ã€ŠNightcrawlerã€‹


 Vagrant: 1.01

    Warm¡­ Why do I feel so warm¡­?

    Uncomfortable, like I¡¯ve fallen asleep next to a roaring fireplace. I shuffle uneasily in my sleep, as the warmth slowly rouses me. I¡¯m pulled away from slumber, as sensations return in greater strength. Touch is the first, the warmth rising into an uncomfortable heat that feels like it should have me sweating, but instead all I can feel is distinct discomfort. I¡¯ve fallen asleep on something hard and abrasive, an uncomfortable flat surface. Sound is next, a low constant rumbling filling my ears. Smell too, much too faint and distant. I feel the weight of my eyelids, and know I can¡¯t hold on to sleep any longer.

    Three pairs of eyes open.

    I scramble to my feet, panicking, only to fall as too many limbs struggle for purchase. I roll, slamming into a hard metal edge, and feel myself pull at something in panic. All of a sudden, my sensations are gone. I can¡¯t touch or smell or feel anything other than a faint numbness, but I can still see and I can still hear. Without that sense of wrongness, I start to think clearly. I reach for memories, names and places, only to feel them slip away.

    I don¡¯t know who I am.

    The thought shoots through my brain like lightning, electrifying my senses and sending me scrambling even further back into the darkness, moving without moving, without limbs or muscles. I¡¯m part of the shadows, I realise, merged with the darkness underneath the metal box. A rat skitters over and through me, passing through me without noticing, and I slowly calm myself down. The shadows help, taking away any flailing limbs, or tears. I just wallow in the shade for who knows how long, occasionally creeping forwards up to the light before flinching back in fear.

    Eventually, I settle myself up close to the edge of the metal, still within the shadows but looking out into the light. It¡¯s strange, seeing without eyes. I can see all around me, but my viewpoint changes as I move. Even formless, I have an idea of where I am in the shadows. Part of me feels like it should make me nauseous, but instead it just feels natural. A couple walks past, dressed in suits, and I watch them from the shadows. They¡¯re arguing, and the woman storms off, leaving the man standing alone in the alley. They aren¡¯t the same as me, but I know that they¡¯re normal, and I¡¯m not. I keep hiding, and the man walks off in the opposite direction.

    Nobody else passes me, and I start to think that it¡¯s quiet enough for me to come out. I don¡¯t want to, don¡¯t want to feel again, don¡¯t want to leave the comforting darkness for the harsh light. I wait there for a while, trying to build up the courage, as the sun disappears behind unseen clouds, and rain starts to fall. That¡¯s what motivates me to move; the outside seems a lot less violent with gentle rain running down the alleyway. I bring myself to the edge of the shadows, and gingerly reach forwards.

    Fingertips form out of the darkness, shadows gathering and pooling into five pitch-black digits, longer than they should be and ending in sharp points, like claws. The moment the limb starts to form, I feel its presence in my mind. Touch returns, and I wiggle each individual finger before pushing them out into the light. A hand follows, black and leathery, then a far-too-long arm, skinny but tough. Its mirror emerges on the other side, and I hesitate before pushing even further out, as two more arms join the first pair. This pair are less normal-looking than the first, with three long fingers and a hooked thumb. They are a little longer, and feel a lot stronger than the first.

    Any further thoughts are banished from my mind as my head forms out of the darkness and my perspective switches as six beady eyes form. The head is long - I can tell as I paw at it with my hands, my claws - and the eyes are staggered regularly along its length, letting me see more than I know I should be able to, even though it feels natural. The rain runs in rivulets down my leathery skin as I pull the rest of myself, cool to the touch and surprisingly refreshing. A long, thin, body forms, with skin stretched over a prominent ribcage before narrowing across thin hips that support two powerful legs, bent at the knee and tipped with talons. Last to come is a long thin tail that spools out of a narrow strip of shadow, until my connection to the darkness has entirely gone.

    I try to stand, only to sink back onto four limbs as my legs groan in protest. That doesn¡¯t seem right. I should be able to walk on two feet, shouldn¡¯t I? Instead, it¡¯s four limbs that feel natural, with my more normal arms tucked away into my flanks, my sides. I pace around the alleyway, feeling the unnatural limbs become more natural the more I use them, like an old memory returning.

    That brings me back to my memories. Or rather, to the absence in my mind where I feel my memories should be.

    My eyes dart around the alleyway, finding a patch of water safe from the rain underneath a small overhang, and I pace towards it. The water is almost flat, and clear enough for me to use it as a mirror. I see a black face staring up at me, angular and predatory, with six beady yellow eyes and a long mouth running along the length of my head, beak-like, that opens to reveal flesh and teeth the same midnight-black as the rest of me. It feels somehow familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like something unnatural that is nonetheless part of me.

    I hear people talking and I panic, leaping right at the narrow band of darkness beneath the lid of the metal box. I lose my sight, then gain it again as my entire body seem to turn to smoky darkness, before compressing itself through the far-too-thin gap. There¡¯s no light in here, except for the faint glint from the narrow gap where the metal has been warped. I find that I can move freely in the darkness, passing from one side of the dark space to the other like I¡¯m flying through the air, squeezing my formless presence in and amongst the sacks of what I quickly realise is garbage.

    Part of me panics at that, flying around the dumpster and only barely managing to stop myself from flying out into the light, but sense quickly reasserts itself. I don¡¯t even have a form right now, so why would a little garbage scare me? Instead I move myself as close to the light as I can, and watch as a couple of men in matching clothes step into the alleyway, waving an enormous vehicle in behind them. I can only see the back of it, a huge container built into a trailer on top of some truly immense wheels, as the two men open up a pair of doors set into the opposite wall.

    They start to load crates into the back of the truck, taking their time and stopping for a cigarette or a chat, and I think a couple of hours pass before they shut the doors to the building and the truck, which drives off as the two men head home. I could recognise their language, which is something, but they weren¡¯t saying anything useful, just idle sports gossip. They¡¯re gone, but I don¡¯t come out. That was too close to being seen, and some part of me revolts at the mere idea of being spotted when I don¡¯t want to be. So I wait, as the rain carries on and the grey sky turns orange, before descending into the pitch-black of an overcast night.

    It¡¯s not perfect, of course, and a lot of the alley is still lit by the orange glow of streetlights on the main road, but the night¡¯s sky somehow feels comforting to me, and I leave my hiding place. I don¡¯t take it slow, this time, hurling myself at the tiny sliver of light as fast as my formless self will go. In an instant, I go from a shapeless presence in the darkness to a long and predatory creature, and my view shifts back to those beady yellow eyes.

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    The city is stretched out to my right, with its bright lights and drunken revellers, but that doesn¡¯t appeal to me. Not when compared to the pitch-black space between the tall buildings of this alley. I pounce into the shadows, turning immaterial and flitting up and down through the darkness at the edge of the light. It¡¯s not flight, not quite, and I¡¯m limited in my movements to anything free from the orange streetlights, or any other source of light, but it feels right somehow. It feels liberating.

    I can¡¯t quite make it up all eight stories of the building, but I get close enough to let my momentum carry me the last few feet over the lip of the roof, before rolling in the gravel surface atop the tower. I take a moment to shake away a few scraps of rock that have got caught in my joints, before turning my eyes upwards to look over the city.

    It¡¯s too big. Impossibly tall towers scraping up against the clouds themselves, lit by a steady orange-yellow light from countless windows, with the even brighter glow of the streetlamps making the trenches between the towers brighter still. The clouds, low in the sky and heavy with the promise of rain, glow faintly orange as well, as the light from the city is reflected back on it. The buildings have no concise style: some are made of stone, and smaller than the others, while the tallest ones seem to be entirely made of glass, tipped with spires and blinking red lights. Closer to me, there is what looks like an enormous pillar rising out of the ground, tipped by a wide saucer lit up like a star in gleaming white.

    It¡¯s too much, and I instinctively retreat into the shadows behind an access point on the roof, hiding myself from the sheer scale of it all. I stay there for a while, somehow more comfortable looking over the skyline through the darkness, before deciding that the roof just isn¡¯t for me, diving off the edge of the building and into the darkness of the alleyway, turning immaterial halfway down and landing on the floor in a pile of shadows. Nice to know that I can do that, though I probably should have started with something less drastic than an eight-story drop.

    I pull myself out of the shadow without leaving it, hiding among the shadows rather than in them, and curl up in a ball underneath a small overhang as the rain starts up again. I just can¡¯t put this off any longer. I don¡¯t know who I am. I can feel things, fleeting thoughts or images that elude me as soon as I reach for them. I have no name, no memories and no answers. There¡¯s a patch of water pooling a few inches away, and I look again. What am I? I think I¡¯m human, or at least I used to be, and I know what a human is. I know what garbage is, too, and almost everything else I¡¯ve seen today. How can I know all that, but not know my own name?

    My eyes are drawn back to my mirror image in the water, long and sleek, with absolutely no chance of ever passing for human. I linger on one of my shoulders, and lean in closer as I start to make something out; a small patch of darkness, lighter than the rest of my skin, shaped into a horseshoe. A brand. Another unsolved mystery, but one I can¡¯t bring myself to care about, not when compared to everything else that¡¯s weighing on my mind.

    Instead, I curl up in the alleyway, and try to get some sleep.

    It doesn¡¯t work, not when my stomach starts to rumble and moan. It¡¯s still dark out, but I can¡¯t stay here any longer, not when it feels like I haven¡¯t eaten in a week. I roll myself onto all fours, scratching at my head with my hands to try and force some sense into me, and turn to the entrance of the alley. It¡¯s lit by a bright orange streetlamp, which feels uncomfortable in a way I can¡¯t quite explain, but I force my way through it. Gingerly, I peer out into the street, seeing a couple of obvious drunks far to far away to notice me, and a couple of people who are much closer, but walking away.

    There¡¯re a few sacks of garbage on the side of the street, right underneath the light, and I dart for them, slipping comfortably into the darkness hidden amongst the pile. I can¡¯t travel into the sacks, but I don¡¯t need to when I can apparently compress myself this small. Still, I can¡¯t keep hopping between piles of garbage, not when there¡¯s so many people around. I look around, my eye inevitably being drawn to the pounding rain that I can see running through my shelter, but I can¡¯t feel it.

    It flows along the sidewalk, pooling into the gutters and departing into a drain recessed into the side of the road. A drain cast in deep shadow. I pounce, not caring who sees me, safe in the sure certainty that I can hide myself away down there, and none of their eyes will matter. I leap across the road in two great bounds, before diving headfirst into the drain, rushing along underneath the streets of the city. I feel free, moving faster than ever before, and only having to duck under the occasional patch of light from the grates.

    I revel in my senses, before slowing as I remember why I came down here. I start to stop at the grates, forming just enough of my head in the light to peer out into the street, six beady yellow eyes peeking out into the world. I find it on my sixth drain; a glass-fronted building filled with shelves laden with all sorts of packets. Even now, with only the top of my head formed, I can still feel hunger pangs eating away at me. I creep out of the drain, rushing into the shadows beneath a parked car before anyone has a chance to see me and wait for my moment.

    A group of people come out of the store, dressed in expensive clothes and carrying canned and bottled drinks. When they leave, there¡¯s a brief moment when the door hangs open, held by some unseen force, and I take that chance to rush through the doors, sliding under the closest set of shelves before anyone has a chance to see me, or so I hope. I peek out nervously, staying hidden in the darkness, but there are no screams, and nobody seems to have seen me. I look around again, before moving up to the light and forming my arm in the aisle, reaching up to the shelves above me and pulling down the first thing I can grab.

    There¡¯s barely enough room down here for me to keep my arm formed, clutching my pre-packaged sandwich like some sort of prize, and there¡¯s not enough room for my head, so I can¡¯t actually eat it. I turn my arm to shadow, trying to bring the food with me, but it just flops to the floor uselessly. I can¡¯t eat this here, and I can¡¯t bring it with me. I carry the sandwich around under the small row of shelves, looking for the section with the fewest customers, and brace myself before materialising me head in the aisle, tearing the sandwich out of its packaging and wolfing it down.

    It¡¯s much too bland for my tastes, tastes I didn¡¯t know I had until now, but that doesn¡¯t stop me from finishing the whole thing, before reaching back with my arm to pull a fresh pair from the shelves behind me. I continue ducking under the shelves and pilfering food from the shop, a random mix of sweet, sour, spicy and everything in between, until I don¡¯t feel hungry anymore. I would take a couple of canned goods with me for later, but I can¡¯t carry them with me through the shadows.

    Instead, I snag a bottle of something strong and drink it in the corner of the shop, feeling the harsh alcohol sliding down my throat before doing something as it reaches the shadows. I know the food is going somewhere - I don¡¯t feel hungry anymore - but I¡¯ll be damned if I know where that is. The drink gives me the courage to make a run for the door, and I cringe as I hear screams behind me, before slipping back into the gutters and off into the comforting night.

 Vagrant: 1.02

    I don¡¯t like looking up at the city. I know it¡¯s only been a few hours since I woke up, but there¡¯s something about the impossible buildings that fills me with a deep sense of unease. They¡¯re too big, too new, too bright. I like it a lot better when I look down; when I ignore the tall towers in favour of the comforting brick of the smaller structures, with their dark and welcoming shadows. It¡¯s easy to slip in and out of them, at times almost flying through the darkness. It feels natural, it feels right, but I know it really shouldn¡¯t.

    Why am I like this? Was I born this way? Something about that doesn¡¯t feel right, but who am I to say? Was I made? Is there anyone else like this? Anyone else like me? My mind is racing with thousands of unanswered questions, my thoughts travelling as fast as my body through the shadows. I can¡¯t think of them right now. I jump out of the darkness onto a narrow balcony two stories up, seemingly abandoned and deep in shadow. My kind of place.

    I spend a while with my arms, two of them, resting on the balcony while I watch the streets below. The shadows here are deep enough that all anyone would be able to see of me is three pairs of beady yellow eyes, giving me a comforting sense of anonymity. A couple of people stagger past, women in short dresses and men in dark suits, but none of them so much as glance in my direction. Part of me wonders if I should go down there and try to talk to them, but another part finds the whole idea repugnant. It¡¯s not like they¡¯d listen to someone who looks like this¡­

    Something lights up the building opposite me, a bright blue light that flashes and shakes. Instinct drives me down behind the balcony as the harsh light gets brighter and brighter. I peer over the balustrade, just in time to see a boxy grey truck drive past, with flashing blue lights that send me reeling back from its intensity. A little further down the street it emits a keening wail that sets my teeth on edge as it forces its way past a couple of cars. Once it¡¯s gone, I curl up underneath the edge of the balcony and try to fall asleep.

    I still can¡¯t manage it - something just doesn¡¯t seem right - and pretty soon the rain starts up again. I don¡¯t mind it as much as I feel like I should, but it¡¯s still not an altogether pleasant experience. I try to move out of the rain by huddling up against the building, but it¡¯s coming in at an angle. Water starts to pool on the balcony, draining away agonisingly slowly, and I reluctantly hop up onto the balustrade, before leaping off into the shadows. Something tells me I shouldn¡¯t try that move when there isn¡¯t a shadow to catch my fall¡­

    The rain can¡¯t touch me when I¡¯m hiding in the darkness, but I can¡¯t touch anything either. I can¡¯t hide in the shadows forever, no matter how much I might want to, so I slip out of the darkness, and start to look for shelter. The night goes on, as people withdraw from the streets. I¡¯m almost alone now, save for the occasional car that sends me scurrying back into the shadows. The streets are still lit by that ever-present electrical glow, but there are more than enough shadows for me to hide in.

    Of course, just because the drunks have left the streets doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re empty. I¡¯ve been moving away from the glowing towers, heading out towards the smaller buildings that are much less well lit. There are people here, in small groups, standing on the street corners with wary looks in their eyes. A couple of them are even armed, with lengths of metal pipe, chains curled around their fists or even a few short handguns tucked into the belt of their pants.

    I creep around these figures, slinking through the shadows behind them, clambering over the rooftops or ducking back through the drains and following the flow of water from the rain. Eventually, the number of armed men starts to drop as I leave what must be their territory. The buildings here are squat, with few more than three stories tall, and many are in disrepair, or have been demolished to make way for new growth.

    One in particular looms over me; close to three stories of sagging brickwork, the right side of which has partially collapsed into a heap of bricks, concrete and steel. It¡¯s ringed by a fence made from linked strands of steel, covered in signs warning the public of unseen dangers. I can read it, if I use my claws to pull my face up to the sign, but much of it is nonsense to me. ¡®Severe Water Damage¡¯ is easy to figure out, as is ¡®Unfit for Human Habitation,¡¯ but ¡®Asbestos,¡¯ ¡®Seattle¡¯ and ¡®FEMA¡¯ are complete gibberish to me. I guess I¡¯m just lucky that I can read any of the language at all.

    The fence proves no obstacle to me as I slowly slink through the shadows before reforming myself inside the building, well beyond the prying eyes of the city. It¡¯s almost completely pitch black in here, and yet I can somehow see clearly. It¡¯s not the same as seeing light normally, rather it¡¯s like I can somehow make sense of the differing flavours of darkness, in a way that doesn¡¯t quite make sense to me. I¡¯d been seeing parts of it before, but this darkness is somehow clearer than the rest, as if the lack of nearby light makes it more visible to me, rather than less.

    The building has obviously seen better days. The walls are cracked and sagging, and the floors are uneven, partially rotted in places. I don¡¯t know what this building was before; maybe it was used for offices, maybe it was a factory or mill of some kind. What matters is that most of the rooms still have all four walls, and the second floor gets me off street level. It might be a nice place to wait out the day, before sneaking off to eat at night. I know I shouldn¡¯t be happy about squatting in an abandoned building, and I shouldn¡¯t enjoy planning nightly raids on general stores, but I¡¯ll take what I can get.

    The second floor is largely open plan, with a gaping hole in one end where the building has collapsed in on itself. I stay away from that half ¨C whatever dangers that sign was warning me about are probably over there ¨C and instead pace over to the office on the opposite side. The door has long rotted away, but all the walls are still here and there¡¯s even some glass left in the window. It¡¯s almost a palace!

    I spend the night going through the building, room by room, dragging down soft wood scraps and bits of loose canvas until I¡¯ve build myself a passable bed in the corner, deep enough that I can hide in the shadows amongst the scraps if I need to and large enough for me to curl up on top of it. It takes the rest of the night to drag everything down and, by the time I¡¯m done, the first glimmers of sunlight are streaming through the window. I block out the sun with the last scrap of tarpaulin, nailing it into the walls with a few twisted iron rods I found in the next site over. I¡¯m not particularly strong, but the walls here are soft and flaky.

    Once the sun¡¯s up, my motivation seems to drain away from me, and I curl up on top of my makeshift bed, pointedly ignoring the way it pokes and prods at me, and drift off into sleep as the tarpaulin over the window keeps the worst of the sun at bay. My dreams are filled with fleeting images that seem to slip away as I try and grasp at them. They are filled with sunlight, but it doesn¡¯t seem so harsh in my mind.

    The rotten door creaks and I bolt awake, instinctively slipping into the shadows beneath my bed. It¡¯s not yet dark, but the harsh glare of daylight has been replaced by the fading orange of the evening. I¡¯m well outside the glow, moving about in the shadows of my heap and hoping that nobody saw me.

    ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±

    Drat.

    Somebody steps into the room, and my first thought is that he needs a doctor. His face is gaunt, almost skeletal, and his hair is matted and clumped across his head, with a wispy excuse for a beard dusting his chin. He¡¯s dressed in layers of coats and gloves, each worn and ragged, and he¡¯s brandishing a long thin knife in front of him, as his eyes dart madly around the room.

    ¡°Don¡¯t fuckin¡¯ hide from me. I know you¡¯re in here!¡±

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    He¡¯s stepping closer, and I know he¡¯s going to start tearing up all my hard work to try and find me. He¡¯ll rip the canvas off the window and smash my bed to splinters! I pull myself to the edge of the shadows, and materialise six beady eyes right where he can see them. He stops dead as I start to pull myself after the wood, hoping to scare him off or something. That knife looks sharp ¨C and I really don¡¯t want to get into a fight ¨C but if I can scare him away then maybe he¡¯ll leave me alone?

    It works, and he quickly stuffs the knife back into his pocket, raising both his hands up to his head.

    ¡°Ah shit! Sorry! I didn¡¯t know you were living here! Don¡¯t hurt me! Please!¡±

    I¡¯m fully formed now, perched on top of my heap, and I glare at him for a few moments before speaking. Shouting, really.

    ¡®Go away!¡¯

    That¡¯s not what comes out of my mouth, though. It¡¯s loud, but it doesn¡¯t sound anything like words. It¡¯s halfway between a screech and a snarl, and it breaks my heart to hear it. I can¡¯t talk. I bring my hands, my claws, up to my mouth, pawing and pulling at it as if I can somehow force the words to come out right, force this horrible beak to make some semblance of speech. I don¡¯t want to be alone!

    At some point I curl up into a ball, sobbing as I try to rip my jaw off with my bare hands. I think about sinking back into the shadows and never emerging, but then I spot the man still standing on the other side of the room, confusion dancing in his eyes. I look up at him like a little girl with her hand caught in the cookie jar, my hands frozen mid-scratch.

    ¡°L-look, I don¡¯t wanna step on any toes here, but I got nowhere else to go. Triad ran me out of my last spot, and this is the only other place I could think of. Either this or Lynnwood, but I ain¡¯t that suicidal. Not yet, at least.¡±

    His mouth cracks open in a strained grin, exposing yellowed and decaying teeth, and I know he¡¯s not afraid of me anymore. If I want to get him out of here, I¡¯d need to fight him. I don¡¯t think I can do that, not to someone I don¡¯t know. I let out a long, drawn out, sigh ¨C at least I can still do that ¨C and nod my head.

    ¡°God bless you,¡± he says, sitting with his back against the wall. ¡°Name¡¯s Mike. You got a name?¡±

    I scowl at him, and he seems to get the hint.

    ¡°Right, ¡®course not.¡± He sighs, drawing his knees up into his chest. ¡°I got to say, this has to be about the weirdest conversation I¡¯ve ever had while sober.¡±

    I tilt my head in confusion, but he just waves me off. At least we¡¯re communicating, kind of. Maybe I can take this further? There¡¯s plenty of dust on the floor, so I reach over and try to copy the letters I saw outside. I¡¯m pretty sure I know how to write, but it takes a second to figure out how to make the correct symbols with my claws.

    ¡®where we?¡¯

    He leans over, tilting his head to read the letters. I¡¯ve written them from my perspective, which means they¡¯re upside down to him, but I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll figure it out.

    ¡°Where are we?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°I think it was a clothing factory?¡±

    I tap the words twice, before pointing towards the covered window.

    ¡°Oh, shit. You really don¡¯t know?¡± My stare speaks for me, ¡°Guess not. This is Seattle.¡±

    I draw my finger through half of my statement, before quickly writing another word.

    ¡®where <s>we?</s> that?¡¯

    He brings his fingers up to his chin, scratching at his wispy beard.

    ¡°Washington State?¡±

    I tap the words again.

    ¡°The USA?¡±

    Another tap.

    ¡°Earth?¡±

    My taps are more desperate now.

    ¡°You¡¯re not an alien, are you? ¡®Cos that¡¯s about as big as it gets.¡±

    I bring my hands up to my head again. Not a single flash of recognition, not one stray memory or vague feeling of familiarity. I don¡¯t recognise anything about it, which means I really am lost. I slip into the shadows again, peering out of the somewhat-soft mass of rotten wood and canvas I¡¯ve been using as a bed, which sends Mike scampering back again. He can¡¯t manage it, not when he was already leaning against the wall, so his fear slowly turns into curiosity, as I peer out of the shadows at him.

    ¡°Damn,¡± he sighs, ¡°you have to be the weirdest cape I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±

    I push an arm out of the shadows, reaching over to my scribbled words.

    ¡®what <s>where</s> <s>we?</s> that?¡¯

    ¡°Capes? Capes are¡­ Capes are people, I guess, who can do extraordinary things. They can build things, or shoot balls of gas from their arms, or grow enormous stone fortresses. Heh. Or merge into shadows.¡±

    So I¡¯m not alone! It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but I still need to be sure. I reach out with my hand, one more time.

    ¡®people like me?¡¯

    ¡°Not quite.¡± He winces, and my heart breaks all over again. ¡°They still look like people. I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says, as I form my beady eyes to stare him down, ¡°but it¡¯s true. There are a few capes who look a little odd when they¡¯re using their power, but nobody like you. Sorry.¡±

    None of us speak after that, not like I have a choice in the matter. Eventually, Mike steps out of the makeshift office, dragging his sleeping bag to some other part of the old factory. I wait until the sun goes down, occupying myself by doodling idly in the dust, before crawling out into the night yet again.

    This time I stay away from the city centre. From ¡®Seattle.¡¯ I stick to the side streets and alleyways, watching from the shadows as people go about their daily lives. I spot a fistfight on the side of the street, two burly men going at each other with bare knuckles, but I just ignore it and walk away. Conversation pours from bars so full that the drinking has spilled out onto the street, and more drinkers arrive for every one that leaves. At one point, another one of those grey vans drives past, following a pair of light-blue cars with a white stripe along their side, and blue and red flashing lights on top.

    The light of one of these cars passes over my shadow, and I am instantly forced back into my physical form, panting heavily as I slink off deeper into the city. Women in absurd clothing make passes at passing cars, outside a section of the city bathed in a deep red light that creates absolutely marvellous shadows. There are a lot more fights in that part of town, as burly men in black shirts cooperate to drag a myriad of drunken people out of the area. I spot two of them flanking a man in a neatly-pressed suit with a violet shirt and tie, talking to a strangely-dressed woman in a tight-fitting black and orange outfit, with an orange mask across the top of her face. She seems to have the respect of the man, and something else that could be fear or awe.

    Eventually, I find my way to another well-lit general store, and creep in through the shadow underneath the door itself. I sneak myself food from the entire shop, more sandwiches and drinks and loose fruit, until I¡¯ve eaten my fill. I¡¯m about to sneak out again, until I remember how gaunt Mike looked. I double back, retrieving a few things, and push the door open rather than slipping under it. Nobody sees me this time.

    I find him in a room on the first floor of the warehouse ¨C he seems to have written off the whole second floor as my territory ¨C curled up in a sleeping bag on top of a bed made from a couple of steel tables he¡¯s pushed together. He¡¯s still awake, so I rest my claws on the table to pull myself up and use my hands to place my haul in front of him. He smiles at me, eagerly consuming the sandwich and bottled drink, but I have to pointedly tap the apple before he pays any attention to it.

    ¡°An apple a day, huh? Look at you¡± -he smiles- ¡°thinkin¡¯ of my health.¡±

    I wait pointedly for him to finish, before letting myself drop to the floor and slinking off to the doorway.

    ¡°You know¡± -I pause and look back at him- ¡°I think this is that start of a wonderful partnership.¡±

    I don¡¯t really know what he means, but it feels nice to know there¡¯s someone here who won¡¯t scream and run when they see me. I smile, as I slink back out into the night.

 Vagrant: 1.03

    My nights fall into a steady rhythm. I wake as the evening drags on, then meander around the old factory until the sun has completely set, and the streets of the city turn dark enough to be comfortable. Sometimes Mike will be around, and we¡¯ll ¡®talk¡¯ until he heads off to sleep and I head out into the city. I still don¡¯t know what he does, when he isn¡¯t here, but there¡¯s something I like about the regularity he provides. I know he¡¯ll be there when I get back. We don¡¯t talk about much ¨C there¡¯s only so much dust to draw in ¨C but it¡¯s nice to have someone explain the things I don¡¯t get, like traffic lights or pedestrian crossings. That one took some drawing before he understood.

    Then I¡¯ll creep out and go for a wander. I¡¯m not so hungry as to slink off to the nearest shop right away. Instead, I take the chance to explore the city some more. To explore Seattle, I suppose. It seems too big for a name, though. It feels like the city covers the whole world, reaching high up into the heavens. It might as well be the world, as far as I¡¯m concerned; I¡¯ve travelled east, west and south, and it¡¯s bordered on all sides by enormous expanses of dark water, separated from the city by immense angular fortifications of concrete that rise up four stories tall in places.

    I tried swimming, then gliding through the shadows, and found that I can travel through dark water as easily as I can through dark air. Helpful to know, but I didn¡¯t go very far. Why would I, when this city seems to hold the whole world within its borders? I could spend months, maybe years, exploring it, and never fully understand it. I don¡¯t need to add more places onto that, not when I have no connection to them anyway. Seattle is the whole world, because it¡¯s the only place I have any ties to.

    That being said, I still don¡¯t understand it. The water to the south is smaller than the west and east, a mere channel with a lake at the centre, but I haven¡¯t crossed the bridge yet. That¡¯s where all the skyscrapers ¨C a fitting name ¨C are and I still hate to look at them. They frighten me, like they could come crashing down at any moment. A lot of things frighten me here. I haven¡¯t gone north yet; Mike says it¡¯s dangerous up there, and I haven¡¯t any reason to doubt him.

    Instead I¡¯ve been learning everything I can about our own little patch of the city: watching people as they spill out of work and head straight for the bar; watching, however briefly, the people in the Red Light District, as they look for alternative ways to relieve stress; watching the shows of force from the local gangs, or the black-uniformed soldiers who patrol the better parts of the neighbourhood with pistols on their belts. There are thousands of people here, perhaps tens of thousands. All of them individuals, with their own stories. I like to guess sometimes, as I look out of the shadows, who each of them is. I¡¯ll never get it right, but it¡¯s not like I can just walk up and ask them.

    Most of the shops close at midnight ¨C at least the ones that sell food ¨C so I usually try and raid them pretty early on as I have no way of telling the time. I like to think I¡¯ve gotten pretty good at hiding underneath the shelves, and I now know a couple of places where the shelves are far enough off the floor for me to eat my meal without revealing myself. I¡¯ve only been seen a few times, and almost always on my way out. I can¡¯t carry anything in the shadows, but sometimes I¡¯ll take a few things back with me the long way. Those nights are more dangerous, but I¡¯m pretty hard to spot even outside the shadows.

    Sometimes I bring back food for Mike, as I know he won¡¯t eat fruit if I don¡¯t get it for him, but more recently I¡¯ve been bringing back some extras just for me. I found an electronics store, once; at first it scared me, with its walls filled with glowing screens emitting harsh light from moving images, but eventually my curiosity overcame me. That was the night I discovered I could move through darkness even if there was glass in the way. It doesn¡¯t seem possible, but who am I to argue?

    The shop was shuttered and closed, and all the boxes by the front had thankfully gone dark. I couldn¡¯t make sense of any of it; strange boxes and panes of glass that somehow made the images I had seen. There was only one product that was even vaguely recognisable to me. I pawed over the radio, trying to figure out how to switch it on before jumping back as it crackled into life. I spent another few minutes fiddling with the frequency until the room was filled by wonderful music. Completely unrecognisable to me, of course, but music all the same.

    The only trouble was in getting back; I couldn¡¯t carry the radio back through the glass door and I didn¡¯t want to cut myself trying to batter it down, so I turned my eye to the shop itself. I chose a heavy black case highlighted in green ¨C serving no function I could determine ¨C to smash through the glass, before sliding my precious radio through the gap between the shutter and the ground.

    Part of me felt guilty, but it was overshadowed by my prize. I spent the rest of that night flicking through stations back in the factory, listening to dozens of different sorts of music, interspersed with late night talk shows and far too many adverts for things I couldn¡¯t understand. It was a nice way to pass the time, and I came to love the gentle sound of music in my room. Sometimes Mike came up to listen with me, and that was nice as well.

    Tonight is about saving that radio. It died on me last night. I was distraught, until Mike told me that all it needed were new batteries. Now, after having the difference between A, AA, and AAA explained to me in exhausting detail, I¡¯m on the hunt yet again. I can¡¯t go down to the same store again ¨C it¡¯s not smart ¨C so I¡¯m just prowling the city looking for something else that fits the bill.

    I decide to combine it with a quick jaunt up north, to see what exactly has Mike so scared. It¡¯s not like I can¡¯t just duck into the shadows if I see anything bad happening. So far, the north looks a lot like the rest of the area, if a little more run-down. There are fewer streetlights here, and fewer people out at night. Not enough for it to be quiet, but enough for it to be noticeable. The people who are out are a lot less eager to make some noise; crawling between the bars and their homes without fanfare or celebration.

    Still, they have a small corner shop that¡¯s open this late and might have what I need. I creep through the door while the shopkeeper is busy with a customer, then hide under the shelves until I¡¯m sure he didn¡¯t notice the door opening. I creep around for a while, making sure that nobody else is inside, before reforming myself in the aisle and looking over the shelves for any batteries. There¡¯s nothing on this isle ¨C just tools and boxes ¨C and I duck back into the shadows as a couple of customers step in.

    I wait while they look up and down the aisle I¡¯m hiding under, before a series of distant cracks has them glancing around in panic. The cracks increase in volume; I¡¯d have my hands over my ears if I had either of those right now. The two customers start to huddle together and I spot the owner pull a short-barrelled gun out from underneath his counter. None of them make an effort to leave, and there¡¯s no way I¡¯m getting out with them all spooked like this. Mike says some capes are bulletproof, but I¡¯m not eager to test that.

    Outside the glass front of the store, the street is suddenly illuminated by flashing green and white lights as a trio of grey vans speed past, one of them stopping right outside as a squad of grey-uniformed soldiers file out, carrying short-looking rifles made entirely of black metal. The crackling din ¨C which I now assume is gunfire ¨C increases as it¡¯s joined by tremendous crashes and bangs.

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    Suddenly there¡¯s a figure at the door, and the customers shrink back. Their demeanour changes when he steps in, however, and they start to seem somehow reassured. He doesn¡¯t look like the soldiers ¨C a short man, possibly a teenager, dressed in an armoured suit of steel scales with a mask across the top half of his face ¨C but the customers are almost deferential to him, and the shopkeeper has lowered his gun.

    ¡°You need to evacuate,¡± he says, his voice filled with authority. ¡°There¡¯s a police cordon a block to the south, it¡¯s safe there.¡±

    The two customers leave immediately, thanking him as they go, but the shopkeeper is reluctant, and the two descend into a polite but fierce argument. I seize the chance, forming my body in the aisle and looking over the shelves for those cursed batteries. I paw through gardening equipment and cleaning products, before spotting a rack of batteries on the top of the shelf. They¡¯re too high for me to reach, so I use my claws to ¡®stand¡¯ on two legs while leaning against the shelf, and reach up with my other set of arms for the batteries. I¡¯ve almost got them, but I¡¯m struggling to keep my balance.

    ¡°What the¡­¡±

    My right eyes dart to the side only to see the shopkeeper and the cape on their way out the door, both staring right at me. The cape reaches out with his right hand, while a number of scales detach from his armour and start to circle around him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t. Move.¡±

    He says each word slowly, his eyes locked on my own. My tail sways from side to side nervously as the shopkeeper points his gun at me, aiming over the cape¡¯s shoulder. My tail strays briefly into the shadows underneath the shelves and I pull on that connection, dragging myself into the shadows underneath the shelf as a gunshot rings out. I rush through the shadow, leaping out of the other end of the shelves and bursting through the door, my tail brushing up against the cape¡¯s legs. He wheels on the spot, more scales detaching from his armour, but I¡¯m already sprinting down the street.

    The grey van is still parked outside and its flashing lights don¡¯t give me anywhere to hide. I hear the cape talking into a radio behind me, and duck into the shadow underneath the van before leaping out onto the other side. Shouts emerge from behind me, as soldiers respond to the cape¡¯s warnings. They don¡¯t shoot at me, but it sounds like there are a lot of them. The crackling gunfire reverberates through the streets ahead of me, but I¡¯d rather sneak my way past the unknown than try to evade that cape on a street bathed in green and white light.

    I start to see signs of the fight. A uniformed soldier leads a line of civilians towards safety, before turning back for more. A soldier jogs past me carrying his wounded comrade over his shoulder. I start to hear shouts through the gunfire, mixed in with strange whirring noises. Then, I see it. The street ahead is teaming with soldiers shooting off into the distance, hiding in alleyways or clambering over the rooftops. In the centre of the road an enormous armoured suit, as wide as it is tall, is striding through the concrete. I watch from the shadows as bullets spark and ricochet off its plates, but the armoured figure weathers the storm as it strides down the street, the soldiers moving up behind it as they lay down a withering stream of fire.

    I creep past them, slinking through the shadows and taking care to avoid being exposed by the flash of gunfire. That¡¯s when I catch my first glimpse of the other side; a trio of strange flying machines, about as large as a human torso and supported by whirring engines that defy comprehension. They fly into the street, blasting away at the armoured suit with machine guns suspended beneath their chassis.

    The suit effortlessly raises its immense gauntlets, letting loose a spray of sparks that collide with the machines and send them shooting back into the buildings, where they crash into and through the brickwork. The suit is almost artful as it dances amongst the contraptions, as if it is somehow mocking their inelegant flight with its poise.

    In short order, the three machines have been dealt with and the soldiers double their advance. I speed ahead of them, shifting into the alleyways and leaping up to the shadowed rooftops, bounding from building to building until a bright flare is fired into the sky, driving me back down to earth.

    That¡¯s when I see some more of the other side; ragged figures dressed in oily green ponchos to protect them from the rain. Few of them are carrying rifles, and most are laden down with looted electronics or scrap metal. Their movements are shambling and unnatural, and the few faces I can see are gaunt and unhealthy. A scream draws my attention, and I see a man being dragged through an alleyway by one of these figures, as if he weighed no more than a sack of grain.

    Caution wars with emotion in my mind, but in the end I decide I can¡¯t just watch them drag him off. I slip into the shadows behind the shambling figure, moving from side to side as I try to find some way of approaching this that won¡¯t end up with me dead. His waterproof poncho gives me an idea; its surface is treated and water-tight. I get as close to him as I can in the shadows then, when the opportunity presents itself, slide into the shadows beneath his poncho, going from following him to being carried by him.

    I don¡¯t wait, instead materialising all my limbs as I push aside the poncho, wrapping them around him in a death grip that has him twitching and writing. He keeps moving, putting only the smallest effort into fighting me off. I tighten my grip, driving claws and talons into his body while scraping away at his skin with my fingers. It doesn¡¯t work. In desperation, I open my mouth wide and bite down on his neck, tearing out a lump of flesh that I immediately spit out in disgust. He bleeds, less blood than I feel there should be, and falls to his knees before collapsing entirely.

    I roll him onto his back, as the captive takes one look at me and runs, and see eyes that were dead long before I got here. Strange steel devices have been stapled into his face, and one of his eyes has been replaced with some kind of camera. There¡¯s something deeply uncomfortable about the sight, about the way his skin has been so casually parted to make room for these abominations, and I start to wonder if he was still alive when the surgery was performed?

    I hear footsteps shambling towards me and slip into the shadows just before two more horrors round the corner, pistols clutched in their hands as they scan blindly over their fallen comrade. Their eyes are dead, just like his. The gunfire creeps closer, and I decide I have seen quite enough of the city for one night. I travel southwest until I can¡¯t hear the gunfire anymore, and sneak down familiar streets filled with familiar people. I don¡¯t look for another store, instead heading straight back to the Factory. Back home.

    Mike is asleep, and we have no light for him to see by, so I force down my questions for now and creep back up to my room. I¡¯ve made it more homely over recent days, and my most prized possession is spread out across the floor. It¡¯s a carpet, with a beautifully woven pattern and luxuriously soft fibres. It covers much of the water damaged floors, and has been well worth the considerable effort I expended in bringing it here. I¡¯ve draped a similar rug over my bed, and it is now softer and more comfortable than ever before. As I lay there, staring at my broken radio, I cannot help but think of the grey eyes of that man.

    To think that such horrors could exist in a city that also holds such beauty, such life. Truly, this city is the entire world. It is bordered on the east and west by the sea, and on the south by towers tall enough to scrape the heavens. The north, in comparison, is the underworld. Only the dead dwell there.

 Vagrant: 1.04

    I grow bolder every day, as the city and I draw closer. I feel like I¡¯m part of it now, even if I still don¡¯t understand it. I start to move faster, taking greater risks and spending more and more time outside the shadows. I sprint along the rooftops, leaping across narrow alleyways with my tail swinging out behind me. When there¡¯s a larger gap, I slip into the shadowed rooftop and accelerate, launching myself across the streets faster and farther than I could ever have jumped. I merge straight into the shadows on the next roof over, like a salmon leaping in and out of a stream.

    One time, there were no shadows on the opposite roof and I landed gracefully on all fours before immediately tripping, rolling and stumbling along the hard surface like a fish out of water. I was scraped and bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Turns out the tissue and blood beneath my skin is as black as the rest of me, and I only realised I was bleeding when I saw a pool of inky black liquid on the roof beneath my left leg. Guess I didn¡¯t get super-healing along with the amnesia¡­

    This time, the shadows are there and I slip gracefully into them before reforming myself on the rooftop. My favourite hobby is still people-watching, but I¡¯m a little bolder about it now. I¡¯ll get closer, clawing up under handbags or slipping beneath coats and clothing. I listen in on their conversations, and start to wonder what it would be like to be them. Who would I be, if I wasn¡¯t this? Would I care about the stuff they do? About insurance or work or college or whatever the topic of discussion is?

    More importantly, why do I know about how salmon swim upstream when there are no salmon in the city? Why don¡¯t I know about the things that concern these people? I know I¡¯ll probably never have answers to that, and it¡¯s weighing on my mind. Sometimes I find myself acting on instinct, then wondering where those instincts came from.

    In the end, though, I always push my doubts to the back of my mind. It¡¯s like the world outside Seattle. Sure, it exists, but I¡¯m never going to see it. Instead, I focus on the small things, like the smell of spices from the streets below. I slip down a drainpipe, pouring myself out at the bottom before sprinting into the shadows behind a row of stalls.

    The market is lit by hanging lanterns, cheap electric lights and the odd streetlight poking through the shadows. It¡¯s raining, and the stall keepers have secured themselves beneath raised tarpaulins to create an enclosed space inside what looks like a ruined warehouse that¡¯s been gutted and cleared. It doesn¡¯t keep all the water out ¨C there are occasional streams pouring through holes in the tarpaulin ¨C but it does the job well enough. The whole place is poorly lit, but with a warmth and an intimacy created by the enclosed space.

    My kind of place.

    The first thing I notice, when I reform myself out of sight, is the smell. The air practically hums with the scents of dozens, hundreds, of different spices mingling with curries cooked in enormous metal tubs, meats sizzling on flat surfaces of heated metal and the tantalising smell of fresh meat and fish from further in the covered market. I¡¯m floating on a bouquet of sensations, and I slip from shadow to shadow, pausing only to sneak a taste of something nice. I¡¯ve never tasted anything quite like this before. I mean, obviously, but it feels like so much more than that. Other food has been unfamiliar, but comforting, whereas this feels like something utterly new.

    The market heaves with people, from all walks of life. There are the stallkeeps, of course, dressed in aprons or hats as they shout their wares to the sky. The customers are more varied, some gangsters in a myriad of local colours, their only concession to their overlords a light blue sash shared by all the different gangs. They¡¯re not acting out, though. Out on the streets, I¡¯d often see two different gangs fighting each other over territory.

    The Triad doesn¡¯t care, not so long as they still offer tribute and follow orders. Seems like this place is different, though. Here the criminals can rub shoulders with the businessmen without fear of getting mugged or attacked. There¡¯s a sign near the entrance, painted in three languages onto a wooden board. It says ¡®we have a one-strike policy for pickpockets and thieves¡¯, and there¡¯s a crude picture of some guy with a sword cutting another man¡¯s hand off.

    I sneak about the place, hiding under tables and in the shadows of people¡¯s clothing. Sometimes I¡¯ll hear a gasp, or someone will stop suddenly, but they never see me for long enough to convince themselves that it¡¯s anything more than their eyes playing tricks. I¡¯ve gotten quite good at staying unseen even amongst the busiest crowds. It¡¯s not perfect, of course, but it¡¯s good enough.

    I spend hours here, creeping around in the shadows or slipping up through the holes in the tarpaulin and tiptoeing across the support beams. I¡¯m surprisingly light for my size, and can move utterly silently even outside of the shadows. Eventually I stagger out, drunk on gluttony and pilfered alcohol that I think was made from rice, of all things. Some part of me feels guilty about drinking, so I don¡¯t do it that often, but it helps when I get a little too introspective. It helps bring me back to the here and now, even if it means I sometimes stagger a little when I walk. Lucky indeed that my shadow state isn¡¯t affected.

    I slip off into the night, away from all the sounds and smells, and sneak down the side of the street, stretching out my tail to bridge the gap between shadows. I pass a one-handed beggar, huddling out of the rain beneath a stone doorway, and duck into an alleyway before soaring up a drainpipe, past a steady stream of cascading water, and emerge onto the roof, pausing to take in the smell of the rain before sprinting off into the night. I lose myself in the sensation of rain running along my skin as I leap from rooftop to rooftop, before a muted shout has me scrambling to a halt.

    I creep to the lip of the roof, peering down into a dark alleyway set back from a well-lit bar. There are three people in the alleyway: a man and a woman dressed in business clothing, and another man shrouded in the darkness, carrying a long knife. The couple are clinging to each other, shuffling backwards ever so slightly while fumbling about in their pockets and purse for money. I lean closer, wondering what I should do, when something strikes me about the third man. I drop down silently onto the fire escape and start to clamber down the metal rungs, not bothering to hide myself. As I get closer, I see more of the figure. His face is hidden from me by the hood of his coat, and he¡¯s wearing a tattered green overcoat.

    I¡¯ve seen that coat before.

    I draw closer, and see the couple¡¯s eyes widen as they catch sight of me, before they scream and sprint off into the night, the woman slipping out of her heeled shoes in her efforts to escape. The other man looks startled, before slowly turning with his knife raised up protectively in front of his face. Mike¡¯s jaw drops when he sees me, and his arm drops back down to his side. His eyes dart around furtively, looking anywhere except at me, as the din from the bar drops in volume.

    ¡°What are you doing here,¡± he asks, almost dreamily, before his eyes snap back onto me with a calculated expression.

    ¡°Never mind,¡± he says, his eyes darting towards the open end of the alleyway. ¡°Somebody probably heard that scream. Drop the fire escape for me, would ya?¡±

    I hesitate for only a second before moving forwards again, pressing my bodyweight against the last set of stairs until it swings down on springs and taps the ground below. Mike follows me up, his steps heavy and lumbering when compared to my soft grace, and we both scramble onto the rooftop. I turn, pressing a hand against his chest when he tries to keep going, and tilt my head in an unspoken question.

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    ¡°Look¡­¡± He sighs. ¡°I can explain, but can we at least get out of the rain?¡±

    I nod, leading him across a narrow gap between two buildings before heading back down a different fire escape. We take shelter underneath the lip of a building; he sits down on an abandoned packing crate while I perch myself on top of a dumpster, looking down at him. His eyes are fixed firmly on the ground, and the knife is still in his hands. I rap a claw twice against the metal dumpster, bringing his eyes back up to me, and tilt my head yet again. His shoulders slump in resignation as he starts to talk.

    ¡°I used to live up in Everett. I was just starting to get on my feet. I¡¯d got my GED and a job at an auto repair shop. The pay wasn¡¯t great, but the work was steady and I was pretty good at it. I was eighteen in two thousand and three, and things were starting to look up.¡±

    A wry smile plays briefly across his face, though I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s because of fond memories or some bitter irony.

    ¡°It¡¯s all gone now, of course. My home got swept away, and my work got crushed by a chunk of the Pacific Wall. There wasn¡¯t any space for me in the refugee camps, so I ended up joining a crew of guys and we started hitting the FEMA convoys on their way in. I¡¯d fought before, but this was different. We were animals, desperate, vicious animals.¡±

    He turns the knife over in his hand, and the silvery metal glints in the light. It¡¯s the only thing he owns that¡¯s kept clean. I¡¯d sometimes seen him sharpening it against a stone, but I''d thought nothing of it. I thought it was a tool, but he clearly doesn¡¯t see it that way.

    ¡°It took six months for them to get the power back on, but they never bothered with that part of the coast. Just rebuilt further inland. By that time, I had a record, and I wasn¡¯t going to be let in on any of the housing schemes. Things got worse from there, and eventually I ended up right here.¡±

    There¡¯s no anger in his words, just resignation. I start to wonder what could have caused all this, but I know better than to ask him. Some wounds should stay closed.

    ¡°Every night, I remember what life was like back then. I never really focused on the future, but I was happy enough with what I had. Now I¡¯m twenty-five, but I look like I¡¯m forty. I¡¯ve been run out of every part of town, and I¡¯m only safe now because I¡¯m in the same building as a cape.¡±

    He folds the knife up, putting it in his pocket, and meets my eyes for the first time.

    ¡°I¡¯m just tired of it all. I just¡­ I need money. I need it for food, I need it for clothes, I need it to cope with everything that¡¯s going on. To get through the night.¡±

    And with that, he breaks. He puts his head in his hands, and just stares down at the ground. What he¡¯s doing is wrong, but I can¡¯t find it in me to be angry with him, not when I still know so little about him. I wait there for a while, watching him, and try to uncover who he is. In the end, I can¡¯t decide. There¡¯s nothing for me to draw on, no point of familiarity. My life began in that alleyway, so how can I understand someone who remembers all of it? Who¡¯s been made by it?

    After a while, he looks up, but I¡¯ve already gone.

    The night drags on, and the streets start to clear. I return to the market, only to find the stores all packed up and the site shuttered and padlocked. The smell still lingers, so I sneak in and lay there for a while, immersing myself in the scent of spices and fish and frying meats. I¡¯m sure I smell awful by the time I leave, so I take a quick dip into the river and swim out into the bay.

    I spend a little longer there this time, moving effortlessly through the murky darkness of the water. I can still ¡®see¡¯, in muted shades of grey, and so I crawl along the base of the bay, looking for interesting finds. I move through shoals of fish without disturbing them, and pass sunken ships or loose scraps of building material. I spot crabs clambering sideways through the silt, and look up at the passing silhouette of a boat overhead.

    Something looms ahead of me in the water, and I travel closer. It seems like some ancient monolith, dark and angular, covered in kelp and hosting whole shoals of fishes. I can¡¯t tell how tall it is, and it looks like there¡¯s even more buried beneath the silt, but if I had to guess I¡¯d put it at the height of a five-story building. It¡¯s an immense shape, built of sturdy concrete that¡¯s been pockmarked and worn by time. I move around the structure, noting sections of crumbling concrete where it seems to have been torn away from its mountings. That¡¯s when it clicks.

    I¡¯ve seen this before, dozens of blocks like this, all along the shoreline of the city. I don¡¯t know if this one is from a second wall further out, but something tore it free and slammed it into the harbour, just like how something tore through Mike¡¯s old neighbourhood, and put him out onto the streets. I can¡¯t imagine the effort it would take to move something this immense, but I find more of them as I swim out into sea. The surface of the harbour is littered with chunks of concrete, old artillery pieces, racks that may have held rockets and even a few chunks from what I can only assume were aeroplanes.

    There are corpses too; old skeletons picked clean by the silt and the fish and left to lie at the bottom of the ocean. They¡¯re hard to spot, blending into the rocks and sand, and their sudden appearance sends me into a panic. Sometimes I¡¯ll be looking at a patch of rocks, or into the wreckage of some vehicle, only to spot a skull peering back at me. My curiosity turns cold, and I travel back to the shoreline, determined to leave the dead to their rest.

    As I haul myself up the immense sea wall, I can¡¯t help but think about the concrete monoliths scattered just below the surface. I look out over the bay with fresh eyes, spotting long lines of flashing green lights that chart a safe path through the wreckage. A cargo ship weaves its way through, immensely long and piled high with steel containers in a myriad of colours, all tainted with red rust.

    I turn away from the sea and drop off the edge of the curtain wall, freefalling for a few blissful moments before slipping into the shadows. With a little more context, my understanding of the city deepens. I understand the barren north now, why it¡¯s home to the desperate and the restless dead, just as I understand why the south hides itself away behind fortress walls. They survived the calamity, whatever it was, and they¡¯re determined to keep surviving. Just like Mike, in their own way.

    I pass another fight on my way back: a dozen gangsters with light-blue armbands fighting against another group. They¡¯re brawling with chains and lengths of pipe, vicious and short fights before being blindsided by another hit. Near the back of one group, one of the gangsters turns and runs, clutching a brown paper bag in his hands.

    There¡¯s the crack of a gunshot, and the losing gang scatters to the winds as a stocky man in a tank top, with a light-blue scarf covering the bottom half of his face, steps forwards and fires again towards the man with the brown paper bag. He¡¯s hit, and the bag flies from his hand, scattering green scraps of paper all over the street. Some of them land near me, and I sneak out a hand to grab some.

    I slink back to the factory after a few more hours, scrabbling unsteadily over the chain-link fence, and push aside the rotten wooden board we¡¯ve been using as a door. I look into Mike¡¯s room, seeing him curled up in his sleeping bag, his knife jammed by the blade into the wall. I reach into my pilfered carrier bag, taking out the small number of green bills, still soggy from the rain, and place them beside him. I put an apple next to them, and turn my attention to my own room upstairs, pushing aside the tarpaulin I hung over the window and looking out towards the glowing yellow towers at the city centre.

 Vagrant: 1.05

    Red light fills the street, projected from dozens of lamps hung above doorways, or strung from great lines that crisscross the street. It gives this part of the city a warm, almost intimate, atmosphere that leaves behind the deepest shadows. Red light bleeds less, and seems to only heighten the darkness rather than creep into it. It would be nicer still, if it wasn¡¯t for what goes on here. Something about the people here makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable, even as the environment feels pleasant.

    I think it¡¯s the customers, more than the streetwalkers. There¡¯s just something slightly off about them, a distinct sense of wrongness that I can¡¯t quite put my finger on. They act a little differently to the people in the rest of the city: they¡¯re furtive, where others are confident, or boisterous where others would be professional. The vice brings out something in each of them. It might be a false self, bravado put on to work themselves up to this, or it might be their true self, free from inhibition. Either way, the air feels different here because of it.

    I¡¯m huddling in the shadows beneath the overhang of a set of large bay windows, displaying a richly furnished velvet room and a sparsely-clothed dancer. There are fewer dumpsters on this street, and the area is closed off to wheeled traffic, so my options are more than a little limited. Across from me, a three-story building has been converted from its original purpose. Its brickwork has been painted black, while all the woodwork, the doors and windowsills, have been redone in gaudy pink. Enormous pink letters stretch across the front of the building, glowing tubes of glass spelling out the place¡¯s name. ¡®A Streetwalker Named Desire.¡¯ If it¡¯s referencing something, then I don¡¯t get it.

    The building is not alone - pretty much every place in this part of town looks the same - but I¡¯ve had my eye on it for a while. It¡¯s one of the largest of its type, possibly the largest, and it sees a lot of customers every night. More importantly, it¡¯s on the edge of the district and backs right onto a warren of tenements and alleyways. It¡¯s also a little more upmarket than the others, which means it¡¯s more expensive. I¡¯ve been in there once before, clinging to the coattails of one of the staff, but this time it¡¯s different. This time it¡¯s the real thing.

    I look left and right, sizing up the people on the street. The women, and a few men, who work here aren¡¯t who I¡¯m looking for. I want someone who looks decently well off, but not so drunk that they¡¯ll jump into the arms of the first place they see. I want someone purposeful, who looks like they know where they¡¯re going. Someone¡­ Someone like him.

    He¡¯s wearing a charcoal-grey suit that looks expensive, but his collar is undone and his tie is hanging loose. He¡¯s done with work for the day, and has relaxed his fashions accordingly. I understand people a bit more now - I know what clothes they wear to work, what clothes they wear for leisure, and the subtle adjustments they make to the former when they seek some small leisure at the end of the day. He¡¯s walking on my side of the street, but his eyes are fixed on the building opposite. He¡¯s young, but not so young he¡¯d be trying his luck in a bar. His curly hair is neatly trimmed, and his rich brown skin is smooth and well cared for.

    He looks, in short, like he¡¯s heading exactly where I need to go.

    I wait for him to wander close to my hiding spot, then let my tail drift out of the shadows and push against the tail of his jacket, making brief contact with the underside. That¡¯s enough for me to pull my presence beneath his jacket, into the narrow band of shadows on top of his shirt. I pause for a moment, waiting to hear screams or shouts, or for him to violently try and shake me off. Nothing happens, and I know I¡¯ve passed completely unseen.

    I shift myself down his jacket, until I¡¯m suspended in the narrow gap between the tail and his pants, then peer down at the ground as he crosses the street. The flat concrete of the pavement drops down onto the road, and he crosses over the faded white line that used to guide traffic before lurching up again onto the pavement on the other side. There¡¯s a pause as he waits briefly at the door, before being waved through by a pair of polished black boots belonging to a hired thug. The featureless grey concrete is replaced briefly by a wooden doorframe, then by a patterned red carpet.

    My unwitting guide pauses before a polished wooden desk, and holds a brief conversation with an unseen woman before I hear the metal sound of a case being opened, and the expectant quiet of money changing hands. The man starts to walk away, into the backrooms, and I let my tail slip from his jacket, using it to pull myself into the shadows beneath a decorative pedestal holding a strange plant made of fake green leaves.

    I watch the charcoal grey suit step behind a heavy wooden door, and put him out of my mind. From my last visit, I know what he¡¯ll find in there; a number of women and a few men arranged in a line like cattle at an auction. What he¡¯ll do next frankly doesn¡¯t bear thinking about, and it¡¯s not why I¡¯m here. My interest is strictly on the desk. There¡¯s a woman sitting at it, in a short red dress, but she¡¯s nothing compared to the desk itself. It¡¯s made of a richly varnished wood, and its legs and panels bear curving patterns that are pleasing to the eye. It¡¯s not half as pleasing, however, as the simple case made of black metal that sits on top of the desk.

    As I watch, another customer comes in, dressed in a tan overcoat. He greets the woman with a smile, and she reciprocates before listing a few prices. The numbers are a lot larger than I¡¯m used to, but the customer doesn¡¯t seem phased. He simply smiles again, makes some half-witty jest that has the woman laughing sycophantically, and pulls out a number of green bills from his wallet. I have seen a few people paying for things with a small card, but I can¡¯t figure out how that works and Mike isn¡¯t interested in those anyway. In a place like this, however, everybody pays in cash.

    More customers come, and a few leave looking significantly less put-together. The woman greets those ones with a half-friendly half-sarcastic ¡®see you soon¡¯ as they leave. I just wait, as the tin slowly fills up with all manner of notes. It doesn¡¯t take long for the woman to start looking furtively into the tin, before she pushes a small button underneath her desk, one of several.

    A few minutes later, a man enters the room from inside the building. He¡¯s dressed a little more flamboyantly then the customers, in a white suit with a bright purple shirt, and he greets the woman like a friend, rather than a client. He has to walk past me to get to her, and I take in the sight of his neatly polished shoes, and expensive watch. He¡¯s the owner, or someone important, rather than a security guard. That¡¯s a good sign. He picks up the full tin, replacing it with an empty one, and, with a few parting words to the woman behind the desk, starts to make his way back into the building. As he passes, I slip my tail from my hiding place and brush against his jacket, pulling myself onto his back and leaving him none the wiser.

