1.5

I decide to continue my plan. I don’t know if it’s right, but I do know that I need to do something.

And, disturbingly, it gets easier. After a couple days, I do my first run alone, without Gordon. I pick up the case at the meeting place, and start a slow stroll down town towards the first stop on today’s list. A couple people wander along the sidewalks, poking in and out of stores, never lingering too long.

The disguise gets easier, too. I manage to tune out the way my skin crawls and my throat shakes every time I speak, at least for the most part.

The first stop is nearby, and it goes pretty quickly. Gordon likes to stay and chat with the clients, I’ve noticed. I don’t know them as well as he does.

I do take my time in between stops, people watch, look around inside the few stores that line some streets closer to the plaza. These past few days, it’s been almost nice at points.

The next spot on the list is a bus stop in the plaza. I end up having to loop back around, and near one end I see the blue overhang, looking grimier than it probably should be. One of the clients I recognize from yesterday sits on the bench under it. Sarah, actually.

I take my time walking over, trying to seem nonchalant and keeping an eye out for other people nearby.

By the time I get to the bus stop, no one’s really close enough to see anything I do. I walk up to Sarah and, seeing she notices me, start to pull out the case.

In the middle of handing over a capsule, a screech fills the air, the sound of metal on metal, and a number of violent clanks ring out, seeming like they're getting closer.

I freeze, just as a car-esque rusty iron contraption made of an unstable-looking, barely-there frame filled to the brim with gears, springs, ratchets, and a giant crank sticking out of the back drifts around the corner of the plaza entrance, leaning as it turns, and starts to head in my general direction.

People around the plaza start running, and I think I hear a couple screams, but I can’t really be sure over the metal cacophony the machine is producing.

“What the fuck?!” I hear Sarah shout as she jumps up from the bench. I’m in the middle of getting my legs to move when the thing slides to a stop at the convenience store next to us, smoking and sparking and smelling like burnt rubber.

A door pops open, and out hops a shorter girl with messy brown hair, a bandana, and goggles covering her face and a number of extremely unsafe-looking mechanical gadgets scattered around her person.

Clockwerk.

She dusts off her overalls and practically skips into the convenience store, slinging one of her machines from over her shoulder into her hands.

Sarah and I stand stock-still at the bus stop.

“Should… should we go?” she asks. I blink.

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m interrupted by a bang, and bells jingling as Clockwerk strides back out of the store, plopping a cash register down in her contraption. It creaks and bends to one side.

She huffs and wipes her brow. Which is interesting considering I don’t think she broke a sweat.

Then, her gaze darts around, landing after a second on us. I tense. I’m still holding the Stew capsule.

She scowls.

In a quick and obviously calculated movement she draws a machine strapped to her hip, a harsh ping sounding out through the plaza. It’s accompanied by a sharp crack and tiny bits of concrete showering my ankles where a 6-inch long metal pike sticks out of the ground in front of me.

I stifle a hysterical laugh and drop the capsule. Isn’t she supposed to use rubber rods??

“No drugs at the 7-Eleven!” She shouts.

“S- sorry?” Sarah calls out tentatively. Clockwerk snorts, reholsters her bolt gun and hops back into her gear car, speeding off with an initial metallic clunk and a continued cacophony of violent kinetics.

The plaza is completely empty by now, and Sarah and I get to experience a rare and surreal moment of silence in the city. And then, of course, police sirens sound.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling for the dropped capsule and pushing it into Sarah’s hands. She pockets it, glancing around frantically, and tosses me a roll of cash as she jogs out towards the plaza exit.

I break away and start sprinting at a nearby alley. Thankfully, I know a shortcut.

I don’t get arrested, which is good because I have research to do.

—

I open my notebook.

Clockwerk. Independent villain, registered by the USMW since 2016. Typically performs small heists, destroys public property. No recorded kills.

A three-year career. She’s popular online, for a villain, I remember keeping up with her as a freshman.

