls her eyes. ¡°Whatever.¡±

    Highlander smiles back. There¡¯s a ping, the sound of a coin launching into the air. ¡°Sure is. You¡¯re good company when you¡¯re not scheming.¡±

    My smile becomes strained. What did he just ¡ª ?

    Highlander¡¯s arm raises almost in slow motion, firearm in hand, expression stock still, as it discharges point-blank into my skull.

    My sight flickers, and I can vaguely feel myself stumbling backwards. I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m in pain.

    He ¡ª I ¡ª

    My knees buckle. I activate my power.

    Shredded skin and muscle, split shrapnel, no exit wound. Shattered jaw, base of skull, likely paralysis, slight brain damage from kinetic impact and minor shrapnel abrasions. The bullet seems to be a high-caliber hollow-point round, thankfully managing to miss the center of my brain and instead pulverizing my spine where it meets the base of my skull and coming to a stop in the remaining viscera.

    If I were a normal person, I¡¯d be completely immobile, and dead in minutes. This is not the case. Almost reflexively, I begin smoothing over the gaping wound in my face, drawing extra calories from my larger muscle groups and the fat stores behind my stomach. The bleeding stops in under a second, followed quickly by only the most necessary repaired bone structures.

    In my panic, I deal with the shrapnel the quickest way I know how. This deep embedded into my flesh, the instinctive understanding that my power provides every other part of my body seems to bleed into the bits of metal, and almost before I realize it I¡¯m breaking down the metal directly and diluting the individual compounds into my bloodstream.

    Some of the metal is more than salvagable as energy, but the rest is broken down until it¡¯s mostly harmless as a compound and filtered throughout my bloodstream.

    Then it¡¯s reinforcing bone structures, attaching tendons and muscles, repeating nerve patterns through my spine, double-checking my work and trying not to panic.

    Distantly, I estimate four seconds since the bullet impacted my skull. I¡¯m halfway through crumpling to the concrete floor when I drop my power and immediately launch myself into a low sweep ¡ª

    ¡ª Just as Highlander finishes taking a couple steps back, well out of the range of my strike.

    His gun comes around, moving as if through molasses. I take note of his trajectory, as well as the movement of G¡¯s hands gesturing a good distance away.

    Another ping. A glint, shining off sterling silver. The coin lands faster than I can react.

    I twist into a crouch, extend a blade from my right arm with a meaty thunk, and activate a pressure booster in my leg. I dash at a slightly upward angle, whipping my blade in a diagonal, slicing clear through air as Highlander carelessly steps to the side.

    Another ping. Then, a second time in as many seconds. He barely glances at the coin. G¡¯s hands clench.

    I twist my arm around, this time activating another pressure booster. I¡¯m not nearly as fast as I need to be without it, not when I¡¯ve actively cannibalized a good portion of my muscle mass to force a speedy regeneration.

    Highlander¡¯s already leaning back, just barely avoiding my swipe, with an almost bored expression on his face.

    I¡¯m not sure what my expression looks like, but I can feel my eye twitching. This guy kind of pisses me off.

    I try to prepare another strike ¡ª Highlander flips another coin ¡ª and I find my arm frozen in mid-air. A quick glance behind me reveals G slamming her palms together with a vicious smile.

    ¡°Gotcha!¡±

    My arm ¡ª and a good portion of my torso ¡ª immediately crumples, overwhelming my senses and ripping the breath from my lungs. The kid swings her clasped hands to the side, and an invisible force launches me sideways, impacting the far wall hard enough to pulverize bone and shatter brick.

    I scramble to activate my power, intending to burn another chunk of calories to bring myself back up to working order, but even as I begin repairs I¡¯m dimly aware of Highlander smoothly aiming his gun.

    So instead, I pump matter into the muscles in my neck, not so much repairing as flooding the area with mass and forcing my head to the side, just clear of the resulting bullet.

    Highlander¡¯s gun is semi-auto. He adjusts his aim. G raises her hands.

    I know when I¡¯m outmatched. I need to leave. Now. And the fastest way to do that is¡­

    I peel myself off the wall, half smoothing over injuries and half jerry-rigging everything, and activate the second pressure booster in my leg, disregarding Highlander and making a beeline towards G. She¡¯s scary strong, and obviously not averse to violence, but at this point I¡¯m counting on that.

