DIRE:BORN

By Andrew Seiple

Cover art by Andrew Halbrooks

Edited by Beth Lyons

Text copyright © Andrew Seiple 2015

All Rights Reserved

With love and thanks to Tazura, my wife, my many awesome beta readers, and Beth Lyons, the best editor a new author could have.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1: Welcome to Icon City

CHAPTER 2: Heroes and Harassment

CHAPTER 3: Fixing Facilities and Fighting Fools

CHAPTER 4: Home Improvement

CHAPTER 5: The Mad and Merciless March of Time

CHAPTER 6: Deals with Devils

CHAPTER 7: Strange Bedfellows

CHAPTER 8: Hail the Triumphant

CHAPTER 9: The Skies of Icon, and Kingsley's Confirmation

CHAPTER 10: Lawbreaking

CHAPTER 11: Rallying the Hopeless, Meeting the Hopeful

CHAPTER 12: More Heroes, more Harassment

CHAPTER 13: War's Bloody Stigmata

CHAPTER 14: A Dark and Bloody Secret

CHAPTER 15: Mourn for the Fallen, Brood on the Past

CHAPTER 16: Enter the Steampunks

CHAPTER 17: Brown is the new Black

CHAPTER 18: The Eve of Destruction

CHAPTER 19: Going Down Fighting

CHAPTER 20: Plans Upon Plans

CHAPTER 21: A Long-Awaited Confrontation

CHAPTER 22: Forged in Flames of Scorn

CHAPTER 1: Welcome to Icon City

“Welcome back, Dire. If you're reading this, the surgery was a success. I'm you... well, I'm the you who existed before this process was done. I'm the you who existed  before the medical chair was done with us. I'm gone, now. You're all that remains of us. And before we get much farther here, there's something you need to know, something you need to keep in mind before we proceed. All this was necessary. There was no other way.”

--Excerpt #1 from a tape recovered from the wreckage of Doctor Dire's first confirmed lair. Catalogued as MRB record 7834329-B, informally recognized as the Dire Monologues.

Somewhere in the darkness behind me my secret lair was exploding. My would-be assassins were screaming and dying as they hit the traps I'd set in the storm sewers, but I'd escaped their initial assault with the clothes on my back and a pack full of useful devices and items. The night had been rough so far, but at least my headache was receding.

I darted down the tunnel, running at full speed. It was dark, but my mask's night vision rendered that fact moot. Glowing augmented reality graphics popped up whenever I got too near one of my traps, which was good because I had no memory of setting any of them. I didn't really have any memory of anything before I'd woken up ten minutes ago, in an automated surgical chair with stitches in my scalp and a killer headache. Self-inflicted amnesia, according to the video I'd left myself. A necessary precaution, according to old me.

I had no idea who the men behind me were, or why they were trying to kill me. I glanced back at the bobbing flashlights of my pursuers as an assault rifle chattered, and a spray of bullets whistled down the tunnel. A few found me, and my forcefield flared as it negated their impact. The heads-up in my mask showed I was down to seventy-two percent charge.

"YOU KNOW, SHE REALLY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'RE TRYING TO KILL HER. DIRE IS WILLING TO LET THIS GO IF YOU ARE."

There was a pause. They were probably trying to parse my mangled speech. For whatever reason, I'd received an inability to use first-person pronouns to go with my amnesia.

I took the opportunity to hop over two AR-flagged monofilament mines, and dodge around a jury-rigged white phosphorous grenade. The old me was pretty brutal when it came to setting traps.

The assassins sent their reply in the form of more bullets, but by then I was ducking down a side corridor. I paused there, hauled out my 1911 army pistol, and sent a few bullets back. Then I took cover and waited, counting the seconds.

They didn't have my mask, and the night vision it provided. They had no warning of the mines, or the grenades. When the explosions and the screaming started, I ran across to a T-junction, darted left, and started following the AR tags that indicated an exit. As I went, the gunshots and noise faded behind me.

A lighter patch of darkness ahead. A rush of cold air, and I shivered. I hadn't dressed for cold weather before I'd been so rudely interrupted, and going by the calendar I'd seen during my awakening, I'd be walking out into winter. At least I'd chosen a sweater, rather than a T-shirt, when I grabbed some initial clothing. Jeans and sneakers had been a less-than-ideal choice, but I'd have to live with it for now.

The sewers ended in a spill pipe, with water streaming down to a dark pool that surged and subsided between wooden pylons. It was dark and cramped, and my mask's night vision helped fill in the details. The water from the storm drain ran down a sand-choked concrete channel, with the wood of a pier overhead. Boats bobbed to either side of the pier. Most of the craft were small and dilapidated. One or two of them were half-submerged in the water.

I paused, glanced back toward the dark tunnels behind me. I heard  nothing more.

My adrenaline started to ebb, and I sagged against the side of the tunnel. I was tired. I needed to get out of here, and find some shelter before I froze. I needed to find someplace to hide where my mysterious assassins wouldn't look. Just some place where I could take stock of the situation and figure out where I was, and how I could survive the next few days.

I looked around the underside of the pier. A thin strip of sand divided the edge of the spillpipe and the water, and I eased myself out into it. Picking my way through to a slope, I half-crawled, half climbed my way up the sandy slope, past the peeled metal fencing under the pier. It scraped at me as I went, and I wriggled free, tearing my sweater.

I emerged on a gritty sand beach, on a coastline that had seen better days. To my east, the ocean stretched on, dark and solemn under a clear night sky. The moon and stars gave witness and a bit of light to the scene. To the south, piers jutted out of the water, the ones nearest me empty save for scattered small craft. They got nicer the further south they got, with better and less-crappy boats becoming visible at the edge of my augmented vision. Looked like a marina over there, though I couldn't tell for sure because the lights were off. To my north, intact piers gave way to broken piers which gave way to what looked to be the remnants of some sort of amusement park. Roller-coaster tracks, and a few giant clown heads leering out into the night. Again, no lights. If it weren't for my masks night vision, the clown heads would have been shapes in the darkness.

To the west, fires bloomed from burn barrels, as people muttered and moved among tents and scrap-metal shacks. Beyond the settlement lay streets, warehouses, and buildings. I was at the edge of a great city. But save for a flickering, smoke-spewing light in the middle of a cluster four or five blocks down, every last part was unlit. No electric lights, nothing but the moon above and the fires below.

The group of refugees watched the city. I was safely out of their view behind them, many hundreds of yards back. I checked the magazine of my pistol, and found it down to five bullets. Those plus the two spare magazines I had left... no, not enough. I didn't have enough bullets to kill everyone on the beach, so hopefully they wouldn't be as trigger-happy as the last lot.

I started their direction, and stopped. If they were anything like the last they wouldn't react too well to my current appearance.

I reached into my pocket and deactivated the forcefield generator. Then I removed my mask.

Pale white with eyes of solid black. Plain, barely-featured beyond the basic eyes nose and mouth. Feminine, it held the barest hint of a smile on its ceramic lips.

The men hunting me had opened fire the second they saw it. Why?

The mask went into my overstuffed backpack, and I paused to examine the gun holstered by my side. A bit of adjustment, and my fluffy green sweater went over the firearm. A cloth scrunchie from my pocket went over my black locks, pulling them back in a rough ponytail. Pulling on recent stitches, too, but no help for that.

I hoped I seemed inoffensive. With a final breath for courage, I moved up to the edge of the group.

“Hey,” I whispered to an older man wearing a tattered ball cap and the remains of a trenchcoat. “What happened?”

He shook his head, looked at me with watery eyes. “How'd you miss it? Lights went out. Then that 'partment blew up. Then it kept blowin' up.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just woke up. Guess that was it, it was noisy,”

He nodded back and moved over, making room at the fire next to about six or seven other refugees. All of them had mismatched clothing, and the signs of people who'd been living hard for a little too long. With my unsteady gait and torn sweater, I fit right in.

There was something cooking in a pot, and a guy with a scarf across his face offered me a styrofoam bowl. I took it, nodding my thanks, and ate with my fingers. Beans with a few slivers of ham. It burned my fingers and tongue, and it was the best food I could ever remember eating, thanks to old me and her rather-inconvenient memory wipe.

In the distance, the apartment building groaned and started to collapse, sending flames shooting up into the night. There were sighs and murmurs of dismay from the crowd, and I narrowed my eyes. That looked like it could be about the right area for my starting point. I'd walked a ways in the dark, but five or six blocks sounded about right. Was I responsible for whatever attack had wrecked that building? Given that the gunmen earlier had been targeting me, that seemed a likely hypothesis.

Now that I had a belly full of food, and was in relative safety, I had half a mind to go and take a closer look at the site of the explosions. That half a mind was swiftly squashed by caution. Multiple explosions hadn't slowed my foes down much. I'd been lucky to escape without interception.

Instead, I turned to consider my new companions. By all appearances they were homeless, ragged, and suffering from the cold. We had so much in common.

Noticing my attention, the man with the ball cap and trench coat stepped forward and shook my hand.

“Roy. Roy Carver,” He had cloth wraps around his hands, that left his fingers free. His fingernails were ragged, especially compared to my own. I met his grip with strength.

“Dire.”

“Got a first name?”

“Not really. Just call her Dire.”

He frowned. “Her who?”

“Her. She. Dire.” I thumped my sweater. He frowned at me, and I smiled back.

“Oh. So ya talk about yourself like you're someone else. Ya mental?”

My head throbbed, and I remembered the chair I'd woken in, the chair full of surgical saws, cauterizing lasers, and other gruesome tools. The chair where I'd carved out my own memories, according to the video I'd left myself. Sane people don't do that sort of thing.

“She's fairly certain that she is or was crazy, yes.” I frowned. “Sorry. She can go if that's a problem.”

Roy laughed, a wheezing gasp that ended in coughing. Finally, he shook his head. “Nah. If we start kickin' people out for bein' mental, it'll be a ghost town 'round here. Ain't that right, Sparky?”

He thumped a hand down on a wheelchair full of blankets. The blankets stirred, and I stifled a snort. Another ancient geezer, with maybe a third of a head of hair to his name, all staticky and standing out from his age-spotted head. He stared at me with crusty eyes that were somewhat whited over with cataracts, and smiled. “Hello Lucy!”

“This here's Leo.” Roy explained. “But he prefers t'be called Sparky. It's what we called him back in '44, me an' the boys.”

Leo... Sparky... whoever he was, he was already looking off over my shoulder and muttering under his breath about sausages and boot polish.

“And I'm Joan, hun.” The round-faced woman who had taken back my bowl meandered over, and clapped a hand on my shoulder. She was fat, and smelled a bit like moldy bread.

Not that I was in any position to point fingers, I'd just waded through the muck of a storm drain. At least it hadn't been a sewage pipe.

“So. Where is this?” I asked.

Roy scrutinized me. “The Shanties off Melville Street?”

“No, she means which city is this?” I asked.

“You really been on a bad trip, Dia.” Joan grinned. “It's still Icon City, sorry. Don't know what you were hoping for.”

I didn't correct her assumption of my name. Icon City... no, it didn't ring any bells. I pressed my hands to my temples, let out a breath. Shook my head.

“Icon City?” Roy said, squinting at me. “Tesla's masterpiece? Home of the first heroes? Big golf ball in the bay where Helios headquarters is?”

I shook my head.

He continued. “More costumes per square mile than the rest of the east coast combined?”

“Costumes?”

“Y'know, heroes and villains. People with powers.” His hand found Sparky's shoulder, squeezed... and damned if a little arc of electricity didn't climb his arm. He snapped his fingers back, and cursed. “Shit. Your ground's up again, Sparky.”

“Oh. Sorry Roy.” Sparky came back to himself, and fiddled with a lever on the side of his chair. With a snap, spring-loaded metal rods poked out of the arms, dug into the sand. There was the snap of a completed circuit, and he relaxed, and closed his eyes.

I watched with fascination. “He generates electricity?” That didn't seem possible, but here he was doing it.

Roy nodded. “Ayeah. Me an' Leo go way back. When he got his surge he was so damn happy. Thought he was followin' in Mister Tesla's footsteps. But they only had the lightning in common. He didn't get the smarts. Fact is, when he uses his powers, it scrambles his brains.” He sighed. “We thought he was gonna join the Liberty Brigade, but they turned him down. Official reason was his powers were harmful for him to use, but I got me a suspicion it was because he was colored. So we went to a Jersey recruiting station, lied on our names and ages, and got in as Gee Ayes.” He huffed. “We did our share, dammit. Normandy in forty-four, up that beach and through.”

I nodded.  Forty-four seemed to be a reference to years. It was the year two-thousand now, I knew. First day of it, in fact. That was an awful lot of time between the two dates.

“Why are you here? What happened after the war?” I asked.

He was silent for a while. Another member of the crowd, a dark-skinned young man with short-cropped hair, shook his head. “Man, you don't ask that question round here. Everyone's got their reasons, and unless someone tells it, ain't good to ask.”

I nodded. “She sees. Thank you. Consider it retracted.”

The teen offered me an easy smile. “Ain't no skin off me, but Roy don't need more stress. Name's Martin, by the by.” I nodded to him.

Roy shook his head. “Naw, it ain't no secret. It's...” He raised his hands, let them fall. “You do something like that, you go to war, you save lives... you do something big. Right? You make a big difference, you know you done it, and everyone around knows. You do the best thing you ever did in your life. Right?” I nodded, not sure where he was going. He sighed, and continued. “Right. So I did my really big thing early in life. After that, I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. So I got stupid.”

Sparky reached up, punched him in the side. “Don't sell yourself short. You married Donna, Roy. That was smart.”

“That was a momentary act of dumbness on her part, Sparky.” He rubbed his ribs, jabbed a finger into Sparky's shoulder. “Won't say it wasn't good, but she put up with me way longer'n I woulda, if I were in her shoes.” He shrugged. “Long story short, I drank away money, pissed away jobs, and pissed off the missus. Didn't have no place to go once I was out, and I ended up here. Least I got one old idiot here worse'n me.”

He slapped Sparky's chair. Sparky scowled, and jammed an elbow back into his friend. Roy swore, and Sparky cackled.

“Yeah. This is pretty much a place where people who fall through the cracks end up.” Martin said. “Used to be pretty rough, before Sparky and Roy got here. So I hear, anyway.”

I looked to them, raised an eyebrow.

Roy shrugged. “There's a bunch of jerks around. This is gang turf for a bad bunch that call themselves the Black Bloods. They run when Sparky breaks out the light show. So yeah. It ain't the beaches at Normandy, but it's something we can do.”

I tilted my head. “You have powers too?”

“Naw, but I got two more friends. Mister Smith and Mister Wesson.” He opened his coat. There was a gun holstered in there, tucked between the trench coat and a tweed jacket. Splits in the seams indicated more layers below. He let the coat fall closed. “Don't have to use it much, to be honest. Ain't nothing worth fighting for here. And they can sell drugs all they like, just up the parkway a ways.” He gestured. “That's the rules.”

“There's more to it than that,” said Martin, “but it don't matter so much. Not much out here on the shore. Couple dozen living off the grid, if you can call it living. Though...” He looked over to the dark city, just a few streets away, ant\d the collapsed and smoldering building. We listened to the gunshots on the wind, and the distant cries of alarm and fear winding through the night. He swallowed. “Though it looks like tonight, everyone's living off the grid.”

I nodded. “Is there shelter available? Dire can pay.”

Roy shrugged. “Joan?”

Joan nodded. “Room in the women's tents for one more. Won't need pay, but we won't turn it down. Couple of bucks all right?”

I frowned. “She has only money, no deer.”

“What has that got to—”

“Bucks and does. Funny,” Roy wheezed. He slapped my shoulder, and I did my best not to jump at his touch. “Good one, lady. But yeah, your money's good here. Joan can show you the way.”

I rubbed my shoulder where he'd slapped it. The brief warmth had reminded me just how cold it was out here. The barrel fire helped, but didn't negate the chill. Joan took my hand and steered me through the crowd, past a crowd of giggling children, around a bald, middle-aged man who was having a serious talk with himself about spiders, and over a passed-out woman who reeked of chemicals.

Alcohol. The glass bottles around her lent credence to the notion. I pursued the memory, came up with a brick wall. Locked out of my own brain... I scowled, looking out into the night.

We came to a large white tent, set upon a wooden platform.

“Here we are, hun.” Joan held the curtain open, pointed to a welcome mat. “Wipe your feet, okay?”

She led me into a makeshift hallway, with plastic and cloth partitions to either side. The squat woman checked a couple, then pulled one open. “Here we go.”

I pointed to the lone lantern dangling from a central hook in the hallway. “How does that suffice to heat the entire tent?”

She chuckled. “It doesn't. We're just really well insulated, and the body heat helps. Got about twenty people in here, and as long as no one leaves the door open it builds up. Got two layers of cloth for the tent walls. Roof's got actual insulation between its layers, and the partitions help trap it too. The platform below's filled in with gravel and sand, so we don't have cold air seeping through.”

The little 'room' Joan offered was perhaps four feet wide and seven feet long, but the pile of sheets in the back of it looked absolutely beautiful. It looked a little short for my six-foot frame, but I figured I'd cope. I pulled out my cash, counted out three dollars, and handed it over to Joan.

She took it and leaned in close. I ignored her smell as best I could, as our eyes met.

“Word of advice: Don't flash that again around here. Rules say no stealing, but that much money's mighty tempting to some, hun. Maybe find a couple of places on you to stash it, so when you pay for something you only show a little at a time? That'd probably work.”

I nodded. “So, what are the rules around here? No stealing? Anything else?”

“Don't hurt anyone, don't bring bad stuff down on us. Don't sell drugs here. Stay out of trouble as much as you can. There's a porta-john down the beach, crap there. Don't sleep with anyone in here, go outside for that or in their tent. She scratched her head, leaned back a bit, shrugged.

“If you need anything ask for me. If I'm not around, ask for Minna. Speak real slow, she's from some other country. Oh, and try to be a good neighbor, 'kay? Um. Yeah, that's about it. Got anything else to discuss, hun?”

Nothing came to mind.

“Good. Sleep well, huh? Something tells me you've had a hard day.”

I smiled and pulled the partition shut. I removed my shoes, settled my possessions, and burrowed into the sheets. They were just as warm as they'd looked from outside the room.

And yet, I couldn't sleep. After a few restless minutes I moved back to the doorway of the tent and peeled the flap aside, peered out into the night. The dark ocean rolled on, and I traced my scalp, and the rough lines of crusty stitches. I'd remade my brain by my own methods. What had old me been thinking? She'd left a video explaining the methods behind her madness, but thanks to enemy interruption I'd only gotten through part of it. Inconvenient, that.

Light flashed on the shoreline, near the spill pipe.

Company? How had anyone survived the traps?

I gnawed my lip and looked toward the fire. Everyone left around it was still watching the city, flinching at the distant gunshots, and looking more worried with each passing minute.

No, I couldn't rest just yet. If I didn't go take care of my pursuers, one of my new friends might spot something and investigate. It wouldn't be right if they got hurt on my account. So I moved back into my little partition, grabbed my things, and slipped into the darkness once more. Back to the spill pipe, and as I went I pulled on my mask.

It worked like the first time I'd put it on. For a second everything was darkness, with flickering lights at the edge of my vision. Then it almost seemed to melt away, leaving my vision unobstructed. That was due to the screen inside, which mirrored what I would see if the mask wasn't present. It meant that I didn't need eye slits or anything to enhance my peripheral vision. For a second more the air was tight and clammy, then the rebreather kicked in, and I drew a normal breath.

The area around me kicked into focus as I went, the night vision extending my sight. I squinted toward the spill pipe, and my mask zoomed in without needing to be told. Someone was there, caught in the pylons under the piers. The light was a flashlight tactically-mounted on his assault rifle. The gun was caught up by its strap against a separate pylon, twisting in the waves and blinking every time it swung my way.

I pulled my pistol as I approached, kept it pointed at the struggling figure. He took no notice of me until I waded into the surf, and pulled his assault rifle free of the pylon.

Then he whipped his face around to peer at me, eyes and nose a pale gash through the slit of his balaclava. It was black, as were the other cloth parts of his outfit. The kevlar and plasteel of his partial body armor was a dull gray, that matched his helmet. An insignia on the helmet made a crooked, crosshatched mess of lines in a vague spiral pattern.

My mask's display highlighted dark patches in the sand, and smears on the spillpipe. He hadn't made it through the traps unscathed.

“Help me,” he whispered.

“YOU WERE SHOOTING AT HER A FEW MINUTES AGO,” I muttered back. NOW YOU WANT HER HELP?” He flinched. I didn't blame him. Even with the volume dialed down, my voice modulator's screeching howl sounded not unlike a cat going through a woodchipper.

“You! You should be dead—” He was interrupted by sudden motion, and fought to keep his hands around the pylon. The man was slipping backward, drawn toward the ocean. I eyed the dark water underneath the pier, and nodded. An undertow there, by the look of things. Cold water, that much blood lost, a strong undertow... no, he wouldn't last much longer without help. Could I get some answers here? Possibly.

“YOU'LL HAVE TO FORGIVE HER,” I said, trying to be polite. “SHE DOESN'T KNOW THE PROPER METHOD OF ADDRESSING AN ENEMY. WHAT IS THE PROPER THING TO SAY?”

“Fuck you bitch!”

“THANK YOU. VERY WELL, FUCK YOU BITCH TOO.”

He stared at me, and I wondered if blood loss had made him stupid. I might not get much out of him after all. Still, no harm in trying.

“WHY DO YOU WISH DIRE DEAD?”

“Who the fuck is Dire?”

I tapped my chest. “HER. DIRE.”

His eyes shut. He lurched against the pier, took a mouthful of water, and sputtered. “Christ... a psycho...”

“WAIT. YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHO SHE WAS, AND YOU WANTED HER DEAD? WHY?”

“Orders. Just orders. Nothing personal.”

“OH. WELL, THAT'S GREAT EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE IT'S NOT. WHY DID YOU FOLLOW SUCH HORRIBLE ORDERS?”

“Legs. Can't feel my legs...”

“AH, THAT'S PROBABLY THE MONOFILAMENT MINES. DIRE ESTIMATED THEY WOULD ACCOUNT FOR AT LEAST THREE OF YOU, WHEN SHE FOUND THEM. KIND OF IMPRESSED THAT YOU MANAGED TO CRAWL THIS FAR PAST THEM.”

“Please...”

“PLEASE? NO. YOU'RE THE ONE TRYING TO KILL A STRANGER BECAUSE SOME JERK TOLD YOU TO. SAYING PLEASE WILL NOT AID YOU HERE.”

“Help me.”

“TELL HER WHO SENT YOU.”

“Web.”

“SHE DOESN'T KNOW THAT NAME.”

“Not a name. It's... Organization...”

“OKAY. SO WHO IN THE ORGANIZATION SENT YOU?”

“Don't know. We're cells—” He coughed, and I saw there wasn't much left to him. His strength was ebbing. “Save me. Please.”

I sighed, and settled down on my haunches. “SEE, HERE'S THE THING. SHE'D BE TEMPTED TO DO SO, BUT THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE IN THE EQUATION NOW. AND IF YOU'RE THE SORT OF GUY WHO KILLS STRANGERS WITHOUT CARING, YOU'RE THE SORT OF PERSON WHO WOULD BE A THREAT TO THEM.”