Her power’s some kind of remote ability — gears just work better for her, or at least that’s what people think. In reality, most supers try to keep their powers vague.

She’s usually pretty non-combative. It’s how she gets away with stuff without the USMC heroes coming down on her. It makes her bolt gun usage even more jarring. Does she care that much about drug distribution in the plaza? Maybe she lives somewhere nearby?

I’ll have to avoid her. I make a note.

Aside from that, Ava and Gordon were at the house when I went to pick up a shipment yesterday. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but I had a sense they didn’t exactly want to be there.

Which means they had to be. The timing didn’t work out this time, but next time I get a chance like that, I’ll stick by the house and try and catch whatever they’re doing. I have a travel bag packed with essentials I’m planning on taking on future runs, just in case, and I wrote down the date and time of their meeting so that I'll be able to estimate when it’s likely to happen next.

Next time, the timing will work out. I’ll make it work out.

—

I get my chance the next time I see Ava, actually. It’s early in the morning this time, I’m having to skip my first few classes to be here. I’m sure that’s gonna come back to bite me tonight, basically, but this is important.

The air is cool and slightly foggy as I jog up to Mikey’s house in a thick coat and a hat. Westpoint’s normally pretty cold, and it only gets colder.

I knock on the door and wait. It takes a minute, and some muffled voices before the door slowly opens, revealing Ava hovering cautiously on the other side.

“Oh. It’s you,” she says, opening the door wider and abruptly turning to walk away. I sigh and step in, closing the door behind me.

Mikey’s place is the same as last time, slightly barren in some places while overflowing with magazines and other forms of paper media in others. The whole place smells weird.

Ava saunters over and plops herself down on one of the couches. I don’t want to push my luck, so I just stand nearby, still a little awkward in spite of how many times I’ve done this.

Then, another knock at the door.

“Who the fuck is it now,” I hear Mikey shout from somewhere in the kitchen, I think.

Ava rolls her eyes. “Go check, dipshit.”

He stomps over, and I shuffle out of the way. Muttering to himself, he peers through the peephole on the door before yanking it open. A short, pale guy stands on the other side, looking decidedly well-dressed for this part of town, aside from a few choice patches decorating his collared shirt. He’s looking at his phone, but he slides it into his right pocket when he sees Mikey.

I catch Mikey plastering on a smile. “Sammy! What’s up?” He steps back and opens the door all the way while ‘Sammy,’ apparently, walks inside. He doesn’t really look at Mikey.

He looks at Ava, and then he looks at me. “Who are these two?” His voice is flat, and his demeanor screams business.

If this is who I think it is, I have to come up with a plan quickly. I need information, a photo of him or like thirty minutes with his phone preferably. I might have to follow him home.

I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter. I really want his phone.

“Oh, they’re thugs, don’t worry about it. Here, I’ll take you out back, and we can talk.”

The well-dressed guy shows himself out to the back porch, with Mikey scrambling to follow. I stand by the entrance, trying to think up some way to get in this guy’s pockets without tipping anyone off.

Maybe I should just go for it. The face I’m using right now is disposable, and I can heal anything they throw at me.

Unless it damages my brain, I don’t know if I can heal that. And I need food to heal, so I guess I might have to start cannibalizing less important parts at some point? So hypothetically, if someone were to cut me into an absurd amount of pieces I might not be able to —

Maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But I can’t let him leave without knowing where he’s going to go next.

I’m still brainstorming when Ava interrupts.

“So what are you after, anyway?” She’s leaning back on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. I notice that before I fully process her words and do a double take.

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. I know you’re not homeless. You wear clean clothes, deodorant, I haven’t seen you at any of the nearby shelters. Why’re you really here?” She smirks. “Promise I won’t tell.”

I panic slightly. “None of that means I can’t be homeless, technically.”

She chuckles. “Well, if I didn’t know before,” she says, taking a drag of her cigarette.

I decide to stay silent. I also try not to fidget, but I’m slightly less successful at that.