    I close in, she raises her arms, and her eyes widen. Her gesture transitions into something a little more panicked, and all at once an invisible force seizes my torso and pushes, quickly reversing my direction back into the brick wall behind me.

    This time, the impact breaks through the wall, sending me tumbling out onto the street. I skid to a stop on the concrete and, against my better judgment, take a moment to lay motionless on the ground.

    Okay. I¡¯m out of the building. That¡¯s a start. If I¡¯m lucky, the data on Cook¡¯s phone is still recoverable, and those other two are too busy arguing to finish me off.

    I take the time to repair some of my more grievous injuries, slowing my rate of regeneration to make up for my lack of resources. It takes about a minute until I feel ready to begin levering myself into a seated position.

    The kid stomps through the rubble, small flip-phone pressed against her ear, and my stomach drops.

    ¡°Of course I¡¯m sure, moron, I¡¯m the boss here! Just do what I say and get rid of her, got it?!¡± She grunts, ripping the phone away and flicking it shut. ¡°Useless.¡±

    I haul myself to my feet, mind racing. In this context, with this timing, there are very few people she could be referring to.

    I grit my teeth, tighten my stance, and put on a smile. Seems like running isn¡¯t exactly an option anymore ¡ª

    What kind of supervillain would I be if I didn¡¯t go save my henchwoman?

 Chapter 3.28

    3.28

    A heavy thoom echoes down the street, plumes of dust kicking up from the impact as G telekinetically hurls chunks of rubble vaguely in my direction. Thankfully, ducking into a nearby building, it doesn¡¯t take long to find a busted wall I can dart through to avoid her sight.

    Very important, by the way. If the numerous lacerations, shattered leg, missing fingers, and probable concussion have taught me anything, it¡¯s that she needs line-of-sight.

    And that Highlander is a bastard.

    ¡°Try the building on the left, pipsqueak,¡± his voice comes through only a little muffled, and a moment later I¡¯m diving behind cover as the far wall explodes into broken glass and shrapnel. How is he doing this? Is he just calling out random directions, and his power¡¯s directing him? Is it conscious, or is his power something that¡¯s always active?

    I stagger to my feet and sprint down a hallway, ducking out into an alley and immediately dropping into a roll at the glint of sun against steel ahead of me.

    A crack, shrapnel clattering against my side, and I¡¯m already on my feet sprinting towards the direction of this latest gunshot ¡ª

    In time to watch Highlander pull back and start making distance. He¡¯s not fast, but I don¡¯t exactly have time to sit around and wait for G ¡ª currently stumbling into view opposite me ¡ª to turn me into a fine red mist.

    It¡¯s infuriating. I had him.

    I duck around the corner, just as G lifts an arm, and I only manage to get most of me out of sight by the time her power asserts itself. There¡¯s a guttural crunch, a hot flash of pain, and my lower left leg is inoperable. I glance back ¡ª below the knee, the entire thing is a twisted, broken mass of flesh.

    I scowl. I don¡¯t have time for this.

    I dip into my power, burn the remaining vestigial flesh to accelerate the change I¡¯m making, and sharpen the bones in my foot into a slightly curved spear of hardened cartilage. My next step hits concrete with a clack, and it takes me a couple seconds to adjust.

    Temporary pegleg. No big deal. Really only one direction I need to be going right now, anyway.

    I sprint down the alleyway, sticking close to the walls as the ping of bullets against stray metal echoes around me, making a beeline back towards Cook¡¯s warehouse.

    The separate safehouse Chloe went too isn¡¯t far. I just need to get back out onto the main road, and from there I should be able to make it in like, five minutes if I book it.

    Which I will be, if I want to keep my remaining limbs. I pick up the pace, occasionally dipping into my power in order to keep up efficiency and ensure my makeshift leg is still working as intended.

    I can hear the enraged shouting and snarky comments coming up behind me. Maybe if I¡¯m lucky they¡¯ll be too busy arguing to come looking once I break line-of-sight.