“Please. I won't...” more coughing.

I spread the fingers of my free hand. “NO. LOOK, THEY ACCEPTED HER WITHOUT ASKING AWKWARD QUESTIONS. THEY'RE FRIENDLY. SURE, THEY SMELL A LITTLE FUNNY, AND SURE, SOME OF THEM ARE PROBABLY INSANE. BUT THEY'RE THE FIRST FRIENDLY PEOPLE SHE'S MET TONIGHT. NOT GONNA LET YOU NEAR THEM.”

He was silent, and for a second I thought he'd finally lost consciousness. But then the sound of sobbing came to my ears, and I sighed.

“OKAY. OKAY, LOOK. HERE, SHE'LL DO YOU A FAVOR.”

“Save... me?”

“NOPE. BUT YOU WON'T HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH DROWNING.” I looked around for a suitable piece of debris, and smiled when I found it. I pulled a 2-liter soda container from the shoreline, and jammed the barrel of my gun into the plastic neck.

He didn't have nightvision, so he couldn't see me aim the 2-liter toward him. Gripping the underside of the plastic as tightly as I could, I used my other hand to squeeze the trigger.

A red star bloomed in his forehead, just under the brim of the helmet. The sound of the shot echoed under the pier, but not half as loudly as it would have without my makeshift noise suppressor.

Gloved hands went limp, and the next wave carried his corpse beneath the waves. I tossed the now-holed soda container into the ocean and holstered my pistol again. I looked at the assault rifle, and decided against the upgrade. Too much of a risk to take, too noticeable. So I tossed it into the waves and walked out from under the pier, picking my way back up the sandy slope.

Well, that had been ugly business. Still, the fact that he'd been alone was encouraging. It meant that either everyone else had been killed by the traps, or they'd split up to investigate multiple directions.

Then a terrible, awesome thought occurred to me; My pursuers wouldn't expect me to return to my lair. Not after they'd chased me away. Not so soon.

I grinned, and set out into the night. Time to see if I could salvage something. I took a course west, ducking past more tents and an old shower house. Up the steps to the street, and I made my way into the darkened city.

CHAPTER 2: Heroes and Harassment

“We have enemies, and we'll make more as we go, I have no doubt of it. This isn't an ideal solution, but it keeps our loved ones out of the line of fire. There's nothing worse than having friends die because of the fights you picked, the actions you chose.”

--Excerpt #2 from the Dire Monologues.

Whatever killed the city's power had taken down the traffic lights. I crossed under a highway, and the roars of engines echoed down as the headlights shot by overhead. But motion in the city below was minimal. A flicker of light from slow-passing headlights, red taillights as a van stalled and stuck, unable to pass dark cars in the road ahead. A slow-moving traffic jam had wedged itself in between the dark buildings. The headlights provided the only illumination as I picked my way through, looking for the best angle on the crumbled building that I'd awakened within.

On the upside, the traffic thinned out as I got closer to my destination. Though I wasn't the only one out on the streets tonight, most gave me a wide berth when they looked at my face. Well, more specifically, the mask over it. Some didn't pay attention to me at all, watching the building burn, and muttering about something called White You Kay.

I couldn't help but notice signs of urban decay as I went... broken windows, bars over doors, crumbling stone on buildings that I instinctively knew were quite old. This was not a good neighborhood. It was evident in the clothes of those outdoors in the cold, barely a step up from my fellow refugees on the beach. Not that I was one to talk, or especially care. I blended in here, more so than I might in a more monitored place. Here, I might have more time to find my feet.

As I turned the final corner to get an unobstructed view of the ruins, I stopped cold. Something, some vehicle hovered above it. Shaped like a plane with no visible engines, it was about as long as a city bus, and three times as wide. A rough triangle with wings, wide at the back and tapered toward the front. A long strip of shining glass ran around the front of it, extending halfway down the body on either side. Lights flared from the undercarriage, illuminating the wreckage below... and the figures moving over it.

When I looked at the wreckage, a series of gray words floated into view.

LAIR DESIGNATION: CRADLE

DESTROYED, COMPROMISED. RECOMMEND RELOCATION.

The figures examining the remains wore costumes and masks. One man with a blue jacket, white pants, and a white mask with goggles built into it. The back of his head was visible from my angle, showing black, short-cropped hair. He had a decent build, not too muscular but definitely in shape. He seemed to be waving something over various parts of the rubble, walking along it at odd angles that indicated that gravity was no major issue to him. At one point the rubble shifted and he hopped to another chunk, as the original crumbled.

My mask chimed as I studied him, and green letters floated to the surface in my vision, letters that I knew only existed within my sight.

“DOC” QUANTUM

LEADER OF TOMORROW FORCE

POWERS: GENIUS SCIENTIST, KNOWN GADGETEER

I shifted to study the woman hovering in midair, watched as she gestured, and the falling rubble slowed and shifted directions. Instead of falling into the street, it piled itself neatly along the curb. She was blonde, long-haired, and wore a silver visor with a blue glow. Her blue bodysuit was skintight, but she had a white jacket over it, perhaps in deference to the cold. I noted that her figure was far more generous than mine and shrugged. Those things had to be murder on her back. Again, letters floated into my sight.

KINETICA

MEMBER OF TOMORROW FORCE

POWERS: KINETIC CONTROL, ABSORPTION, ASSORTED GADGETS

Tomorrow Force. Heroes, then? Seemed to fit the picture. Probably looking for answers, much as I was. I kept a safe distance. It helped that the light was bad here, and the other people on the street were focused on watching the costumed pair sift and poke through the rubble. Something bulged up from below, shifting the debris. Enormous fists, each as big as my head, pushed up through the wreckage. They were attached to equally massive metal arms that gleamed in the light, as a silver-and-blue armored form heaved itself up and raised a face to the sky. The mask over the face shone white with glowing blue eyes, and a grille for a mouth. It looked over to Doc Quantum, and from half a block away I heard his voice rumble.

“No good, Doc. There was a tunnel below but it's caved in now. Damn little left behind.”

And words floated up for him, too.

SIEGEBREAKER

MEMBER OF TOMORROW FORCE

POWERS: CYBORG, STRENGTH, ARMOR, SELF-REPAIR ROUTINES

Doc Quantum's head moved, he seemed to be responding. Siegebreaker nodded back.

“Right sorry, I'll dial it down.”

More discussion, and I frowned.  No way to listen in without getting closer, and to do that I'd either have to lose the mask or become the center of attention. I didn't like either option. On the other hand, I wasn't too fond of the idea of going back to bed without answers.

After a few seconds, it occurred to me that I had something useful for this. I removed my backpack, and crouched down behind an abandoned car. Old me had left myself four main useful devices. The mask, an electronic controller that was basically a universal remote, the forcefield generator, and a small scouting drone. That last one seemed the most useful for the situation, so I rummaged around inside the pack, found the ball drone, and looked for a good angle. After some searching, I found one. Now let's see, how did it activate... ah. There.

I tapped the drone against the street, and a prompt popped up in the mask.

ACTIVATE Y/N

I twisted the ball until Y was highlighted, and tapped it again. A glowing outline appeared around my hand, and I put the ball on the ground. A circular shutter opened on the thing, and a screen appeared on my heads up display, showing what the drone 'saw'. I twisted my hand, and the drone tilted as the screen shifted to examine the underside of the car. A little bit of experimentation with hand gestures gave me arrows, which set it in motion. I straightened up as I rolled the thing down the street, past piles of rubble, and along the curb. It was silent and small, and as I got it within about fifty feet of Tomorrow Force a new prompt appeared

AUDIO AVAILABLE: LISTEN Y/N

Yes. Yes I did want to hear. That's the point of this little exercise. I swiveled my hand, knocked against the hood of the car to select “Y”.  And voices faded in...

“No bodies, beyond the WEB remains?” That was Doc Quantum. His voice was rich, calm, relaxed. The sort of voice one would want their most respected leaders to have. Then his words sunk in. I wondered if they'd found the tunnels full of WEB corpses, or just the ones that had died in the building.

“Nada. This whole building must have been empty. Strange, you think that'd get noticed in this part of town.” Siegebreaker's was mechanical, and deep. Still recognizable as human, though.

Kinetica tossed her head, and blonde hair flew as she folded her arms. “The right bribes to the right cops and dealers and no one would notice. This part of the Brownstones is all gangs and goodfellas. At least its emptiness means less dead, and if they're all WEB then I can't say I'll mourn too much.”

“But why this building?” Quantum pondered, one gloved hand rubbing the short beard that protruded through the chin slot of his mask. “That was definitely thermite in the mix that destroyed an entire floor. There was something here that WEB wanted badly enough to draw attention and squander at least two squads of troopers.”

Siegebreaker sighed, a rolling rumble of sound. “But no clues as to why the power grid's down, here or anywhere else. I was hoping the timing wasn't a coincidence. That maybe we could find some answers.”

Quantum shook his head. “We can't rule it out or verify it one way or the other. Not here, not now. At any rate, there's not much good to be done here, and the him arby needs us patrolling, keeping the peace. Everyone good to go?”

Him arby? I must have misheard that.

I started the ball rolling back to me, and a voice crackled down from the aircraft. “Hang on. Movement at eight o clock.” I froze, stopped the drone with a gesture. There was someone up there, monitoring from above.

A tense minute, as the rubble shifted. I could hear them moving around, looking, but the lens was at a bad angle to see anything. Quantum's voice was loud and clear, at least. “Schrodinger, can we get some lights down here?”

Well, shit. I rolled the lens around, looking for cover, and found little. This was the gutter, and... and wait.  If I went down far enough, I'd find a storm drain.  To hell with stealth! I bolted the ball down the street, and popped it down the first drain I found, ignoring Kinetica's shout.

With all the casual motions I could muster, I turned and slipped into the night, past the scattered onlookers. As I walked I simultaneously controlled the drone, and tried to find a way back to the surface. Behind me I heard the jet lift off, the heroes evidently done wasting time. Good! I'd dodged a bullet there; I had the feeling that they would have asked questions I couldn't answer.

I was so engrossed with maneuvering the drone, that I didn't notice the group forming ahead of me until they were thirty feet away.

“Hey.” The guy in the lead grinned, white teeth in the darkness. He wore a heavy leather jacket, and an armband with a skull on it. Just like the five men behind him, and the two spreading out to flank me.

“Nice mask, babe. You look lost. Why don't you come with us?”

I killed the screen on the drone, and put my hands in my pockets, finding the forcefield generator. It would guard me against bullets, I knew. But slow-moving attacks like fists or knives wouldn't be stopped— they wouldn't trigger the field. My free hand crawled up to my belly, finding the butt of the pistol at my waist.

“SHE DECLINES.”

The group backed the hell up, surprised by my roar. It had bought me a second. I knew that if I capitalized on their surprise I could get a head start, flee the scene and possibly lose them among the rubble and backstreets.

And yet... and yet I felt disinclined to do so. Something in me balked at running any further, since I'd done plenty of that this night. And something else within me knew that these punks were no real threat to me, unless I got very stupid.

That said, I was outnumbered, and my force field couldn't handle it if they closed.

Next step: Intimidation.

I jerked my pistol free, popped the safety off, and held it pointing down. “DEPART. SHE WILL LEAVE NOW, AND HAS NO TIME FOR YOU.”

Half of them stepped back. The other half started drawing their own guns I stood my ground.  I had hoped they would switch to something the force field could stop, and they'd obliged.

“You come on our street!” yelled the leader, waving some sort of large-caliber pistol around. “You come on our street and tell us what to do? You fucking know who we are?” He moved a step toward me, moved a few more when I kept my gun lowered.

“NO. NOR DOES SHE CARE. SHE'S LEAVING, FEEL FREE TO DO THE SAME.”

“Bitch, we're the Black Bloods! And you're meat!”

By this point he was up to me, screaming in my face from a few feet away.  I glared at him from under my mask, started to raise my hand, and he shot me.

A flare of light as the force field did its job, a whine as the bullet ricocheted off into the distance, a crack as it hit a wall, and a dull thud from his head as I slammed the gun's butt into his cheekbone. He staggered back a few steps, and my foot met his groin so hard that it hurt my toes. He folded to the ground, a shriek escaping his throat as he went.

“RIGHT. ANYONE ELSE WANT TO FORFEIT FUTURE REPRODUCTIVE POTENTIAL? COME ON. SHE HASN'T GOT ALL NIGHT.”

Low muttering among the remaining punks, and another one shot at me.  The force field flared again, and I rolled my eyes. Real geniuses, here. Still, they'd deplete the field's charge if they kept it up.  Looked like there was no help for it... I raised the gun, and they started to move toward cover.

“Hey,” came a voice from a side-alley.  It was followed by the “click” of a safety, and the remaining punks froze. I knew that voice.

“HELLO ROY.”

The old man nodded to me, never taking his squinting eyes or the point of his gun away from the black-jacketed youths. “So. You boys are in what we used to call a crossfire ambush right now. She's got the east, and I've got her flank.”

One of them, a Hispanic kid with a ton of rings on his hands, shook his head. “This ain't your business, Roy.”

“She's one of mine, Caso.”

“She's on our turf, old man.”

“Just out seeing the fireworks. We're only a street or two away. You know we got nothin' worth taking. Nothing worth the bullets that'd come your way.”

They shifted.

“SHE DOESN'T REALLY NEED YOUR HELP, ROY. SHE CAN TAKE CARE OF HERSELF.” I lowered the gun, started walking toward the end of the street. The two punks in my way backed to either side, step by step.

One of them sneered. “That mask looks kinda nice, Roy. Maybe we'll come take it tomorrow. In the night, when no one can see. When no one will come when you scream.”

Roy shook his head and came out of the alley, keeping pace with me as I walked, covering the nearest ones that were packing heat. “You do that, you might wake Sparky up. He has flashbacks somethin' fierce, might think you're all Krauts. Horrible death, electrocution.”

One of them glanced between me and Roy, reached into his jacket and took a step toward Roy... and flinched back, screaming as I suddenly ran at him and roared.

“GET LOST!”

I moved back, and we were out of the group, walking back under the highway. I noted absently that traffic up above had slowed, shaping up into a massive jam for as far as Icould see. All that from a quick glance, as I moved my gaze back to the youths, watching them over my shoulder as we departed.

Another of them grinned toward me, made a gesture that I doubted was a salute. “This ain't over. Times change, old man. City's dark, it's the end times, and the Black Bloods rule the night.”

“You started this shit with one of mine,” Roy said, facing them fully and backing up a tad slower than I was moving. “Sangre tells me we got troubles, I'll buy it. But you forced this, Caso, you and the new eunuch over there. So I don't think he'll be too sympathetic about your fuckup.”

They were silent then, as they watched us go. I didn't relax until we had descended the steps down to the beach, and were out of a direct line of sight. Somewhere along the way my screen-inside-a-screen view of the ball drone gave me the option to shut it down to conserve power, and I took it.  I could always retrieve it tomorrow.

Flicking the safety of the army pistol back on, I tucked it away as I glanced over to Roy.  He shook his head, and put his pistol back into its own holster.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you might have just brought some shit down on us.”

I opened my mouth, shut it as I remembered that I hadn't found the volume control for the mask yet.  I pulled it off my head, and glared at him. He glared back, then looked away.

“Scavengers, yes? They saw what they thought was weakness and went after it.  Their choice, not Dire's.” A beeping from my pocket reminded me that the forcefield was still on.  That sound indicated a diminishing charge. I reached in and turned it off.

“Yeah, you're right, but that don't matter much to them.” Roy sighed, ran his hand over the back of his head. “This'll cause us trouble, so we have to figure out what to do.”

“You could have left her. Dire could have taken care of herself.”

“No I couldn't. If I had you would've had to shoot someone. Then it'd be blood on the streets, and it'd be worse for everyone. The Black Bloods take that shit serious. This at least was pretty private, and no permanent harm was done. Little bit of a loss of face, and they might take it out on us, but we probably won't have to hand you over to make'em happy.”

“You'd do that?” I asked.

“Hell no. I know what they'd do to you.” He kicked an empty bottle across the beach, watched it shatter on a rock. “Fuck it all. Wasn't a good neighborhood before those gangers showed up, now it's worse. They're evil plain and simple, and no one gives a shit.”

I frowned. “Police?”

“Underfunded, overworked. Call them and wait half an hour and maybe they'll show.”

“There were heroes at that collapsed building. Tomorrow Force.”

“They don't come round here unless there's other costumes involved. And they don't stick around. Heroes show up, the Bloods run'em out or hide until they're gone. Heroes leave sooner or later, Bloods come out again and anyone who ratted them out or talked bad about'em disappears in the night.”

We moved past the old showerhouse, back toward the tents.

I frowned.  “What purpose do the Bloods serve?”

“Themselves.”

“They have no function within your societal structure?”

“You got a weird-ass way of talking.”

“She is asking whether or not they do anything beneficial for your group, this area, or the other cultures within.”

“Oh. Well, no. They sell drugs, but I wouldn't call that good. They keep other gangs out, but most of the other ones are better than they are. Still assholes in their own unique ways, but not as bad overall. No, they're pretty much bad for the Brownstones.” Roy looked at me again, shook his head as we approached the women's tent. “Look. Get some sleep. They won't come tonight, not after I dropped Sangre's name. We'll talk it over tomorrow, if it needs talking.”

I nodded, moved to the doorway, and paused.

“Why did you follow Dire in the first place?”

“I heard a gunshot up the beach, then saw you walkin' away from there. I was suspicious so I followed.”

What? I'd used a silencer—

No. No I hadn't. I'd used a makeshift noise baffle, and evidently it hadn't worked as well as I'd hoped. Probably would have worked better with a smaller caliber gun. I'd remember that for the future. Roy continued, as I mused.

“And you got the look of someone who doesn't belong out here. You look soft. I kept an eye on you, figgerin' something was up, that maybe you were a criminal trying to lie low, or a spy of some sort for some reason or the other. When you snuck away I followed. Then you put that weird mask on. Didn't know what to think.”

I chuckled. “For the record, neither does she. Well, for what it's worth, thank you for the assistance.”

“Hey. Woulda been wrong if I didn't help out. Besides, if I let them take one of mine, I look weak, and you never want to look weak to enemies. But you're welcome. We'll talk in the morning.” Then he was gone, back to the campfire, and his friends.

I found my little enclosure and secured my belongings under the sheets, then I curled around them and let myself relax. Sleep found me in short order, and I didn't dream.

CHAPTER 3: Fixing Facilities and Fighting Fools

“The advantage of this approach, is that you're going in as a virtual unknown. Keep your intellect hidden and downplay the fact that you're a supergenius, and you'll have ample time to set up shop and figure out who the players are.”

--Excerpt #47 from the Dire Monologues

I woke in the pre-dawn light, night's darkness replaced by gray nothing. For a minute I lay there, taking stock before I tried my treacherous memory again. Nothing. At least I felt a little better. Though I was quite thirsty, and my bladder ached something fierce. I remembered Joan's words, and padded outside, looking for the port-a-john. After doing my business I hastily returned to the warmth of the tent, shivering under my clothes.

A few people nodded to me as I passed, and more scrutinized me with no particular emotion. Most seemed to still be asleep.

I could use this quiet time.

Returning to my partitioned section, I pulled open my backpack, and started pulling out the tools and toys I'd taken from my lair.

The force field generator was down to half-charge. The universal remote was still at full. The mask... didn't seem to have a charge indicator. I tried feeling around on it for buttons, switches, anything. Nothing.

How the devil was I supposed to figure out the interface for this thing? I could wear it and try random actions and commands, but if it was going to make my voice shout every time I said something, that would draw a hell of a lot of attention.

I puzzled over it for a minute, then slapped my forehead as the solution occurred to me. I had a universal remote!

I pointed the remote at the mask, and hit the most-likely seeming button, a green key. The inside of the mask lit up like a black screen, as green words appeared. Lots of green words. Pointing the remote at various words highlighted them with a lighter shade of green, and hitting the button on the remote turned options on and off.

After some fiddling, I found that I could turn the mask into the equivalent of a tablet computer. The inside layer of it was touch-sensitive. I also found out that it was down about an eighth of its charge. I'd have to find a way to recharge it as well.

I had a lot of fun little toys, but they all took power to run. It looked like all of them were set up to pull power from the direct broadcast grid of the city, but the “no connection” icons on each of them told me that the grid was still down. So what did that leave? Generators? Batteries? I didn't have any of those. Were those things available in the camp? I didn't know. Thanks to my memory loss, I had no knowledge of the area, the local economies, or how affordable those items might be.

Given the fact that the tents weren't lit up at night, I rather doubted that these items were available. It was a basic human urge, to dispel darkness, to illuminate the unseen. That we weren't doing it meant that it was infeasible.

I knew that. How did I know that? I rubbed my forehead, wondering at the limitations of my amnesia, wondering what had been done to my poor, abused brain. When it came to technological matters I almost seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of things. I knew what police were and I understood that homelessness on this scale was an indicator of serious social problems. I got concepts in general. Broad strokes were easy. I knew what tablet computers were. I knew that the city ran on a broadcast-energy network, a basic Tesla model that had been around for decades. But what I didn't know could fill volumes.

I hadn't known which city I was in. I didn't know which war Roy was talking about, or who Tomorrow Force might be. I knew what books were, but I couldn't remember ever having read one. I couldn't identify the major scientists or leaders of the past century, or the one before that, but I could call to mind scientific theories and laws with names attached to them. It was all very frustrating.

I heard footsteps approaching, so I put everything back into my backpack, forcing the zipper shut again as I looked over my shoulder.

“You. New one.” An unfamiliar female voice.

“Yes?” I returned. The woman took it as an invitation, and moved the partition's entry cloth aside with one arm. A blonde woman somewhere around my age, vaguely pretty, but sturdy and taller than me. That seemed rare. I was taller than most other women I'd seen around here, and she had several inches on me. One of her eyelids was slashed with an old scar, and the eye didn't quite follow the gaze of its twin. That scar and a few others on her face seemed to bear testimony to some past trauma. She wore a purple coat that was too tight on her, and a big, striped scarf.

“Joan is want to speak with you.” Her voice had an accent to it.

I remembered what I had been told. “You are Minna?”

“Yes.”

I rose and followed her. She stopped to check on a couple of other partitioned areas as we went, at one point querying a small blonde girl with some rapid-fire torrent of words I didn't understand. The girl answered back, and Minna tousled her hair with one hand. In another room, she grabbed a bottle of water out of a styrofoam cooler, looked at me, and handed me another when I nodded and stretched out a hand. It was cold and sweet and good. Minna just grunted when I thanked her for it.

She led me outside. In the light of the rising sun, the camp was a lot smaller then it had looked last night. Perhaps about twenty tents, the smallest set up for a single person, the largest half-again the size of the one I was rooming in. As far as permanent structures went, there were three or four scrap-metal shacks, and that showerhouse over at the edge of things. A black spray-painted skull was drawn across the wall of it, with red paint weeping from the eyes.

“Hey! Miss Dire!” Ah, there she was. Joan waved from her spot near the smoldering burn barrel in the center of things. Sparky was next to her, smiling absently toward the sky, eyes shut as he reclined in his chair.

I noted that he had his grounding mechanism up. Probably wouldn't do to touch him right now. I found a seat next to Joan instead, crossing my legs and settling on the cold ground.

