2.11

The next day, they have us visit our parents. It’s mandatory, written into the contract they signed or whatever. Maybe it’ll be nice to not be cooped up in the tower for a change.

The place isn’t exactly a prison, but… one time I tried to go down to the garage, just for kicks, and a receptionist I hadn’t noticed before at the bottom stopped me. When I asked Rook about it, she said something about being a liability, and I’m reminded of the reason she gave for recruiting me, back then.

‘You’re dangerous,’ huh?

After collecting my bag for the two-day stay, I stop by the cafeteria floor for breakfast before I head down. It’s not, like, a school cafeteria, and I think it might be automated, but the food’s better.

Are the cafeteria workers scared of us or something?

I eat on the elevator down, and toss the tray in a trash can near the door to the garage. The others left a little while ago, I’m pretty late.

Instead of the standard deployment vans with the scary-looking armor and USMC logo tacked on, a more discrete vehicle waits for me, more similar to the times I was driven to the tower from my house. There’s just the one driver this time.

I step into the car, and we roll out of the garage, through one of the quieter exits.

The trip isn’t long, even the lower-level suburbs are pretty close to the tower, but the traffic ends up being bad. I mess with my phone while the driver struggles with the other cars clogging the highway.

And then we’re rolling up to the driveway to a small, suburban house, unused bench on the porch and all. My house.

My parents’ house? Whatever.

I hop out of the car and stroll up the porch stairs. I’d considered giving Vincent’s place a shot, but. Well. He wouldn’t be there anyway.

I knock a couple times on the door, and hear shuffling from inside.

The door opens, and my mother stands on the other side. She looks shocked, at first, before she composes herself. “Oh — J — Jake, sweetie, come on in.” She waves me inside.

It hurts, a little, but I guess it’s not fair to expect them to adjust right away. It’s fine.

“We were just about to have dinner,” she says as I drop my bag by the door. “And… well, your father’s in a mood today. Try not to upset him, okay? You know how hard he works.”

I nod, and we enter the dining room, where dad’s sitting at the table scrolling on his phone. “Honey, Jake’s here.” Her voice sounds a little strained.

Dad barely looks up from his phone, and when he does, it’s to give me a weird look. “They want me to come in early tomorrow.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that,” mom comforts him. We sit at the table.

It’s fish and broccoli. I don’t mind it.

“Well, Jake… tell us about something. What’s the USMC like?” Mom asks.

“Eh — I don’t actually know how much I’m allowed to say,” I mutter, hesitating as I start on the salmon.

“They had us sign fuckin’ NDAs,” dad spits.

“Richard!”

“What? It’s true! Fucking government,” he grumbles.

Mom sighs.

“They, uh. Have us do a lot of training,” I say.

“Anything to get rid of… that,” dad asks, motioning to me.

He means my appearance, I think. Rook told him it might not be permanent, so I guess he’s latched on to that. It’s fine.

“Not really. More like rescue drills, and stuff.”

A small silence.

“Well… do you know what your costume is going to look like yet?” Mom prompts.

“Yeah, it’s got. A helmet,” I start, lamely.

Before I can continue, a slam. The dishes shake in time with dad’s fist against the table.

“That was you?!”

I blink, not that it matters. I haven’t really been making eye contact out of habit, and I’m not gonna start now.

“Uh. Yes?”

“They have you — dressed up like that on live television?!”

“The costume designer said they needed a ‘femme fatale’,” I mutter.

“Femme — they’re doing you up like some — some fag! See, Jose’ I knew this was a fucking awful idea, they said they were going to fix him —”

Of course that’s his issue with it.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s —

“What if I don’t wanna be fixed.” Oh man.

Dad stops talking. I clench my fists.

“No one asked me about any of this. Maybe I like looking like a girl.” I sound like a kid.

“...Honey?”

“Like, if I wanted to use girl pronouns, and maybe change my name.” I clarify helplessly.

Another moment’s silence.

“Son, there are… treatments for this kind of thing…” dad starts.

I bury my head in my hands. “Whatever.”

Mom touches my shoulder, and I try not to react. “...We hear you, sweetie. Maybe your father has a point about finding a… treatment.” She gives me a pat. “Whatever happens, you’ll always be our son, okay?”

Whatever. It’s fine. They can’t actually make me do anything.

—

The next two days pass slowly and awkwardly. I’ve never been very close with my parents, but we used to have a weird sort of understanding. I was expected to be the model son.

Obviously, this is now just straight-up impossible. I don’t think they know how to talk to me anymore.

After my two days are up, I step out onto the porch without much fanfare. Dad’s already left for work, and mom only says a short goodbye. An inconspicuous USMC car waits for me outside.

I slide into the car.

The ride is silent, and I can’t get my thoughts to settle. It’s not that I’m actually thinking about anything, it’s just…

Maybe I can apply for a pair of headphones. Haven’t had a pair for a while now, but…

Everything’s just too loud.

—

“Do they ever let us out of this tower for anything actually fun?” I complain on the elevator ride up, back at headquarters.

“You gotta apply before you go anywhere,” Eva replies, sitting on her away-bag. “Like, two days before.”

“Why.”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Security?”

I drag a hand down my face. “...How long’s the form?”

Eva laughs. “I got it, I got it. Maybe we can drag Rory along with us.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. “Thanks.”

“Nah, there’s a really good Indian place my parents take me to every time I visit. Rory loves it,” she says, waving a hand and slinging her bag across her back.

“I’ve never actually had Indian.”

“Huuuh? Really?”