    A heavy rumble, and rubble and loose objects start to shiver in mid-air. Reflexively, I duck, activate a pressure booster in my leg ¡ª the one I hadn¡¯t used earlier ¡ª and propel myself through the double doors leading back into Cook¡¯s wider warehouse area. Battered henchmen scramble to either run away or find their weapons, tripping over themselves in their haste.

    A number of them don¡¯t react. Because they are dead.

    Before any of them really become a problem, the concrete wall behind me explodes. Shrapnel tears through my exposed back, shearing flesh and muscle, destabilizing the work I¡¯d put into remaining functional. Idly I note the stray crates, trash cans, alleyway odds and ends sailing past me ¡ª G must¡¯ve decided to just throw everything.

    Cool to know she can affect that many different objects at once. Real cool. I dip into my power, preparing to seal over the wounds and continue ¡ª the shards of concrete and warped metal are likely to expensive to efficiently break down, so it¡¯d be better to just leave them ¡ª when I find myself metaphorically screeching to a halt.

    I begin to reach for spare matter to burn, hoping to accelerate my healing, and find it¡¯s not there. Or, rather, it is, but all of it is already in-use. I won¡¯t be able to flee effectively without muscles, or a stable skeletal structure.

    I¡¯m¡­ out of material.

    Movement, from the corner of my eye, and a startlingly long piece of rebar heaves itself into motion, spinning wildly and catching me around my midsection.

    The impact only just barely doesn¡¯t shear me in half. I¡¯m not entirely sure the frantic hardening of my spine helped with that.

    I tumble across the ground, haphazardly transitioning into a deep crouch as my boots scrape concrete and my skin is scraped from my hands.

    I stagger to my feet, my limbs feeling oddly light and the pseudo-hydraulics under my skin hissing wildly. I¡¯m sure multiple are punctured.

    Two figures, again, stroll through the hole in the wall. I can¡¯t bring myself to make them out.

    I need material. I take an unsteady step.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    My boot brushes up against a corpse.

    I manage to bite down a bitter laugh at the thought that arises. It¡¯s not something I ever thought I¡¯d have to resort to. For the amount of times I find myself being ground into the dirt, you¡¯d think I¡¯d have ditched the superiority complex by now.

    Still, the thought galls me. The¡­ point of all of this is to make things better, right? What kind of good person would even think of something like this?

    I snort. I¡¯m not about to delude myself, here. Everyone and their mother complains about the gangs, and it¡¯s not like removing them is some revolutionary idea. I¡¯m the instrument here, not the conductor. The idea isn¡¯t mine, it¡¯s just something I¡¯ve adopted.

    I¡¯m not a good person, but I don¡¯t need to be to realize the ideas of people who are.

    I reach down, forcing my body past the instinctive hesitation, and grasp the corpse by its neck.

    ¡°Sorry, buddy,¡± I mutter, hauling it upwards with straining, nutrient-deprived muscles, and open my second mouth.

    I try not to pay too much attention. It¡¯s not difficult to dissociate, with my power active and my focus centered on breaking down foreign matter and preventing blood loss.

    Sealing external wounds, retaining structural stability. I take care to make sure the pressure boosters are all active, as well. I have a feeling I will need them.

    ¡°Ugh, gross!¡± G¡¯s exclamation draws me from my semi-trance. Lucky thing, too. Guess I should be glad both of them are so prone to banter.

    I grin, because if I don¡¯t I think I will puke. ¡°You try regrowing three limbs in as many minutes. Takes a lot of calories.¡±

    G¡¯s face, now that I¡¯m paying attention, just twists further. ¡°Ugh,¡± she grunts, raising her hand. Idly, I note her ashen skin and stained red lower face. Someone should get her a napkin or something, her power seems to take some sort of toll on her.

    I activate a pressure booster anyway, even just the couple of minutes of running around enough to ingrain the reflex into my Ship of Theseus-style bones. I drop into a forward crouch, slam a palm into the ground, and fire myself upward, extending my secondary limbs to force my momentum into a slight twirl. It¡¯s not exactly graceful, but the force is enough to propel me temporarily out of line-of-sight. I graze the steel beams criss-crossing the ceiling, reach out, catch one in a hand that I use to pivot off to the side, slamming into the concrete behind a half-destroyed crate and sprinting for the entrance.