She looked over at me, chewed on her lower lip for a bit before she spoke. “Roy told me what happened.”

I nodded. “For what it's worth, Dire has no wish to bring trouble down upon you and yours. Thought it over this morning, decided she can leave if you wish.”

“No. They wouldn't believe us if we told them you'd run. And you're probably pretty safe here. I don't think they'd mess with Roy and Sparky over hurt feelings. Not without something on the line.”

“How about hurt testicles?”

Joan barked a laugh, and Minna joined in. It was harsh and raspy, as if the younger woman's throat had been damaged. Their breath puffed out in the cold like smoke, and I pulled my sweater a bit tighter around myself.

“Eh, it's okay,” Joan said, sniffing. “They'll take it out on someone else. Probably. So... Roy said you had a mask? Can I see it?”

I flicked my gaze over her, glanced at Minna, who stared back with no real expression on her cut face. Joan smiled, and the expression seemed honest enough. I unzipped the pack and showed it to her.

She blinked. “Wow. Okay, that's ominous. You're not some horror movie slasher in disguise, right?” That was confusing. Slasher? What?

“Pretty sure no,” I answered after some thought.

“Maybe a villain?” She shook her head, laughed. “No. Villains don't wear fuzzy Christmas sweaters, I'm sure there's union rules about that.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “There's a union for that?”

Her lip twitched, and she snorted, laughed again. Minna didn't, this time. I rolled my eyes. “Fine, fine. Laugh all you want.” I zipped the backpack up again.

“Haaa... sorry. Trust me, you're not a villain. I know bad people. They're... There are too many of them around, in these parts.” Her face fell. She reached out and took Minna's hand, and Minna folded her fingers over Joan's, clasping their hands tight. The plump woman rallied. “But no, you're not a bad person. I can tell.”

“Just like that?” I frowned at her.

She grinned, showing crooked teeth. “Just like that.”

I thought back to last night. The feel of the gun in my hands, as I brought the butt of it down onto the thug's cheek. How I'd dropped him in two quick moves, and not particularly cared about it. “Dire hopes you're right, Joan.” I told her. These people had been kind to me, and asked very little in return so far. I didn't want to hurt them.

“Anyway, just in case they come looking for trouble, we need to get you new clothes. You had a mask on so your face won't ring any bells, but that sweater's distinctive. Fortunately, it also looks warm as hell, so we can reuse it. Want to trade up for something else?”

“What've you got?” She led me to the central shack. It was a single room inside, crisscrossed by clotheslines, with the clashing colors of multiple garments hanging from them. More were stacked neatly around the room, a few of the larger ones on hangers, piled on hooks along the walls.

With Joan's help and about twenty minutes of trying on various garments, I settled on a decent long shirt, a threadbare red hoodie sweatshirt, a sports bra, and some undergarments. I kept my jeans, they were in pretty good shape. The sweater went on a rack for cleaning later. After deliberating a bit, I dug into my store of cash and handed her a twenty.

“Here. She took a few choice items,” I explained.

She shrugged. “Hey, most of what we get is donations anyway, but okay. We can put that to good use.”

Minna grunted, and a shadow of a smile passed over her face. I figured I'd passed some sort of test.

I put the new clothes on, behind a partition made for such things. It didn't feel right to change without doing anything about my accumulated sweat, grime, and body odor. No way around it, I felt grungy.

“Joan, does that showerhouse have warm water?”

“Hun, it hasn't had water of any sort for a few months now. We've been cleansing saltwater for baths for a while now, it's a real pain in the ass.”

I chewed my lip, and thought. I had a perfectly functional toolkit in my pack, and top-notch electrical skills. Did they extend to plumbing as well? “You mind if Dire takes a look at the showerhouse?”

“You mean, like, to see what's busted? Sure, but Julio said it was beyond repair. He used to be a plumber, so I think he'd know. But if you wanna, it's your time. Me, I need to get breakfast rationing going, so I'll leave you to it.”

“All right. Thank you again, Joan.”

“De nada, hun.”

I left the shack feeling a bit better. The hoodie sheltered me from the cold wind a bit more than the sweater had, even if it was in worse shape than my original garment. And the hood kept the chill from my neck. I teased my hair back into a short ponytail as I went, tied it with a new scrunchie. I wouldn't need it down to shield my neck quite as much, now that the hood was in place.

The inside of the showerhouse was, quite frankly, gross. Discolored walls, a floor coated with mud, and assorted litter. Piles of needles glittered in the corners, and I felt my chance of getting some sort of annoying or terminal disease rising with every minute in the place. I backed out again. Didn't seem like there were any exposed mechanisms in there to begin with.

But there was mud. Mud meant water, and it was far enough up the beach that it wasn't seawater, most likely. So there were functional pipes around here somewhere... I walked around the place, until I saw a faded gray metal door, the same color as the weathered cinderblocks that made up the walls. It opened with a groan, and the dark room inside had the gleam of pipes within. Pipes and water, as it spilled from clear gaps overhead. Shattered, rusted remnants were below, in the soggy swamp of the floor.

Movement from down the beach, and I glanced over. An older man, Hispanic. He had a gray beard, a bandanna, and a bomber jacket, with what looked like newspaper poking out of the neck and wrists. “Hey, senorita.”

“Hello,” I said, looking him over. He was missing teeth, and had serious lines on his face.

He looked back at me, his face guarded. “Me llamo Julio.”

I frowned at him, tried to figure out what he'd just said. “Julio. The one Joan said was the plumber?”

“Yes.” He smacked his lips, pointed with a jittery hand. “Ain't no good. Need new pipes.”

“And you have none to hand?”

He shook his head. “No good. Need new pipes. They freeze, they break. Poooosh.” He made explosion motions with his hands.

I rubbed my chin. Reached into my knapsack, pulled out the toolbox, popped it open. He came in for a look, and whistled, reached out to grab a few of the tools. I pushed back my instinct to snatch them away. Joan had trusted this man, I'd do the same.

“Hold this, please.” I put the box in his hands, plucked a measuring tape from it, and left him to peruse the contents as I moved into the dark room. I tried to ignore the cold, cold water seeping around my feet and into my shoes, as I took measurements of the pipes. Most were about five inches around, with a few smaller ones here and there. Some of the water was warm, and that was encouraging.

When I came back outside, Julio had the tools spread out on a little rubber mat that had come with the box, and was looking them over one by one.

“Serious good. Es bueno, eh?” He pointed at several of them and said several things, most of which went over my head. I nodded back, and started collecting the tools. He helped me replace them and pack them away, and gave them one last longing look as I put the toolbox back into the pack.

“Think we can use those to fix the pipes?” I asked. I had a notion of how to do it, but he was a plumber. No sense in turning away an expert.

He shrugged. “Si, but... no pipes. Need new ones, eh?”

I nodded. “Dire knows where to find some.”

He looked dubious, and I pointed. He followed my finger's arc, over into the city, to the rubble-filled area where my “Cradle” had been. Then his eyes widened, and I watched comprehension fill them.

We set out into the city. The streets were quiet today, with no traffic to speak of. Lines of silent cars choked the highway overhead. A few empty cars were scattered around the streets during our approach, abandoned in the darkness of last night, it seemed. And in the light of the morning, I could see the street signs. We went over Melville, and down Madison to Vinyard, followed it past the crumbling brownstones to Jefferson Street. No people were on the street, besides us. In the sky, a few small civilian airships floated. There were a couple of police blimps to the south, among the higher buildings of some truly impressive skyscrapers. The only building around that showed signs of life was an old church down a short side-street. It had flickering light against the stained glass, probably candles or fires of some sort. Shadows moved against the windows, so I assumed that something was going on. As long as it didn't interfere with our mission, that suited me just fine.

The rubbled building at the corner of Jefferson and Reno was cordoned off with police tape, but no one was around to prevent us from heading into the wreckage and scrounging. Julio and I eventually turned up pipes of the proper sizes, and my toolkit's hacksaw proved equal to the task. Though our respective linguistics were a challenge, we managed. At one point I excused myself to find a restroom, and left him working on a stubborn section.

Once out of sight I masked up, contacted my drone, and had it roll to me. It hopped through a storm drain with a minor surge of an onboard gravitic repulsor, and I breathed a sigh of relief to see it undamaged. Stowing both mask and drone away, I returned just in time to help Julio haul the pipes back to the showerhouse.

Before we left the place, I salvaged a few fun looking bits of electronics. Raw materials would come in handy at some point.

As we walked I noticed that Julio was moving a lot slower, and his face was wet with sweat. Though he looked like a big man, closer observation showed that his arms shifted within the jacket as he moved, the bits of newspaper protruding from his sleeves indicating that there were many more scraps within. He probably used them as layers to conserve heat, and what I'd mistaken for body mass was actually stuffing. Well, he'd been a sport for keeping up with me, so I slowed my pace to compensate.

It turned out to be a good move, for reasons I couldn't have foreseen. As we headed back down Madison Street, I noticed a new addition on the beach. A van-sized black airship, emblazoned with golden letters proclaiming 'MRB'. The envelope of the airship was sleek and flush with the cabin, and it hovered a scant few feet off the ground... signs that I identified as belonging to a combat-capable craft. Probably armored and using Levitonium, rather than the less-expensive hydrogen option. I would have moved in for a closer look, but Julio caught my shoulder. “Federales,” he whispered.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek, considered the airship. “Think they'd give us grief about the pipes?”

“Maybe. Is hard to say.”

I moved over to a nearby dumpster and popped it open, putting my armload of copper inside. “Drop them here, and we'll go see what's going on.”

He didn't look too happy about that last part, but he complied.

After we descended the steps down, I saw what had to be the bulk of the camp in a loose group around the biggest clearing between the tents. About forty people clad in varying amounts of crappy clothes were listening to a man in a suit. I recognized Roy, Sparky, and Joan in the crowd, along with a few other people I'd seen last night. The speaker was built like an athlete, big without being bulky, with short-cropped red hair. A pair of sunglasses covered his eyes, and he glanced our way as we approached, before looking back to the crowd in front of him. Off to his side and behind him, a blonde-haired woman with a long ponytail had her hands shoved in the pockets of a similar suit. A cigarette burned in her mouth, and her sunglasses were pushed up, as her eyes roved back and forth across the beach. She scrutinized us as we came in, the ember of her cigarette flaring as she took a long puff.

The built redhead resumed speaking. “So we'll try to shift you what I can, but this problem isn't going away anytime soon. GC&E's working the power outage, but they're saying it'll be days at a minimum to get the southern quadrant working.”

“It's getting colder these last few nights,” Roy's voice rose above the murmur of the crowd. “Without power for the space heaters, we're gonna have casualties. The fires are only gonna go so far.”

“I hear you, but if you want working space heaters you'll need a generator. The city's store of those is being distributed to crucial areas right now. You may need to take shelter in someplace more suited to the weather.”

“Where?” Roy said. “Anyplace like that is gonna be full up. If we don't have any heat, the brownstones sure won't. And if we move from this spot anyways, the Bloods will tear down everything we built here for shits and giggles.”

The man raised his hands, placating. “I don't have answers for you. Look, if you're staying here, we can at least shift you some supplies. Get you some food, to make up for the interruption to your donation drops. More blankets, some chemical water purification kits. Stuff like that.”

That met with some mutters of approval from the crowd. Roy gave him a grudging nod. I used the opportunity to start moving towards the women's tent. Whatever 'Federales' were, it looked like they had power and authority... a bad combination for a woman who might or might not actually be a villain.

As I did, footsteps crunched on the sand behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the blonde woman approaching. Her sunglasses were down, now. She was as slim as I, and was wearing a faint smile on her face, but her approach suggested a predator smelling weakness. I turned and put my own hands in the belly pockets of my hoodie, and raised an eyebrow. “Something you wanted?” I inquired.

“Don't think I've seen you around here before. You new?”

I nodded, staring at her sunglasses, trying to make eye contact. No luck, the lenses were too dark.

Her smile grew. “Got a name?”

“Dire.”

“That your first or your last?”

I shrugged. “Do you have a name?”

“Agent Kingsley. My partner's agent Coleman.”

“Pleased to meet you. If that's all, you'll have to excuse...” I reached toward the tent, and she put her hand on the doorway flap. I stopped, and raised an eyebrow at her. “Is there a reason for this rudeness?”

“When did you show up here?”

“Last night.”

“Where did you come from?”

“A bad situation. Listen, is there a point to this?”

“Know anything about that building that got knocked down?”

“Why are you asking...” I tapped my chest.

She tilted her head, puffed out a bit of smoke past her cigarette. I wrinkled my nose as the odor hit it. “You missed our arrival. We asked the group here if anyone had seen anything before we got on the current topic.”

“D—” I closed my mouth. “Was out with Julio, that's all. Taking a walk.”

Her pencil-thin eyebrows rose a bit. “That so? Lucky guy.”

“Ah, well, there's luck and there's luck...” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Especially since I'm pretty sure Julio is into guys,” Kingsley said.

I blinked, and let my puzzlement show on my face. She frowned. I had the impression she was looking for a different reaction, there.

“Everything okay, hon?” Joan asked.

I glanced over, as the round woman approached. “Yes. Thank you Joan. Miss Kingsley here was just filling in the things...” Crap. I couldn't continue the conversation easily without pronouns, or a name. And I could only call myself one name. I rallied as best I could. “The things that you heard earlier.”

Joan nodded. Her face was cold as she turned to face Agent Kingsley. “I'm sure you aren't stopping one of my girls from heading into a designated women's shelter.”

Kingsley pulled her arm from the tarp, smiled her thin smile around her cigarette. “Just making sure she heard the news, before she went in.”

“Well she did. And we'll fill her in on everything, so unless someone's being detained...”

The agent bent her elbows, raised her hands and spread them in an exaggerated gesture indicating innocence.

I shook my head, and went into the tent. Joan followed, after shooting Kingsley one last glare. Once we were both in, and I heard the agent's footsteps crunching away on the sand, Joan leaned in and squinted at me.

“What did you do?” She whispered.

I repeated the agent's spread-armed gesture, and lowered my voice. “Nothing. Went out and salvaged some pipes from the fallen building. Julio helped.”

“Not that, I meant to attract her attention. Usually Kingsley doesn't say jack to anyone, just follows Coleman around and watches Sparky like a hawk.”

I shook my head. “Can't say why Dire attracted her attention. What are they agents of, anyway?”

“MRB. It stands for Metahuman Resource Bureau. They're like the FBI for superpowered people. Costumes, y'know? The police call them in when villains kick up a fuss and there's no heroes around. They also check up on heroes and stuff, to make sure they're okay and not turning villain or anything like that.”

Then why was she so interested in me? I shook my head. No, I'd done nothing wrong. If anything, I was a victim, here.

Then why don't you go outside and tell them about last night? A voice whispered in the back of my head.

After a moment, I dismissed the question. The legality of the technological items I'd received was probably dubious at best. They'd be confiscated from me at the very least. And for that matter I'd be putting myself into their hands, without knowing anything real about their modus operandi or sense of compassion. Also, that would be admitting weakness to possible enemies. Roy had advised me against that, last night, and it was good advice. Besides, the thought of Kingsley's vaguely smug smile being twisted into pity, or some attempt at sympathy... no, it didn't appeal.

“Hey. Dire. You still there?” Joan looked concerned.

“Hm? Ah, yes. So are they here to check up on Sparky, then?”

She nodded. “Pretty much. He was pretty powerful back in the day. Made a big name for himself in the civil rights stuff back in the sixties, defending protestors from villains... or sometimes even some of the heroes of the day. It was different times, y'know?”

I nodded, knowing nothing of the sort. “Well. It sounds like they're offering some help, anyway. So that's good.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. They wouldn't bother if Sparky weren't here, but the fact that they're bothering at all... we can't afford to be choosers, y'know? Not with a freeze coming in. December was light, but this is gonna be a New England winter when it gets going.”

“Well, on the plus side, Dire's pretty sure she can fix the showerhouse.”

“Really? Actual hot water again? Or just water, period? Either's good.”

“Should be both, but that's up to Julio, Dire supposes. Got some idea how to go about it, but he's the real expert.”

She grinned, and patted me on the shoulder. “Knew you'd repay kindness with kindness. Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, if you're up to carrying some pipes...” A shuddering outside, a loud hum, and a shadow fell across the light from above. Then it was gone as quickly as it had shown up.

Joan nodded in satisfaction. “That'll be the agents heading out.”

I smiled, feeling a subtle tension leave my shoulders. I hadn't liked Kingsley, not one bit. “Time to grab those pipes, then.”

It took Julio and I several hours to fix the shower. He'd dug up some tape and putty from somewhere— which was good, because as soon as we'd joined together one section of pipe, a leak would come up somewhere else. It took more than just swapping in pipes, we had to pretty much cannibalize a section to half of the stalls just to get full functionality in the rest.

I was in there with a wrench, tightening up one of the smaller pipes in its socket when Julio started yelling. Heading out, I took in the scene at a glance... two of the men from the camp had come up. The bigger of them had half a foot on me, and was standing over Julio. Julio was sitting down on the ground, bleeding from his nose. The smaller one, a scraggly black-haired man, was going through my backpack. I'd left it outside to avoid getting it wet, and as he drew out my mask, I shouted.

“Put that down!”

He jumped to his feet, shuffled back, and the big one shook his head, and moved in front of me as I marched up. His head was shaved, though he had a small brown beard and mustache that twitched as he snarled at me. “You don't belong here. Go back wherever you—”

I was inside of his reach before he could react. Teeth sprayed as my wrench met his jaw, and he toppled. The little one took off running, my mask still in his hands. He was fast, but I was angry beyond reason, and I chased behind him until he threw the mask back at me. I almost cried out as it skittered across the rocky shore, and slowed to scoop it up. When I looked back up, he was far down the beach, fear aiding his velocity.

I reached for my gun, pulled it out and aimed at his back... and forced my hand down.

No, he wasn't worth it. Hadn't done enough to warrant killing.

I examined the mask as I moved back to Julio. It seemed unharmed. The big man who I'd de-toothed was up and staggering away, and Julio was carefully picking up tools. He wiped them clean on his jacket, and put them back in the toolbox one by one. I wanted to hug him for it. His nose was still bleeding; I hoped it wasn't serious. He snuffled as he peered at me, shame in his eyes.

“Senorita. I'm sorry. I couldn't do nothing.”

“It's all right, Julio. You tried, eh?” I slapped him on the shoulder, like Joan had done to me. It seemed to indicate camaraderie, and he calmed down, handing me the toolbox.

I checked the backpack. The ball drone was still there in the innermost pocket, but the cash I'd put in there was gone, as well as the wallet. I smiled. The wallet wasn't so important right now, and I still had the bulk of the cash. I'd taken Joan's suggestion and split it, storing it in different locations. The bulk of it was back at the women's tent, tucked into a crack in the floorboards, well-hidden by the sheets. No, no great loss. The fake ID and cards in the wallet might have come in handy at some point, I suspected, but I didn't think they were irreplaceable. I put the mask back into the pack, zipped it up tight.

“Here. I think we're about done with the pipes. You want to go in and check on Dire's work?”

I passed the wrench in to him when he called for it, spending the rest of the time sitting next to my backpack. The big man didn't come back, and as I looked at the handful of teeth and smear of blood on the sand, and felt a grim satisfaction fill my heart. He'd earned that, and it had felt good to deliver it.

I saw the big guy disappear into a tent, and after a few minutes, the young man I'd met last night came out. He looked over to me, and I gave him a lazy wave. Martin, that was his name? Yes.

He approached with a hell of a lot of caution, and my smile grew. When he got about twenty feet away, he stopped and whistled. “Damn.”

“Hm?”

“That's about a grand in dental reconstruction on the ground there. Not counting the busted jaw.” His voice was gentle, and he was avoiding eye contact with me. He kept his hands out slightly, open. Nonthreatening.

“Who was that guy, anyway? He have a name?” I asked.

“Rick. Came to us about six months ago. He said you jumped him. That how it went down?”

“He tell you why she jumped him?”

“No, and frankly it'd set my mind at ease if there was a why.”

“Does Rick have a friend who's a little guy? Greasy black hair, fast runner?”

Martin sighed, and brought a hand up to rub his head. “Sheeeeeit. You're talkin' about Tugs, yeah?”

“She doesn't know. She was in the middle of helping Julio fix your showerhouse, when Julio yelled. Found a little black-haired guy going through her backpack. Found Rick standing over Julio.”

He squinted at me, looked into the darkness of the doorway.

“Hey Julio?”

“Si?” Julio called back from the showerhouse.

“Fue Ricky el que formo bronca?”

“Si.” Julio came out, pointed to his nose. Martin's face went blank for a minute, then his mouth snapped shut. White, gritted teeth stood out against his dark skin as he scowled.  Julio shook his head and went back inside, to keep working.

“Motherfucker. Okay, thanks man. I'll see to this shit.” He looked back to me, shook his head. “Yeah. It ain't all sweetness and light round here. Roy doesn't put up with shit, but Roy ain't everywhere all the time. I'll have a talk with him about Rick. This is the first time he's done something like this, but Tugs is a troublemaker. Good at convincin' retards to do shit they shouldn't. I think it's about time he found some other shithole to haunt.”

He looked at me, meeting my eyes for the first time. “You gonna give Rick more trouble over this?”

“If he comes looking for more, Dire will provide. If he doesn't, Dire won't.”

He smiled. “That is a healthy ass attitude to have, lady. Can't believe I thought you looked soft when you got here.”

A shout from the showerhouse, and a hiss as water spurted. Julio laughed, and Martin and I moved over to the doorway into the stalls. We both grinned, as we saw a beautiful sight: Water pouring down from the taps, sluicing away the mud on the floor. Oh, it'd take a while to clean up, but the place was operational again.

Martin glanced at me. I looked over to him, and his face was blank as he pointed an open hand at me, sideways.

I  looked at it, and he gestured again. I put my own hand up, mimicking him, and he took it and shook it. Ah, okay. More camraderie.

We collected Julio, and went back to the fire. For all that his nose was black and purple and swollen, the old man walked with pride.

I kept my smile to myself, and the wrench in the pocket of my hoodie. Just in case.

Joan waved at me as I came in, motioned to take a seat next to her. “Hey,” I said, sliding in on the bench.

“Heya, hun. Saved some food for you, since you missed the breakfast handout. Water, too.”

My stomach informed me that I was famished, and I smiled my thanks as I took the plastic grocery bag she handed me, and looked inside. An apple, a few slices of bread, a slice of cheese, and a slice of lunchmeat of some sort. Something pink and meatlike, anyway. I pulled out the bottled water, cracked open the lid, and took a long pull before munching on the bag's contents.

“So how'd it go?”

“We have achieved water,” I grinned as I spoke. “Julio recommended letting the taps run until tomorrow, clear out the mud and keep things moving so that the lines don't freeze tonight.”

“Aaaaaahhhhh.” Joan grinned, eased her bulk back onto the bench. “Water. Working water. Showers if we can stand the cold, and refills in case of an emergency so we're not stuck relying on our bottled stock. Good deal. Thanks, Dire.”

I finished the last slice of bread, and brushed crumbs from my hands. “Thank Julio. It would have taken Dire a few days to get it done had she been by herself. The ins and outs of plumbing are more troublesome then you might think from a glance.”