I smile, a little embarrassed. “My folks never take me anywhere…”

She shakes her head. “Well now it’s an emergency. You’re gonna love it, I promise!” We drag our bags into the common room, where Cooper’s holed up on the couch with a blanket. “You doing alright, Cooper?”

“Mmnngh. No.”

“Bad visit?” Eva asks.

“Yeah.”

“Me too, sorry,” I offer. He holds out a hand.

I fist bump him.

Eva gives me a little wave to get my attention, and jerks her head towards the couch lump.

I shrug.

She rolls her eyes. “We’re gonna go to Momo’s in, like, a couple days. Wanna come?”

A thumbs up from the lump.

“Cool! Just gotta get the paperwork, now.” She mutters as we step towards our rooms. “I’ll see you in a bit, Red. Have to put all this away.”

“Mh. Me too. See ya.”

Instead of unpacking, after I close the door to my room, I drop my bag on the floor and make my way to my guitar. I hadn’t taken it with me because it felt like too much of a hassle, especially with the amp.

It’s heavy. I flick it on with a click.

Leaning back in my chair, guitar in hand, I start on a slower, melodic freestyle. Time stretches a little, flowing in between the notes, and before I know it, Eva’s leaning in the doorway.

“You didn’t even start, did you?”

“Hah! No,” I reply, smiling.

She sighs, and smiles back. “Want some help?”

—

After a short training session on our day back, in which Rook compliments my improving judo skills, she gives a short lesson on riot suppression. I’m not sure how much of these post-training lessons are meant to be supplementary, but all of them so far have felt important.

This lesson especially, with the constant unrest in the city. We don’t usually have full-blown riots, but when we do, they get violent.

“Typically, during a civilian engagement, your handler, or a superior will directly coordinate with you in the field. In general, though, you will want to remember two things,” she says. “One: stoicism. You must stand firm at your post, regardless of what happens. If your presence is needed elsewhere, your coordinator will tell you. And two: restraint. Power use during an altercation with a civilian is typically optically challenging. The USMC would prefer you keep any power use defensive or inconspicuous.”

“Oh, so when the cameras come out, that’s when we’re supposed to exercise restraint.,” I comment. Olivia rolls her eyes.

“The cameras are always out, Red. Olivia’s little stunt on patrol last week is all over the internet right now. She will likely be placed on suspension once confirmation from Mr. Burns comes through,” Rook counters.

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.

She sighs. “When mundane law enforcement decide to break up the riot, you may be asked to capture specified individuals. In this case, you are still technically advised to use restraint, but abilities such as mobility options are typically not disallowed.” Rook clears her throat. “In extreme situations, you may be asked to participate in the active suppression. This is when you are encouraged to use the flashiest aspects of your powers. Do not hurt anyone, but the goal is still to frighten them.”

“I’m sure you’ve all seen examples of this approach at some point or another,” she says, almost offhandedly. “I’d like to show you an older example, but one that is relevant all the same.” A drone floats down from the ceiling, buzzing softly as a screen detaches from its underbelly and extends outwards.

The screen flicks on, showing footage from a riot in… Memphis, I think? Before the city died, effectively, and all the major hero corporations packed up and left. It’s a huge riot, one I remember seeing on the news years ago.

The footage looks like it’s being taken on someone’s phone, shaky and uncoordinated as it is, but I catch a pretty definitive glimpse of Beale Street flooded with people, and a contingent of police officers barricading the center road. A couple heroes flank them, one of which I recognize.

Vanguard, standing at the head of the rowdy, jeering crowd, sleek, serpentine silver armor glinting in the sunlight like dragon scales. He lifts his sword, raising it to the sky, and —

The footage whites out for a second, and when it fades back in, the camera shakes and waves violently. I only snatch short clips of the harsh winds and explosive sound that must’ve been present, clothes flapping, people sent tumbling. I sort of get the impression towards the end of the video that they are falling over each other to run away from Vanguard’s golden, flaming weapon.

“Reports from this incident attribute minimal casualties and zero deaths from Vanguard’s approach here. This is efficient and effective power use. I expect you all to follow his example.” Rook waves, and the drone’s screen retracts as it flies away.

“…My power isn’t that flashy,” I say.

Rook nods. “I’m not saying all of you should unleash your powers all at once. Oftentimes it’s more effective to have one single demonstration. Support your teammates whenever you can.” She nods definitively, and pulls out her tablet. “That will be all. You are dismissed.”

—

Two days later, the entire team goes to Momo’s. The entire team. I wasn’t originally going to invite Olivia, but…

Momo’s is a cute little place at an intersection closer to the poor side of town, and while I’m there I find out I actually do like Indian food.

Still, the experience is a little sullied by the pale surgical mask and brown contacts the handler has me wear. I was half expecting more, but apparently the helmet is enough that people probably won’t connect some random kid with white hair to Redline.

Rory brings his laptop with him when we go, saying something about ‘staying diligent’ and ‘efficient productivity’, but he completely forgot about it when we got to the restaurant. We spent the time pestering him about his favorite dishes and people-watching the intersection from our booth at the window.

Eva offered to take Cooper and I out next time we had to visit our parents, assuming we could get away for a minute.

Cooper declined, but I’m considering it.

And as I am, we all collectively notice a commotion outside. While we weren’t looking, people filtered into the streets, crowding along the sidewalks. They’re holding signs, banners, there’s enough of them that I can’t see the end of the march from our seat at the diner. Police cars block off opposite sides of the intersection as they march past, looking anxious as they clutch the radios pinned to their vests.

They look angry.

What a fucking coincidence.