    More carpets pass, and another set of black shoes that must belong to a guard, before he passes through a door and into an area that¡¯s been left bare and unadorned, with a floor of boards of wood. He ascends a flight of stairs that seem to be tucked away into the side of the building, and emerges into a small cluster of rooms. I wait for my chance, before slipping into the folds of a white wool coat hanging from a hook on the wall. I manoeuvre myself until I can peer out of the folds of the jacket.

    Compared to the opulence of the public areas, the office is positively barren. The wallpaper is chipped and fading, likely left over from whatever this place was before, and the floor is simply rough wooden boards, plain and utilitarian. The desk is far simpler than the magnificent spectacle in the entrance and it is almost the only furniture in the room. No sofas, no luxurious armchairs, just a simple chair set behind the desk and a set of shelves holding ledgers.

    I watch from the shadows as the owner of ¡®Desire¡¯ takes a seat behind the desk, running his hand through his hair before opening up the small tin case, placing it next to a much larger briefcase made of silver metal. He opens up a ledger, and starts to transfer cash from the smaller case to the larger, noting down amounts into his leather-bound book with a fine fountain pen of wood and gold. The luxury of it looks more than a little out of place.

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    The work doesn¡¯t take him long, and he places the empty tin onto the shelves after securing the silver case with a heavy padlock. He doesn¡¯t leave, instead settling down with a paperback novel. Eventually, he seems to have a stab of conscience and gets up to check on his club. I wait until I hear the click of a lock in the door before slipping out of my hiding spot, forming myself onto the rough wooden boards. I immediately pace up to the desk, pawing at the metal case with my claws. It doesn¡¯t open, but I wasn¡¯t expecting it to. I can just hit it against something when I¡¯m back home until either the case or the lock breaks.

    I don¡¯t know how much money is in here, but I know it¡¯s a lot. It thrills me to think about Mike¡¯s expression when I give it to him. I¡¯ve been bringing him some more money after I chanced upon that fight a few nights ago, and he¡¯s been giving me some advice on where to find more. It makes me happy, to see him happy. I like it when he smiles, when he rubs my head or scratches my neck. We were distant before, two people sharing a building without meaningfully interacting, but now it¡¯s like we¡¯re trusted friends. He needs more, though. He always needs more, and I¡¯m happy to bring it to him in exchange for a little attention, and the sure knowledge that I can help him rebuild what he has lost.

    All that leaves me with is the problem of how to bring this case back to him. It¡¯s heavy, but not so heavy I can¡¯t carry it. What matters more, however, is that it¡¯s unwieldy and I can¡¯t bring it through the shadows with me. I can¡¯t even take it out through the door, not now that it¡¯s been locked. I try to open the window, only to find a small lock on that as well. For a while, I debate whether to throw the case at the window and hope it breaks. I put that idea aside for later, and start to go through the shelves and the desk. As luck would have it, there¡¯s a small key on top of the shelves that fits perfectly into the window. I push it open, struggling a little against the stiff frame, before letting in a cool breeze from the city.

    I poke my head out, looking down into a dark alleyway, and smile. There¡¯s a dumpster a little off from the window, and whoever last opened it forgot to close the lid. I pick the case up from the desk, carrying it over to the window before throwing it out into the alleyway, just barely landing it on top of the black sacks of refuse. I follow it down, turning into shadow to break my fall, and haul it out of the dumpster, brushing off a few chunks of half-rotten food.

    I sprint off into the alleyway, keeping to the shadows even if I can¡¯t merge with them, and I start to feel a familiar sense of elation as I move. My good mood infects my steps, and I start to skip and spring through the back streets of the city, turning off to move away from the red-light district. That¡¯s when I see her, stepping out from a recessed doorway and putting herself right in my path. I skid to a halt and start to turn and run, before she shouts.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you.¡±

    Something in her tone has me stop in my tracks, and I look back at her to see a thin tube held in her hand.

    ¡°This is a flare. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re familiar with how much light this thing puts out, in case you were thinking of slipping away.¡±

    She pauses for a moment, before shaking her head and continuing in a markedly different tone.

    ¡°Look, believe it or not I¡¯m not here to hurt you. It¡¯s just that¡± - she points the unlit flare at the case in my hands - ¡°belongs to someone. It¡¯s the profits of a perfectly legal business, and a lot of people¡¯s wages are in that case. So why don¡¯t you hand it over, and we forget this ever happened?¡±

    I hesitate only for a moment before pacing forwards slowly. As I get closer, I start to see her more clearly. She¡¯s wearing a form-fitting outfit of black material, flared with orange, and the top half of her dark face is covered by an orange mask. Her long hair flows freely behind her, and there¡¯s something about her stance that demonstrates the sort of confidence that only comes from long experience. She¡¯s clearly a cape, and I start to understand that there¡¯s nothing I can do.

    I set the case on the ground, and begin backing away slowly.

    ¡°Hold on a second.¡± She leans against the wall of the alleyway, leaving the case between us. ¡°I want to talk to you for a bit.¡±

    I freeze in place. I know that she¡¯s a cape, but I have no idea what she does and that terrifies me. If she¡¯s anything like the thing I saw fighting alongside those soldiers, then there¡¯s no way I can beat her. All I can do is listen.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been keeping an eye out for you for a while now,¡± she begins, ¡°and you¡¯ve really been all over the place.¡± She smiles briefly, before her expression turns serious. ¡°The problem is that other people might know about you as well. Now, I understand that you probably have your own thing going, but if it ever gets too much then I want you to come find me. I¡¯m around the red-light district most nights, as they can¡¯t really trust anyone else to not get distracted or involved in a scandal or something stupid like that.¡±

    Some of my doubt must have shown through on my inhuman face, and she somehow picked up on it.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that. Listen, my people can help you. I can help you. I haven¡¯t told them about you yet, and I won¡¯t, because I know they¡¯d tell me to try a hard sell. Just please consider it, okay? If it ever gets too much? We have to look after our own.¡±

    I nod, slowly, before slipping into the shadows. She doesn¡¯t light the flare, instead smiling a little as she picks up the case and strolls off in the direction of the red-light district. I head the other way, and I know that if I had a heart in this form then it¡¯d be racing. She scared me, but some of what she said made sense. I am looking after my own. I just hope he won¡¯t be too disappointed in me for losing the money¡­

    I could stay out for longer, try and scrounge up some more, but that cape spooked me. Right now, I¡¯m seeing danger in every patch of light, and even the shadows have lost some of their usual comfort. Instead, I slink back home through the shadows, spending as little time as possible out of them. Instead of pushing aside the chain-link fence, cash in hand, I simply slide under it before forming myself on the doorstep of our building. It¡¯s a little courtesy I¡¯ve developed, to let Mike know that I¡¯m here.

    The door to the factory is still there, it¡¯s just a little rusty. It doesn¡¯t squeak, though. Not since I took that bottle of oil. It still takes a bit of force to open it, but there¡¯s nothing I can do about that. On the ground floor I can almost fool myself into thinking the building is intact. The walls are still up, and most of the rooms still have their doors. There isn¡¯t any light, but that¡¯s more of a safety choice. The last thing either of us wants is for anyone to realise we¡¯re living here. I gently push aside the door to Mike¡¯s room, checking up on him.

    He¡¯s still sound asleep, just as he was when I left, curled up in his sleeping bag. There¡¯s a backpack on the ground by his feet, filled with all the cash I¡¯ve gathered for him. It¡¯s the product of nights of work, and he likes to look through it sometimes, when he thinks I¡¯m not looking. I smile a little, before spotting the open zip on the backpack. That¡¯s not right; he always keeps it closed. I move slowly into his room, being even more careful not to make a sound so as not to disturb him, and gingerly open up the backpack with an outstretched finger.

    It¡¯s empty. Two words that rocked throughout my mind, sending my heart racing and putting me into a panic. I rummage through the bag, a hopeless act born of desperation, before throwing it aside. I leap up onto Mike¡¯s makeshift bed, sweeping aside a few needles to try and shake him awake, to warn him so that he can do something. So that he can make things right.

    He¡¯s ice cold to the touch.

 Vagrant: 1.06

    I limp out of the old factory, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. The chain link fence blocks my exit, and I scrabble against the metal unsteadily before pushing it aside enough for me to squeeze through. I could have ducked into the shadows and passed below it without effort, but I didn¡¯t. I could still slip into the darkness, as easily as breathing, and lose myself in the city. It would lift the fog from my mind; I always feel a little clearer when I¡¯m hiding, a little less emotional. I don¡¯t want to. Not now. If I did, then I¡¯d start to remember, and I¡¯d only feel worse when I leave the shadows, and feel the weight of my body once more.

    So I leave, stumbling through the shadows of the city, or clambering up crumbling brickwork and rusted fire escapes. Part of my mind drifts back to everything I¡¯m leaving behind: my home, furnished with woven rugs that have started to lose their colour in the cold air, and rot away in the damp; my pile of rotten wood and scraps of cushions and cloth that serves as a passable bed, home to a forest of ticks and what few rats I haven¡¯t yet driven off; my radio, my one window into the wider world, lovingly cared for against the wind and the rain. The room downstairs, and everything in it.

    I feel like I should be crying, like oily black tears should be pouring down my face, but it seems I can¡¯t. It seems I¡¯ve lost my tears, just as I¡¯ve lost my voice. Somehow, I¡¯m certain I had them once, certain that I¡¯ve cried my eyes out and shouted myself hoarse many times before, and that makes their absence hurt all the worse. Instead I simply wander, hoping that distance can soothe the ache in my heart, until I can no longer bear to do even that.

    I creep furtively through the streets, darting from shadow to shadow rather than flying through them. It¡¯s slow, almost agonisingly so, but that gives me the time I need to think, to turn my mind to the simple concerns of moving and hiding. I duck into an alleyway, almost the same in character as the one I woke up in, and clamber up on top of a dumpster to get myself off the cold concrete, curling up on top of the dumpster¡¯s lid ¨C made of that strange material that¡¯s neither metal nor wood ¨C with my head resting on my hands.

    I simply wait and listen as the city moves on around me. I hear the sound of tyres on tarmac, as cars and trucks wheel past the edge of the alleyway, mingling with the clack of heels on concrete as the occasional person passes by the entrance. There¡¯s a bar nearby ¨C just around the corner from my alley ¨C and I can hear the clink of glasses, the murmur of intimate conversations merging with celebratory shouts and angry, accusatory, words. I can¡¯t make out the words, but the mingling tones speak of their worries and fears, their friends and lovers.

    A pair of voices draw closer, a man and a woman laughing and giggling at each other¡¯s slurred speech. They round the corner, their hands wandering up and down each other¡¯s body, but I can¡¯t find it in myself to move. I just can¡¯t bring myself to hide, or to run, or to do anything. The scream is inevitable, as is the brief panic as the man scrambles backwards and the woman falls to the floor, twisting her heel. Something about the naked concern in his eyes as he looks at her sets me off, and I screech, leaping off the dumpster like a coiled spring.

    I drive two claws into his chest, knocking him off balance so that we both fall into a heap onto the grimy floor. I pin him down as I slash at his face with my hands, before curling them into fists and pounding them into his jaw and cheeks, over, and over, and over again. I hear a scream, right next to me, and something tries to pull me off the man, but I ignore it. I just keep hitting him, until a high-heeled shoe kicks my face, and forces me to look up. The woman is there, tears running through her mascara as she looks down at the man. I take another look at his face, and see the vicious cuts and bruises, weeping red slashes crisscrossing a sea of purple splotches. My jaw drops, and I slip into the shadows without thinking.

    I hurl myself backwards through the pitch-black alleyway, watching the couple as they shrink. She¡¯s crouching over him, clutching his face in her hands as she dabs at the blood with her expensive coat. They dwindle into nothing as I hurtle through the alleyways, and the cloud around my thought fades. It¡¯s too late now, to stop myself thinking about all the signs I should have noticed, every warning I wilfully ignored because I just wanted it to be real. I just wanted him to be happy, because that made me feel happy too.

    It¡¯s all my fault. I¡¯m the reason he¡¯s dead.

    I can¡¯t go back to the factory, not with all its memories, but I don¡¯t think I could stand setting up somewhere else. Wouldn¡¯t I just end up doing the same things all over again? I¡¯d trawl the streets at night, but eventually the isolation would start to wear me down and I¡¯d throw myself at the first person to talk to me. Then they¡¯d die, or they¡¯d leave, or I¡¯d scare them off and I¡¯d be right back where I started. I don¡¯t think I can live like this.

    That¡¯s when realisation hits me, cold and heartless. I¡¯m not human, no matter how much I may try to ape them, but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m alone. I think back to the armoured suit that tore those metal aircraft from the air, or the woman in the alleyway who seemed to exude confidence and menace in equal measure. I know there are people in this world who are separate from the rest of humanity, who have powers they lack. Maybe they¡¯ll be tougher, maybe I won¡¯t get them killed. There¡¯s something in me that finds the idea of seeking safety with another cape ¨C though I¡¯ve never really thought of myself as one ¨C strangely appealing. It would almost be comforting, if I didn¡¯t still feel like a failure.

    With my mind set, I start to slide through the shadows of the city, absent my usual enthusiasm. I don¡¯t run along the rooftops, instead ducking down into the drains to travel as I used to when I first got here, before I became stupid and overconfident. I pop up every now and then to get my bearings, but spend the majority of my time floating through brackish water, the only interesting sight the occasional rat. I¡¯m safe down here ¨C nobody can see me, and nobody will find me ¨C but the price of that safety is any connection to the city above.

    Eventually, I start to see a faint red glow in the distance, and I duck back into the drains before emerging into the shadows of another alleyway, one end bathed in the red light of that familiar district. I creep up the side of the building, not emerging from the shadows, and start to peer out onto the street from whatever patches of darkness offer me the best view. It¡¯s getting late, later than usual, and the flow of men and woman through the district has slowed, but they¡¯re still there. I see her, standing alone amidst a crowd of people. She¡¯s still dressed in that black and orange costume, talking to a man in a suit outside a gaudy-looking building.

    I reform myself within the shadows of the alleyway and a part of me instantly wants to turn and flee, but I push it down. I can¡¯t stay on the streets. I just can¡¯t. I hesitate for a moment at the very end of the alleyway, in the last scrap of shadows before the red glow of the street, looking across at the cape, at her easy confidence and strength. I need to do this. I can¡¯t repeat the same mistakes as before. Something needs to change.

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    I step out into the light, placing one clawed foot in front of the other as I crawl my way across the street, blinking nervously in the harsh light. Instinctively, I try to slip into the shadows, only to realise I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t escape from this, not now. I¡¯m stuck here whether I like it or not. Someone spots me and I hear a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly, dozens of eyes are looking at me, as hushed whispers start to echo throughout the alleyway. The cape turns at the sound, and I see her eyes widen briefly in recognition, before a small smile spreads across her face. She steps forwards and meets me in the middle of the street, right where everyone can see.

    ¡°You came back.¡± She drops to one knee in front of me, bringing her head close to my own and resting a hand on my shoulder. The contact feels good, and it¡¯s nice not to have to crane my neck. If she¡¯s at all unnerved by my appearance, she doesn¡¯t show it.

    ¡°I thought you might,¡± she continues, ¡°though I wasn¡¯t expecting it to be this soon.¡±

    That sends my mind right back to everything I¡¯ve lost, and she seems to notice the change in expression on my avian face.

    ¡°Come on,¡± she says as she stands, beckoning with her arm, ¡°you look like you could use something strong.¡±

    I follow her ¨C it¡¯s not like there¡¯s anything else I can do ¨C as she steps off the street and into the dingy doorway of a two-story building with a woman¡¯s body outlined in glowing pink tubes across the fa?ade, a glass silhouetted in her hand. She steps past the guard, who stares at me but doesn¡¯t make a move, and into the main room of a large bar, with women dancing on a stage that runs through the centre. The cape exchanges a few words with a man in a light blue shirt in a strange pattern, and he leads the two of us up a set of stairs.

    The upper room is more intimate, with plush carpets rather than hard wood, and magenta curtains draped over the windows. There is a row of doors along one wall, and our guide briefly peers through one before holding it open for us. Inside is a small group of chairs set around a plain table. The cape sinks into a leather armchair, leaving the couch free for me. I stretch out my entire length along it, looking up at the cape as she leans back in her chair. We wait there in silence for a while, as her eyes roam up and down my body. She¡¯s sizing me up, or she¡¯s just curious. It¡¯s a better reaction than fear, I suppose.

    After a while, one of the club¡¯s staff, dressed in an absurdly risqu¨¦ outfit that my host doesn¡¯t even seem to notice, comes in with two glasses and a glass bottle of some golden-brown liquid. She sets the drink on top of the table between us, and accepts a wad of green bills from the cape before departing.

    ¡°They deserve a nice tip for everything they put up with,¡± she says by way of explanation, as she half fills the two small glasses and slides one over to me. I take a deep drink, biting down the strong taste as fire flows down my throat.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± she leans back, her own drink in her hand, ¡°introductions. When I¡¯m dressed like this, I¡¯m Ember.¡±

    I nod sagely, not entirely sure what she means. She pauses for a moment, before continuing.

    ¡°And you are?¡± I just stare at her, opening my beak. ¡°Unable to talk. Sorry, I should have realised. Do you have a name?¡±

    I pause in disbelief as I realise I don¡¯t. For some reason, the thought panics me. I feel like I had a name, once, and I¡¯ve only just noticed its absence. Ember notices my distress, and stares at me with naked pity in her eyes before reaching over to rub her hand against my shoulder. The pity hurts, even though it¡¯s also strangely comforting.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay. We¡¯ll burn that bridge when we come to it.¡±

    She picks up the bottle as she leans across the table, and I hold out my glass so that she can refill it. She seems a little less now than she did outside, calmer and less predatory, like she¡¯s letting her guard down. I¡¯m not so sure she should, not around me.

    ¡°Something happened, didn¡¯t it?¡± I shrink into myself. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s okay. You don¡¯t need to tell me about it if you don¡¯t want to. You¡¯re a little different than you were earlier, that¡¯s all. I assume you¡¯re here to accept my offer?¡±

    I fortify myself with another drink, practically throwing it down my throat, then nod. She hesitates before pouring more golden-brown nectar into my glass.

    ¡°You know¡± - she smiles before putting on a fake scowl that doesn¡¯t quite reach her eyes - ¡°if you¡¯re just going to drink all this in one go then I¡¯m going to stop giving it to you. This whisky was imported from Scotland and it deserves better than that.¡±

    I take gentle sips this time, letting the oaken liquid roll down my tongue, tongue being something I have in abundance. It¡¯s nice, sharp enough to keep me alert while strong enough to stop me thinking too hard.

    ¡°Anyway, the offer still stands. We¡¯re always looking for new Parahumans to recruit, and we¡¯d be willing to bring you on for a very competitive wage. I can also offer you a place to stay, at least until you get on your feet. You¡¯re not the first cape we¡¯ve recruited who¡¯d have trouble interacting with normal society.¡±

    I smile a little, as I consider just how much of an understatement that is. Ember shares my mirth as a grin spreads across her face.

    ¡°As for what we¡¯ll expect from you¡± ¨C I tense up ¨C ¡°from what I understand of your powers, it¡¯ll mostly be recon work, though you may have to fight on occasion. Will that be a problem?¡±

    I pause to think for a moment, before nodding my assent. In all honesty, fighting doesn¡¯t scare me in the same way it once did. Attacking that man in the alleyway was stupid, but at least it felt like I was doing something. It was the same with that corpse in the north end. I need to keep myself active, so that I don¡¯t slide back into bad habits and complacency. So I don¡¯t let anyone else down.

    ¡°Great. You¡¯ll be working directly for me for the most part, but you might end up doing odd jobs for some of our other capes, if they need an infiltrator. The important thing to remember is that you¡¯ll be part of the West Coast¡¯s largest parahuman organisation, and I mean every part of that. We¡¯re run by parahumans, for parahumans. That¡¯s what makes us unique, and it means we¡¯ll look after you, so long as you look after us.¡±

    She leans forwards again, holding out her hand.

    ¡°So,¡± she asks, ¡°are you in?¡±

    I look at her hand, and all the promises it holds. All the restrictions, too. Part of me is afraid, but my decision was made the moment I stepped into the light. I can¡¯t stop now, can¡¯t go back to wandering the streets, too blind to notice that I was helping my only friend kill himself by inches. I bite down my doubts and keep moving forwards, stretching an oily-black arm across to her. We shake hands over the table, and she refills our glasses.

    ¡°Welcome to the Elite,¡± she says, as we clink our glasses together. ¡°The name might not mean anything to you now, but I promise it will soon.¡±

 Interlude 1a: Ember

    I can hear the club¡¯s music from out on the street. Apparently, it¡¯s not enough to drink too much, or to blow your money on strippers and prostitutes, you have to deafen yourself as well. Otherwise it¡¯s not real entertainment. Still, I must admit it¡¯s easy to get lost in the mood. The alcohol and music, certainly. This is entirely the wrong sort of strip club for me, but the ones I like don¡¯t make nearly as much profit. But I¡¯m not here for pleasure; I¡¯m here for business, and business means reassuring our paying customers. Business means putting on a tight-fitting bodysuit and doing my hair up into a ponytail, when I could do the job much better from inside the security hub, nursing a cup of coffee.

    Still, they¡¯re not bad people by any means ¨C even if they get a little leery at times ¨C and I do like the nightlife every now and then. Admittedly, I like it a lot less than I used to, but that¡¯s a hazard of the job. Who¡¯d have thought it would be possible to get bored of going clubbing? Apparently, all it takes is turning it into a job.

    Michaelson smiles at me, looking like a mountain in his jet-black suit, broken up by the grey plastic armband that holds his ID. He¡¯s one of ours, just like every other bouncer, leg-breaker and security guard in the district, so I make sure to spend a while chatting with him as he waves people through, cutting an imposing figure as I lean against the wall. The line of clubbers slowly files past me as they¡¯re let into the club, always held back just long enough to keep up the illusion of a full room, regardless of how many people are actually in there. They could pack then in there like sardines if they wanted to ¨C not like I¡¯d care about fire safety limits ¨C but then the club wouldn¡¯t look busy anymore.

    The patrons themselves can tell you a lot about the place. This isn¡¯t one of the districts¡¯ best, and the customers reflect that. They¡¯ve made an effort, of course, but Michaelson isn¡¯t going to be turning anyone away for being underdressed. I wouldn¡¯t be standing outside the sort of place that would; better for everyone that security stays out of sight and out of mind whenever Seattle¡¯s best and brightest want to do lines of cocaine and screw prostitutes. It makes it easier for them to forget to check for hidden cameras. Most of them have cottoned on ¨C thanks to a nosy PRT sting operation ¨C and switched over to house calls, but the stupider ones still walk into our web, and there are a lot of stupid people in the world.

    By the look of the line, it¡¯s ladies¡¯ night. Of course, the posters could have told me that but I like to keep my eye in. All it basically means is that the club hires a couple of male dancers for the night, adds free entry and discounted drinks for the ladies¡¯ benefit, and an amateur night competition for the men¡¯s. All that adds up to is a line that¡¯s roughly two-thirds male, rather than ninety-five percent.

    Most of that third is made up of three different hen-dos, as well as some enterprising sorority girls from the university and a few unfortunates who were dragged here by their boyfriends, or dragged them here. There¡¯s also what looks like an incredibly ill-thought-out business outing, which is already five different scandals waiting to happen. It¡¯s a complete clusterfuck, better known as just another night in the Amsterdam of the West Coast.

    I can see the hens looking at me as they titter to each other. I can¡¯t say I¡¯m overly fond of the attention, but that¡¯s the price I pay for being one of our more ¡®public¡¯ capes. Not completely public, of course, but enough so that people around here tend to keep an eye out for me. I¡¯m part of the local flavour, apparently. That being said, the first one of them to ask for a selfie will end up flat on her ass. They know it, just like I know that won¡¯t stop them from asking. I can¡¯t imagine what it would be like to have to smile and shake their hand, to subject myself to the whims of some bullshit PR department. I just don¡¯t understand how they can do it without snapping.

    Unless they¡¯re Fume, of course. The bitch.

    A man steps out of the club wearing slicked back hair, a bright red shirt and an apparently genuine smile. He steps over to me, and shakes my hand. There¡¯s a glass of something blue in the other hand, but I know there¡¯s no alcohol in it. It¡¯s an illusion; part of a carefully constructed persona.

    ¡°Mister Lao,¡± I greet him.

    ¡°Ember,¡± he responds, almost mockingly, ¡°how many times do I have to tell you to call me Ethan?¡±

    ¡°One more time, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    He chuckles, just like he chuckles every night. This is the main part of my job; checking in with the movers and shakers of the Red-Light district. It helps them feel like they¡¯re getting value for money, and it gives them a chance to air any grievances or concerns they may have. There¡¯s usually some spot of trouble every three or four places, but the bouncers can deal with most of it. I¡¯m there for the serious trouble, the sort of stuff that comes in from outside the district.

    Lao starts to ramble, a long spiel I¡¯ve heard many times before in which his business troubles somehow manage to merge with his personal troubles and a half-hearted attempt at flirting that¡¯s more a product of habit than any genuine interest. He tells me about the son of an aerospace exec, who got dragged out of the club by his own mother, or the money he¡¯d lost gambling on the fighting pits. One of those is a problem I might need to deal with, especially of the exec is one of ours, but the other is just Lao¡¯s shit eye for fighters. Of course, when I say as much to him, he turns it into an excuse to eye me instead.

    My earpiece crackles into life, saving me from his half-hearted attempts at ¡®romance¡¯.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am, there¡¯s trouble outside Roxxie¡¯s. Triad affiliates, moving in force but without cape support. Looks like a ram raid.¡±

    ¡°Copy that,¡± I reply, glad for something to save me from the tedium, ¡°move Charlie and Delta teams around to cut off their escape.¡±

    I¡¯m about to make half-hearted apologies to Lao, but he waves me off. I nod, grateful that he can be serious when it matters, and start to sprint through the streets as a faint smile spreads across my face. A ram raid; a bunch of doped up fuckheads trying to smash as much stuff as they can, while pocketing all the money they can find. I can feel tongues of fire lapping at my heart, but it¡¯s not time yet.

    The crowds scatter at my approach, while the bouncers and security guards give me respectful nods. I catch a flash of orange light on my left, as a matt-grey car speeds past on a neighbouring street, hazard lights on full blast. I wanted to make them green, to really stick it to those tyrants in the PRT, but apparently there are laws against that sort of thing. Still, in this neighbourhood orange is as good as gold. The police come by occasionally, but they generally prefer to stick to the safer parts of town, and the PRT wouldn¡¯t dare send any of their pet heroes here. Instead they get us, and Sagittarius PSC.

    Roxxie¡¯s is right around the corner, so I pull on the flames in my heart and let the heat spread through my body until it feels like I¡¯m going to burst into flames. Then it stops, all sense of temperature, smell and touch falling out of reach as everything becomes clear¡­

    There are thirty-three people outside Roxxie¡¯s, twenty-one of whom are wearing the light-blue armband of the Triad. The rest are customers, and one bouncer putting pressure on a stab wound in his gut. I dismiss them, focusing on the threat. Beyond the armband, the Triad gangsters are a mix of different ethnicities loosely aligned around three separate gangs. They could have been acting on the orders of a Triad cape, or they could have simply come together in a coalition. It doesn¡¯t matter. What matters is that they haven¡¯t yet battered down the doors to the club.

    One of them sees me, shouting a warning, and I simply raise an ashen hand, sending a bolt of orange cinders right into his face, knocking him back with concussive force and burning into his skin before dissipating. They panic, as I expected, and start to scatter. One of them, brave or foolish, pulls a thirty-eight special from the belt of his pants, and puts three rounds into my chest. I feel the bullets pass through me, shifting ash and fire, before exiting out of my back, taking insignificant flecks with them. I return fire, my whole arm glowing from within before releasing a spear of condensed cinders that knocks the gunman flat onto his back, taking a good chunk of his skin with it as he writhes in agony.

    Four of them, the ones closest to the back, turn and run at the sight of their screaming colleague. I fire blasts from my hand at them as they run, but I¡¯m not overly concerned about stopping them. The others can handle that. The rest of them find their courage, and rush me with a collection of bats, pipes and knives. The knives are nothing to worry about, but those are few and far between. I start to duck and weave around the blunt weapons, letting the knives sink deep into me while I burn the hand holding it. The mathematics of displacement, performed while sending off cinder blasts and heating up my exterior for scorching blows.

    Eventually, their numbers start to dwindle, as more and more of them slip away from the back of the melee. They don¡¯t get far, as a dozen men ¨C armoured, and carrying riot shields and clubs ¨C block off the other end of the street. One of the enemies, the leader, pulls his men back and tries to break through the shield wall, only to be battered down in a hail of clubs. It¡¯s over, and the guards start to line the Triad gangsters up against the wall. The leader is dragged in front of me and forced to his knees, his shoulders held in a vice-like grip by two burly guards in black uniforms.

    I stare down at him before igniting the cinders in my hand until it glows with a bright orange heat. I press my palm against his cheek and, almost tenderly, curl my fingers around his face as he writhes and screams. When I let go, there¡¯s the image of a hand burned into his face, burned almost to the bone. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, I push back against the fires, and smother them in ash¡­

    Flesh returns, and with it the smell of burning flesh and the taste of ash in the air. I force down my nausea, drawing upon long practice, and look down at the barely-coherent leader. He can¡¯t hear me, not like this, so I turn to the two dozen others pressed against the wall.

    ¡°Next time bring a Cape.¡±

    That¡¯s all I can bear to say to them, before I start striding back into the district. I¡¯d be lying if I said I didn¡¯t like playing the terrifying warlord, but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m comfortable looking over so many burns. Jaarsveld falls into step besides me, looking every inch the professional in his riot gear. He¡¯s not from Seattle, like most of our guys, having been recruited in Oregon and transferred up to Washington when we set up here. Before that he was a bouncer for a club, and before that he was in the South African Army. He fled in ninety-five, but if he has any issues with me then he¡¯s never shown them. He¡¯s far too much of a professional for that.

    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Jaeger arrived at the office, ma¡¯am. He says he wants to talk to you.¡±

    Shit. Isn¡¯t he supposed to be out of the city?

    ¡°Right then. I¡¯ll take the car.¡±

    Jaars nods, waving forwards one of the two security cars ¨C with their yellow flashing lights and mesh covers over the windows. I wanted to buy jeeps or armoured cars, but apparently that would be too overt. Instead we get a few four-door Fords, which I have been assured are used by police somewhere in the world. I still don¡¯t see it, but we got a decent deal on them.

    The crowds duck and weave as we travel through the streets, orange hazard lights flashing to advertise our presence to even the drunkest of customers, before pulling into the car park of a squat grey building at the centre of the northern edge of the district. It used to be a cluster of four houses, sandwiched between two roads, but it¡¯s almost unrecognisable now: concrete barriers have been put up around the perimeter, topped with thick coils of razor wire; the windows have all been given an additional coating of wire mesh; and, of course, there are all the heavily armed bastards standing around the place.

    The driver ¨C Grayson, I think ¨C parks up next to three more identical Fords, with a couple of Transit vans next to them. It¡¯s not a large operation, certainly not when compared to the Northgate precinct the PRT inherited from the National Guard, or even the nearby Police precinct in Green Lake, but it gets the job done. In all honesty, we don¡¯t really need the fortress. If our guys are spending their time behind the perimeter fence, then they¡¯re not protecting our customers.

    The closest house to the entrance is the public face of the operation: holding a lost and found office, a few cells for drunks and a few slightly less friendly cells for whoever deserves it. The next two are more general purpose ¨C one for the bouncers and one for the better armed and better paid security teams ¨C holding changing rooms, showers, armouries and break rooms. The last one holds the command and control centre for the district: our CCTV system, Jaars¡¯ office and a few rooms on the top floor for the ¡®consultants¡¯. It also has a slightly disproportionate number of twenty-something black girls working in it, but that¡¯s neither here nor there.

    Jaeger¡¯s waiting for me in my office on the top floor, having rather kindly sat himself down in my guest chair, rather than my considerably more comfortable swivel chair. He cuts an impressive figure in his dark green uniform, with its ceramic mask attached to a tall peaked cap. I¡¯ve thought about making a pass at him more than once, but workplace relationships are a bad enough idea without adding capes into the mix. Instead I just slump down into my seat and rest my feet on my desk, something I know annoys him immensely.

    ¡°I thought you were supposed to be out of the city by now.¡±

    ¡°I was,¡± he replies, his Canadian accent still noticeable even after so many years south of the border, ¡°but something came up.¡±

    He pulls a memory stick out of one of his belt pouches ¨C one of the larger-than-normal encrypted disks we use for high-value-information ¨C and passes it over to me. I boot up my computer, and pull up a video file that looks like it¡¯s been lifted straight from a convenience store CCTV system.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t the sort of juicy gift you usually bring me. Spirits would be better, or maybe chocolates.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s hardly fair,¡± he chuckles, ¡°you haven¡¯t even watched it yet.¡±

    I shake my head, but play the video. At first glance, it looks exactly like most convenience stores do after the rush of pre-drinkers has dies down. It looks the same at second glance, and the seconds tick on with no sign of anything unusual. My eyes briefly dart back to Jaeger and I¡¯m about to ask what¡¯s going on when I spot a flash of something in the corner of my eye. Instantly my attention goes straight back to the screen as Jaeger gently chuckles in the background.

    I skip backwards twenty seconds, and fix my eyes on the screen. I watch as a man in a crisp white shirt ¨C with a very prominent red wine stain ¨C picks a sandwich of the shelves, before moving on to the next aisle. Then, the very moment the aisle is empty, a jet-black hand literally slips out of the shadows underneath the shelves, stealing a sandwich before disappearing back into the shadows. The angle changes, and the timestamp advances a minute or so, and I watch, fascinated, as a beak-like face forms itself in the aisle, hurriedly devouring the sandwich before disappearing back under the shelves.

    I lean back in my chair as the video goes on, showing different angles of the same creature entering and exiting the store. Jaeger is grinning from ear to ear at the look on my face.

    ¡°That¡¯s not something you see every day.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡± His expression turns serious, the way it always does when things move to business. ¡°The PRT are aware of him, and they¡¯ve told their patrols to keep an eye out, but he¡¯s not operating in their territory.¡±

    ¡°Where is he, or she, operating?¡± I ask, only a little reproachful.

    ¡°West of here, based on the stores that have been hit. Triad territory.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡±

    I really do. There¡¯s a lot of unspoken weight in those two words.

    ¡°So you see my problem.¡± He spreads his arms wide, leaning back a little without ever losing his serious expression. ¡°I¡¯m needed in Richland, but I can¡¯t just let this go.¡±

    ¡°Which is where I come in,¡± I interject.

    ¡°Exactly. I¡¯d appreciate if you could track them down and give them the sales pitch. I¡¯ll give you one of my teams, to make it go down easier.¡±

    I lean back, thinking about it for a moment. My eye drifts to the hip flask in my desk drawer, but I ignore it. I don¡¯t need a ¡®thinking aid¡¯ right now. I look back at the monitor, still playing footage of a jet-black arm pilfering food.

    ¡°Fine, but I¡¯m doing it my way. I want to try the soft sell, and, when that works, I want our new cape to work for me.¡±

    ¡°We may not have that much time.¡± He leans forwards, fixing me with a piercing stare. ¡°We can¡¯t risk the Triad getting their hands on him.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be in Richland for at least a week, right?¡±

    ¡°Probably a little longer than a week,¡± he scowls. ¡°It all depends on how cooperative the locals are.¡±

    ¡°So give me until you get back to try it my way? You¡¯ve got your guys in the PRT, but I have guys in the Triad. If they get close to her, I¡¯ll move in for the hard sell, but I don¡¯t want to risk alienating a potential recruit. You¡¯ve heard of these monstrous capes, right? She¡¯s probably an amnesiac. She¡¯s certainly homeless, given that she¡¯s stealing food rather than cash. We can offer security, and a way off the streets.¡±

    He sits there for a moment, contemplating his decision. We¡¯re both at the same level in the hierarchy, but this clearly falls within his area of responsibility, so it¡¯s his decision in the end. I may not like it, but I¡¯ll go along with it if he disagrees. I trust Jaeger¡¯s reasoning, even if he can be a bit uptight at times.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he concedes, and I try to keep a smug grin off my face. ¡°Until I get back. Then I¡¯ll try it my way.¡±

    We shake hands, and Jaeger stands up to leave. He adjusts his holsters, getting them comfortable against his thighs, before retrieving his long-barrelled rifle from where he¡¯d leant it against the wall. Once he¡¯s slung the mean-looking weapon over his shoulder, he turns back to me.

    ¡°By the way, what¡¯s with all this ¡®she¡¯ business? He doesn¡¯t look particularly feminine.¡±

    ¡°Just a hunch.¡± I smile mischievously. ¡°Want to put your money where your mouth is?¡±

    I place a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and give Jaeger my best shit-eating grin ¨C something I¡¯ve been practicing since I was nine. He swears under his breath, before adding his own hundred to my own. With that, he strides out of the door and leaves me alone in my office, with the video of the strange cape still looping on repeat.

    Days pass, and I spend more and more of my time trying to figure out the strange cape. Jaeger lends me one of his PRT moles, through an intermediary of course, and through them I get a report of our cape getting involved in a fight against the Hive. The PRT briefly considered the possibility that she¡¯s aligned with the hive, but quickly dismissed it. Either way, they start to increase their efforts at recruiting her. The Triad learns about her as well, through a shopkeeper who pays them protection, and suddenly it seems like the whole city is looking for her.

    With that newfound attention, the information starts to flood in. The description of how the cape moved after being found by Telekine gives me my most important insight; rather than moving into her Stranger form, she ran away down the street. That¡¯s what leads me to the conclusion that she can only use her Stranger state in areas of low light.

    Two days later her pattern changes again. She starts stealing cash, first limiting herself to loose change before moving onto larger and larger amounts. At first, I think she¡¯s been picked up by the Triad, but my contacts deny it and she¡¯s still stealing food. It¡¯s confusing, but it makes it a little easier for me. After all, the most cash in the area passes through my little kingdom of brothels and strip clubs. So I have Jaarsveld tell everyone to be a look out, and install dozens more cameras around the perimeter of the district.

    It pays off a couple of nights later, when our mystery cape is seen throwing herself out of Desire¡¯s second floor office. She can¡¯t move fast, not with a case full of loose cash in her hands, so I leap into one of our cars and drive as fast as I can to cut her off, guided by Jaars in the CCTV room. I bring the car to a stop a block ahead of her last-seen location, and start to stalk through the alleyways, until I spot her crawling down a dingy alleyway, clutching her prize to her chest.

    Somehow, she looks even darker in person. I¡¯ve seen her on the cameras, of course, but it¡¯s another thing entirely to see her obviously inhuman body in person. Her four main limbs are clearly powerful ¨C with taut muscle visible in every movement ¨C but it¡¯s a lean strength, suited to running rather than fighting. The two limbs tucked underneath her head, in contrast, are almost shockingly human in appearance, if the same midnight black as the rest of her. Her six eyes, piercing and yellow, are darting around the alleyway fearfully.

    I take a deep breath, and step out in front of her.

 Interlude 1b: Ember

    ¡°Welcome to the Elite. The name might not mean anything to you now, but I promise it will soon.¡±

    Our glasses clink together in the centre of the table, and we both start taking small sips of fine scotch. My ¡®guest¡¯ ¨C for want of a better name, or any name at all ¨C is a little more at ease now, though all six of her eyes are still downcast. I understand what she¡¯s going through, even if I¡¯ve never experienced it. She¡¯s been living on her own, or near enough, for what may as well be her whole life ¨Ca little over two weeks if my guess is right ¨C so it must feel strange to interact with other people.

    ¡°Now that you¡¯re in,¡± I say, once we¡¯ve both finished our drinks, ¡°we need to talk business.¡±

    Instantly, her eyes swivel to face me, and she becomes a little more guarded.

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing to worry about,¡± ¨C I try to soothe her ¨C ¡°but you do need to understand who you¡¯re working for.¡±

    Her head tilts a little to the side. She¡¯s interested, even if she¡¯s incapable of saying as much.

    ¡°The Elite as a whole is the largest parahuman organisation in the United States, excluding the government¡¯s capes, of course. We have an almost unbroken chain of operations stretching up the West Coast, a strong presence in Florida on the East Coast, as well as tentative presences in New York State and various smaller cities across the US, Canada and Mexico.¡±

    She seems to take in my words without really understanding them. I guess those place names don¡¯t really mean anything to her. I¡¯m not going to be impressing her with the scale of the Elite, but I do want her to understand what it means to be a part of us. So, let¡¯s try a little history.

    ¡°The Elite were formed in nineteen ninety-three ¨C about seventeen years ago ¨C in the city of San Francisco. They were called Uppermost back then, and they were a syndicate of cape-run companies specialising in production and entertainment. Tinkertech devices for short-term use, large-scale rapid construction, cape-provided pyrotechnics, or cape actors for films.¡±

    She¡¯s following along, but she still doesn¡¯t seem to understand what I¡¯m talking about. Just how sheltered is she?

    ¡°In nineteen ninety-eight, a bill was passed that effectively gutted Uppermost. It introduced a whole host of fines on Parahuman businesses in an attempt to counteract what they claimed was an ¡®inherently unfair and monopolising¡¯ advantage. It was bullshit aimed at dismantling Uppermost. It worked, too. With the fines, the construction sector went under, the Cape actors became a blockbuster gimmick, rather than a new industry standard, and the members of Uppermost gradually drifted apart, with the PRT waiting to snap up as many of them as they could.¡±

    I might have let a little emotion slip into my voice, but who can blame me? Sure, I wasn¡¯t even a cape in ninety-eight, but that doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t find the whole thing bullshit. My ¡®guest¡¯ ¨C really need to sort out the name thing ¨C seems to be following along, but she could be more interested in my tone than my words. That¡¯s alright.

    ¡°The PRT¡± ¨C now the blood¡¯s really flowing ¨C ¡°are the government agency responsible for monitoring capes. Their website says they¡¯re responsible for ¡®helping¡¯ capes, but that¡¯s bullshit. Uppermost reached out to the PRT in ninety-eight, asking for help in either stopping the bill, or minimising it. Now, Uppermost and the PRT had worked together before; on large construction projects, Endbringer defences and a few contracted films. They were even working together on the Sydney reconstruction project while the bill was going through Congress.¡±

    I lean forwards, pouring myself and my guest another drink.

    ¡°The PRT abandoned Uppermost. Once the bill had passed, they snapped up dozens of Thinkers and Tinkers from the organisation ¨C the people whose jobs had just been made illegal ¨C and put them into the Protectorate or Watchdog; their pet cape teams. A lot of Uppermost, however, saw what the PRT had done, and came to a bit of a revelation.¡±

    I lean back in my chair. This is the crux of the matter, and if she doesn¡¯t agree with this then I may have lost her forever.

    ¡°We can¡¯t let humans decide parahuman matters. They¡¯re afraid of us, because we can do things that they can¡¯t, and that fear makes them act irrationally. So Uppermost dispersed, building up resources right under the nose of the PRT while secretly taking control of the underworld. By the time anybody realised what we were doing, the Elite had already spread across the entire state of California, and we¡¯ve gone from strength to strength since. We¡¯re still focused on making a profit, but we¡¯re not going to let anybody hold us back.¡±

    I think I have her. She certainly looks interested, and she nodded her head at the last line.

    ¡°So that¡¯s the Elite. We¡¯re a little feudal in structure, once you get above street level. The Red-Light district¡± ¨C I sweep my arms out to encompass the whole district, even if we can¡¯t actually see it from in here ¨C ¡°is just one part of our operations in Seattle, the part that answers to me. I¡¯m like a Lord, which makes you like a Knight.¡±

    She smiles at that. These feudal titles are a bit stupid, just like the whole star naming thing, but it always gives our capes a bit of an ego boost to know that they¡¯re listed as knights on internal documents.

    ¡°Most of our cities are run by a Baron, who¡¯d then answer to a Duke, but things are a little different in the larger cities. I answer directly to a Duke, and she¡¯s responsible for keeping in contact with our most senior cell in San Francisco. If that¡¯s confusing¡± ¨C I can see from her expression that it is ¨C ¡°then don¡¯t worry about it. It¡¯s a pyramid structure, like I said, so you only need to worry about our own operation.¡±

    She nods, seemingly grateful. I stand up and walk over to the door, holding it open for her.

    ¡°Well come on. It¡¯s time to tour the district.¡±

    She hesitates for a second, before striding past me on all fours. Looking at her, it¡¯s clear that her body is much better suited for moving on four legs than two. I¡¯m still not sure what I think about the two extra arms tucked into her chest ¨C they look a little too human when compared to the rest of her ¨C but, overall, she looks like a sleek predator. Sure, she¡¯s a little hesitant about going out in public, but there¡¯s nothing I can do about that. Like it or not, we need to be visible.

    We step out onto the streets, still bustling even at this late hour, and the crowds start to part around us. The people here understand that this is my territory, and they¡¯re not interested in pissing me off. Not when there¡¯re so many carefully crafted rumours about just how permanent our ¡®lifetime bans¡¯ are. I¡¯m particularly proud of that one; it took a lot of effort to set up. My companion seems to be a little nervous walking around the customers and prostitutes, and I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯d be blushing if she could.

    To be fair, I was the same when I first started out. That¡¯s what happens when you¡¯re twenty-three and you¡¯ve just been told you¡¯re being sent to Seattle to become ¡®some kind of fuckin¡¯ Pimp Queen.¡¯ I¡¯ve had five years to get used to it all.

    ¡°Each of these businesses provides us with a fifteen percent cut of their earnings, and that money gets funnelled into the security presence here¡± ¨C I gesture at the bouncer outside a club door and at a passing security car as it rolls down the street ¨C ¡°and our cut comes from the rest.¡±

    The crowd is giving us a wide enough berth that I decide to move the topic onto something more serious.

    ¡°Of course, we¡¯d still be here even if this place made a loss.¡±

    She looks up at me in confusion, her head tilted to one side and her jaw hanging open.

    ¡°The real money in this city isn¡¯t in prostitution, even if it does bring a lot of visitors. It¡¯s back there.¡± I sweep my arm out behind me, taking in the magnificent spires of downtown.

    ¡°This place, this whole district, is a buffer state between the nice parts of town and the nasty parts. Without it, we¡¯d have all sorts of crazies sweeping south to fuck with our real bread and butter.¡±

    She nods in understanding, as I lead her through the streets and into the concrete walled compound of Sagittarius PSC. I quickly radio Jaars before telling my companion about the PSC, and the other facilities we have available. The Afrikaner is down in minutes, and he quickly schools his expression when he spots our new cape.

    ¡°This is Jaarsveld. He¡¯s in charge of the security teams in the district, and he answers to me directly. Jaars, meet our newest cape.¡±

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    ¡°A pleasure,¡± he says, as said cape stretches out her hand. To his credit, he doesn¡¯t flinch at all has he shakes it.

    ¡°And does our newest cape have a name?¡±

    She looks up at me sheepishly, and we share an indeterminable look before I answer.

    ¡°We¡¯re still working on that.¡±

    He smirks and wanders off, leaving the two of us alone.

    ¡°By the way¡­¡± I pause, and she looks up at me in confusion. ¡°You are a woman, right? I¡¯ve kind of just been assuming this whole time.¡±

    She ¨C or perhaps not ¨C pauses for a second, somehow managing to convey an expression of deep thought with next to none of the usual muscles. Eventually, thankfully, she nods her head, and I smile.

    ¡°Sweet. I just won a hundred bucks.¡±

    My good mood seems to spread to her, or I¡¯ve just answered a question she didn¡¯t know needed answering. Either way, she doesn¡¯t object when I ask her to wait around for a while. Rather than waiting out in the open, she paces over to one of the vans and I get a good look at just what it looks like when she lips into the shadows. To say it¡¯s weird would be an understatement; her body just seems to disappear into smoke as it touches the darkness, dissipating within moments until she¡¯s disappeared entirely. I get down onto all fours, peering underneath the van, but there¡¯s absolutely no sign of her.

    ¡°Huh.¡±

    Six beady yellow eyes appear in the shadows, and I somehow get the impression that they¡¯re silently laughing at me. I smile back, before standing up and heading into the Admin block. I change in my office, setting aside my black bodysuit in favour of the black cargo pants, white shirt, tie and branded jacket worn by about a dozen other admin staff in this compound alone. It really does help to have my cape identity and secret identity working in the same place. It¡¯s probably how the PRT handles their pet capes as well.

    With my identity safe and sound, I step back out into the car park. Rather unsurprisingly, there¡¯s no sign of my new cape. What¡¯s a little more surprising is that she doesn¡¯t come out from underneath the van, assuming she¡¯s even still there. I crouch down, peering in vain into the darkness as I try to figure this out, before it hits me.

    ¡°It¡¯s still me.¡± I point at myself, and smile reassuringly into the darkness. ¡°Ember. I¡¯ve just taken the costume off.¡±

    Six eyes form again, deep in the shadows, and I smile.

    ¡°There you are.¡± I chuckle to myself. ¡°Come on. My shift¡¯s up, so it¡¯s time to go.¡±

    She crawls out slowly, parts of her forming out of the shadows as she seems to almost pull herself out. It¡¯s awesome and horrifying all at the same time. Within moments, she¡¯s completely formed and looking expectantly up at me. While I¡¯m dressed in civilian clothes. Shit.

    ¡°Um.¡± This is not the time to be sounding hesitant, dammit! I¡¯m supposed to be making a good impression on her! ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you could follow me from the shadows, or something? This is supposed to be a secret identity.¡±

    She looks around, a little panicked, before something seems to spark in her eyes. Without warning, she lifts up the back of my jacket with her tail, and somehow slips up underneath it. I know it¡¯s dark under there, but that¡¯s way less space than she takes up! I can¡¯t even feel her right now!

    ¡°That¡¯s terrifying!¡±

    The words are out of my mouth before I can even think about the impact they might have on her. That sends me into a bit of a panic, which is only made worse when I suddenly feel a pressure creeping up my back, sliding up between my jacket and my shirt. Five bony fingers grip my shoulder, tapping against it rhythmically, and I jump a little. That¡¯s when I realise what she¡¯s doing. She¡¯s patting my shoulder. She¡¯s being reassuring.

    ¡°Thanks?¡± Despite my best efforts, it still comes out as a question. ¡°Maybe keep your hands to yourself for now, though. Otherwise people might think I¡¯m hiding a snake under here.¡±

    There¡¯s no sign of agreement, just a sudden absence as the arms slips seamlessly away. I stride through the streets, trying not to think about the cape hiding in my jacket. The one that¡¯s as long as I am tall. It proves difficult, but eventually I¡¯m able to make my way to where my car is parked. My Charger, resplendent in blue. I could wait until I¡¯m inside the car to shake off my guest, but beauty like this needs to be appreciated.

    ¡°You can come out now.¡±

    She slips out of my coat in an instant, somehow leaping out of the bottom of the jacket and straight onto all fours. The difference in size between her and the space she was in is almost comical, and makes me wonder about just how small she can get.

    Disappointingly, she doesn¡¯t seem at all impressed by my car ¨C it must be her amnesia showing through. She does, however, hesitate when I lean over to open up the passenger door for her. She swallows her fear after a few moments, and slides into the shadows underneath the glove box. Almost as an afterthought, a jet-black hand darts out and closes the car door, before disappearing again. I smile as I start the engine, feeling the familiar purr of the V8 that never really gets used to its full potential in the inner city.

    As I drive through the streets, as fast as I can go without drawing the attention of the cops, my eyes keep darting over to the shadows under the glove box. She¡¯s in there, but I can¡¯t see her. I can¡¯t see her at all. The things she could do¡­

    ¡°Poke your head out if you want,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a risk of you getting spotted this late at night, so you might as well get a look at the nice part of the city.¡±

    There¡¯s a moment¡¯s pause, before a head and shoulders poke out of the darkness, upside down so that she can look up and over the dashboard. Part of me thinks about how much she looks like an eager dog with its head out the window, but I stamp that thought down. I can¡¯t start thinking of her as anything less than human just because of how she looks, or because she¡¯s mute. She works for me, which means I need to treat her as I¡¯d expect to be treated. I need to stop putting this off.

    ¡°We need to talk about a name.¡±

    Three of her eyes dart over to me, but her head stays facing forwards. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s genuine interest in the city, or just nerves.

    Shit. She can¡¯t speak. I don¡¯t even know if she can write!

    ¡°Normally, Capes tend to pick a name that¡¯s influenced by their powers. In my case, I go by Ember because of how I look when I use my power. But I understand if you don¡¯t want to do that, given your¡­¡±

    The words die in my throat. She chirps a little, seemingly frustrated at her lack of speech, and tries to figure out how to communicate what she means to me. Eventually, she reaches out with one of her hands and sweeps it up and down her body ¨C which is currently just a head, shoulders and her secondary arms ¨C before tapping her arm against her head. I think I get it.

    ¡°You don¡¯t want to hide what you are.¡± She chirps in agreement. ¡°I understand.¡±

    That makes things a little easier, but I still need to think carefully. We sit there in silence for a while, and I spot a party of university students on the other side of the road. They¡¯re all dressed up for a night on the town, and I doubt they¡¯ll be awake for the afternoon before the night it done. I look again at my passenger, at her jet-black skin and cat-like yellow eyes. I think back to everything I know about her habits from surveillance cameras and not-so-secure PRT documents. I hesitate for a moment, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.

    ¡°You¡¯re pretty nocturnal, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Another chirp, full of pride.

    ¡°Seattle is pretty great at night. Everyone forgets who they were during the day, and just lets themselves cut loose. Everything¡¯s a little more extreme: the fights, the fucks, the friends. It¡¯s another city, one that sometimes feels more real than the real one.¡±

    More chirps, more agreement, as her eyes roam over the city. I think I¡¯ve got it now.

    ¡°There¡¯s a lot of words for people who¡¯d rather live in this city. A night owl, night person, nighthawk, night bird. Nightcrawler.¡±

    She lets out a strange sound at the last one, a whistling noise that rises and falls seemingly at random. I glance over to her and see her shoulders shaking. She¡¯s laughing. We hit a strait, and I move the car up a gear as I pick up speed, listening as the engine purrs in response. I smile, and she smiles too.

    ¡°Nightcrawler it is.¡±

 Initiate: 2.01

    She¡¯s taking me towards the lights, towards the impossible towers at the centre of the world. I look as long as I dare, poking my head over the dashboard of the car, my body still hiding among the shadows, as we cross the narrow expanse of water that borders what I¡¯ve come to think of as my part of the city. I can¡¯t directly see those buildings, but I can see evidence of their presence. It¡¯s overcast, and the clouds are lit up in red and gold from below, the light of the city overwhelming the darkness of the moonless night. It looks like we¡¯re driving into an inferno, or a sunrise.

    The bridge is lit by regularly placed streetlights, whose orange glow sweeps over me like the flashing green lights of the soldiers¡¯ truck. The sensation is strange, as I flinch away from the soft orange lights only to be bathed in blissful darkness for an instant. There are a few cars in front of us, a steady stream of white lights from the scant oncoming traffic and red pinpricks from the rear of the car in front of us. A second bridge crosses the channel to my right, a raised edifice of steel and concrete that glitters with yet more traffic. That road is busier, and the vehicles are moving far faster than looks safe.

    The wheels rumble as the surface of the road changes from flat concrete to the steel grating of a drawbridge, the sudden change in sound causing me to jump a little, pulling a little more of my torso back into the shadows. Besides me, Ember chuckles at my nerves. She turns to look at me, and I see a reassuring smile on her face. I smile back ¨C as best I can without any of the needed muscles ¨C with my mouth gaping wide to reveal the razor-sharp teeth tucked just behind my beak-like skull. By all rights, baring my teeth shouldn¡¯t look like a smile, but both Mike and Ember seem to find it an acceptable substitute.

    ¡°We¡¯re almost there,¡± she says in a soft voice. ¡°We¡¯re just heading into Eastlake now. Welcome to your new neighbourhood.¡±

    I want to duck away from the lights, but my curiosity is enough to overrule my instincts. Eastlake looks newer than anywhere I¡¯ve seen before; it¡¯s almost impossibly clean, without a scrap of graffiti or broken window anywhere to be seen. There are still people, and they¡¯re still drunk, but there are far fewer of the ragged and desperate types that used to fill the majority of the streets. I spot a couple of black uniformed soldiers talking pointedly to a man in a pink shirt, with an open bottle in his hand and a wine stain running down his chest. They¡¯re not dressed for war ¨C like the grey-uniformed ones ¨C wearing peaked caps instead of helmets and carrying pistols instead of those strangely boxy metal rifles.

    The road forks, and we pass underneath the enormous bridge I saw over the channel, the enormous structure supported directly overhead on concrete pillars, casting its shadow onto the car as we pass underneath. The buildings are all strangely blocky, and cables crisscross the streets, but I could learn to like this place. It might not be as comfortingly gloomy as my last haunt, but places like that still remind me a little too much of Mike for comfort. Maybe he was using me, but that doesn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t nice to know that there¡¯s someone at home who¡¯ll be happy to see me.

    Maybe Ember is using me as well, but that¡¯s all right. I don¡¯t mind if she is, because I¡¯m using her for shelter. For human contact. She doesn¡¯t look at me like I¡¯m a freak, and she hasn¡¯t treated me like a dumb animal even though I¡¯m mute. I¡¯m willing to overlook a lot for those simple treasures.

    Ember pulls the car into a short car park next to the shoreline, with a long expanse of dark water stretching across a small lake before ending in the glittering lights of another part of the city. She gets out of the car, and I scramble over the gearstick to leave through the same door as her, rather than fiddling with my own. She steps aside to let me out, before walking around to the trunk of her car and pulling out a hooded jacket, putting it over her work clothes and pulling the hood up, casting her head into shadow.

    ¡°You can see through the shadows, right? I figured you¡¯d want to see where we¡¯re going.¡±

    I purr contentedly ¨C there¡¯s no better word for it, but I dearly wish there was ¨C and leap at her face, spooling through the shadows to the back of her hood. She stumbles backwards in shock, the hood angling with her head and forcing me backwards as a little bit of light creeps in, before she steadies herself.

    ¡°Please don¡¯t do that again. The last thing I want is to set my clothes on fire in full view of the neighbourhood.¡±

    The shudder that accompanied her words has me feeling a little guilty, so I form a hand in the back of her hood and give her head a few reassuring pats. That seems to work, as she immediately starts to walk forwards. She takes me towards the water, rather than towards the tall buildings behind us, and part of me is a little confused. Maybe she has a secret cave, like a smuggler?