She turned her head sideways, looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. Like a bird perhaps, or some other small, cautious creature. “You don't have plumbing experience?”

“Not as such,” I confessed. “Though that's all debatable. It... Dire's got memory problems. But her skills seem intact, and the pipes were an engineering problem. That part's relatively easy for Dire.”

“Easy as busting a guy in the jaw so bad that he goes down with one hit?”

I looked away, folding the bag. “You saw that.” For some reason I felt guilty.

“No. But it was all the talk when Rick came back, with his wrecked mouth. I figured you had a reason. Rick's an ex-con, and he's never fit in well. He didn't try anything... forward, did he?”

I frowned. “What?”

“Did he, ah, try to put his hands on you? Push you for sex?”

“Ah. No. Apparently some man named Tugs convinced Rick to help him rob Dire. Martin said he'd see to it.” I frowned. “Come to think of it, Tugs did get a few things. Money, some ID. Nothing major.”

Her eyes had grown wider and wider through this, and finally they narrowed as she leaned in. “Oh that ass— uh, jerk. I'll have a talk with Martin. This is the last damn straw.”

“Tugs does this?”

“He's a troublemaker. Only been around a couple of months, but he's started fights, he's stolen things and not bothered to hide it, and we're pretty sure he mugged a couple of drunk students two months ago. No proof on that, but it brought the cops around a few times, and they hassled us through most of December. We've never sat right with them, squatting here like we do. Even for the northside, we're a little rough. Too much of an ugly truth.” She rubbed her cheek. “Anyway, Tugs needs to go. But if Martin said he'd see to it, he'll take care of it. Truth be told, I'd rather not know how.”

I frowned. “How is it that he was tolerated for so long?”

“Roy. He's got a soft heart. Tugs is good at whining and pretending to be sorry. We kicked him out twice, and each time he showed up a few days later, pleading that he had nowhere else to go. Martin, now... Martin's probably going to hurt him, or threaten him with his friends. And Martin usually follows through with his threats if he's pushed, and Tugs will know that.”

“Martin didn't seem that threatening at the time.”

“Looks deceive, hun. He's a drug dealer. That's why he's here. Some stuff went bad in his old life so he's lying low away from his old neighborhood. But he's still slinging.” She pursed her lips. “I don't like it, but I can't deny we need cash, and he splits what he makes with us. It's how we can afford food, clothes, and stuff like insulin. The donations don't cover nearly enough, and until this thing gets fixed with the city, they're gonna be a lot leaner. If they happen at all.”

I looked around the camp, at the cobbled-together buildings and tents. Looked at the people moving between them, or resting out of the wind. Then looked back to Joan. “She's been meaning to ask about that.”

“About what? Supplies?”

“No. About this place. What function does it serve within society? What do you do for the city, how do you earn your recompense?”

She started laughing, then quieted as she scrutinized my face. “You're serious.”

“Very much so. This place does not seem to be an efficient component of its parent society.”

“You got a weird way of talking. No, this is a place full of people with no place to go. Down and out, you know? No money, no jobs, no family that cares, nothing left.” Her eyes went faraway, as she stared out to sea. “It was just a few of us at the first. Me, Lily, Rob and Gladys, a bunch of us banded together so we didn't have to worry about getting raped or killed. Then Sparky showed up, and Roy came to watch him. Roy dressed nicer then and wasn't around as much, I think he might've had a job. But the time came when he moved here full time, built the first shack.” She gestured to the structure where I'd traded in my sweater for my current clothes. “Once Sparky got here, he and Roy had it out with the Black Bloods. A group came through and they ran them off, but they came back and Lily and Rob... didn't make it. But Roy and Sparky made the Black Bloods pay.” Her lips pushed together, thinning down and disappearing as she stared out and her eyes reflected an old pain. “Oh, they made them pay.”

It was silent for a minute, save for the hoarse coughing of a sick man in one of the tents, and the wash of the waves on the shore. Then she continued. “They'd lost face for that, and the Militia hit them while they were farting around with us. Martin showed up not long after, and convinced us that we could maybe make peace with them while we had a strong hand. So we did, and once word got around that the Black Bloods didn't care to mess with us, more people started showing up. Over the last year and a half, it turned into this. We got help along the way, went semi-legit. A local women's shelter is sponsoring us as a halfway house, so we get some support there. St. Augustine's over on Jefferson Street collects donations for us, acts as a backup shelter when times are really rough. Like when Aquatica caused the tidal wave last spring, we went and got sheltered there for a while. But as to what we do...”

She spread her hands. “Mostly we try to find ways out of here. Try to find jobs, try to get into rehab programs, try to help ourselves to get stable again. Nobody's really here because they want to be, no matter what some of the politicians say. It's a rough life, and about the only service we give is that occasionally we help people survive, give them shelter and food and support and a place that doesn't judge them until they can get back on their feet.”

I looked at her for a long moment, nodded. “She understands. This is a valuable function. You are doing good work.”

Joan barked laughter. “Oh, we're not saints. Lord, no. Some of the people around here do bad things to get by, and we turn a blind eye so long as they don't cause trouble. We're squatting on a public beach, and the only reason nobody's turned us out is because the city's written it off until some major development money comes along. But once it does, we'll be gone. They'll send a few squads of cops to run us off and tear down our tents. No one really wants us. No one cares if we die.”

“Dire cares,” I said. “You sheltered her when you didn't need to. You fed and sheltered her, and asked nothing in return. Rick and Tugs aside, her stay has been rather pleasant. It's given her time to think.” And it had. I'd come to a few conclusions, during my work with the pipes. Though I didn't have a firm plan yet, I had a few ideas of how to proceed, some goals to work toward.

She patted my arm. “Thanks, hun.” A wan smile drifted onto her face. “Just remember us when you make it out of here, huh?”

“Going to take a while, probably,” I mused.  “Need to obtain transportation, first. Find a place to work and study. After that? Take stock of resources, consolidate. Figure out who her enemies are, before they assault her again. Gather strength before that happens.”

She stared at me while I spoke, waiting until I finished my train of thought to comment. “You're kind of worrying me, hun. Everything okay? Anything we should know about?”

“Not at this time,” I shook my head. “Things are currently stable. If it turns out her past may interfere with your life, she will depart. No sense in causing trouble to allies, being a burden. Impolite.”

She smiled again. “Hey. Look. If you've got trouble, don't be afraid to ask for help, okay? A lot of people wouldn't be here if they'd done that in the first place. When you get down to it, you can only go so far alone. Good people help people who need it. You know?”

“Not really,” I shook my head. “What Dire knows is very little at this point. But she'll take your word on that. For now.”

“Good enough for me. So... you busy?”

I looked at my empty grocery bag, and shook my head. “Lunch is done, pipes are fixed. Still got some hours of daylight left, yes?”

“Yes. Are you up for helping me sort out the pantry, maybe figure out something good and hot for the evening meal?” She rose and offered me a hand up.

I took it, and smiled. “Be happy to.”

CHAPTER 4: Home Improvement

“A lot of the support for the idea of Tesla's experiments being the vector of superpowers comes from the three impacts in nineteen-oh-eight. Tunguska, the Bay of Biscay, and the airburst over Icon City. There's no denying that people from those areas, or with ancestors from those areas, are approximately three times as likely to express superpowers than the average individual. But the Tesla theory isn't proven, yet. We need more data.”

--On Powers and Progenitors: A lecture delivered by Professor Pyre at Icon City's Isler University to the Metahuman Studies fall quarter class, November of 1998

Like plumbing, there's more to cooking than you'd think. My mind translated it as a simple confluence of chemistry and physics. Follow the recipe, introduce heat and motion at the required intervals, and proceed until a satisfactory result occurs.

As I found, it was not so easy as it appeared. My first couple of attempts at utilizing the stove came close to burning the stew. Joan had to call Minna in to help her, while I was delegated to chopping ingredients.

Minna's child found her way in, and solemnly watched me chop carrots. I watched her back with an equal solemnity, and when she extended a hand I put a carrot in it, which seemed to satisfy her. “Ankoo,” she said, and wandered over to Minna, who shoved her away from the stove with a torrent of strange words. The girl took it in stride, retreating to the side of the kitchen, gnawing her carrot.

The kitchen merited a shack to itself. The stove was an old, wood-burning affair. A more modern one sat nearby, but without available power, it wasn't seeing any use anytime soon.

Oddly enough, whenever the kid got close to Joan, the older woman would get nervous, and move her hands away from the girl. I thought it impolite to ask why.  Besides, I had other questions.

“So what's the third shack?” I asked, moving from carrots to onions.

“Sickbay,” said Joan. “People who are really bad off, or can't take the tents. Babies, the few we've got here. It's a little better, but without the space heaters, eh.”

I nodded and blinked tears from my eyes. Onions, as it turned out, released irritating chemicals when carved. I offered a slice of one to the girl, who made a face so comically revolted that I burst out laughing for the first time I could remember. It felt good, and I looked up to find Minna smiling at me.

“Anya likes you.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” I popped the onion slice into my mouth, and instantly regretted it. I'm quite sure my face resembled Anya's for a minute or two there. On the upside, the little girl's giggles were worth it. Almost.

Once I could breathe again, I coughed to clear my throat, and looked over to Joan. “Do the women always cook the dinner?”

“No, no. None of that sexist crap. We take turns, boys and girls alike. It's my turn right now, but with the cold coming on, my hands are all rucked up.” She raised her gloves, flexed them and winced. “Early-onset arthritis is a bitc— uh, pain.”

“So we're helping you out?”

“Yeah. Hope you don't mind.”

I flipped onion slices into the stew pot. “Not in the slightest.”

And it was good, in that warm kitchen, with the savory odors filling it, and my new friends around me. I doubted this was the life that my past self had planned for me, and I was glad to disappoint her.

Later on, as we were ladling out bowls of the stew, I looked up to find Rick standing at the head of the line. His jaw was bound, and his head was hanging down. When he saw me staring, he looked away and mumbled something. His posture was the definition of submission, with a good touch of shame in there as well.

I said nothing, merely handed him a bowl. After a moment, I reached back into the stores, and pulled out a straw before offering it to him. All the time my eyes were on his face, and I was ready for the slightest hint of hostility. This stuff was hot, and his face was right there.

But he took it and scurried away, and I breathed a little easier. Well, that had been awkward. Still, after this I doubted that he'd give me trouble again. A thought struck me, and after the last bowls were passed out, I turned to Joan. “That was a test, yes?”

She smiled a big, cheesy grin. “Don't know what you mean, hun.”

“Lies and calumny.”

“Heh. Okay, you're sharp. Yeah, just seeing if there was going to be trouble between you two. Me and Minna were here to back you up or stop you, depending.”

I snorted, but a small smile crept onto my face. Well-played, Joan. She was a good leader for this camp, and I resolved to learn what I could from her.

Later, after everyone else was fed, we got bowls and sat around the main burn barrel. Sparky was there, humming to himself, and Martin brought Roy over. The older man leaned on his shoulder, walking slow. As he sat down on one of the benches he coughed, and I realized that I'd heard him coughing earlier, throughout the day.

“Are you all right?” I inquired.

He waved a hand. “Cold, dry air comin' in. Used to smoke, lungs are sensitive. Y'know they used to include cigarettes in care packages from home, back in the day?”

I shook my head, and he grinned a stained grin. “Smart business move for the tobacky companies. We smoked during the big one, stayed hooked after. Don't never start that shit Lady Dire, it'll kill ya.”

“No plans there.” I frowned. “She does have a favor to ask.”

“For the lady who fixed our showerhouse? Sure.”

“Dire has holes in her memory. Perhaps you could fill in a few things? History, events, the reason for these superpowers that seem to be casual violations of physics?”

“Ha. We'll be talkin' all night and not get done. Um. Maybe just powers, yah? That's shorter than the other stuff.”

I shrugged, and tossed a stick into the fire. It was getting colder, now that the sun was down. Colder than the last night had been. “It's more information than she's got right now, so sure.”

“Mm. Well, there used to be this guy named Tesla. Nikola Tesla.”

“Ah! Tesla's method of broadcast power. Tesla's ion-charged Levitonium gas. And many other theories and concepts, most dealing with electronics.” I smiled as I made a connection. “That she remembers! Sort of.”

“Yeah. Who's tellin' this story?”

“Apologies, continue.”

“Right. Nineteen Oh Eight, that's when it all started, I heard...” He coughed a bit, continued. “One of Tesla's experiments went wrong. Or right, maybe. Gave him and Bryson superpowers.”

“Bryson?”

“His partner, and biggest investor. Never gave up on him, frittered away his family fortune to pay for Tesla's experiments. But they got powers, that's the important thing. And after that, costumes started comin' out of the woodwork. Well, they didn't have costumes then, not at first. It was all men and women of action, adventurers, that sorta thing. But they kept showing up as the years went on. Some of'em fought in the Great War, but most who did died. But after the war, that's when it started for real. The first villains showed up, usin' their powers for crime, wearin' masks so they wouldn't get caught. And heroes started wearin' masks, so the villains wouldn't go after their families. Things been going ever since.”

I frowned. “How do powers work?”

He laughed. “Ain't no one knows that, or if they do they ain't saying. Rumor has it government's got projects workin' on it. Helios Labs out in the bay's supposed to have studied it. Don't know if they still are, now that the cold war's over. Just... Sometimes, when people are doing stuff and having a hard time, they get a power that helps them out. And once they get it, they got it. Ain't too common, but you see it pop up a lot when bad times hit, or disasters strike. Sparky here, he got it when he fell out his window, and landed on a bunch of electrical wires.” He snickered. “Shows you how old we is. Wires, hah! Ain't nothing uses those no more, it's all broadcast current.”

He pulled a hip flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a pull. “Mf. Thirsty work.”

“So Sparky's powers saved him from being electrocuted?” I rubbed my chin. “And let him emit electricity?”

The man in question smiled at me, and twisted in his wheelchair, flipping his ground up. “Get clear, Joan.”

Joan shifted, and Sparky pointed. A tiny lightning bolt flickered out with a “POP!” and bits of sand flew up.

“That was a small one,” he wheezed, grinning. “Used to fry Nazis back in the day, could do it again if I needed to.”

I frowned. “Where does the charge come from?”

“I make it. It's easy. Some builds up all the time if I don't think about it.”

Roy sighed. “Didn't used to be. It's been getting harder for you to control and you know it.”

Sparky looked down. “Could say that about a lot of stuff, Roy. You're getting' old too, ain't got room to talk.”

“Fft. Put your ground down, y'bastard.”

Sparky popped the ground, then stretched out an eager hand as Roy gave him the hip flask. A quick pull, and he handed it back, the two old friends grinning at each other.

I studied him. “So you generate electricity all the time, you usually bleed it off into the ground.... Dire's got a notion. You mind if she runs some tests?”

“So long as it ain't a thermometer up the butt I'm good.” He cackled. Joan flicked some sand at him, and he raised an arm in mock horror. I paid them no attention, and dug out my toolkit's voltage reader, measured the readings.

“Well Doc? Am I ever gonna play the piano again? Heheeeee...”

“Er. What?”

Roy snorted. “Ignore him he's in a mood. What are ya hm-ing about?”

“Well, you'd need a generator to power the space heaters, right? Combined with a local broadcast hub?”

“Oh. You're thinking of tapping Sparky?”

“Hell, she ain't even bought me a drink first.”

I pulled out a dollar, threw it at Roy. “Give the man a drink.”

He snorted, but slid the hip flask over again. I reached into the pockets of my backpack, and pulled out the electrical components I'd salvaged after we'd secured the pipes. “Might need a little scrap, but Dire thinks she can build you a local broadcast hub that will work with Sparky...”

It took half an hour, and I gathered a small audience as I worked. Twisting a salvaged metal strip into a loop, threading in aluminum brackets and plates, attaching the wires and circuits, shielding the sensitive parts, and setting up the antenna. Finally, I had something like a torc with spikes poking out of the back. My tools were up to the task and I knew what I was trying to build.

In a perfect world I would have had all the components I needed. But I hadn't prepared specifically to build this sort of item when I'd scavenged a few handfuls of materials from the wreckage. I looked back up to Roy. “Got a television you can spare?”

“Does it have to be a working one?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Martin, go get the one that blew a screen last month, alright?”

The younger man headed into the sickbay shack, returned with a bulky television. I nodded as he put it down, and my tools soon had the casing off. I clicked my tongue against my teeth as I took stock of the components. Older than I would have wanted, the design wouldn't work as elegantly as I'd hoped. Well... I'd have to settle for “good”, rather than “perfect”.

Ten minutes later I was done, and I held the torc aloft with joy. When I returned my gaze to the crowd, though, the general mood seemed uneasy, for no reason I could say.

“Is, uh, is that supposed to go on Sparky?” Joan asked.

“Well, yes.”

“It's just uh, just that it looks kind of... well, painful.”

“Painful?” I took a glance at it again. “Dire doesn't see it.”

“It's the spikes,” Roy clarified. “They look kinda like something you'd see in an old-style scifi movie, something the bad guy would put on the hero to torture him. That and the evil-looking skull face in the central part of it.”

“That's just an aesthetic touch. The plates practically begged to be assembled into a cute little glaring face.”

“It looks like somethin' a villain would wear,” Roy frowned.

“Look, do you want power for your heaters or not?” I snapped. I really hadn't meant to make the thing look so intimidating. Eh, perhaps they were imagining it.

Sparky laughed. “Oh give it here. I'll give it a whirl. What's the worst could happen?”

Martin muttered something I didn't catch, and I smiled. “Sure, Sparky. Is your ground down?”

“Yep.”

I eased it around his neck, and closed the latch. LED's started lighting up, and Roy laughed.

“Hells, woman! It's even got evil glowing little red eyes!”

“That doesn't mean a thing! It's helpful technology!”

“Guys,” Sparky said. “This feels funky.”

“Put your ground up,” I advised. He did, and more lights lit up, switching from yellow to green. “Yessss...” I whispered. “Yes!” I felt a grin stretch my face, and I rubbed my hands together. For some reason I had a strong urge to laugh, but I resisted it.

Sparky straightened up in his chair, and blinked. “Wow. Alright lady, you know your stuff. I think I'm—”

I put my hand on his shoulder, as Roy yelled “Hey!”. He froze in the act of standing, when he saw that I was unharmed. A bit of static shock at the initial contact, but nothing beyond a brief snap. I grinned. “The siphon's active. Try one of the heaters now.”

Roy settled himself back down and glanced to Martin, who rose and headed into the sickbay shack. He returned seconds later with one of the heaters, put it on the ground and turned it on. The dozen or so people around the barrel leaned forward... and the space heater hummed to life, as its receiver recognized the transmitted current.

Then came the cheers! The group surged to life, moving to the tents, waking people up and pulling out other heaters, lights, radios...

“Hold it!”

Martin's voice rose above the happy chatter, and the people stilled, looking to him. “Do not turn on lights. Keep the heaters inside. Turn that one heater off, now.”

Joan put her hands to her mouth. “Martin. You don't need to—”

“Yes I do momma Joan, this ain't no joke. Right now we just got our power back, how many other people in this city don't have that? How many gonna think we have a generator, or something worth taking?”

“I—I—Surely no one would...”

Her voice drifted off. She sounded lost. Roy stood, coughed a few times, and put his hand on her shoulder. “The kid's right.”

I caught a flash of annoyance on Martin's face, but he hid it quickly. “Thanks man.”

Roy nodded. “No lights. If you wanna run televisions or radios or heaters they go inside, and you make sure any glow is blocked as best you can.”

One of the group turned off the heater, and started hauling it back to the shack. But the mood was still good, the people seemed much happier than they had been an hour ago.

Joan moved up next to me, grinning from ear-to-ear. “You fix our showers, you fix our power situation... we're lucky to have you, hun.”

I shrugged. “You gave Dire hospitality. It's really enlightened self-interest, she sleeps here too.”

“Maybe so, but we still owe you one.” She embraced me, before I could react. Blinking, my arms stuck awkwardly out, I folded them around her back and tried to ignore the smell of the woman.

I relaxed into her embrace. It felt good. I hugged her back, patted her shoulder awkwardly.

She let go, smiled. “You remind me of my sister.”

“That's good, Dire hopes?”

“Oh yeah. Only one who stood by me after... Well, after some bad times.” Her smile faded, and she stared off into the darkness. “Haven't seen her in years. She calls now and again, but I... ah, you don't need to worry about any of that.”

“If you say so,” I said.

“Here. Minna and I will take care of the dishwashing, don't worry about it. That's something nice we can do for you.”

“All right.” I watched her go, and as I turned my head back to the fire, I caught Martin staring at me from across it, his eyes white, with the rest of his dark face lost in the shadows. He looked worried.

I raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head, but I felt his eyes on me throughout the hour that followed, as the stars rose beautiful and beyond number without the city lights to hide them. As time passed more and more people headed in to shelter, and Roy pushed Sparky into the sickbay, after confirming with me that the siphon was safe to leave on him overnight.

As the camp grew quiet, the noise from the city grew. Gunshots, distant screams, and once an explosion that sent a plume of fire into the sky from the towering buildings downtown. Worse than it had been last night, and I frowned as I listened to the sounds of a city driven to chaos. Why? It made no sense.

“You got a weird look on you,” said Martin. I looked up, to find him moving closer, scooting around the fire to take the lawn chair that Minna usually occupied. He settled about ten feet away, moving slowly the whole time. I noticed that we were alone out in the flickering light of the fire.

I gestured toward the tall buildings to the southwest, and the smaller, older structures of the Brownstones neighborhood north of it. “Trying to figure it out. This is the second night, and it's no worse than the first. One would think the disruption would be less, not more, as people come to terms with it.”

He shook his head. “Ain't how it works,” he said. “Kind of the opposite.”

“How so?”

“First night everything's dark, power's off, maybe some places have water maybe some don't, but it's like oh, we've been through this before. Just gotta wait for the authorities to fix shit. Then it'll be fine.”

“But they didn't,” I said.

“Naw, they didn't. Can't, maybe. This why-two-kay thing people was afraid of looks like it came true, so maybe they won't fix it for a while. Maybe months. Maybe years... Probably not gonna be that bad, but some people gonna think that.”

“Why Two Kay?” I asked. “Second time Dire's heard that term. Or something like it.”

“It's  Y-2-K, stands for year two thousand. It's like a flaw that was built into old computers. Ones that are too important and too limited to change. Folks said that when January first came, the computers would shut down, and everything they ran would crash until the computers were replaced.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Pretty sure that's not how it works. At worst you'd have to adjust time-stamps, maybe do a few hard reboots.”

“But yet here we are, and it started on midnight on January first, so who knows?” He shrugged. “You ask me maybe it's some supervillain pullin' shit. But no one asks me, so hey.”

I looked at the dark city again. It had fallen silent, during our conversation, a lull that almost made it seem like the looming, dark buildings were listening. Waiting for any sign of weakness.

Then came a series of stuttering gunshots somewhere in the distance, and a roar of engines, and Martin shook his head. “Yeah. First night, people be all like eh, this'll pass. Second night? No power? Starting to sink in that fresh food might be a while coming? Well, now people are gonna start thinking stuff like shit, I gotta survive. Gotta feed my family. They're gonna hit the convenience stores, the grocery stores and restaurants first, go from there. Maybe grab extra blankets cause it's getting colder, too. The ones that ain't desperate will try to pay at least, but the ones that can't or think we gone full on apocalypse are just gonna take. And some of them, the bad ones, are gonna think 'shit, it's the end of the world and I can party like it ain't nineteen-ninety-nine are gonna do the shit they always wanted to do, cause why the fuck not?”

