2.8

“So why the rubber bolts?”

I’m asking Rook, who’s here in person, in a small break room on one of the upper office floors swiping through her tablet after we conclude the debriefing. She wasn’t exactly disappointed in us for our performance, apparently Clockwerk is consistently slippery in spite of her relatively low rating.

She’s supposed to be a class-1 or 2, I think? I’m still spotty on power classifications.

Rook promised to put me through more judo training, and have me participate on mock trials more often. She thinks we need better teamwork.

She’s probably right, I have no idea what I’m doing. We’re lucky this was just Clockwerk.

Rook looks up from her device. “Rubber bolts?”

“Yeah. She uses rubber and nets,” I repeat, flopping down on the sofa in the corner as Rory dutifully salutes and exits the room. “Her power’s remote kin — kinetic stuff, right? Why doesn’t she just stake us or whatever?”

I roll over, arms hanging off the edge. “Those bracers were sorta dangerous, I guess, but it… it seems like she’s sandbagging?”

Rook shakes her head. “Every super is sandbagging, Red. For a myriad of reasons. In Clockwerk’s case, it’s likely fear of retribution.” She taps her device. “Remote-class supers are more heavily restricted, both in the USMC’s ranks and the court of law. If she were to cause destruction at her peak of potential, she’d likely be incarcerated at the Panopticon.”

The super-prison. Right. “Your powers are remote-class, right?”

“They are.” Rook sets down her tablet. “I am limited in my operating capacity, materials and operating range. To change any of these factors, I must submit a request with the USMC, so they can log the change in their database.” Her expression sours slightly. “I am also the first under suspicion in the event of an information breach.”

“Is that fair?”

“It’s a reasonable precaution, I am the most tech-savvy among my peers. If I were to turn coat, I would be prosecuted the same as any other criminal. And like Clockwerk, I would be most likely sentenced to the Panopticon.” Rook frowns. “Although, Rodney Burns has been pushing particularly hard for her incarceration.”

“Who?”

“Rodney Burns. A chairman of the Brightheart Hero Association,” she clarifies.

I think for a moment. “Livvy’s dad?”

“Livvy — Olivia?” Ugh. Slip-up. “Yes, her father. The BHA is one of our top donors, so he has a fair amount of sway. Hm.”

I only vaguely remember Olivia talking about her dad. I don’t think she likes him.

She told me once that she dyes her hair blonde trying to not stand out at photo shoots, but I’ve never seen him pick her up from school. It’s always the butler, or whoever.

I scowl. “So she’d be executed because she’s black?”

“She wouldn’t be executed, she’d be incarcerated in a state-of-the-art super containment facility. And not because she’s black.” Rook adjusts her glasses. “Mr. Burns is a valuable ally to the USMC.” I twist my head around to look at her.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Rook’s expression is sour, twisted. I wonder if she believes what she’s saying.

“Regardless, he and his ilk are the mundane government’s chosen executives. It simply is.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” I complain.

“You’re hardly qualified to comment on the topic.” Rook sighs. “Get some rest, Red. You’ll be going out more often from now on.”

I climb up off the couch and leave, feeling vaguely nostalgic.

—

The next time I get an alert, it’s not so jarring. The pager dings, notifying me that I’m on patrol duty, and informing me I should report to the garage for deployment.

It also informs me I’ll be working with Jackie Jet. Olivia.

I huff, and let my head bang down onto my desk. “Ugh.”

On the way down, I take the normal elevator, and when I reach the garage, I make a beeline to the changing rooms. In the stall, I struggle pulling on my outfit, take a breath, and step back out into the garage.

Olivia — Jet? Rook tells me I should get in the habit of using hero names — stands impatiently by the van. Tapping her foot and everything.

She glances over at me. “Took ‘ya long enough, big fist.”

“That’s a stupid fucking nickname.”

“Get off my dick, it took me like two seconds. In,” She says, pulling open the back doors. “We’ll circle round to District 1, do a quick patrol. I’ll show your stupid ass how it’s done. Then we go home.”

I roll my eyes and hop in the van. We don’t talk as the vehicle rolls out from under the tower, into the wider concrete garden. I stare out the window at the passing facilities, the check-in stations, the shipping pads. At some point, the looming skyscrapers become smaller, more rustic-looking buildings, some of which still have graffiti, or old-world adornments scattered over them.

And then every so often we pass by a block that’s cordoned off by semi-permanent USMW warning posts, the buildings inside reduced to mossy concrete chunks.

We stop at a corner not too far away from the plaza where Cook used to operate.

“Alright, out. And look alive, they don’t like us too much around here,” Jet announces, hopping down from the lip of the van. I shove on my helmet and follow along.