    The truth is even stranger than that fiction. She walks us out onto a jetty, with a few unnaturally white boats moored up in a tight cluster, before turning right. My view, limited as it is by the hood, is suddenly filled by the strangest sight I have ever seen. It¡¯s like someone has taken a street of houses and placed it on top of the lake itself; the jetty is flanked on either side by two-story houses, floating on top of the open water. There¡¯s an expanse of water between each building, like an alleyway, and a lot of them have boats parked in the same place most families would put a car.

    ¡°Pretty cool, right?¡±

    I can¡¯t help but agree, staring in awe at the strange floating buildings. Ember steps up to one near the end, with walls of painted red wood and a simple metal number on the white painted door. She fumbles with her keys for a second, before stepping through into a surprisingly homey entrance hall, waiting for me to crawl out of her jacket before hanging it on a peg next to half a dozen others. I look up at her, tilting my head in confusion.

    ¡°Okay,¡± ¨C she sits down on a staircase that runs along the right wall ¨C ¡°so we as an organisation do have, like, secret bases and that, but I personally don¡¯t. The closest thing I have is the security centre in the Red-Light district, but that¡¯s not really the sort of place you¡¯d want to be living in. What I do have is a spare room, at least until I can sort something better for you.¡±

    I take another look around the hall, noting the subtle personal touches that have been built up over time, and nod at her. There¡¯s something comforting about seeing a place that¡¯s been lived in, rather than just somewhere that people have chosen to stay. There aren¡¯t any pictures on the walls, but the shoes and coats in this room speak to a divide between the outside world, and this sanctuary. That¡¯s the difference between here and the derelict factory, and I¡¯m quite happy to share the space if it means I get to stay here.

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    She flashes two thumbs up at me, and makes her way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. I follow at her heels as she leads me into a small mezzanine area with three doors and an angled bay window, looking out over an expansive balcony and the even more expansive lake. There¡¯s something fundamentally welcoming about that vast stretch of dark water, but I turn my attention back to Ember as she opens up one of the two doors to the left of the window.

    The room is simple, with small window on the far wall looking onto the jetty, and an even smaller one on the right that looks into the water between this building and the next. They pale in comparison, however, when compared to the enormous bed in the middle of the room, with a mattress that looks to be at least a foot thick! I leap up onto it and immediately curl up into a ball, trying to sink as deeply as I can into the soft springy material.

    A low laugh draws my attention back to the doorway, where Ember is leaning with a wry grin on her face. She¡¯s holding a duvet, and she tosses it unceremoniously on top of me. It takes me a few moments to scrabble about under it, but eventually my head pops out at the wrong end of the bed. Somehow, the duvet is even softer than the mattress.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be in my room if you need anything.¡± ¨C she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the door on the other end of the hall ¨C ¡°If not, then I¡¯m going to turn in for the night. One of the many downsides of a shift that ends at three AM is that it doesn¡¯t leave much room for anything except sleep when I get back. Goodnight!¡±

    She swings the door shut, leaving me along in the room. In my room. That thought is almost as comforting as the duvet I¡¯m curled up beneath. I have somewhere that I can call my own again, somewhere that isn¡¯t decrepit and abandoned, somewhere free from damp and secure against the elements. Or at least as free as a floating house can be. I feel like it shouldn¡¯t work, like it should have toppled over into the lake long before I arrived, but I¡¯ve already seen so much that should be impossible. What¡¯s a floating house when compared to corpses puppeted by machinery, or towers that scrape the heavens?

    No. I¡¯m not afraid of the house. I feel safe here, in the comforting soft darkness of the first bed I¡¯ve felt since I got here. I feel comfortable, at peace, but I don¡¯t feel tired. It¡¯s far too early for that. So I creep out from under the duvet, dropping down onto the carpeted floor of my room. I look around, finding another radio on my bedside table but I decide against turning it on; I don¡¯t want to sleep right now, but that doesn¡¯t mean I can wake up Ember with loud music.

    Instead I gently push open the door and step silently out into the hall. The door across from me is Ember¡¯s room, so I leave it alone, but curiosity has gripped me, and I¡¯m determined to have a good snoop around what might well become my new home. The door next to mine opens into a study, roughly the same size as my room. It has a far more professional air than Ember¡¯s home, with one of the strange devices I saw in the electronics shop on top of a wooden desk. Her drawers are locked, so I leave them be. I slink back out of the room, feeling a little guilty. Ember seems welcoming enough, but the study is very definitely her space, in much the same way that my room is mine.

    I creep back down the stairs and open the first door I see, finding myself in a well-furnished kitchen. I can¡¯t make heads or tails of a lot of the machines, but one thing that does draw my eye is the mess. The faux-stone countertops are grimy, and in need of a wipe down, while stray scraps of packaging are everywhere to be seen. I open up the trash can ¨C overflowing with refuse ¨C and take note of the strange black bag that lines it. Plastics have the be one of the most confusing things I¡¯ve ever seen. They¡¯re so universal here that they really ought to feel familiar to me, but instead I¡¯m constantly surprised by just how much stuff these people use them for.

    I rummage through the cupboards until finding a whole bunch of plastic bags, rolled up into a compact black cylinder. It takes me a while to reach some of the rubbish, but eventually I manage to figure it out. If I use my forepaws to pull my torso up over the top of the counters, then I can use my more dexterous arms to grab at the refuse and pile it into the bags, tying them off before piling them up next to the trash can. In truth, the rubbish isn¡¯t really that bad. It looks like the sort of mess that would come from someone too busy to tidy up, rather than someone deliberately neglectful.

    I guess I just have an eye for cleanliness, especially now that I live somewhere worth cleaning. Sometimes I wonder where these strange quirks and impulses come from; it feels like I learn something new about myself every day, but never anything really important.

    There¡¯s a door in the kitchen that leads to a sort of combination living and dining room, with a table at one and a cluster of couches at the other, in front of another bay window that looks out onto the lake. As before, my eye is drawn to empty food packets on the dining room table, and some other trash near the couches. I spend a while cleaning as best I can, eventually steeping back out into the hallway in search of cleaning materials. I find a small utilities room tucked under the stairs, with yet more strange machines and a few more familiar cleaning materials.

    I spend my time going through all the rooms in the house ¨C except for the bedroom in which Ember is still soundly sleeping ¨C with a damp rag and a feather duster, removing what might be months of dust from the furniture and adding two more black bin bags to the small heap in the kitchen. If I had been anyone else, then the noise of this endeavour would have long since woken Ember. As it stands, I¡¯m almost unnaturally silent as I move throughout the house. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s because I¡¯m far lighter than the average person, or if there¡¯s something about my power that muffles me. Knowing my luck, it¡¯s probably both¡­

    By the time I¡¯m done, the sky outside the wide windows of the house has started to turn to that faint purpley-red that comes just before the dawn. I¡¯m sprawled out on one of the couches, feeling contented with my work as I look over the spotless living room. It was a welcome distraction from every trouble that¡¯s been eating at me, and by now I¡¯m much too tired to give them any thought. Instead, I creep back up the stairs and crawl underneath my duvet, curling up into a ball in the middle of the bed. Something still isn¡¯t quite right, so I reach with my hand up to the head of the bed and slowly pull down a pillow until it¡¯s resting beneath my head. Cocooned in comfort and safety, I swiftly fall into a dreamless sleep.

 Initiate: 2.02

    Heat washes over my skin and I panic, ducking back into the shadows before I¡¯ve even opened my eyes. I dash down the rapidly disappearing shadows under the duvet and slip into the darkness beneath the bed. If I had lungs right now, I¡¯d be panting.

    ¡°Rise and shine! It¡¯s time to ¨C hey, where¡¯d you go?¡±

    From my hiding place, I see the duvet land in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room ¨C a room currently bathed in daylight from two separate windows. There are a pair of feet there as well ¨C barefoot, the colour of hazelnuts. They move around anxiously pacing around the room in obvious confusion.

    ¡°I could have sworn¡­¡±

    She paces around anxiously, before dropping to one knee to peer under the bed. It¡¯s Ember ¨C I¡¯m not sure why I expected someone else ¨C but she¡¯s not in her work clothes¡­ or her work clothes. Instead she looks like she¡¯s just got out of bed; I can¡¯t see any other reason someone would willingly wear shorts that short. I watch her from the shadows for an instant, her hair an unruly mess that frames her face as she peers under the bed, before forming my eyes in the scant few patches of darkness deep enough to hold me.

    ¡°There you are.¡± She grins at me. ¡°C¡¯mon, you can¡¯t spend all day in bed! It¡¯s already midday!¡±

    It¡¯s midday¡­ I¡¯d honestly forgotten that existed. I don¡¯t want to go out; I want to stay here where it¡¯s dark, where it¡¯s safe, but I know that¡¯s not really an option. So, I start to slink through the shadows at the edge of the bed, thinking of the dry room, the bed and the company over and over in my head like a mantra, and stretch out an arm. It feels uncomfortable in a way I can¡¯t quite explain, but not as bad as it could have been. It must be because it¡¯s not quite direct sunlight, just light bleeding in from the room¡¯s small windows.

    I know I shouldn¡¯t fear light like I do. Sometimes, when I think about sunny days or the bright lights of the city, I feel a sort of distant longing for them. I used to look out the broken window of my ratty old room in that factory, and find something close to comfort in the glittering lights ¨C a sense of distant familiarity. It never lasted. I¡¯d always lose that feeling beneath an overwhelming sense of unease, and whenever I saw the sun rising over the ocean that unease would turn to outright fear, and I¡¯d bolt back to my gloomy home like a rat scarpering for shelter.

    But I can¡¯t do that now.

    Fear creeps through me as I step into the light, and I realize something. It¡¯s not the light I¡¯m afraid of, but the absence of shadow. Daylight permeates every inch of the small room, leaving me nowhere to hide. At night, there¡¯s always somewhere within arm¡¯s reach that I can creep into, some shelter I can find when things get too much. But there¡¯s none of that in the day; what few shadows there are simply aren¡¯t dark enough.

    Ember¡¯s already left the room ¨C I can hear her feet on the stairs ¨C so I creep out after her. Now that I know why I¡¯m afraid, it¡¯s a little easier to deal with. It¡¯s still there, but fear is always less drastic when you understand it. Even so, stepping out into the hallway ¨C with its expansive bay window opening up onto a vista of blue water and even bluer sky ¨C feels like willingly walking into a furnace, while turning away from it and clambering down the comparatively shady staircase feels like leaving the furnace for a room that¡¯s hot, but not scalding.

    There¡¯s a small gasp from the kitchen, and I pounce down the last four steps in a single leap, landing with catlike grace before cautiously poking my head through the doorway, dearly wishing that there was a shadow nearby I could spy from instead. Ember is poking her head through the door to the living room and, when she turns back to look at me, I see a bemused smile on her face.

    ¡°Did you clean up?¡±

    I nod, beaming up at her.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    She sounds more than a little exasperated, but it¡¯s not like there¡¯s anything I can say. How am I supposed to explain that I¡¯ve been living in dust and filth for weeks, and that if I never have to see a single speck of it again then I¡¯ll die happy? How exactly do I get across to her that cleanliness is next to godliness when I can¡¯t even speak? I chirp enthusiastically, and shrug all four of my shoulders.

    ¡°Right¡­¡± she sighs a little, ¡°we¡¯ll need to figure that out, but I¡¯m not going to do it on an empty stomach. Switch the stove on, would you?¡±

    She opens up one of the cupboards, a strange one that¡¯s separate from the rest of the kitchen and made from a strange white material. It¡¯s quite sparse inside, but what really shocks me is the slight chill from within, and the electric lights illuminating the whole thing. I guess it¡¯s just another thing I don¡¯t understand.

    I use my forelimbs to lift my torso up to the stovetop and start to look around for a box of matches, only to stop short as I see the flat surface where the gas rings should be. There are circular outlines, and the dials needed to control the flow of gas, but the actual stove itself is missing. I reach down in confusion, turning one of the dials to the highest setting and listening for the tell-tale hiss of gas. There¡¯s no sound; instead, red rings start to glow on top of the flat surface. I reach out hesitantly and almost put my hand on one before common sense prevails.

    It might not look like a stove, but it has most of the components of a stove ¨C if not the most vital ones ¨C and Ember called it a stove. Even I can put two and two together.

    Ember returns with a pan and a packet of bacon, wrapped up to preserve it in the cold cupboard, or so I assume. She cooks the bacon in a frying pan, before setting it aside on two plates and scrambling four eggs with a dash of milk and a knob of butter. There¡¯s something so wonderfully normal about the sight ¨C even with the strange stove ¨C that I spend a while just drinking it in. It feels like I¡¯ve come in from the cold.

    Actually eating the food proves a little troublesome, not least because I freeze up at the sight of the sun gleaming off the lake outside the massive bay windows. Sitting down is the main difficulty, but eventually I¡¯m able to sit on the dining chair in much the same way that dogs sit on the floor, my forelimbs gripping onto the edge of my seat while I use my hands ¨C and the helpfully provided knife and fork ¨C to tuck into my breakfast. From the look in Ember¡¯s eyes, she seems to find the sight a little sad - which doesn¡¯t do wonders for my self-esteem, but I can see where she¡¯s coming from.

    She seems to catch herself, maybe seeing her sadness start to spread to my own face, looking away from me and around the room, her sadness changing to surprise and confusion.

    ¡°You must have been up all-night cleaning this¡­¡±

    In spite of her statement, she seems surprised when I nod in agreement, her mouth widening ever-so-slightly.

    ¡°When did you¡­ hold on a second.¡±

    She leaves the room, while I wait perched on my seat. When she returns, she places a notepad and pen in front of me before returning to her seat.

    ¡°When did you go to sleep?¡±

    She sounds a little more confident this time. I pick up the pen ¨C idly noting the strange translucent barrel and the even stranger pencil-like nib ¨C and start to scrawl out my answer in disappointingly unsteady handwriting, turning the notebook around and sliding it across the table to her.

    ¡®When the sun rose.¡¯

    She winces, looking more than a little guilty.

    ¡°Sorry for getting you up, even if it was midday. Seems like your sleep schedule is even more fucked than mine is.¡± ¨C I wince at the foul language, but she doesn¡¯t seem to notice, or care ¨C ¡°So you¡¯re properly nocturnal?¡±

    I stretch my arm across the table ¨C almost falling off the chair as I lose my balance ¨C before Ember takes pity on me and passes the notebook back over.

    ¡®I sleep most of the day, only heading out after sunset.¡¯

    That answer seems insufficient to my eyes, so I scrawl another line.

    ¡®I don¡¯t like the sun. There¡¯s nowhere to hide, and that makes me feel afraid.¡¯

    ¡°Are you afraid now?¡±

    I nod my head, hesitantly, while waving my hand a little to indicate uncertainty.

    ¡°I am sorry.¡± ¨C She looks even more remorseful now. ¨C ¡°I can¡¯t promise that you won¡¯t need to come out during the day, but it won¡¯t ever be for a mission. It¡¯s just that some of our people keep normal office hours¡­¡±

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    She trails off as I slide the notebook across the table.

    ¡®I can endure a little discomfort.¡¯

    I mean it, too. I¡¯ve got warm food in my belly, a roof over my head and the softest bed I¡¯ve ever known. Sure, daylight is a nuisance, but it¡¯s nothing compared to living on the streets, stealing sandwiches from random stores and sleeping in a derelict factory.

    ¡°Okay, but if it gets too much, I want you to tell me.¡± ¨C I give her a pointed look and she groans ¨C ¡°Fine, I want you to let me know. Unfortunately, we need to head out today. Jaeger got back in the city yesterday, and he¡¯s been asking after you. He handles a lot of our enforcement and security work, so he likes to meet the new Capes. He¡¯s a bit of a hardass, but I¡¯ll be there with you.¡±

    I nod my head to show I¡¯ve understood. Truth be told, ¡®enforcement and security¡¯ doesn¡¯t exactly sound appealing to me, but I guess this is the price I need to pay. Ember disappears back upstairs for a while, before reappearing dressed in some of the same clothes I saw on businesswomen returning late from work.

    She holds up the back of her grey jacket, and I gratefully slip into the space between it and her soft pink shirt. From the way the light moves, and the occasional glimpse down the back of her skirt as the jacket shifts in the wind, I¡¯m able to follow along as Ember walks to her car, though my view drops out entirely once she¡¯s sitting down. With this much daylight around, there¡¯s not really any sufficiently deep shadows anywhere that isn¡¯t completely enclosed from the sun. It means I can¡¯t sneak a peek every now and then, instead forced to wait until the jacket starts to move again, as Ember leaves her car. The harsh sunlight gives way to harsh electric lights and Ember stops.

    ¡°I need you to come out now.¡±

    I slip out of her jacket quite quickly, though not as quickly as I could have. I don¡¯t want to risk undershooting my exit and ripping her jacket from her shoulders. In an instance, I¡¯m standing by her side. She¡¯s put her mask on, but not her costume.

    ¡°Have I told you how weird that is? I couldn¡¯t feel you at all, not even when you were pressed between me and the car seat. You¡¯d make one hell of a spy. Plus, it saved on the blindfold.¡±

    I would cock an eyebrow, if I had one. Instead I tilt my whole head, and blink three sets of eyes at her.

    ¡°I¡¯m joking. Nobody¡¯s going to blindfold you.¡±

    She strides to the end of the short corridor, pushing open a set of double doors with both hands.

    ¡°Even if you weren¡¯t supposed to see this place, it¡¯s much safer to just drug people.¡±

    A cavernous hall opens up before me, lit by lights that hang from a crisscrossed lattice of metal struts that run all along the ceiling. There are at least two dozen men and women in the hall, engaged in some strange form of group exercise, sprinting from point to point before dropping to the floor and exercising their arm muscles. I can see sweat on each of their foreheads, and they seem to carry themselves like soldiers, though I can¡¯t see any officers supervising their exercise. Unlike Ember, none of them are masked.

    ¡°Hey. Want to see something funny?¡± Ember whispers conspiratorially to me, before taking two steps forwards and cupping her hands around her mouth.

    ¡°Solomon!¡± she shouts in a commanding tone, and the delicate military machine falls into disarray. There¡¯s nothing drastic, but the sheer volume of the effect is impressive. Sprinters stumble momentarily, while other exercisers are thrown slightly off balance. Two dozen heads turn to look at us, before they seem to regain their senses. They subject Ember to a brief but violent cacophony of the foulest language I¡¯ve ever heard, all their previous unity having gone out of the window, before going back to their exercise.

    Their noise has drawn another man, who strides leisurely down a flight of stairs set into the wall, on the opposite side of the hall to us. He¡¯s clearly another soldier, but he¡¯s masked like a cape. His uniform is formal, well-tailored, and somehow more recognisable to me than the ones worn by the grey or black-clad soldiers that patrol the streets. The uniform is the deep green of the forest, held together by black buttons and trimmed with red at the collar and cuffs. Every inch of it screams discipline and precision, from the polished jackboots to the silver crest on his cap, while the pistol holstered on his thigh is an unspoken threat.

    Behind his mask, I can feel his eyes roaming up and down my body, assessing me with a dispassionate gaze. I shuffle a little to the right, moving much of my body behind Ember to get that comforting feeling of being even a little out of sight. She seems to notice my distress, stepping forwards to head off the man ¨C who must be Jaeger.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this the part where you admit defeat? I was right about her, and the soft-sell worked.¡±

    Jaeger¡¯s eyes flick off me, the corner of his lips curling up in something that¡¯s almost, but not quite, a smile.

    ¡°Whether it would work or not wasn¡¯t the point. It was whether it was safe.¡±

    His accent is a little different to Ember¡¯s, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯d be able to use that information to tell where he¡¯s from.

    ¡°I¡¯m still up a hundred dollars,¡± Ember replies smugly.

    ¡°We should continue this in my office,¡± Jaeger says by way of an answer, turning and walking back up the stairs without asking for us to follow. He simply expects it.

    His office is nicely furnished, with plush carpeting and rich wooden furniture of some dark wood. The d¨¦cor is distinctly martial in theme, with firearms prominently displayed on the walls and some much more advanced models in a secure case by his desk. He takes a seat in a high-backed leather chair, leaving me and Ember to the slightly less ornate chairs on the other side of the desk. Ember practically melts into her seat, while I perch unsteadily on mine.

    ¡°So¡­¡± he begins, turning his eyes on me, ¡°you want to join the Elite.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s already in the Elite,¡± Ember retorts, while I simply wilt under his gaze. ¡°You agreed that I¡¯d handle this my way, remember? That means she¡¯s my hire.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t she speak for herself?¡±

    I shrink into my chair, my tail unconsciously drifting into the shadows beneath his desk. I want to run, to hide, and it takes everything I have to keep myself corporeal. I can¡¯t meet his eyes anymore, instead looking at the front of his desk.

    ¡°No she can¡¯t, you insensitive prick.¡± Ember leaps to my defence, and my gratitude towards her grows.

    ¡°Ah¡­¡± For the first time since I got here, Jaeger¡¯s eyes soften a little. There¡¯s a hint of pity in them now, something I find just as painful as the cold, calculating, stare he had before.

    ¡°Has she chosen a name?¡±

    It hurts that he asks Ember, rather than me. I know why he¡¯s doing it, I know that I won¡¯t be able to answer, but it still hurts. He seems to have written me off as a crippled and broken thing.

    I may be mute, but that doesn¡¯t mean I have to like it when people talk around me.

    ¡°We settled on Nightcrawler.¡±

    ¡°Crawler? Really?¡±

    ¡°Nightcrawler. The ¡®Night¡¯ is important.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure it is¡­¡± Jaeger mutters to himself, his fingers clattering over a strange board set in front of one of those picture screens.

    ¡°Night. Currently in use by a vigilante in Los Angeles. Formally used by a vigilante in Salt Lake City, but they had to change it to Midnighter when they cut a plea deal with the Protectorate. Used by a minor villain in Boston¡­ That one¡¯s a Nazi. How lovely. The copyright is held by a corporate cape in Houston.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re the Elite,¡± Ember interrupts, ¡°why should we give a shit about copyright? Besides, it¡¯s Nightcrawler. The ¡®crawler¡¯ is important.¡±

    Jaeger leans back in his chair, looking down his nose at Ember.

    ¡°You¡¯re fucking with me.¡±

    ¡°Always. But Nightcrawler is the name she chose.¡±

    That brings his stare back to me, but this time I¡¯m determined to meet his gaze. Being blindsided like that has wounded some reserve of pride I didn¡¯t even know I had. I stare at him, six eyes overwhelming his two, and open my beak just enough to show him how sharp it is.

    ¡°I suppose it fits.¡±

 Initiate: 2.03

    Jaeger keeps talking, asking me questions about all sorts of things, no doubt part of some attempt to discern my loyalty ¨C or simply because he¡¯s in love with bureaucracy. I think the latter is more likely, because a lot of the questions are completely irrelevant to me. He says it¡¯s for a ¡®background check¡¯, but I don¡¯t exactly have a background to check. I¡¯ve never held membership in a political party, because I can¡¯t remember what they are. I¡¯ve never been arrested by ¨C or worked for ¨C law enforcement. He asks me if I can account for my movements over the last decade, and I laugh in his face.

    Well, it comes out as more of a warbling whistle that borders on a screech, but he seems to get the picture.

    Honestly, I can¡¯t even imagine ten years. I mean, deep down I know I¡¯ve been alive for a decent amount of time. I know too much for it to be otherwise, even if this whole city feels so strange and alien to me. I lived, even if I didn¡¯t live here, but ¨C as far as I can actually remember ¨C my life began a few weeks ago. It¡¯s measured in days, not in years.

    The more he asks, and the more I realise I don¡¯t remember, the more it scares me. He doesn¡¯t seem to notice, pushing on with his relentless questioning even as my shoulders slump and my tail starts to drift unconsciously beneath his desk, the tip merging with the shadows and sending pulses of faint comfort rippling through my body.

    The office has a window, barely covered by blinds that let wide bars of light into the well-lit space. Outside, clouds shift across the heavens, moving away from the sun, and the bars suddenly turn incandescent. I can feel them on my skin, a burning sensation of pure fear, of being trapped with nowhere to hide. I start to take deep breaths, my answers to Jaeger¡¯s questions becoming more and more hesitant as my deep breaths turn into animalistic pants. Anything to cool me down and calm my panicked instincts.

    And then, the light is cut off. I turn to see Ember fiddling with the blinds, closing them completely until only the faintest chinks of sunlight are getting through. She rests her other hand on my shoulder until my breathing starts to calm and that itch to hide under the desk starts to fade.

    ¡°Do you have everything you need?¡± she asks Jaeger pointedly, a little ice in her tone. ¡°You¡¯re scaring the poor girl.¡±

    Jaeger looks at me for a second, more disgusting pity creeping through his stony face.

    ¡°That should be all. It¡¯s surprisingly hard to vet an amnesiac, but I guess that makes them more trustworthy. I was mostly interested in seeing if she¡¯d slip up, but her memory loss seems genuine.¡±

    I glare at him. Why on Earth would I lie about something like that?

    ¡°Either way,¡± he continues, ignoring me, ¡°I¡¯m happy to bring her in.¡±

    ¡°Not that it¡¯s your choice,¡± Ember says, standing up from her seat, ¡°she¡¯s my hire after all.¡±

    She pauses, as I drop off my own seat and onto all fours. When I look up, she¡¯s looking down at me, seemingly unsure which of my three pairs of eyes she should be looking at.

    ¡°Unless you want to jump ship, join Jaeger instead?¡±

    I hurriedly shake my head, anxiously pacing across the floor to put Ember in-between myself and the dour-faced soldier with his room full of weapons. She chuckles, grinning down at me and giving me two thumbs up.

    ¡°Good call.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of calls,¡± Jaeger interrupts, ¡°I assume you haven¡¯t cleared this with the higher-ups yet?¡±

    I look up at Ember in confusion as she waves a hand dismissively.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call Rod when I get out of here, set up the financial side of things.¡±

    Financial? I tug at Ember¡¯s jacket to grab her attention.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t think I was expecting you to work for free, did you?¡± She pauses for a moment, a slightly confused look spreading across her face. ¡°I¡¯m not really sure what you¡¯re going to spend money on, but it¡¯s nice to have some.¡±

    I nod my head in agreement. After Mike¡­ I don¡¯t want to have to scrounge for cash ever again. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯ll do with the money either, except maybe help Ember pay for food or buy some thicker curtains for my room, but I know that it¡¯s better to have money than not.

    Ember gives Jaeger a very mocking salute before pushing open the door to his office. I follow her, eager to get out of here, as we descend down the stairs to the main floor of the sports hall. The soldiers have changed up their routine, and are now paired off around a dozen mats with boxing gloves and pads.

    At the other end of the hall, a man in a suit is leading a few tattered-looking individuals over to a table, getting them to sign their details on a sheet of paper. They¡¯ve all got the same worn-down look as Mike did, though maybe not quite that bad. They look like they¡¯re new to hard times, rather than used to them.

    ¡°Ah,¡± I hear, as Ember sees where I¡¯m looking. ¡°He must have lost some people in Richland.¡±

    She¡¯s speaking more to herself than to me, but that doesn¡¯t stop me from tugging at her suit jacket until she sees the confused tilt of my head. She lets out a long sigh before talking as we walk across the hall.

    ¡°The Elite exists above and below the law. You and me, we¡¯re basically hired security guards. We might bend the law a little to put the fear of us in a couple of guys who don¡¯t get the message, but mostly we¡¯re safe from being arrested so long as we don¡¯t take things too far. Jaeger, on the other hand¡­ well, he¡¯s responsible for our black-ops. The kind of work we don¡¯t want the feds learning about,¡± she clarifies, in response to my unspoken question.

    ¡°For that kind of thing, he needs people he can trust. Remember how these guys all flinched when I called them Solomon?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°There was this Russian soldier, something something Solomonov. He¡¯d been everywhere, seen everything. Afghanistan and Eritrea with the Soviet Army, then the Balkans and East Africa with the Red Gauntlet. He got old, he got injured, he retired and then he got fucked.¡±

    I flinch at the language. Honestly, would it kill her to be a little more polite?

    ¡°Don¡¯t know if it was drink or drugs that fucked him, but eventually he found himself in the States. He ran into this girl in a bar who offered him enough money to set himself up with enough booze for the rest of his life, in exchange for copies of all his memories.¡±

    That gets my attention, to the point where I stop looking around the room and fix my gaze squarely on Ember.

    ¡°The girl was Cranial. She¡¯s a Tinker¡­ though you probably don¡¯t know what that means. She makes advanced tech, and she¡¯s part of this group, Toybox, who sell tech. They¡¯re decent business partners, even if they¡¯re not part of the Elite. Haven¡¯t screwed anyone on a job so far.¡±

    She seems to catch herself going on a tangent, grinning sheepishly at me.

    ¡°Anyway, Cranial sells Solomon¡¯s skills as part of what she calls the ¡®super-soldier¡¯ package. Decades of training and experience with Russian Special Forces, instilled in an afternoon spent with wires stuck to your head. Those guys¡± -she nods towards the unkempt figures signing their lives away- ¡°are probably ex-military types who fell on hard times. They¡¯ll have Solomon¡¯s skills and experience implanted in their mind, turning them into highly-trained soldiers in just a few hours.¡±

    I turn away from the ragged group, looking instead at the soldiers as they practice boxing. Now that I look closer, there¡¯s a symmetry to their movements. They all throw punches in the same way, duck and weave in similar patterns. It¡¯s kind of unnerving, to be honest. People shouldn¡¯t be that coordinated.

    ¡°The thing is that a lot of Solomon¡¯s skills are tied up in his memories. They tend to bleed through, mixing in with the client¡¯s memories a little. It¡¯s a step further than I¡¯d ever be prepared to go, which is why Jaeger prefers to recruit the desperate. There are plenty of people out there who don¡¯t mind losing a little memory if it means they have some security in their life.¡±

    I scowl, furiously shaking my head. It¡¯s stupid, to carve away a piece of yourself like that. The mere idea of it makes me uncomfortable, seeing these people willingly give away what was taken from me. It¡¯s all a bit too much, so I slip my tail underneath the jacket of Ember¡¯s suit and disappear into the comfortable shadows, letting out a metaphorical breath as the uncomfortable itch of the hall¡¯s lights on my skin fades into nothingness.

    ¡°I take it you want to head off?¡± Ember asks the air.

    I form my fingers over her shoulder and tap her a couple of times. She gets the message, and I follow the sound of the click of her heels on the floor as she walks out of the building and gets into her car.

    I stay hidden in her jacket as she drives through the city streets. I can¡¯t be seen next to her while she isn¡¯t masked, but I also don¡¯t want to be stuck under the hot sun throughout the drive. It¡¯s much more comfortable to travel this way, at least while it¡¯s daytime.

    Ember doesn¡¯t talk. I think it¡¯s because she¡¯s giving me some space, but it could be that she¡¯s just a little tired of our very one-sided conversations. Of course, it could also be that she¡¯s forgotten I¡¯m here. I¡¯m sneaky like that.

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    After a while, she reaches into her jacket, causing me to quickly scoot around to her back, and fishes out a small rectangular slab of metal and glass.

    ¡°Hey, Nightcrawler,¡± she says, ¡°I just need to make a quick call, don¡¯t mind me.¡±

    A call?

    Sure enough, a few seconds later I hear Ember talking into the strange device. A telephone without wires¡­ I wonder if it was made by that Toybox group she mentioned.

    ¡°Good afternoon, sir,¡± Ember speaks into the telephone, her tone a lot more professional than usual. ¡°I was wondering if you could arrange some cover for the district tonight? I want to show a new hire the ropes.¡±

    I¡¯ve moved as close to Ember¡¯s collar as I can, close enough to make out the voice on the other end of the line.

    ¡°This is a little short notice,¡± he says, in an accent that¡¯s more like Jaeger¡¯s than Ember¡¯s.

    ¡°I know, sir. I only recruited her last night. I¡¯ll owe you one.¡±

    There¡¯s a pause, then the faint sound of someone moving on the other end of the line.

    ¡°I¡¯ve arranged some cover.¡±

    Ember lets out a happy sigh. Apparently, it wasn¡¯t a sure thing.

    ¡°Thank you, sir.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a problem. Now¡± -the man¡¯s tone turns a little more serious- ¡°tell me about this new hire.¡±

    Ember hesitates for a moment, shifting uncertainly in her seat. I form a hand to pat her shoulder reassuringly, to let her know that I don¡¯t mind if she tells him about me.

    ¡°Her name¡¯s Nightcrawler. She¡¯s a monstrous cape I picked up off the street. A real nice kid, even though the world¡¯s done her no favours so far.¡±

    ¡°And her powers?¡±

    ¡°She merges into darkness. It¡¯s honestly a little terrifying. Right now, she¡¯s hiding in-between my jacket and my shirt and I can¡¯t even feel her.¡±

    ¡°Quite the valuable asset,¡± the voice says with sickening eagerness.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± Ember says, a little bite in her tone, ¡°but she¡¯s my asset. I¡¯m paying her out of my share of the profits from the district. Maybe I¡¯ll let her take on other work, but only if she wants to.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± the voice speaks, placatingly, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to step on your toes over this. If someone needs an infiltration specialist, I¡¯ll tell them to ask you first.¡±

    If I wasn¡¯t in the shadows, and if I didn¡¯t have a beak for a mouth, I¡¯d be smiling right now. I¡¯m dependent on Ember in so many different ways, and it¡¯s nice to know she isn¡¯t going to let anyone take advantage of me.

    ¡°Thanks,¡± Ember replies, mollified. ¡°I just don¡¯t want to throw her right in the deep end.¡±

    ¡°I understand. Keep safe out there; with the Triad on the warpath, things are looking a lot less certain.¡±

    Ember snorts. ¡°Don¡¯t I know it.¡±

    I don¡¯t actually hear either of them put the phone down, or however that works without anything to put the phone down on, but I do feel Ember brushing aside her jacket as she slips the device back into her pocket. She drives in silence for a few more minutes, before I tap my fingers against her shoulders.

    ¡°Right, sorry. That was Black Rod. It¡¯s a terrible name, I know,¡± ¨CI¡¯m not really sure what she means¨C ¡°but he¡¯s a lot more serious than his name suggests. I told you before that we¡¯re a bit feudal, yeah? That¡¯s why he¡¯s not going to kick up a fuss about you working for me; as far as he¡¯s concerned, you¡¯re in my sphere of influence. Problem is-¡±

    She trails off and, from the shifting weight, I can tell she¡¯s had to concentrate on the road for a second.

    ¡°Learn to drive, asshole!¡± she shouts, honking her horn. ¡°Anyway, I¡¯m in his sphere of influence. All of us are, really. See, the Elite is pretty factional. The Seattle faction, our faction, is called the Star Chamber. About two dozen Parahumans, spread across the city and all basically doing their own thing when Black Rod doesn¡¯t need something from us. Some of them have other Parahumans working for them, like you work for me.¡±

    Two dozen? Ember has her¡­ dubiously moral district and Jaeger has his terrifying soldiers, but neither had any Capes before me. It makes me wonder just how big the other groups are, and that¡¯s only the ones in Seattle.

    I¡¯m beginning to get an idea of the scale of the organisation I¡¯ve joined.

    ¡°If you¡¯re having trouble wrapping your head around it, don¡¯t worry. It¡¯s my job to worry about this side of things, not yours.¡±

    I can feel the car pulling to a stop, followed by the sound of Ember¡¯s shoes on concrete. She¡¯s talking to people, greeting them as they pass her by, and it doesn¡¯t take me long to figure out that she must have brought me to the security station in the Red-Light district. I listen as she greets people by name, noticing that they¡¯re calling her ¡®Violet¡¯ or ¡®Miss Rucker¡¯ rather than Ember. Maybe it¡¯s some way of hiding her identity, like the mask she wore last night?

    It¡¯s another part of the city that confuses me. Why do Jaeger and her hide their faces? Does it help keep them safe somehow, and what does that mean for me? I can¡¯t hide my face at all.

    I¡¯ve got a thousand unanswered questions, but no way of asking them. I can¡¯t even take a notepad and pen with me, not without leaving it behind every time I merge with the shadows. It¡¯s frustrating. More frustrating than this body, more frustrating than even the amnesia. There are so many different things shutting me out from the world around me, so many different reasons that I¡¯ll never be able to have a normal life.

    ¡°Hey, Nightcrawler?¡± Ember¡¯s voice shakes me out of my melancholy. ¡°You can come out now.¡±

    I creep out from the bottom of her jacket, feeling soft carpet beneath my forelegs before my head forms and I find myself in the middle of a cosy-looking office. The d¨¦cor is much the same as Ember¡¯s home - in fact the whole place seems like an extension of herself, right down to the empty sandwich boxes and cans scattered around the room. It makes the whole room a lot more comfortable than Jaeger¡¯s intimidating space.

    It¡¯s made even more comfortable when Ember walks over to the window of frosted glass, glowing pure white under the sun, and pulls across a set of heavy curtains. Immediately I relax muscles that I hadn¡¯t noticed tensing as the harsh light is replaced by a comfortable twilight.

    ¡°Better?¡± she asks, and I nod eagerly in response.

    ¡°I thought as much,¡± she says, slumping into the padded chair behind her desk. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about all that. I mean, I knew you didn¡¯t like light but I didn¡¯t know it was that extreme.¡±

    I pause, looking up and her and miming writing with my hands, then cock my head to give her a questioning look.

    ¡°Sure thing,¡± she says, rummaging around in a desk draw and setting a notebook and pen on the desk.

    ¡°I wish we had a better way to communicate. It could prove difficult in the field, especially since I have a lot of the same problems as you when it comes to carrying things.¡±

    It occurs to me that I still have no idea what her powers are, so I scribble down a question on the notepad.

    ¡®What are your powers?¡¯

    ¡°I¡¯d show you now, but I don¡¯t want to burn the carpet. There¡¯ll be time for that later, don¡¯t worry. Right now, though, I have to get ahead of work if I¡¯m going to take you out tonight. Why don¡¯t you crash on the couch for a bit? I know you didn¡¯t get much sleep last night.¡±

    I look around the room, spotting a couch tucked away in a corner. I practically pounce onto it, immediately sinking into its surface and curling up into a ball before letting out a long screech-like sigh. I¡¯m exhausted, but it doesn¡¯t feel like I can sleep. Not quite yet. I start to shift position, almost rolling off the couch in an attempt to find some magical pose that¡¯ll let me drift off, but it just isn¡¯t working.

    I hear a faint giggle from the other side of the room, and open all six eyes to fix Ember with a very pointed stare.

    ¡°Still too bright?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°Grab my coat from the back of the door, that should work as a blanket.¡±

    I slip off the couch, pacing over to the door and looking up at an ankle-length wool coat with a rich lining. It takes me a while to get it off the hook, a complicated manoeuvre involving essentially walking my forelimbs up the door to stand on two legs, or as close as I can physically get, then reaching up with my arms to fumble with the hook.

    Ember finds it hilarious, in a good-natured way. Like¡­ I don¡¯t know. A friend, or a sister, teasing someone they know well enough to know they won¡¯t be hurt by it.

    Still, as I curl up on the couch under the coat, I can¡¯t help but feel that she had the right idea, about all of this. I¡¯ll never have a normal life, and I think I¡¯ve accepted that. It hurts, sure, but I know there¡¯s nothing I can do about it.

    This isn¡¯t going to be a normal life, but it¡¯s better than the way things were before. At least I¡¯m comfortable, tucked up safely under a nice thick coat. At least I have a room I can call my own, and money too once I can figure out how to spend it.

    I pull the coat up and over my head, immediately cutting away the twilight of the office and surrounding myself in darkness¡¯ welcoming embrace. Sleep comes easily, for the first time I can remember.

 Initiate: 2.04

    I dream of a sun that doesn¡¯t hurt, of light that¡¯s warm, rather than harsh. Of fields shimmering in the breeze, of warm smells that banish my hunger and a face¡­

    And a face I can¡¯t remember.

    Someone brushes against my shoulder and the dream slips out of reach until not even memories remain. Only half awake, I flail my limbs ineffectively to try and ward off the attacker. The force returns, a little stronger this time, so I fight back, stronger.

    Unfortunately, my mindless kick hits the back of the couch, immediately knocking me onto the floor. Ember¡¯s coat wraps itself around me in a tangled mess as one of my arms gets stuck down its sleeve and the tip of my tail somehow finds its way into one of the pockets. I flail about a little more to try and shake myself out of the mess I¡¯ve found myself in, only to give up and slip into the shadows. The coat falls to the floor in a heap for just a moment before I reform myself, pushing it up and shaking it off to one side.

    The first thing I see is Ember, dressed in her strange costume and stranger mask, as she kneels down next to me, a comforting hand half-outstretched and a concerned look on her face.

    ¡°Bad dreams?¡± she asks, setting a notebook and pen down in front of me.

    I shake my head as I scribble out a response. I think I dream, but I can¡¯t ever remember what I dream about. They haven¡¯t been bad, though.

    At least, I think they haven¡¯t been bad¡­

    ¡®You startled me. I¡¯m used to sleeping alone.¡¯

    It¡¯s not the whole truth, but me and Mike mostly kept to ourselves. I think he was a little scared of me, even when I started bringing him money, so he mostly kept away. I didn¡¯t notice it at the time, but we never laughed together like me and Ember do. She seems a lot more comfortable around me than he ever was, probably because she has powers too.

    ¡°Sorry about that. I¡¯ll be a little gentler next time. The sun¡¯s set, so I figured I¡¯d wake you up. I need to go through a few things with you.¡±

    I nod up at her, shaking off the last of my sleep. I guess this is my first night on the job.

    ¡°Great!¡± Ember exclaims as she gets a good look at my determined nod. ¡°Tonight¡¯s mostly about getting you used to the organisation, the area and the city. Nothing too complex, but I need to bring you up to speed on a few things.¡±

    Good. The more I can learn about this city, the better. It still amazes me, with all its wonders and impossibilities, but that amazement is stained by the bitter reality. I know now that, however beautiful the city may seem, it can be dangerous too. Not dangerous in the obvious way, like those stitched-together men who came down from the north, but dangerous in ways I can¡¯t even begin to understand.

    Subtle ways; like needles that kill and men who buy them anyway.

    I need to stop just seeing the city and start properly understanding it. For that, I need someone who knows the city, who belongs in it. Who moves through the city, its bright lights and its glittering towers, as easily as I move through its shadows. That¡¯s Ember.

    I stand up, putting the notebook aside on a bookshelf and look up at Ember, expectantly.

    ¡°Might want to bring the notebook with you,¡± she says. ¡°We¡¯re not looking for any fights tonight, and conversations are always better when they go both ways.¡±

    I let out a sound in agreement, more a couple of clicks than anything else, and pick up the notepad and pen, clutching them close to my chest as I follow her out the door and into the short corridor. Unlike Ember¡¯s lovely office, the corridor is a lot more utilitarian. It¡¯s like the rest of the security station, what little I¡¯ve seen of it, in that it was clearly painted and decorated to erase what was here before, rather than to add anything new.

    Ember doesn¡¯t take me far, pushing open the first door we come across and stepping into an expansive room that might have been the master bedroom, back when this was still a house. Whatever carpet was here before has been replaced by a hard surface that looks easy to clean, the bed, wardrobes, dressers and vanity switched out for two rows of desks with picture screens hooked up to typewriters. An entire wall of the room has been covered in more picture screens, showing people moving throughout the streets of what I quickly recognise as the Red-Light district.

    Everyone looks at us as we step into the room, but most of them quickly turn back to their screens. One woman doesn¡¯t, instead stepping up from her desk and walking towards us. She¡¯s dressed in the same crisp grey uniform as the other people in the room, and most of the other guards I¡¯ve seen around the district, but what most draws my eye is that she¡¯s almost the spitting image of Ember. Or, she¡¯s at least close enough that most people would have trouble telling the difference at first.

    ¡°This is the camera room,¡± Ember explains, ignoring her doppelganger for the moment. ¡°From here we can monitor the whole neighbourhood.¡±

    She turns, clapping a hand on the woman¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°Collier here runs the whole show, and also helps coordinate our people over the radio. Collier, this is Nightcrawler. She¡¯ll be working for me from now on, so I¡¯m showing her how we do things.¡±

    The woman bends down a little, stretching out a hand for me to shake. She seems a little nervous about getting close to me, but she¡¯s doing a good job at hiding it.

    ¡°Hi!¡± She smiles, a friendly, disarming, look that doesn¡¯t quite reach her eyes. ¡°Nice to meet you! I¡¯m Amara Collier and, like Ember said, this is my little kingdom.¡±

    She steps over to the desks and gestures behind her to the wall of monitors.

    ¡°We¡¯ve got full coverage of all the streets, and plenty of coverage of the alleyways around the district.¡± She leans back, comfortably typing backwards for a few moments as the image on the picture screen next to her resolves into a strangely coloured image of an alleyway.

    ¡°You might recognise this one,¡± she says, as the blocky outline of a case falls out of a window and into the dumpster below, shortly followed by a lithe black shape that disperses itself into shadows as it hits the pitch-black sacks of refuse, lit strangely white by the odd overlay.

    If I could, I¡¯d probably be blushing. I never stood a chance at escaping with that money.

    ¡°We¡¯ve got night vision on most of the external cameras,¡± Amara continues, ignorant of my embarrassment, ¡°and we¡¯re slowly working on upgrading them with thermals. Most of the work we do here is about identifying threats. The bouncers all have radios, but they can¡¯t see everything. We can pick up on fights as they happen, and dispatch security officers. What¡¯s most valuable is the facial recognition software we have. It helps us spot pushers from the Triad or some of the smaller gangs and keep them out of the district.¡±

    She stops talking as I scribble out a question on my notepad and pass it over to her.

    ¡®What¡¯s a pusher?¡¯

    She chuckles, fixing Ember with a disbelieving look.

    ¡°Where did you find her, ma¡¯am?¡±

    ¡°She followed me home,¡± Ember answers tersely, even as she grins, before gesturing for Amara to answer my question.

    ¡°Right, well¡­¡± She hesitates for a brief moment, like she¡¯s putting her thoughts in order. ¡°Pushers sell drugs for the gangs. In this case, the main problem is people from Triad affiliates coming into the district and selling inferior product. Not only is it a revenue stream we don¡¯t want them to have, it tends to bring overdoses and even deaths into the district. The last thing we need is bad quality drugs bringing down heat on our operation. Quite aside from the risks, too many cops in the neighbourhood tends to drive away customers. That hits our bottom line.¡±

    I nod, even though I understood maybe half of that. I got the important bits; that ¡®pushers¡¯ sell ¡®drugs¡¯ and that ¡®drugs¡¯ cause deaths. It¡¯s the last pieces of the puzzle I needed; drugs are a vice, like the vices that happen here, and Mike spent the money I brought him to fuel that vice. It hurt him, but he didn¡¯t care.

    What was it he said to me? In that alleyway, beneath the pouring rain?

    I need money. I need it for food, I need it for clothes, I need it to cope with everything that¡¯s going on. To get through the night.

    This place¡­ it¡¯s full of vice, no doubt about that. But at least they¡¯re keeping those needles away.

    ¡°Got any more questions for her, hun?¡± Ember asks me, before waving Amara back to her workplace as I shake my head. I do scribble out a quick remark once we¡¯ve left the room, though.

    ¡®She looks a lot like you.¡¯

    Ember smirks. ¡°You noticed that, huh? Yeah, there¡¯s a few like her around here. I think she worked in LA before, but when I got put in charge here the company moved her up north, along with a security officer and a HR admin who also have a pretty similar build, height and skin tone to me. As for me, Violet Rucker is on the books as an admin dogsbody.¡±

    She looks around for a moment, up and down the corridor, before taking off her orange mask and passing it over to me. I turn it over in my hands, looking for anything particularly special about it. I thought there might be something hidden on the inside of the mask, but there¡¯s nothing.

    ¡°As a Parahuman, the most important thing I have is my identity. It¡¯s the only thing keeping the government from forcing me into one of their pet teams, and it¡¯s the only thing stopping the Triad from sending Bloody Mary to kill me in my sleep.¡±

    She kneels down, resting a hand on my shoulder and looking me straight in the eye as she sets her mask back on her face.

    ¡°It¡¯s also something you don¡¯t have, which means you need to be careful. I know you like to roam about and I¡¯m not going to tell you not to, but you need to make sure that nobody can build up a connection between Nightcrawler and Violet Rucker. If you go out, make sure nobody sees you coming or going, okay?¡±

    I nod my head and fix her with a determined stare ¨C which is easy enough with six eyes ¨C until her stern, worried look turns into a friendly smile as she gently squeezes my shoulder and stands up.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, I¡¯ve got a few more things I need to show you, and the night isn¡¯t getting any younger.¡±

    She takes me down the stairs of the converted house and out into the little fort they¡¯ve built in the middle of the city, ringed by stone walls topped by strange coils of wire with what looks like sharp blades stuck to the metal. We stop at her car, as Ember takes a bland-looking raincoat out of the trunk, draping it over the crook of her arm. Then we step out of the neatly-kept compound and into the anarchic mass of deep red lights and rich shadows that makes up the appropriately named Red-Light district.

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    Somehow, the red lights don¡¯t hurt as bad as the ones inside the compound, and they¡¯re nowhere near as painful as the sun. It still doesn¡¯t feel right to be standing in the light, especially with how everyone keeps looking at me ¨C both the customers and the¡­ well, I suppose workers is as good a word as any. The former are more obvious about it than the latter, though both groups tend to give us plenty of space to walk unhindered.

    ¡°Like I said,¡± Ember talks as she walks me through the heart of the district, ¡°we¡¯re mostly here as flashy security. Ninety percent of the time we¡¯re not even needed; Jaarsveld¡¯s boys are more than capable of dealing with a few rowdy drunks. I¡¯ve got an earpiece hooked up to our comms, but I assume that¡¯s not an option for you?¡±

    I scowl, nodding my head. My inability to take things with me into the shadows is¡­ frustrating, to put it lightly.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll tell Jaarsveld to make sure each of his guys is carrying a notebook or a small whiteboard or something. Maybe even see about having someone teach you hand signals. If you see something that looks like trouble, go find one of the guys and they¡¯ll radio Collier. I figured you¡¯d be happier sticking to the shadows anyway, right?¡±

    I nod a lot more firmly this time. I don¡¯t mind walking down the street like this, because I understand it¡¯s something I need to do to keep Ember¡¯s company, and my room in her house, but I¡¯d be a lot more comfortable in the dark.

    ¡°I get it. Feel free to roam around as much as you want, so long as you stick within the district while you¡¯re on-shift and don¡¯t go inside any of the buildings unless things are really going wrong. People come here when they want to really cut loose, and it¡¯s important that we keep people thinking that they¡¯ve got the privacy to do that.¡±

    Ember stops talking to me for a quick second as a man in a suit jacket flags her down from the other side of the street. I peer across at them, but I don¡¯t get any closer. I¡¯ve had my fill of talking for now, and they¡¯re standing right under a streetlight. I think he must be the owner of one of the¡­ establishments here. He¡¯s a lot more laid back than the customers, and his shirt is patterned with bright, vaguely floral, designs that¡¯re a lot more flamboyant than the style anywhere else in the city.

    As I watch the two of them talking, I can¡¯t help but notice that the crowd aren¡¯t giving me quite the same amount of space they gave me and Ember, and that the man she¡¯s talking to is acting almost deferentially towards her. As she finishes up her conversation and strolls back across the street, I scribble out a quick observation.

    ¡®Everyone here respects you.¡¯

    She looks at me oddly, like I¡¯ve just reminded her that the sky is black, or something.

    ¡°Well yeah, I¡¯m in charge. Collier and Jaarsveld are both good at their jobs, and decent enough once you get to know them, but the Elite is an organisation run by Parahumans, for Parahumans. Everybody in the world wants to control us, whether it¡¯s the PRT who want us as soldiers, gangs who want us as muscle or politicians who treat us as friends or enemies depending on which way the Washington wind¡¯s blowing. The Elite is the only way we have of asserting our right to decide our own future.¡±

    I nod, even though it¡¯s a little hard for me to see the difference right now. I¡¯m with Ember because she keeps me safe, and that¡¯s all I need. I could get that safety from other groups ¨C maybe ¨C but I don¡¯t know anything about them. Ultimately, though, Ember¡¯s the one keeping me safe. Not the Elite.

    I don¡¯t talk to Ember again, following a pace behind her as she walks a meandering route through the whole district, gladhanding with every guard and every owner of every den of vice. I start to put together a clearer picture of her role here. The cameras might keep everything safe, but they¡¯re hard to spot ¨C I certainly didn¡¯t spot them. Right now, Ember is a physical reminder of what the owners of all these businesses are paying for; the sort of safety that nobody else can offer.

    I¡¯m a little lost in thought, and a little intimidated by all the people around us, to the point where I almost walk into Ember where she stops, touching her earbud with one finger as she listens to a voice that only she can hear. Abruptly, she turns off, striding down a dark alley, away from the lights of the district and into the warren of alleys that surrounds it.

    I follow her, occasionally tossing my notebook out in front of me and darting through the shadows to catch it before it hits the ground. It feels good to slip back in and out of the darkness; the red lights aren¡¯t as harsh as some of the other lights I¡¯ve seen, but they¡¯re nothing compared to the feeling of comfort and safety I get from slipping into the shadows. I catch the notebook with my tail and toss it high up into the air, soaring up the shadowed side of the building and snatching the book as it¡¯s two stories high before landing, perfectly poised, on the railing of the fire escape.

    The metal structure is rusted, creaking and groaning even under my slight weight. Ember turns at the sound, smiling and laughing before shaking her head and carrying on down the alleyway. From my perch, I can see the headlights of a car approaching, but Ember doesn¡¯t seem phased. I drop down, leaping from the fire escape onto a dumpster before landing a little behind Ember as the vehicle ¨C a van ¨C comes to a stop in front of us.

    The driver leaves the engine running as he steps out into the alleyway. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the headlights and see him as anything more than a vaguely masculine silhouette, but a picture starts to come together. He¡¯s tall, with broad shoulders and skin that¡¯s lighter than Ember¡¯s, but not as light as most of the people in the city. His clothes are very martial, if a little rougher and more practical than Jaeger¡¯s uniform, with a mask covering the top half of his face, held in place by a red bandanna.

    Inevitably, I find my gaze drifting towards the pistol and the wicked-looking axe attached to his belt.

    He pulls a cigarette and a lighter out of one of his pockets, the red glow of tobacco lighting his face up a little. His skin is weathered, and pockmarked by scars. There¡¯s a menace to him, an air of violence and danger. Unconsciously, I creep back to hide a little more of me behind Ember.

    ¡°Nice of you to drop by, Wovoka,¡± Ember says, utterly unintimidated.

    ¡°Not a problem, Ember,¡± he says, flashing a mouth full of white teeth that has me thinking more of a snarling wolf than a smiling man. ¡°Always happy to visit your fine little patch of heaven.¡±

    ¡°I hope I¡¯m not interrupting anything important.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re all swept off our feet right now,¡± Wovoka begins like he¡¯s angry, before leaning against the hood of his van and taking another drag from his cigarette, ¡°but no, nothing important. Moving the militia into the city is slow work, but it¡¯s something my lieutenants can handle on their own. It¡¯s a waiting game, and Black Rod figured I might as well wait here.¡±

    He leans forward, flicking a glowing speck of ash onto the concrete, and fixes me with a piercing stare.

    ¡°Who¡¯s your shadow? New hire?¡±

    ¡°Got it in one,¡± Ember says, stepping aside a little as he subtly tries to peer at me past her legs. I want to slip into the shadows again, but Ember¡¯s costume is skin-tight, without any obvious places to hide, and I¡¯m not desperate enough to leap over to the shadows at the side of the alley.

    ¡°She¡¯s the reason I called you in, actually,¡± Ember continues. ¡°I want to show Nightcrawler the city, teach her the lay of the land, but she¡¯s very nocturnal.¡±

    ¡°Not to mention quite hard to hide.¡± Wovoka chuckles to himself. In a mean way.

    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised,¡± Ember retorts, with an easy confidence in her voice that has me straighten up and fix the intimidating man with my most piercing stare.

    ¡°Whatever.¡± He leers at me for a moment before his eyes dart back to Ember. ¡°I¡¯m assuming you want me to keep out of sight?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Tune into our radio frequency and keep an ear out for trouble. Don¡¯t transmit anything. My people know you¡¯re covering for me, but if they¡¯re quiet about it then they can pretend this is just anonymous vigilantism in case the PRT comes sniffing. Don¡¯t fuck it up and I¡¯ll front the cost of a girl for you, as a little reward.¡±

    ¡°Do you really think I¡¯m that shallow?¡± he asks, deliberately taking in an eyeful of Ember.

    ¡°Do you really want me to answer that?¡± she snaps back, with a voice as cold as ice. ¡°Come on, Nightcrawler, we¡¯ve got a long night ahead of us.¡±

    Ember puts on her raincoat, the thigh-length material and deep hood turning her from an obvious Cape into a woman with slightly strange taste in pants.

    Wovoka simply snorts, stepping around his van and sliding open a door at the side. After a second, the headlights are switched off, leaving just a little light bleeding through the open door. Ember walks past the van and I follow by her side, putting her in-between me and the van.

    As I pass, I sneak a quick glance through the open door. Wovoka is there, sitting on a filthy mattress and leaning up against the wall. Another one of those picture-boxes is mounted on the wall opposite him, showing some sort of drama if the sound is anything to go on. At the back of the van, I catch a brief glimpse of some fancy-looking radio equipment and about a dozen rifles lined up on a rack.

    For the first time, I find myself wondering about the organisation I¡¯ve signed up to. Ember is alright ¨C I can see that she cares ¨C but everyone I¡¯ve met from outside her group has been terrifying, whether it¡¯s Jaeger with his clinical disinterest or Wovoka and his barely-restrained savagery. More than ever, I find myself determined to stick close to Ember, to trust her to steer me safely through this new life.

 Initiate: 2.05

    I push down, putting all my weight on the staircase so it swings down from the fire escape and into Ember¡¯s waiting arms. She led me through the streets and alleys of Seattle before randomly stopping at this building and asking me to help her get to the roof. I was perfectly happy to oblige.

    As she clambers up the stairs, the rusted metal of the structure starts to creak and groan under even her slight weight. We¡¯re a little further north, which means the buildings are a little worse for wear. I move up ahead of her, the metal not even wincing at my weight. I don¡¯t think I actually weigh a lot less than her ¨C I can hit someone pretty hard with a runup ¨C so maybe something about my powers or my body muffles my movements, lightening my touch.

    Once I¡¯m on the roof, the city opens up in front of me. In one direction, there¡¯s the black expanse of the north, where sparse buildings and streetlights slowly give way to water-damaged streets long since shuttered up and abandoned. Those shuffling amalgams of flesh and machinery came from the north. In the distance, a patch of glowing white light emerges from the sparse spots of yellowy-orange, some immense building holding firm among the dead city.

    To the south, the living city stretches up to the heavens. The distant towers, glittering spires rising up from canyons permanently glowing an incandescent haze. From this distant perch, it looks like a city that never sleeps; where darkness never touches the roads and even the alleyways are well lit.