“Oh come on, spit it out.”

“Why do you even want to know?” I shoot back.

Ava sighs, and turns to look out the window. I follow her gaze.

There’s a concrete wall a short distance from the glass.

“You know my old office used to be in a skyscraper?” She says, seemingly unprompted. “The windows up there — they had a purpose. You could see half the city from up there. You could see the sunset.” She takes a drag of her cigarette.

“Whenever I was in the middle of writing a piece — I was a journalist — I’d always be staring out of that window. It was sort of a habit.”

She huffs. “Still a habit, actually. I don’t write anymore, but I still look out the windows.”

Ava’s looked older than me since the day I met her, but right now is the only time I’ve seen her so… tired. Vulnerable.

And then it’s gone. She steels herself, turning to meet my gaze.

“I don’t write anymore, but journalism is a habit. Indulge me.”

I… don’t know what to do here. Does she think her speech is going to inspire me to spill my guts or something?

I take a moment to study her face. She looks indifferent. Indifferent, but… curious?

Before I know it, I’m opening my mouth.

“I need that guy’s phone.” I pause. “I’m going to take down Cook.”

Ava smiles, and even though she’s technically mundane, her smile has an edge to it, one that speaks of righteous malice and decades of experience.

“Can’t wait.”

She lets out one last puff of her cigarette, puts it out on the sofa, and stands. “Bit of advice, though, when you’re trying to go undercover — you gotta commit to your character. Get comfortable in your own skin. You’ve been practically trying to crawl out of it since I met you,” she says offhandedly.

I try not to react while she makes an about-face and heads down the hall to the back porch, where I can hear Mikey and the distributor still talking. It’s not until I see her wave me over that I scramble to follow.

Ava reaches the back door and slams it open, startling Mikey, while the distributor seems largely unaffected.

“Michael, control your employees,” the distributor says.

“Told you to call me Mikey,” he whines.

She ignores them. “Hey, Mikey! You know who this guy is?” She says, thumbing at the distributor.

He stands up, but Ava keeps talking, stepping out next to the doorway.. “He’s got patches on his shirt, is he important or homeless —”

The distributor slams Ava against the wall, arm barred across her neck, and I tense up in preparation for a fight. “Michael, if you do not handle this, it will reflect upon your standing with Cook’s organization.”

Mikey jumps up, waving his hands around. “Hey hey hey, let’s uh… let’s all just calm down a little, yeah?” I ignore him. I’m still between deciding to punch out the distributor or run when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

Ava’s teeth are gritted, and her eyes are centered on the distributor’s face, even as he stares at Mikey, but her right hand swishes up. She’s motioning at the distributor’s pocket.

I step onto the porch and start moving around behind the distributor, on the other side of Mikey.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Mikey whimpers, “I’ll — Ava, say you’re sorry.”

“Whatever,” she spits. Her tiny hand waving gets a little more frantic.

Off to the side, slightly behind the distributor, I start to subtly drift my hand near his pocket. He shifts, and I try to adjust. Ava’s hand waving changes direction several times as I creep closer.

“Michael.”

“Ava! You —”

I snag the edge of the device and slide it out of his pocket.

“Fine, whatever. Sorry, patchy dude,” Ava spits out. The distributor doesn’t look pleased, but he backs off, leaving Ava bent over, coughing.

Mikey sighs. “Both of you get the fuck out.”

We leave. Ava very dramatically.

In contrast, I walk through the cluttered mess of Mikey’s house with as much efficiency as possible. There’s no point in sticking around, I have the phone, I have my chance. It’s time to leave, drop the disguise forever and start planning the actual takedown.

Finally. I’m so close.

I stop at the front door, heart beating in my chest while Ava sits back down on the sofa.

I hesitate, but… “Thanks.” I say.

Ava snorts. “Just go. Make sure he goes in the pit and stays there.”

Slowly, I turn and nod.

Then, opening the door with a burst of harsh winter air, I step back out into the city and make my escape.