“That's a rather bleak outlook,” I said, tossing a chunk of old planking into the barrel. The fire set it smoldering immediately, and I rubbed my hands in the heat.

He shrugged. “I know people. Joan or Roy, they told you I deal, right?”

“If you mean being a drug dealer, then yes.”

He nodded. “You meet a lot of dumbasses in the trade. Folks who can't think more than a few hours ahead of shit. Course you meet some smart ones too, but they just don't want to think past the next high, cause they so smart they see it's just gonna get shitty again. But the thing of it is, it's all about desperation. People get desperate, they stop caring about shit like acting civ-i-lized, like trying to be brave when the lights are all off and there's strangers in the dark, and they got things they want and need but can't find a way to get. They do shit, they deal with the consequences later. Now, what do you think happens when you throw superpowers and magic and shit into this mix?”

I shrugged. “No clue.”

“Same thing, just weirder and harder to get a handle on. More chaos. Costumes are people too, lot of folks forget that. Though I doubt you gonna see someone like Crusader or Doc Quantum raiding a camping store for winter-weight bags. No, the real good ones are gonna be busy as shit keeping the dumbass villains like Hardware or Groundpounder from doin' shit when the city's off the grid and the cops are busy keeping the Lord of the Flies shit down.”

“Lord of the Flies?”

“It's a book. I got a copy if you want to borrow it.”

“Sure.”

He looked at me again, and his eyes narrowed. “I got a reason for bringing up costumes. Powers.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You got them, don't you? Some kind of inventor bullshit?”

I shook my head.

He waved a hand in the air, sending the smoke from the barrel swirling away as he laughed. “No, don't bullshit me. You put together that harness thing in like an hour from a bag of scraps and a busted tv. That thing. Ain't never nohow in the world been tried before, I'm pretty damn sure. But you did it without even breaking a sweat or checking a book. That. My lady. Is powers.”

I drummed my fingers against my thighs, scratching the denim as I frowned. There's a certain point where stubborn denial becomes stupidity, and I was approaching it. Not an appealing option. I lowered my voice before responding. “You may have a point,” I said. “The mask, and a few behavioral mannerisms seem to hint at Dire being a villain.” I scowled, raising a hand as he opened his mouth. “For the record, she is not. Villainy requires crime, and she's done nothing of that. That she remembers, at any rate.”

He nodded. “I can see it, maybe. But it don't make much difference to me. You acting mostly like a hero anyway. Though, far as I can tell the difference ain't big. Hero, villain, the difference seems to be mainly how selfish they are.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is the difference really so slight? Dire hasn't known any... 'costumes'. Saw some last night, but didn't have time to observe them for long.”

“Way I see it...” He leaned forward, grinned. He really did have better teeth than most of the other people here. “It's kayfabe. It's aaaaaallllll kayfabe. The fights, the fucking up of the scenery, the gadgets, the feuds and shit... yeah. No way all that's real.”

“Kay Fabe?” I asked, confused. I didn't see the significance of the name. “Who is he? Or she?”

He laughed. “Naw, naw. Kayfabe's not a who, it's a way of putting on a show. Look, uh, best way I can think... you ever watch pro wrassling?”

“Probably not, no,” I responded.

He tilted his head back and forth a bit, debating internally. Finally, he shrugged. “Got a tv and vcr in my tent. Up for watching some Smackbrawl?”

“She has no idea what that is.”

“Don't worry, I ain't hitting on you.”

“Well of course you're not. You're talking with her.”

“Shit. You sure you're for real?”

“Well, yes. You're starting to make less and less sense, here. Are you tired?”

“Nevermind. Look, come on, it's Slamburger versus F-Bomb. Title belt match. And it'll show kayfabe easier than I can explain it”

I shrugged. Cold night, and I wasn't particularly tired. Might as well humor him, he'd been friendly enough so far.

I followed him to a tent on the outskirts of camp. Heavy canvas, a bit better made then the others, and larger. Martin tapped at the flap, and someone inside drew it back.

“Got a guest.”

Someone craned their neck, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowed face. “Huh. Want me to go out for a walk?”

“Naw, ain't like that man. You know where Smackbrawl 97 is?”

“Maybe. Need a flashlight to find it.”

“S'cool. Hey Dire lady, come in already so we can button down. Don't need no light or sound escaping.”

I followed, and after the tent flap was pulled shut a flashlight clicked on. The man holding it was one of the faces I'd seen around camp, a fat man wearing a bathrobe and stained white clothes under it. He had a shapeless knit cap jammed over his balding scalp. He studied me for a second, and put the crowbar in his other hand down.

Martin nodded. “Simms here watches my shit while I'm out, and I watch his back and share my shit with him. It works out.”

I nodded. “Sensible. Someone like Tugs would not scruple to steal from you.”

Simms scowled in the half-light. “Don't get me started on that little turd. Hey...”

He looked me over, small eyes glittering. “You the one that took down Rick?”

I nodded. “Not by choice, but he left her none.”

Simms thought it over, looked down. “Damn fucking shame. Fuck Tugs. Just... Fuck that guy.”

“No sense dwelling on spilt shitstains,” Martin said. “Time for some fuckin' classic entertainment.”

He popped the tape into a VCR, fiddled with a remote. The television attached to the vcr hummed to life, and we watched in silence as a roaring crowd heralded two scantily-clad men entering into a ring, for some sort of ritualized combat.

I watched, and as I did, more and more discrepancies started to arise.

“He has an opportunity there to finish his opponent off. Why does he not take it?”

“If he did that now, it'd be over too soon. He gots to play the crowd, give them their money's worth.”

“Even if he loses because of it?”

“Even so. Especially so. That shit makes for a good story.”

“Story? They're throwing each other around, beating each other to a pulp, and that one's barely holding back a killing rage! How would a story enter into any of this?” I was aghast.

Martin grinned. “Jus' keep watching.”

I did so, and found myself actually getting upset. “Okay, that one that just showed up wasn't even in the match to start! He just ran up and started beating on the cute one with a chair. A chair! She doesn't know the rules of this sport, but she's fairly certain that's a violation of them!”

“Yup.”

“Why has the match not been stopped, and the cheaters disqualified?”

“Because the cheaters are bad guys.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Jus' keep watching.”

I did, and the fight became more and more ludicrous as time went on. Finally, he turned it off, and I turned on him.

“How in the hell does any of this apply to heroes and villains?”

“It doesn't. Not precisely. But sometimes it applies. Listen.” Martin pulled over a cushion, sat on it. “That guy who played by the rules, he was who you wanted to see win, yeah?”

I blinked. “Well, yes. He played fair, he fought well; he clearly deserved to win.”

“Right. He was the hero. And the horrible guy who cheated, and called in his friends, and broke the rules over and over again, what's that make him?”

“The villain. But it makes no sense, that he would manage to do those things, succeed in doing those things.”

“Uh-huh. So, did he beat the hero?”

“You saw the outcome as well as she did. He failed, despite his tricks, despite stacking the odds in his favor. Which was good, otherwise Dire would have been strongly tempted to throw something through your television.”

He grinned. “And if you felt that, how you think that crowd of drunk assholes watchin' the shit ringside felt?”

I nodded. “Makes sense that they would be... worked up. Emotionally invested, as well. After all, they know the competitors better than Dire, and...” Pieces fit together. “Ah. It's fake. Entirely staged.” I felt... disappointment? Why? Seen through that lens, the whole spectacle was almost silly. And yet...

“And that, is the miracle of kayfabe.” Martin smiled, and pulled out a can from a pile of stuff, popping it open and taking a full sip. He offered another can to Simms, who took it gratefully, then smiled at me. “You want a beer too?”

“No, thank you. Still haven't answered her primary question. What is kayfabe?”

“It's the power of telling a story. No, selling a story so well that people get invested, even though they know it's all bullshit. And that's what heroes and villains are all about. The ones that are smart, anyway. The stupid ones believe their own hype.”

I considered him. “Go on.”

“These guys? They come in two varieties, heels and faces. Villains and heroes, pretty much. And they don't always stay one or the other, they swap back'n forth if they think it'll make for an awesome story. Each of them has an image. They build it up, and when they go into that ring, it's not two people fighting. It's the images they sold the audience going to war, in a fucking huge battle that puts butts in seats. It's more than them, it's the hype, it's the bad guys cheating, it's the good guys winning despite the odd., It's some fake and a little real but it works and it stays awesome because they make you believe. Even when you know better, you believe because believing is more fun. That is why heroes and villains are the same deep down. All those fights no one gets really hurt in? People tossin' around fire and lightning and shit without causing huge death tolls? Heroes catching some villain on Thursday and him breaking out before the weekend? Yeah. No way all that shit is real. It's kayfabe.”

I sat back, impressed as he ranted. Finally he wound down, and took a long pull of beer.

“Let her get this straight,” I said, shifting to get my legs more comfortable. “You're talking about building a narrative, and controlling it so that people see the image that most appeals.”

“More or less, yeah.” He grinned. “Ain't no different then selling anything else. Give people a dream and make it flashy enough, they'll shell out top dollar for pay-per-view. In dolby fucking surround sound.”

I tilted my head to the side. “Hm. So where do, say, the Black Bloods fit into this sort of kayfabe? Into the cape scene?”

His smile faded, disappeared. “Yeah, that's the problem. They don't. See, not everyone plays the game. There's rules that come up, with this costume shit. Stuff like don't kill other costumes, don't kill civvies, don't touch families. Shit the MRB promotes, tries to keep the field from getting too vicious, you know? But assholes like the Bloods, they don't play. They got shit lets them take on heroes or villains or anyone that messes with them, and they don't usually win, but it's never a clean loss. Someone always ends up dead or wrecked or shit. And they're smart enough to back off before they get too badly wrecked.”

“So heroes can't stop them?” I frowned.

He shook his head. “Heroes can win fights, but you go up against the Bloods, you gotta come ready to win a war. Last guy who tried that was a costume named Scrapper. Big ass suit of armor made out of junk, frickin' sonic blasters on his arms and shit like that. Didn't do him no good. He went out into the worst parts of their turf, and never came out. If he's lucky, he's dead.”

I frowned. “So they're not... heels, by your definition of kayfabe.”

“Shit, no. They ain't even in the audience”

I sat back and thought about it. “She doesn't really have enough experience to tell whether that's a valid view of the heroic and villainous situation. If that's true, it sounds... fake.”

He shrugged. “Naw. Not quite, anyways. Crusader? He saved the damn world at least three times I know. Aquatica? Bitch really does want to sink all the land up here down under the ocean. It's just... They play by rules. And they use kayfabe to make sure that if they lose, the story keeps going. That the stakes ain't always life or death.”

I nodded.

“You may have a point. Going to need to think on this.”

He yawned. “S'all good. Well. If you ain't staying, best be going. I got heat thanks to you, so I'm gonna turn it on and enjoy that shit.”

I nodded again, rose, and pulled the tent flap back to leave. But before I could, he spoke up again.

“Hey, Dire?”

“Yes?”

“Watch yourself. Bloods got a long memory, and not everyone around here likes you.”

I nodded one last time and left without a word.

CHAPTER 5: The Mad and Merciless March of Time

“I don't know what it was in the eighties. It was like someone had flipped a switch among the villainous psychos, and suddenly it was evil clown time. The Jester's Grin came out of nowhere to torment Nighthaunt, and jesus, it still hurts to remember that Mister Fun jackass. And don't even get me started on Great Clown Pagliacci... you ask me, all of this was a delayed reaction to John Wayne Gacy, a serial killer famous back in the seventies. He used to dress up as a clown, you know. He used to make boys laugh. Then he raped and killed them. I swear, I'm glad I got out of the business before this trend hit. A lot of the heroes who were stuck up against these psychos, they went mad or they went dark. Or both.”

--Leaked part of a MRB interview recorded in 1995 with Pistonfist, retired hero formerly active in Pittsburgh.

The next morning gave me the opportunity to charge my devices. Sparky's current was stable. So long as it was limited to the vicinity of the camp, there was more than enough to handle my gear. It felt better having a fully charged toolkit. Between the plasma cutter, the arc miniwelder, and the magnetic manipulator I could now work on advanced technology, if I had to. And I might have to, if Martin's warning about the Black Bloods was correct.

Venturing outside, I tended to my toilet, and decided to go to the showerhouse. I found I wasn't the only one there, and avoided looking overlong at the others as I got into one of the active stalls, pulling the curtain closed behind me and putting the backpack and my clothes on a high shelf. The air was frigid but the water was steaming hot, and it refreshed me as I scrubbed away the grime. Someone had thoughtfully cleared away the trash and a night of running water had sluiced away the mud. I wasn't sure how long the water would stay active with the city's power off, but while it lasted it would be nice. I drank some of the water while I was there. It was rust-flavored but seemed potable.

Drying as best I could, I reclothed and left, bundling up against the chill. It was still January, and the temperature was hovering near freezing, but in the early morning light it was tolerable. So long as you didn't stop moving, anyway.

“That you Dire lady?” I looked over to the sickbay shack, to see Sparky easing himself into his wheelchair. I waited until he was seated to wave, so he could wave back without toppling. He had a large smile across his face, and he'd covered the collar I'd given him with a scarf. “You got time to help me out?”

“Quite possibly,” I replied.

“Good. I need you to help me check a place. It's called Funland, and it should be that way.”

He pointed to the shut down amusement park to the north. I raised an eyebrow at him, then let it drop when I realized that his cataracts probably didn't let him read my face too well. “All right. May she ask why?”

He eased back into the chair, pulling a blanket around him. “I'll tell ya on the way.”

I nodded, moved around to grab the chair. Reached over to adjust his collar as I did so, cranking up the distribution range as we started to roll out. We'd be going out of the camp after all, so it wouldn't do to cut off the power unexpectedly. We went past the laundry shack, past the smattering of tents where four or five children ran around giggling and scrambling away from us as we went. Past Martin's tent, the flap now open and Simms waving to us as we passed. Then it was up the beach a ways, past more old boats that were drowning in a carpet of rotting seaweed, with chunks of ice floating on a scrim of dark water. After about ten minutes we passed Martin, standing alone on the edge of the beach nearest the road, talking with someone in a car. He handed something through the window, and received something for his troubles, tucking it into a pocket. The car rolled back onto the street, joining what little traffic there was along the beachside road before accelerating and vanishing to the south. Martin glanced back at us, nodded, then tucked his hands in his pockets and waited again.

“So,” Sparky chirped. “I need to thank you, young lady. This here yoke is working great. I can think straight again.”

“You couldn't before?” I asked. Roy had said something about that, I recalled.

“Oh no. I can feel the current, y'see. When I let my mind wander anymore it rises, and I can lose hours just feeling it go. Don't need to eat, don't need to sleep, it just kinda happens. Just can't think straight unless I dial it down. But this little gewgaw?” He flapped a hand at his neck. “The current's there, but it's gone before it can suck me in. Hell, I had a big dump last night, for the first time in forever. Didn't know how bad I was feeling until it was done and damn did I ever feel better after.”

“Er, that's good, she supposes.” Seriously, what was one supposed to say to that sort of comment? Perhaps it was time to change the topic. “So where is Roy?”

Sparky shifted in his chair. “He ain't doing so good. Coughed most of last night, and it kept him up. He's sleeping now, but it's ragged. Figure you're younger, cold air won't ruck your lungs up so bad.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. So why are we going to Funland?”

The gates were drawing closer, old chain link fences sagging against the sand, posts worked loose or sagging from the weight of age and the friction of winds off the bay. Beyond it boarded-up ticket booths advertised specials that were old before I had been born. Well, maybe, assuming I was the twenty-something I appeared to be. Couldn't be certain, there.

“Great Clown Pagliacci.” The whisper was so soft that I barely heard it. And I wasn't even sure I'd heard it right, that last part was no word I recognized.

“Hm?”

“Back in the day. Back after Korea and that clusterfuck. Never should have enlisted back up but never mind that... back in the day Great Clown Pagliacci was the villain that other villains told scary stories about. Didn't sound like much at first. Just a guy in sad clown makeup with a knife. But whenever he turned up in a city, the bodies started piling up until he was done. Then he'd paint in blood somewhere it would be found, always the same thing... 'La Commedia e finita.' The comedy is finished.”

“Sounds like one of those outside the kayfabe.”

“Huh?”

“Martin told Dire about faces, heels, the secret of Kayfabe in professional wrestling. Compared it to heroes and villains.”

“Ha. He's got some funny ideas. Told me about that too, and I laughed my ass off. I went hero a few decades after Korea when times got really bad, joined up with a few local youngsters. We had ourselves a group... Boilerplate, Lucy Goosey, Mister Sandman and me. We had the notion we'd help clean up the city,  and go from there. We did some good, but...”

He fell silent, and I pushed him through the gates. Litter and sand on the old boardwalk crunched underneath his wheels, and I was acutely aware of the groaning of the old wood.

“Cops and robbers,” he muttered.

“Say what?”

“It's less wrasslin' and more cops and robbers. At least it was in my day. The villains would knock you out and tie you up, maybe gloat a bit, then skedaddle. Or you'd capture them and turn them over to the authorities. They'd do some time then bust out or get sprung by their buddies. Bank robberies and stuff, art thefts, maybe a political demonstration or stuff like that. Hell, when Reverend King called for the march to Washington I ended up traveling alongside one of the biggest smash and grab guys in the city, name a' Concrete Jackson, and we laughed our asses off about it all the way up to Maryland. We ended up fightin' off the Hooded Riders together, put their punk asses down before they could lynch a single soul in our group. Jackson got out of the game in seventy-nine and good on him, but I'm saying it was different then. And in eighty-two it changed when that goddamn clown came to town.”

We were moving down the remnants of a large central area now. A sign at the end of it proclaimed it “Midway”. Old booths and carousels sat, boarded-up or with tarps thrown over them. Here and there gulls pecked at garbage that had probably blown here from off of the mainland. We were alone, and as I was forced to maneuver the chair around holes in the boardwalk, I could see why. The place was a wreck.

“What happened?” The wind out here was fiercer than it was on shore, and I envied Sparky his scarf.

“Blood happened,” he sighed. “Blood and death. Every time we thought we had a lead, it just turned into more dead bodies. He was a step ahead of us all the way. Devilish traps to wear us down, expendable mooks recruited at gunpoint, strapped with explosives and the promise that their families would pay if they didn't take us down with them. Oh, it wasn't just the Harbor Watch he targeted, it was the other groups, too. The bastard... he mowed through the Torchbearers like...” He fell silent for a while. “We were Harbor Watch, don't know if I told you that. Worked mainly in the wharves, took on smugglers and gangsters. The Torchbearers were kids. They were a local program set up by the Liberty Brigade vets who came back home after the war. To teach and help young metas come to grips with their powers, show them how to be heroes if that's what they wanted. Pagliacci took offense to the idea, I guess. They disappeared early on. We found them three days later.” He fell silent again, and I snuck a look at his face. It had gone pale and solemn, and had a terrible weight to it.

For a few moments there was nothing but the soft crash of the waves chopping against the pilings under us.

“Does she want to know?” I whispered.

“I bambini devono essere visto e udito,” he whispered back. “Those were the words on the note we found at the scene of the crime.”

I shook my head, and he elaborated.

“Children should be seen, and not heard. What do you think he did with their tongues after he got done torturing them to death? Because whatever you might think, what we found was way more horrible then you can imagine. I ain't going into details. That was the day we stopped treating it like cops and robbers with him. That was the day we set out to kill that evil fucker.”

I swallowed, sickened. He put out a liver-spotted hand, pointed to the left. “Turn here.”

Silence again, as we rolled past a groaning Ferris wheel, rust holding it up more than any remnants of structural integrity. We started moved out among the arching skeletons of rollercoaster tracks. Some of them had collapsed, leaving the odd stretch of wood and metal twisting down from the pylons that were still standing, here and there. Others were mostly intact, though I certainly wouldn't trust my safety to them.

And at the end of the boardwalk loomed the ruin of the funhouse. Charred, fallen in, garish-but-faded paint turning the entrance from a laughing clown's mouth to a frenzied scream of red. Old stains, old blood.

“This is where it ended,” he said, his eyes faraway and his face still as the ice below. “This is where he died... Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“We knew he was here. He'd left clues, and we were nearest the scene when the shooting and the screams started. His goons had blocked the entrance, mowed down anyone who tried to leave. We'd waded through them, and past the panicked crowd, to get here. All save Lucy... she could fly, y'see. We found her on the roof later, unconscious. Beartrap had taken her foot off and she'd bled out before we could get her back to a doctor.”

I looked at the funhouse again, and couldn't suppress a shudder. He'd called me Lucy the first time he'd seen me.

I asked the foremost question on my mind. “Why are we here, Sparky? It sounds horrible. Why put yourself through this again?”

He gnawed at his lip. “You see where the roof is broken there? With the grating right below it?”

I did. The metal was leaning ladder-like on the wall, with the sagging roof at its lowest point, a mere seven feet above it. “Yes.”

“I need you to climb it, and feel in the gap between the roof and the wall. Shouldn't be hard to find.”

I eyed it, shucked my backpack, then moved forward to the grating and started climbing. It twisted under my feet, and took a worrisome amount of balance to keep it from dumping me off. Once I could get a hand off of it and on the wall, the way got a little easier. But the grating compressed as I moved up it, and I scowled up at the gap. I'd need to stretch to my fullest reach to get to it. Took a few tries, a few false starts, but I managed to get a hand on the lip, and another hand in there, poking around.

But I felt nothing.

“Sparky? Dire can't seem to find—”

A hum behind me. Sparky's voice rose, calm and barely audible over it. “Don't move.”

“What's wrong?”

“Oh, you know what's wrong.”

And a cold dread started to seep over me. I glanced down, saw the jagged metal that awaited me if I fell. Glanced up, and saw the lip of the roof above me preventing me from going up and over. The gap I'd put an arm into was too small for the rest of my body. And I had a crazy man who could throw lightning bolts behind me.

“You planned this. You trapped her.”

“Ayep. So what did he tell you?”

“Who?”

KABLAM!

The lightning bolt impacted perhaps six feet to my left, and I jerked. Almost lost my balance.

I shot a glance back at him, saw him sitting resolute, his collar off and beside him on the ground. He was glaring at me, lightning flaring between his cupped hands. “That was a warning shot, kid. Next one won't miss.”

“Sparky, she really doesn't know what—”

KABLAM! Pain coursed through me and I grunted, as he hit me with a small bolt. I almost lost my footing, and my muscles convulsed. Through sheer effort of will, I kept a grip on the roof.

“Ho ho no. Ain't falling for that one again,” he shouted. “Near on twenty years, and every time I think it's done, a new assassin shows up! You always seem innocent, but then it's those goddamn words, and a knife in the night, or a grounded garrote, or a jar of acid or some shit. Those goddamn words, those goddamn words!”

“W-w-w-what words, Sparky?” I forced speech out of my mouth. I was starting to get a glimmer of an idea what had happened here.

He spat them out like they hurt his tongue. “La Commedia e finita. The comedy is over.”