    Is it wrong that the thought of those brilliant streets scares me more than the dark expanse of the north?

    At long last, Ember emerges from the fire escape. Granted, she can¡¯t skip up the shadows like I can, but I need to take my victories where I can find them. She doesn¡¯t seem affected by losing our race ¨C probably because I never told her we were racing ¨C instead unzipping her concealing raincoat and tossing it aside.

    The transformation is like night and day. With the raincoat on and her masked face hidden beneath the shadows of the hood, she almost blended into the environment. There are a lot of people out there who walk like they don¡¯t want the world to notice them, especially in this part of the city.

    But take the coat off and she suddenly goes from someone who wants to hide to someone who wants to be seen.

    The cut of her costume is one thing, drawing the eye of at least half the population, but it¡¯s also in the colour. Most of her costume is charcoal-grey, almost black, but the orange lines twisting up her arms and legs, curling around her torso, draw the eye in even more. It¡¯s in how she carries herself, too. Proud and upright, like nothing in the world can root her from her spot.

    Ember sits down on a boxy piece of long-abandoned machinery, one leg resting on the other as she stares out at the distant city.

    ¡°You can¡¯t beat that view.¡±

    She chuckles to herself,

    ¡°When people think of Capes, this is probably what they picture. Lone figures standing on a rooftop at night, with a cityscape stretched out in front of them. Of course, this high that¡¯s all you can really see. You can¡¯t see the streets unless you¡¯re leaning right over the edge. You can¡¯t move anywhere, either, not unless you¡¯ve got a power that lets you leap forty feet at a time. But still, there¡¯s something about spandex on rooftops that holds people¡¯s imagination.¡±

    I cock my head to one side and look up at her, curiously.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± She smiles down at me. ¡°The problem with one-sided conversations is that there¡¯s nobody to stop me from going off on tangents.¡±

    She stands up, stretching aches out of her arms and looking around at the adjacent rooftops.

    ¡°Anyway, I brought you up here because it¡¯s quiet. Alleyways are good, but there¡¯s always somebody wandering around down there: gangbangers, vagrants, junkies or just couples looking for a quiet place to screw. But who in their right mind would hang out on the roof of a derelict shithole like this?¡±

    She leans over the edge, looking down at the near pitch-black alleyway at the base of the fire escape like she¡¯s making sure we won¡¯t be disturbed. Then, gracefully, she spins on her heels and grins at me.

    ¡°By now I¡¯ve got a pretty good picture of what you can do. It¡¯s more than just merging with darkness, isn¡¯t it? You can jump out of the darkness, fast enough to catch a notebook in mid-air. I¡¯d bet good money you can go fast enough to leap between buildings.¡±

    I nod, more than a little proud, and slip into the shadowed rooftop. I hurl myself along its length then, right before the lip of the roof, leap out of the shadows as my momentum carries me across the alleyway and onto the sloped roof of the building opposite. At the sound of applause, I turn back to Ember and duck my head in a brief bow, before dipping into the shadows again and leaping back across the gap to land right at her feet.

    ¡°Very impressive. You¡¯d make a great spy, you know. No wonder you were so hard to track down.¡±

    She sits back down on the rusted box of machinery, taking on a slightly worrying look.

    ¡°Tell me¡­ when you¡¯re merged with the shadows, do you feel differently? Think differently?¡±

    I pause for a moment, thoughts moving through my head like lightning. I can¡¯t help but think of the night I found Mike after he-

    I ran away because I was filled with terror, with guilt and regret. It was all I could think about, all I could imagine, until I slipped into the shadows and all those fears were swept away with a kind of cold but calm serenity. A clarity of thought.

    I nod, causing a sad expression to pass briefly across Ember¡¯s face.

    ¡°I thought so. The PRT have a way of classifying powers. It¡¯s not really perfect. It was designed to provide some baseline grunt with an idea of the sort of threat they¡¯re going up against ¨C which says a whole fucking lot about their priorities, if you ask me ¨C but it¡¯s good enough for government work.¡±

    She shakes her head, realising she¡¯s gone off on another tangent.

    ¡°You¡¯re what they¡¯d call a Stranger and a Mover, because you¡¯re hard to find and very fast, but you¡¯re also a Breaker. It means you shift your body into a different state ¨C your shadows. The thing about Breakers is that they tend to think differently when they¡¯re shifted. That altered state fucks with their head.¡±

    She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees for a moment before letting out a breath and standing up.

    ¡°I¡¯m a Breaker too. We¡¯re probably going to have to fight alongside each other at some point, so you need to understand my powers as well. Thing is, my altered state fucks with my head something fierce.¡±

    Instinctively, I start to back away from her as all the colour seems to drain from her costume and her face, the surfaces of skin and fabric shifting instantly, making it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. In an instant, she¡¯s gone from looking perfectly normal to resembling a statue formed of compacted ash, her hair flowing and trailing off at the tips into a fine grey powder.

    Suddenly, less than a second after the first change, cracks of glowing fire start to form on the surface as she takes a step forwards, a spiderweb of orange lines that creeps up and down her body. She opens her eyes, ashen eyelids peeling back from burning pits of orange light. Her mouth doesn¡¯t move ¨C I don¡¯t think it can.

    Her burning gaze settles on me as she holds out an arm to one side. Starting at her elbow and travelling down to her fingertips, the glowing cracks of her arm spread and grow even brighter, until her whole arm is burning with a bright orange glow. Then, her hand explodes in a flash of bright light as a flaming projectile of clumped ash soars across to the next building. For a moment, she¡¯s left there with just a stump of an arm until ash creeps down from her elbow to reform the limb.

    I simply watch, terrified and transfixed in equal measure, as the glowing lines start to dim, occasionally flaring back up as Ember seems to struggle to get them under control. Once they¡¯re entirely gone, her ashen form disappears and reshapes itself until she¡¯s standing in front of me looking just the same as she did before the transformation.

    Some of my terror must have crept into my face, because she lets out a long, drawn-out, sigh.

    ¡°Pretty scary, right?¡±

    I nod. She¡¯s the third Parahuman I¡¯ve ever seen use their power, after the child in the store and the armoured giant who fought alongside the soldiers. Mike¡¯s fear of them ¨C of me, when we first met ¨C makes a lot more sense now.

    ¡°It¡¯s useful, though. Can¡¯t be denied. Bullets pass straight through me when I¡¯m shifted, and the more of my body I burn the stronger those blasts get. The problem is that it makes me think differently. I get angry, but in a very cold way. It makes me hard to reason with, makes it hard to let go of that power. I wouldn¡¯t hurt you or anything ¨C it¡¯s not that extreme ¨C but be careful, okay?¡±

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    I nod, firmly. Frankly, I¡¯m glad to have an excuse to keep back when she¡¯s like that.

    Once she¡¯s seen my acknowledgement, Ember walks over to her raincoat and slips it back on, putting the hood up and becoming just another anonymous figure in a city full of them.

    ¡°So now you understand the job and you understand me, but I¡¯m not too sure you understand Seattle and I¡¯d much rather show you than tell you,¡± she says, gesturing at the deep shadows of her hood.

    I take her meaning immediately, springing at her face with a running jump and merging with the shadows. She takes a half step back in shock before controlling her reaction and letting out a low chuckle, shaking her head in weary resignation.

    She doesn¡¯t talk as she descends down the fire escape and into the alley, heading off in a seemingly random direction. I never really paid attention to where I was going when I went out at night, only focusing on making sure I always knew how to get back. The city was simply too big for me to take in, too massive for me to even begin to understand. But Ember¡¯s been here for years, and she clearly knows the city, or just this part of it, like the back of her hand.

    She wanders down back-alleys and side streets, through the overgrown gardens of abandoned homes and into the better-lit districts where the city is still clinging to life. These streets have more people on them, huddled figures out on business or drunken gangs of friends staggering down the street with beer cans and bottles clutched in their unsteady grip, murky brown liquid occasionally sloshing out to stain the pavement.

    Ember moves through the sparse streets as just another anonymous figure, huddled in on herself both to make others dismiss her and to deepen the shadows of her hood, hiding her masked face and letting me see out of the darkness. Occasionally, the headlights of a passing car would play across the hood and illuminate the bottom half of her face, but it never comes close to illuminating her mask.

    I get the feeling Ember has a lot of experience sneaking around like this.

    Abruptly, she crosses the street, hurrying a little to get ahead of a slow-moving van before resuming her sedate pace once she¡¯s on the opposite pavement. I¡¯m confused, peering out of her hood to try and get an idea of what I just saw. There¡¯s a woman in front of us who crossed the street at the same time, her arms hugged close against her chest as her too-small dress does nothing to keep out the chill, but I don¡¯t see why Ember would cross the street for her.

    Then I spot them, sitting on the stairs of a brick building on the other side of the road. Five men, passing three lit cigarettes between them. They¡¯re looking out at the street with predatory disinterest, glaring at anyone who gets close to their building. Each of them is wearing strips of cloth, bandannas or armbands in the same light-blue colour I¡¯ve seen on a lot of the gangs around here, and it¡¯s clear they¡¯re there to guard the building.

    ¡°Do you know a lot about the gangs around here?¡± Ember whispers, quiet enough that only I can hear it. I form a hand over her shoulder and tap it twice; I stole from people who might be in gangs, and Mike liked to ramble about them every now and then, but I can¡¯t say I ever paid attention to who they were.

    ¡°Okay,¡± Ember keeps whispering, ¡°so there are a lot of gangs in this city, like any major city, but there are only a few big ones. Most of them are under Elite control, and any big gangs that aren¡¯t under our control get broken up pretty quick. The exception to that rule is the Triad.¡±

    She falls silent as a man shuffles past us, a bag of late-night grocery shopping dangling from his hand.

    ¡°See, the thing about the Triad is that they used to be our allies. They got invited to Seattle after Leviathan because they had contacts in some Pacific smuggling syndicates and they were looking for a place to put down roots. They expanded, brought a whole bunch of local gangs under their control, and helped us drive out the Bratva.¡±

    A car passes us, its headlights invasively bright, causing Ember to duck her head to keep her mask hidden. I catch a brief glimpse of four men inside, as well as what I think might be the barrel of a rifle.

    ¡°Things were pretty great. They¡¯d been moving closer and closer to us over the years, and there was talk of bringing them properly into the Elite. Then, about three months back, they abruptly cut off all contact and start aggressively taking territory. Now a lot of the smaller gangs are signing on with them, looking for a chance to topple our hold on the city. It¡¯s a total clusterfuck.¡±

    Ember kicks a can out into the road, venting her frustrations before shrinking back into her false meekness.

    ¡°You ask me what the number one threat to the city is, and I¡¯d say it¡¯s those Triad fucks. They¡¯re screwing up the status quo, bringing down heat that we really don¡¯t need, and they fucking good at it. They¡¯ve killed or crippled four of our Parahumans, and snatched away three others. One of them was a defector, but the other two just disappeared.¡±

    I can¡¯t help but feel a little uneasy. I¡¯ve spent the day being dragged from stronghold to stronghold, seeing all the men the Elite can put on the streets and all the incredible technology they have at their disposal. I joined the Elite because I wanted to feel safe ¨C and I do ¨C but I don¡¯t like that there¡¯s a force in this city that can threaten them.

    I¡¯ve already lost two lives: the life I can¡¯t remember, and the miserable life I made with Mike in that abandoned factory. I don¡¯t know if I could survive losing another.

    I don¡¯t look out much as Ember walks through Triad territory, instead choosing to hide myself away in the shadows of her raincoat, slipping down onto the small of her back. I stay like that, nestled in the darkness, until I feel her stride picking up a little. I shift back up to the shadows of her hood, peering out at a much more normal-looking neighbourhood.

    The streets here are a mix of newer-looking blocks of apartments, between five and eight stories tall, and older suburban homes that look like they¡¯re clinging on for dear life. In places, rows of partially-demolished houses wait surrounded by yellow tractors and construction equipment.

    ¡°You know, ten years ago all this was suburbs, as far as the eye could see,¡± Ember pipes up. ¡°Then everything north of Seattle gets waterlogged to shit and they start tearing down the white picket fences to make space for new apartments. Now there¡¯re running battles between the last middle-class holdouts and the property developers trying to get rich off rent.¡±

    The dynamics here are a little different. In the Triad¡¯s neighbourhood, Ember was just one of the crowd, crossing the street to avoid the gangs. Here, people are crossing the street to avoid her, or at least giving her plenty of space. It¡¯s not raining, so someone walking down the street with their hood up is a little suspicious in a neighbourhood where people don¡¯t need to keep their head down.

    It has me worried that someone will get angry or scared at us being here. I doubt the Triad have people out here, but there¡¯s also those government Capes, whatever they were called. If someone shouts for help, one of them might answer.

    But nobody comes. It¡¯s late at night, the streets are quiet, and the few people who are out have better things to do than worry about one slightly suspicious person. Ember walks through the city without issue, with me watching covertly through the shadows, staring intently at everyone and everything we pass.

    And then, we turn a corner and suddenly there¡¯s an immense wall at the end of the road, part of the great barrier that rings the city. It stretches high above me, as tall as a four-story building. A promenade has been built atop it, with shuttered shops and restaurants in the process of closing up for the night. Ember walks towards it, ignoring the stairs up to the promenade in favour of a small, well-lit tunnel that cuts through the wall itself, with a heavy steel door suspended over the entrance.

    The tunnel is brighter than any of the streets around it, so bright I have to duck back into the depths of Ember¡¯s coat to avoid being forced out. Luckily it doesn¡¯t last long, and the moment Ember steps out of the tunnel I¡¯m back in her hood, looking out eagerly at the water that surrounds the city.

    The tunnel opens up onto a lattice of marinas and jetties, each of them filled with gleaming white boats in all shapes and sizes. Behind the well-lit marina, the water is visible only as a jet-black expanse interspersed with glowing green and red buoys, while the faint glow of sparse streets and houses can be seen on the opposite bank.

    ¡°It¡¯s quite a sight,¡± Ember says, her mouth curling up into a smile, and I can¡¯t help but agree.

 Initiate: 2.06

    There¡¯s an eagerness in Ember¡¯s walk as she strides down the stairs and ramps to the wharf, something that was lacking as she took me across the city. She wasn¡¯t scared, but she was pretending she was. She was controlling her reactions, making herself beneath the notice of the people out on the streets. Now that we¡¯re out of the city, on the other side of the wall, she¡¯s letting the real her out a little.

    The marina¡¯s network of long jetties is kept separate from the rest of the city by a small gateway attached to a security office. There¡¯s a man in there, young and bored, his face bathed in the white glow of his telephone and with the sound of some discordant mess that might be music coming from his radio. He¡¯s clearly a guard, but his uniform isn¡¯t the same as Ember¡¯s people in the Red-Light district.

    He doesn¡¯t even look up as Ember steps past him and opens the gate, typing in a short sequence on some metal numbers to open the lock. She doesn¡¯t acknowledge him, either, instead solely focused on the rows of pristine white boats on either side of the jetty. Eventually, and seemingly at random, she stops at an absolute monster of a boat that looks about forty feet long.

    She reaches out to pat its side, stroking it for a moment like it¡¯s a fine horse, before unlocking a chain around the mooring rope and tossing both it and the chain onto the front of the boat. From my position inside her coat, I feel her hand brushing into her pocket as she fishes out a pair of keys and starts the boat; a throaty and powerful engine thrumming to life.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to be perfectly honest with you,¡± Ember begins as she leans over the controls, idly resting her hand on a metal lever, ¡°I could have taken you out in the car and shown you everything you need to see, but then I wouldn¡¯t get a chance to show off my yacht.¡±

    She pushes a lever forward, and we start to move through the lanes of the marina, past a wall of heaped stones and out into the open water. The water glows yellow with the light of the city, fading a few dozen yards out into an inky blackness. Flashing green buoys break apart the darkness, two lanes marking out a long channel through the treacherous waters, while particular hazards are marked by red beacons of their own.

    Once we¡¯re clear of the city lights, she slows the engine and speaks.

    ¡°You can come out now, if you want. People won¡¯t be able to see you this far out.¡±

    I pounce out of the hood of her jacket, perching on all fours at the very front and looking back at the glowing city with beady eyes. Ember smiles at me as she sends the boat lurching forwards, almost skimming across the water¡¯s surface. The hood of Ember¡¯s jacket falls back, flapping in the breeze behind her, but she doesn¡¯t seem to care. She¡¯s lost in the moment, her teeth flashing like a beacon in the darkness as her hair whips behind her head. She pushes the lever further, and the boat moves even faster.

    ¡°I should buy a cloak!¡± She shouts, so I can hear her over rushing water and the throaty roar of the engine. ¡°One with a really deep hood so you can see out of it! I could throw it at people and you could jump out and surprise them!¡±

    I nod enthusiastically, though I¡¯m not really thinking about how it¡¯d help in a fight. I don¡¯t like it when strangers see me. I don¡¯t like their stares, or¡­ the way they stare. If Ember¡¯s costume had a few more places to hide, I could keep out of sight for as long as I wanted. I smile, as Ember makes the boat go even faster.

    Ember ignores the lanes of shimmering green lights, ducking and weaving through the open water without fear of our small craft hitting anything beneath the waves. A truly immense ship is travelling down the lane, heading opposite us. It¡¯s a metal behemoth, larger than every building outside the gleaming spires in the city centre. Its flanks are slabs of solid metal, topped by a towering assortment of identical metal boxes. We push past it, and I turn to look at its flat-sided back. A name has been painted there, faded white letters flecked red with rust. Taika Maru.

    We hit its wake, sending the front of the boat lurching upwards before plunging down and hitting the surface of the water, dousing us both with sea-spray that fills my open mouth with the taste of salt and whips Ember¡¯s hair back and forth in sodden strands that stick to her face. She laughs as she brushes her hair away from her eyes, pushing the boat to go even faster. I leap down onto the deck, slipping into the shadows for a moment to shake off the water.

    ¡°Pretty fun, right?¡± She shouts, grinning from ear to ear. ¡°I grew up in Vegas, about as far from water as it¡¯s possible to get, so this is basically heaven as far as I¡¯m concerned!¡±

    Ember looks like she¡¯s having the time of her life, and I want to share in her joy. So I prop my forelimbs up next to the controls and pull myself up so I¡¯m as close to standing on two legs as I can get. If I were standing up completely straight, I¡¯d be as tall as she is. As it stands, she¡¯s got a good foot and a half on me.

    Still, it¡¯s enough for me to see through the boat¡¯s windscreen, to watch as we push through the inky-black water. The sight of those mirky depths plants an idea in my head, so I pounce up onto the side of the boat and leap off into the water, merging with the shadows the moment I hit the surface.

    I hear a shocked shout from Ember, before it turns into a full-bellied laugh as I start to leap out of the water like a salmon swimming upstream, easily keeping pace with the boat. I catch a brief flash of a fierce grin on Ember¡¯s face before she pushes the handle all the way forwards and the boat speeds ahead.

    I chase her, the two of us dancing through the waves. Each time I submerge myself in the depths, merging with the darkness, I catch glimpses of the debris that litters the floor of the channel. Wrecked cars, crashed planes, sunken ships and great chunks of concrete barriers litter the sea floor, the largest obstructions marked above the water by flashing red buoys. It¡¯s a morbid sight, but I¡¯m too caught up in the mood to care.

    When Ember¡¯s boat swings to a stop just ahead of me, the propellers shifting their flow to counter her movement, I leap, bone dry, back onto the deck. Immediately, Ember¡¯s by my side, whooping and cheering as she pulls me back against the side of the boat, one arm wrapped over my shoulders in a tight hug. I match her cheers and laughter with chirps, whistles and shrieks of my own until we¡¯re both sitting there with our backs against the side, laughing like lunatics.

    It feels nice, comfortable¡­ intimate in a way I never was with Mike. I feel like we understand each other, like I can trust her to keep me safe in this strange and confusing world. She¡¯s like¡­ she¡¯s like an older sister, who gets what I¡¯m going through because she¡¯s been through it herself. She hasn¡¯t, of course, but she knows this world, this city. Knows it like the back of her hand.

    She knows how to survive it, and how to live in it. All the little cultural things that come from having powers, all the strange and confusing things in this city that everyone else finds so normal, that everyone else takes for granted. Right now, I feel safer than I ever have before, but it¡¯s more than that. I feel accepted.

    It¡¯s why, when the boat drifts around so we¡¯re looking at a long stretch of wall running along the coast and she flinches, I get worried. She didn¡¯t bring me out here to have fun. She brought me here to teach me, and maybe to warn me.

    The wall looks like it started life as one of the sea walls the city has further south, but it¡¯s clearly been patched up in places by much thinner walls. The whole thing is ringed by blinding floodlights that fill the air above them with a harsh white glow, but they¡¯re not pointing out towards the water. They¡¯re pointing inwards, a whole section of the city sealed off and kept perfectly illuminated.

    Ember lets out a long, drawn out, sigh. Her shoulders slump and she takes her arm away from the hug, standing up and staring out at the patch of incandescent light. I get up and move over her, putting her in-between me and that sterile, dead glow.

    ¡°The Triad are the new threat,¡± she begins. ¡°They¡¯re hitting hard and fast. They¡¯re flashy, dramatic, in every paper and on every local news broadcast. That is the old threat. They call it the Hive. It¡¯s slow, quiet most of the time, and so old it¡¯s become part of the scenery.¡±

    She shakes her head, an angry scowl showing on her face.

    ¡°It was scary enough when it first showed up. Before I moved here, of course, but I think I remember seeing it on the news, way back when. But the threat stayed long enough that the news moved on. The people moved on, too. The problem never went away, but dealing with it became¡­ routine. It¡¯s just human nature, I guess. It exists, but there¡¯s nothing we can do about that. So just put your hood up and press on, never mind the storm. It¡¯s the only choice we have.¡±

    She turns away from the sight, sitting on the edge of the boat to look at me. I don¡¯t look back. I¡¯m transfixed by the light, unable to look away. Like a deer, frozen in front of a hunter.

    ¡°That right there is the Lynnwood Exclusion Zone. They used to call it a Quarantine Zone, till they realised it wasn¡¯t quarantining shit. Oh, the Hive stays in there, but that¡¯s because it wants to. Every now and then it¡¯ll send out groups of drones and augmented cyborgs, to snatch raw materials for whatever fucking reason. People too¡­ sometimes.¡±

    The machine men. Those soulless creatures I saw fighting the Cape in the armoured suit.

    ¡°You know what the real kicker is?¡± Ember smiles, but it¡¯s a bitter thing. ¡°We¡¯re pretty sure he¡¯s one of ours.¡±

    I blink in shock, my gaze snapping away from the light to look at Ember with a desperate, pleading question I can¡¯t ask. I know the Elite aren¡¯t¡­ completely nice. I¡¯ve seen Jaeger and Wovoka, but those things¡­ They¡¯re so much worse.

    ¡°There was this Cape, back in ninety-nine. He was a Tinker who specialised in virtual reality interfaces, or something like that. He called himself Game Master, tried to set up an arcade in Lynnwood where people could immerse themselves in other worlds, live out their fantasies. Nothing explicit, mind you. He wasn¡¯t that sort of guy. The Elite reached out to him, offered to handle the legalities of it all in exchange for a cut of a profit. Pretty standard practice. There¡¯s about half a dozen Parahuman businesses in Seattle using our support.¡±

    She stretches out a finger, dragging it along the coast either side of the light. It¡¯s clear that an enormous sea wall used to run along the whole thing, like it does to the south, but it¡¯s broken and shattered, with great chunks of concrete taller than some buildings littering the shore.

    ¡°Then Leviathan hit in oh-three, and his arcade was caught up in the worst of it. He reached out to the Elite for support, but they were stretched to breaking point. They told him to abandon his arcade and they¡¯d get him out of the city, but he refused. Things got worse, and he went dark. Then, about a month later, these things start coming out of Lynnwood. People with crude circuitry controlling their bodies, and drones run by the brains of stray pets.¡±

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    Ember turns away from the light, a sad smile on her face.

    ¡°I¡¯m told things were pretty bad. Half of the city was still underwater, about a hundred thousand people had suddenly been turned into homeless refugees and, right in the middle of all that chaos, the Hive paints the streets red with blood. The worst part is that all of it could have been avoided if he¡¯d just swallowed his pride and evacuated.¡±

    The smile falls as she leans forwards and looks me right in the eye.

    ¡°The number one killer for Parahumans is arrogance. You¡¯re powerful, sure, but be smart about it. You can¡¯t fight the world on your own. If you¡¯re ever stuck in a hopeless situation, don¡¯t try and fight it. Just run, as far and as fast as you can.¡±

    I nod. I don¡¯t even have to think about it. It¡¯s been my first instinct for as long as I can remember: to duck into the shadows at the first sign of trouble, to avoid being seen whenever possible, to strike from ambush, if I need to strike at all. It comes naturally to me.

    Ember stands up, nodding seriously at me and getting back behind the wheel.

    ¡°Good. You¡¯re my responsibility, after all. The last thing I need or want is you getting hurt because you were too stubborn to run. I¡¯d blame myself, and that¡¯s not very healthy.¡±

    So, she does care. There¡¯s not much I can do to show that it¡¯s mutual, except using my forelimbs to prop myself up next to her so that we¡¯re both looking out over the console. I¡¯m not fully upright, so she¡¯s still got a good foot or two of height on me, but I¡¯m standing as straight as my joints allow. I know I won¡¯t ever be able to walk on two legs, but that¡¯s okay. Neither of us are normal, I¡¯m just a little more obvious about it.

    I can¡¯t help but let out a relieved sigh as Ember turns us away from the light, heading further away from the city, out along the straits. Gradually, the lights on the land either side of us start to drop off until there¡¯s just the guiding lights of the buoys to separate the water from the land.

    Ember¡¯s fallen strangely silent, almost contemplative, as we get further and further from the city. We start to pass more ancient debris, huge concrete blocks that¡¯ve been uprooted and tossed back by some force so immense I can¡¯t even begin to imagine it. A force strong enough to shatter a city so thoroughly that the fractures are still there seven years after the event.

    Ahead of us, a wall of blocky stone stretches between two narrow spurs of land, sealing in the waters around the city. Pinpricks of red light run along its balustrade, flashing a repeating pattern no-doubt meant to draw the eyes of approaching ships. As we get closer, it becomes clear that the wall is far from intact. Parts of it are simply missing, the lights strung on a wire between the gap, while others have shrunk or been damaged.

    One side of the wall is topped by a tall lighthouse, whose slowly-circling spotlight illuminates clusters of needle-like debris jutting out of the water and a shoreline warped and distorted by Leviathan¡¯s passing. There is only one passage through, a single deliberate gap marked by long rows of green buoys that chart a winding path through the treacherous water.

    Ember steers away from the main passage, instead following a winding route along a narrower path to the rightmost side of the wall, where a simple metal staircase clings to the stonework, ending in an empty jetty.

    Without saying a word, Ember cuts the engine and leaps onto the jetty, tying her boat to one of the moorings with a length of rope. Once she¡¯s secured a second line, she takes off her raincoat and tosses it into the back of the boat, leaving her in just her costume.

    I pounce onto the jetty and fix her with a quizzical look. She¡¯s been disguised since we left, so why stop now?

    ¡°A place like this¡­ you don¡¯t hide who you are. It¡¯s about respect. Nightcrawler, what I¡¯m about to show you¡­ it¡¯s important. It¡¯s something you need to see.¡±

    I¡¯m a little anxious as I follow her up the simple metal stairs, up the side of the towering fortification. It¡¯s like a great weight has settled on her shoulders; there¡¯s a solemness to her walk that wasn¡¯t there before. The climb isn¡¯t long, maybe four or five stories up from sea-level, but it feels like it takes an eternity.

    At the top of the wall, a section of ground has been deliberately flattened, compensating for the slight tilt of the structure itself. An obelisk stands in the centre of the flat expanse, a perfect needle twelve feet tall. It¡¯s made from some perfectly-black stone that¡¯s been polished to a perfect mirror-shine, enough that I can see six faint pinpricks of yellow as my own eyes stare back at me.

    One side of the obelisk catches the red light of one of the emergency beacons, revealing a long list of names carved into the stone, only visible as faint dimples under the light. Slowly, I pace forwards and rest my hand on the side closest to me, the one shrouded in darkness, and feel more names beneath my fingers. Cape names, all of them, with regular names written out next to them. Their secret identities? There must be dozens of them.

    ¡°This is a memorial to the sixty-two Parahumans who died holding Leviathan back, built on top of the only reason that Seattle¡¯s still standing. This wall kept Leviathan out for thirteen minutes, as he tried to push tsunami after tsunami into Puget Sound. Long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Vancouver and Portland. Then it broke, and Leviathan swept down towards the city.¡±

    She walks away from the obelisk, towards the side of the wall that faces away from the city, and I follow her. Beneath us, I can see water lapping at the base of the stone, five stories down.

    ¡°This wall was made by a Parahuman, back in ninety-eight when people finally realised that Leviathan wasn¡¯t just going to be a one-off thing. She grew this wall in a day, then negotiated a contract to build another wall around the city itself. NEPEA-5 got rushed through Congress the day before she started, and it passed when she was halfway done.¡±

    She sits down with her feet dangling over the precipice, staring out past the channel to the open sea, with only the occasional ship providing the faintest pinpricks of light. I join her, staring not at the ships but at the churning black waters.

    ¡°Her contract was declared null and void, and the job was handed off to a whole conglomerate of construction companies. They were over the moon; they¡¯d looked at this incredible power, capable of building a city in a week, and seen only a threat to their business. They¡¯d won, getting control of the contract and charging twenty times as much for it.¡±

    She chuckles.

    ¡°In all fairness, they were pretty quick by human standards. Construction was almost done when Leviathan hit, but it wouldn¡¯t have made a difference. Their walls broke in a matter of minutes, breaches forming from Shoreline to Everett, and the city was fucked.¡±

    I look up from the water, shrinking a little at the dark expression on Ember¡¯s face.

    ¡°Their fear and their selfishness killed fifty thousand people. That, more than anything, is why the Elite exists. Somebody has to push the envelope, because everyone else is too terrified of change to do anything. And so what if things change? They need to change. The world¡¯s going to shit, everyone knows it, but everyone wants us to try and fix it with one hand tied behind our back. Fuck that.¡±

    She practically spits the words out, before looking around in panic at a faint roaring sound in the distance. In an instant, she¡¯s back on her feet and turning to face the city. I do the same, only to watch what looks like twin stars approaching us at an impossible speed. The roar gets louder and louder, as the twin stars resolve themselves into some sort of rockets attached to a pair of mechanical wings, with the faint silhouette of a man visible beneath them.

    The flying man banks upwards as he gets close, reducing the force of his rockets to land neatly on the platform. He¡¯s dressed from head-to-toe in a suit of armour that¡¯s been integrated with the wings, but I can¡¯t make head or tail of it. In addition to the obvious rockets, which cut out the moment he landed, there seem to be small sections of the suit and wings that are glowing blue. Maybe they¡¯re what¡¯s stopping him from collapsing under their weight?

    He looks at us like we¡¯re just minor nuisances, the glowing slit of his visor menacing and impersonal.

    ¡°Archangel,¡± Ember says, with all the measured calm I wish I had right now. ¡°Do we have a problem?¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t the place for a fight,¡± he says, in a mechanical-sounding voice. I cringe at the thought that this is one of the heroes, the sort of person who¡¯d lock me up just for the company I keep. I start to seriously debate the merits of throwing myself off the edge and turning to shadow when I hit the water, but, for all that every part of me is screaming at me to run and hide, I don¡¯t want to abandon Ember. I can¡¯t go through that again.

    To my surprise, I don¡¯t have to. Archangel ignores us, walking towards the obelisk as his wings fold back into a more compact shape. He rests a hand on the stone, just like I did, and just¡­ stands there, lost in thought a few feet from people who are supposed to be his enemies!

    And then, Ember just ignores him, walking back down the stairs. I follow her, tapping her on the shoulder to let her know that I would very much appreciate knowing just what that was all about.

    ¡°That was Archangel,¡± she explains. ¡°He¡¯s a corporate Hero with a team called the Round Table. They¡¯re the most popular team in the city, exclusively recruiting experienced heroes from across the country. If they catch you robbing a grocery store, they¡¯ll try and stop you, but ultimately, we¡¯re too small-time and too good for Seattle for them to consider going after us. You don¡¯t need to worry about them.¡±

    There¡¯s another roar from above our heads as Archangel launches off from the wall and streaks through the sky, heading back towards the city. I watch him go; twin pinpricks of light retreating off into the distance, shrinking and becoming fainter until they¡¯re impossible to distinguish from the distant yellow glow of Seattle.

    This is as far as I¡¯ve ever been from the city, but I can still feel its hold on me. I know there¡¯s so much more on the other side of this wall, but that doesn¡¯t matter one bit. As far as I¡¯m concerned, Seattle might as well be the whole world.

    Right now, there¡¯s nothing I want more than to go back home and crawl under the covers before sunrise.

 Interlude 2: Archangel

    2003

    The scream of the sirens is almost deafening, even out on the airfield. I can only imagine what it¡¯s like on the other side of the runway, beyond the chain-link fence that separates us from the residential districts around Paine Field. I wonder if they even notice the noise, once the initial shock has passed, or if they¡¯re too hopped up on adrenaline in their mad dash for the shelters to hear anything except the sound of their own heart beating.

    Fuck, I bet half of them don¡¯t even know where the shelters are. Not that there¡¯s enough; it¡¯s one thing to dig out a basement for an atom bomb, but Endbringers are a whole different beast. Behemoth can crack the earth out from under them, filling them with radiation, while Leviathan takes a sick pleasure in splitting them open like a crab¡¯s shell and letting the water flood in. They¡¯ve building shelters as fast as they can, but it clearly wasn¡¯t fast enough.

    I shake my head, trying and failing to force the image from my head. I focus on the sound of my boots pounding on concrete as I sprint towards the hangar, on the struggle to zip up my flight suit on the move with a helmet in one hand and the other around the straps of my harness and life preserver. I got lucky; I was checking over the survival equipment when the sirens started, otherwise I¡¯d have gone without. Anything to get in the air as fast as possible.

    All around me, pandemonium reigns.

    We don¡¯t have enough shelters, either. The one shelter on Paine Field is built beneath the main Boeing complex, practically on the other side of the site. Even then, that concrete fortress doesn¡¯t look half as appealing to people as the dozens of factory-fresh aircraft all lined up and painted in the livery of dozens of different airliners or militaries.

    To my right, there¡¯s a deafening roar as the next in a long line of immense transports rolls down the runway, rising up into the sky to battle the tropical thunderstorm that¡¯s rolled in from the sea. A bolt of incandescent lightning hits the air traffic control tower, followed a millisecond later by the crack of thunder. I¡¯m soaked to the bone; the torrential downpour enough to drown out all but the loudest sounds, whipped back and forth by irregular wind currents that must make aerodynamics a nightmare.

    Ahead of me, they¡¯ve already rolled open the hangar doors. I didn¡¯t even have to ask the ground crew to do it; it¡¯s like we¡¯ve all been infected by a collective madness. They could be running to a shelter now ¨C or one of the evacuating aircraft ¨C and so could I, but instead we¡¯re preparing to fight.

    I can see the Archangel sitting in the hangar, lithe and predatory. That black, angular shape is more familiar to me than my own body, the product of years of development and constant maintenance and refinements. It¡¯s a beautiful thing; my very own angel of death. We named it before the Angel of Lausanne appeared, but some of the ground crew took it as a good omen. They floated the idea of painting on some nose art of her, but it¡¯d have messed up the stealth coating.

    I can see the crew now ¨C the few of them who happened to be near the hangar ¨C bolting an odd assortment of different missiles onto the racks and loading a long stream of ammunition into the cannons. Just our luck we were preparing for a weapons test, I suppose. Each technician has a Boeing logo on the back of their coveralls, the same one that¡¯s on the patch on my left shoulder. Corporate work sure pays better than the Air Force ever did, and I didn¡¯t even have to give up the flight suit.

    ¡°How¡¯s she looking?¡± I shout at the lead technician, as I sprint the last few yards, forcing my helmet on my head.

    ¡°She¡¯s fit to fight, Icarus,¡± the big Hawaiian replies as the last missile is latched into place. ¡°You¡¯ve got a full tank of fuel, not that you¡¯ll need it.¡±

    ¡°You morbid bastard.¡± I chuckle as I climb the ladder to the cockpit. ¡°No time for pre-flights; I need to be in the air five minutes ago.¡±

    I hear a shout from the hangar entrance, the speaker¡¯s voice pained and breathless. ¡°The fuck do you think you¡¯re doing, Andrew? You can¡¯t fly this bird without me!¡±

    I lean out of the cockpit to see Isabella sprinting across the hangar, her flight suit barely on, her bootlaces undone, her life preserver nowhere to be seen and her bulky helmet gripped tightly in her hand. She doesn¡¯t look ready, but she¡¯s still here¡­ and it does take two to fly this thing.

    ¡°A minute later and I¡¯d have had to try!¡± I shout back. ¡°Get your ass in here, Oracle, we¡¯ve got an appointment to keep!¡±

    She flips me off, even as she buckles on her helmet. She has to pause at the base of the ladder to flip up the bulky visor ¨C so she can actually see where she¡¯s going ¨C but a moment later she¡¯s slipping into her seat behind me as one of the techs plugs her helmet into the Archangel¡¯s systems. I hear the click of her flipping the visor back down, as she loses herself in a world of radar and targeting data, before the cockpit is slammed shut.

    I go through my own checks, spinning up the hefty engines mounted on the back of this beast while turning on the smaller pulse-jets that add the extra bit of fine control that makes the Archangel truly special. Around us, the technicians pull back, giving us a clear path out of the hangar and onto the taxiway. I patch my headset into the radio, immediately flooding my ears with dozens of panicked voices and the measured calm of air traffic control forging order among the chaos.

    ¡°Paine Tower, X-Thirty-Seven Archangel,¡± I speak into the radio, making contact with the tower.

    ¡°X-Thirty-Seven Archangel, Paine Tower,¡± they acknowledge after a moment, just a hint of stress creeping through their trained professionalism.

    ¡°Archangel requesting emergency clearance for take-off on runway thirty-four.¡±

    The response is immediate and terse, the speaker changing as someone more senior butts in.

    ¡°Archangel, negative. Runway is reserved for emergency evacuation flights.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re combat ready,¡± I snap back. ¡°Get us up and we¡¯ll buy you as much time as we can.¡±

    There¡¯re a few tense seconds, as I start to think about just gunning it for the runway and facing the consequences if I make it through, before the Tower¡¯s voice comes back through the radio.

    ¡°112, hold. Break. Archangel, you are cleared for take-off. Make it quick.¡±

    ¡°Archangel, roger.¡± I reply, before leaning back and shouting to Oracle. ¡°Make it quick, he says! Like I was ever going to take it slow!¡±

    ¡°So get to it, stick jockey. I¡¯m getting bored back here.¡±

    I laugh out loud, disengaging the engine¡¯s safety limits and pushing the throttle forward. Behind me, the engine starts to spin up. It¡¯s a strange and esoteric machine, and I¡¯m the only person in the world who could have made it. The Archangel is a special type of beast; the lovechild of two Tinkers armed with a budget that would make NASA blush, with the intent of creating a mystery for DARPA¡¯s scientists and engineers to unravel. To drive technology forwards, by giving the eggheads a midnight-black example to follow.

    We roll down the runway with the grace of an eagle and the force of an atom bomb, probably leaving a trail of boiled water vapor behind us. In seconds, I¡¯ve set us free from the earth and cast us loose into the stormy skies. All around me, the Archangel purrs with barely-restrained energy, like a wild animal waiting to be unleashed.

    ¡°Oracle, systems check!¡±

    ¡°Green across the board,¡± her voice comes clearly through the internal radio, an eager hunger in her tone. ¡°I¡¯m cutting through the storm like it isn¡¯t even here.¡±

    We built this beast together. I poured my heart and soul into the propulsion system and the little aerodynamic boosters, but Oracle added the magic that makes the Archangel more than just a fancy rocket. We¡¯ve got the most advanced radar targeting systems the world has ever seen, capable of hitting a man-sized flying target with enough firepower to level an apartment block or three.

    ¡°I¡¯m banking left. Get ready; we¡¯ll be over the wall in seconds.¡±

    I pull back on the control column, triggering micropulse engines along the wings to put us in a high-G turn, only long experience keeping the two of us conscious. It¡¯s almost a complete one-eighty, angling us to fly right over the Pacific Wall. We pass over Whidbey island, over forests and buildings in the process of being swept away by floods of water, stained brown by dirt and debris. Targets start to appear on the screen in front of me; eighteen figures outlined clearly in green, and a larger figure ¨C almost six times the size of the other targets ¨C who seems to slip in and out of the screen.

    ¡°Oracle?!¡± I shout.

    ¡°Trouble locking on-¡± It¡¯s all she¡¯s able to say, before we¡¯re over the wall. Through the rain-slicked canopy, I get a brief glimpse of half a dozen Capes engaging Leviathan in hand-to-hand combat. Some with power armour, some with weapons and some with their raw strength. They¡¯re dropping like flies, their bodies being scattered across the top of the wall.

    I ignore them completely, my eyes locked on the green and black radar readout as I send a missile shooting into the midst of the melee, a tungsten core accelerating to supersonic speeds in a second as my custom-made propellant launches it forwards.

    By the time it hits, we¡¯re already over the target, past the end of the wall at Point No Point and soaring down the already flooded Hood Canal. Ahead of us, one of Leviathan¡¯s tsunamis has drowned the Trident base at Bangor, no doubt creating a radiological nightmare.

    ¡°Oracle, did it hit?¡±

    ¡°Went into the water. It¡¯s that fucking afterimage, it keeps throwing off the system.¡±

    ¡°Next time¡¯s the charm, I guess,¡± I say, as I throw the Archangel around, over Silverdale and Bainbridge island. Suddenly, the city emerges from the driving storm. I can barely make it out through the rain: the brilliant red lights atop the higher buildings, the yellow-lit floors below them and the constant flash of emergency lights in the streets below. As I watch, a Cape takes flight from the PRT¡¯s downtown building, a steady stream of energy trailing behind them.

    I drop our height until we¡¯re barely a hundred feet over the water, hugging the surface of the Sound with the city to our right. We¡¯re slipping in and out of supersonic, before I slow our speed a little to give Oracle¡¯s targeting systems a little boost. The wall rises up ahead of us; five stories tall and overshadowed by the spray of an immense tsunami, a mountain of foamy seawater rising up twice that height as it batters the wall.

    I can see Leviathan standing atop it, silhouetted against the white spray and utterly unaffected by the force that sweeps the parapet clear of any Cape without a way of holding on. The water at the base of the wall is choppy, yet a simple white speedboat is powering through it. I check the radar, seeing a silhouetted figure throwing some sort of scattered power effect from the front of the boat.

    Stone structures are rising out of the waves, wherever the woman sows her seeds. They crash into the wall with the force of a mountain, pushing back against the full force of the Pacific, but it¡¯s not enough. Leviathan is breaking her wall, thoroughly and methodically, even as more reinforcements start to pour in. The radio is filled with dozens of competing voices, emergency services, military, PRT and desperate civilians vying for space on the airwaves.

    In the midst of all this chaos, I see the focus of the monster shift downwards, to the diminutive figure who¡¯s standing in his way. I act without thinking, firing three different warheads at Leviathan¡¯s blurred radar image. I know they won¡¯t hit him, even as airbursts fill the air with flechettes and advanced homing systems adjust the course of tungsten darts on the fly, but they can distract him.

    He adjusts his attack, ducking out of the way of one warhead while catching the other on his shoulder¡­ with no visible damage. But the attack buys enough time for a flying Cape to swoop in and snatch away the builder before she¡¯s crushed beneath the spray.

    I¡¯ve been flying low for too long, getting dangerously close to the wall. I pull up, hard, passing within fifteen feet of Leviathan as we overshoot the wall, cutting through the tsunami¡¯s spray like it isn¡¯t even there. We¡¯re out over the water, in the channel leading out to the Salish Sea. The whole thing is filled from end to end with successive tsunamis, mounds and troughs lined up like a column of soldiers.

    When the wall falls ¨C and it is when, not if ¨C those waves will sweep down and batter Seattle. This is just the first skirmish of a very long battle, and all we can do is hold out for as long as we can.

    ¡°Watch your flying, Icarus,¡± Oracle says, once we have room to breathe. ¡°I don¡¯t want to get any closer to that thing than we have to.¡±

    ¡°You saw the hit. It¡¯s easier to get a successful lock when he¡¯s in profile.¡±

    ¡°That won¡¯t matter if we crash into the sea before getting a chance to launch.¡±

    She¡¯s talking like this is something we can survive, but we both know that isn¡¯t true. If we want to make a difference here ¨C if we want what we do to matter ¨C we have to annoy the bastard. We could circle at a thousand feet and never come close to hitting Leviathan, or we can get in close and make him react. Every minute we buy is another aircraft out of Paine Field, another hundred civilians squeezed into a shelter.

    I start to turn us around, the shift in direction marked by the shifting pattern of rain on the cockpit, the changing direction and distance of the flashes of lighting that are pouring out of the storm that¡¯s enveloped Seattle.

    ¡°All callsigns, this is PRT AWACS Eisenhower, taking over command and control from PRT-Twenty Emergency Command. All communications will be routed through my officers.¡±

    And there¡¯s the PRT, as fast as they could get in range. The two Endbringers are a constant threat, so the PRT keeps six command and control aircraft over North America at all times, each fully-staffed and prepared to shoulder the immense burden that comes from coordinating the response against an Endbringer.

    ¡°All callsigns,¡± the voice comes through again, not a moment later. ¡°The Pacific Wall has collapsed. Pull back to the Si¡¯Ahl Wall.¡±

    I gun the engine, the lines of tsunamis passing beneath us like stepping stones as I rush to beat the first one to the Wall. It¡¯s the last barrier between Leviathan and the city, and nobody even knows if it¡¯ll hold.

    We arrive just in time to see the aftereffects of the first wave; the spiderweb of immense cracks stretching across the entire length of the wall. Moments later, the second hits, and when it recedes it takes the wall with it.

    Immense blocks of concrete simply crumble under the force of the water, collapsing like sandcastles hit by a wave. The impact collapsed the back of the wall, too, scattering jagged shards of concrete into the suburban streets, large enough to crush houses. Not that it matters, when the third wave passes over the ruined wall like it isn¡¯t even there and sweeps away whole suburbs.

    I can see Paine Field, with eight aircraft still waiting for the runway space to take off. The wall of water hits the tower, and I get a brief glimpse of the green glass windows being shattered before the whole structure tips and collapses. The aircraft are even less resilient, being picked up by the wave and dashed against the fancy glass and steel terminal then dragged back out to sea as the tsunami recedes.

    I let out a wordless shout, turning away from the carnage and swinging around.

    ¡°Andrew, keep it cool,¡± Isabella tells me, her voice the perfect example of professional detachment. ¡°Don¡¯t fly angry.¡±

    ¡°Where is it?¡± I snap back. ¡°Where¡¯s Leviathan?¡±

    ¡°Eisenhower has been monitoring its movements as best they can. Last estimate was grid eight-one-three, three-zero-six. Lynnwood.¡±

    I grin, my grip on the control column tightening as I throw the throttle forwards. We swing around over the water, ducking once to avoid a flying Cape who¡¯s still making her way over from the ruined Pacific Wall, and slowing once we hit the city streets.

    From the air, Leviathan isn¡¯t that hard to spot. If we were downtown, it¡¯d be harder, but he¡¯s larger than most of the buildings in Lynnwood. I issue a warning over the radio as I line up a shot, firing our last four missiles in a quick fusillade that pulps streets, sends Capes scattering and drives a tungsten dart into the monster. I¡¯m already overhead by the time it hits, but I can see its signature on the radar. Whether it penetrated or shattered on impact is another matter entirely.

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    Not that it matters to me. I¡¯m throwing everything I have at the bastard, no matter what happens. I can see the skyline of Seattle rising up in front of me; the towering skyscrapers of downtown and the iconic dish atop the Space Needle, set apart from the city in its own little park.

    I don¡¯t even know if it¡¯s about them anymore, or if I just want to pour my hatred into that monster.

    I pull back, angling the jet straight up and opening up the throttle to full. In any other aircraft, I¡¯d be stalling within seconds but this is my engine, built up over years of work.

    It flies up like a rocket, pushing through the cloud as static discharges play off the fuselage. And then, we¡¯re over the cloud layer, blinded by the sudden light of the sun. I soar up there for a few seconds, with a sea of clouds beneath us and the distant shape of the PRT AWACS circling overhead, before pointing the nose straight down and dropping like a stone through the clouds.

    Lighting flashes on either side of us as we re-emerge over the flooded city. Legend is soaring overhead, firing a steady stream of incandescent blue-white lasers that curve and bend through the city streets.

    I follow their path like landing lights, almost skimming the tops of the buildings as I open up the panels that cover the twin thirty-millimetre autocannons when we¡¯re in supersonic. Behind me, Oracle is completely silent as she works to constantly update my radar images, marking out the positions of low-flying capes, tall buildings, electric poles or anything else that might get in our way.

    I cycle the guns, ready to fire, before Leviathan suddenly appears in front of us, being battered by a barrage Legend¡¯s lasers at the end of a short street. I add our own meagre firepower to his own, firing off every single round in the span of five seconds before pulling up right before hitting Leviathan.

    The Archangel jolts as something hits the airframe, the console lighting up with red emergency lights. Total loss of engine power.

    ¡°His tail!¡± Oracle shouts.

    ¡°He hit the engine!¡±

    ¡°We can¡¯t go down in the city! There could still be people down there!¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t have enough lift to stay airborne that long!¡± I snap back, before veering left. ¡°I¡¯ll try and reach the water!¡±

    I push the Archangel to her absolute limits, pulling manoeuvres that nobody who hadn¡¯t built the aircraft from scratch could have managed. I know every part of this bird. I know how she feels when she¡¯s healthy, I know how she feels when she¡¯s sick, and now I know how she feels when she¡¯s dying.

    I let out a sigh of relief once we clear the city, knowing that at least we won¡¯t kill anyone when we go down. I suppose that¡¯s all we could manage, really. We distract the bastard, and in doing so, give someone, somewhere, a few seconds head start. Enough time to get to a shelter, maybe, or even to make it those last few steps onto higher ground.

    Around me, the Archangel dies. Violently. Her engine falls to pieces, turbines collapsing and shattering, sending fan blades like shrapnel through the wings. The display in front of me darkens, as the power goes out, then the controls in my hands become light as a feather.

    We hit the swell of another tsunami head on, and I black out.

    I wake with a jolt, as my seat judders beneath me. It takes me a moment to realise that Oracle is kicking the back of my seat, and that water is spilling in through cracks in the cockpit.

    ¡°Wake up, you bastard!¡± she screams, distraught. ¡°You don¡¯t get to die! Not here!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m alive,¡± I say, leaning back in my seat and looking up at the shimmering light of the water¡¯s surface, far above us. It grows further away, as another wave passes overhead and unseen currents drag our aircraft along with it. We settle into the silt a few yards along, as the swell recedes.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to have to swim.¡± Oracle¡¯s voice is faint, scared.

    ¡°I know.¡± I reply. ¡°But you¡¯re not wearing a life preserver.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll cling to yours when we get to the surface, but we¡¯ll have to swim there.¡±

    ¡°Here, take this,¡± I say, passing my single-use air canister back to her. ¡°I can hold my breath longer than you.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± She replies, before falling silent.

    ¡°Get ready,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m about to blow the canopy.¡±

    Another pause, broken only by the sound of her breathing.

    ¡°Ready.¡±

    I flip a switch, detonating explosive bolts along the cockpit that completely shatter the glass. If I hadn¡¯t switched them off, the ejector seats would have fired as well. As it is, we¡¯re hit by a crushing deluge of water filled with shattered glass. The moment it settles, I unbuckle myself and push upwards, swimming for the surface as fast as I can.

    I want to look back, to make sure Isabella made it out, but I know that isn¡¯t smart. She¡¯s the one with the air supply, which means I¡¯m the one who needs to hurry. Besides; after three years of working together, I know she can handle herself.

    So I push upwards, as my limbs start to tire and my lungs start to burn, until I can¡¯t take it anymore. I look back.

    She looks almost serene; floating in the water with her mouth wide open and the air canister nowhere to be seen. The sight of her stabs through me like a knife, and I open my mouth in shock.

    With brackish water now filling my lungs, I can¡¯t go back to her. I want to, more than anything, but I can¡¯t. My ascent turns desperate, both because I¡¯m drowning and because I want to get as far away from her as possible.

    I break the surface of the water, coughing out my lungs as I pull the tab to inflate my life preserver. I bring a hand up to wipe my eyes, not sure if it¡¯s water or tears that¡¯re blurring my vision.

    Ahead of me, Seattle rises out of the waves. The wall here is holding strong against the waves. With Leviathan hopefully still occupied in the north of the city, it¡¯ll stay strong against all the tsunamis he could send. Tens of thousands of lives saved, but all I can think of is the one I left beneath the waves.

    This doesn¡¯t feel like a victory. It doesn¡¯t even feel like defeat. It¡¯s a hollow, meaningless thing.

    2010

    Isabella Barlow ¨C Oracle

    I run my hand over the name, the tactile sensors in my gauntlet outlining each letter in perfect detail. It still hurts, even now. I¡¯d be worried if it ever stopped hurting. That¡¯s why I took the name of the bird we built together; to forever remind me of what happened on that stormy day, when the city was almost lost and when I did lose her.

    More than anything, it¡¯s a reminder that I was a fool who killed the woman I loved because I thought I could make a difference.

    I take my hand off the memorial, stepping back and turning around, the wings of my suit shifting automatically to avoid being caught on the memorial. I like to come here, sometimes. To remember everything I lost beneath the waves.

    But not tonight. Tonight was business.

    The Elite have a new Parahuman, and the boss wanted me to check it out. More specifically, Ember has a new Parahuman. It¡¯s better than some of the alternatives, I suppose. She has a good head on her shoulders; if anyone can keep this newcomer under control, it¡¯s her.

    As I hit the edge of the wall, I flare my wings and trigger the jets, taking flight. I look down, catching a brief glimpse of the pair of them as they descend down to their boat. The newcomer looks odd, to say the least. Something about it makes me think it¡¯s stuck that way, rather than being a Changer that shifts into a monstrous form.

    I put them out of my mind as I soar across the open water, the experimental repulsors on my wings keeping me airborne while the twin jets propel me forwards. I¡¯ve come a long way since the huge engine of the first Archangel, built in that hangar on Paine Field.

    The Field is silent now, the runway cracked and consumed by the marshland that now stretches from Everett to Esperance. It¡¯s a pitch-black expanse of abandoned buildings and flooded streets, slowly being consumed by nature. There are parts of it where the last remains of the metropolis have been swallowed up, leaving no trace of what came before. I wonder how long it¡¯ll be before it¡¯s all gone?

    I swing south, over the empty spaces and towards the glowing streets of Lynnwood locked away behind the containment walls. The streets are bright, illuminated all night long by great floodlights mounted to the walls and kept under the constant watch of a network of CCTV cameras. The Hive has its nest to itself, but it lives under the constant watch of the PRT.

    Past Lynnwood, life starts to return to the city. Streetlights start to appear, marking little patches of the city that have been salvaged from the marshes. Most of them are huddled around the immense structure of what was once Northgate Mall, before the National Guard took it over after Leviathan and handed it off to the PRT when they left. Now it¡¯s a fortress, projecting the PRT¡¯s presence into the derelict marshlands and the streets north of Lake Union.

    I¡¯m over the city proper now, with well-lit streets beneath me and the skyscrapers of Downtown rising up above me. I buzz the windows of the Space Needle on my way in, just in case there are any tourists getting a view of the city at night. In many ways, I miss working for Boeing. I didn¡¯t have to worry about public perceptions or brand awareness. But I can accomplish more this way.

    As I start ducking and weaving through the skyscrapers, I radio the staff at Camelot Tower to prepare for my arrival. The headquarters of the Round Table is a modern-looking edifice occupying the top ten floors of the third-tallest skyscraper in the city, the office-space beneath rented out to a whole host of different corporations, a lot of which funnel their excess profits into us as part of a tax avoidance scheme. Sponsors like those are the bread and butter of any Corporate Hero team.

    I soar up the side of the building, using the ascent to slow my momentum and hitting the peak of my arc right at the lip of the tower¡¯s landing pad. A pair of technicians are waiting for me, ready to take the flight element off the back of my suit and back to my workshop. I let them, then enter the building clad only in the knight-like armour.

    Once I¡¯m inside, away from any prying eyes, I take the helmet off with a sigh of relief. It¡¯s perfectly safe and airtight, but that doesn¡¯t make it comfortable. I would take the rest of the armour off, but the day isn¡¯t done yet.

    The Tower is quieter than usual; most of the team is away in Tijuana, dealing with out-of-control Cartel wars. We¡¯ve just got a skeleton crew here, one of whom is slumped back on a couch in the crew room, looking out the one-way glass window at the city with some sort of cocktail in her hand.

    At only thirty-six, Ophelia is the current baby of the team. She got her start in the LA Bombshells, till she got pressured out at thirty-three with a generous severance package from the team¡¯s Playboy sponsors and an even more generous bit of hush money when she threatened to sue.

    The Round Table are a little unique, as far as teams go. We don¡¯t recruit from the Wards, like a lot of the other Teams. Instead, we snatch up the people who¡¯ve become dissatisfied with the team they¡¯re in, whether that¡¯s the Protectorate or another Corporate outfit.

    ¡°Have a nice flight?¡± she asks, the fake chain of flowers around her neck shifting as she moves. Having seen a picture of her old costume, I¡¯m not surprised she decided to go for a richly-embroidered ankle-length dress when she signed on for us. We¡¯re all a little too old for sex appeal, so we go for refined elegance instead. Knights and ladies, rather than spandex-clad models.

    ¡°It was alright. Looks like the Triad are staying quiet tonight. I¡¯d stay and chat, but Agnes wants to see me.¡±

    She waves me off, going back to her drink.

    I pace through the halls, as the modern d¨¦cor gives way to a much more traditional look, with red carpeted floors and wood-panelled walls. Paintings cover the walls, most of them pastoral scenes or depictions of European cities. I knock on a nondescript office door and wait until I hear the click of a lock disengaging.

    Inside, a woman is looking out over the city. She¡¯s dressed in a costume that¡¯s half dress, half suit of armour, with a rich red and blue tabard belted over the metal. To her side, a stone statue is taking shape. It¡¯s growing like a plant, getting more detailed as limbs and fingers start to form, creating a representation of a young woman, some sort of vase held in her hand. Agnes Court says she makes these statues to keep her hand in. I think she just gets bored.

    Officially, I¡¯m in charge of the Round Table. It¡¯s my name on the books, I¡¯m at the forefront of all the PR material and, in the field, everyone answers to me. But I¡¯m more like the platoon sergeant; there to handle the day-to-day stuff while the real leader gets on with important business.