    ¡°Wh ¡ª hey!¡± Small footsteps, from a ways behind ¡ª only one pair. I round a corner, and a bullet immediately whizzes past my head.

    My practiced grin abruptly drops into a snarl at the sight of Highlander, somehow managing to be in the worst possible position for me yet again.

    ¡°How are you doing that?!¡± I growl, not breaking my stride as another bullet flies past me, and I take a couple long strides to close the distance.

    The man just gives me a winning smile. ¡°It¡¯s all luck, baby.¡±

    I¡¯m thinking of revising my guess at his power out of spite. This is way too targeted.

    I move to engage ¡ª and again, he moves away. He¡¯s flighty, not physically imposing, and seems to have an almost perfect sense of range and risk calculation. It¡¯s infuriating.

    Thankfully, though, it means he¡¯s not a very good sentry. His distance means I have a clear shot to the door.

    I take it. The pressure boosters in my legs finally refilling means My leap carries me a good distance out into the street and down the road even before G manages to catch up. Two minutes of winding alleyways, and I¡¯m already sure I¡¯ve lost them.

    But ¡ª it¡¯s not over yet. I grit my teeth and focus, pushing against the way my draining adrenaline weighs heavily at my limbs, and propel myself through the docks, firing a pressure booster every minute, altering the mechanism on the fly, forming pressurized gas particles in real-time from my calorie stores.

    It¡¯s been about seven minutes since I watched G make that call. Dread begins to pool in my gut. I can¡¯t seem to stop my mind from racing.

    Chloe¡¯s fine. Surely. She¡¯s strong, competent, practically unshakable. Assuming she¡¯s in mortal peril feels almost insulting.

    I¡¯d wanted to send someone with her, but we don¡¯t have the manpower, and she¡¯d given me a glare when I¡¯d even mentioned it offhandedly.

    Subconsciously, I pick up the pace. Gray brick buildings, warehouses, slivers of open dock and salty sea air ¡ª and finally, there, towards the end of the docks area ¡ª the admin building. I pivot, boots slamming into concrete, sprinting around back towards where I estimate the raid would finish. Pressure booster firing, launching me towards the opposite wall, firing again ¡ª

    I land in the center of a mid-size courtyard out back, cracking ground and automatically taking in the chaos around me.

    Crush, his men, some of them downed, scattered rebar, broken contraptions that ping as Chloe¡¯s work, Kickback up front, Jumpcut flanking ¡ª

    My train of thought halts.

    Chloe is missing an arm.

    Ice fills my chest, and my mind floods with an endless refrain of ¡®oh fuck¡¯ and ¡®please no not again¡¯ and ¡ª

    ¡®I was almost too late¡¯.

    It¡¯s barely a second too long before I shake myself out of it ¡ª I might still be too late if I dont¡¯ get my ass into gear.

    Crush had been advancing from the opposite side of the courtyard while Kickback seems to be ¡ª if slightly reluctantly? ¡ª taking Chloe head-on, while the grunts keep their distance.

    She¡¯s close, but she has her back to me.

    That¡¯s for the better. I¡¯m out of pressure boosters in my legs, so I dip into my newly-acquired stores in order to force a refill and dash towards her, not bothering with a bone needle and instead planting a secondary arm a couple inches into her back.

    Two seconds. Seal external wounds, replenish blood supply, restabilize fractured shoulder. A significant amount of my own biomass is lost.

    Chloe chokes out a gasp, and there¡¯s no time to reassure her ¡ª not that I¡¯m any good at that. I clamp a hand on her shoulder and shove her down, out of the way of Kickback¡¯s targeted jab, snag a net claymore from her belt, and detonate it in his face.

    He sprawls, Jumpcut jolts into action, Crush reaches down to prepare a ranged attack, and around him his men start to brace themselves ¡ª

    I jump, twist, drag Chloe with me as I turn my back to the approaching shrapnel, fire another hastily refilled pressure booster, and dash past Jumpcut almost before he has time to flicker out of the way. My heart pounds in my ears in time with my boots on the pavement, even as I start to make distance between me and my pursuers.

    Through the pulse of blood and haze of combat, a number of things make themselves clear to me.

    This was a disaster.

    This cannot happen again.

    I really need to crack open Vincent¡¯s notebook.