“Great Clown Pagliacci didn't die in the funhouse, did he?” The wind howled, and I fought to keep my feet on the grating as he spoke.

“After we found Lucy I lost it. We chased him in, taking hits as we went. We opened up with everything we had, and his body flew off the roof, fell into the water. There's an undertow here, swept the body out to the ocean. At the time, we figured no one coulda survived that.”

I bit my tongue as I clutched the roof, tried to stay stable.“Wha-what changed your mind?”

“He came for me one night. Killed my girl, first. My Beth... but it wasn't Pagliacci, like I thought. It was some young guy in a clown mask.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“I beat him, and I killed him even though he weren't any threat to me anymore, and I gave up heroing after. Heroes don't kill, unless it's self-defense. That's the rule.”

“That's a lousy rule,” I said.

“Shut up. I tried to retire. I did. I was pushing 60 by then, but your boss couldn't let it slide, could he? Everyone knew the Clown's methods. His madness. He couldn't start a new play until he'd finished the old one! So year after year, they'd come after me. Men, women, even kids sometimes. Seemed like regular folks. Up until the point that I didn't expect trouble, then the mask would come out, and they'd go for me. Got so bad I came out here, came out for one final showdown. Moved out to the beach, where I could watch this place, tempt him out to face me down man-to-man. Finish it where it was supposed to end.”

“But it didn't work out that way, did it?” I leaned against the building, putting more weight on it. If I timed it right, I could let my feet slip, and perhaps slide down the grating without spearing myself on the jagged part of it. Maybe.

“No.” He closed his eyes, and I tensed my feet as his face became a mask of grief. But then they were open again and glaring before I could try my maneuver.

“What happened, Sparky?” My feet were starting to ache on the grating. I didn't have much time left before I slipped one way or the other, and that charge in Sparky's hands kept building. But if I could keep him talking, instead of zapping, I could use what he'd told me earlier...

“He sent people after my friends. And I couldn't save them.” He sobbed then, and wetness rolled down from his eyes. “Roy's all I got left. And he gave up the best woman he ever had to sit with me out on that damn beach. And now you show up, and Roy tells me you got a mask...”

And then it happened. His eyes drifted down to the arcs of energy between his fingers, and his face sagged as he watched the lightning dance. He hadn't been lying about the current mesmerizing him, and this was my chance.

I pushed back from the wall, just as I let my feet slip free of their holds. I slid down the grating, gritting my teeth as jagged metal tore at my wrist and my hip hit a support hard enough to bruise. But I was sliding—

KABLAM!

—And as my ears rang, I knew that the lightning had missed me!

My feet found purchase on the ground, and I dropped, drawing my gun as I went. As soon as I landed I rolled over onto my belly. I pointed my gun at Sparky, and he stopped, hands frozen in the air as he stared at me. Then, almost with a look of relief, he put them down. Sparky bowed his head, and shut his eyes.

I rose, biting my lip at the pain. My hip informed me that I'd have a hell of a bruise, later. My feet echoed on the boardwalk and Sparky flinched at the sound. I felt an odd emotion in the back of my mind, and identified it as pity. Almost two decades he'd been out here. Almost two decades, waiting to die so that no one else he loved would suffer.

He said he'd stopped being a hero. I rather doubted that.

I retrieved his collar. “Hey.”

He opened his eyes, looked up at me with an inarticulate noise.

His eyes opened wider when I tucked the pistol back into my pocket. I hadn't even taken the safety off. He stared at the collar, as I offered it to him. “Are we done here?” I kept my voice even. It took some work.

“I... You're not...”

I turned my back to him, and went and retrieved my pack. Unzipping it, I walked back over to him. “There's a mask in here all right, but it's not a clown mask. It's Dire's mask. The same person who wiped her memory gave it to her, and left her with too many questions and not enough answers.”

Once he'd settled the collar on his neck, he took the pack from me, sorted through it, pulled out the mask. He traced his fingers over it, and started shaking. “I could have killed you.”

“You didn't.”

“If I'd seen this from a distance... It's different, b-but I w-wouldn't have been able to t-tell... I would have tried to...” He was crying again, and I settled a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the slight snap of static. Now that his collar was back on, it was a fraction of what it could have been.

“It's all right,” I told him. “You didn't. We're fine, Sparky.”

He grabbed my hand, and held it to his cheek for a minute. As the cold wind whistled down the ruined and bleak boardwalk, I let him garner what comfort he could from the simple contact.

Finally, I started tugging until he let go. “Give her a second, hm?” I pulled a strip of what had been my left sleeve off, and used it to bind up the gash on my hand as best I could. It wasn't bleeding too badly, but it wasn't stopping, either.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Fooling you. Getting you hurt. Nearly killing you.”

I shrugged. “She'll let it slide this time. Don't try it again, hm? She's allergic to lightning. Makes her break out in spasms.”

He snorted, laughed in his old, creaky voice. I joined in, letting the adrenaline drain from me as I roared. “Hmhmhmhmhm... HAHAHAHAHAA!”

When I finished and put my arms down from where I'd raised fists to the sky, he was staring at me. “Damn, girl. That's a laugh belongs on a grade-a villain.”

I flushed. “It's just a laugh,” I snapped, reclaiming my backpack and zipping it up.

“Seriously, sounds like you ought to be sitting in a big swivel chair, strokin' a white cat and planning world domination.”

“It sounds like nothing of the sort!”

“You sure you ain't got a last name like Destroyer or Doombringer or something?” His mouth twitched upwards as he spoke, and I glared at him.

“Do you want a push back to camp or not?”

He raised his hands. “Easy, easy. Just saying, between that mask, the spikes and that laugh, you're coming across as a mite villainous.”

“She doesn't want to hear it,” I groused. “Done nothing to warrant that label!”

“Hey, the day's young,” he grinned. Almost as an afterthought, he rearranged his scarf to conceal the collar again.

The old bastard kept needling me all the way back through the amusement park, and down the beach. I kept growling and doing my best to ignore him. We passed Martin on the way back, and as we did the black sedan next to him peeled out, burning rubber in its hurry to leave. He shook his head, waved in our direction, and I slowed as he walked over to join us. “Wassup? Ow. That looks painful.” He pointed at my crude bandage.

I shrugged. “Only hurts when she laughs,” I quipped, using a line the face had used in Smackbrawl last night. He chuckled, and let it drop, turning his attention to Sparky.

“You treating the Dire lady good, Sparky-my-man?”

“The Dire lady? Heh. Sounds like that could be a villainous na— Hey!”

I grinned, and helped him rearrange his blanket. “Whoops, sorry. Guess she missed that rock in the path.”

“Pff, fine,” he puffed up his cheeks, let air escape between his lips. “I'm hungry anyways, should be time for breakfast. How we looking on supplies?”

“Pretty low, if what she saw last night is the sum of the pantry,” I admitted. “Fortunately we've got that shipment... Coming... In...”

The MRB airship was back again, and Agent Coleman had pulled Roy off to the side, was talking to him in a low voice. There was no sign of Agent Kingsley. I looked to Sparky, he and Martin looked to me, and I nodded. “Let's go see what's going on here.” The three of us headed that way, and the two men glanced up at our approach.
“Hey there. Wondered where you got to, you old fart.”

“He was just showing Dire Funland,” I mentioned. “Had a long talk about mistaken identities.” Roy nodded, but didn't give any indication of understanding me one way or the other. Had Sparky not talked his plan over with his oldest friend beforehand? It seemed unlikely. I shoved my speculation aside, as Coleman started talking.

“I was telling Roy here that the shipment's going to be late.”

I nodded. “Cut supply lines, powerless city, probably some bureaucracy too. No real surprise.”

He shook his head, his eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Good guess, but not because of any of that. We sent it through at four this morning, and it was ambushed before it got here. The guards were overwhelmed, and the food was stolen.”

I frowned. “By who?”

Roy grimaced. “Black Bloods.”

“Shiiiiiiiit.” Martin turned around, punched the air, and sunk his face into his palm. “That is not good.”

I pulled my hoodie around myself, looked at Roy. “You think that this might be due to...” I pointed a thumb at my face.

He glared. “Naw. Don't blame yourself. They take what they want and don't give a shit 'bout us anyway.”

I pressed my lips together. Again, the Black Bloods were demonstrating a negative impact on their host society. Were they truly as hard to root out as Martin had said? I turned toward Agent Coleman. He'd folded his arms and watched our discussion, his face impassive.

“Can you retrieve it?” I asked him.

He shook his head, and spread his hands. “We can't spare the personnel or the time. Also, we wouldn't know the first place to look.”

“Typical,” Roy muttered.

Coleman shot him a look, let his hands drop. “Hey. They don't have any costumes, or anything that would fall under our jurisdiction. I suggest you take the matter up with the ICPD.”

Martin laughed. “They so deep in the Bloods' pocket it'd take a flashlight and a map to find'em.”

Coleman glowered. “If you have evidence of that, I can maybe take it up the chain to someone who can do something about it. But if you don't, my hands are tied. The only reason I'm out here right now is because I took time out of my patrol to come here. Because I wanted to warn you not to expect food that isn't coming.”

He didn't want us to think that he had blown off a promise. I nodded. The man had integrity, at least. “Thank you, Agent.”

He looked at me, looked me up and down. “You're welcome, Miss... Dire, was it?”

“Yes.” I shook his hand, and he offered a tight smile. Rather attractive, and his grip was firm.

“We wish you luck. Oh, and good job with the power. Not sure how you did it, but it's nice to have another place on my patrol route to recharge my patroller if necessary.”

The group around me got quiet, as I glanced over to Roy. He shook his head, seemed as surprised by Coleman's declaration as I had.

“Er,” I fumbled. “Yes. Thank you. How did you know that it was her work?”

“I didn't. But thanks for confirming my guess.” He retrieved his hand, and turned to leave, and I mentally cursed myself out for allowing myself to be tricked.

Turning back to my campmates, I found Roy and Sparky talking quietly, and Martin looking sour. “Hey. Dire?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“Can you go in the women's tent, get Joan and Minna? We going to have to have a meeting on this new shitty-ass development.”

I nodded, and went inside. Took a few minutes of poking around to find Joan folding sheets. “Hey. Do you mind coming out for a meeting with the other camp leaders?”

“What's up, hun?”

I glanced around. Couldn't really tell how many people were in here right now, didn't want gossip getting around. “It's a long story. Possible trouble. Where's Minna?”

“Sorting clothes over in the laundry.”

“Dire will retrieve her.”

She nodded, and a few minutes later I had the taciturn woman in tow, with her child plodding along behind her. Roy and the others had dragged a bench out toward the ocean. Ironically, it was close to the spillpipe that I'd emerged from two nights back. It seemed an eternity since then. I led Minna over, then turned and started walking away.

“Hey,” said Roy. I stopped.

“Yes?”

“You're maybe mixed up with this, too. Maybe. Stick around, huh?”

I nodded, and returned to the group, looking at the last chair. I looked to Minna, who shook her head and crossed her arms. Taking that to mean she didn't want it, I sunk into it with a sigh of relief. Pushing Sparky had been work, and I massaged my calves as I considered the others. Martin filled Joan and Minna in on what had happened. Joan's face fell more and more before they were done. Finally she shook her head. “I won't mince words. This is bad. We're down to two days of food. The potable water situation isn't an issue now, we've refilled the jugs from the showers, but we're gonna need food. I guess we can start rationing more, make sure the kids get priority, that sorta thing.”

Where Joan got sad, Sparky got pissed. He was practically shaking in his chair, as his fingers clutched and clawed at the armrests. “I was ten years younger I'd go and sort their asses out myself. Hell, I think I got that in me now—”

Roy shook his head. “No. No, that's a bad idea. You leave this beach, they'll be on everyone else like stink on shit. Only reason they let us be so far is because you're here.”

“And you,” Martin pointed out. “How many you shoot those years ago?”

Roy shook his head, his face going grim. “Don't remind me. We lost some good friends then.” Joan bowed her head, and closed her eyes.

“We could talk with them,” I mused.

Martin snorted. “Good fuckin' luck. Told you last night, they don't play.”

“Perhaps so, but we have a service we can offer them, in exchange for goods.” I pointed at Sparky. “Wouldn't take much to extend his broadcast range. Some more parts, some work. Or even if that doesn't appeal, Dire's reasonably certain she could whip up some generators for them.”

“Right, except fer the fact that you and me faced down Caso and Bleeder in front of their buddies a couple nights back,” Roy interrupted.

I shrugged. “No mask. They don't know it's her.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that,” Martin said. “They got more eyes around then people think. You don't know them like I do.”

I tilted my head, but Joan beat me to the question, furrowing her brows at the younger man. “So what do you know about them, Martin? How do you know them so well?”

“I ain't going into the how if it's all the same. But I can answer the what. They're evil motherfuckers. Ain't got the most guns, like the Kriegers do. Ain't got the most product, like the SCK do—”

“You mean drugs, right?” Joan asked.

“Yeah, drugs. They ain't got the best intel, like the MM do. What they do got is the most crazy. They only take in the violent motherfuckers. Their initiation is always blood. Theirs or others, so only the toughest or the most kill-crazy survive and join. The only product they move is the hard shit, shit that'll kill you if you do too much. Betameth, Krokodil, XLR8. But the heaviest shit? They keep for themselves. They know they're going into a serious fight, they dope on on shit called the Black Rage. Once they do that, they don't go down until either the stuff wears off or they die. I seen a Blood on Black Rage rip off a car door, beat two assholes to death with it, take six gunshots, and keep on going until he'd bled out. Then he fell over.”

I blinked. “Why the devil would anyone want to join these people?”

“Same reasons you always get from gangers,” Roy wheezed. “Stupid, violent thugs lookin' for a way to hurt people. Too cowardly to be villains, too weak to do it alone.”

Martin looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and frowned. “Some people don't get a choice in it, old man. You the right age and strong enough, the Bloods will come looking for you. Or if you get in debt to them, or if they hook you on heavy shit. Or if they think it'd be funny. And where you gonna go for help? They live here man, cops don't. Heroes don't. Besides, ain't no way to take down a guy on Black Rage without killing him, and heroes don't kill.”

“Bah,” Sparky grumbled.  “They twitch an' dance like anyone else, you give'em enough current.”

Roy shook his head. “They didn't use the shit last time they attacked us, Sparky. If it's as all-fired nasty as Martin says, I don't want to see it in action. You know anything else about these guys?” He looked back to Martin, who shrugged.

“Just rumors and shit. Rumor is they never leave their dead behind, and drag back bodies of those they kill. They sure do like disappearing people, so I can't say one way or the other. Oh, and one more thing...” He leaned back, squinted into the distance, nodded. “They don't like doing shit during the day. Won't unless they absolutely gotta. Don't know if it's tradition or what.”

We chewed on the information for a while, discussed various options. There weren't very many. We needed that food, and they had it. Finally, Roy put forward a plan.

“All right. So let's go with Dire's idea, and try to trade power for food. Her and me should go... Sparky, you better stay here, guard the camp. Joan too. Martin, it's up to you where you wanna be.”

Martin shrugged. “Odds are better we can talk it out if I'm there. I'll go.”

Minna stood. “They sell Krokodil?”

Martin nodded, looked up at her. “Yeah.”

“I will go.” She opened her jacket, showed us the largest knife I'd ever seen. Damn thing was practically a sword.

Roy grinned. “So that's where yer keepin' yer bowie. Just remember we're gonna try and talk.” She nodded, zipped her coat up again. I couldn't help but notice Martin was sneaking a sidelong look at her chest, before it disappeared from view again.

The blonde woman continued. “Joan. Someone must watch Anya.”

Joan shuddered, put her hands behind her back. “Oh. Right. I... I'll find someone.”

“You can watch her.”

“No. No, I mean, it'll be taken care of. Don't worry about it. Just... come back safe, okay?”

“I got her,” Sparky smiled.

Minna frowned. “You are old in the mind,” she told him, bluntly.

Sparky let  his grin grow. “Thanks to my new necktie, I've got it together for the first time in a long while.” Waving a hand, he cut her off before she could speak again. “She'll be fine with me. No one'll bother her.”

Minna nudged Anya toward him, and the little girl immediately climbed into his lap, and looked up at him expectantly. He rolled his eyes and started moving the chair, and she giggled as they rode around. Joan breathed a sigh of relief, and I nodded to the remaining camp leaders. “So. When do we leave?”

Roy shrugged. “Well, they like doing things at night? We'll leave as soon as it gets dark. See if we can find someone to take us to Sangre.”

Martin whistled. “Sangre, huh? Yeah, he'd be the right guy to talk to. Guess we got the day to prepare.”

He walked off with Roy, probably talking about tactics, and bargaining methods. For my part, I sat with Minna and Joan and watched Anya play wheelchair races up and down the beach.

CHAPTER 6: Deals with Devils

“Everyone knew the Bloods were crazy. 'Specially the other gangs. Couldn't say which way they'd jump, couldn't say what they'd do. Only thing for certain was that you pissed them off, they'd get back at you. And they'd get mean. But shit, ain't no one knew how bad it was. How twisted they really were, all along...”

--Excerpt from a statement of record by NAME REMOVED BY COURT ORDER, provided as part of a plea bargain to the district attorney of Icon City, March 2000.

We had resolved to try negotiation with the Black Bloods. After a time, the growing concern about the upcoming attempt overrode the joy I got from watching Anya play, and I rose to make my way back to my “room”. Nothing I'd seen or experienced with the Black Blood gang indicated that our approach would be easy, or without danger. I had a forcefield, and that was a start, but it would only work against fast-moving attacks like bullets. Armor? I thought about it, ruled it out. The materials I had right now were crude, anything I whipped up would either be too obvious, or too weak to do anything but slow down a punch.

So... what did that leave? Defense is out, so perhaps a thought to offense? I had the gun, but that was an escalation. I could build an energy weapon of some sort, but I wasn't really sure they had anything that warranted building a laser or a particle beam, or anything of that sort. Worries about berserker drugs aside, if I wanted them dead then things like hand-held lasers were actually worse then bullets. The damaged area would be smaller, nothing compared to the trauma a leaden slug could inflict. Perhaps something else would be good. An alternative vector rather than a lethal, single-target weapon?

I gnawed my lip as I piled my tools beside me. I set my pile of remaining electronic scrap next to the tools, and shook my head.  Not much left, after I'd made Sparky's collar. What else did I have that I could spare?

I ran a quick mental inventory, and it occurred to me that I hadn't gotten good use out of my burner phone since I'd escaped my initial lair. That was a good chunk of circuitry, and with the city's power down I doubted I'd be receiving any calls any time soon.

Just in case I checked the contacts list, and scribbled the numbers down on a small notebook I'd found tucked in the toolbox. If the phones ever came back up I could call them. That done, I cracked the case and went to work.

Once done, I had trouble snapping the case back on. It barely covered the reworked wires and extra components I'd added, even after I'd gutted the thing of all the bits relating to its original function. Now it was a nasty little short-range taser that looked like a scuffed and damaged phone. I didn't know how much tougher the berserker drug made a man, but I was pretty sure that whatever it did to them, they still needed nerves to move their muscles. The only downside to my little surprise was that it was good for three shots, maybe four if I dialed the strength down. Or one, if I didn't mind reducing the target to a corpse. And if the worst happened, I could set it to discharge all energy at once, turn it into a tiny bomb. Ineffective at any but the closest range, though.

As the sun sank behind the city, we gathered together again. There was a quiet, solemn pall around the camp, and I caught people watching us.  They looked worried as I walked out with Roy, Martin, and Minna. Martin glared back, rubbing his scraggly mustache. “Some fucker talked.”

Roy shrugged. “Impossible to keep a secret around here anyways. Works to our advantage today anyway. If'n they know we're just out to talk we'll find'em faster.”

Martin looked doubtful about that. Minna's face didn't change one way or another, just kept glaring toward the city as we walked up the stairs, and across the empty street. Save for the odd car or motorcycle, the traffic along here had been fairly dead the last few days. Glancing southwest, however, I could see a few small airships moving through the skyscrapers downtown.

“Does Icon City have an airport?” I asked.

“Miles to the west, way the hell out of town,” said Roy. “Ain't much traffic comes across the ocean direct, so we don't see much of it.”

I nodded to the sky. “Where are those coming from, then?”

“Probably taxis, private ships, that kind of thing. Maybe a few police cruisers from stations that actually have funding or cops that give a shit,” said Martin. “Figure the companies down there like Morgenstern or Arkayde got generators an' shit to recharge'em.”

“Are generators really so rare?” I asked. “Seems like a handy thing to have around in the case of... Well, this.”

Roy shrugged. “Weren't no need for'em until now. Things worked fine up until Y2K hit.”

That didn't seem like much of an excuse to me, but I let it lie. I rather doubted he'd influenced the city's infrastructure, or had much say in how it had been made in the first place.

The brownstones cast long shadows on the street as we moved through them. I shivered and pulled my hoodie closer around myself. Though the pain from my gashed wrist had subsided to a dull throb, the real tragedy was the ripped sleeve. I jammed my hand into the central pocket, trying to keep it warm.

“Snow on the air t'night,” Roy muttered. He coughed a few times, something loose rattling in his lungs, and spat into the gutter. I caught the darkness of blood, and studied him as we went. Old and frail, stooped and worn. What kept him moving, besides sheer stubbornness? What drove him to follow his old friend onto the beach, keeping watch for assassins that could come from anywhere?

Maybe he had nothing else left.

He caught me looking at him, and squinted. I shook my head. Nothing to be said on the matter, nothing his pride would let him answer, anyway. Instead I shifted my gaze to Martin. Martin was watching the sides of the street, barely paying attention to the rest of us. His eyes tracked every noise, every movement. And we were being watched... I felt eyes on us from every window nearby. Without television, without radio, without anything to do but hide in the dark and hope that this too would pass, we were now promoted to the status of prime entertainment.

When the Black Bloods found us, it was almost a relief.

“You're far from the beach old man,” said the pale youth in the lead. There were six of them all told, five males of varying ages and one female teen. They had a mix of pistols and shotguns out, and didn't seem particularly concerned about us. The girl grinned and hopped up on a nearby car, taking the safety off her revolver as she went.

Roy raised his hand. “Hey there. Ivan, yeah?”

“Yeah. You got a reason for being on our street right now, geezer?”

“We came to talk to Sangre.”

A dark-skinned, older man with a potbelly shouldered his shotgun, and stared at Roy. “He's doing god's work right now. Don't think he's got time for your kind of scum. Though he might make an exception for some of y'all...” He looked Minna up and down, taking no particular care to hide his gaze. The group of gangers laughed. Minna's face showed no emotion, stiff and still as the ice in the shallows.

“We can give him power,” Martin spoke up. “Electricity. All he wants.”

That shut them up for a second. The pale guy looked over to the potbellied man, and after a second they both nodded. “No skin off our asses,” Potbelly said. “But if you piss him off it's gonna go bad for you.”

“Yeah, we got that,” said Roy. “Where can we find him?”

“St. Augustine's.” Pale youth grinned at Roy's face, as the words sunk in. “Like Sonder told you, he's doing god's work right now.”

They laughed as they left us, but I noticed that the girl and the next youngest one there never turned their backs on us completely. They knew Roy.