    Seattle loves Agnes Court. It was her wall that bought the thirteen minutes that saved the city, and she¡¯s leveraged that fact ever since in her lobbying efforts to repeal NEPEA-5. She did save the city, there¡¯s no denying that, but it wasn¡¯t the wall that did it.

    When the government were focused on salvaging what they could and abandoning the rest, Agnes Court leveraged her branch of the Elite and poured new money into the city. She cut deals with Boeing and every other company affected by Leviathan to get them to reinvest in Seattle, all the while bringing them closer and closer to the Elite. Now, Seattle is the heart of her sphere of influence, and most people don¡¯t even know it.

    The PRT knows, of course. Agnes Court¡¯s Elite connections are an open secret among their circles, but there¡¯s nothing they can do about it. Not without the Elite¡¯s lawyers bogging them down in red tape, and the Elite¡¯s pet media painting the PRT as oppressors looking to stamp out opposition to NEPEA-5 at the behest of their corporate masters in Washington.

    She¡¯s accomplished more than I ever could have with the first Archangel, and that¡¯s why I follow her.

    ¡°I got some more footage of Nightcrawler,¡± I say, pulling out an SD card from a small compartment in my armour. Agnes Court nods, stepping away from the window and walking over to a TV screen as I bring up the footage from my helmet camera. It¡¯s the clearest image we have of it, even if it¡¯s hiding behind Ember¡¯s legs.

    ¡°What¡¯s your read on her?¡± Agnes Court asks me, without any trace of the faint British accent she hadn¡¯t quite managed to shake off when I first met her. She¡¯s a stately figure, almost aristocratic in her bearing. At almost fifty, she¡¯s also the oldest member of the Round Table.

    ¡°Timid. She looked like she wanted to run away.¡±

    ¡°But she didn¡¯t,¡± the leader of the Seattle Elite points out.

    ¡°No, she didn¡¯t. I suppose that¡¯s courage, or loyalty to Ember. She¡¯s done well.¡±

    ¡°Jaeger¡¯s report said much the same. Nightcrawler has latched onto Ember, or perhaps they¡¯ve latched onto each other. Either way, it¡¯s promising.¡±

    ¡°What if it¡¯s a ploy? She could be a Triad infiltrator, or a Watchdog one.¡±

    Agnes Court shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. If Nightcrawler did work for our rivals, we would never know. Her power is far more useful for a spy than an informant. Besides, the Mountain Master needs every Parahuman he can find. That¡¯s why he snatched away Bloody Mary.¡±

    ¡°Are you any closer to finding her?¡± I ask. Bloody Mary is the perfect example of why the Elite has to exist. On her own, she¡¯d become America¡¯s next big serial killer, but Agnes Court was able to keep her muzzled. Now she¡¯s slipped her leash and making a killing by killing for the Triad.

    She shakes her head. ¡°That woman is slippery. It¡¯s what makes her so dangerous. Unfortunately, this whole sorry spectacle has rather blindsided us. It isn¡¯t like the Mountain Master to gamble everything on a desperate move like this. There has to be something else going on, and I think fortune has provided us with a way of learning what.¡±

    ¡°You mean Nightcrawler? Isn¡¯t she a little green?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps.¡± She smiles as she looks at the shadowy figure on the screen. ¡°But we can only use the tools we are given. I¡¯ll have Black Rod contact Ember. It¡¯s time her new employee earned her keep.¡±

 Lookout: 3.01

    There¡¯s something beautiful about the Red-Light district.

    It¡¯s not the people ¨C frankly, I try not to think about who they are or why they¡¯re here ¨C it¡¯s the environment. There are probably more lights here than there are anywhere North of the glowing city on the other side of the channel, but it feels less harsh than those brilliant streets.

    It¡¯s in the colour of the lights ¨C how the red glow seems to only create deeper shadows ¨C and in how they have been placed. It¡¯s like they¡¯re here to give definition to the darkness, rather than to banish it. The red lanterns stretched on wires between the buildings are like fireflies in the forest, the curving red and purple tubes shaped into names or female silhouettes like the flickering fire in a dark lounge, forcing people to lean in close to see the face of the person in front of them.

    It creates a sense of intimacy. All darkness is intimate to me ¨C a pitch-black alleyway that nobody in this city would willingly enter feels welcoming to me, even though I know it should be terrifying ¨C but the Red-Light district is intimate in a way that can be understood by the rest of the city. It¡¯s a space where light and shadow ¨C my city and theirs ¨C merge together into somewhere both can exist side by side, even if they never know I¡¯m here.

    People feel free to let themselves go, in ways they can¡¯t in the rest of the city. They feel free to act out on their fantasies, to take risks and experiment in ways that, frankly, I¡¯d rather not think about.

    They feel free from all their inhibitions, but that can cause problems when left unchecked.

    Which is why I spend my nights crawling along the rooftops of the district, peering out from behind neon signs at the crowds of drunks and soon-to-be-drunks. I don¡¯t really like looking at the people, but it is my job to understand them.

    Some of them come in groups. There¡¯re two types of them, really. The first are from outside the city ¨C outside the edge of the world, as far as I¡¯m concerned. They come here fuelled by stories about this little nest of sin and vice, and they carry that nervous energy in their walk. They never seem to go as far as they think they will, or they go too far too fast and burn themselves out.

    The second groups are all locals, dressed in overalls or suits or whatever they wore to work. Normally, they¡¯d spend their evenings in regular old bars before staggering home, but tonight one of them had the bright idea to go a little further. So they came here. They¡¯ll go as far as they dare, push each other to go further than any of them would if they were on their own. The woman have it worse; either quietly moving with the group or hiding their uncomfortableness behind false bravado. Well, most of them are like that. Some of them are surprisingly brash.

    The ones who come here on their own are generally older than the ones in groups. They¡¯re looking for escapism, rather than thrills. Some of them want to escape things every night, to the point where I¡¯m starting to recognise some of them. They¡¯re addicted to this place, but at least it¡¯s an addiction that won¡¯t kill them. I don¡¯t know what they¡¯re running from, and I suppose it doesn¡¯t really matter. My job is to watch them, not to wonder about their past.

    I watch them, because sometimes things get out of hand. Passions are high here, and that can cause problems. It¡¯s why we have the bouncers, the cameras and the teams of guards on standby in case anything big happens. I¡¯m just a small part of that; three pairs of eyes looking out of unexpected places, catching things the others might miss.

    Across the street, in an alleyway between two brothels, a spot of trouble has been caught in our web. Two of the bouncers, their suits ruffled and their clip-on ties hanging loose, are pushing a brute of a man up against the wall. The bouncers are bulky in their own right, but the man has a foot in height over both of them and he¡¯s built like he lifts tree trunks as a hobby.

    He¡¯s also clearly drunk, and the two bouncers are struggling to hold him down.

    I tear my eyes off the struggle, quickly slipping into the darkness, up the back of the sign and out onto the roof. From there, it¡¯s a quick hop, skip and darkness-assisted jump over to the other side of the street. I dash along the rooftop ¨C actually using my legs this time ¨C and lean over the edge of the rooftop just in time to see everything go wrong.

    The brute twists, slamming the bouncer holding him against the wall hard enough that his grip slackens as he staggers back, clutching a broken wrist. The other bouncer rushes forwards, one of those electric shock batons held out in front of her, only for the brute to rip it out of her hand and drive a wicked punch into her face.

    As she collapses, I¡¯m already pouncing off the rooftop. The alleyway is recessed from the main street, lit by a small lamp hanging over the side door to one of the clubs. There¡¯s a metal cover on top of it that directs all the light downwards, which leaves the space above it in near-total darkness. I use that patch of shade to accelerate my fall, emerging into the light and barrelling into the brute at an absurd speed.

    It knocks him back and down, his leg buckling beneath him even as he somehow manages to stay on his feet. My own forelimbs ache in protest, a line of white-hot agony travelling up from the point of intact as I spring off the man. For a moment, our eyes meet ¨C mine yellow and inhuman, his wide with slowly-dawning fear ¨C before his drunk state gets the better of him and he lunges forwards, kicking at me with his injured leg.

    The force of it drives the air out of my lungs, sending me skidding along the ground. Instinctively, I try to slip into the darkness, but I¡¯m surrounded by light. Instead, I push through my fear and lunge forwards, leaping up and clamping my beak-like jaw down on his right arm, just like Ember showed me. He flails, hitting my side with the other arm as the sickeningly metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. He hardly seems to notice the wound. Maybe he¡¯s too drunk?

    I let out a sigh of relief at the sound of boots on concrete, letting go of the brute¡¯s arm just in time for a grey-uniformed security guard to fire one of those electrified wire guns right into his chest, causing him to spasm uncontrollably. A moment later, he¡¯s slammed to the ground by two others, ignoring his cries and his still-bleeding wound as they force his hands into cuffs.

    ¡°You okay, Nightcrawler?¡± Jaarsveld ¨C Ember¡¯s head of security ¨C asks me as he steps into the alleyway, his accent unique even by the standards of the city. I flash him a quick ¡®okay¡¯ hand sign, one of a number of military signals I¡¯ve been learning in case I ever end up in a complicated fight.

    He nods, taking me at my word and stepping over to the two bouncers. One of them is moving his arm around experimentally, making sure he didn¡¯t break it, while the other is holding up a tissue to her bleeding nose.

    ¡°Cassidy, Butch, what about you?¡±

    ¡°Think he broke my nose,¡± Butch answers, her voice noticeably nasally.

    ¡°Alright. Cassidy, take her back to the station. Go through the backrooms of this place¡± ¨C he slams a fist against the wall of the brothel ¨C ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone on the street knowing one of ours got hurt.¡±

    He steps over to the restrained man, still struggling even as one of the guards wraps a bandage around his arm. Jaarsveld squats down in front of him, looking down at his head with a worrying smile on his face.

    ¡°As for you, you waste of space¡­ You¡¯ve really screwed the pooch, ja? Fooked with one of my boys, and I can¡¯t be havin¡¯ that.¡± He leans in closer, reaching out and fishing through the man¡¯s pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a little plastic card, squinting a little as he reads whatever¡¯s on it, before reaching for the radio clipped to his shirt.

    ¡°Control, it¡¯s Jaarsveld here. Got a dronkie here who¡¯s hit one of my people and I want to know if he¡¯s anything important. Name of James Shaw.¡±

    ¡°Wait one,¡± a woman¡¯s voice comes back through the radio. ¡°There¡¯s a James Shaw on the VIP list.¡±

    ¡°Is he bald and built like a brick shithouse?¡± Jaarsveld snaps back, a little angrily.

    ¡°Nope. Brown haired and skinny. This one¡¯s all yours.¡±

    ¡°Fookin marvellous¡­ Hear that, buddy?¡± he asks, leaning in close to the struggling man. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re not worth any special treatment.¡±

    He stands up, gesturing for his guards to lift the man off the ground.

    ¡°But don¡¯t worry, friend. None of this is gonna make its way to court. Can¡¯t let those crime statistics go up, see? It¡¯d drive away the customers who¡¯re actually worth a damn. So we¡¯ll make the lesson stick ¨C make sure you know not to pull this shit again ¨C and then it¡¯ll all be over.¡±

    The man has stopped shouting now. Instead, he stares Jaarsveld dead in the eyes before spitting in his face. Jaarsveld reaches up with a gloved hand to wipe away the spit, before curling that hand into a fist and driving it into the man¡¯s stomach in a blow that has me wincing.

    ¡°Right!¡± Jaarsveld exclaims. ¡°Show¡¯s over. Let¡¯s get this prick out of here.¡±

    He starts walking back to the end of the alleyway, before turning back to look at me.

    ¡°Almost forgot¡­ Ember¡¯s looking for you, Nightcrawler. You want a lift back to the compound?¡±

    I nod, then follow him out into the red-lit street. The alleyway has been blocked off by a couple of security cars, with yellow flashing lights mingling with the rich red and deep shadows. Of course, the spectacle has brought a crowd of people who¡¯re mingling around the cars in various states of sobriety. Jaarsveld takes one look over the crowd and steps forwards, his arms outstretched and a smile on his face.

    ¡°Just a bloke who¡¯s been enjoying himself a bit too much, folks! A night in the drunk tank will see him right!¡±

    The crowd chuckles, watching as the drunk is manhandled into a caged-off area in the back of one of the cars before starting to stagger off, the entertainment over. Jaarsveld holds open the door of his car for me with an apparently genuine ¡°ladies first.¡± I smile up at his impromptu display of manners, before slipping into the darkness beneath his seat.

    I don¡¯t bother looking out as we move through the city streets ¨C it¡¯s not like I¡¯d be able to see anything other than Jaarsveld¡¯s boots, instead simply settling into the darkness as the car shifts beneath me. I can hear Jaarsveld talking into his radio, but I¡¯m not really following. I don¡¯t really get a lot of the technical language he and his people use on the radio, and I have more important things to learn.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The district isn¡¯t big, but it¡¯s still faster to cross it by car than on foot. I don¡¯t like being seen, so when I¡¯m on my own I¡¯ll try and cross the city without ever straying into the light. There¡¯s no real reason to do it; word of my presence here has spread, and some of the clubs have even started leaving cushions on their roofs in case I want to lay down for a bit ¨C like I¡¯m some sort of good luck charm to be courted with milk and cookies ¨C but I still don¡¯t like the way people stare.

    Things are different around the other people who work for Ember, which is why I don¡¯t mind stepping out of the car and into the well-lit compound. I¡¯m here often enough that I¡¯ve become perfectly normal, almost anonymous. Sometimes, some new person who¡¯s only just arrived in the city will stare a bit, but there¡¯s usually someone nearby who sets them straight with a few terse words. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s because they like me or if they¡¯re just wary about upsetting a Cape, but it¡¯s appreciated.

    I duck into the administrative building, heading up past the stairs to the server room and onto the second floor of the converted suburban home. After knocking twice on the door to Ember¡¯s office, I reach up to the handle and creep inside.

    It¡¯s a lot darker than it was before. Ember keeps the main light off now, relying on the glow of her computer and a small lamp to get her work done while leaving the rest of the office in a comfortable twilight. She doesn¡¯t have to do it, but I¡¯m grateful she does.

    She smiles at me from around her screen, waiting as I get comfortable on the couch in the corner of her office before speaking.

    ¡°So, how are you today?¡±

    I stand up straight, idly rubbing my hands together as I try to think of the right gestures.

    ¡®I am very good, and you?¡¯

    Ember¡¯s grin widens as she pushes aside her computer monitor so I can see her hands.

    ¡®I am very good, thank you.¡¯

    I bounce up and down on the couch at my success. I can¡¯t say much more than that, except for the real basic stuff like ¡®hello¡¯ and ¡®goodbye,¡¯ but I¡¯m glad I¡¯m making progress. Even if it¡¯s slow and frustrating progress.

    At least I can take comfort in knowing that Ember is just as slow as me about it.

    Once I¡¯m done celebrating, I curl up on the couch and stare across the room at Ember, silently asking her what this is all about.

    ¡°A job¡¯s come up. For you, if you want it. I¡¯m just waiting on Jaeger, then I¡¯ll explain more.¡±

    I lean forwards, interested and a little nervous. Ember had mentioned that there might be one-off jobs beyond my usual work watching the district, I just hadn¡¯t thought one would come so soon. I¡¯ve only been here for a few days.

    A knock at the door shakes me out of my worry, before Jaeger steps into the room in his militaristic costume, with polished silver buttons and a pistol in a thigh holster.

    ¡°A little dark in here, don¡¯t you think?¡± he says, in what Ember tells me is a ¡®Canadian¡¯ accent ¨C wherever that is.

    ¡°I prefer ¡®atmospheric,¡¯¡± Ember says as she leans back in her chair, kicking her feet up onto the desk. ¡°I feel like the gritty detective in a noir film.¡±

    ¡°Except you don¡¯t smoke,¡± Jaeger retorts as he takes the seat opposite her, ¡°and I¡¯d make a poor dame.¡±

    Ember makes a show of leaning forward and scrutinising Jaeger, her finger and thumb resting on her chin while she contemplates.

    ¡°You may have a point. You¡¯re not nearly pretty enough.¡±

    I chuckle from my spot on the sofa, a low whistling sound that has Jaeger staring at me from beneath the peak of his helmet.

    ¡°Now that you¡¯re both done having a good laugh,¡± he says, his tone nothing but professional, ¡°shall we get down to business?¡±

    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± Ember replies, though she doesn¡¯t stop slouching in the chair. ¡°I¡¯ll start, shall I?¡±

    Once Jaeger nods, Ember ignores him and looks right at me.

    ¡°You remember what I said about the Triad? How they¡¯re allies of ours who¡¯re making a power grab?¡±

    I nod.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t make any sense. The odds aren¡¯t in their favour, and the head of the Triad isn¡¯t the sort of person who¡¯d take that sort of risk.¡±

    ¡°Lo Yiu Hong is a cautious man,¡± Jaeger interjects, ¡°and he¡¯s as slippery as a serpent. There aren¡¯t many human-run crime syndicates left, and for good reason. Not many baseline people can keep up with Parahumans, or hold their loyalty. Unfortunately for us, the head of the Seattle Triad is one of the few who can.¡±

    ¡°Before they split from the Elite, their headquarters were in the covered market in Ballard. You might have run across it before you met me,¡± Ember continues, looking a little annoyed at Jaeger¡¯s interruption.

    I think back to the market I found, full of exotic-smelling spices and signs warning pickpockets that they¡¯d lose their hands if they tried anything. I nod in agreement.

    ¡°Well, they¡¯re not there anymore. The Triad have pulled out of every single site we knew about, with a lot of our informers in their organisation going missing. We¡¯re assuming the worst.¡±

    I wince.

    ¡°With the leadership underground and the foot soldiers barely aware of anything important, we¡¯ve been on the backfoot since this gang war started. Our boss thinks that you can break the stalemate by getting us some real intelligence.¡±

    I hold up a hand, trying to think of the right gestures.

    ¡®You want me to¡­¡¯ I fumble for a moment before giving up and putting my hand over my eyes like I¡¯m looking intently at something in the distance.

    ¡°To spy on them? Yeah.¡±

    I nod, slowly. It sounds scary, but I¡¯m very good at people watching.

    ¡°Of course,¡± Jaeger speaks up, ¡°you¡¯ll have to find them first.¡±

    Ah. That might be harder. I raise my hands to try and sign something, realise that there¡¯s no way my limited vocabulary would be able to get across, and mime myself writing on my palm.

    Ember understands immediately, tossing my notepad and pen over from where it had been sitting on her desk. I scribble out a quick message and toss it back to her.

    ¡°You¡¯re not sure how,¡± she reads out loud, for Jaeger¡¯s benefit. ¡°I know. That¡¯s why Jaeger¡¯s here; he¡¯s our go-to guy for sneaky things.¡±

    ¡°I prefer covert operations specialist, if it¡¯s all the same to you. Although I am less suited to it than you are, Nightcrawler. Our last reconnaissance-focused Parahuman¡­ went over to the other side, so to speak.¡±

    He shakes his head like he¡¯s dislodging a bad memory.

    ¡°Anyway, the thing you need to understand about the Triad is that the closer you are to Lo Yiu Hong, the more stringent his security. The people immediately around him are his closest associates, the ones who¡¯ve been with him since they were driven out of Hong Kong. You¡¯ll never find them.

    ¡°Once they arrived in Seattle after Leviathan¡¯s attack, the Triad started rapidly expanding and absorbing local gangs. They changed their name to the Seattle Triad, to reflect their more diverse composition and to make it easier to assimilate their new American members. Those members are less disciplined than the original followers, but they¡¯ve been shaped by the Triad¡¯s culture of security and loyalty to Mr Lo.¡±

    He leans forwards, looking at me with a satisfied grin on his face.

    ¡°The weak link are their newest recruits. The ones they¡¯ve taken on since they split from us, promising them money and a life of luxury just as soon as they topple our hold on the city. We¡¯re putting enough pressure on the Triad that all their Capes have had to hunker down, and hiding in some filthy safehouse won¡¯t sit well with them. They¡¯ll get stir-crazy, they¡¯ll make mistakes, and that¡¯s your way in. Find them, and eventually you¡¯ll find the leadership.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to be careful, though,¡± Ember interrupts, with a worried look on her face. ¡°Just because they¡¯re new to the Triad, that doesn¡¯t mean they aren¡¯t dangerous. There¡¯s¡­ there¡¯s one in particular I want you to watch out for. Bloody Mary.¡±

    I cock my head. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can¡¯t remember where I heard it. Maybe Ember mentioned it before?

    ¡°She¡¯s insane,¡± Ember explains. ¡°On her own, she¡¯s about as strong as the average college girl and as deadly as the average college girl with a knife, but that doesn¡¯t matter when she¡¯s the most versatile teleporter in the city.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s an urban legend,¡± Jaeger picks up where Ember left off. ¡°A woman gives birth to a child out of wedlock, so the people of her village turn on her, thinking her to be the bride of the devil. They put her in front of a mirror, and force her to watch as each villager cut her until she died. The legend goes that if you stand in front of a mirror and repeat ¡®Bloody Mary¡¯ three times, she¡¯ll come back to enact vengeance on those who wronged her.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all a bunch of shit popular with teenage goths with more mascara than sense,¡± Ember snarls, ¡°which is exactly what Bloody Mary was when she got her powers.¡±

    ¡°Left unchecked, she would have left a trail of bodies across the city,¡± Jaeger continues, sounding a lot less emotional than Ember. ¡°It was decided that Bloody Mary would be conscripted into the Elite and placed under my watch. I suppose she was your predecessor, in a sense; I used her to conduct this sort of covert reconnaissance.¡±

    I glare at him, not at all happy about being compared to a would-be murderer.

    ¡°She can travel through mirrors,¡± Jaeger elaborates, apparently confusing my angry glare for confusion. ¡°I had her watching targets from inside the reflections on watches, window panes or anything else with a reflective surface, making sure that nobody ever saw her. She hated that, which means she hates us.¡±

    ¡°So if you see some vampire-looking bitch staring at you from inside a mirror,¡± Ember interjects, anger warring with concern on her face, ¡°you run away as fast as you can.¡±

    I¡¯m starting to feel a lot less confident about this.

    ¡°Look¡­¡± Ember says, picking up on my distress. ¡°I know it¡¯s a big ask, but¡­ things are bad right now. We¡¯re losing control of whole neighbourhoods, and they¡¯re not going quietly. There¡¯s blood on the streets, and I don¡¯t know how long I can keep it out of the district.¡±

    I sit there in silence, thinking it over. Things are nice now, but that doesn¡¯t mean much if the violence is going to spread here. If I have the opportunity to stop my life from collapsing again, shouldn¡¯t I take it? Even if it¡¯s dangerous and terrifying, it has to be better than losing what I have.

    ¡®I can do it,¡¯ I sign, even as nerves well up in my chest.

 Lookout: 3.02

    Jaeger has a van waiting for me outside. It looks normal enough from the outside; a faded and dirty white vehicle of the type that¡¯re as common as anything on the roads around here. Even the man behind the wheel looks normal enough, with his slightly portly frame and one of those vests made from that blinding yellow-green material that¡¯s so popular among Seattle¡¯s craftspeople for some unknown reason.

    It¡¯s the sort of vehicle I¡¯ve started to see as just part of the background of the city, part of what I have come to consider normal. Parked next to Ember¡¯s flashy sports car, with its richly-maintained blue paintjob, it looks utterly miserable, and completely mundane.

    At least, until Jaeger pulls open the sliding door on its side. The van¡¯s interior couldn¡¯t look more different from its exterior, perfectly clean and sickeningly well-lit when compared to the grime that covers its sides. Jaeger steps in without waiting to see if I follow, so I swallow down the faint sense of unease that comes as I step under the bright white lights and clamber up behind him.

    Once my eyes adjust to the light, the first things I notice are the two heavily-armed men sitting on a bench opposite me. I¡¯m no stranger to being around armed strangers by now, but there¡¯s a world of difference between Ember¡¯s people and these ghoulish figures.

    Ember cares a lot about how the world sees her and her district, and her people reflect that. The most people see of her security are the bouncers, whose neatly-ironed suits are about as close to civilian wear as it¡¯s possibly for a beefy security guard to get. The reaction teams wear uniforms, sure, and some of them are as well armed as Jaeger¡¯s men, but there¡¯s always an effort to keep them looking at least a little bit approachable.

    With the blotchy earthen tones of their clothing and the full-face masks covering their faces, Jaeger¡¯s men just look like a death squad. It¡¯s made worse by the way they¡¯re looking at me so coldly, without any of the warm fondness I¡¯ve started to see on the eyes of the security here. Wordlessly, one of them stands up and brushes past me to pull the door shut, trapping me in here.

    I look away from the pair, over to Jaeger in the back of the van. He¡¯s surrounded by radio equipment and some more of those screens everyone uses. The back doors of the van are completely non-functional, being covered by a map mounted on a pegboard. The city it shows is immediately recognisable to me. I still don¡¯t really know a lot about this city, but I know enough to recognise its shape on a map. I can even point to the Red-Light district; far enough above the University District to maintain a professional distance while being close enough to draw in the district¡¯s students ¨C as both employees and customers, depending on how well-off they are.

    Jaeger is standing next to the map, holding onto a handle on the side of the van as it lurches off and we start to make our way through the city streets. I find my eyes drawn to the holster on his thigh, and the pistol inside it. He looks down at me for a moment, his eyes blank and expressionless behind his half-face mask, cast into shadow by the brow of his helmet. He seems to be assessing me, his eyes looking me up and down like an officer might look at a column of marching troops, his gaze hardening with every imperfection he spots in their uniforms or drill.

    ¡°I assume Ember hasn¡¯t told you much about where the Triad are strongest?¡± he asks me, after satisfying his curiosity. I have no way of knowing if I¡¯ve passed or failed his cursory inspection.

    He doesn¡¯t wait for me to answer, instead gesturing to the map, his hand sweeping over the upper-half of the city, above the channel that divides Seattle in two.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to Ballard, on the other side of Green Lake from the Red-Light district. It¡¯s the Triad¡¯s heartland, and it¡¯s been that way since they first arrived in the city. When they broke away from us, they took about half of our pet gangs in South Seattle with them, and that¡¯s where most of the fighting for this gang war has been taking place. Which means they aren¡¯t going to be keeping anything important there.¡±

    He takes a light-blue marker pen from a clip on the wall and starts to mark out sections of the map, outlining the Triad¡¯s area of influence. Their territory north of the Fremont Cut, the one we¡¯re heading towards, is a thick line that covers a large chunk of the city, with clearly defined borders. Their southern territory is less regular, a crosshatch of random areas of influence stretched between residential areas and the supporting industry around the docks.

    I¡¯ve never been that far south ¨C the glowing towers of downtown form a pretty effective wall, and I haven¡¯t yet been able to muster up the courage to creep past them ¨C and, looking at the map, I don¡¯t want to. If that¡¯s where most of the fighting is, I¡¯d much rather stay up here in the dark city, where it¡¯s safe.

    ¡°We know where their territory is, but they played their cards pretty close to the chest even when they were our partners,¡± Jaeger continues. ¡°I¡¯ve pulled you away from your cushy job because I need to get a clear picture of where their assets are within their territory. I¡¯m talking about arms caches, drug labs, storerooms, safehouses and boltholes. Any of the infrastructure they need to keep their gang running.¡±

    He sets his pen aside, leaning in close as the van lurches around a corner.

    ¡°I need you to be like a ghost. A bogeyman hiding under their beds. If they see you near one of their sites, they¡¯ll close it up and move it somewhere else. Leave the fighting to the professionals; your job is reconnaissance and reconnaissance only. Understood?¡±

    I nod, eagerly. As far as I¡¯m concerned, wild horses couldn¡¯t drag me into a fight. I mean, when I¡¯m in the Red-Light district I¡¯ll help the guards take down rowdy customers, but there¡¯s a world of difference between stepping in to defend the people I like and willingly going out to fight a bunch of armed gangsters.

    ¡°Good. We¡¯ll be launching the operation from here,¡± he says, pointing at a spot on the outskirts of Ballard that I quickly work to memorise. ¡°We¡¯re almost there,¡± he says, his hand drifting over to a switch on the wall, ¡°so I¡¯ll give your eyes some time to adjust.¡±

    The moment he flicks the switch, the harsh white lights cut out, to be replaced a second later by sparse red bulbs that provide just enough light to see by. I let out a breath I hadn¡¯t realised I¡¯d been holding in, and start to centre myself as I prepare for the task at hand.

    A couple of bangs sound out, as the driver raps twice on the sheet of metal dividing him from the rest of us, and one of Jaeger¡¯s men stands up from his seat, moving over to the door. I turn, putting my back to Jaeger and getting ready to spring out.

    ¡°Once you find something, report back here and we¡¯ll mark it on the map. Good luck,¡± Jaeger finishes dispassionately, like he¡¯s aware it¡¯s expected of him but not entirely sure why.

    The van lurches as it comes to a sudden stop, the soldier hauling the door open the moment it starts to slow. I pounce out the moment the first red glow illuminates the faded wood-panelled side of an old house. The moment my tail clears the van, the soldier pulls the door closed, leaving me alone in the pitch-black driveway of a derelict suburban neighbourhood.

    I slip into the darkness, creeping up the side of the building and onto the roof. Looking around, it¡¯s clear that they¡¯ve parked up in an old suburban neighbourhood that was slated for demolition after Leviathan¡¯s passing. A lot of places in this part of the city look much the same way; derelict or half-demolished houses ringed by old construction sites.

    Ember says that, back in the first year or two after Leviathan hit the city, space was at a premium. The people were keen to get out of the refugee camps, and there was a lot more demand for housing than there was space to provide it. So they started tearing down the water-damaged houses in this part of the city and replacing them with four-story blocks of regular apartments.

    Construction has slowed since that first mad rush ¨C following a couple of high-profile fires and one building collapse ¨C but I¡¯m sure the construction companies will get around to this place someday. Or maybe it¡¯ll get tied up in red tape, like that old factory I used to sleep in, and stay a ruin forever.

    I cast a last glance at the van ¨C its faded paint and utilitarian shape perfectly in keeping with a vehicle that¡¯s been left in the site overnight by some workers who just wanted to get back early ¨C and leap off the rooftop, dipping into the shadows to land safely on the street below.

    I duck out of the shadows, sprinting under the street¡¯s one light before slowing my pace as I hit an alleyway between two low-rise apartment buildings, faint chinks of light showing behind some of the curtained windows. A sound up ahead has me ducking into the shadows beneath a dumpster, edging forwards until I can look out at the alleyway while still remaining hidden.

    It¡¯s just a man, dressed in hard-worn clothes and moving at a quick ¨C if unsteady ¨C pace to the door to one of the apartment blocks. He fumbles with his jacket for a few moments, muttering to himself all the while, before pulling out a key and stepping into the house.

    From the sound of his mutterings and the unsteadiness of his walk, I think he was just a drunk coming home. It¡¯s late; late enough that most people are either already asleep or fast on their way. It narrows down the number of people I need to watch, but even then it¡¯ll be difficult to tell who¡¯s out on Triad business and who¡¯s just out. It¡¯s not like they wear a uniform or anything, just the occasional light-blue armband when they want to tell who¡¯s who in a fight.

    I can¡¯t just start following random people ¨C if nothing else, that doesn¡¯t sound very productive ¨C so I need to be a little smarter about this. The moment the man has stepped into the building, I slip out from under the dumpster and practically soar through the shadowed wall of the building, up four stories and onto the roof.

    Ember might not think rooftops are all that useful, but that¡¯s because she¡¯s stuck on two legs. When you can move as fast and as far as I can, the rooftops are even faster than the streets. The rooftops in this part of the city are even better; they¡¯re fairly regular in size, and just tall enough that they¡¯re above the height of the streetlights. That means plenty of darkness for me to work with.

    I start to leap from building to building, accelerating through the shadows of the rooftop before using that momentum to fling my physical body across the gaps. At the speeds I¡¯m moving, there¡¯s not much of a chance of anyone spotting me and anyone who does manage to catch a glimpse might just dismiss me as a trick of the light.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    As I soar through the air, feeling the wind rushing along my sides and whipping my tail behind me before plunging into the darkness of the next rooftop like a diver, I almost feel like laughing. It feels so good to be here again. In the distance, maybe a mile and half away, sits the abandoned factory I first met Mike in. I still can¡¯t think of that place without feeling a swell of painful memories, but the rest of the streets around here bring out an entirely different sort of emotions.

    When I was only just starting to understand this city, these streets were the only world I knew. It¡¯s easy to remember the fascination, the wonder, with which I looked at every little thing. Everything was so new back then, from the people to the buildings to the endless lines of traffic. That fascination has faded as I start to understand Seattle more and more, but I¡¯m starting to realise that I¡¯ve only been picking at the surface of a much deeper mystery.

    This neighbourhood is the heart of the Seattle Triad, but I never noticed the gangs before. Not until I pushed further south or east. They were so¡­ visible in those places, so present.

    But why would they need to be visible here? This is their heart, their safest place. All the enemies they need to dissuade are nipping at the surroundings of their territory, so they¡¯re most visible there as a way of deterring them.

    But here? This is where they keep their most valuable resources; the stuff they can¡¯t risk in more volatile neighbourhoods. If they start hanging up the light-blue streamers, all they¡¯d be doing is painting a massive target for the heroes to follow.

    I slink over to the edge of the rooftop, lying down and resting my head on my forearms as I look out on the street below. There are about a dozen people on this little stretch of road alone, any one of whom could be on Triad business.

    So I have to narrow it down a little. The couple staggering down the road as they paw at each other clearly aren¡¯t anything suspect, the same with the man in a suit who¡¯s currently throwing up behind the bins. The trio of young men sitting on the steps of a building could be guards, except the building itself is a liquor store and they¡¯re all far too liberal with their drinks for anyone who¡¯s supposed to be a guard.

    In fact, this late on a Friday night, it¡¯s easier to pick out the ones who aren¡¯t drunk.

    The young woman furtively rushing down the street with her head buried in her hoodie could be a courier, but I don¡¯t think so. If she were, she¡¯d at least be wearing a backpack to carry things in. The same applies to the elderly gentleman who¡¯s looking at the vomiter and shaking his head in clear disgust.

    Most of the twelve don¡¯t seem suspicious at all ¨C or, at least, they aren¡¯t the right kind of suspicious. Most, but not all. There are two men walking down the street side by side, one of them a thin wiry figure with a backpack worn over one shoulder and the other a giant of a man with a big bulky coat that could conceal all sorts of weapons.

    A courier and his escort.

    Of course, I can¡¯t be certain, but it¡¯s better than nothing.

    I creep along the rooftop, looking down at them and watching the way they move. They¡¯re both confident, but the giant is looking around with the practiced eye I¡¯ve seen on Ember¡¯s people. It¡¯s not nerves; he¡¯s simply paid to look out for trouble.

    He looks up, too, forcing me to duck down behind the lip of the roof. Most people don¡¯t bother looking up ¨C it¡¯s one of the reasons I can move so freely over the rooftops ¨C but when you¡¯re in a certain line of work it pays to keep one eye on the sky in case a hero swoops down from above.

    Once I hit the edge of the roof, I leap down into the alley with a graceful dive into the shadows behind a garbage can. I¡¯m as confident as I can be that these are the men I¡¯m looking for, so I edge as close to the end of the alley as I can get.

    A quick glance up and down the street shows that none of the people are looking my way, so I wait until the two men have just passed my hiding spot before leaping out under the streetlights and brushing a hand under the base off the man¡¯s heavy coat, slipping into the shadows between the layers of his clothing.

    If I had any doubts about my hunch, they quickly scatter as I curl around the unmistakable shape of a shotgun tucked into the space beneath the man¡¯s armpit, the barrel only barely hidden by the end of the coat and bouncing slightly against his thigh as he walks.

    He doesn¡¯t talk to the wiry man ¨C which is another sign that these men are professionals. The only sound is the rhythmic pounding of his boots on the pavement, the softer sounds of the other man¡¯s trainers, and whatever street noise happens to filter in.

    Unlike Ember¡¯s coat, the giant¡¯s jacket doesn¡¯t have a deep hood for me to look out of. Instead I position myself near the tail and look out at the occasional flashes of pavement as the jacket shifts with every step. With only those brief glimpses and the regular sound of my host¡¯s footsteps, I quickly lose track of time as we cross what feels like the length of Ballard.

    It almost comes as a shock when my host abruptly changes direction, stepping off the pavement and up a set of concrete stairs. I listen intently at the sound of the wiry man knocking on a door, followed by a muffled conversation that¡¯s too faint for me to make out. Whatever was said, it seems to have worked; the door creaks open, and my unwitting host leads me inside the building.

    Looking out the bottom of the man¡¯s jacket, the pair seem to be walking down a long, pitch-black corridor. Whether that¡¯s to make the building less noticeable from the outside, or just because they only want to pay off electricity in the places they need it, makes no difference to me. I take the opportunity I¡¯ve been presented with, and slip like a ghost out the bottom of the man¡¯s jacket.

    The moment I touch the floor, I creep around the walls and up onto the ceiling. I can see a faint chink of light in a door at the end of the hall ¨C a door that¡¯s about to be opened, filling the hall with light ¨C so I quickly rush under the gap of a different door, emerging into what looks like a storefront that¡¯s been shuttered up for the night.

    I creep around racks of second-hand clothes, looking around for a way through the backwall before forming a hand to push against the ceiling tiles and slipping up into the crawlspace. From there, it¡¯s a simple matter of slinking around the gaps in the building¡¯s wiring and ducking through tiny mouseholes until I can hear some sort of sound below me.

    I look around, judging whether I can fit my body up here and whether the metal lattice holding up the tiles will be able to support my weight, before emerging from the darkness with my legs resting on the ceiling and my arms taking the weight off them by gripping tightly to a set of water pipes.

    Using my other arms, I pry up one of the ceiling tiles and push it aside just enough to see the floor below. When I¡¯m not immediately blinded by a flash of light, I merge most of my body with the shadows again, leaving just enough of my head in the light to look through the gap.

    Below me, the courier has his backpack open on a table while the guard looms just behind his shoulder. They¡¯re talking to a well-dressed man who¡¯s in the process of unloading wads of bills from the backpack, running each of them through some sort of little machine before someone else adds them to a neat stack.

    Once he¡¯s apparently satisfied, he waves over someone from behind him and, moments later, a third man starts piling up see-through packets of a brown powder. It doesn¡¯t take me long to realise I¡¯m watching the sale of the same sort of poison that killed Mike.

    The Triad are more like a coalition of dozens of gangs that have all agreed to follow the Triad in exchange for access to the protection and services they offer. The courier and the guard must be from one of those affiliate gangs, buying poison from an actual Triad operation that¡¯s responsible for bringing the poison into the city.

    I form a hand to pull the ceiling tile back a little further, and see the dozen people hard at work at the other end of the room. With the exception of a pair of bored-looking armed guards, they¡¯re all dressed in concealing plastic suits with a mask over their face and their hair in nets.

    There¡¯s a stack of boxes on one side of the room, filled with what looks like hundreds of plastic bottles of some sort or another. The workers are taking the bottles and cutting them open, revealing small wrapped packages suspended in a token amount of liquid. The packages are washed, dried, then opened and the power inside is weighed before being wrapped in new packages, ready for sale.

    The scale of it is terrifying; each package of powder is easily capable of filling a hundred of the needles that killed Mike, even if I don¡¯t quite understand how one becomes the other. I don¡¯t want to know. In fact, this whole place makes me sick to my core.

    I slide the ceiling tile back into place as quickly as I dare before creeping out the building through a window that overlooks a dark alley. Once I¡¯m up on the roof, I look around until I can make sense of where exactly my journey has taken me. I¡¯m less than five hundred feet from the old factory; only five hundred feet from the place where Mike died, and I¡¯ve just found the distribution centre for the drug that killed him.

    I shake my head, banishing the unpleasant thoughts, and slink off over the rooftops as I move back to where the van is still parked up and silent. The door opens the moment I knock, leaving me looking down the barrel of a gun for a terrifying instant before Jaeger¡¯s soldier points it away from me and steps back to let me in.

    Ignoring him, his colleague, and Jaeger standing next to the board, I reach into a plastic tub sitting next to the map and pull out a light-blue pin, sticking it in the map on the exact spot of the distribution centre.

    It feels good to have it up there; knowing that, at some point down the line, our people will storm that place, and that I¡¯ll have made it happen. And yet, I¡¯m even more aware that I¡¯ve only scratched the surface of Ballard. There are more secrets hiding out there, more pins to put on the map.

    I''ve got a long way to go, but this is a good start.

 Lookout: 3.03

    Where once there was one pin, now a forest of light blue juts out of the map in the back of the van. The past three nights have been the busiest I¡¯ve ever had, with Jaeger picking me up from home after sunset and dropping me off in the early hours of the morning, just before the sunrise.

    I haven¡¯t been seeing as much of Ember ¨C our hours don¡¯t quite match up ¨C but, when I do see her, I¡¯m full of so many different stories that I just can¡¯t wait to tell her, even if I have to do it on sheet after sheet of paper because I haven¡¯t the faintest clue how to say ¡°drug lab¡± in sign language.

    I still wouldn¡¯t say I know Jaeger, even though we¡¯ve been spending hours working together. He¡¯s nothing like Ember, who¡¯s so eager to explain each and every detail of her life and this city. If I have a single impression of Jaeger¡¯s character, it¡¯s that he¡¯s cold, almost detached from the world.

    He doesn¡¯t seem to mind switching over to a fully nocturnal schedule for this, even though I know it¡¯s not normal to only ever see the city under moonlight. Whenever I come back to the van, he¡¯s usually just sitting there like a machine that¡¯s been turned off. When I bring in a new location ¨C a new pin to add to the map ¨C he simply gets out a notebook and pen and starts fiercely writing things down.

    I asked him about his notebook ¨C through stilted sign language and a fancy bit of charades ¨C and he told me that using a ¡®computer¡¯ in Triad territory is too risky, with Bloody Mary potentially hiding in every reflection. He discussed the possibility of us being murdered by a brutal madwoman like it was the possibility of us getting rained on; just an inconsequential bit of information.

    Still, I must admit he¡¯s very good at what he does. Each time I¡¯ve brought a pin back, I¡¯ve written out a little bit of tape explaining just what each building is. Drug labs, warehouses, arms depots, a couple of bars popular with the rank and file, and even a building full of accountants in suits who¡¯re hard at work on some arcane accounting that I didn¡¯t even try to make sense of.

    Jaeger has taken those disjointed bits of information, plus whatever other information I can give him, and put together a complete picture of the Triad¡¯s operations in the city. I don¡¯t think he was using any sort of power either ¨C I don¡¯t know what his power is, exactly, but I certainly didn¡¯t notice anything obvious. Just cold, logical reasoning supplemented by what he knew about the Triad¡¯s operations from when they worked with us.

    We¡¯ve been able to build up an almost complete picture of their sources of income, with a clear line from the port to the distribution centres to the dealers and clients, but we¡¯re still no closer to finding wherever they¡¯ve tucked away their Capes. Jaeger thinks they can¡¯t have more than one or two in a safehouse, because most Parahumans are apparently volatile enough that sticking three in the same place would run the risk of only one leaving, but that means there has to be at least half a dozen targets that I simply haven¡¯t run into.

    So, I¡¯m broadening the net. Until now, I¡¯ve focused on the flow of goods through the city. I found a courier who led me to a dealer, then hung around there until another courier came, before following them to their hideaways. At the end of the night, I followed the guy in charge ¨C and his money ¨C to the strange accountants and, from there, I could map out the whole network with ease.

    But the safehouses won¡¯t be on the network, which means I need to pick a different target to follow. The people, rather than the process. That¡¯s why I¡¯m standing on the rooftop of a low-rise tenement near the centre of Ballard, trying to remember if I want the third or fourth window along.

    There¡¯s a girl that lives here, called ¡®Kel¡¯ or ¡®Kelsey¡¯ or something. I ran into her yesterday, as she was coming out of a Triad building with a backpack on her shoulder. I followed her as close as I could, hoping she¡¯d lead me to another useful site. Instead I got a good earful as she chatted on the phone to her boyfriend, who seems to be someone halfway important, and ended up having to sneak out of her bedroom window once she¡¯d finally turned in at three in the morning.

    Tucked among inane gossip was an invitation to work for a few hours guarding her boyfriend¡¯s warehouse. It seems she¡¯s short on cash, and could use a boost, but it sounds like he¡¯s just giving her the wages as charity, and really it¡¯s an excuse to hang out after dark. My plan is to listen in, and hope they let slip something important.

    It might not be the most thorough plan, but it¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.

    Ah, now I remember. It was the third window.

    I slip down the side of the building, counting myself lucky that she lives above the height of the streetlights, and pass through her window before drifting down the back of her curtains and into her room. It¡¯s been a minute since I saw her step through the front door of the building, which means I need to hide right away rather than looking around.

    It only takes me a second to decide to creep under the bed, hugging the underside of her mattress as the sound of footsteps and chatter comes even closer. Kelsey is making her excuses to her flatmates about why she¡¯s going to be back late tonight, which means they don¡¯t know she¡¯s part of the Triad.

    A shame. It was probably a bit too much to hope this was some sort of gang flophouse, which would have meant another pin on the board.

    When Kelsey pushes the door open, casting a deep patch of light on the floor, I pull back even further under the bed. When she flicks the light on, I have to retreat to the furthest corner of the bed to avoid being forced out of the shadows. The problem is that now I can¡¯t see anything, because the light-bleed is blocking off every possible vantage point.

    I need to know what she¡¯s doing, so I decide to take a risk. I form my head underneath the bed, upside down so that I can crane my neck forwards to be able to see out into the room. It doesn¡¯t let me see much more than the sneakers on her feet and the base of her thick leggings, but that¡¯s enough for me to get an idea of what she¡¯s doing.

    I almost flinch back in panic when she drops to her knees, before slowly creeping back out as she fiddles with a small grate in the wall on the other side of the room to my hiding spot. She undoes a single screw by hand, before pulling the grate off and setting it aside. When she reaches in and pulls out a matte-black handgun and holster, fear and exhilaration rushes through me in equal measure.

    I watch as she buckles the holster to her thigh, over the top of her leggings. I need to be careful about this; the street downstairs is well-lit, and if she gets into a car then she¡¯ll probably reach it before I can get to her. I need to follow her, and this time I can¡¯t just do it from a distance; I need to be able to hear every word she says.

    So I creep out of the shadows and edge forwards under her bed, as every instinct screams at me that she could spot me at any moment. There¡¯s just barely enough space between the bed and the floor for me to push myself along on my stomach, but whatever strange trick of my power it is that muffles my movements is enough to keep me quiet as I creep closer and closer to the edge of the bed.

    I can see everything below her shoulders now, as she opens up her wardrobe and pulls out a thick pleated skirt. I watch as she slips it over her leggings, hiding the gun and its holster from sight, before shrugging a thick jacket over her shoulders. Either one of those would be good places to hide.

    She steps over to the door, and I inch my way out from under the bed as quietly as I possibly can. The ceiling light feels like it¡¯s burning my skin, and I feel more exposed than I ever have in my life. As Kelsey takes a step towards the door, I take a half-step closer to her.

    I almost leap for joy as her hand drifts up towards the light switch, rather than the doorhandle. It¡¯s a small window, a half-second gap of darkness, but that¡¯s all I need. The moment she flicks the switch, the room is plunged into darkness. I pounce, leaping across the room and curling up beneath her skirts before her hand has even left the switch. It was a split second decision; she¡¯s wearing the jacket because it¡¯s cold outside, but she¡¯ll probably take it off when she goes indoors.

    She opens the door, and I let out a metaphorical sigh of relief as the light doesn¡¯t bleed through her skirt. It must be a tight weave; meant to keep out the chill as well as hide her gun from sight.

    I listen as she says goodbye to her flatmates, who wish her luck on her ¡®date,¡¯ before she leaves her apartment and heads out onto the streets.

    Her walk is hurried, almost like a jog, as she rushes through the frigid streets. A cold snap has moved in, bringing with it occasional bouts of near-freezing rain, and it¡¯s driven most people off the streets. In many ways, it¡¯s made my work a lot easier; with the weekend over and the cold coming in, there are a lot less people on the street after dark. It makes it easier to pick out my targets from the crowd.

    Kelsey doesn¡¯t walk far; within a few hundred feet she¡¯s turned off the main road and up a set of stairs. If I remember the street right, I think this is the multistorey car park. Sure enough, I hear the click of her car unlocking before she practically slides into the seat. I couldn¡¯t actually see what car it is, but the upholstery doesn¡¯t look anywhere near as nice as the plush leather of Ember¡¯s big blue monster and there¡¯s a load of dust and junk that¡¯s gathered behind the pedals.

    As we pull out into the streets, I hear a distinctive click as Kelsey flips her phone open, followed a few moments later by her voice.

    ¡°Charlie, I¡¯m on my way now. Should be there in ten.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t sweat it.¡± I can just make out the voice on the other end of the line; deeper than hers, but not by all that much. ¡°Things are quiet here anyway.¡±

    ¡°Alright, see you soon. Love you.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, see you.¡±

    ¡°Charlie,¡± she interjects quickly, before he can hang up. ¡°You have to say it back.¡±

    There¡¯s a distinctly awkward pause, before the voice on the other end of the line lets out a sigh.

    ¡°Love you too, Kel.¡±

    From the chorus of ¡®oohs¡¯ and ¡®awws¡¯ that I can hear even this far from the phone, it¡¯s clear that he¡¯s not alone. That¡¯s good; the more people, the better the chance that they¡¯ll let something slip.

    ¡°Hey, shut the fuck u-¡± Kel clicks her phone shut with a chuckle, as Charlie snaps at whoever he¡¯s with. I can see her feet pushing down on the pedals as she drives through the streets, the movement of the car only visible by the little windows of streetlights that make it down into the footwell. After another few seconds, she switches on the radio and fills the car with music that¡¯s a little too wild for my taste, but it doesn¡¯t do to impose on a host. Especially when they¡¯re being as generous as Kelsey is.

    After another few minutes of driving ¨C long enough for one entire song and most of a second ¨C I feel the subtle shift in the car¡¯s momentum as Kelsey pulls up outside her destination, stepping out and immediately shivering against the cold. I feel the pleats of her skirt shift as she idly brushes her hand against her pistol, before she seems to centre herself and sets off at a hurried pace.

    Rather than knocking, there¡¯s the sound of a buzzer as Kelsey idles outside of a pair of metal double-doors.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± a gruff voice asks with a put-on sing-song lilt.

    ¡°It¡¯s me, you fucking idiot,¡± Kel snaps back half-heartedly. ¡°Open up already; it¡¯s freezing out here.¡±

    ¡°Me¡­ me¡­ Sorry, we¡¯re not expecting anyone named ¡®Me¡¯ tonight. Hey, boss¡± ¨C the voice grows fainter, as he shouts to someone away from the microphone ¨C ¡°you know anyone called Me?¡±

    ¡°Yeah¡± ¨C it¡¯s the same voice from the phone ¨C ¡°Me girlfriend. Now stop dicking around and let her in.¡±

    Less than a second later, there¡¯s a buzz and a sudden lurch of movement as Kel pushes open the now-unlocked door and steps inside. I prepare myself to jump out at the earliest opportunity, only to be presented by a well-lit corridor without a single patch of darkness I can see. I¡¯m stuck here, for the moment.

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    Still, it¡¯s strange that the building has the lights on. Most of the places I¡¯ve found have had the lights off, to stop anybody from noticing something odd about a building that¡¯s still lit up at four in the morning. It might be that I¡¯m somewhere new, or I might just be in a building I¡¯ve scouted before. I won¡¯t know for sure until I can get out of here and catch my bearings.

    I can hear conversation coming from up ahead. It¡¯s what I wanted, but I was hoping to watch from above, or from some other dark corner. Instead, I¡¯m uncomfortably close. When Kelsey pushes open a set of double doors and is met by five different voices all raised in greeting, I feel like they can see right through the tartan pattern to the creature hiding beneath.

    Kel circles around the group, the hem of her skirt fanning out just enough to let me catch a glimpse of an old leather sofa. Sure enough, I feel her shifting above me and hear the sound of her jacket as she takes it off and slings it over her shoulder in a move that would have exposed me to the room if I¡¯d hidden there. There¡¯s a second sound, as she tosses it over something I can¡¯t see, before she sinks gracefully into a chair.

    No. Onto someone¡¯s lap.

    ¡°Hey, hun,¡± she says to her boyfriend, leaning in a little closer. ¡°How¡¯s things?¡±

    ¡°Quiet,¡± he replies, as his legs shift a little. ¡°There¡¯re only a couple of shipments going out tonight. Got five cases of ammunition going out at three. Pickup¡¯ll be done by one of our guys; it¡¯s headed south to deal with the clusterfuck down there. Then there¡¯s a big shipment going out at four; ten crates of those fancy Russian assault rifles, headed to some cult out in Idaho. They¡¯re being picked up by one of the cult, so expect some weird bastard.¡±

    ¡°When do you get off?¡±

    ¡°Stroke of midnight. Thanks for covering the late shift.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s no bother. Like I said, I could use the cash.¡±

    ¡°You bring a piece, or you need me to get one from downstairs?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m strapped,¡± she says, shifting a little so her pistol is pressed against his chest.

    ¡°You¡¯re strapped?¡± a voice shouts from out of my sight. ¡°Shit, Charlie, I didn¡¯t realise you were into that sort of thing. You¡¯re a braver man than me, bro.¡±

    Laughter echoes around the room, but I don¡¯t get the joke. Honestly, I just feel like I don¡¯t belong. This isn¡¯t what I was expecting; I was hoping for a meeting in a shady conference room, not a group of friends chatting to each other. I feel like a voyeur.

    ¡°Go fuck yourself, Tom,¡± Kel snaps, though I can hear Charlie chuckling to himself. I can feel the vibrations of his laughter, travelling through his legs.

    ¡°There anything to drink here?¡± Kel asks, once the chuckles have died down and the murmur of conversation has started up again.

    ¡°There¡¯s no beer, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking,¡± her boyfriend replies. ¡°Not on the job. But there¡¯s some soda in the fridge back there.¡±

    ¡°Sweet,¡± she says, and I lurch as she stands up and brushes down her skirt. ¡°I need my sugar rush.¡±

    My mind is racing as she steps around the back of where I think her boyfriend is sitting. This is getting ridiculous, and dangerous. I need to find a better hiding place.

    Kel moves around what looks like a long kitchen counter, and I think I¡¯ve found my window of opportunity. I wait, as she opens up a fridge and pulls out a can of soda, then make my move the moment she turns away to head back.

    Soundlessly, I slip out of her skirt and onto the floor of what looks like a small kitchenette, with a microwave, a fridge and a long countertop keeping me out of sight of the people who¡¯re still talking.

    I almost let out a sigh of relief until I look around and realise there¡¯s absolutely nowhere to hide. The light mounted on the ceiling above me leaves no shadows deep enough for me to use, and the one window I can see has been boarded up to keep in the light, as well as being in full view of the Triad gangsters sitting on the other side of the countertop.

    And then, things get worse.

    ¡°Hey Kel,¡± someone asks, ¡°could you grab me one while you¡¯re up there?¡±

    ¡°Grab your own, you lazy ass.¡±

    I hear a long, drawn out sigh, followed by the sound of leather easing as a heavy-set man stands up from whichever sofa he¡¯d been sitting on. I have seconds, at most, before he rounds the corner and sees me. Then it¡¯ll be bullets and knives, and that¡¯s it. Life number three, down the drain.

    I panic, looking around the kitchenette for any possible hiding place, before my eyes land on the cupboard built beneath the counter, right next to the gap that holds the fridge. I pull it open ¨C just a sliver ¨C with one hand, while reaching in with my pinkie finger until it hits darkness.

    Then I¡¯m hidden, the cupboard door closing behind me and sealing me inside my little island of safety. I curl around coffee mugs and colourful boxes of breakfast cereal, listening intently to the sound of approaching footsteps as the gangster approaches, followed by the click of the fridge opening.

    I can¡¯t stay here. It¡¯s only a matter of time before one of them decides to come get a coffee and looks in here for a mug. I need a way out, no matter how bad it might be. So I wait until the very second I hear the fridge close before pushing open the cupboard door and sending my tail out to the retreating pant leg of the gangster.

    It brushes against his shoe for an agonising moment before hooking onto his pant leg and getting just high enough to hit the darkness behind his jeans. With a metaphorical sigh of relief, I slip from one patch to the other. Ember says I look like a cloud of darkness when I do this, but it always goes so quickly that she¡¯s never been able to get a clear look. It could be that my body does materialise and disappear again, it¡¯s just going too fast for her to tell.

    Either way, now I¡¯m trapped between a hairy leg and a pair of jeans, being walked right back to the same space I tried to flee from. I can hear the sofa creaking again as my host sits down, before the back of his pant leg presses inwards as he leans forwards, pushing his ankle against the base of the sofa. As he opens up his soda can with a distinctive snap, I curl an exploratory finger out the bottom of his pants and use it to escape to the underside of the sofa.

    There¡¯s nothing down here. From one side, I can see the pair of legs I just left and a second pair sitting next to them, smaller and wearing ankle-length boots attached to what look like thick leather trousers. On the other side, I can see out of the room and into what seems to be the hallway of a repurposed house, stacked high with crates of ammunition. It¡¯s just as bright of the rest of this place, which means I¡¯m still stuck.

    If worst comes to worse, I can poke a hole in the flimsy fabric base and hide inside the sofa until the coast is clear, but for now I¡¯m not going to waste this vantage point.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s this I hear about some biker in town?¡± my former host asks, immediately snatching my attention back to the conversation.

    ¡°Word is that he was from the Spartan Legion,¡± Kel¡¯s boyfriend, Charlie, explains. ¡°They¡¯re some bigshots who work all over the North East, which is why the Red Pole rolled out the red carpet for him. They¡¯re transport specialists; run a lot of interstate and cross-border ops.¡±

    He pauses for a while, as something seems to occur to him.

    ¡°Hey, Mika, you were running escort, right? Get any juicy gossip out of your fellow biker?¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± the woman in leather scoffs, her feet shifting as she leans forward above me. ¡°He was riding a fifty year old American fossil, and he looked like he¡¯d had an accident in a leather shop. I¡¯ve got a Yamaha. Now that¡¯s a proper bike.¡±

    ¡°I thought Yamaha made pianos,¡± Kel pipes up, sounding a little confused.

    ¡°Yup,¡± Mika agrees. ¡°Pianos and motorcycles. Dad used to work at the piano factory before everything went to shit, but I was always useless at music.¡±

    She seems to shift unsteadily, her right food idly drifting along the ground.

    ¡°Anyway, I didn¡¯t say anything to him. Well above my paygrade. From the way he was talking to some of the others, though, I got the impression that what¡¯s going out of the city isn¡¯t as important as what¡¯s coming in.¡±

    ¡°Think it¡¯s something to break the stalemate? Bombs, maybe?¡± a new voice pipes up, from the sofa opposite me.