It’s weird, walking around in-costume in broad daylight. Especially when there’s nothing to actually fight. The streets aren’t empty, and as the van drives off, I notice we’re getting… looks.

“Uh. Do you usually patrol around here?” I ask, following along as Jet starts walking along the sidewalk.

She makes a face, and I see her usual attitude poke through the professional act she’s been putting on. “Ew, no. Daddy makes them assign the nicer places. Dunno why they have me here with you.”

I heave a deep sigh. “So you don’t know why everyone’s staring at us?”

“It’s because we’re heroes. Obviously.”

Looking around, the stares we’re getting as we turn the corner at an intersection are decidedly hostile.

Because we’re heroes. She’s missing the point.

I remember Gordon telling me to keep an eye out for them back when I was pretending to be a distributor. Is it like that?

No, that would be stupid. Cook’s distributors are disposable, but there’s not usually very many of them at a time.

I wonder how he’s doing?

We round the block and continue on to a storefront. Small shops line the street, vehicle parts, groceries, clothing. I see a swastika with the number 18 spray-painted with it on the window of a store nearby.

I scowl. Creative.

It gets busier the farther we get into the downtown area. Soon enough, there’s not really enough space for people to cross the street when they catch sight of us. It’s around then that Jet stops, hand shooting up to touch her ear.

I try to remember how to turn on my comms. Rook said there was a button… I fumble for a moment.

The comm crackles to life. “Alert on 5th, USMC patrol prepare to intercept. Looks like one suspect, armed with class 1 tech.” That’s mechanical stuff, right?

“C’mon,” Jet says, taking off. I scramble to follow her as we take a few steps onto the road, bypassing pedestrians.

We come up on a gas station, Jimmy’s something-or-other, worn down, dilapidated and from the looks of things, currently being robbed. It’s broad daylight, but the fluorescent lights still somehow cast a harsh glow onto the rows of rusty shelves and people huddled behind them.

There’s four. Victims, I mean. Two are crouched down in the back, one is behind the desk, and the last is laying on the floor in front of the register. The perpetrator stands above them, pointing a firearm at the cashier.

His hands are shaking.

Jet sprints, then flies, streaks of flame sprouting from her limbs and propelling her straight through the glass window of the store, sending shards flying. She catches the perpetrator by the back of his head and slams it into the tile with one hand, a sharp crack audible even from outside.

Something sick boils in my gut as I run to catch up.

The man struggles under her grip, trying to lift his head up, but she doesn’t let him. Jets flaring up again, the force shoves his head back down, this time cracking the linoleum and leaving blood splattered against the floor. He’s limp, and again Jet pulls his head up.

I grab her arm. “What the fuck are you doing?!” I spit over the comms.

“Taking out the trash, Redshit. What did you think was gonna happen?” She says acidly. I tighten my grip.

“Put him down.”

She rolls her eyes and drops the guy’s head, making me scramble to set him down gently. “Whatever.” I watch as she stomps out the door, barking into her radio on her way out.

In the store, the other two people stay hidden behind the store shelves, whispering barely-audible comforting mantras to each other while the cashier continues to cower behind the register, tears streaming down their face.

And it’s only then that I notice the last victim, lying face-up with blood pooling around her neck. It streaks in between the store tiles and into the cracks Jet left behind, mixing with the criminal’s in a false swirl of the same shade of red.

I feel sick. Rotten. Insects crawl beneath my skin and feast on me like I’m crushed under burning rubber tires on a highway, birds peck at my blackened bones, still slick with —

—

“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” I say.

“What do you mean?” Rook asks.

“Olivia. Her dad’s a chairman. She’s not even going to be temporarily suspended, right?”

Rook turns to me, and her eyes speak of distant sorrow. “Red. She followed procedure.”

Sanguine humor pulses behind my eyes.

—

“Yeah, when we do takedown practice, Rook usually has us go by the USMC professional standard,” Eva says. “She even brought in Megalith once to give us pointers.” She frowns. “He got rough. His power’s not exactly delicate, but…”

She sighs. “My mom sat in on one of our training sessions once, and she said it reminded her of Western Europe. She moved here as a kid, you know? And…”

“You’re saying USMC takedown tactics remind your mom of European warlords.”

My head pounds.

—

“— transport was attacked yesterday, leading to an estimated 12 casualties among the guards and transport staff. Authorities say it’s likely Cook was able to escape during the attack, and even more likely that the attack itself was staged by him or a number of his accomplices. We have our local USMW manager here to…”

He escaped. He fucking escaped. My throat burns.

—

Why… am I here, again?