“Well,” Roy said, as he turned back to us. “I guess that St. Augustine's won't be sending any donations any time soon.”

“Problematic?” I asked.

“Wasn't expecting none with the troubles going on now. C'mon, let's get there 'fore the night's done.”

The sun was well and truly gone by the time we got there. St. Augustine's turned out to be the church I'd seen a little ways off of Jefferson street. I remembered the shadows I'd seen moving in the windows yesterday morning, and wondered when Sangre and his bunch had moved in. Wondered if there had been anyone there who objected to it. Given the amount of firepower the Bloods on the street had been packing, I rather doubted that anyone had objected for long one way or the other.

There was a group of four teens in black jackets smoking outside the door, sitting on and around dark wooden pews that had been dragged outside. One of the teens stuck a knife into the old wood, scratched the side of it, carving crude letters in one by one. The sight of it filled me with... not anger, but more of an annoyance. Someone had put work into it, that wood was clearly handcrafted and old. Now it was being casually mutilated, with no thought to its history, or the cost of replacing it.

As we got closer the biggest teen flicked his cigarette off to the side, held out a hand toward us. “Beat it, you fuckin' hobos.”

“Here to see Sangre,” Roy grunted.

“He call for you? I don't fuckin' think so.”

Martin moved up, got in his face, ignored the other three scrambling up from their seats. “Sangre gonna want to hear what we got to offer him,” Martin said, staring him down, unblinking. “Go in and tell him we come to bargain.”

The teen spat in Martin's face, and Martin picked him up the second he did, both hands lashing out and catching him under the arms and lifting. Frozen in shock, the kid offered little resistance as Martin slammed him against the wall, paused, did it again, then twisted and threw him down at the feet of the two teens running toward him. They skidded to a stop, trying not to fall over their buddy's groaning form.

Hm. Martin was stronger than he looked. I'd keep that in mind.

“You don't speak for Sangre!” Roy shouted, as the last one struggled to his feet, pulling the knife out of the wood of the pew. “You fuckin' don't speak for him. You think different? That why you're on guard duty, pendejos?”

“Fuck you old man!” The teen on the ground struggled to his feet, started to draw a gun, and Roy's pistol was in his hand and aimed between his eyes in the time it took to blink. The Blood froze.

For a second we all looked at each other. The one with the knife started to draw it back, maybe to try a throw, and I slipped my gun from its waistband and undid the safety. He jumped at the soft “click,” and looked from me to Roy.

“Heh, heh, heh.” A soft chuckle from above, and I risked a look up. A window on the second floor of the church was open, and a bare-chested, slim man with long hair was leaning out from it. His features were fine, and his grin showed white teeth. “Hey there Roy.”

“Sangre,” Roy said, without looking up. “How long were you watchin' this?”

“Since you started talking. It got pretty funny pretty quick.”

The gangers by the door shifted from foot to foot, looking guilty. The teen with the gun glanced at it, tucked it away. I followed suit. Roy risked a glance up.

“You decent?”

“Fuck no.”

“I mean... you okay with visitors?”

“Sure. Just starting the night's business anyway. Ah... leave the guns out here for now. Jamie, Big Dog, search them all.”

They patted us down. I handed over the gun, but as the nearest one stretched a hand out for the backpack, I pulled it away. “No weapons in here,” I told him.

He shook his head. “You heard him.”

Hell. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this... I unzipped the backpack, showed the contents to the teen. Immediately, he reached in, pulled out the mask. “Hey boss!” He shoved it upwards, and Sangre laughed that quiet little chuckle. “So you're the one. Makes sense. Where'd you find your new girlfriend, Roy?”

“Your boys started shit. Weren't no harm done in the end though,” Roy protested.

“I dunno Roy, she smells a little like vigilante from where I'm standing. Already got one of those fuckers to domesticate. Don't need another.”

Another? What was he talking about?

“Listen, we got services to trade.”

“That why you brought two women along? I'm not so hard up that I'll go for homeless pussy, Roy.”

“I'm talking power. Electricity. We got it, and so can you.”

“Huh. Okay, you managed to say something interesting. Jamie, bring them up.”

I reached out for my mask again, and the teen pulled it back, sneering.

Sangre frowned. “Big Dog. I didn't say to keep that.”

His words were quiet, his tone conversational, but the look of raw fear that flashed across the teen's face was almost painful to see. He pressed the mask back into my hand, muttered an apology as I slipped it into the backpack again. With our guns and Minna's knife left piled on the pew outside, Jamie threw open the weathered doors to the church. He beckoned us into the dim, flickering space beyond.

The interior of the church didn't quite match the exterior. The walls were paint-covered cinderblocks, with a mud-tracked carpet lining the floor. It was dark in here, with dancing candlelight providing the only visibility. Someone had set candles against the walls, votives by the look of them. There were a few bigger ones of assorted styles mixed in here and there. Wooden doors stood open in the entry hall, and I saw dim shapes moving in a room off to the side. There were glittering eyes watching us, as the smell of some sort of burning plant wafted through that entryway. On the wall in front of us a pair of doors stood shut, with a bulletin board off to the side of them. The papers had been ripped down and strewn over the floor, and a spray-painted skull decorated it now.

The teen, Jamie, moved up to the double doors and pulled one open. “In past the altar, and up the stairs,” he said, and we passed through into the worship hall. More candles here, shadows dancing as we moved past carved columns and scattered pews. High ceilings too, with stained glass windows to either side, built to catch the sunrise and the sunset. Must have been a sight during the day, but now it was simply ominous. This place was lit by flashlights and electric lanterns, and the pews had been moved aside to make room for piles of, well, stuff. One side looked to be stacks full of electronics... televisions, computers, and game consoles made up most of it. Another pile looked to be cans of food. As I watched, a pair of gangers shook sealed packets of MRE's out of crates. The altar itself shown with the glitter of gems, as what appeared to be a huge heap of jewelry had been piled on the top of it. There were about a dozen Black Bloods in the room, and every one of them was armed with some sort of gun. The ones who weren't sorting goods were watching us with cold eyes.

“They been looting,” explained Martin.

“Looting? No,” said Jamie. “This is all tribute. The people around here need protection, and they're willing to pay for it.”

Roy snorted, but a glance from Martin stilled any words he might have had on the subject.

We passed through the worship hall, past the altar, into a small hallway beyond, lit by a single hanging lantern. There was a staircase at the end of the hall, and a few open doors revealing mostly unlit rooms. From one of them, I could hear the sound of a woman crying, interspersed with the slapping of flesh against flesh. A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I saw Minna clenching her fists open and shut, staring into the darkness.

“Protection, huh?” Roy muttered. “I bet.”

Against my expectations, Jamie looked away, looking almost ashamed in the split-second his face was still visible. It struck me that he was actually fairly young, as far as I could tell.

“It's up the stairs,” he said. “Come on.”

I put my hand on Minna's shoulder, and she looked to me, something dark and primal in her eyes. I shook my head, and mouthed “later”.

After a second she nodded, and we followed the men up the stairs.

Jamie led us up past the first landing and the door at the end of it, to a second and final landing. Heavy cloth hung across the doorway here, and a sweet scent drifted out from under it. Martin frowned. “He lives in that shit?”

“Yes,” Jamie said.

“And he's not ranting about three-headed moon men or stuff like that?”

Sangre's voice drifted out from behind the curtain. “Come in and judge for yourself. I can hear you, you know.  Ah, you stay outside Jamie. I'll be fine.”

Roy shook his head and pushed aside the curtain.

If I'd thought the room downstairs had a lot of candles in it, this put it to shame. They were on just about every visible surface, casting dancing shadows across the sloped ceiling. Judging by the boxes and folded chairs stacked here and there, this was storage for the church.  In the center of it, a pile of blankets surrounded by rugs hung into curtains. Pale, feminine legs, two pairs of them, protruded out from the shadows of the makeshift bed.

Off to the side, dropping small bundles of herbs into hanging censors, stood Sangre. He was clad only in leather pants so tight that I had to wonder how he walked without chafing his anus. Smoke oozed out of the makeshift braziers, and billowed around the floor. An honest-to-god sword stood against the wall, next to a couple of pistols and SMG's dangling from hooks.

Sangre turned to face us with a hair flip that sent his waist-length blonde hair over a shoulder, a move that was far too practiced to be accidental. Fine lips curved in a smile, as he surveyed us. “Roy. Martin. And two women I don't know yet.”

The scent of the smoke tickled the back of my throat. I glanced to Martin, he shook his head. I breathed as shallowly as I could.

“This here's Miss Dire, and Miss Minna,” Roy said, and Sangre moved in closer, reaching out for us. Minna jolted back, almost toppling a box laden with candles, before catching it. I stood still as Sangre scooped up my hand, brought it to his lips. “A pleasure. Might I see that mask you carry with you?”

I unzipped the pack, showed it to him. He looked it over, smiled. “Caso and Bleeder had quite a lot to say a few nights back over a tall woman who was wearing that mask.”

“Caso and Bleeder went looking for trouble, and we didn't start shit,” said Roy. “Everyone walked away and weren't no harm done at the end of the night.”

Sangre smiled, his hand darting out and scooping up the mask as he turned it over and examined the back of it. I glared, but kept silent. If he got stupid I could tase him and get it back, and I doubted he could break it beyond my capability to repair it.

“Mmm. See, Roy, the problem with that is that you're not the guy who gets to decide if you need to pay the price or not. Despite what liberals will tell you, a bunch of smelly hobos don't get to act like real people and try to stand up for themselves and then expect to walk away without paying the price!”

In the space of a heartbeat he had whirled on Roy, and hissed out the words with pure malice in his voice. His demeanor had changed within an instant, and corded muscle stood out on his torso. We all took a few steps back, and I blinked. My head ached a bit. Was the smoke getting to me? Hard to tell. Either way the situation had taken a turn south, and I eased a hand onto my phone-taser.

Roy, to his credit, stood his ground. “Which is why I expect you took our food.”

Sangre chuckled, his smile reappearing as he patted Roy on the bearded cheek. “A plus. One hundred percent. Good answer. Don't worry, we'll put it to better use than a bunch of beachside garbage.”

Martin nodded. “Looks like you got plenty downstairs, though.”

Sangre shrugged, tossed the mask from hand to hand. “Maybe, maybe not. Reputable sources tell us that the power will stay off until certain people are good and happy with the situation. Could take a while.”

“Reputable sources?” I asked. “Who?”

He flickered, and was right in front of me. I blinked, my eyes had barely tracked that. The smoke was getting to me. We needed to wrap this up, and soon. Sangre stared me in the eye, his pupils dilated so wide that the only whites were rims to the side of his sockets. “Don't you worry your little head about that, Di. You mind if I call you Di? You look nothing like the poor lamented Princess, but that's okay.”

“She doesn't mind,” I muttered. “But we came here to trade for food.”

Sangre chuckled. “I already told you I'm not that hard up for companions.” He gestured toward the makeshift bed. “Besides, you're a bit plain for my tastes, Lady Di.”

“Not that,” I replied. “Generators.”

I'd originally planned to tell him about Sparky and offer to extend the range, but Sangre's sliminess was getting on my nerves. I didn't trust him knowing anything more about our camp and capabilities than necessary. I continued.

“Dire is good at making devices, such as generators. Give her a car and a few hours, and she'll rig up a hydrogen-fueled device capable of powering a building, maybe two if you conserve power.”

Sangre looked over at me, smiled. He tapped my mask against his chin. “Well. That's a kind offer. But I think no.”

A low curse from Martin, and Roy sagged. “All right. Sorry we wasted yer time.”

“Oh now, who said you did that? We're keeping her. If she's who I think, then there's someone looking for her, and they'll pay us all the generators or other things we could want.”

He was pointing at me. I took a few steps to the side, reached a hand for the pocket with the taser in it. Missed. Sangre advanced on me, smiling...

And Minna charged him.

Minna's body stretched impossibly, and the wall blurred in afterimage... the smoke. Had to be. I was feeling it more, but she wasn't, perhaps. She slammed into Sangre, carried him over. Then they were rolling on the ground, knocking over boxes and candles. I staggered back, looked toward the windows so far away. Windows. Fresh air... if I could get to them, open them...

A low cry of pain from behind me as I moved, and Roy telling Martin to get his arm, get his arm now dammit, but I ignored them, intent on the windows. But things got skewed, and I tripped over something in my path. I fell in a tangle of sheets as one of the curtains around the makeshift bed tore free. My hand slipped on something yielding, and I stared into the dead eyes of a pale woman.

The women in Sangre's bed were corpses.

It's hard to tell how long I spent staring at them. Their lips seemed to move as the shadows twisted, almost as if they were warning me to flee, but I was stuck staring. The smoke was skewed my sense of time, I could tell. Distantly I was aware that the scuffle behind me had stopped, and then strong arms hooked under my arms and dragged me back to the doorway.

A figure stood there. How long had it been there, watching the struggle? My senses fought the drug, fought to make sense of what I was looking at. Tall, muscular, bare-chested like Sangre had been, with countless scars and burns along his frame. A metal mask, cruder than my own covered his head. It was featureless save for eyeholes, a bump for the nose, and some breathing holes. The eyes... the eyes weren't human. They looked human, but they weren't. Bloodshot. Dead.

“So this is the woman,” he rumbled, and I couldn't look away, caught like prey fixated on a predator. This stranger threatened by merely existing, loomed just by standing.

“Not much to look at, is she?” Sangre's cheerful voice from behind me. Ah, he was the one dragging me. “Still, I've done worse when I found it in my bed.”

Steel mask shook his head, my sight rendering after-images in the smoke. My eyelids drooped, as sense began to flee.

“No. She is theirs to torment however they choose, that's their right. I will go to see them. You are not permitted to harm the rest of this trash until I return. ”

Sangre sighed behind me, as my eyes shut. “As you wish, sir. As you wish...”

Then blackness, and I knew nothing more.

CHAPTER 7: Strange Bedfellows

“You're going to need allies. The truth of the human condition is that no one should ever go it alone, and despite your skill and talents, this is going to hold true for you, too. But be careful. Trust is never a guarantee, and often it will be a luxury you don't have time to verify. Always keep one eye open for betrayal, even when things are going well. Especially when things are going well. You'll find a few useful contacts in your phone. Once you get settled, give them a call. ”

--Excerpt #64 from the Dire Monologues

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a darkened room with my friends scattered around me. Two electric lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating a concrete walled space. Like the attic, this was filled with random stuff. I saw boxes, a couple of blackboards shoved against the walls, folders full of construction paper shapes and macaroni-pasted art projects. A small puppet booth sat near stairs leading up, and next to it sat Jamie, with Roy's gun in his hand. He had his hands on his knees, and was staring at us. It looked like I had been the last to wake up.

To the east of us, behind a thick wooden door, someone howled. It was a sound of pure pain, and it went on so long I wondered how they could keep it going without breathing. Jamie flinched, I think we all did. There was no sanity in that scream. It finally wound down, but was followed by the clanging of metal on metal.

As discreetly as I could, I checked my pockets. I still had the forcefield generator, the phone taser, and the universal remote. My backpack was missing, along with the ball drone and toolbox. Judging by the impression I had got of the jackass, Sangre would probably be keeping my mask. It was close enough to the one that his boss wore, that he might see it as flattery.

Well.  He thought he'd be keeping that. I had other notions. “Everyone all right?” I murmured.

“Hey. Shut up,” said Jamie. He pointed the gun in our general direction.

We weren't in much shape to put up a fight. Hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked like Minna had a black eye. Martin's lips were busted and puffy, a trickle of blood drying on his face. Only Roy looked untouched.

Well. If we couldn't talk with Jamie present, we'd need to fix that obstacle. “Jamie?” I asked.

“Shut up.”

“She can make you rich.” He blinked, but shook his head.

“Ain't interested.”

“One phone call. She'll pay you ten thousand dollars for it.”

“Like a broke ass fucking bum has that kind of money.”

“Normally you'd be right. But how much is Sangre getting paid for turning her in?”

He was quiet for a minute, chewing on it. I dug out the phone. “Here. You can even make the call yourself. This will work even throughout the outage.”

“Throw it over.”

“Hell no, we're on a concrete floor.” I stomped on it, to emphasize a point. “Just don't shoot her, all right? She'll come over and leave it on that box, and you can pick it up after she moves back.”

“Don't try anything stupid. You live, but Sangre said to shoot the others if you got dumb.”

I nodded, and moved in, slowly.

Twenty feet from him, I leveled the phone and hit 'call'

A flash, a sizzle, a bright arcing light as a miniature bolt jumped from the phone and I felt a bit of the current go through me as well. No way to properly shield it, and I could feel my hair stand on end as the volts grounded through me into the floor.

But the impact on Jamie was much more impressive. He fell, the gun hitting the ground with a clatter. He spasmed, arcs of miniature lightning darting and snapping around him as he drummed his heels on the ground and jerked back and forth until he finally slowed and stopped.

I walked over, scooped up the gun, and returned to the others. They were staring at me in shock. “All right,” I whispered. “Let's discuss getting out of here.” I offered the gun to Roy, buttfirst, and he took it with a grin.

“Like the Black Forest all over again. It's devil dog time.”

“What?” That made no sense to me.

“Nevermind. Anyway, first thing is to get up the stairs, but I dunno how many they got up there.”

I chewed my lip, and as I did so a howl echoed out from the east. I glanced at Jamie. He'd be out for maybe an hour, given his size and the voltage absorbed. “Wait here, guard the room,” I whispered to the others. Minna nodded. She moved up to stand next to the stairs, picking up a folding chair as she did so. Roy moved behind some boxes, rested the gun on them and waited, as still as death. Martin, for his part, jumped up as I started moving to the eastern door. “Whoa, hey, what are you doing. Whatever the fuck is going on with whoever the fuck that is, that is some shit we don't... want...” I ignored him.

The door opened into darkness. I moved back, unhooked a lantern from the ceiling, and shone it in. Pipes, machinery, a distributor hub for the church's non-functioning power. This was a utility room. And in the back of it, chained to the remnants of a water heater, was a hulking figure wearing bulky armor. It was made from car panels, from old appliances, and I saw cooling coils mixed in with capacitors. In some cases components were held in place with bailing wire.

The figure shifted as I shone the light on it, and heavy chains jangled. There was a padlock nearby, out of reach of the figure. It looked like it was securing the restraints around him. He jerked and twisted, and tried to point a gauntleted hand at me, and as he did it lit up with a series of colored lights. A rising whine started at the edge of my hearing. He had a sonic emitter of some sort built into the gauntlets of his armor, I realized. It seemed to be broken, which is why I still had intact eardrums right now.

I shut the door, beckoned Martin over with a nod of my head. “Hey. You mentioned someone last night. A hero called Scrapper?”

“Yeah.” I opened the door, and shone the light in. Eyes wide, he studied the figure. “Shiiiit. Yeah, that's him. The fuck they do to him?”

“Don't know,” I answered. I knelt down to study him, staying out of reach. He snarled, and that whine kept up. “Scrapper. Your enemies are our enemies. Can we make common cause?”

The whine disappeared. I flicked an eye toward the padlock. “She could push that in to you. Those look like augmented gauntlets, hydraulics. You could crush it, and pull the chains free.”

A coughing sob was his only reply.

I continued. “Will you take the fight to them, when you are freed? Will you kill the Black Bloods?”

A few throaty breaths, amplified by the voice modulator in his helmet. I couldn't read his face, as I shone the light on it. The cracked lexan panel of his faceplate was almost completely opaque with blood and other fluids. A gap of perhaps an inch revealed gore, a beard... Maybe a flicker of something that could have been an eye. Finally he opened his hands and put them on the ground, almost in supplication.

“This is a horrible idea,” Martin whispered. “Don't look like much of him's left in there.”

I shook my head. “Go tell the others to hide. Her idea, so she'll take the risk. Everyone else needs to get out of sight.”

“Your life, Dire girl.”

“She's probably got years on you, kid, so don't call her girl. Go.” He withdrew, leaving me and Scrapper in the utility room, with the cat's cradle of chains between us.

I sat down and started work, tracing them. I kept one hand on my phone taser, though I didn't know if the two shots I had left were enough to drop him. Whatever had been done to him, plus the unknown factor of his armor... this was a gamble.

But he didn't fight or fuss as I tested chains, looked for the slack, and found the correct strands to tug to pull the padlock closer to him. He stretched out a gauntlet as it approached, and I stopped it two inches from his grasp. He snarled, and I snarled back.

“Listen!” I put a commanding tone in my voice, and he quieted. “Head to the stairs, and good luck.” I thrust the lock into his hand, before retreating from the room and setting the lantern on the ground. I backed into the corner farthest from the stairs, and waited. I didn't have long to wait. I heard a screech of metal bending, the rattling clink of chains sliding loose, and a hissing, clanging series of thuds. The sounds of his armored bulk as it shifted and stood on the concrete floor.

It was loud, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, when I heard feet on the stairs and shouts from above. Two Bloods came tearing down the stairs, shotguns and flashlights out. I barely had the presence of mind to turn on my forcefield generator before their weapons were leveled at me. I raised hands, smiled.

“The fuck you do, bitch?” One of them spat.

“Made friends and influenced people,” I replied.

One of them cocked his shotgun, putting his flashlight under his chin to free up both hands to do it. “Make some fucking sense.”

I smiled as blandly as I could manage. “You should probably be running.”

Scrapper exploded out of the utility room at a faster speed than I'd guessed was possible, given the bulk of his suit. He screamed as he went, and they screamed back. Didn't see much else, as I was already diving for the ground. A shotgun barked, and then there were noises of metal impacting flesh at high speeds. Crunching noises followed, and screaming. More screaming. I didn't look up again until heavy, metal-clad footsteps sounded on the stairs.

When I rose up from my cover, I saw what he'd left of the two gangers. Worse, I smelled what he had left of them. I could hear Martin retching from another corner, and Minna was looking down from her spot behind the puppet stage, her hand over her face. Only Roy was unaffected, as he moved over and started sorting through the crushed mess that had been two teenagers a minute ago.

Overhead, heavy stomping feet pounded on the floor, and yelling mixed with gunshots. Scrapper's howling rose above it all, and I shook my head. I hadn't quite expected this level of savagery from him. But there was no point in angsting over it, we couldn't afford the luxury of reflection at the moment. I moved up to Roy, and he offered me a shotgun and a handful of shells. I took it, started loading it. Minna made her way around the stage, picked up the other one from the ground. She moved slowly, her eyes glinting with unknowable thoughts in the lantern's light. Roy offered her a handful of shells as well, and she took them without comment. I used the time to pick up a bloody flashlight that one of them had dropped.

“Shit. How can you just—” Martin swallowed, made his way over. “Nevermind. We need to leave.”

“Not without the food,” Roy insisted.

“Also need to retrieve Dire's tools and mask,” I affirmed.

Someone screamed overhead, a rising wail cut off by a crunch. Martin shook his head. “You're all crazy.”

Minna cocked her shotgun, started up the stairs. I followed, grabbing her shoulder. “Let Dire lead.” She acquiesced, and Roy crept up behind us. Martin took the rear spot, and we got to the first floor. Above us rose the flight of stairs to Sangre's chamber, but the bulk of the noise came from the area back at the worship hall. As I stood there in indecision, Minna moved first. She headed to the darkened side-rooms, and shone a lantern into a doorway. “You! Come.” A girl moved out of the room, clad only in a large tee shirt, hands up and shaking.