    ¡°If the boss wanted bombs,¡± Charlie interjects, ¡°he¡¯d order them in bulk through the same contacts we get the guns from. My guess is Capes. A couple of reinforcements could drive a wedge between all the bastards who¡¯re out to get us. Whatever fucking alliance is keeping them together, it can¡¯t last forever. They¡¯ll get pissed, or tired, and they¡¯ll splinter.¡±

    I hear a sharp beeping noise, before Mika¡¯s legs move as she shifts about, fumbling for something or other.

    ¡°Shit,¡± she swears. ¡°She¡¯s fucking hungry again. Anyone know where the fuck I can find Kimchi at this time of night?¡±

    This sounds promising¡­

    ¡°The Covered Market might still be open,¡± Charlie replies, ¡°if you¡¯re quick.¡±

    Mika audibly slumps back against the sofa, letting out an angry sigh.

    ¡°Why the fuck can¡¯t she ask for a fucking cheeseburger or something easy like that. Better yet, why the fuck can¡¯t she pay for her own goddam food? And why do I have to be the delivery girl?¡±

    ¡°Because you¡¯re the one who owns a motorbike,¡± Charlie explains.

    ¡°Yeah, a fucking motorbike. It¡¯s an enduring legacy of my lost homeland, not a fucking scooter I can lash a couple of pizza boxes to.¡±

    This sounds promising. If they¡¯ve got the Capes stashed away in safehouses when they¡¯re not crushing heads on the streets, then they have to have couriers who¡¯ll fetch them food and run odd jobs for them. I think I might¡¯ve hit the jackpot. The only question is how I¡¯m going to get there.

    Her boots are attached to her leather pants, leaving no way for me to sneak in like I did on the man sitting next to her. I shift over to the other side of the couch, forming my eyes and a small part of my head so that I can look out a little further. It¡¯s as I thought; the way out will bring the leather-clad girl past the back of the sofa. I can¡¯t just leave the sofa and walk out ¨C I¡¯d be spotted for sure ¨C but, if she¡¯s wearing some sort of jacket, then I can hide in that and hitch a ride with her all the way to the safehouse.

    It¡¯s a pretty big ¡®if,¡¯ but it¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.

    When Mika¡¯s boots move as she stands up, I pull back to the very edge of the couch, as close as I can get without being forced into the light. When she steps around the sofa, I lean half my head out into the light, three pairs of eyes and most of my upper jaw emerging from the shadows.

    When she steps around to my side of the sofa, a motorcycle helmet clutched in one hand, the first thing I notice is the unzipped leather jacket hanging loose over her upper body. I could almost cheer!

    As she turns back to say something to the others, I take my chance and exit my hiding spot, standing out in the open less than a foot away from the back of the heavy-set man who¡¯s still sitting on the sofa, nursing his drink. I reach out and slip my palm up the back of the woman¡¯s jacket, my fingers accidentally brushing up against her back before they hit the shadows.

    I panic, pulling myself in as fast as I can and nestling in the gap between the inflexible leather jacket and her vest. She shivers a little, but seems to dismiss it as nothing. When she zips up the jacket, compacting my hiding space to almost nothing, I know I¡¯m safe.

    My anxiety starts to fade away as I feel her back shifting as she walks away from the uncomfortably bright room. It was hard, and probably one of the scariest situations I¡¯ve ever been in, but it all paid off in the end. By the end of the night, I¡¯ll know where at least one of the safehouses are. From there, I can follow the Capes and the couriers and hopefully find the rest.

    Once that¡¯s done, maybe things will finally get back to normal.

 Lookout: 3.04

    I¡¯ve missed this smell. Mika¡¯s jacket doesn¡¯t leave me any room to actually look out at my surroundings, but I¡¯d recognise that aroma of grilling meat and dozens of fragrant spices anywhere. I haven¡¯t been back to that wonderful spice market in weeks ¨C at first because I didn¡¯t want anything to do with this part of town anymore, and then because Jaeger explained it was a Triad-run operation and that it¡¯d be far too risky for me to head out and pinch a couple of treats.

    And yet, I can still picture it as clearly as it was when I was last here. The endless stalls, nestled beneath a roof of tarpaulins and corrugated sheets of iron and plastic that offered only tantalising glimpses of the night¡¯s sky above, while rainwater streamed down dozens of gaps in a steady trickle that was just strong enough to remind everyone that this was a wild space, so far from the horrifically bright shops where most of the city goes to find their food.

    The Covered Market, by comparison, is an intimate space. The wide aisles and spacious seating are nowhere to be found; instead everyone¡¯s piled on top of each other in a warren of stalls and alleyways. Where there are seats, they¡¯re stools tucked right up against the counters of some of the more robust shops, only feet away from the people who sold and cooked them the food.

    The only lights are simple lamps dangling from wires tied to wooden poles, the struts of buildings and even parts of the roof. They¡¯re not enough to banish the darkness, instead creating a warm intimacy that forces people to lean in close to make each other out, to go slow because they need to watch their footing. Like the Red-Light District, it¡¯s a place where light and shadow can exist side-by-side.

    It¡¯s taking all the willpower I can muster to not leap out the back of Mika¡¯s jacket, sneak myself a couple of bits of the weirdest and most interesting food I can find, then track her down again and slip back in. I have to keep reminding myself that I¡¯m here for a job, not for myself, and that slipping out blind into one of the busiest places I¡¯ve ever seen would be close to suicide.

    From the feel of Mika¡¯s movement, she¡¯s reminding herself of the same. She¡¯s jostling through the crowd, pushing her way through in the way that only someone in padded leather clothes can. Every now and then, my hiding space will compress as she squeezes through a gap between two people, her shoulders shifting subtly as her head darts from side to side. The whole time, she¡¯s muttering to herself: ¡°Where the fuck is it?¡± ¡°Better not be shut already.¡± ¡°Fuck this babysitting Cape bullshit.¡±

    That sort of thing.

    Eventually, she seems to spot something and doubles her pace, her angry muttering becoming shouts.

    ¡°Hey, you! Don¡¯t you fucking dare close!¡±

    Someone shouts something back at her in a language I don¡¯t understand. Mika doubles down, yelling right back and pushing me a little as she pulls something out of her pocket. Not the switchblade she has in her right pocket, but something smaller from her left. Probably cash.

    After some more rapid-fire conversation, switching in and out of what I think are three different languages, Mika starts to push her way back through the less-dense crowd with every bit the same amount of speed she showed on her way in, but less of the obvious panic. I listen intently as she stows the food in some sort of compartment on her bike before gunning it down the road in an orchestra of sound.

    I¡¯ve seen the occasional motorbike out on the streets, even if they¡¯re nowhere near as popular as cars, but there¡¯s something different about this one. Maybe it¡¯s the speed Mika¡¯s going at, but it roars like no other bike I¡¯ve ever heard. It¡¯s a crescendo of sound, rising in volume and intensity before being abruptly cut off and starting again from the beginning.

    Mika¡¯s jacket fits her closely, but not close enough to stop it from flapping in the wind from the sheer force of her speed. Every now and then, the rise of her collar is matched by a passing streetlight, and a beam of orange light plays down her back, sending me scurrying around her body before finding purchase just above her stomach. There, I wait, feeling the motion of the bike through the vibrations that travel up through her, and the sensation of imbalance that comes as she leans into corners.

    After a while, the speed starts to slow: the jacket shakes less, the crescendos begin again less frequently, the vibrations get worse and the brief bursts of light disappear entirely. Mika is turning more, her pace slowing to a crawl at times as she weaves around obstacles that only she can see. The road stops being flat, instead rising and falling in abrupt jumps that have Mika focused solely on the controls of her bike, her arms tensing as she wrestles with the handlebars.

    Eventually, she pulls to a stop, kicking out the stand for her bike and shifting her weight as she steps off. Her arms move up, and I hear a slight noise as she sets her helmet down onto the seat of her motorcycle before opening up the compartment and pulling out the food she¡¯s been sent here to deliver. It¡¯s such a low-priority item that there has to be a Cape here to justify sending a courier to deliver it. Probably one of the new ones, too. They¡¯re more likely to get this red carpet treatment, if only to keep them on the ¡®right¡¯ side.

    I¡¯m here to watch, not to listen, so I¡¯m not going to make the same mistake I did last time. Staying with Kelsey might have got me here, but it¡¯s also the closest I¡¯ve come to being found out since I first started spying on the Triad. This time, there¡¯s no need to take that risk. So I slip out the back of Mika¡¯s jacket the moment she starts purposefully walking to her destination, and land silently on the driveway of a suburban home.

    Looking around, it quickly becomes clear that I¡¯m not in Seattle anymore. Not properly. I¡¯m on a short stretch of road that ends in a circle before doubling back on itself, surrounded by houses in various states of disrepair. Some of them are simply gone, with only a few scant bits of wood, concrete or metal where they might have once stood. Others are half-collapsed, without roofs and with only the skeletal remains of the walls holding up occasional patches of flooring.

    The road is cracked and warped, sunken in places where whole segments have broken away and been partially swallowed by the earth. The ground around them ¨C what might once have been beautifully manicured front lawns ¨C is nothing but swampy marshland filled with the chitter of insects and the gentle sway of plant life that¡¯s slowly starting to reclaim the last ruins of the man-made structures around it. The steady drizzle of rain fills the air with a gentle drumbeat of ambient noise, as rainwater patters against the marsh.

    The house Mika is walking towards is by far the most intact on the street, though even saying that much feels like I¡¯m overselling it. The paint has almost all disappeared from the wooden side panelling, revealing rotten boards that look like they¡¯re barely holding together, with some parts having rotted away completely to expose the insulation within. And yet, it looks sturdy enough, with boards behind all the windows to hide any light-bleed The perfect place to hide someone away from prying eyes.

    I follow Mika as she steps up to the door, ducking into the shadows beneath a parked car as she turns to look back at her bike, before dashing silently up behind her as she pushes the door open. The inside of the house is lit well enough to get me to hesitate for a moment, only to watch the door close behind Mika. There goes that way in!

    I pace around the front of the building for a few moments, looking at the sealed windows before spotting a set above the garage doors that haven¡¯t been covered up. The lip of the garage and the overcast rain has cast them into shadow and the distant glow of Lynnwood, though closer than I¡¯ve ever seen it, doesn¡¯t reach far enough to banish the shadows. The garage behind the doors is completely dark.

    I pace back down the driveway before turning and sprinting at the doors, pouncing at the last moment and merging with the shadows, letting my momentum carry me through the pane of glass like a ghost before emerging into a damp-filled garage occupied from end to end by the shattered remains of some old life. It¡¯s clear that the people who lived here were either drowned in their shelter or in the streets or just never came back to their home; they¡¯ve left everything.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    There¡¯s a car parked in the garage, kept safe from the elements for all these years. The shelves are lined with tools and trinkets and all the other flotsam that gathers in any space like this. The only part of the room that doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s from before Leviathan is the generator placed in the one spot of empty space, quietly thrumming as it pumps power through a series of wires that stretch along the walls and past the door to the rest of the house.

    ¡°Hello?¡± I hear Mika shout from somewhere in the house. ¡°Ma¡¯am? I got your delivery! Anyone home?¡±

    I edge closer to the door, ringed by lines of light-bleed, and listen as Mika starts to angrily pace around, before she speaks again, sounding like she¡¯s on the phone.

    ¡°Hey, Charlie? She¡¯s not here. Must¡¯ve got bored and wandered off, or whatever she does. I¡¯m just gonna leave the food by the door and head back, if that¡¯s alright with you?¡±

    There¡¯s a moment¡¯s silence.

    ¡°Great!¡± she exclaims. ¡°I¡¯ll be there soon.¡±

    I wait until I hear the sound of the front door closing before opening up the door between the garage and the house. Unsurprisingly, the first thing I notice is the light. It¡¯s not as well-lit as the arms depot was, but that seems to have more to do with the house itself; the overhead lights are dark, with some of the bulbs missing their glass, and light is instead provided by a series of lamps that have been scattered about the place.

    It looks like it was set up recently, but someone¡¯s taken the effort to make it feel lived-in. The walls are covered in posters for a whole bunch of bands I¡¯ve never heard of, with the old family photos of whoever used to live here left scattered in heaps on the floor. Over the top of a whole wall of the posters, someone¡¯s used spray paint to scrawl a big message that just reads ¡®FUCK OFF.¡¯

    Shaking my head in dismay, I ignore the walls and the posters and move deeper into the house. The kitchen looks fairly well-used, with an extension cord leading to the microwave and the fridge while the rest of the appliances have been left to gather dust. I open up the fridge, seeing shelf after shelf of pre-packaged meals, cans of beer and some other food packets I don¡¯t even try to make sense of.

    Looking around the kitchen some more ¨C and turning my nose up at the empty meal packets that have been idly tossed around the room ¨C I spot a door that looks like it might lead to a basement. Sure enough, when I open it I¡¯m immediately hit by the stench of mold and the sight of a rickety staircase that¡¯s half rotted through, leading down to a basement that¡¯s been partially flooded by water seeping through the walls.

    As much as the darkness down there looks welcoming, I know it¡¯s not likely to contain anything important. So I shut the door and head back out into the kitchen, pushing through a fairly sparse dining room and into what looks like a living room. The couches seem to be in decent condition ¨C like they were replaced when the building was turned into a safehouse ¨C and there¡¯s a surprisingly large stack of books piled up on and end table next to the biggest.

    Idly, I pick the topmost book off the stack. The front cover has a photo of a shirtless man wearing handcuffs, for whatever reason. I set it back down on the stack, taking care to make sure it¡¯s facing the same way it was when I picked it up. If I can get out of here without anyone knowing I ever visited, that would be absolutely ideal.

    Along with the stack of books, a brand new television has been perched on a water-damaged coffee table, but I leave that one alone. The screen always seems too bright to my eyes, which is why I prefer radio. Ember tried to do a movie night once, with a film she promised was as dark as she could find, but I barely made it a quarter of the way through before I got so scared I had to dive beneath the couch for safety.

    I shake my head to dislodge the memory, focusing on the job at hand. There doesn¡¯t seem to be anything particularly important in the living room ¨C except for the pistol sitting next to the books, but at this point I¡¯m pretty numb to that sort of thing. All there really is to find here is more evidence that whoever lives here is a total slob with no concept of cleanliness or good taste.

    Still, all I can do is move on and keep up the search. It doesn¡¯t take me long to find the stairs up to the second floor, which is just as desecrated as the rest of the house, with posters on every wall and the occasional spray-painted expletive adding a little extra flair. Most of the rooms here look abandoned, their bedding torn to shreds in what looks like a deliberate act of violence; someone venting their frustrations by taking a knife to the poor, innocent sheets.

    After briefly glancing into the bathroom, the only room I haven¡¯t checked is the remaining bedroom. Once I push open the door, a wave of fear and exhilaration rolls over me like a tsunami.

    Every inch of free wall space is absolutely covered in mirrors, ranging in size and style from a long flat mirror that could have been lifted from a public restroom to some ancient gilded thing that looks like it belongs in a museum. It¡¯s exactly what I came here to find; it couldn¡¯t be more obviously a Cape¡¯s bedroom if it tried, and I¡¯m pretty sure I know which one. Thus, the fear.

    The last thing I want to do is to run into Bloody Mary, and yet here I am in her bedroom. I can¡¯t just cut my losses and run; there has to be something here that can give me a clue as to where the other safehouses are, or a clue that points to another clue that has the answers I need. I just have to search this place as quickly as possible and get out as fast as I can. Let Jaeger do whatever he wants with this information, I just want to get this done.

    The first thing that draws my eye is the vanity set against the wall. Where the rest of the house is ¨C at best ¨C a complete trash heap, the vanity is a bastion of order and effort. It¡¯s covered in bottles of makeup and accessories, all of them either lighter or darker than I¡¯d been expecting, matching the black and white style of a lot of the band posters. It seems there is something Bloody Mary can bring herself to care about.

    As I¡¯m looking over the bottles, the top of the vanity seems to shake for a brief moment, as a whirr fills the air. Brushing aside a couple of bottles of very black lipstick, I find a black phone that¡¯s currently lit up by an incoming text.

    ¡®Meeting at 22:00 tomorrow, site B. Try to actually show up, this time.¡¯

    I grin from ear to ear ¨C as much as I can grin with a beak for a mouth. Now all I have to do is figure out where site B is, but maybe Jaeger can pull something from the phone that¡¯ll tell us.

    Taking the phone is a risk, but maybe Bloody Mary won¡¯t notice it¡¯s missing? I mean, she¡¯s already left it behind while she went¡­ wherever she¡¯s gone. Besides, someone who¡¯s this untidy has to be so used to losing things they¡¯d never even consider it was stolen.

    Wrapping my hand around the phone, I turn to make my way out of the room. As I do, I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. Something in a mirror. I snap back, but there¡¯s nothing there except my own reflection.

    Fear spikes in my chest as a woman appears in an entirely different mirror, standing right behind me and dressed from her neck to her toes in an outfit made of close-fitting leather that¡¯s held together by an array of belts and straps. Her face is almost unnaturally white, with deep red lips and red hair that cascades down her shoulders. The upper half of her face is covered by a plain leather mask that does nothing to hide the manic look in her eyes.

    As I watch, she drops the takeaway bag she¡¯s holding and pulls a straight razor out of a pouch on one of her many belts, slowly thumbing out the blade as her angry expression shifts into a sickening grin.

    I whirl on my feet, spinning on the spot with my beak open as I put my whole body behind the bite, only to snap down on empty air. I get a brief glimpse of the woman again ¨C in every mirror in front of me ¨C before a jolt of white hot agony shoots through my body as she drives her blade into my back.

 Lookout: 3.05

    I can almost feel the knife inside me; a throbbing bar of white hot agony digging into my back as Bloody Mary pushes it down to the hilt, and pushes me to the ground with it. I feel her hand running across my back ¨C barely a nudge among the pain ¨C as she dips her fingers in the gushing black blood. I can see her clearly in the mirrors opposite as she uses her legs to weigh me down even further. She looks up, meeting my inhuman gaze with her monstrous but all-too-human eyes as she brings her bloody fingers up to her mouth, savouring the taste of my blood with her tongue.

    ¡°And what¡± ¨C she asks, her tone leisured and aristocratic ¨C ¡°are you supposed to be?¡±

    With one hand kept firmly on the knife, she grips my lower jaw and starts to pull my head up. She¡¯s not strong ¨C definitely not as strong as Ember or Jaeger ¨C but I don¡¯t weight all that much.

    ¡°A little Watchdog, sent scampering off into the night with the scent of blood to guide you? Or just Jaeger¡¯s rebound¡­ thing?¡±

    Her eyes travel lazily up and down my body, before meeting my gaze again and smiling mockingly.

    ¡°I suppose it doesn¡¯t matter now. I wonder what you look like beneath all that skin?¡±

    I start to flail, but that just has the knife wiggling on my back. Bloody Mary laughs at my struggles¡­ she throws back her head and laughs like a lunatic! My eyes are frantically moving from mirror to mirror, desperately seeking some way I can escape, before they settle on the vanity behind me.

    I flick out my tail, running it briefly along the side of Bloody Mary¡¯s leg before drifting it into the shadows beneath the vanity. In a second, I¡¯ve disappeared and hidden in the shadows, the sudden loss of my weight sending the woman sprawling to the floor.

    I¡¯m out of the shadows just as quickly, clambering over the woman¡¯s body as I rush for the exit ¨C ignoring the throbbing and bleeding wound in my back that re-emerged the moment I left the shadows.

    I almost make it, too, until Bloody Mary flows like mist out of one of the mirrors, already mid-kick. She sends me sprawling into the side of her bed, so I slip beneath its sides and hide in the space underneath.

    I don¡¯t even have two seconds before Bloody Mary curls her fingers around the bed and flips it. She struggles against the weight of the mattress ¨C and I think if the bed were made of wood she wouldn¡¯t be able to lift it at all ¨C but the light spills in all the same.

    Just like I knew it would.

    I don¡¯t wait for it to force me out, instead shrugging off every instinct I have and pouncing out of my hiding spot, throwing my weight against the monster. I knock the breath out of her, sending her a half-step back before her legs fall out from under her and she crashes to the ground. I try to bite her, but she brings up her arm just in time and all I get is a mouthful of some of her stupid belts.

    Giving up on the attack, I punch her in the face with one of my forelimbs and pounce towards the exit again, this time managing to just make it through the door before she makes it to the closest mirror and teleports to me.

    Which means she needs to touch a mirror to travel through it. I can use that.

    I sprint across the corridor, with her hot on my heels.

    I¡¯m not foolish enough to think she¡¯ll leave me alone if I can give her the slip. It would be the sensible thing to do; to run off and tell all about the spy she¡¯s found, to expose this whole operation to the Triad and make everything I¡¯ve achieved absolutely meaningless.

    But she won¡¯t do it. Because she¡¯s a monster.

    She¡¯ll kill me first.

    She steps out of the bathroom, bursting into the corridor with her knife out and an angry look on her face. Her nose looks a little lopsided, and her mad rush has sent droplets of blood scattering down her cheeks, mixing with her white make-up and leaving a spattering of tiny pink stains. Guess I broke it.

    She swings at me, and I narrowly twist my body around the blow by hugging the ground and darting between her legs ¨C aiming a kick at her as I go, but it doesn¡¯t connect. I haven¡¯t done much hand-to-hand practice, but Ember made sure that Jaarsveld and his men took me through the basics. It¡¯s clear that Bloody Mary hasn¡¯t even had that. She¡¯s fast ¨C with a singular viciousness to her movements ¨C but there¡¯s none of the coordination of the people I trained with.

    Mind you, I¡¯m not much better. Neither of us are fighters. I like to hide in the shadows, while she likes to pop out of people¡¯s mirrors and cut their throats while they¡¯re asleep.

    Still, if there¡¯s one advantage I do have, it¡¯s that you can¡¯t fight me like you would anyone else. Moving on all fours comes naturally to me, but it means she has to swipe downwards rather than ahead of her. That slows her down; she manages to drag her knife along my back, but the cut is shallower than it could have been and it doesn¡¯t stop me from pouncing on top of the banister and leaping down the stairs to the first floor.

    When I hit the carpet, she¡¯s already there, standing next to a mirror in the hall and cutting me off from the exit. She starts to edge forwards, keeping herself in-between me and the exit, as I creep deeper into the living room. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the gun next to the stack of books and a plan starts to form in my head.

    ¡°You know you can¡¯t win, right?¡± she mocks, as I slowly start to creep towards the gun. I don¡¯t think she can see it from where she¡¯s standing, but I can¡¯t be sure.

    ¡°What, nothing to say?¡± Her mocking smile falters, slipping into an angry sneer. ¡°How incredibly boring.¡±

    She takes half-step forward, so I hiss at her to keep her back. It¡¯s degrading, I know, but it¡¯ll keep her back as I edge closer and closer to the table. About three feet from salvation, she catches on to what I¡¯m doing and leaps forwards with a snarl, her knife held out in front of her.

    I pounce, scattering the books and hurriedly wrapping my hand around the grip of the pistol. The moment Bloody Mary spots the glint of black metal in my hand, she starts to desperately fumble with a pouch on her hip.

    I pull the trigger, holding the gun as far away from me as possible and looking away from the muzzle flash, but nothing happens. I panic, trying desperately to remember how to work the slide, like I¡¯ve seen some of the guards do before they go on their shift, but it¡¯s already too late.

    The panic has left the monster¡¯s eyes, replaced by a psychopathic gleam as she pounces with the knife.

    My tail drifts under the couch, pulling me into the shadows and leaving the gun behind as it falls to the floor of the lounge. Rather than wait for her to expose me again, I slip out on the other side of the sofa just in time to jump out of the way as she kicks it over with a frustrated snarl, leaving me without any cover at all.

    I can¡¯t beat her here. This is her space, her home turf. It¡¯s well-lit, with enough mirrors around that she can slip in and out of them with ease. It takes away every advantage I have and gives them to her. If I¡¯m going to beat her, or even just survive this, I need to draw her somewhere her advantages don¡¯t mean anything. The garage, maybe, or¡­

    The basement!

    I sprint down the corridor, heading towards the front door. It¡¯s dark outside, but there¡¯s enough ambient light and standing water around that every pothole and sinkhole has become a perfect mirror pool. I¡¯d have my advantages back, but she¡¯d still have hers. And I¡¯m not a killer, while she is. On an equal footing, I¡¯d lose.

    Not that she gives me the chance to flee through the front door; the moment I get near it, a flat rectangular object flies over my head before depositing Bloody Mary in front of me in a puff of white mist.

    That pouch on her hip must be full of mirrors she can use to slip away, or to throw across a room!

    I¡¯ll have to get rid of it.

    I throw my weight against the door to the kitchen, grateful that I didn¡¯t properly close it on my way out, and wince as the monster manages to drag her knife down my thigh as I pass her. My cuts are throbbing ¨C each spasm spilling black blood and viscous ichor onto the kitchen tiles ¨C but I fight through the agonising pain. Another mirror sails overhead ¨C a flat rectangular shape that flickers and glints in the kitchen lights ¨C but this time I¡¯m ready for it.

    Stamping down the instincts that are screaming at me to run, I pounce forwards the moment the first mist slips from the mirror. An instant later she¡¯s fully formed, her knife held out defensively in front of her, and my jaws are already closing on her hip, taking a chunk out of her costume, her belt and leaving the pouch full of mirrors gripped in my mouth.

    She screams ¨C half in anger and half in pain ¨C as she kicks out reflexively with a leg, knocking me down to the ground and almost managing to loosen my grip on the pouch. I roll out of the way of a stab, using my tail to push myself along before springing back onto all fours and slamming my back into the door to the basement.

    I tumble down the stairs in an agonising mess of twisted limbs, only feeling relief when I hit the shadows at the base and all my cuts and scrapes fade away, as my body vanishes into nothing. Without a mouth to hold it, the pouch of mirrors falls to the floor. Only sheer luck stops the small stack of rectangular glass from spilling out all over the place, and I form an arm to drag it away as fast as I can.

    Bloody Mary practically leaps down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time even with one hand clutching her bleeding thigh. On her second step, there¡¯s a horrific crunch as the old wood, rotted through by years of damp air, gives way beneath her feet and sends her sprawling, rolling down the last few steps as they disintegrate around her.

    I ignore the stairs, pulling the pouch of mirrors away and forming just a single hand to haul it upwards agonisingly slowly as she gathers her wits on the concrete floor. I reform my body as fast as I can, just about managing to scrabble up onto the floor of the kitchen and tossing the pouch as far as it¡¯ll go, spilling half a dozen gleaming rectangular mirrors across the tiled floor. I wrap a fist around the sole lamp in the kitchen, dashing it against the wall and plunging the room into darkness with the tinkle of a smashed bulb, before leaping back into the basement, curling my tail around the doorhandle to slam it shut behind me.

    And with that, the last sliver of light disappears from the basement, leaving me with a perfect view of Bloody Mary staggering to her feet, her eyes darting around as wildly as the knife clutches protectively in her grasp, no longer stretched out to strike at an enemy but held in against her chest to guard against an attacker she can¡¯t see.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    We¡¯ve moved from her world, to mine.

    I circle her in the shadows, drifting freely through the basement as she slowly staggers over to one wall, flinching back in shock as her foot catches on an old can. I drift up close enough to see her eyes widening in fear ¨C her pupils like saucers as they hunt for any scrap of light. I form fingers just long enough to brush them against her neck, sending her flinching back with her knife wildly flailing at where she thinks I am.

    But I¡¯m already moving, pouncing out of the shadows and hitting her chest with the full force of my weight, sending her sprawling to the ground. I drive a foot into her wrist, her grip on the knife immediately scattering as the straight-edge blade skitters away from her along the floor. A quick slip into the shadows followed by a flick of my tail is enough to keep it out of her reach but well in my sight.

    She tries to stand, so I knock her down again. All her bravado has fled her now ¨C every bit of poise and cocky pride stripped away to reveal the cringing monster they concealed. She¡¯s not spoken a word since she fell down here, just breathing faster and faster as she slowly loses her mind to panic. So happy to tear the wings off flies for her own amusement, but so scared to find herself in my hands.

    She shuffles backwards, giving up her efforts to haul herself to her feet in favour of pressing herself against the wall. I don¡¯t give her the chance, forming myself fully and pulling her underneath me, with my legs holding hers down and my forelimbs pressed against her arms.

    Her head bucks as she panics, but I pay her no mind as I reach across and grab the handle of the knife. It feels heavy in my hands ¨C even though it¡¯s just a small thing ¨C and heavier still as I press it against her throat. She stills ¨C completely. Her panicked breathing halts, her eyes freeze in place as tears stream down her cheeks, ruining her mascara. Her mouth is hanging wide open in a wordless plea, though I don¡¯t know if she¡¯s staying silent out of fear or because she knows pleas wouldn¡¯t work if our positions were reversed.

    I tighten my grip on the knife, and¡­

    And I can¡¯t. I just can¡¯t.

    Because I¡¯m not her. Because I¡¯m not a monster, not like she is. Not like I look.

    Black blood is pouring out of my wounds, running down the sleek leather lines of her costume, but I don¡¯t want to do the same to her. I just¡­ don¡¯t. I have to hide away from the city, from everyone, because they look at me and they see a monster. But I¡¯m not. I know I¡¯m not. I have to be better than that.

    I throw the knife aside and disappear back into the shadows. The breath Bloody Mary had been holding in comes out in a long, agonised gasp as her whole body jolts at the sudden absence of weight. She rolls over, scrabbing onto her hands and knees and wincing as she puts weight on her wounded thigh, but I pay her no mind.

    I float to the top of the destroyed staircase, slipping underneath the door and into the darkened kitchen, forming myself at the hallway and practically throwing open the door to the safehouse, leaving the monster trapped in the basement as I stagger out under the overcast night sky.

    The aches and pains I¡¯d been pushing aside during the fight come back with a vengeance, and my leg starts to tremble and shake where the monster cut it. I slip into the shadows, creeping through the streets of the city and spending as little time corporeal as possible, to keep as much of my blood inside my body as I can.

    I head south, following the distant glow of the city as I leave the flooded ruins behind. The city I know doesn¡¯t come all at once. It starts small, with a few isolated patches of streetlights like islands in the darkness, before growing into isolated villages, then whole estates, before emerging into the sprawl of tenements and suburban homes I¡¯m familiar with.

    Even then, there are still new sights. An immense fortification rises out of the north end of my city ¨C an imposing glow I¡¯ve only ever seen at a distance. It¡¯s a collection of rectangular buildings, mismatched in size but all similarly shaped. Like the security station in the Red Light district, in that it looks like the buildings once served one purpose but have since been turned into a fortress.

    Behind chain-link fences tipped with razor wire, a military encampment squats in the middle of the city, lit from end to end by floodlights and filled with the sound of engines purring. As I watch, a boxy armoured truck pulls out of a gate, green and white lights flashing on top of its squat silhouette.

    There¡¯s a sign by the gate, with white letters on a black backdrop lit from beneath by a purple glow. ¡®Parahuman Response Team. Department 20. Northgate Precinct.¡±

    I don¡¯t spend long watching it. It¡¯s too bright for me to get close, and I¡¯m not comfortable being so near to a faction that rivals the Elite. Ember says there¡¯s nothing they could arrest me or her for, but I know that isn¡¯t true about all the Elite, and I don¡¯t want to risk it. Instead I slink back into the alleyways of Seattle and leap from rooftop to rooftop until I land on all fours just outside Jaeger¡¯s van.

    My fist has barely hit the side before I¡¯m bathed in the red glow of the van¡¯s interior, as one of Jaeger¡¯s men pulls it open with a rifle clutched in the other hand, pointed not at me but at the chest height of a normal person. The moment he spots me, the rifle is raised up and safely out of harm¡¯s way as he turns back into the van and shouts for bandages.

    In an instant, his colleague is by my side, helping me up into the van and kneeling next to me on the floor as he throws open a first aid kit. I shake him off at first, looking up at Jaeger and desperately signing ¡®I found her.¡¯

    Jaeger takes my meaning immediately, his stone cold composure cracking for the briefest moment before he practically shoves his medic aside.

    ¡°What happened?¡± he asks, kneeling down in front of me. I just point behind him at the map.

    In a single move he reaches back and rips it off the wall, setting it down in front of me. I take a bloody finger and mark the monster¡¯s house with a black spot, reaching back to gather more before scrawling out ¡®trapped¡¯ on the pristine map.

    As Jaeger¡¯s medic wraps my wounds tightly in bandages ¨C working with hurried yet professional movements ¨C the man himself gives directions to his driver, and suddenly we¡¯re lurching back through the city streets. I slip in and out of consciousness, losing track of time and the feeling of cloth wrapped tight against my skin. I force myself out of the funk, pulling at Jaeger¡¯s pant leg until he looks down again.

    ¡®She¡¯s in basement,¡¯ I sign. ¡®Phone in bedroom.¡¯

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he replies, though his mind is still clearly focused on his rifle. The road has got worse, the van lurching more and occasionally shaking in a horrible, bone-rattling way as we pass over uneven ground. That¡¯s how I know we¡¯re getting close.

    The medic ignores me once I¡¯m safely bandaged up, going over his own preparations as the three of them wait by the door. The moment the van slams to a stop they¡¯re moving, throwing open the door to reveal a familiar view of that ruined house in the suburbs. I watch them as they sprint up the drive to the doorway, and all my worries fade away. They¡¯ll take Bloody Mary away, make sure she can¡¯t hurt anyone anymore and that she can¡¯t escape and tell the Triad about me¡­ or hunt me down.

    A brief flash of blinding lights appears through the cracks in the boarded-up kitchen window, alongside a deafening burst of gunshots that almost stop my heart again. For a second I think something must have gone wrong, but then Jaeger and the two soldiers step out the front door, looking completely unharmed. Jaeger is even holding the monster¡­ Bloody Mary¡¯s phone in his left hand.

    They¡¯re relaxed as they get back into the van, leisurely pulling the door shut like they haven¡¯t just shot someone. Jaeger sets the phone aside and puts his rifle back on its rack, before speaking into a radio set.

    ¡°This is Jaeger. Requesting a clean-up crew at a house in the marshes. Require body disposal and renovation; I don¡¯t want anyone knowing there was a fight. Address is as follows.¡±

    He rattles off the location for the house, before slumping into his chair and eyeing Bloody Mary¡¯s phone. It doesn¡¯t take him long to notice the three pairs of eyes staring up at him from the floor, and he tilts his head a little in acknowledgement.

    ¡®Why?¡¯ I sign.

    It takes him a few seconds to answer, though I¡¯m not sure if that¡¯s because he¡¯s thinking it over or he just wasn¡¯t expecting the question.

    ¡°We couldn¡¯t contain her long-term. Her power¡¯s too versatile. I couldn¡¯t trust the PRT to contain her either; if they could, they¡¯d have caught her by now. She broke away from us before, which means we can¡¯t use her as a recruit. The only option left was to end the threat she represented to the Seattle Elite.¡±

    I fall silent, looking down at the ground. Maybe he¡¯s right, and she was a monster, but it still feels wrong. He¡­ executed her.

    I only look up again once I hear Jaeger reaching over and picking up the phone. I look up at him again, his eyes shaded by the brow of his helmet as he looks down at the screen.

    ¡®It¡¯s locked,¡¯ I sign, only to tilt my head quizzically as a wry grin creeps across his face.

    ¡°I have a lesson for you,¡± he says, his eyes meeting my own.

    I don¡¯t say anything in response. I just sit on the floor, my limbs coated by white bandages slowly staining black, and look up at him.

    ¡°You have a power that makes you superior to any human,¡± he begins, ¡°but that isn¡¯t enough. Bloody Mary¡¯s powers made her an excellent infiltrator, and she thought they made her an excellent killer, but that¡¯s all she ever did. She sat back and relied on her power for everything. She didn¡¯t study to improve her mind, and she only exercised to keep her looks intact, rather than to improve her body.¡±

    He turns the phone over in his hands, tossing it in the air and catching it.

    ¡°She had the niche her power gave her, and she thought that was enough. She was good at it, to be sure, but in all other areas she was distinctly¡­ lacking.¡±

    He peels back a rubber case from the back of the phone, smiling in triumph as it reveals a small scrap of paper with a few numbers scribbled on it in pen. With a few taps on the screen, he unlocks the phone.

    ¡°The weakest part of any Parahuman is their humanity, and if you don¡¯t work to overcome it then it will be your downfall.¡±

 Lookout: 3.06

    I shiver, just a little, despite being practically swaddled in a cocoon of blankets and tightly wrapped in fresh bandages. It¡¯s partly lingering shock, partly my slowly-closing cuts, and partly an automatic reflex as I try to stop myself slipping back into the darkness. I¡¯ve never been able to take anything with me when I shift, and that means I¡¯ve already accidentally slipped out of my bandages. Twice.

    It¡¯s been a few hours since Jaeger¡­ since I got back from the Triad safehouse. I¡¯m lying on Ember¡¯s couch, in the living room of her weird floating home. Jaeger brought me here once he¡¯d finished up, after a long phone call with Ember full of what sounded like shouted accusations from her end. It¡¯s kind of nice to know she¡¯s looking out for my health.

    Jaeger himself is slumped in an armchair opposite, having swapped out his uniform jacket for a more civilian-looking hooded coat. Absent his masked helmet, his features seem a little less sharp. His eyes, on the other hand, are still the same cold blue pinpricks they always have been. He¡¯s looking through Bloody Mary¡¯s phone, occasionally taking notes under the sparse light of a single reading lamp.

    The moment we got in here, Ember drew the curtains shut. I think it¡¯s partly because she doesn¡¯t want anyone to spot us, but mostly because she knows that dawn¡¯s on its way and I¡¯m not comfortable in the light.

    Jaeger¡¯s eyes flick up from the phone as Ember walks into the room, before flicking right back down again as she deliberately ignores him. I¡¯m taking up all of the couch, so she kneels down in front of me with a mug of some hot liquid in her hand and a smile on her face. It means she¡¯s not looking down at me ¨C or not as much as she would standing up ¨C and I appreciate that.

    ¡°How are you holding up?¡±

    I shuffle around a little as I squirrel a hand out of the blanket-roll, giving her a thumbs up and dropping my jaw in the closest I can get to an actual smile. Still, the movement makes me wince a little as the cut on my shoulder pulls against the bandages holding it in place. From the look that briefly passed across her eyes, I can see Ember noticed.

    ¡°I got you a drink,¡± she says, holding out the mug in front of her.

    I lean over a little to look at it, seeing a mug full of what looks like whipped cream and tilting my head in confusion. Still, I take it and start to lick at the cream with my long tongue, getting a wry grin out of Ember. Suddenly, my tongue hits something hot beneath the cream and I instinctively flick it back into my mouth. Is that¡­

    ¡°Never had hot chocolate before?¡± Ember laughs, sliding around so she¡¯s leaning back against the front of the sofa ¨C and my blanket-wrapped body ¨C with my head next to her left shoulder.

    I shake my head as I try to angle the cup so I can drink it ¨C it¡¯s surprisingly hard to do with a fairly long beak, and without any lips a straw would be less than useless. The drink is warm, but without the bitter taste of coffee, and I can¡¯t stop myself from letting out a contented noise as I sink deeper into the couch ¨C something in-between a whistle and a purr.

    ¡°I figured you wouldn¡¯t want coffee at this time of night,¡± Ember says as I take another sip, and I nod my head in gratitude.

    ¡°You¡¯ve had a rough time,¡± she says after the silence starts to stretch a little too long. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I shouldn¡¯t have let you go¡­ or I should have gone with you.¡±

    I don¡¯t say anything. She¡¯s wrong¡­ but she¡¯s also right. Finding those drug labs, those arms depots¡­ it was all important work, and I¡¯d do it again in a heartbeat. But what they¡­ what we did to Bloody Mary¡­ it¡¯s left a bad taste in my mouth.

    ¡°It was useful,¡± Jaeger pipes up from across the room, and I get the horrid idea that he¡¯s trying to be comfortable. ¡°This phone is a goldmine of information.¡±

    He leans forward, his coat shifting just enough to show me the grip of the pistol he has tucked into a shoulder holster. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen him more than a few feet from a gun.

    ¡°They were keeping her in the loop, even though it¡¯s clear she wasn¡¯t interested. I suspect she either demanded it out of petty vanity, or they were worried that she would take offence if she wasn¡¯t included. Either way, it helps build a clearer picture of their network.¡±

    He continues, apparently unaware of the way I¡¯m looking anywhere except at him.

    ¡°They¡¯re having a meeting. Tomorrow¡­ well, tonight, I suppose. It concerns the one piece of the puzzle I have yet to find: why they broke away from us in the first place. What could possibly be worth the risk of a gang war? Worth the risk of going up against the Elite?¡±

    ¡°Does it matter?¡± Ember asks without moving from her position. ¡°Whatever the reason, we¡¯ll beat them.¡±

    ¡°Of course it matters,¡± Jaeger snaps back. ¡°They¡¯re gambling everything on this, whatever it is. If we can stop it, we can break the back of the Triad in a single blow. If we can¡¯t, then this war will just go on and on until it gets bad enough to drag Alexandria up from LA.¡±

    He pauses for a moment, his eyes flicking back to his notes before meeting Ember¡¯s stare head on.

    ¡°Which is why I need to borrow Nightcrawler, one last time.¡±

    I can¡¯t see Ember¡¯s expression from where I¡¯m lying, but given the way Jaeger¡¯s eyes widen it clearly wasn¡¯t friendly. For my part, I can¡¯t stop the stab of fear that hits me at his words.

    ¡°The meeting is taking place in a tenement block, after dark. Bloody Mary was kind enough to note down the locations that correspond to their little codes. We don¡¯t have anyone else who can infiltrate the meeting. ¡±

    An uneasy silence falls on the room, as Ember and Jaeger stare each other down. Eventually, she speaks, slowly clambering to her feet.

    ¡°You¡¯re looking at me, but I¡¯m not the person you need to persuade.¡±

    She steps aside, sitting on the couch¡¯s armrest and looking down at me with a warm but concerned expression.

    ¡°You¡¯ve done all the work, Nightcrawler. You¡¯ve taken all the risk. I¡¯ll understand if you want to back out.¡±

    My first instinct is to leap at her suggestion and get out while I still can, to go back to the Red Light district and forget that any of this happened. My second instinct betrays me, bringing up everything I¡¯ve seen over the last few days. The warehouses full of poisoned needles, the family homes stacked high with crates of weapons.

    I could go back, but I wouldn¡¯t be any safer. All I¡¯d be doing is delaying the risk, sticking my head in the sand and hoping it goes away. It wouldn¡¯t ¨C it would come for me, and Ember and everything I care about. It would come at a time of its choosing, and in numbers I couldn¡¯t hope to stop.

    Jaeger is right. He¡¯s heartless, and maybe he¡¯s a monster, but he¡¯s right. This has to stop.

    I wiggle my other hand out of the blankets, passing my now-empty mug of delicious hot chocolate to Ember and signing out my assent. Jaeger simply nods, like he was expecting it all along, while Ember puts her hand on my shoulder in silent support.

    Jaeger stands, snapping his notebook shut and tucking the phone into one of his pockets.

    ¡°I¡¯ll head off and get some sleep, then. I suggest you do the same.¡±

    And, with that, he throws his hood back over his head, casting his face into shadow, and steps out the front door, leaving the two of us alone in the living room.

    ¡°You sure you¡¯re alright?¡± Ember asks from her perch on the armrest.

    I just nod, even though I¡¯m not completely sure I made the right call. I think Ember notices my hesitancy, but she¡¯s kind enough not to press me about it.

    ¡°Okay, so long as you¡¯re sure. Jaeger¡¯s a prick, but he¡¯s right about one thing; you should get some sleep.¡±

    I nod, slowly extracting myself from the comfortable blankets and clambering up the stairs to my room ¨C those two words still giving me a wonderfully warm feeling whenever I think them. My room is east-facing, so the window is bathed in the orange light of the dawn, but Ember had some heavier curtains put in that keep the sun away, limiting it to little spots of light where the fold of the fabric lets it through.

    It keeps the room comfortable, dark and intimate, but I still leap up on the bed and squirrel myself completely under the covers, to shut out the last bits of light and leave me cocooned in the darkness. I shut my three pairs of eyes, and the world goes with them.

    When I wake, it¡¯s to the feeling of a hand rocking my shoulder. I shake off the last dregs of sleep, standing up on all fours and using my arms to pull off the duvet. I could have slipped into the shadows and left the bed that way ¨C I usually do it, and it means I don¡¯t have to bother remaking it ¨C but, next time I slip into the shadows, I¡¯m going to be leaving a pile of bloody bandages behind. I don¡¯t want to have to wash the sheets.

    Ember¡¯s standing over me, dressed fairly casually in jeans and a hooded coat that casts plenty of shadows.

    ¡°You ready?¡± she asks, and, in lieu of answering, I place my hand over her palm, then move it up her wrist until I¡¯m touching the shadows beneath her sleeve. She doesn¡¯t say anything as I nestle myself in the shadows around her right arm, just scooping up the bandages, tossing them in the bathroom bin, and stepping out onto the little jetty that runs down the length of the largely-aquatic street.

    Ember moves without rushing, nodding a little to the occasional neighbour but not stopping for anything. Jaeger is waiting in the car park, sitting on the hood of a nondescript blue car and dressed in a similar sort of hooded jacket to Ember. I guess that answers the question of how I¡¯ll be getting there.

    ¡°The job¡¯s on,¡± Ember says, ¡°so long as you don¡¯t let her get into any more fights. Understood?¡±

    She holds out her hand to shake, which strikes me a little odd until I realise what she¡¯s doing. When Jaeger grips her hand in his own, I reach across my own arm and slip from sleeve to sleeve into his coat, curling up his back and nestling in the shadows of his hood so that I¡¯m looking out past his face.

    ¡°There¡¯s no reason to expect a fight,¡± Jaeger replies with what strikes me as a complete non-answer. ¡°I assume this is the point where she jumps dramatically out of your coat?¡±

    If I had a jaw right now, and if it was capable of the gesture, I¡¯d be grinning from ear to ear. As it stands, I just form my hand in Jaeger¡¯s hood and give him a couple of affectionate pats on the cheek.

    ¡°Ah,¡± he says, as his right arm tenses and jolts unconsciously towards the gun tucked against his chest. It¡¯s a reaction, but one that¡¯s hidden enough that I wouldn¡¯t notice it if I wasn¡¯t so close.

    ¡°Right,¡± he says, as Ember grins at him before turning off and walking back to her home with a shout of ¡°play nice, you two!¡±

    Jaeger doesn¡¯t talk throughout the entire drive. He just keeps his eyes on the road, and his hands focused on working the car. It¡¯s only when we¡¯re actually pulling into Triad neighbourhoods, the same streets I¡¯ve been busy scouting for the past week, that he decides to fill the uncomfortable silence.

    ¡°Sometimes you have to push yourself. Ember¡­ she means well, but she¡¯s just as attached to you as you clearly are to her. Keeping safe is all well and good, but you can¡¯t improve as a person if you never push yourself out of your comfort zone. The path of least resistance is also the path of least reward.¡±

    I don¡¯t say anything in response, just looking silently out of his hood as he pulls into a pitch-black alleyway, switching off the headlights and plunging the car into darkness.

    ¡°Just something to think about. You want the tenement block two buildings left of here. There¡¯s nowhere around here to park without drawing suspicion, so you¡¯ll have to make your own way back. I¡¯ll meet you in Ember¡¯s office.¡±

    With the whole car now completely dark, I don¡¯t need to reform myself as I slip out of his hood and right through the windshield. I soar upwards, giving me enough momentum to clear the glow of a streetlight in a single leap that has me landing squarely on top of the roof. I peer over the edge, watching Jaeger¡¯s car light back off and drive back into the street, where it becomes just another part of the traffic.

    The target building doesn¡¯t look any different from the rest; just another four-story block of self-contained apartments on a street full of them. I suppose that¡¯s the point; a lot of people travelling to a secret meeting in the middle of nowhere would look pretty obvious, but here everyone gets lost among the residents. Hiding in plain sight.

    It doesn¡¯t take me long to decide on my approach ¨C this isn¡¯t a well-off neighbourhood, but it¡¯s not abandoned either. That means the corridors and apartments all have power, which would make sneaking through them a nightmare. But I¡¯ve started to get a better understanding of how buildings are built, so it doesn¡¯t take me long to find an extractor fan on the roof that no-doubt connects directly to the building¡¯s ventilation.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    There are some places I have to reform myself ¨C where the vents are in just the wrong position to keep the light out ¨C but, by and large, I¡¯m able to drift through the ventilation like a ghost, my only company the spiders and mice that call the vents their home.

    I¡¯m able to get a pretty good look at the entire building by peering through vents or oh-so-cautiously lifting up a ceiling tile to get a look inside rooms, but there¡¯s nothing that immediately jumps out to me as a secret meeting place. So far, the tenement block looks like exactly what it appears to be, with people idling in front of the television, eating late night food, passed out drunk on the floor or tucking their children into bed. As I descend down from the second floor to the first, I start to wonder if Jaeger misread Bloody Mary¡¯s phone.

    Of course, if they picked a meeting place that looked like any other building, it only makes sense that they¡¯d use an inhabited one. The trick isn¡¯t in looking for suspicious places, because they¡¯ll be hidden, it¡¯s in looking for suspicious people.

    So I settle in over the building¡¯s lobby, shifting a ceiling tile just enough that I can watch the people coming and going. It doesn¡¯t take me long to spot a likely pair: a man in scuffed biker leathers, with full-face helmet and a metal skull mask covering his face, being escorted by the same biker I saw at the gun-runners place, the one I piggybacked on to find Bloody Mary. Mika, with the biker she mentioned having to show around. She didn¡¯t mention he was a Cape, but anyone who dresses like that has to be a parahuman.

    As they pass me, I catch a glimpse of the back of his jacket. Most of it is taken up by a red letter A in a white circle, without the bar across the middle. There¡¯s writing above and below it, with the former spelling out ¡®Spartan Legion¡¯ and the latter ¡®Vice-President.¡¯ Could this be what Jaeger¡¯s looking for? Are the Triad bringing in a group from outside the city to tip the balance of power?

    It¡¯s not enough to be sure. If I¡¯m doing this, I need to know for certain just what¡¯s going on. Otherwise Jaeger might ask me to do it again.

    I follow them as best I can from the vents, keeping an ear out for the sound of their footsteps and periodically flipping up ceiling tiles to get brief glimpses of them whenever it looks like they¡¯re about to reach a junction. Sure enough, they don¡¯t head up into the apartments, but down into the basement.

    What I see down there, from behind a couple of heating ducts, is almost too strange to believe. It¡¯s like the whole tenement building was positioned on top of an already-present bunker, with the utility room in the basement built around and on top of it, and then someone has cut through the feet of concrete and steel bars to create a makeshift entrance.

    I¡¯d wonder why a city would need to build a bunker beneath its streets, but I¡¯ve stood on top of the broken wall that once held the sea at bay. Whatever this is, it came from Leviathan, like everything else in this city.

    Mika nods to the guard, a heavy-set man with a short-barrelled rifle, who steps aside to let the pair of them enter before resuming his watch on the door. The plastic chair sitting empty and abandoned next to him is a further sign that something important is happening tonight; if there weren¡¯t so many important people passing through, he¡¯d probably be sitting down.

    I slip into the shadows behind the boiler, creeping along the tops of the pipes as they run the length of the ceiling before dropping down silently behind the guard and creeping into the bunker.

    The walls are solid concrete, which means all the wiring is suspended from the roof on metal catwalks that run throughout the compound. It wouldn¡¯t support a person¡¯s weight, and there¡¯s only enough room for a maintenance guy to lean in and swap out broken wires, but that¡¯s more than enough space for me.

    I leap up, disappear, and slink through the compound on a path that might as well have been tailor-made for me to use. The bunker¡¯s abandoned state quickly becomes more understandable, as I pass great cracks and fissures in the wall that would ruin any waterproofing the place might have once had. Some of the worst-affected areas have been hastily repaired with great sheets of welded steel, while others have been left in place; whole passageways blocked off by spoil heaps of concrete and old dirt.

    It quickly becomes clear that I¡¯m running along a path that skirts the edge of a larger room, a cavernous space that was probably meant to hold the most people during an attack, while these support tunnels were supposed to provide access for relief workers, medics or anyone else who might be needed to keep a place like this running. If there¡¯s a meeting here, it¡¯ll be in that main room.

    I look from side to side, checking I¡¯m alone in the corridor before dropping to the floor and sprinting silently towards an open doorway. The bunker isn¡¯t well lit, but the simple overhead lights cast enough of a glow that I can¡¯t shift back, instead having to quickly poke my head through the door to catch a brief glimpse of the space on the other side.

    What I see is a cavernous hall, several stories tall and crisscrossed by metal gantries. Far below me, the hall has been filled with trinkets and treasures, some haphazardly stacked in heaps or tucked away in the corner while others, particularly those near the far end of the room, have been put together to create what could almost be a throne room, with fine carpets and rich statuary all surrounding a richly furnished wooden chair, with serpentine dragons carved into the wood. It looks like an antique.

    People are standing in front of the seat in a rough circle, chatting idly to each other. Maybe three dozen in all, and at least a dozen of them look like they¡¯re wearing costumes. There¡¯s no unifying theme, either. The room is clearly new ¨C put together in a rush after they moved here from wherever their last headquarters were ¨C but it has a unified aesthetic. The people don¡¯t, except for a common colour of light blue painted onto armour, sewn into spandex costumes or just displayed on cloth armbands. The only people in the room who don¡¯t have anything light blue on them are the parahuman biker and a man in a neatly-tailored suit who¡¯s hovering by the throne.

    I jog silently along the catwalks, far above their heads and shrouded from sight by the lack of lighting on the highest levels. It¡¯s probably meant to give the room a sense of ambient grandness, but they might as well have rolled out the red carpet for me. It means I can merge with the shadows and drift close enough to hear what they¡¯re saying, even if I can¡¯t make out the individual words among the white noise of all the other conversations.

    A door opens on the side of the room, and all the chatter ceases instantly. The man who steps out is small, especially when compared to the hulking bodyguard who¡¯s shadowing him. He¡¯s old too, hunched over, frail and walking with clear difficulty. His suit is plain, if a little unusual ¨C with the jacket going all the way up to his collar rather than being left open to reveal a shirt and tie. It almost looks bizarre to see so many terrifying parahumans fall silent at his mere appearance, but there¡¯s iron in his eyes. This must be Lo Yiu Hong; the head of the Triad.

    He manages to stop himself from collapsing into the chair, but it¡¯s a close run thing. I can¡¯t help but wonder if the chair is supposed to be a symbol of his authority, or if he¡¯s the only person sitting because he wouldn¡¯t be able to stand. And then, he shifts a little in his seat, and suddenly he¡¯s sitting straight and proud, like there¡¯s no weight on him at all. He looks over the assembled notables of the Triad, human and parahuman, before speaking in a raspy voice that carries throughout the chamber.

    ¡°Welcome. Are we all present?¡±

    ¡°Bloody Mary isn¡¯t here. Again.¡± The speaker has a strange accent, and she¡¯s dressed in a dark green dress that looks to have been tattered and ruffled in a way that¡¯s reminiscent of a raging sea. Her face is covered by a light blue mask shaped into the features of woman¡¯s face, locked in a serene expression.

    ¡°No matter,¡± the head of the Triad speaks, waving his hand dismissively. ¡°Her invitation was a courtesy; nothing more. She has no part to play in these events.¡±

    ¡°All due respect, sir,¡± the woman continues, with a hasty glance to the biker and the man in the suit like she¡¯s afraid of undercutting her boss in front of strangers, ¡°but I don¡¯t understand why you tolerate her.¡±

    ¡°Because she would be a dangerous enemy, Rusalka. And because she was cheaply bought. The cost would have been worth it if all we had done was take her off the field; anything she contributes beyond that is simply profit. Now, on to the business at hand.¡±

    At that, the suited man starts talking in a language I don¡¯t understand. From the looks of confusion around the room, I¡¯d say only a fifth of the people here actually know what he¡¯s saying. Lo Yiu Hong puts up his hand for silence, but it takes half a second for the man to comply. I can¡¯t tell if he simply wasn¡¯t paying attention, or if it was a deliberate snub.

    ¡°Mr Jiang,¡± the head of the Triad speaks, his tone reproachful, ¡°little is gained by speaking in a language few here understand, and Mandarin has never been the lingua franca of the Triad.¡±

    ¡°Apologies,¡± the suited man replies, his tone just humble enough to avoid causing offence. ¡°I simply wished to reiterate the importance of this venture. A great deal depends on its success.¡±

    ¡°That much is obvious,¡± Rusalka snaps.

    ¡°Quite,¡± the old man agrees, silencing his subordinate. ¡°The purpose of this meeting is to ensure everyone understands the roles they must play in the coming week. Beginning with the transportation of the cargo. Steel Skull,¡± he says, angling his head to look at the biker, ¡°thank you for coming all this way.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for being such excellent hosts,¡± Steel Skull answers, taking a step forwards into the circle. I¡¯m starting to get a picture of what¡¯s going on ¨C Mr Jiang represents a client, and the Triad are facilitating the transport of something to him or his backers. But can any bit of cargo really be worth starting a gang war?

    ¡°The cargo will be coming into the city in three shipping containers,¡± the biker begins his brief. ¡°Security will be light, with armed drivers and guards shadowing the trucks in civilian cars, rather than bikes. We¡¯re relying on anonymity; thousands of containers pass through this city every day. I¡¯ve already passed the timings onto Rusalka.¡± The woman in question nods in acknowledgement. ¡°Assuming nothing changes, the containers will be delivered to the warehouse, which is where my people will hand over to yours. Make sure to have specialists on standby, because we¡¯ll be taking ours with us once the delivery¡¯s made.¡±

    ¡°From there¡± ¨C Rusalka steps forward into the circle p ¨C ¡°our priority is in getting the containers onto the ship without drawing the eye of customs. The right palms have already been greased, so that shouldn¡¯t be too hard. The security detail on the ship will then ensure the safe delivery of the cargo to Brunei, where they¡¯ll be handed off to your people.¡± She nods to Mr Jiang.

    ¡°And the cargo itself?¡± Mr Jiang ignores Rusalka, instead fixing his gaze on the biker. ¡°How many have you managed to acquire?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got two from Boston,¡± he answers, as a sinking feeling starts to well up in my stomach, ¡°a brother and sister pair who pissed off some big shot. Five from the Midwest, who¡¯re a mix of opportunistic sales and people the locals wanted disappeared. The last container has three, all of them the losers of a gang war in Denver. We¡¯ve got them all in induced comas, and the containers are rigged out with all the gear you need to keep them that way.¡±

    He chuckles. It makes me feel sick.

    ¡°After all, the last thing you want is a pissed-off parahuman waking up as you¡¯re halfway across the Pacific.¡±

    It¡¯s so much worse than I though. Worse than the guns, even worse than the needles. But it makes sense. I can¡¯t help but think about what Ember told me, back when I was still shaken by Mike¡¯s death and she calmed me down with a stiff drink and a comfortable seat.

    She said that the Elite were formed ¡®by parahumans, for parahumans, and there¡¯s no way they¡¯d stand for this. The Triad had to break away, because they knew that the Elite would turn on them if it ever found out they were¡­ were selling people.

    How much is a person worth? Enough to make the gang war worth it? To buy in as many outsiders as they need to tip the balance of power in the city?

    And, if I hadn¡¯t come here, I¡¯d never have found out. Nobody would have found out.

    I have to tell them. They¡­ we have to stop it. We¡¯re the only ones who can.

 Interlude 3: Lo Yiu Hong

    <div>

    2003

    The entirety of the Pacific is laid out before me, in tables and charts and invoices. The lifeblood of half the world flows across that expansive ocean, my own cargo a miniscule fraction of a percentile of the amount that even now crawls its way across the seas. It skirts the line between legal and illegal, my books evenly split between legitimate trade and illegal smuggling, the two revenue streams mutually dependant on each other.

    A single container vessel carries shipments of rubber from New Siam, steaming west for the Horn of Africa, to be turned into piping in German factories. But the ship will not sail straight for the Horn. Hidden in and amongst the cargo are containers full of illegal arms and ammunition, either manufactured in New Siam or imported in from elsewhere.

    Those weapons are bound to the city state of Quelimane, on the east coast of what was once Mozambique, where they will be delivered to the warlord who rules that city, a powerful Parahuman made all the more so by the comparatively modern container port her city-state possesses. Whether she sells the weapons on to her fellow warlords or keeps them for her personal army is of little consequence to me. All that matters are the blood diamonds she will hand over to my people on the vessel; diamonds that will sell for a small fortune on the European black markets.

    In that way, I have sustained my Triad. My people, the few that still remain, are scattered across the oceans, or manning the offices of shipping companies in cities around the Pacific and the Indian Ocean. In Ho Chi Minh city, Laem Chabang, Singapore, Jakarta, Busan, Vladivostok, Magadan and here, in Sydney. But none of them are home.

    I have spread my Triad thin on the ground, holding dominion only over the waves. It has kept us afloat in the five years since our desperate flight from Hong Kong, but only barely. Where once we were the masters of our own fate, now we are nothing more than facilitators for the safe passage of others goods. Our takings are large, until you count the costs of the bribes we must pay to port authorities, the cut we owe to the local powers we are too dispersed to overcome. Even here in Sydney, with the largest concentration of our Parahumans, we are dependent on the grace of a local Yakuza clan who oh-so-kindly allow us to operate within their territory.

    What little remains of our funds are reinvested in future ventures, leaving very little to be split between the dozens of members and whatever family they were able to bring with them in our desperate flight, as Kowloon was set aflame and the Yangban stormed through the streets of the city like the conquering army they undeniably were, rounding up Parahumans and crushing any who threatened the Chinese Union-Imperial¡¯s newfound hegemony.

    Where once I dreamt of expansion, now my days are filled with the desperate struggle to keep my Triad afloat. To maintain the already-fragile balance between my parahumans and humans; the young blood and the old guard. And every year I grow older, my bones grow wearier, and my grip on the Triad seems to slip further and further from my fingers.

    A knock on the door shakes me out of my morose thoughts, and I set the papers down, leaning back in my chair as my Triad¡¯s foremost enforcer steps into my office, his face hidden beneath a snarling red mask. To be a human in charge of parahumans is a strange thing, and I doubt I would have been able to hold my position for so long were it not for the split-second decision to take in an orphaned teenager struggling to find his place in the world. In the six years since, the Red Dragon has saved me from death more times than I can remember.

    When my body finally fails me, he will take my place.

    ¡°There¡¯s an American waiting outside, sir,¡± he says, his Cantonese clipped and professional.

    ¡°An American?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s wearing a suit and arrived in an armoured SUV, accompanied by two armed guards.¡±

    I frown, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in concentration. A potential client, then. Wealthy, or just paranoid, and knowledgeable, to come direct to me rather than acting through an intermediary.

    Briefly, I consider the possibility that this is some elaborate assassination attempt, before dismissing it. The Sydney Yakuza are too busy profiting from us, the Polynesian Crew wouldn¡¯t be this subtle and the Australian Guard wouldn¡¯t be this blatant. The other powers in this city are too distant or disinterested to notice us.

    ¡°What does he want?¡±

    ¡°Apparently, he has a business opportunity he wishes to discuss. He says he will only talk to you, sir.¡±

    With one hand supporting my chin and another drumming out a rhythm on my desk, I weigh up the possible risks and benefits, before coming to a decision.

    ¡°Send him up. With one of his guards. Put the other guard and the driver, if he has one, in the staff lounge with a cup of tea¡­ or coffee if you can find it.¡±

    We mustn¡¯t forget out manners, after all, and separating the guards from their getaway vehicle might come in handy if this does turn out to be a trap.

    The Red Dragon leans out the doorway, directing a clipped burst of Cantonese at my secretary before shutting the door and moving to stand behind me. On the way, he pauses, his hand halfway to his face.

    ¡°Mask on or off?¡±

    It¡¯s a fair question. I see little purpose in protecting a parahuman¡¯s anonymity for its own sake ¨C no such concessions would be offered to me or any of my unpowered men, after all ¨C but there is a purpose in hiding which members of my organisation are powered and which aren¡¯t. However, in this case, a show of strength would be preferable to a hidden dagger.

    ¡°Mask on.¡±

    He nods in acknowledgement, before getting into position behind me, with his hands clasped behind his back.

    Mere moments later, another knock on the door heralds the arrival of my secretary, who I have known since she was four years old. She steps aside, ushering in a well-dressed man who might be in his mid to late thirties, wearing a tailored tan suit, and a bodyguard in a looser-fitting suit that no doubt conceals a pistol.

    My secretary offers them refreshments, before disappearing to fetch a coffee for the man and a pot of tea for myself. I gesture for the man to sit, leaning back in my chair and looking into his eyes as I try to assess his measure. He¡¯s confident, barely even glancing at the intimidating parahuman behind me. He could be like me, but he seems too young for that sort of easy confidence, and too old for the bravado of youth. More likely, he¡¯s a parahuman himself.

    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lo,¡± he begins, his accent smooth and easy-going. ¡°I have been watching your organisation with great interest.¡±

    ¡°Then you have me at a disadvantage,¡± I reply. ¡°You know of my business, but I do not know yours.¡±

    ¡°Black Rod,¡± he says by way of introduction, leaning over to shake my hand in an overly enthusiastic and distinctly American gesture.

    ¡°A parahuman without a mask?¡± I ask with a wry grin.

    ¡°A gesture of good faith,¡± he answers. ¡°After all; you aren¡¯t wearing one.¡±

    ¡°Quite.¡±

    ¡°You could, you know,¡± he says, after a moment¡¯s pause. ¡°It¡¯s something I¡¯ve been wondering about. Why not wear a mask? If nothing else, there¡¯s an advantage in making people think you have a power.¡±

    ¡°I already have power,¡± I reply with a frown, ¡°and I do not see my humanity as a weakness to be hidden away. Perhaps I am a relic, but I am a relic of a time in which leadership was dependent on more than just the ability to shoot fire from my fingertips.¡±

    ¡°And I respect you for it. Like I said, I¡¯ve been looking into your operation. It¡¯s very well organised, very smooth, but it isn¡¯t as profitable as it could be, is it?¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re here to change that?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the head of the Seattle Elite,¡± he answers, and I can¡¯t help the wince of sympathy that flicks across my features. The period immediately after a Leviathan attack is usually marked by an uptick in trade, as shipping companies desperately work to move their stock in the narrow window of guaranteed safety that follows, but it always comes at a cost. A drowned city, somewhere in the world.

    ¡°You have my condolences.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather have your support,¡± he interjects, politely. ¡°If you cut your operations down to a minimum, you could put a dozen Capes in Seattle by the end of the week.¡±

    ¡°And why would I do that?¡±

    ¡°Resources have stopped flowing into Seattle. The Protectorate are on a war footing over this business in Switzerland. They¡¯re convinced the Simurgh is a third Endbringer, and even if she isn¡¯t then the damage she¡¯s already caused makes Seattle¡¯s troubles look paltry. The Seattle Protectorate are down to a skeleton crew, and they¡¯re far too busy dealing with whatever¡¯s crawling out of Lynnwood.¡±

    ¡°Tragic, I¡¯m sure,¡± I interrupt. ¡°But I have my own worries, my own troubles.¡±

    ¡°Of course you do. We¡¯ve looked into your finances¡± ¨C I suppress a scowl at his blatant violation of our secrets ¨C ¡°and we know you¡¯re barely staying afloat. A lot of money disappearing into pay-outs to local gangs, bribes for anyone and everyone. What you need is territory of your own, with access to a port you control.¡±

    ¡°Territory in Seattle.¡±

    ¡°I like Sydney,¡± he says, leaning back in his seat and looking around my office like he can see past the weathered walls to the metropolis beyond. ¡°I like what it represents, and that goes double now that I know what it¡¯s like to stand in the ruins of a drowned city. More than anywhere else in the world, Sydney took what Leviathan did to it and bounced back stronger.¡±

    I say nothing, waiting for him to reach the crux of his argument.

    ¡°Seattle isn¡¯t as bad as Sydney was, but the money¡¯s dried up. The United States doesn¡¯t believe Seattle can be saved. The Elite believes differently ¨C I believe differently ¨C so we¡¯re pouring resources into Seattle, to rebuild everything Leviathan broke and reshape the city in our image. We¡¯re going to control every part of the city, and that means the gangs.¡±

    ¡°So, you want us to go in and stabilise the situation?¡±

    He nods. ¡°Exactly. Crush the other groups who¡¯re trying to capitalise on the situation, and you can have their territory for yourself. All we ask is that you leave our interests alone, and you can run your territory as you see fit. No cut to us, no restrictions on your activities so long as they don¡¯t draw too much heat, and we¡¯ll even help you infiltrate the ports and bring your smuggling business to the US market.¡±

    I lean back in my seat, thinking the matter over. It smacks of desperation, to my mind. The terms are simply too favourable. Leviathan has cast his organisation into the ocean, and he¡¯s reaching for any flotsam he can find to stay afloat.

    There is, however, one matter that needs to be clarified.

    ¡°You are not the head of the Seattle Elite. If you were, you would not be here.¡±

    From the way he stiffens, and his bodyguard¡¯s hand drifts unconsciously towards his pistol, I know I have judged him correctly.

    And yet, that doesn¡¯t mean the terms aren¡¯t acceptable. They represent a chance to end this miserable state of affairs and rebuild my Triad into a force worthy of the name. Above all, territory represents security for myself, my people, and the people who are dependent on them.

    ¡°Your offer sounds acceptable,¡± I speak, as my secretary re-enters the room with a cup of coffee and a pot of tea on a fine wooden tray, ¡°but we must discuss the details before I can commit to any agreement. And, when I arrive in Seattle, I want to meet the man in charge and gain his measure for myself.¡±

    ¡ö?

    I have never seen devastation on this scale before. Not even my last days in Hong Kong can compare to the sheer scale of the carnage that Leviathan managed to wreak on this city.

    From my position on the port wing of the bridge, I can see the city spread out before me in a panoramic view. To my left, past the stern of the Panamax container ship, an immense gateway lies sundered and shattered, its remains hastily swept aside to create a clear passage for ships. The sea walls around the city itself have fared even worse; collapsed like so much sand in the face of the tide.

    To my right, the ship is like a solid wall of multicoloured blocks. Five thousand shipping containers filled to bursting with relief supplies, non-perishable food, specialised equipment, tents, medicine and anything else that might aid in relief efforts. It¡¯s a gift, to see us safely into the city, and a smokescreen for the unusually large crew and the firearms hidden in sacks of rice.

    All around our vessel, the waters are filled with dozens of smaller boats vying for space, from minuscule dinghies to a slab-sided hospital ship and even a Navy frigate watching over the channel. The city itself is no less chaotic, with distant gunfire echoing across the waves as flying Parahumans dart in and out of what my map identifies as Lynnwood, fighting a desperate battle against some unseen enemy on the flooded streets below.

    We pass it as quickly as possible, ushered forwards by the flashing lights of the police launches escorting us through the channel. Ours is the first large ship to enter Puget Sound since Leviathan, and the escort is necessary to avoid the shallows created by debris lurking just below the surface. The Coast Guard are already working to create clear lanes of buoys to guide in traffic, but it¡¯s slow work and these supplies are needed now.

    The further down the coastline we go, the less the city seems to have been affected by Leviathan. The spires of downtown Seattle rise above their intact sea walls like a defiant castle, standing firm against the horrors of the world in spite of their battered frames and shattered windows.

    The gateway to Elliot Bay falls open before us, and we pass through the intact sea wall accompanied by cheers from the crowds who¡¯ve turned out to see us enter the city, as the smaller vessels around us turn their hoses to the midday sky, creating rainbow-like arcs of water that glitter beneath the sun¡¯s light. There are safer ports we could have used further down the coast, and railway lines to deliver our cargo to the city, but this is as much about the spectacle as it is about the relief we bring.

    This donation has been kindly funded by one of the Elite¡¯s shell companies, on the advice of an Elite-backed politician, and by bringing it into the city itself we advance their prestige.

    The docking itself goes off without a hitch, and soon enough our cargo is being steadily unloaded by the port¡¯s cranes, while the ship¡¯s captain is shaking hands with the mayor of Seattle in a pre-planned press conference. I remain on board ¨C as do most of my Triad ¨C until the political business has ended, but while the business of unloading the ship and distributing the supplies is still very much ongoing.

    The Elite have a car waiting for me at the port, as well as a trio of stout trucks for my men. It delivers me through the nearly-empty city streets, to the base of a single skyscraper among many, damaged but still looking solid enough. It still has power, enough for the lift that takes me up to the thirtieth floor. The Red Dragon is my constant shadow, taking in his surroundings with professional detachment and ready to turn on our escort without the slightest hesitation.

    When the lift doors open up, it¡¯s to an office that was obviously abandoned in a hurry. Chairs are scattered around the room, cubicle walls have fallen down and papers and documents have been scattered across the floor ¨C a problem made even worse by the steady breeze blowing in through the shattered windows.

    A space has been cleared in the debris, right before one of the few intact panes of glass, and two armchairs have been set down, looking out over the desolate landscape north of the city centre. A pot of tea has been set on an end table between the two armchairs, with two porcelain cups on ornate saucers.

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    I take the empty seat, and am momentarily taken aback to see myself sitting opposite an immaculately-kept woman in her forties, dressed in a deep green tailored suit.

    ¡°Mr Lo,¡± she begins. ¡°Welcome to Seattle.¡± A wry grin plays across her face as she takes a drink from her teacup. ¡°I am the man in charge.¡±

    I chuckle to myself, taking a sip of my own to compose my response ¨C and being mildly surprised at the drink¡¯s quality.

    ¡°You must forgive me. I am quite aware that I am a relic of an older time.¡±

    Although, the leader of the Seattle Elite might be the oldest parahuman I have ever met. Perhaps she is a relic of sorts, as well.

    She waves me off, her expression making it clear that no offence was taken.

    There¡¯s another mystery; an old accent that hasn¡¯t quite managed to disappear beneath her professional American tone.

    ¡°It seems we learned the same English.¡±

    Her smile this time is almost wistful.

    ¡°Like you, my home is a long way away. But I have built a new home for myself in Seattle, and I hope you can too.¡±

    ¡°It seems your new home has taken a battering.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve come off better than others.¡± She turns to look out of the window, out across the flooded streets and the forest of white refugee tents. ¡°But drastic action is required to make this anything more than a catastrophe. It¡¯s a nightmarish balancing act.¡±

    ¡°Then I am sure the supplies I have brought will come as a welcome relief.¡±

    She chuckles to herself, setting her teacup back in its saucer.

    ¡°If it were as simple as flooding the city with supplies, Seattle would have already recovered. The problem, as always, is people. Just this morning, for example, I learned that prostitution rings have grown up around several of the aid camps in the flooded zones. It¡¯s only natural ¨C there are people in this city who saw their entire lives swept away, and who would do anything to claw it back ¨C but if it gets out that charity workers, emergency service personnel and federal officials are paying homeless refugees for sex it could sink the relief effort overnight.¡±

    She¡¯s sitting perfectly poised, but from the minute twitch of her hand muscle I can tell she¡¯s furious.

    ¡°So I¡¯m leveraging every contact I have to push an emergency relief bill through the state legislature, with a buried provision that will decriminalise prostitution within a designated area. Then I¡¯ll set up a makeshift red light district, to try and add even the most basic air of legitimacy to the business. All because people are apparently incapable of keeping it in their trousers.¡±

    I let out a low chuckle, before setting my own cup down and fixing her with a serious expression.

    ¡°And where does the Triad fit into your master plan?¡±

    ¡°As valued allies. I have most of South Seattle¡¯s gangs under my thumb, thanks to strategic offers and interventions, but I lack the manpower to secure the north. I could bring in more people from Portland or Vancouver, but my rivals in the Elite would capitalise on that. Seattle was the crown jewel of my domain; now that it¡¯s fractured, they¡¯re circling me like sharks.¡±

    I can see from here that the north is far from the choicest prize in the city. It was the hardest hit by Leviathan, and so the least valuable at present. That might be the point, come to think of it. The ¡®man in charge¡¯ brought me up here and showed me the north in all its disrepair, rather than trying to bury reality behind honeyed words and a plush office.

    ¡°Who holds the north at present?¡±

    ¡°The Bratva, the Yakuza and an American gang who were driven out of Montana. They all arrived immediately after Leviathan, and they¡¯ve been feuding for control of the local gangs ever since. I don¡¯t care how you deal with them, so long as you keep things quiet until the relief efforts have finished. No attacking convoys, steer clear of the PRT and the National Guard, and finally no flashy stunts that make it on the evening news. Apart from that, you have carte blanche to do as you please. Do we have an understanding?¡±

    ¡°We do,¡± I reply as I rise from my seat. ¡°I will marshal my men and get the measure of the ground. I trust I can rely on your organisation for information and a staging point?¡±

    She nods in affirmation.

    ¡°Then I will proceed. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I am sure this is the start of a lengthy and fruitful alliance.¡±

    As I turn to leave she rises from her seat and steps over to the window. The last thing I see as the lift doors slide shut is her figure silhouetted against the clear blue sky, her hands clasped behind her back as she looks down on her city in silent contemplation.

    It used to be a church. Perhaps it will be again, in time. It¡¯s on the very edge of the zone the government has deemed unsalvageable, and a particularly devout congregation might be able to successfully lobby the government to change their mind and shift the borders slightly. For now, however, it is nothing more than an empty hall, with rows of pews forming most of a semicircle around an altar.

    For now, it serves our purposes.

    A new shrine has been placed atop the water-stained altar cloth, carrying a small statue of a stern-faced Guan Yu, the Saint of War, with a halberd held in his left hand. This deep into the flooded zones, there is no electricity to light our way. Instead, a collection of battery powered lamps has created a kind of half-light that only highlights the glow of the burning incense, creating an intimate and religious atmosphere.

    The pews are filled with members of the triad, both current and¡­ potential. The Bratva, the Yakuza and the Magisters have all been broken, their grip on this city shattered. Some of their members have fled, others were killed in the fighting, but the remainder are here.

    I could bring the rest of my Triad to Seattle, and within a few years we would have returned to some semblance of our old strength. But that would take too long, and the Elite would grow far faster than us. If we want to survive ¨C to thrive ¨C in this brave new world, we must adapt to it.

    This ceremony¡­ it is a relic of a time that no longer exists, a time that was ending even before the first parahumans shattered the established world order. The Triads were drifting slowly towards white-collar crime, and a formal ceremony such as this simply drew unwanted attention.

    But its time has come again. If the Triad are to survive, we must expand, and if we are to expand without losing sight of who we are, we must pass our traditions onto the next generation.

    The Christian faith believes strongly in the concept of baptism. That a person can undergo a rite and emerge a new man, with all their past sins and allegiances washed away.

    This initiation serves the same purpose. Whatever flag they owed loyalty to before, whatever tongue they may speak and whatever faith they may worship, the defeated remnants of my enemies will see the stain of their defeat washed away, and they will leave this building as part of the Triad.

    The first to rise is Rusalka, the most senior surviving Bratva Cape, with her left arm held up in a sling and a thick cast. She walks down the aisle with her head still held high, showing the defiant pride of a defeated but unbroken prisoner as she steps forward.

    I am sitting on the foremost pew, watching the Triad¡¯s Incense Master as he stands before the altar with a bowl of rice wine in his hands. He¡¯s even older than I am, but he hasn¡¯t yet let his ailing body interfere with his duties. It¡¯s an admirable quality, and one I hope to possess as my body continues to wither and fail.

    Rusalka stops before the Incense Master, dwarfing the shorter man, and waits patiently, her shoulders straight. She is the picture of elegance and obedience, and so shows more strength than if she had ranted and raved against some perceived insult.

    ¡°Stretch forth the middle finger of your left hand, which I shall prick, so that a few drops of blood may fall into the bowl held by the master,¡± the Triad¡¯s senior administrator says, guiding her through the steps of the ritual as he has guided all our new initiates up to this point.

    Rusalka leans forwards, shifting her slinged arm a little to get her finger over the bowl. Once her blood has been spilled, she steps aside as a dozen other initiates go through the same process. They aren¡¯t the only survivors, of course, just the parahumans and senior leadership of the defeated gangs. They will hold the rank and file in line, and the promise of further initiations can be used as an incentive.

    ¡°In this manner,¡± the administrator continues, once all the blood has been spilled, ¡°our ancient fathers, the five monks of the Shaolin monastery, pledged themselves by an oath of eternal brotherhood.¡±

    He looks up and down the line of new initiates, pausing to allow his words to sink in.

    ¡°You, my brothers and sisters, as a sign of your obedience and sincerity, will now in turn drink of the liquid contained in this vessel and thereby become blood brothers of all the members of our order. As you drink, bear in mind the solemn oaths you are therefore ratifying.¡±

    It is, perhaps, the first time this ceremony has been performed in English, but I know that is simply the first of many changes we will need to make if we are to thrive in this new land. We will bend, to ensure we do not break.

    ¡°Henceforth, the Hung society is to you as Father and Mother. Its friends are your friends, its foes your foes. Where the brotherhood leads, you must follow, and from you absolute obedience to the orders of its duly appointed officers is demanded.¡±

    With that, the Incense Master and the administrator both take a sip from the bowl, before passing it down the line of new initiates. Each of them drinks, some with more eagerness than others. Besides me, I know the Red Dragon is making a mental note of each hesitation or moment of doubt. We are building something strong, something that will last, but to do that we must ensure its foundations are free from fault.

    The bowl reaches Rusalka at the end of the line. She drinks it without hesitation, before handing it to me with a deferential nod. I return the gesture and take my own sip, stamping down any visible reaction to the twinge that shoots through my arm as I lift the bowl up to my mouth.

    ¡ö?

    2010

    As the meeting winds down, and the participants start to make their way back to their duties, I remain seated to deal with the last few petitioners. My subordinates have managed to turn this disused Endbringer shelter into a hall worthy of the Triad¡¯s prestige, but it¡¯s still just a pale shadow of the prestigious headquarters we occupied in the covered market.

    Unfortunately, that location was so richly furnished that we used it whenever we hosted guests from the Elite. To use it now would be to invite a firebombing. Instead, this fortress of concrete and steel ¨C located beneath a civilian structure the Elite, or the Round Table, would hesitate before attacking ¨C provides an adequate headquarters for the Triad at war.

    As the last petitioner leaves satisfied with my answer, I feel the weight of the world come creeping back to press down on my shoulders. It¡¯s becoming harder and harder to keep my composure in these sorts of long meetings, but without me they would quickly dissolve into infighting. I am not essential for the Triad¡¯s survival, but I am essential for its continued harmony.

    I try to stand, managing to rock myself forwards but unable to carry that movement on, until I feel a hand grasp my arm as the Red Dragon steps in to help me to my feet. Of all the members of the Triad, he alone is fully aware of the extent of my frailty. That is why I don¡¯t try to hide the grateful look on my face, even as I shrug off his arm.

    I might not be able to rise unaided, but I can still stand.

    My temporary apartment used to be a small, sectioned-off area of the medical wing for use during triage whenever a patient has no chance of survival. The bitter irony of it is not lost on me, but most of the rooms here are too large to be comfortable.

    A large amount of effort has been spent making it feel homely, with a comfortable armchair next to a heater and rich rugs completely covering the bare concrete floor, but I still miss my quiet apartment with its view over the sea wall. I sink deeply into the armchair, flick on my reading light and open up my copy of The Great Gatsby, to read about another man from a bygone age who¡¯s stayed well beyond his time.

    ¡°I think I¡¯m done for the night,¡± I say to the Dragon. ¡°Thank you, once again.¡±

    Solitary man that he is, he doesn¡¯t say anything in response, simply nodding and leaving the room.

    The moment the door closes, Mr Jiang steps out of the shadows.

    I sigh, putting my bookmark back in its place and setting the text down before turning to look at him.

    ¡°Was there some business that wasn¡¯t covered in the meeting?¡± I ask in clipped Cantonese.

    ¡°I simply wish to remind you of the importance of this endeavour,¡± he replies, his Mandarin formal and flawless. ¡°The future of your Triad depends on its success.¡±

    ¡°There might not be a future, thanks to you.¡± I reply, with more than a hint of bitterness. There¡¯s no point in being polite with the man who holds my heart in his hands.

    ¡°Nonsense,¡± he replies with a laugh. ¡°You can overcome the Seattle Elite, you just have to be prepared to take more risks.¡±

    I frown, my head drooping as the weight of the world becomes all that heavier.

    ¡°Don¡¯t lose hope on me now, old man.¡± The agent drops to one knee, putting a hand on my shoulder in a parody of comfort.

    ¡°After all¡± ¨C he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up the gallery ¨C ¡°you have something to fight for.¡±

    He flicks through a series of images, each showing a woman in her early twenties. In one photo, she¡¯s painting on an easel. In another, she¡¯s using a computer program to give shape to a planned sculpture.

    ¡°Your granddaughter is doing very well for herself. The Imperial Family has always appreciated the cultural virtues of our nation, even as the Union embodies our relentless industry. Artists that show great promise are taken under the Family¡¯s wing, to create great works that can enlighten the soul of the nation.¡±

    And they can be crushed beneath that wing just as easily.

    He closes the phone, snatching my granddaughter away from me, and rises to his feet. He looks down at me, all his false sympathy replaced by contempt.

    ¡°You know, I realised something about you yesterday. Your whole life, you have always taken the middle path. You¡¯ve done exactly what you needed to do to preserve your Triad. No more, no less.¡±

    He smiles.

    ¡°It¡¯s what got you into this situation. If you had loved your daughter a little more, you would have taken her with you when you fled Hong Kong, illegitimate or not. If you had loved her a little less, then threatening your granddaughter¡¯s life becomes pointless. Either way, I would have no power over you.¡±

    I sit there in silence as he walks over to the doorway, tears streaming down my face.

    ¡°I know you don¡¯t think much of us, but a Parahuman wouldn¡¯t have made that mistake. The world is a lot more dynamic than it once was, and if you don¡¯t force your way through the currents you¡¯ll find yourself swept away with all the other relics of a world that no longer exists.¡±

    </article>

 Enforcer: 4.01

    ¡°Well, how do I look?¡±

    Ember is standing in front of a tall mirror in her office, looking at me from out of the hood of a voluminous slate-grey cloak. Patterns have been woven into the fabric, creating an impression of billowing smoke and flecked with occasional bright sparks given life by a metallic red weave. It speaks of the potential for flame; like a tinderbox that could go up at any moment.

    It¡¯s long, hanging down to her ankles, and held together beneath her throat by a dull metal clasp that reflects no light, leaving her face completely shrouded in darkness. Whenever she takes a step, the cloak will drift open ever-so-slightly, exposing brief glimpses of her skin-tight costume, the orange flame patterns on the dark grey material flashing like the fire at the heart of a furnace.

    I feel so awkward under the spotlight, so out-of-place surrounded by Capes like Jaeger, or the vibrant life of the Red-Light District. I belong in the environment, with its glorious half-light, but the people are still strangers to me. They belong to a world I don¡¯t understand, one I don¡¯t want to understand, but Ember is someone who moves in and out of that world like she was made for it. Outside the District, she blends in with the crowds, no matter what part of the city she¡¯s in.

    But when she¡¯s in costume, even among the riot of colour and sensations that fill the streets of our little slice of the city, she stands out. She understands the circles we both move in a lot more than I do, which is why I plan to follow her lead tonight.

    ¡°Remember,¡± she says, flicking her hood back to check the makeup on her lips and chin ¨C the only parts of her face that aren¡¯t covered by her ornate grey and orange mask ¨C ¡°tonight is about being seen, so to speak. People like us thrive on our reputations, and events like this are where those reputations are most important.¡±

    She flicks her hood up, immediately hiding her make-up efforts from all but the closest observers, and starts to fiddle with the fold.

    ¡°Everyone knows what we¡¯ve ¨C what you¡¯ve ¨C managed to achieve, but this is about more than that. It¡¯s about showing that you belong.¡±

    Once she¡¯s satisfied with the drape of her hood, she steps away from the mirror and pulls one edge of her cloak aside, revealing the pooled shadows beneath the thick material. I pace forwards, brushing aside the edge of the cloak with my beak and slipping into the darkness. I curl up her back as she lets the cloak drop, creating an almost perfect patch of shadows all around her body, and settle in the deep shadows of the hood.

    She turns at the doorway, taking one last look in the mirror. On a whim, I briefly form my eyes above and below her own, my vision tunnelling down as I do and my head pounding a little at the effort of selectively bringing small parts of me out, and catch a brief glimpse of three pairs of yellow orbs staring out of the hood before disappearing as I pull them back into the shadows.

    Ember lets out a short, sharp laugh.

    ¡°What the hell was I worried about? You¡¯re a natural at this.¡±

    There¡¯s a car waiting for us in the security compound. Not one of the normal ones, with their clear livery and orange flashing lights, but a fairly generic ¨C if expensive ¨C looking silver four door. The driver is one of the security team, wearing a uniform shirt and a clip-on tie but with his holster conspicuously empty.

    He moves around the vehicle, holding the door open for Ember as she grabs her cloak and shifts it out of the way as she sits down. She leans back in her seat, her head tilted to look idly out of the car¡¯s tinted windows as the driver brings the car out of the compound and through the press of people in the Red-Light district.

    We¡¯re quickly out of the district and pushing our way through the steady stream of traffic that fills the streets in the late evening, as people start to make their way home from work. Ember doesn¡¯t speak, simply lounging back in her seat with one arm idly tossed over her shoulder, resting her hand on the headrest of the seat next to her.

    As the drive drags on ¨C the driver speeding up onto the expressway that flies over the city, raised on great concrete pillars above the bustling streets below ¨C I slip out of Ember¡¯s cloak and shuffle along the seat to look out the other window, taking advantage of the tinted glass to see the city without being seen.

    At first, I can¡¯t see much of anything, just the yellow haze of the streetlights and the tops of particularly tall buildings or trees. Ahead of us, however, the glow of the city centre is growing larger and larger. Soon it grows large enough to be uncomfortable, towering walls of glowing glass rising up past the left side of the car. As the first patch of harsh yellow light hits my skin, I abandon my perch and slip back into the comforting darkness of Ember¡¯s coat.

    The driver pulls us off the expressway, down into the glowing city streets. I don¡¯t see much after that, the ambient light enough to drive me back into the deepest recesses of Ember¡¯s cloak, but I can feel the car shifting a little more as we go from the arrow-straight expressway to the block after block of the city below.

    Eventually, Ember lurches noticeably as the car makes a hard left turn and the colour of the ambient light changes from the yellow glow of streetlights to the harsh white light of an underground car park. It¡¯s a little dimmer, enough that I can see clearly through Ember¡¯s hood as the driver pulls up next to a nondescript maintenance door, before getting out of the car and walking around to open up the door for me and his boss.

    Ember acknowledges him with a curt nod as she steps out of the car, though I¡¯m not sure he can actually see it thanks to the hood. As she walks towards the rusted door, I hear the car driving off and parking a little way away, inside the underground car park but not so close to the door that it¡¯s drawing attention.

    Ember knocks twice against the door, waiting for a couple of seconds before a pinprick of red light appears just above the frame and a recessed panel pulls back to reveal a small camera. I curl down Ember¡¯s back as she brings her hands up to her hood, pulling it down to show the camera her masked face.

    A moment passes, before there¡¯s an audible click and an electronic whirr as the door lock disengages and the door and a significant chunk of the wall around it simply slides down into the floor. Behind the false wall stretches a long corridor with wood-panelled walls, a polished marble floor, and ornate overhead lights offering enough illumination to let everything be seen, without making it uncomfortably bright.

    Of the three burly men standing behind the wall, two are dressed in neatly-pressed suits with red ties and blocky assault rifles held in their arms, while the third is obviously a cape, dressed in fur-lined fatigues with a half-mask over his face and accompanied by¡­ well, I¡¯m not really sure what it is.

    It¡¯s kind of like a dog, except it¡¯s only a little bit smaller than I am and has patterned grey and brown scales instead of skin and fur. It is sitting like a dog, its head raised and attentive as the slit pupils of its eyes settle on Ember, tall pointed ears twitching on the top of its head.

    ¡°Ember,¡± the dog¡¯s handler says, nodding towards her in greeting. ¡°Love the cloak. Decided to shake things up a little?¡±

    I feel Ember¡¯s lips parting in a friendly smile.

    ¡°You could say that. Figured it was time for a change, and another layer of bullet resistant fabric never hurt anyone.¡±

    The handler nods in agreement, before freezing at the same time as his dog rises up, its serpentine lips parted to reveal a row of sharp teeth as it starts to hiss like a snake.

    ¡°You bring a tagalong?¡± he asks Ember as his hand drifts to a pistol on his thigh, and the two men in suits bring their rifles up to their shoulders. I barely notice them, fixing my gaze right at the widening slits of the creature¡¯s pupils. It¡¯s staring right at me.

    ¡°You must have heard I have a new hire,¡± Ember replies, a picture of calm. ¡°Nightcrawler, this is Huntsman. Say hi, why don¡¯t you?¡±

    I reform my eyes beneath Ember¡¯s hood, watching as Huntsman¡¯s own eyes widen in shock, before his mouth spreads wide in a genuine grin. His hound just snarls louder as I reveal myself, until Huntsman idly reaches down to scratch it between the ears, settling the beast immediately.

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard about you,¡± he says to me. ¡°I thought the rumours were exaggerating, but you¡¯ve really got the whole horror movie act down to a tee. It¡¯s nice to meet you. Like Ember said, I¡¯m Huntsman, and this little bundle of joy¡± ¨C he strokes the head of his hound, which preens at the attention ¨C ¡°is Duke.¡±

    ¡°So,¡± Ember asks, ¡°how many people got here before me?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d say maybe three quarters of the ones we¡¯re expecting,¡± Huntsman replies. ¡°It¡¯s busy down there, but you shouldn¡¯t have to wait long. Enjoy mingling.¡±

    Ember nods as Huntsman steps aside to let us pass, his hound following at his heels. Behind us, I can hear the sound of the door slowly lifting back into place, shortly followed by light chatter as Huntsman strikes up a conversation with the two other guards.

    ¡°It would look a little odd to have over a dozen different people show up at the same building at the same time,¡± Ember explains, ¡°especially when they¡¯re coming from all over the city. So when we need to meet like this, they stagger the invites so that everyone arrives at a different time. It¡¯s fine if you get one of the later slots, but if you show up when there¡¯s nobody else here then you might end up waiting a couple of hours.¡±

    At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors slides open on hidden rails at our approach, revealing a set of stairs with a ramp on one side that drops down into a warren of richly-furnished corridors, with signs pointing off to different rooms and departments. Hospital, Tailors, Administration, Bar, Gym, Overnight Quarters, Cafeteria. It¡¯s practically an underground town, with a vaulted ceiling and walls made from some strangely-patterned stone.

    ¡°Impressive, right?¡± Ember says, guessing my mood even without any visual clues. ¡°It¡¯s more of a vanity project than anything else, but, in the Elite, everything is about prestige. A fully furnished facility like this demonstrates the power of the people that built it, as well as providing us with the closest thing we have to a headquarters in the city.¡±

    I peer through her hood as she walks through the halls, noting the brief glimpses of advanced equipment, comfortable lounges, and utilitarian offices. There are a few people moving around, human staff dressed in business suits or paramedic outfits, but mostly it¡¯s just a series of empty hallways.

    ¡°It¡¯s not all for show, of course,¡± Ember continues. ¡°The services this place offers are a great bit of soft power. Even if a Parahuman doesn¡¯t want to formally join the Elite, they¡¯ll often accept our no-questions-asked medical service, or buy a professional-grade costume from our in-house tailors and engineers.¡±

    She turns down a corridor, following a sign that just says ¡®Court,¡¯ and passes through a security checkpoint, with half a dozen armed guards in suits, another Cape lingering in the background, and hi-tech scanners hidden beneath tasteful wooden panelling. The fancy stone floor has become hidden beneath a richly-pattered red carpet, and the whole d¨¦cor of the facility has become a lot fancier, with landscape paintings and statues lining the walls.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    The people who had been bustling around the halls are entirely gone at this point. Past the checkpoint, it¡¯s like Ember and I are the only people here. She makes another turn, pushing open a set of large double doors that swing open soundlessly, even as the noise of the room beyond them becomes audible past the soundproofing.

    The room is part royal court, part corporate boardroom. The lower half of the walls are made of panelled wood, embellished with vine-like patterns of gold leaf and half-pillars of carved stone that stretch all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, two stories high. The upper half, by contrast, is nothing but television screens set in gilded frames like works of art, displaying ticker-tapes of nonsensical numbers, digital maps of the city ¨C of other places and cities I neither recognise nor understand ¨C and the talking heads of twenty-four-seven news channels.

    The red carpet cuts off at the door, replaced by a checkerboard of black and white stone that¡¯s been polished almost to a mirror-sheen. Most of the room is taken up by a truly vast table of black stone, unblemished, smooth and without any ornamentation. Its surface provides a mirror that reflects the light of the trio of chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, set to deliberately leave the room in an intimate half-light that only heightens the masked anonymity of the Capes who fill the space.

    There are so many Capes. More than I¡¯ve ever seen in one place, more even than the dozen who were present at the Triad¡¯s meeting. Maybe eighteen in all ¨C unless I miscounted ¨C and from the way Ember spoke to Huntsman, it sounds like there are more yet to come.

    I tap at Ember¡¯s shoulder, prompting a smile and an explanation from here.

    ¡°You see why this place is so big, right? Me and Jaeger, we¡¯re just a small part of a much larger group. There are one hundred and seventy six known Parahumans in the Seattle Metropolitan area, of which seventy eight operate in the city itself. Of that one hundred and seventy six, about forty percent owe fealty to this room right here. Till the Triad fucked off, it was fifty percent.¡±

    If I had the capability right now, my eyes would be dropping in shock. The sheer number of parahumans just seems impossible to me. It feels like even a world as big as Seattle would be bursting at the seams with that many titans filling its streets. It puts my little world of the Red-Light district into perspective, and just confirms that I made the right decision.

    I wanted to be safe, and there¡¯s safety in numbers.

    ¡°Of course,¡± Ember continues, ¡°they¡¯re not all here. Most of them pay tribute to us in exchange for being allowed to operate in Seattle. Legal and illegal; there¡¯s about half a dozen Parahumans in the city that don¡¯t fight or work for us directly, but pay us a percentage of their earnings in exchange for access to legal support to get around NEPEA-5.¡±

    ¡°But the people here,¡± she continues as she walks into the room, ¡°are the core of the Elite. They call it differently depending on which part of the country you¡¯re in, but here we call it the Court. We¡¯re the movers and shakers, who are answerable to the people above us but powerful enough to have assets of our own. Like the Red-Light District.¡±

    Like me, she doesn¡¯t say ¨C probably to spare my feelings, but I don¡¯t mind. I¡¯m not ambitious, and Ember has kept me safe so far. I¡¯m comfortable with where I am, and happy to stay there.

    Ember doesn¡¯t mingle with the other Capes, instead picking a corner of the room and silently waiting there. Most of the others in the room are similarly isolated, in twos or threes that probably match up with the people they usually work with. A couple are busy networking, moving from group to group and trying and failing to strike up conversation, but they don¡¯t approach us. Given Ember¡¯s intimidating cloak, I can¡¯t exactly blame them.

    More people enter the room over time, Jaeger among them ¨C his uniform-like costume even more spotless than usual. Eventually, after the twenty-third person has entered the room, the mood seems to shift and people take their seats at the long table ¨C according to some hierarchy I can¡¯t make out. Ember¡¯s seat ¨C and by extension mine ¨C is about a third of the way down, which is higher up than I was expecting. Some of the Parahumans don¡¯t sit at the table, instead standing respectfully behind their patrons as a visible show of prestige.

    The focus of the assembled Capes seems to shift as a man enters the room, rising out of their seats as he walks down the length of the table. He¡¯s dressed formally, in a deep black jacket with a white bow-tie, a chain of office slung around his shoulders and a formal hat supporting his half-face mask. In his hand, he carries a black staff, tipped at either end with silver.

    ¡°Black Rod,¡± Ember whispers. ¡°The head of the Seattle Elite.¡±

    When he reaches the top of the table, he surprises me by ignoring the ornate chair at the head, instead choosing to sit in a marginally less ornate seat that¡¯s set to its right. As he sits, so does every assembled Cape.

    A pregnant silence falls across the table, each Cape leaning forward like they¡¯re expecting their leader to speak, but he simply sits there impassively. Ember leans back in her seat, angling her body to get a clearer look at Black Rod and, in so doing, giving me a clear view of him. He seems to be quite content, his face comfortably impassive like he¡¯s simply waiting for something to happen.

    A panel in the wall behind him swings open, and everyone starts to their feet as a woman steps gracefully into the room. She¡¯s dressed in an elegant ballgown in red and gold, her entire face covered by a golden mask that¡¯s been sculpted into the features of a stern, matronly face. In place of eyes, black orbs of glass seem to silently judge the assembled Elites as she practically glides to the seat at the head of the table, sitting like it was made for her with her hands folded elegantly in her lap.

    Ember whispers nothing to me ¨C her body language as surprised as everyone else there ¨C and, at a gesture from Black Rod, the whole table takes their seats.

    ¡°As this is an extraordinary meeting,¡± Black Rod begins, ¡°we will dispense with the minutes and proceed to the matter at hand. The intelligence picture of the Triad¡¯s operations has improved enormously, but that has revealed an uncomfortable truth. Parahuman traffickers are operating in Seattle.¡±

    A kind of electric tension passes through the room, as everyone stiffens in a mixture of rage and fear. The only ones who aren¡¯t affected are Ember and Jaeger, because they¡¯re the ones who already knew.

    ¡°The first order of business is to recognise those who discovered this operation. Jaeger and Nightcrawler ¨C of Ember¡¯s cell ¨C have done us a great service in uncovering this obscenity.¡±

    He pauses, as acknowledgements are directed towards the pair of us. Nobody applauds, limiting themselves to respectful nods, but from the way Ember subtly straightens her shoulders it¡¯s clear there¡¯s much more meaning than the gesture would imply. This entire room is dripping with prestige, and it seems that prestige is what determines a person¡¯s importance.

    ¡°This is the reason we were founded.¡± Black Rod leans forwards, one hand resting on the table and his lips pursed in anger. ¡°This is the reason the Elite exists. To stand up for Parahumans, and prevent them from being ground down by the world. We will find these victims, and we will raise them up. But we must proceed with caution.¡±

    Some of the anger seems to leave him, as he turns his attention to group of five Parahumans in upmarket business suits, two seated and three standing behind them. They wouldn¡¯t look out of place anywhere in the city ¨C if it weren¡¯t for the sculpted, full-face masks completely hiding their features.

    ¡°What is your assessment of the situation?¡±

    ¡°The Think Tank,¡± comes Ember¡¯s whisper. ¡°They predict the future, mostly work as business consultants.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s muddied,¡± one of the suits ¨C a woman ¨C answers. ¡°We suspect Counterthinker interference. There¡¯s a rival Think Tank somewhere with an opposing goal to us, and the results of their predictions are interfering with ours.¡±

    ¡°Creating white noise,¡± the man next to her interjects. ¡°Static.¡±

    ¡°Can it be overcome?¡± Black Rod asks.

    ¡°Not by us,¡± she answers. ¡°Silver lining is it probably goes both ways unless they have some serious assets. We can¡¯t see them, they can¡¯t see us. If you were prepared to pay for some of the Gentleman¡¯s time, his staff might be able to overcome the interference, but¡­¡± she trails off, her brown eyes flicking briefly to the woman in red and gold before returning to Black Rod as he shakes his head.

    ¡°The interference raises another issue,¡± Jaeger speaks from his position a little further up the table than us. ¡°The Triad have no Thinkers, which means they have powerful backers. We know the Parahumans are being shipped overseas, which means these opposing Thinkers are likely beyond the reach of my strike teams.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± Black Rod acknowledges Jaeger¡¯s contribution with a nod. ¡°It limits our actions. It is imperative we find these captives before launching any significant strike against the Triad, in case they rush them out of the country in a panic. All we know is that they are being transported in shipping containers, and that they will be leaving on a ship. Therefore, we covertly flood the docks with hunters until we have located all ten captives. Then, we liberate our bothers and sisters and launch simultaneous strikes against every Triad target, breaking their backs in a single night.¡±

    The red and gold woman rises from her seat, and the whole room follows her. Where there was shock and surprise at her entrance, now there is just fury and determination. She pauses for a moment, the pitch black glass in her mask¡¯s eyeholes seeming to stare at the entire room at once, before turning and departing through the same secret door she entered through.

    The moment she¡¯s gone, every screen in the room changes so that together they make immense maps of the city, covered in light blue markers indicating drug labs, armouries, distribution centres, warehouses, flophouses and all the other assets of the Triad, including the converted bunker that holds their leader. The fruits of my labour, given the most prestigious spot of all; the centre of everyone¡¯s attention, even Black Rod¡¯s.

    But not the woman in red and gold. She left before she could see it.

    Her exit goes as unspoken as her entrance, as Black Rod begins speaking to each Parahuman in turn, outlining their roles and responsibilities in either the reconnaissance or the strike. I listen as he attaches me to the search team, but my mind is elsewhere.

    It¡¯s with the woman in red and gold, and the mystery she represents. The Elite is deeper than I knew, and I feel like I¡¯m only beginning to scratch at the surface.

 Enforcer: 4.02

    As the meeting draws to a close, and the participants start to stand and drift off, I wait until Ember has wandered out into the halls before re-emerging from her shadow and onto the tiled floor of the underground facility. She looks at me curiously, but I momentarily ignore her, scanning the length of the corridor to make sure we¡¯re alone, before grabbing her hand and pulling her into a nearby room.

    It looks like it¡¯s an office, during¡­ normal working hours. Part of the city that I¡¯ve never really seen, where the suits go before they stagger out onto the streets to drink the day¡¯s work away. The dozen or so cubicles with their fancy computers don¡¯t really make much sense to me, and the posters and pictures on the wall don¡¯t do anything to stop the space feeling clinical and isolated.

    The Red-Light district has its private spaces too, of course it does, but they¡¯re different. They¡¯re more intimate than private, and the streets themselves are heaving with people. This cold, sterile room is private in a very lifeless way, and not even the darkness can bring intimacy to it.

    But it is private, and that¡¯s what I need right now.

    ¡®Who was she?¡¯ I sign to Ember, watching her brain struggle to figure out my sign language for a second before her confused expression turns sombre and serious.

    She sighs, pulling a chair out of one of the cubicles and slumping down into it, her head becoming buried beneath the shadows of her cloak.

    ¡°Yeah, I should have figured she¡¯d be there.¡±

    I don¡¯t do anything in response, just sitting back on my haunches and looking up at her. She hasn¡¯t held anything back from me so far ¨C not when I¡¯ve asked, at least ¨C and I¡¯ll gladly give her the time she needs to explain just what that was about.

    ¡°The thing you need to understand about the Elite is that we¡¯re not one unified whole. We¡¯re more like¡­ like a whole bunch of different groups. Cells. Seattle¡¯s a bit different than most places, in that most of the city¡¯s Elite are all under the same group, but there are still bits that are kept separate from everyone else. Bits we can¡¯t know about.¡±

    Ember leans back, tossing her hood back and rubbing her temples.

    ¡°Seattle¡¯s better than most places. Before I moved here, I was working down in Vegas. Still in the Elite, but a different cell. A different¡­ I don¡¯t know, sphere of influence. I didn¡¯t even find out I was in the Elite until my cell leader told me about this job in Seattle and not-so-subtly hinted that someone so far above her he might as well be a king was offering a big financial incentive for me to go, because Seattle would send down a Thinker in exchange.¡±

    She smiles, the tension draining out of her as she shifts forward to put her elbows on her knees, an honest smile on her face.

    ¡°Down there, I couldn¡¯t really talk to anybody except the four other people in my cell, and they just saw me as dumb muscle. But here? There¡¯s a bar in this building, over there somewhere.¡± She waves an arm in a random direction. ¡°You can go there in costume and just¡­ exist for a while. No need to lie about what you do for a living, pretending you¡¯re some dumb paper-pusher when you¡¯re so much more.¡±

    The smile slips from her face a little, as her expression turns more serious.

    ¡°That¡¯s more than worth a little secrecy. So we don¡¯t talk about her, don¡¯t acknowledge she¡¯s here. That way, if anyone¡¯s listening, she doesn¡¯t get implicated in something she¡¯s not involved in. Because if she goes down, we all go down.¡±

    She pauses, as if she¡¯s worried about whether to continue.

    ¡°I figured it out about a year after coming here. You might figure it out too, and who knows how many of those people around the table know, but nobody says it out loud. All things considered, it¡¯s a small price to pay.¡±

    That¡¯s a sentiment I can understand. It¡¯s a trade ¨C like everything else. I patrol the Red-Light district, and help the Elite whenever they need something more done, and in return I get a safe place to sleep at night, with warm covers and a door that both shuts and locks. I get paid too ¨C I get paid a lot ¨C but it¡¯s amazing how little that matters when I have nothing to spend it on except for food that Ember has to collect from the door for me, and when I know what it¡¯s like to go without shelter or home-cooked food.

    It¡¯s another cost to add onto the pile, but the benefits are still worth so much more.

    I draw my fingers across my mouth. It¡¯s a gesture I saw someone doing in the Red-Light District after agreeing to keep a secret, so I figure it¡¯ll do here. Ember certainly seems to get my meaning, standing up with a grin on her face and throwing her hood back over her head.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go. I¡¯ve got a little while yet, but your new partners should be leaving right about now.¡±

    Like our arrival here, everyone¡¯s leaving at different times to stop anyone getting suspicious about the building. Ember¡¯s one of the last to go, but I¡¯m not leaving with her. There are people trapped out there, about to be sold overseas to who knows where, and that means the search can¡¯t wait for even a moment longer than it has to.

    It¡¯s more than just them, though. Jaeger and I built up an almost complete picture of the Triad in the north, but in another week that picture might have changed completely. Every hour, the information I gathered becomes more and more obsolete. So the Elite wants to strike soon, but they can¡¯t do that without freeing the captives. Otherwise the Triad will just hide them away at the first sign of trouble.

    Rather than slipping back into Ember¡¯s cloak, I follow her out into the hall. It¡¯s a chance to indulge my curiosity a little more, darting ahead to peer into interesting looking rooms, and generally being more than a little nosy.

    Ember takes it in her stride, but, as the sound of distant footsteps becomes audible, I slip back to her side. She might be able to unwind in the bar, but this place is still built on reputation, and I don¡¯t want to ruin hers by running around like an excited puppy where people can see me.

    There¡¯s a small group waiting in the car park, standing around a nondescript van that looks like it belongs to an electricians firm, judging by the words painted on the side. Of course, I¡¯ve been around Jaeger long enough to know that those words probably aren¡¯t worth the paint that went into them.

    Jaeger isn¡¯t alone, this time. Or, rather, it¡¯s not just him and his men. His own personal soldiers are conspicuous in their absence, and the two Capes talking to Jaeger are just conspicuous in general. I recognise Huntsman immediately, and it looks like his dog-thing recognises me. The other man is an unknown, with a shaved head and skin that¡¯s closer to charcoal than Ember¡¯s hazelnut brown. His complexion is a little pallid, almost grey in places, and he¡¯s dressed in a tight-fitting tank top beneath an open red and gold tracksuit. His mask is a red half-skull that covers everything from his upper lip to his forehead.

    Jaeger simply nods at me as I pace across the garage towards them, while Huntsman seems to weigh me up with his eyes. The third man simply crosses his arms and leans back against his van.

    ¡°Nightcrawler,¡± Jaeger greets me. ¡°Are you ready to head out?¡±

    I turn back to Ember for a brief moment, before swallowing down my hesitation, looking back at Jaeger and nodding.

    ¡°Good,¡± he replies, like it was never in doubt. ¡°Let¡¯s get in the van, then. Cinderblock¡± ¨C he turns to the third man ¨C ¡°it¡¯s your vehicle, you drive.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± he replies, in a deep, gravelly, voice. ¡°You three best ride in back; don¡¯t want anyone getting suspicious.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you soon, Nightcrawler,¡± Ember says, giving me a wave. I return the gesture before following behind Jaeger as Huntsman holds open the rear doors of the van for the pair of us. There aren¡¯t any seats in the back ¨C none of the advanced tech that Jaeger had on our stakeout, either. It seems this is just a regular van, meant to transport goods from A to B.

    Huntsman¡¯s creature hops up behind me, as he and Jaeger move up to sit on the floor just behind the van¡¯s seats. I pull the doors shut, and the van sets off into the city a moment later. As I settle down on the floor of the van, Huntsman¡¯s dog continues staring at me in confusion for a few more moments before letting out a snort of foul-smelling breath and padding over to rest its head on its master¡¯s lap.

    The van is mostly enclosed ¨C a tight, confined space ¨C but the light of the city is bleeding through the windshield at the front, and the two windows on the rear door. They¡¯re tinted, but that doesn¡¯t stop the glow. In fact, it just seems to get worse and worse as we approach the centre of the city, until it¡¯s almost like the unbearable light of the day.

    I shuffle towards the rear doors, hunching down to try and find some relief in the space below the windows, where the glow doesn¡¯t touch. At the other end of the van, Huntsman notices me move and fixes me with an inquisitive look.

    ¡°Don¡¯t like the light?¡±

    I shake my head, signing out an answer. ¡®It¡¯s uncomfortable. There is nowhere to hide.¡¯

    ¡°She said-¡± Jaeger starts translating my signs, before Huntsman cuts him off.

    ¡°I heard. Worked alongside a deaf Radar tech out in Venezuela. She seemed pretty lonely, so I learned how to sign.¡±

    ¡°You were in Venezuela?¡± Cinderblock asks from the front of the van, looking back for a moment before the traffic light in front of him turns green. ¡°You an Army man, or what?¡±

    ¡°Fuck no,¡± Hunstman laughs. ¡°You think the Army would employ a deaf anybody? Nah, I used to be Army, sure, but I was out there with a PMC, working security for the oil companies and doing wetwork for the local military.¡±

    ¡°Sounds fucking nasty,¡± Cinderblock continues. ¡°I saw something about that on TV once ¨C how in South America the villains are the government capes and the heroes are the underground rebels.¡±

    ¡°Fuck that piece of shit ¡®documentary,¡¯¡± Huntsman practically shouts out, his disgusting language almost making me want to cover my ears. ¡°A couple of bleeding-heart liberal arts students get suckered in by another handsome revolutionary in a beret, and suddenly the whole fucking country thinks they know shit about the way the world works.¡±

    He gets up off the floor, leaning over the front seats to talk to Cinderblock like he¡¯s giving a lecture. I get a brief flash of Cinderblock¡¯s smile in the rear view mirror ¨C it¡¯s clear he¡¯s just enjoying the show.

    ¡°There are no fucking heroes or villains in Venezuela, there¡¯s just the good old dollar. Don¡¯t matter if you¡¯re the oil companies looking to protect your fields, the cartels looking to protect your crops, or some Cold War relic hiding in the fucking jungle and trying to take the oil and the drugs from the others, the motivation is the same. Get territory, get control, get rich. Then, if you¡¯re lucky, get out.¡±

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°I take it that¡¯s what you did,¡± Jaeger says from where he¡¯s still sitting on the floor of the van.

    ¡°I did one better,¡± Huntsman replies as he sits back down. ¡°I got smart. This job doesn¡¯t pay quite as well as hunting rebels in the Venezuelan jungle, but it¡¯s not far off and it¡¯s a hell of a lot safer. The Red Gauntlet guys down there used to find this whole Cape culture hilarious, but it stops every little spat from becoming a bloodbath.¡±

    After that, the fight seems to fade away from Huntsman, and Cinderblock¡¯s satisfied grin soon falls back into an impassive scowl as he focuses on moving us through the scant post-midnight traffic. The glow of the city starts to fade, and eventually I feel comfortable enough to crawl out from my little patch of shadow and prop myself up against the doors, taking full advantage of the tinted windows to peer out at the city around us without being seen.

    It¡¯s amazing how quickly the city centre drops off. One minute we¡¯re driving through a canyon of flame, surrounded on all sides by pillars of light that scrape the sky, and the next it¡¯s like I¡¯m back in the north, with low-rise buildings and uncomplicated streetlights that are dim enough I can see the night¡¯s sky behind them. The road we¡¯re driving down is straight and narrow, surrounded on both sides by endless car parks and rectangular commercial buildings, taking us further and further away from the glowing wall that was the end of the world I knew, out into the great unknown.

    ¡°Welcome to Columbia City,¡± Cinderblock says, as I spot him in the reflection of the window, looking back at me with a smile on his face as he waits for the traffic light to change. ¡°First time?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s never been south of the city centre before,¡± Huntsman translates my signs almost as soon as I¡¯ve made them, getting a surprised laugh out of Cinderblock.

    ¡°Nightcrawler largely works in and around the Red-Light District,¡± Jaeger elaborates.

    ¡°Well shit,¡± Cinderblock muses. ¡°Guess I¡¯ve got to play host. Come up front for a bit and I¡¯ll give you the low-down.¡±

    I drop down from the rear doors and move up through the van, stepping gingerly over and around Jaeger, Huntsman and his creature before quickly pouncing over the seat backs and settling down on the passenger side, looking out at the lanes of nearly-empty roads that surround us.

    ¡°The one thing you need to understand about South Seattle,¡± he begins, ¡°is that it¡¯s basically all built around this big fat line of industry that goes from Seahawks Stadium all the way down and out past the city limits. You¡¯ve got the container terminals, the fuel terminals, the rail terminals, Boeing¡¯s own private airport and all sorts of smaller industry sandwiched in-between the rest. All the neighbourhoods around it ¨C Columbia City, Beacon Hill, Highline, Delridge, whatever ¨C all exist to fuel that industry. Forget the fucking suits and their skyscrapers, that¡¯s the real heart of the city.¡±

    He goes on, pointing out specific shops that do good deals, good places to get drunk each night. We pass a few people loitering on the streets corners, and he complains that the Red-Light District makes having a decent prostitution racket impossible while pointing out which group of people belongs to which gang. Eventually, I¡¯m able to find a gap to get a word in edgeways.

    ¡®So what do you do for the Elite?¡¯

    He looks at me for a couple of seconds and shrugs his shoulders. I sigh and lean back over the seat, jostling Huntsman¡¯s shoulder to grab his attention and repeating my question.

    ¡°She wants to know who you are,¡± he translates, ¡°beyond just a name.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Cinderblock answers, leaning back in his seat. ¡°I run one of the bigger gangs out here, the Thirty-Fifth. We¡¯ve got three Parahumans, and own pretty much all the blocks around Thirty-Fifth Avenue here in Columbia City. There¡¯s a dozen or so other powered gangs like us out here, all paying up to the Elite. Then there¡¯re the smaller groups, the ones without Capes, who pay up to us.¡±

    He stops abruptly, seeming to spot something in the rear view mirror. I angle my head to get a look for myself, and jolt a little at the sight of a pair of police cars edging into the lane next to us, their black and white livery and thankfully unlit red and blue lights as clear a warning sign as any.

    I drop down into the footwell beneath the seat, slipping effortlessly into the darkness as Cinderblock quickly removes his mask and tosses it onto the passenger seat.

    ¡°Five-oh,¡± he says to the other passengers, his tone surprisingly calm. ¡°Stay down.¡±

    There¡¯s a couple of tense moments as I just hide there, unable to see out of the windows and spot what¡¯s going on. The absence of any sudden flashing lights is the only indicator I have that things haven¡¯t gone horribly wrong, until Cinderblock lets out a low whistle and says ¡°we¡¯re in the clear.¡±

    As I clamber back up out of the footwell, Cinderblock puts his mask back on and Jaeger pops his head over the seat back, looking at the two police cars as they drive off into the distance.

    ¡°A van driving through this neighbourhood at the middle of the night and they don¡¯t pull it over?¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± Cinderblock¡¯s response is matter of fact, as he settles back down in his seat. ¡°The Police aren¡¯t hard to spook. They pull over the wrong car, get their own car crushed by yours truly, and suddenly they don¡¯t want to pull any more. They¡¯d kick the whole city up the chain to the PRT if they could, but instead they¡¯re being as chickenshit as they can. It¡¯s why there were two cars in that patrol, rather than one.¡±

    He still turns off from the road the moment the police cars drop out of sight, heading down side-streets between small homes and low-rise apartment blocks before parking up outside one tower among many.

    ¡°And here we are,¡± he says, opening up the door. ¡°My own little slice of paradise, and your base for the next few days.¡±

    I follow him out, as Jaeger and Huntsman get out the other side of the van. There are two men waiting in the lobby, both of them obviously guards of some kind even if they aren¡¯t wearing any sort of uniform. I can spot the distinctive outline of a sawed-off shotgun beneath one of their jackets, and it looks like Jaeger can see it as well.

    ¡°All quiet?¡± Cinderblock asks his men.

    ¡°All quiet.¡±

    He nods. ¡°Keep an eye out. Don¡¯t want anyone getting the drop on us.¡±

    ¡°The fighting down here is fast and nasty,¡± he says, as he leads us into the elevator. ¡°About a third of the gangs have broken away and sided with the Triad, and another third have basically splintered as some of them stick by the Elite and others don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡®How are the Triad winning them over?¡¯ I ask, and Huntsman translates.

    ¡°There are rules that come with Elite membership. No dealing within two blocks of a school, bring disputes up to the Elite or settle them quietly, that sort of thing. A lot of people didn¡¯t like that, and the Triad basically promised them free rein if they help axe the Elite. Bunch of fucking dumbasses with more muscle than sense, if you ask me. The king¡¯s the king for a reason, and acting up¡¯s just gonna get you stamped back down.¡±

    He leads us down a long hallway lined with apartments, stopping at the second from the end. It¡¯s right across the hall from the emergency stairs, which is probably a deliberate choice, and, once Cinderblock is done fiddling with the keys, we step through into a completely unfurnished apartment.

    ¡°Sorry it¡¯s a little empty,¡± Cinderblock says. ¡°The last tenant¡¯s family sold off all the furniture when the old man died, but I was able to buy the apartment. Been holding onto it for a rainy day just like this.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not a problem,¡± Jaeger says as he peers out of the window. ¡°I¡¯ll call my people and have them bring over everything we need. Camp cots, police scanners, whiteboards¡­ that sort of thing. Could you go back down and tell your guys to expect them?¡±

    ¡°¡­sure,¡± Cinderblock answers, a little put out, ¡°but then I¡¯m turning in for the night, or my girlfriend will pitch a fit. My apartment¡¯s just next door, so knock if there¡¯s an emergency.¡±

    Huntsman lets out a chuckle after he¡¯s gone, leaning back against the wall and fixing Jaeger with an amused look.

    ¡°Well look who¡¯s moving up in the world. Going from a two person spy mission on your own dime to heading up a proper, Elite-sanctioned taskforce? Takes ambition.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with ambition,¡± Jaeger replies, bluntly. ¡°You don¡¯t really expect me to believe you don¡¯t harbour ambitions of your own?¡±

    Huntsman shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯ve buried too many ambitious men in unmarked graves. Enemies and friends. I make enough to be comfortable, my work is still interesting, and that¡¯s good enough for me.¡±

    ¡°Each to their own, I suppose,¡± Jaeger replies, diplomatically, before walking over to the window again.

    ¡°We need to move fast about this. Nightcrawler, you should head out and get the lay of the land while it¡¯s still dark. No need to look for anything in particular, just familiarise yourself with the area and get back before dawn.¡±

    I nod, even as Huntsmen speaks up.

    ¡°Hang on, isn¡¯t it a little late? Let the poor girl sleep, at least.¡±

    ¡®I¡¯m nocturnal,¡¯ I sign back. Well, it¡¯s more ¡®I don¡¯t sleep at night.¡¯ I haven¡¯t got around to learning the sign for ¡®nocturnal¡¯ yet, if there even is one.

    ¡°And neither do we, until the job¡¯s done,¡± Jaeger continues. ¡°We have to be on standby in case anything happens.¡±

    ¡°Understood,¡± Huntsman replies as he sits down, his creature padding over to rest its head on his lap as he starts reading something on his phone.

    I pace over to the window, propping myself up to open it and peer out across an unfamiliar skyline. I can¡¯t see much; just a few buildings before a forested hill blocks my view. I look down, and see a patch of darkness right below the window, where some streetlight or another has obviously failed.

    I haul myself up and out the window, feeling the wind rushing past my body as I hurtle down five stories before hitting the darkness and disappearing into its depths like a diver hitting the surface of a lake. I let myself revel in the weightless sensation for a few moments before reforming my body and sprinting across the road to the treeline, eager to explore new spaces and help really make a difference.

    To save lives, rather than help end them.

 Enforcer: 4.03

    It''s a lot easier, the second time around.

    Jaeger is still working like a well-oiled machine ¨C complete with the impersonal detachment of pistons and gears ¨C but I''m able to better keep up with his mechanical work. All the teething troubles I found when I first started out up north have disappeared, and I''m faster than ever before at identifying what would lead to valuable information and what would lead to me returning to Jaeger with my tail between my legs and nothing to show for my endeavours.

    The work itself is largely the same. It''s still about going out and following leads, looking for suspicious people or places that Cinderblock''s gang already knows are linked to the Triad. I find them, I follow them, and I follow the leads they lead me to. It''s the same secret rooms full of weapons, stashes of drugs hidden behind fake walls and even completely innocuous bars or laundromats that hide quiet corners and backroom meeting places used by the Triad''s members to wind down after a hard night''s work.

    Where there are differences, they come from the location. The dynamic is a lot louder, here in the South. This part of the city is home to many more gangs than the North, even if they''re individually much smaller, and each one of them has either picked a side or been forced to pick. It means that the Triad and the Elite are competing for space in a subtle war conducted beneath the noses of the ever-patrolling police and PRT. It''s a war fought by tags spray-painted onto street corners, in flashes of light blue or crimson worn on a person''s clothing to show their allegiance.

    In brief but violent volleys of gunfire delivered from moving cars, firebombs through the windows of stores that pay protection to those who can''t protect them, or ambushes as people are walking down the street, leaving them to bleed out as their attacker blends back into the crowd. Where there are Cape fights, they''re usually ambushes by two Capes against one, or one Cape going out to stamp down anyone who''s wearing their colours a little too openly.

    I''ve seen more of the Protectorate, too. I''d be hard-pressed not to see them, with the way they fly over the streets in brightly-coloured spandex, or weave through traffic on bulky motorcycles with flashing green and white lights. I even catch a glimpse of a raid in the distance ¨C a whole block lit up by flashing lights as the city''s hired heroes and their armoured soldiers storm the hideout of some Cape or another.

    It''s like the eyes of the entire city have been turned on these few districts; everyone knows that something big is happening here and it''s got the air so thick with tension that you could cut it with a knife. I feel like I''m working under a floodlight, forced to scrabble for whatever shadows I can find to stay out of sight of the multitude of eyes that are staring down at us.

    And yet, it feels like I''m the only member of our little group who understands it. Jaeger is still as single-mindedly meticulous as ever, building up an increasingly worrying picture out of the intelligence I bring him, while Huntsman seems content to idle away his time reading some trashy novel in the safehouse, his hound curled up by his side. The only one of them who might get it is Cinderblock, and that''s only because he keeps getting dragged away to deal with some issue or another around his gang.

    I''m getting better at understanding people, just like I''m getting better at hunting through places. Huntsman helps with that; out of everyone there, he''s the one who''s happiest to just talk in the brief windows between my scouting and sleep. He asked a lot of questions about my power ¨C how it works and where it doesn''t work. I''d say he''s being suspicious, but he was just as eager to question the others and even to explain the details of his own power.

    Turns out ''Duke'' isn''t actually real, which is a relief. I had started to wonder if the hound was an even worse off monstrous cape than me, but Huntsman explained that Duke is more like a projection he''s constantly maintaining, and he can even reform Duke if he''s ever destroyed ¨C though it takes a while.

    It quickly becomes obvious that we''re the linchpins of this whole operation. I''m supposed to find a container before it gets loaded onto a ship, but Huntsman is the one who''ll help us find that ship. He can give Duke some small part of a person ¨C a bead of blood, a scrap of dead skin, a single stray hair ¨C and track them indefinitely, no matter how they hide. The only thing that''ll stop the trace is if Duke is destroyed, or if Huntsman decides he wants to follow someone else instead.

    Cinderblock and his gang are our muscle in case something goes wrong while we''re investigating, though we''ll be getting a much bigger force when we actually find the ship in question. He''s well suited to it, being able to harden his skin to the texture of concrete ¨C kind of like Ember''s ashen Breaker state ¨C and pull more concrete right off the street to add to his mass.

    Jaeger¡­ well, Jaeger''s power makes an awful amount of sense. It took a lot of subtle coaxing from Huntsman ¨C and an appeal to Jaeger''s tactical sense ¨C before he opened up. He sees the world through angles and trajectories, his power granting him an inherent understanding of ballistics. It''s why I''ve never seen him without a gun, and it''s also what''s shaped that philosophy of his.

    He hated Bloody Mary because she relied on her power to make herself an effective killer, but Jaeger has a killer''s power as well. The difference between the two is that Jaeger is ambitious. He doesn''t want to be just a killer, which is why he''s trained up his private army and worked hard to raise himself up in the hierarchy of the Seattle Elite. He doesn''t have Huntsman''s power to sniff out a target, so he teaches himself to use maps and analysis to achieve the same result, even though Huntsman could do better without even thinking.

    No wonder he views his humanity as something to be overcome.

    I guess I''m lucky, in that regard. I''m a lot more like Huntsman than Jaeger ¨C content in my work and happy enough so long as I''m safe. My power helps, in that regard. I don''t need to throw myself into the fight like Cinderblock, and my power matches up with my lifestyle so I''m not constantly struggling to keep up with my ambition like Jaeger. I don''t even really have any ambitions, if I''m being honest with myself. Unless ''good food, good people and a good place to sleep'' counts.

    Ever since I woke up, all I wanted was safety, and after my failed attempt to find it with Mike I''m happy with what I have right now. I''m happy working from the shadows, happy sharing a home with Ember and barely talking to anyone else in the world. I''m even happy with the work the Elite has me doing, for all that it can be scary and sad at times.

    I see the worst of people, but I''m kept safe from them in the shadows. I''m not fully part of their world, with its guns and bombs and Capes, I just skirt around its edges.

    If I was part of the world, this nightclub would probably terrify me. It''s packed full of people, throwing themselves against each other and writhing together like they''re nothing more than parts of some great mindless beast, a huge and terrifying animal brought to a frothing rage by the head-pounding music and the horrific strobing pattern of the lights that seems so much worse than a steady glow.

    There''s no way a club like this would be at capacity in the disputed territory, which means my host for the night has taken me away from the brewing gang war. Hopefully, the diversion bears fruit. He''s certainly not here to dance ¨C edging his way around the dance floor rather than fully part of it, my hiding spot beneath his unzipped sports jacket giving me brief glimpses of the thronging crowd before another burst of strobes drives me back into hiding.

    He''s not going to the bar, either, else I''d feel his weight shifting and see the ground out the bottom of his jacket as he sits down. He keeps pushing his way through, his pace picking up as he walks through the crowd before stopping entirely as he shakes hands with someone. Probably a bouncer, or some other security person. Whoever they are, they don''t stop my host for long, and mere moments later the sound of the club is cut off with the click of a door closing.

    I didn''t pick the man at random, but finding him was a stroke of luck.

    Huntsman and Cinderblock have been teaching me a little about how gang networks tend to operate; giving context to all the information Jaeger had me gathering the last time around. They explained the concept of dealers and suppliers, how each gang''s hierarchy is organised so that you might have a core of key members loosely directing hangers on and affiliates.

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    Cinderblock even explained the idea of a burner phone; a cheaper telephone for use solely when conducting business, with the idea that you have less to lose if you have to destroy it, or if it falls into the wrong hands. He showed me his ¨C a comparatively simplistic thing with a tiny screen and obvious buttons, smaller than the black mirror-like devices I occasionally pass in shop windows.

    He explained that most are bought so cheaply that they don''t have a passcode lock, with the idea being that the main security of a burner phone comes from the fact the owner can keep it close at hand. Like a lot of ideas I''ve been told, I''ve found it doesn''t necessarily hold up in reality.

    People forget about things. It''s the kind of thing I can''t help noticing with the amount of time I spend crawling under couches, through stacked garbage sacks, sewer lines, down the sides of ovens and in all the other places people don''t care to look. Not that people leave their phones in those places, of course. But leaving it on the kitchen island while you go answer the door is just as good, when someone''s watching from underneath the fridge. Not even the inside pocket of a jacket is safe, when I can creep up in there and partially form my fingers to lift the phone right out of their pocket.

    The funny thing about people is that they can spend ten minutes turning the room over, looking anywhere and everywhere for their phone, only to perfectly accept the ''fact'' that it''s been sitting partially-hidden beneath the empty fruit bowl the whole time, right under their very noses. Meanwhile I''ve memorised the few numbers in their contact list, and I''m on my way back to the apartment to compare them with the other numbers of all the phones I''ve lifted.

    Another fun thing about people ¨C particularly gang people ¨C is that there are only so many numbers they need or want to keep on their burners. They can fill their personal phone with every number under the sun, but the whole point of a burner is that it''s only for work-related numbers. Maybe a dozen, at the most. More for the people higher up in the chain, or dealers.

    The trick, Huntsman was all-too-happy to explain to me, is to look for the repeated numbers. A poison dealer could have a score of customers on call, each one of them with their own phone number, but it''s rare for a customer to use two dealers, even ones from the same gang, so those numbers tend to be unique to one phone.

    The numbers that repeat are the ones from higher up the chain. The ''lieutenants,'' ''fixers'' and ''enforcers'' whose job is to keep the wheels of the operation turning, corralling the gang''s enthusiastic hangers-on into something that''s useful for the gang''s core members. But the Triad isn''t really one gang, it''s dozens. A single number shared between half a dozen phones is a good indicator of local leadership, but local leadership wouldn''t be trusted with this.

    So when I''d occasionally stumble across some local leadership, lift the numbers off their phones, and find that there are a small number of people they''re all in contact with, I know I''ve found the core Triad members responsible for liaising between all their different affiliate gangs. The kind of people who''d be trusted to handle their Parahuman trafficking operation.

    From there, we sent those numbers off to the Think Tank, who sent us back names ¨C both real and false ¨C as well as photographs that I memorised with just as much care and attention as I''d given to the numbers.

    So, tonight, when I saw Stepan Valeryevich, former Bratva enforcer and known Triad member, deep in conversation with a local gang leader, I quickly slipped into the storm drain to cross the road and snuck my way into the folds of his thick wool coat. From there, he spoke to a couple more people ¨C all local gang leaders ¨C about how their work is going, and whether they''ve made any headway against our people.

    Each meeting was conducted on the street, tucked away in dark corners, and each was conducted on Stepan''s terms. This Nightclub is an outlier ¨C too loud and too bright ¨C and that probably means Stepan isn''t the one who set this up. The next person up the chain did.

    From the way the noise drops out, I can tell we''ve been led into a backroom. The light hasn''t gone, though, which makes me think it must look out onto the dancefloor somehow. Soundproofed glass? Is that a thing?

    Stepan''s exchanging a few words with someone, but given that the words are a drink order, I doubt it''s who he came here to meet. He slumps down into a couch, and I feel my immaterial form pressed against his back as he leans into the cushions, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

    From the curve of his spine, I can tell he''s looking up at the ceiling, so I take the chance to form my tail and push it out the base of his coat, finding the patch of darkness beneath his seat and pulling me along with it, my form flowing like liquid until I''m comfortably nestled beneath the chair, peering out at the room.

    Like I thought, it looks out onto the dance floor through a pane of glass, and I have to flinch back as the pattern of strobing lights shifts, bathing the room for a brief second before turning their attention back to the writhing mass of people in the main club area. There''s a girl in a dress peering intently at the window, her eyelids shifting as she gets a good look at her make-up. Must be a one-way mirror.

    I can only see part of the room itself ¨C a door, a black armchair opposite the one I''m nestled under, and a small table in-between them ¨C but it''s enough to see the door opening to reveal one of the club''s staff as he brings in small glass of some clear liquid. I can hear Stepan knocking it back the moment he''s alone, then the sound of shifting leather as he makes himself comfortable, one of his boots disappearing from view as he cocks his leg.

    He doesn''t have to wait for long; soon the door is opened again, as the same staff member lets in a stocky, muscular, woman in tight black pants and a crisp crimson blouse, worn beneath an elegant fur coat. She has a boxer''s face; her nose has clearly been broken and reset more than once.

    "Rusalka," Stepan greets her, rising from his seat before being waved back down. The name is familiar; one of the Triad''s senior capes, who began her life in the Bratva, same as Stepan. I saw her at their meeting, but she''s out of costume now.

    "Valeryevich," she returns the greeting, exchanging a few words with him as I quickly realise I have absolutely no idea what she''s saying. She''s¡­ talking in an entirely different language ¨C they both are ¨C and I haven''t even got the faintest idea what they''re saying.

    Damnit, I hadn''t even considered this! Stepan is clearly making a report to her, but he might as well be stringing together random vowels for all I can understand it!

    Wait, I think I recognised that! He said ''Cinderblock,'' and I don''t think they''ve made us. He''s spent all day talking to the gang leaders in this part of Seattle, and they''ve been telling him about the progress they''ve made against our people ¨C Cinderblock''s people included. He''s making his report to his superiors.

    Rusalka sits there taking it all in, slouched back in her seat with the easy confidence of someone who''s absolutely assured of their strength. She doesn''t interrupt, not even to nod in agreement, until Stepan''s report is done. Then she leans forward in her seat, reaches into the folds of her coat, and passes Stepan a folded-up piece of paper.

    She talks to him, her face a picture of seriousness, and I catch another pair of words I recognise, though I don''t remember where from. Taika Maru. Soon more words follow; ''Steel Skull'' ¨C the mercenary responsible for bringing the trafficked Parahumans into the city ¨C and Brunei ¨C the foreign city where the Triad will hand off their ''cargo'' to their clients.

    Lastly, my heart almost skips a beat as Rusalka says ''South Horton Street'' in words that I can actually understand. The moment Stepan puts his other foot down, I slip a finger out from underneath the couch and pour myself into the shadows beneath his pants. It''s distasteful, but this is the best lead I''ve found since we started, and I have to stop this if I can.

    There are ten people coming into this city, kept asleep in the backs of shipping containers. They''ll wake up in a strange and foreign land, scared and alone, without any memory of how they got there or what happens next.

    They might remember who they were before being taken, but it wouldn''t matter. Their past lives would be every bit as out of reach as mine is.

 Enforcer: 4.04

    The Red Light district never truly sleeps. It¡¯s full of life all through the night, even if that life waxes and wanes in intensity. At the start of the night, it¡¯s a hurried rush of people filling the streets, loud and boisterous but with all the individual noises swallowed by the mass. Later, once the main flow has subsided and people have started to return to their own beds, the noises stand out a lot more, but they¡¯re still there. A single drunk can serenade a whole street, at least until he¡¯s bundled away by our security.  Towards the morning, the district plays host to a small army of cleaners and laundry workers, carting away sheets by the van load. It¡¯s quieter, sure, but it¡¯s still alive.

    The same cannot be said of the warehouses that fill this part of Seattle, crammed into every scrap of space between the freeway, the railway yards and the water. Without any houses or workers in the area, the streets are a perfectly silent ghost town, as the great slab-sided warehouses dampen the distant noise of the city. The streets might be well-lit, but the wide flat rooves gather darkness like inky-black pools, dozens of yards wide. Passing through them is like swimming in Puget Sound.

    I¡¯d almost call it tranquil, if it weren¡¯t for the reason I¡¯m here.

    The trafficked Parahumans weigh on me like a yoke around my neck, pulling me back each time I almost lose myself in the moment. It sucks the fun out of leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but part of me feels like that¡¯s a good thing.

    It¡¯s not right to enjoy myself when others are suffering. They deserve everything I can give, and so much more besides.

    South Horton Street is a narrow strip of residential streets, bordered on one side by the freeway and cleanly bisected by a railway line. Its buildings are a mixture of industry, warehouses and small factories with wide roads in between them, no doubt meant to allow easy access for the immensely long trucks that¡¯re occasionally parked up around the place.

    But the streets are empty, the businesses dark, with only the occasional pair of headlights spotted at a distant intersection, dozens of yards away. While the streets might be lit well enough to deter burglars ¨C and me ¨C my body¡¯s agility is more than enough to let me clamber up and down the rooftops as I go down the length of the street, searching from building to building.

    Some of the buildings have a guard or two ¨C sitting in a security office in front of a bank of screens, or wandering the grounds and shivering in the cold ¨C but that alone isn¡¯t enough to prove innocence or guilt. After all; the Triad are just as capable of hiring uniformed security as we are.

    The thing is, it doesn¡¯t take many guards to watch a warehouse. Two at the absolute most, and most of the buildings on the street don¡¯t even have that many. So, when I find a building with three men sitting in the security office and a man and a woman patrolling the grounds, I know I¡¯m onto something big.

    I duck past one of the patrolling guards as they pass me, sprinting soundlessly up to the wall before pouncing onto a drainpipe, shimmying up it with my four pairs of hands even as my legs kick and scramble to try and find a grip. Still, I manage to roll ungainly onto the rooftop, slipping into the darkness the moment my hand touches it and drifting across the surface of the roof until I find a skylight.

    It¡¯s shut, of course, but that doesn¡¯t matter when both sides of it are bathed in darkness. I simply slip through the glass like it isn¡¯t even there, finding myself inside the cavernous ¨C and almost completely empty ¨C warehouse.

    The narrow band of darkness between the ceiling and the scant few lights in the room ¨C dangling from wires and suspended from small catwalks ¨C means that I can freely range around the entire space, taking in the racks of shelves that fill half the room, the shuttered doors that line one wall, small windows that barely let in the orange glow of the streets, and the parked semi-truck in a loading bay, its metal container open and level with the warehouse floor, spilling white light out into the space.

    There¡¯s some mechanism on the back of the container, tucked behind the cab of the truck. A spinning fan and several boxy mechanical components, hooked up to the building¡¯s power by long wires. No doubt that¡¯s what¡¯s keeping the light on in the container, as well as powering whatever¡¯s inside¡­

    I hesitate at the sight of the enclosed space, bathed in light, before my resolve hardens; I¡¯ve come too far to back down now. So I drop from the ceiling down through the dark gap between the floor area covered by two of the ceiling lights, reforming myself once I hit the ground, and sprint towards the container.

    It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding white light, but once they¡¯ve settled I find myself in a cramped space with bare metal walls, mostly taken up by two beds surrounded by machinery that rises and falls as it breathes for the beds¡¯ unfortunate occupants.

    It almost takes a second for me to make out the shapes of the two Parahumans; they¡¯re lying unnaturally still, and to my untrained eye it almost seems as if the tubes and wires are slowly swallowing them like a snake coiled around a field mouse. Beneath the utilitarian gowns and the breathing masks clamped on their faces like limpets, I can see pale freckled skin and shocks of ginger hair. The brother and sister, shipped in from Boston. Wherever that is.

    The gurney rattles a little as I haul myself up to get a better look at the sister, but she remains completely motionless. I was half expecting shackles and chains, but there¡¯s nothing. All the restraints they need are draining into her from the little fluid bag hung from the ceiling on a metal hook.

    I brush aside a lock of hair and pull back her eyelid, noting the width of her pupils and the way they don¡¯t contract in the slightest underneath the harsh white light. Part of me wonders how I knew to do that, but I brush the thought aside. Looking down at her, I¡¯d almost have thought she was dead if it weren¡¯t for the warmth of her body and the steady rise and fall of her chest as the machinery forces air into her body, breathing for her.

    The sound of a door opening on the far end of the warehouse has me springing back in shock, landing soundlessly on the floor of the container as my head whips around to stare out the open door. I can¡¯t see anyone, but I can hear the sound of boots on concrete as they draw closer. If I step out of the container, they¡¯ll see me, and this space is so well lit there aren¡¯t any shadows deep enough for me to hide in.

    So I duck beneath the bed at the back of the container, cramming my body as best I can into the small space and pressing myself against the wall. I feel exposed, like I¡¯m standing in a field in the middle of the day, but it¡¯s not like I have any other option. All I can do is stay stock still and hope.

    The boots draw closer, until I hear their wearer stepping onto the metal floor of the container. Then I see them, beneath the girl¡¯s gurney as their wearer fusses about with something. I think it¡¯s one of the guards, or at least someone wearing their uniform.

    He leans over the gurney, and I hear the sound of cloth rustling as he moves the girl around, followed by the clicks of something being detached and reattached. Apparently satisfied, he does the same to the boy I¡¯m hiding under ¨C as I hold in place, my lungs straining in protest.

    After a moment that seems to last forever, I hear the sound of a pen scribbling on paper before he turns and leaves the container, the sound of his footfalls slowly quieting as he makes his way across the warehouse floor.

    The moment I hear the distant click of a door closing, my limbs start to tremble as I carefully extract myself from beneath the gurney, shaking and panting as my heartbeat slowly starts to calm. I prop myself up again, noting that the near-empty sedative bags have been replaced with full ones.

    There¡¯s a clipboard on a peg on the wall. It was there before, but now it has an extra row of ticks and a letter X in place of a signature. I peer closer, reading the words on the table even though I have no hope of understanding the medical jargon.

    Sure enough, it¡¯s all gibberish to me. But I recognise the sentiment behind the scribbles; these people are going to be handed off to the Triad¡¯s clients at some point, so they need some kind of record to show they¡¯ve done their due diligence when it comes to¡­ well, not quite ¡®looking after¡¯ them, but it¡¯s the same idea.

    Right now, there¡¯s nothing that I want more than to rip these tubes and needles out of their bodies, to carry them out of here on my back if that¡¯s what it takes. It hurts to know that I can¡¯t do that ¨C hurts even more than Bloody Mary¡¯s knives. I have to keep reminding myself that these are two of ten; that there are eight other people out there, in this exact situation, and that the moment we spring some of them, the others will disappear forever.

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    Instead I prop myself up on the sister¡¯s bed again, staring down at her sleeping face, so very human in spite of the mask and tubes, and mouth a silent apology as I pull a couple of strands of hair from her head, balling them up tightly in a fist as I turn and leave the container at a run.

    Running doesn¡¯t make the decision to leave them any easier, but it does make it harder to stop.

    Getting out is a lot harder than getting in; I can¡¯t slip into the shadows when I¡¯m carrying something, so I have to use them the old fashioned way. With my pitch-black hide, it¡¯s hard to spot me in the shadows even when I¡¯m not merged with them ¨C so long as they don¡¯t see my eyes ¨C so I¡¯m able to slip out the warehouse through a side exit and duck the roving guards by hiding behind a parked car until they¡¯ve passed.

    Then, it¡¯s a quick jaunt through the empty streets until I find the nondescript van parked between two buildings, right on the edge of the industrial district.

    I gently rap the door with my free hand, only to abruptly step back as Huntsman¡¯s hound leaps out the opening door, circling me eagerly. Doing my best to ignore the creature, I gracefully leap up into the van and hold out the hair for Huntsman to take. He¡¯s the one who opened the door, while Jaeger is looking over at us from where he¡¯d been scrutinising a map of the docks.

    The moment the hair is out of my hands, I start frantically signing to Huntsman.

    ¡®I found two of the people,¡¯ I begin, not knowing the right sign for kidnap victims. ¡®I could not find the other eight. They were asleep in the back of a truck.¡¯

    ¡°Sedated, I presume,¡± Jaeger pipes up as Huntsman translates my signs, writing something down in a notebook as I nod. ¡°We were expecting as much. Do you know how?¡±

    I hold my hands in the air for a moment, frustrated, before miming a mask on my face and a small tube coming out of my wrist.

    ¡®They had a bag,¡¯ I signed.

    ¡°Intravenous,¡± Huntsman says to Jaeger. ¡°We¡¯ll have paramedics on standby, of course¡± ¨C Jaeger nods in agreement ¨C ¡°but the safest option might be to keep them sedated until we¡¯re clear. Don¡¯t want them panicking, or collapsing from fatigue.¡±

    ¡®So you can find them?¡¯ I sign frantically at Huntsman.

    ¡°I can,¡± he says, and instantly I feel some of the weight fall off my shoulders. ¡°Duke has the taste of them now. We¡¯ll wait until they¡¯re moved, then tail them.¡±

    He pulls the door of the van shut, settling down on a folding chair and leaning back.

    ¡°You look exhausted,¡± he says to me, pointing at a dark green cylinder tucked into a corner of the van. ¡°I brought a roll-out mattress if you want to catch some sleep.¡±

    I pause for a moment, before ultimately deciding that there¡¯s nothing I can do right now, so I might as well make sure I¡¯m awake for later. It takes me a second to figure out the mattress ¨C it keeps rolling back up on me, until Huntsman tells me to flip it upside down ¨C and, while it¡¯s nowhere near as comfortable as my bed in Ember¡¯s place, it¡¯s still better than the rug on a pile of old junk that was my first bed.

    Sleep doesn¡¯t come easy, but with nothing else to do and nothing to listen to but the faint sounds of Jaeger and Huntsmen moving around the space, eventually I managed to drift off.

    When I wake, it¡¯s because I can feel the motion of the van shifting beneath me, putting me right under the glare of a harsh ray of sunlight. I roll to my feet, quickly shaking my head until I don¡¯t feel groggy anymore, and move to the front of the van to prop myself up on the back of the seats, looking out through the front window.

    Huntsman is driving, with Duke eagerly peering over the dashboard next to him. Jager is next to me, looking over the seats as we make our way through the now-bustling warehouse district. I can see the time on the dashboard; I¡¯ve slept through the morning, and much of the afternoon.

    ¡°They started moving about ten minutes ago,¡± Huntsman says as he catches sight of me. ¡°We¡¯re keeping out of sight.¡±

    Beside him, his creature turns its head as it tracks an unseen target. As with just about every power I¡¯ve come across ¨C my own included ¨C I¡¯ve no idea how it actually works, but I suppose it¡¯s not important. What matters is that we can track the girl in the shipping container.

    ¡°They¡¯re definitely heading for the port,¡± Jaeger observes. ¡°I was wondering if they¡¯d launch from Tacoma instead.¡±

    ¡°I take it you have a way to get us into the port?¡± Huntsman asks as he turns us around a corner.

    ¡°Naturally. Just give me one moment.¡±

    Jaeger pulls out his cell phone, turning around to lean his back against the seat as he scrolls through what looks like a list of names. His eyes flick over to me for a fraction of a second, and he shifts his posture just enough to hide his screen from me.

    A moment later, he taps the screen and brings the phone up to his ear.

    ¡°Anderson, how¡¯s the wife and kids?¡± He doesn¡¯t leave them any time to respond before he continues. ¡°We¡¯re approaching the port now in a blue van. You¡¯re going to let us through without any trouble, or your indiscretions won¡¯t stay discreet for long.¡±

    He hangs up just as Huntsman brings us across another railway line. Ahead of us, I can see towering stacks of shipping containers, eight high in some places. Like multicoloured buildings tucked away behind a barbed wire fence.

    ¡°Anderson¡¯s a gate guard?¡± Huntsman asks.

    ¡°Anderson¡¯s with the port authority,¡± Jaeger clarifies. ¡°That way, we can get in any gate we want.¡±

    We reach the road that runs along the length of the container field, and Huntsman¡¯s about to take us straight over when Duke abruptly presses its head against the left window. Huntsman hurriedly flicks on the indicator and pulls the van left, as a truck behind us lets off its horn in protest. I duck down at the sudden sound and the shifting light.

    ¡°They¡¯re not on this side of the waterway,¡± Huntsman explains. ¡°Harbor Island?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s possible. Keep on them.¡±

    We follow the road as it curves to the right, ducking beneath an immense elevated highway that towers over out heads, fed by a tangled knot of ramps that stretch up and down to link it to other roads. Trucks are spiralling down one of them, joining our road as they queue up outside an exit. In-between the trucks and their containers, I can just about catch fleeting glimpses of a flat expanse of water filled with long rows of truly immense vessels, their rust-eaten sides gleaming in the afternoon sun.

    ¡°Not gate 1,¡± Jaeger orders Huntsman. ¡°It¡¯s a customs checkpoint; no point drawing more attention than we have to. Head for the rail terminal.¡±

    Huntsman nods, skipping past the queuing traffic before exiting the road at the next junction, taking us past a small field of abandoned machinery and in-between a handful of industrial buildings before taking us right again, avoiding another elevated stretch of road that reaches over the tracks.

    That brings us into the port proper, and to what I can only describe as organised pandemonium. On our left, trains are waiting in rows, metal wheels shifting and squeaking as they advance forward one by one, disappearing around the bend ahead of us. On our right lies an entire city of containers, being lifted by immense vehicles that carry them deeper into the stacks, or bring new crates to pile on top of the rest.

    We follow the curve of the railway tracks, passing between a canyon of great cylindrical containers, one of which seems to be impossibly rising out of the ground as I watch it. My two companions seem utterly unphased by the scale of it all, barely even noticing each new wonder as we drive past it at a steady speed.

    Huntsman, at least, seems to spot my confusion as he catches sight of me in the mirror.

    ¡°This is why they had that container stored outside the harbour,¡± he explains. ¡°Thousands of containers pass through this port every day, but it¡¯d be impossible to coordinate five containers to arrive at exactly the same time. That doesn¡¯t matter if all you¡¯re carrying is cars from Detroit, but our Parahumans need to be monitored and sedated constantly. So they held them in the city, and they¡¯ll be hoping to get them on board their ship as quickly as possible.¡±

    The curve of the road brings us past the cylindrical containers before it straightens out, running down the other side of what I¡¯m starting to realise is an unnaturally-shaped island. It might even be entirely man-made, which would easily put it on the same scale as the sea walls.

    The ships are no less terrifying than when they were looming over Ember and I in her small yacht. It takes me a moment to actually realise that what I¡¯m seeing is a ship, rather than just another extension of the rows of containers. They¡¯ve clearly agitated Duke as well; the creature is almost leaning over Huntsman as it stares out of his window at every ship we pass. Each one was being loaded with hundreds of containers, bound for cities I¡¯ve never even heard of and can never hope to understand.

    And this is just a single snapshot in time. These containers ¨C these ships ¨C will be replaced by others in a matter of hours, or days at the most, and more cargo will flow through the port. I wonder how much has passed through this port in my lifespan, as I staggered unaware through the unfamiliar streets of this city? I wonder how many other wonders and great events are happening elsewhere, right now?

    ¡°Got it!¡± Huntsman exclaims, knocking me off my train of thought. ¡°That one there!¡±

    The ship he¡¯s pointing at doesn¡¯t seem noticeably different from any other. It¡¯s a little rustier, and it¡¯s only just started being loaded with cargo, but all the ships here seem to have been built to the same model. The name on the back is familiar, though; Taiko Maru.

    Jaeger has paced to the back of the van, deep in conversation with his man in the port authority. Huntsman pulls up on the side of the road, out of the way of the constant stream of trucks that drives past us. He scratches Duke¡¯s neck affectionately and urges his creature to hop into the back with me before taking off his mask.

    ¡°The Taiko Maru is a regular here,¡± Jaeger explains. ¡°It comes into port every few weeks delivering bulk goods from Asia and leaving noticeably emptier than it arrived. In and of itself, that¡¯s nothing unusual; we¡¯re still an importer nation. It¡¯s registered in New Siam.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s a Japanese ghost ship,¡± Huntsman interrupts. This time he doesn¡¯t need to see me to get that I need an explanation. ¡°I¡¯ve seen similar ships before. The Japanese government collapsed in the late nineties, but at the time they had one of the largest merchant fleets in the world. They all had to go somewhere.¡±

    He shifts in his seat, turning so that he can look back at me.

    ¡°The crews loaded the ships full of their families, and any other refugees who could afford passage out of Japan, and set sail for ports unknown. They re-registered with any nation that would take them. Unfortunately for them, that sort of desperation means a lot of ghost ships end up tied into organised crime. It¡¯s given them an unfair reputation.¡±

    ¡°An apparently justified reputation, in this case.¡± Jaeger retorts, coldly. ¡°I¡¯ll call Black Rod and let him know we¡¯ve found the ship. Apparently they don¡¯t have enough time left in the port¡¯s day to fully load the ship, so it¡¯ll be here at night. We¡¯ll hit it then.¡±

    He turns to look at me, staring me dead in the eye.

    ¡°After some reconnaissance, of course.¡±

    Of course¡­

 Enforcer: 4.05

    The waters beneath the port of Seattle are different to those that surround the rest of the city. This section of the city was ¨C and still is ¨C protected from Leviathan¡¯s rampage by immense sea walls that withstood its destructive forces without breaking. Beyond those immense bastions, the depths of Puget Sound are filled with the flotsam and jetsam of that distant battlefield; sunken ships, hulking wall segments, cars, trucks, planes and more bodies than I can ever hope to count, dragged beneath the waves and slowly decomposing beneath the silt. Each plays host to an ecosystem of plants and fish; new life growing among the ruins of the old.

    In the harbour, there¡¯s none of that. The silt beneath the water is flat and empty, home to few plants and fewer fish. The occasional rusted boat breaks up the expanse, but none of the same debris. The battle never reached here.

    The titans of this place sit on the water, not below it. I can see them above me; placid creatures resting against the edge of the port, each one of them easily over a thousand feet long. There are three of them tied up against the harbour, and another one is passing overhead as it makes its way out of the city.

    It¡¯s cloudy enough that the water is pitch black, but I have always been able to see differing shades in the darkness. Not colours in the way most others understand them ¨C the way I somehow know colours should be seen ¨C but different shades of darkness that are every bit as distinct. So when the ship passes overhead, I can see its silhouette blocking out the surface of the water, banishing the dim glow of the harbour¡¯s lights beneath its massive bulk.

    It feels like it takes an eternity for the ship to drift over me, carrying thousands of containers to who knows where, but eventually I can see the end of the ship. Its propellers are churning the water into a frenzy as they push the ship forwards, sticking out from near the back on long drive shafts.

    I simply watch, awestruck by the sight, as it drifts towards the gate in the harbour walls, disappearing from view as it emerges into the lanes of flashing buoys that¡¯ll guide it through the debris field and out into the open ocean.

    When it¡¯s gone, I turn my attention back to the waiting ships and drift freely through the inky-black water, an immaterial form among titans.

    The Taiko Maru is waiting for me, as still and silent as the other ships even though I know that¡¯s merely an illusory tranquillity. I saw it from the shoreline, before I slipped into the water. The lights are on in the bridge, and there are men patrolling the deck. Not enough to rouse the suspicion of the port authority, but enough to keep an eye out. Inevitably, there will be more below decks.

    That¡¯s okay. We¡¯ve brought more of our own. They¡¯re waiting just outside the harbour, in vans and cars. Jaeger and his commandoes, Huntsman and his dog, Cinderblock and the other members of his gang. Ember.

    And those are just the ones I know. There are others, too. People who were there at the meeting, but who I¡¯ve never met before. There¡¯s an eighteen-wheeler that contains a mobile hospital, part of a small fleet of medical assets the Elite apparently maintains in Seattle.

    Something else is happening, besides this operation. I don¡¯t know what, exactly, but Jaeger was making a lot of very long phone calls before we got here, and I got the impression that more pieces were in play than just the forces waiting to attack the ship. Something to grab people¡¯s attention and create a window for us.

    Part of me is curious about it, but it¡¯s a small part. Mostly, I just want this to be over with. I want to see the kidnap victims safe, and I want things to go back to the way they were before. I want to go back to the Red Light district with Ember, to go to sleep in my own bed in the home we share. I want to do this right, because so many people are relying on me.

    I push myself upwards, soaring through the water at a truly immense speed as I approach the surface. I¡¯m aiming for the right side of the ship, away from the harbour and its lights. I hit the surface of the water without even noticing, immediately moving into the shadowed side of the ship. There¡¯s a hole near the front, a little less than two thirds up the side. Apparently it¡¯s for the ship¡¯s anchor, but it¡¯ll serve me just as well.

    As I expected, the room is unlit and unguarded. I don¡¯t think the Triad even knows I exist, so I gambled on them relying on their lookouts on the deck to keep the ship secure. Seems like I guessed right. The anchor chains are curled up around immense wheels and pulleys, disappearing up into the ceiling and stretched across the floor, and the space around them is littered with pallets, crates and other debris. The metal deck might once have been coated with resplendent red paint, but age and time have started to take their toll, and the paint beneath the chains has been stripped bare and rusted by the waterlogged motion of decades of operation.

    The room is sealed, of course, and it takes me a moment to figure out how to work the wheeled handle of the bulkhead door. It opens up onto a narrow gangway that runs the length of the ship; dark, unlit, and open to the elements on the right side. Above my head, the ¡®ceiling¡¯ is formed from a long line of containers, no doubt stretching three or four high.

    Anyone else might feel claustrophobic beneath all that, but they cast such a wonderful shadow.

    It¡¯s certainly enough to hide me as I close the bulkhead door, spinning the wheel to make sure nothing¡¯s out of place. I can see a man down at the far end of the walkway, his head turned to look out into the city as he patrols along at a leisurely walk. He¡¯s unarmed, but I¡¯m not foolish enough to think they¡¯ll all be like that. The coast guard might take offence to armed men strolling along the deck of a ship, but there¡¯s more than enough space below decks.

    The city itself seems strangely calm, and from my elevated position I can see across the tops of the first rows of warehouses on the other side of the channel, taking in the yellow-lit streets and the distant sound of traffic. Occasional cars pass along the shoreline, their headlights flashes of white among a sea of yellow. In the distance, I can hear a crackling sound, and a faint patch of red and blue flashes appears on a distant intersection.

    The crackling intensifies, but not from the city in front of me. It¡¯s carried over the water, past the length of the ship and across the bay to the north of Seattle. It¡¯s gunfire, I realise with a start, and the guard at the other end of the ship has clearly heard it as well.

    He leans over the railing, over the water below, as he tries to peer through the darkness and see the noise¡¯s cause. It¡¯s a pointless effort ¨C the shots are faint enough that I know they¡¯d be out of sight even for me ¨C and the guard realises it a moment later as he leans back in, speaking into a radio with comparatively little urgency.

    To the left of the warehouses, past block after block of yellow light, the city centre rises out of the sprawl like a mountain of brilliant and terrible white spires. I don¡¯t like looking at it much, but I find my eyes drawn to one tower among many as an aircraft suddenly emerges from the roof of the building.

    It looks like a plane, but it hovers and moves erratically as it dances between the buildings, heading for the north of the city. To Triad territory.

    This must be the distraction. The Elite are hitting the Triad on their own turf, to turn their eyes away from the ship. The conflict itself will draw the Protectorate and the Round Table away from the docks, leaving me free to slip in, find the right containers, and tell the strike team where they are.

    It¡¯s nothing I haven¡¯t done dozens of times before, but now people are throwing themselves into danger to buy me time. I need to make sure it isn¡¯t wasted.

    I fly along the shadowed walkway, momentarily dropping beneath a shipping container as the guard checks his phone. The moment the light is gone I slip past him, curving around his feet as an immaterial spectre and leaving him none the wiser. Periodically, I¡¯ll pass passages in the walls of shipping containers that run from one side of the ship to the other, with hatches in the centre that allow access to the hold.

    Technically speaking, any one of them could lead to the repurposed containers, but it would take a very long time for the Triad¡¯s medical people to walk from one end of the ship to the other, and the charts said the sedated victims need hourly check-ups. That means they¡¯ll be closer to the ship¡¯s tower, with its crew quarters and creature comforts. The world might be strange and full of terrors, but people are so wonderfully predictable.

    I find what I¡¯m looking for on the second row from the tower; the hatch in the middle of the walkway is open. After all, they¡¯re big and heavy. Why keep closing it if you¡¯re just going to have to open it again in an hour?

    The problem, from my perspective, is that light is considered another creature comfort. I can get close to the hatch, even drop down the short ladder into the enclosed passage below, but beyond the narrow space directly beneath the hatch the corridor¡¯s lights have been turned on.

    They aren¡¯t powerful by any standard, and the exposed girders and corrugated containers that make up the walls of the corridor cast deep shadows, but it means that I can¡¯t move freely. If I want to push on, I have to do it in the flesh.

    Gingerly, I move my forelimbs out of the shadows and into the light, with the rest of my body following as I force myself to move forwards. The one saving grace is that my footfalls are completely silent on the metal floor, with the only sound being the indistinctive noise of the ship creaking in place.

    That is, until I hear the sharp sound of a bulkhead door moving ahead of me. I leap into the shadows of a rusted metal girder, hiding myself in the tiny space as another sailor walks past, dressed in utilitarian blue coveralls with shiny white bands on the arms and ankles, catching the overhead lights of the corridor as he passes me by.

    Unlike the one on deck, this sailor is armed with a long-barrelled rifle, with a belt of ammunition held beneath the weapon in a simple metal drum. The weapon looks cruder than the angular metal shapes used by Jaeger¡¯s commandoes, with wooden fittings rather than plastic, but it¡¯s still dangerous, even to my inexperienced eyes.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    Still, it¡¯s another sign that I¡¯m going the right way.

    I don¡¯t even wait for the guard to reach the end of the corridor before slipping out of the shadows, trusting my soundless strides to keep me hidden even as I sprint to the next ladder down, dropping to the next deck in a single leap. To my left and right, I¡¯m pressed in by yet more containers, but they aren¡¯t level with the floor. The ones on the lowest deck will be, and that¡¯s where I¡¯ll find what I¡¯m looking for.

    Shouts echo around me ¨C clipped words in a language I don¡¯t understand ¨C and I wheel around to see a crewman looking at me, a boxy rifle held at his hip, its barrel spinning around to face me. Ice-cold terror grips me like a vice as I take in his eyes, locked with my own.

    Instinctively, I leap to the side, pressing myself against a rusted pillar and folding myself into the shadows cast by its H shaped structure. Not a second later, shots ring out in a deafening cacophony ¨C amplified by the tight confines of the corridor ¨C and the walls are faintly lit by flashes from the rifle¡¯s muzzle. Sparks rise up from where the bullets strike the walkway and the ceiling, and the container-formed walls shriek in protest as the shots carve deep slashes down their sides.

    If I had ears right now ¨C or at all ¨C the noise of the shots would have been overwhelming as the tight corridor amplified them. As it stands, I can hear scratched and panicked shouts coming from the radio strapped to the sailor¡¯s boiler suit, and an equally panicked response from the sailor himself. A short, frantic, argument happens in a language I don¡¯t understand, before I begin to hear the sounds of boots on metal as the sailor gingerly advances down the walkway.

    One of the lights must have been damaged in his gunfire ¨C or perhaps the wires powering it ¨C as it¡¯s flickering intermittently overhead. Normally, it might provide a means of escape, but in this case it just results in the sailor lighting up the corridor with a handheld torch. His grip is shaky and unsteady, but the light is wide enough to make no difference. Suddenly, I¡¯m pushed back into my little nook of shadow, with only a narrow angle to work with. An angle that grows smaller every second, as the sailor draws closer.

    Every instinct in me is screaming for escape, and I find myself flitting around my increasingly-small domain as I look for a way out. Salvation comes in the form of a neat bullet hole put clean through a container door, barely small enough to fit a pinkie finger through but more than large enough to work.

    I slip through it just in time, shifting aside as the flashlight sends a narrow beam of light down through the hole. On the other side, I can hear the sailor¡¯s breath hitch as he notes the distinct absence of any Parahuman, before he starts frantically talking into his radio again.

    I can hear feet pounding on the deck above me, but all I can judge of their numbers is that there¡¯s more than one. I know they¡¯ll be cutting off my escape routes, which means I need to move faster.

    The bullet travelled through the boxes that fill the container, making a neat hole on the other side. It gets me out and into the incredibly narrow gap between this container and the next, into a channel that¡¯ll take me past this row and into the one beyond. With a little luck, they won¡¯t have sealed that one yet.

    I emerge into the light, becoming solid as I slip out of the gap between two containers. A quick glance to my left and right reveals a figure at the end of the corridor, dressed in the same overalls as all the other crew I¡¯ve seen. He¡¯s not carrying a weapon, but that doesn¡¯t matter when his hands are wreathed in a strange glow.

    He raises a fist, pointing it directly at me, but I¡¯m already leaping for the wall on the other side of the narrow passage. My fingers scrabble uselessly against another gap for a brief instant before I manage to get my pinkie finger deep enough to pull the rest of me into the shadows. This should be the last row of containers before the ship¡¯s tower, which means I¡¯m out of room.

    I push towards the light, only to see it blocked as a figure steps out in front of it. I could easily arrest my movement and look for another way out, but I don¡¯t have time. Like with Bloody Mary, all I can do is act.

    Rather than stopping, I throw myself at the gap and come hurtling out as I¡¯m abruptly forced back into physical form. In front of me, the guard with the drum-fed weapon barely has time to widen his eyes in shock before I barrel into him, slamming his head against the bulkhead opposite and knocking the gun clean out of his hands.

    He scrabbles for it, his movements slow and sluggish from where his head hit the metal, but I get to it first. I don¡¯t understand guns ¨C they all seem so boxy and unnatural to my eyes ¨C but I know that one hand goes on the handle and the other rests near the barrel.

    The moment the guard notices my hands on the weapon, he scrambles back against the wall and curls up with his hands over his head. Idly, I note that he must be terrified of me, but that disconcerting thought quickly takes second place to the footfalls I can hear at the other end of the corridor.

    I fumble with the weapon, holding it out in front of me before gingerly pressing the back of it against my shoulder. It¡¯s heavier than it looks, and my arms are shaking a little from the effort of holding it up. Or from something else.

    I can¡¯t make sense of the sights, so I just level the barrel at the end of the corridor, at about the height of a man¡¯s torso. All I have to do is wait for them to come and pull the trigger. The gun will do the rest.

    I see a booted foot cross into view, and my nerve flees me. At the last second, I pull the barrel back and fire once it¡¯s above head-height, narrowly missing the glowing-handed cape as the kickback of the gun forces the barrel even higher, sending a mismatched line of bullets along the ceiling.

    The short burst ¨C with its horrifying light and deafening noise ¨C is still enough to send the cape diving for cover, and I quickly turn and run for the stairs at the end of the hall, still carrying the gun even as I drop down to the next level.

    There aren¡¯t any more stairs, and the containers on this deck are level with the floor. The ones I¡¯m looking for will be down here too, but I¡¯m not in a position to find them right now. The decks are no doubt swarming with people, and me being armed won¡¯t hold them off for long. Even if they give up on chasing me and just let me barricade myself away somewhere, that¡¯s still time they can use to call in enough reinforcements to strangle our planned rescue operation in its crypt.

    My power might be built for hiding, but right now I need to act. That means thinking.

    I¡¯m essentially trapped down here, but unless the sound of those gunshots can carry through solid steel bulkheads nobody beyond the ship actually knows I¡¯m trapped. With my power being what it is, I have no way of signalling for help. It¡¯s useless in this situation.

    So what would Jaeger do? How would he outthink this trap?

    I lope down the corridor, the unfamiliar weight of the gun doing strange things to my gait. I stumble, resting a hand on the door next to me to steady myself only to feel faint vibrations beneath my palm.

    That¡¯s when the idea hits me.

    The door is a few feet along. It¡¯s heavy and metal, with a rusted wheel in the middle, but I can still haul it open. Inside is what looks like some sort of storage room, full of shelves and labelled boxes. I can feel the vibrations through the floor now.

    I set the gun aside for a moment, pouncing up onto one of the shelves and pulling at it until the flimsy screws holding it to the wall come loose and it topples, perfectly blocking the doorway.

    I know it won¡¯t hold for long, so I scoop up the gun and make my way through the next door, stepping out of the storage room and into a truly overwhelming space.

    It¡¯s taller than any other room on the ship, and deeper too, stretching down another deck below me and rising up three decks above my head, ringed by walkways and criss-crossed by catwalks. Most of the space is taken up by machinery on a truly staggering scale, all centred around a pair of immense, vaguely cylindrical devices that must be the ship¡¯s engines.

    The vibrations are even stronger here, but they¡¯re not coming from the engines. It makes sense; the ship is docked, so there¡¯s no sense in wasting fuel on the main engines when the propellers will be still and inert.

    I follow the vibrations, feeling them growing slowly stronger through the base of my feet. They take me past the immense machines at a jog, up a staircase of grated metal and onto a deck that overlooks the main engine, filled from end to end with four sizable and boxy shapes that only look small in comparison to what lies below. Generators, if I had to guess.

    Below, I hear the sound of something exploding and the shriek of metal on metal as the Cape forces his way into the room. I step back, keeping all four generators in sight as I level the barrel of the gun and pull the trigger.

    It still kicks like a mule, but this time my grip is firmer, and I¡¯m a little more prepared to deal with it. Still, the gun jerks wildly in my hands, pouring out a stream of spent metal cartridges that clatter against the deck as it spits bullets into the generators.

    Showers of sparks burst out from wherever my shots land, as the generators shriek and whine in protest. Red lights start to flash overhead and a wailing alarm blares through unseen speakers before they flicker and die as the power cuts out, plunging the room ¨C and the whole ship ¨C into darkness right as the last bullet fires out and the gun abruptly stops shaking.

    I don¡¯t even bother dropping it, letting it clatter to the floor as I shift into the shadows and soar up to the top deck of the engine room, tucking myself on a narrow girder that stretches across the length of the room, far above the floor. I catch a brief glimpse of engineers frantically pouring over workstations, before the red emergency lights switch back on and I¡¯m abruptly forced back into material form.

    I scrabble for balance on the girder, barely managing to avoid losing my grip and plunging to the depths below. The engineers are still shouting, moving to an identical set of generators on the other side of the engine room.

    Of course they have backups! I just hope my signal was noticed.

    I watch helplessly as the cape runs into the engine room, flanked by two armed sailors and with his hands glowing even brighter. One of them is even giving off smoke, from where he¡¯d blasted his way through the door. He¡¯s pulled on a balaclava since I saw him last, probably to mark himself as a Cape rather than to actually hide his identity.

    His eyes dart frantically around the room, the sailors beside him doing the same with the barrels of their guns. I try to shrink back on my girder, but without any shadows to hide in it¡¯s a futile effort. I see the Cape¡¯s eyes widen as he spots me, raising an arm as its halo of energy glows brighter and brighter.

    There¡¯s a deafening sound and a flash of blinding light, and it takes me half a second to notice I¡¯m not dead.

    Something¡¯s blown a hole clean through the side of the ship, the shrapnel from the blast catching one of the gunmen in the chest. The Cape turns away from me ¨C his jumpsuit flapping as the sea air rushes into the room ¨C just in time to see an ashen figure leap through the hole, a spiderweb of cracks across her body glowing with a hidden flame. Eyes like the heart of a furnace fix the Cape with a contemptuous look as she raises her arm.

    Her whole forearm suddenly lights up with a burning light before exploding, sending out an incandescent clump of cinders that catches the Cape dead on his chest, knocking him back over the railing and filling the air with the smell of burning flesh as he topples down to the engine below.

    Ember is flanked by two of Jaeger¡¯s commandoes, anonymous in their deep green body armour. At the sight of their boxy metal rifles, the second armed sailor lets his gun clatter to the floor. One of them moves up to drive his boot into the back of the sailor¡¯s knee, forcing him down to the ground and grabbing a zip-tie from his belt to secure the man, while the second rushes down a set of stairs to check on the Cape. Neither of them pay any mind to the sailor who was hit by shrapnel.

    I leap down from the girder onto the topmost walkway, then down again to land with catlike grace on Ember¡¯s level. Jaeger and Huntsman are clambering through the hole, and I can see more of Jaeger¡¯s commandoes on boats outside, along with men and women in utilitarian blue outfits with balaclavas hiding their faces from view. Probably the medical teams.

    Ember turns to look at me, still in her ashen form. Her arm is rapidly growing back, ash sloughing out of her stump to replace the cinderblast she fired into the Cape. It doesn¡¯t take long until she¡¯s left whole and complete again, and I sprint towards her without even thinking about it.

    She shifts back, her fire dimming and her ashen skin regaining its colour, just in time for me to pounce on her and wrap two sets of arms around her in a warm embrace. She reciprocates, and I pull back just enough to see a warm smile on her face.

    ¡°Did you miss me?¡±