“Calm yourself, you're among friends,” I said. “Martin, you think you can find an exit, get her out of here?”

“Uh. Yeah. Let me look around.” He took the girl's hand, and started poking around the hallway.

For my part, I ran upstairs to Sangre's room and used the barrel of the shotgun to move aside the curtain. The smoke hit my face, sweet and heady, but I ignored it and shone the flashlight around. Sure enough, my backpack was on the ground a little ways inside, and I put the flashlight down and retrieved it. A quick check showed the ball drone and toolkit inside, but no mask.

Gunfire from below, and the rising whine of a broken sonic emitter. If he was trying those, he was feeling hard-pressed. We might not have our distraction for much longer.

“Dire!” I whirled around, and saw dark shapes moving outside the curtain. The door down on the next landing had opened, and Black Blood gangers were trying to creep down the stairs. Light glinted off of gunmetal, and I cocked the shotgun and burst through the doorway. They had no time to react as the twelve-gauge thundered in my arms. One was blown against the wall, sliding down it and leaving smears behind.

Another one ran back through the doorway, but the third and fourth opened fire on me. I backed up as my forcefield whined... then a pistol barked a few times from below as Roy joined in, and another one groaned and sagged to the ground. The last one turned his back and tried to run back through the doorway after the second one. I unloaded the last barrel into him. He fell, sobbing in pain.

As I watched Roy shuffled upstairs, looked down at the sobbing one, and shot him. He stopped sobbing. “Cover me while I check them,” Roy said, and I moved down to the landing, peered through the door into a hallway that curved out of sight. There were more doors along it. No sign of the runner. I kept watch until Roy grunted, and pulled back. “Found some car keys. Look like they go to a Fjord.” More gunfire from below, and I glanced down the stairs. Couldn't tell for certain, but it looked like it was coming from the worship hall. A voice rose, it might have been Sangre's... I didn't have the chance to positively identify it before Scrapper howled again.

I glanced to Roy, and we moved downstairs. Martin and the pantsless woman rejoined us from a side corridor. Minna crouched in a side doorway, covering the door to the worship hall.

“Found an exit to the back,” Martin said.

“You see a Fjord out there?”

“Uh. There's an SUV, it might be a Fjord...”

Roy handed him the keys. “Get her started. We'll be out after we settle things in there.” He jerked his head toward the gunfire.

“We are pushing our luck, man,” Martin protested. “But okay, all right, you wanna be crazy-ass motherfuckers it's your dicks hanging out there, not mine.” He glanced at me. “Metaphorically speaking.”

I ignored him. “Let Dire lead. Her forcefield can handle a few more bullets.”

Roy and Minna nodded, Martin shook his head and dragged the girl back down the way they'd come.

I burst through the doorway with the shotgun out, moved to the side as bullets whistled by. I put lead into the air toward the muzzle flashes, not really caring if I hit anyone. I was just trying to rattle them enough so that Minna and Roy could clear the door without getting shot. A pew loomed ahead of me and I crouched down, started moving along it, ignored the squelching noises of something sticky and warm.

More muzzle flashes and gunshots from my end of things. The boom of a shotgun, and the noise I'd come to associate with Roy's pistol. I reloaded, popped my head up, and actually looked at the scene. Enough lanterns were intact that I got a pretty good picture. Scrapper had come through here, and run straight into the Black Bloods who were sorting the loot. They'd been heavily armed, and events had taken their natural course. But their guns hadn't been much good against the combination of heavy armor and whatever rage drugs they'd put him on.

Which isn't to say that they hadn't done damage. I could see him in the back, staggering, armor stained with red streaks in the light. I couldn't tell how much was his. He was hunting among the back pews and support pillars, deep in the shadows. And then I saw why, as my own mask faded out from the darkness. Sangre's sword swiped around, sending sparks flying as it cut into the back of Scrapper's armor. With a snarl, Scrapper fell over, and Sangre darted back. I fired the shotgun at him, but he was moving too quickly and I missed. He faded back into the shadows.

A few more bullets came my way, from the sides of the room, and one glanced off my forcefield. Not all of the gangers were down, then. I relocated, reloading as I went. “You're wearing her mask, Sangre.”

A giggle, almost girlish. “Oh, I had to try it on. All sorts of nifty tricks with this thing. Seriously, though, you were a fool to set my pet here loose.”

Gunfire from my side, and a yell from one of the gangers. I popped up again, saw Scrapper climbing to his feet. I tracked a muzzle flash to the side of him, and let go with both barrels. Someone fell with a meaty thud, and stray pellets rattled off Scrapper's armor to no real effect. No sign of Sangre. I ducked down again, rolled under the pew to reload.

“So irritating before they're properly trained,” Sangre's voice sang out. Nearer now, somewhere in the darkness. “A hell of a lot of boys dead. That switches things. Before, turning you over was business. Nothing personal. Now though? Now you're mine, until the handoff comes.”

I thought I tracked movement from underneath. Bare, pale feet moving three pews down. I wrestled the shotgun over and tried to get a bead on them, but they were gone before I could.

And then his voice was close behind me, and I froze as a steel blade caressed the back of my neck. “There are so, so many things I can do to you without killing you. We'll have time to review each and every last one of them. In slow, fun, detail.”

I let the shotgun slide from my fingers. Smiled, as I turned to face him. “You like the mask?”

“I may keep it,” he confessed. “Now get up, slowly, and tell your friends to stand down.”

“You're right,” I said, as I stood. “It does have a lot of nifty apps. Here, she'll show you one. Frogs in winter burn azure pyres!”

“What are you going on abOOOOOOWWWWW—”

The mask lit him up with thousands of volts, as he screamed and twitched, sword clattering to the ground. The energy coursed through him, arcing off the pews, blowing a few stray lanterns, and shocking me slightly when a few flickers of electricity got close. I sagged into the pew, grinning.

I was very, very glad I'd taken the time to poke through the mask's settings, and set the password to the anti-theft system.

Around me I was aware of the gunfire falling silent. I caught flashes of the last few gangers fleeing out side doors, faces twisted in fear. I sat as the lightning flashed around me, and glared down at Sangre. I had the ability to cancel the anti-theft system at any time, but I let it go on until I was quite certain he was dead. The man had proven himself vile in every sense of the word. Finally there was no doubt in my mind, and I spoke. “A goodbye for the ages, my final friend.” The mask chimed, and the lightning ceased. I reclaimed the mask, releasing an odor like cooked pork into the air, as I brushed ash from the back of it. A quick check satisfied me that it had taken no damage, and I slid it into my backpack.

Roy's voice broke through my reverie. “Dire! Look out!”

I whirled. I'd gotten too absorbed in watching Sangre die, I'd forgotten that we weren't alone here. Scrapper was behind me with an arm stretched out, the gauntlet reaching for my head.

I tried to back up, tripped over the pew behind me and went head over heels. Scrapper shoved it aside to get to me, picked me up by an arm, and started to squeeze. Pain flared, and I yelled. Then Roy was there, hammering at him with a candlebra, trying to get through the weak spots in his armor, but Scrapper backhanded him with a snarl. Roy hit the wall with a sickening crack, and fell. I used the time to think over my options, and dismissed the shotgun. It was below me and out of reach. The universal remote might or might not work on his armor, but it was useless without the mask. That left one thing, and if it didn't work I'd be in trouble.

With my free hand, I pulled the phone taser out. As his metal fingers ground into the meat and bones of my arm, I punched a series of numbers on the phone, and jammed it through the crack of his faceplate. He stopped, dropped me, and fumbled at his helmet as a rising whine sounded from within. I scrambled away. Behind me the energy of my taser-phone discharged all at once, shattering the casing and causing an explosion next to his face. He crashed to the ground, but I didn't spare him a glance as I scurried over to Roy. Minna joined me, and we turned him over. He screamed as we did. I didn't see much in the way of blood, but I didn't know what was wrong, either. “Roy?”

He sobbed. I snarled in frustration. “Minna, go get Martin.”

She left, and I sat with Roy, let him sob as I held his shoulders. Footsteps behind me and I turned, but it was just Martin and Minna.

“Shit man... how bad is it?”

“Don't know,” I said. “We load him first, then come back for the food and the guns. Every one we can find.”

My eyes traced the area where Sangre had jumped me, the tangle of pews, and the bulk of Scrapper's armored corpse. “And not just that. Going to need every hand free to haul Scrapper's armor out.”

“What the hell you want that for?”

“It's bullet proof, Dire's not.”

“Look, we could just cut our losses—”

I stood, got in Martin's face. “No. No we can't. Black Bloods got away. They know what happened, they know what we did. You remember kayfabe? We just called out the heel in public. What do you think's going to happen?”

He paled, looked away. “Shit. Shit, shit, motherfucking...”

A yell from Roy startled both of us, and we looked over to see Minna trying to drag him. I looked back to Martin. “You help her get his shoulders, Dire gets his feet?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It took a few minutes to get him into the backseat of the Fjord Grand Sioux outside. It took a few minutes more to load Scrapper's body into the back. The rest of the space we filled with canned goods and the few shipment boxes the Bloods hadn't unpacked, along with every pistol and shotgun we could find. The girl Minna had saved huddled next to Roy. Her legs were drawn up and her arms curled around them, almost in a fetal position. We let her be. Finally, after twenty minutes, I deemed that we'd gotten all we could. Martin agreed. We drove off into the night, and I sagged back in the passenger seat, covering my eyes with one hand. My left arm throbbed where Scrapper had tried to crush it. If I didn't have an enormous bruise all around it now, I'd be surprised.

Sweet heavens, this had gone bad quickly. Now we had to ride out the consequences as best we could. And yet...

I looked around the car full of food. At the crude armor in the back. And finally at Roy.

And yet, we'd come out ahead. Maybe. If Roy recovered, I'd count this one a win.

CHAPTER 8: Hail the Triumphant

“The Midtown Militia... they meant well. Grew out of a guardian angel group that started up in the sixties. Civilians wanting to stop crime, protect their neighborhoods. But fast forward a few decades, and you can pretty much see how they became just another gang. Backalley justice, connections with a lot of less-moral heroes, and sometimes worse violence than the criminals they were formed to oppose. But to be honest, you can't deny that they did some good, in among all the bad...”

--Excerpt from “Memoirs in the Fastlane” by Freeway, noted hero and Icon City metahuman activist.

“Lights on the beach.” Martin's voice brought me back to the present, and I glanced down along the tide line. Sure enough, what looked like a car or small airship was parked out there, headlights shining on the camp. Had the MRB come back? That would make for an awkward scene, if so. On the other hand, they might be willing to airlift Roy, provide some medical care. A bureau like theirs probably had facilities or personnel who handled things like that.

Martin turned off the road, onto the dunes, driving down towards the camp. Our own headlights flashed across the interloping vehicle. It was a pickup truck. “Anyone you recognize?” I asked Martin and Minna. Both shook their heads.

We parked a little distance back, and eased Roy out. He'd passed out at some point during the trip, and I had to admit some guilty relief at it. His screams had been hard on all of us during the short but stressful ride. The three of us carried him, his old form light with the load distributed as it was. The unnamed girl followed, tugging her oversized t-shirt down over bare legs and shivering in the cold. She had brown hair, I noted, as we crossed the beams of the headlights. No older than fifteen or sixteen or somewhere in that range, I thought. Six, perhaps seven years younger than Martin.

“Roy? Oh no. Oh no no no no...” Joan's voice rose, and she hurried forward, accompanying us as we moved toward the sickbay.

A stranger stepped in my path as we did so, a man wearing a rolled-up balaclava and a blue jacket with a rough white eye painted on it. More gang colors, but not Blood colors, at least. As we got closer he opened his mouth, and I caught his eye. He froze, staring at me like a man who was confronting a rattlesnake, and realizing that what he'd just stepped on wasn't a stick at all. I flicked my eyes to the side, and he stepped that way.

We continued on into the scrap-metal shack, and Joan went ahead, pulling out a cot and setting it up. We waited, holding him off the ground until she was done, then draped him on it as carefully as we could. It was another partitioned space in here, one large room that had been separated off into little separate rooms along the sides. Space heaters hummed and glowed in some of them. It was quite warm in here, compared to the cold and spacious church we'd been haunting for the last hour or so.

“The hell the Militia doing here, Joan?” asked Martin.

“Never mind that, what happened?” She dug around, found a lantern, turned it on and shrieked. I looked at her, to find her staring at me in abject horror.

“What?”

“Y-you're... there's b-b-blood every-”

“Oh.” I remembered the corpses, the shootout in the worship hall, the mess we'd made on the landing where we'd caught the gangers in a crossfire. “Don't worry, none of it is hers.”

Her gaze fell on Roy. “Oh god. Not his...”

“What? No. Pretty sure most of that is other people's, too. He might have some broken bones.” Other injuries too, probably. He'd hit the wall pretty hard... “Look, do we have a doctor in camp?”

“No,” Joan whispered. “Oh god. I... Sparky's gonna flip.”

“Worry about that when it happens Momma Joan,” said Martin. “Right now we need to know why the hell the Midtown Militia are here.”

“They showed up not long after you left. Wanted to talk about the Black Bloods harassing us.”

Martin closed his eyes, sighed. “Jesus. They never fucking leave well enough alone.”

“What's the story there?” I asked.

“They hate the Bloods something fierce. Been wanting to give us 'protection' ever since Sparky and Roy fought the Bloods off a year or so back. They just want warm bodies they can use that ain't them. Cannon fodder.”

I considered. “Enemies of our enemies. Can we afford to be choosy, particularly now?”

Martin glared at me. “That what you were thinking when you set Scrapper loose? After how that ended up, you want to roll the dice again? Jesus fucking Christ.”

I chewed my lip. Something about the tone of his voice... “You've got a history with the Militia, don't you?”

“No.” He glared at me, looked away. “Not quite. They know who I am — who I was anyway. They wouldn't shed no tears if I caught a case of dead, but that don't matter either way. Look, they might not be 'roid raging like Scrapper was, but I guarantee they won't have our back in any way we need it right now.”

I held my gaze upon him until he glanced back. “Have you considered that you may have a bias towards them? Because you rather give that impression.”

He shook his head. “Fuuuuck. Look, it don't matter. You as stubborn as Roy, I can tell. You want to go hear them out I can't stop you. I'll stay in here and try to help Joan.”

I nodded. “Mm. Where's Sparky?”

“Out talking with them, last I saw,” said Joan. “They were kinda surprised to find him so lucid.”

I looked to Minna. She put her hand on the unnamed girl's shoulder, held it there even when she flinched. “Come. We get you food. We get you clothes.” Minna's voice was the softest I'd ever heard it, and the girl started to cry. I looked away, squared my shoulders, and walked out the door.

I found Sparky at the central firepit, with the blue-clad man and a similarly clothed young woman squatting next to him. Sparky glanced up as I approached, his face full of worry. “Is Roy...”

“He'll live,” I said. I hoped that was true. “He needs medical care, though. He's in the sickbay right now—”

I stopped as Sparky rolled away as fast as his arms could take him, towards the shack. Couldn't fault him for that.

The young woman stared at me as I sat down on one of the benches, and rubbed dried blood from my hands. The guy spoke first. “So, uh, I'm Nash. This is Skye.”

“Hello Nash, hello Skye. What do you want of us?”

“To the point, huh? Okay, I can respect that. So we heard that the Black Bloods are stealing your supplies.”

“They were.” I frowned, looked at Martin's tent-mate,Tooms. “Do you think you could get some people, start unloading the food? And probably the guns, too. Don't worry about the armor, Dire will have to take it apart anyway. No sense in lugging Scrapper's dead weight around too.”

“Wait,” Skye burst out. “The fuck is that about Scrapper?”

“Black Bloods had him. Made him crazy. We had to—” I was going to say that we'd had to use him to escape, but a thought made me hesitate. Martin didn't trust the Midtown Militia, I had no reason to do so either beyond a possible common cause. “-we had to fight our way out, and he didn't make it.”

“Fuck. Yeah, we figured the worst when he went off alone, but... well, shit.” Nash had a ring in his lip, that caught the firelight as he tugged on it.

“Can we see him?” Skye asked. I shrugged, and rose, beckoned them toward the SUV we'd appropriated.

Nash nodded as I opened the back door, revealing Scrapper's form under the harsh glare of the dome-lights.

“Yeah, that's him. So what the fuck happened?” His voice died as Minna and her crew arrived, and started hauling out the boxes of food, revealing the dozens of guns we'd stuck in among the rest of the spaces.

I remembered Roy's advice. Never look weak in front of your enemies. These people weren't friends yet. “We went to negotiate to get our food back. They didn't want to negotiate. We fought and we won.”

“You and Roy.” Nash said.

“And Minna and Martin,” I said.

“Martin. Heh. Believe that when I see it.” Skye's tone was charged with contempt, and I caught the sneer on her face. After the night I'd had, and the help we'd had from Martin, it rubbed me the wrong way.

“Yes. Him too,” I said, stepping forward, invading her personal space. She backpedaled, and I followed. “Sangre didn't exactly leave us much choice.”

“Wait. Whoa. Sangre was there?” Nash said.

“Was being the operative turn.”

“Shit, if he got away you'll need us. He's a crazy fucker, not gonna let this go. He'll be back, chop off your damn head with that fucking sword of his—”

“Ah, thanks for reminding her.” I reached down between the seats, pulled the sword out. “He won't be back. He's quite dead.”

That shut them up. Tooms's crew dropped off the first load of food, came back for the next bunch. While they did, I sorted among the weapons. Didn't know where my army pistol had gotten to, but I found a Sig-Sauer that was about the right size, and holstered it. Gun on my hip, sword on my shoulder, I turned to look at the two of them. “So. What exactly were you willing to offer as far as help goes? And what would you ask in return? Do you have a doctor, or some form of medical support?”

“Uh,” said Nash. He seemed to be trying to collect his thoughts. “Not really— Not right now. But if you give us time, we could get a doctor in to—”

“Roy needs help as soon as possible. Would a day suffice for time?”

“Shit, I don't know.” He looked at Skye, she shook her head. “We could try to run him over to Sara's Mercy, but that's most of the way 'cross the city. On the far end of Pyre Hill.”

“What is Sara's Mercy?”

He looked at me, confused. “The biggest hospital in Icon? Are you not a local?”

“Not as such,” I confirmed. “What's it look like, and in what direction does it lie?” I had an idea, but I didn't know if I could pull it off.

He described a four-story structure with two wings, all glass and steel and marble. It sounded distinctive enough for my purposes. I nodded, and offered him the hilt of the sword. He took it, glanced from it to me. “What's this for?”

“A sign of good will,” I said. “We may be open to future cooperation against the Black Bloods. On our terms, of course. You have a way we can contact you?”

Bemused, he pulled out a snubby-looking pistol, offered it to me. I clucked my tongue at his trigger discipline, grabbed his hand, pointed it away from everyone. With my free hand I turned it around. “You offer a gun to someone butt-first. Understand?”

He let the scolding slide, and just nodded. I took it from him, looked it over. “A flare gun?”

“Yeah. One shot. Something big comes up, send up the flare. Otherwise we'll check in again after we tell Munin of what went down here. We didn't plan for... uh...” He gestured at the SUV. Minna had returned and taken over for Tooms. Her crew had unloaded the food by now, they were down to carting the guns away. Which just left Scrapper to deal with.

I pulled off my backpack and unzipped it, extracted the toolkit. “Well. Good to discuss business with you. Now, if you'll excuse her...” I fired up the plasma welder, squinted at the brightness of it, and took out my mask. It still smelled a bit like Sangre's fried face, but the lenses did a good job of compensating for the flare of the welder.

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing?” Skye burst out. I looked to her, used the eye and lip movements I'd configured as an interface to dial down my volume.

“SHE IS REMOVING HIS ARMOR.”

They stepped back a good four or five paces as my voice growled out at them, through the modulator. Even when dialed down to a conversational level it was still disturbing, at least if their reactions were anything to go by.

“Whoa, you just don't take a hero's stuff,” said Nash. “That's— Shit, that's like skinning the guy and wearing his corpse.”

“FEAR NOT. IT'S GOING TO BE REPURPOSED BY THE TIME SHE'S DONE WITH IT.”

“That's not the point!” Hissed Skye. “That's a legacy.”

I got the breastplate off, felt around the shattered remnants of his torso, ignoring the blood smearing my hands.

“LEGACIES ARE ALL WELL AND GOOD, BUT THE SURVIVAL OF THE CAMP TAKES PRIORITY. SCRAPPER WOULD UNDERSTAND.”

"Who the fuck are you, lady?” Nash asked. “You come out of nowhere, you kill Black Bloods like it's nothing, you take out fucking Sangre...”

I shut the torch off, as my fingers found the lever I was looking for. This kind of suit, it made sense to have a manual release. With a tug, metal plating peeled back in segments, and Scrapper's burned and bloody corpse slid from the armor like lobster meat out of a shell. Once done, I straightened up to look Nash fully in the eye, mask-to-face.

“DIRE. HER NAME IS DIRE.”

They backed up another couple of steps. “Aw fuck me,” Skye complained. “You're a villain. I should have fucking known.”

“INCORRECT,” I waved a finger at her, before turning back to my work. “DIRE IS DIRE. LABELS OF ANY OTHER KIND ARE PREMATURE.” I surveyed the material, sniffed in disgust. They hadn't let him out of the suit for bathroom breaks. This would take some scrubbing and showerhouse work, before I could do much with it. Fortunately, most of it didn't look water-sensitive. It was impressive in its crudity. Most of it seemed to function via hydraulics, with the exceptions being the power core and the broken sonic emitters.

I glanced back, to find Skye and Nash off a ways, speaking in low voices. Skye had her jacket drawn back, and a hand on the butt of a gun. I wondered at that. Seemed a bit of a one-eighty, from their previously stated goals and wishes.

My amusement grew as I saw Minna slip up behind them, her hand on the hilt of her bowie knife. Looks like she'd found it in the aftermath of the fight, good.

Nash glanced up, caught me looking. He flushed, and said “Hey. Can we at least take his body? Give it a proper funeral? He was a hero.”

I nodded. “OF COURSE. MINNA, CAN YOU HELP THEM?”

“Huh?”

He let out a yelp as Minna glided out from behind him, and Skye froze. She moved her hand away from her gun, and Minna slid the two inches of steel blade she'd half-drawn back into its sheathe. Without another word Minna stooped, and picked up Scrapper's corpse.

“Lighter now,” She observed.

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR OFFER,” I told the two Militants. Or was it Militiaman and Militiawomen?

“Sure. Yeah, no problem.” Nash nodded, and left. Minna followed behind, and I watched them load Scrapper's remains into their pickup, and throw a tarp over him.

Ah, what a night it had been.

And it wasn't over yet. I looked at the armor, and waited until Minna approached. “GOOD. THANK YOU FOR HELPING SO FAR. ARE YOU WILLING TO HELP A BIT MORE?”

“What you need?”

“A SHOWER, SOME COFFEE IF WE HAVE ANY, AND HELP SCRUBBING THIS SUIT. IN THAT ORDER.”

She grunted, and we got to work hauling the armor over to the showerhouse. She set to work scrubbing while I peeled down and washed, trying to ignore the chill of the air.

What was I doing here?

What was I really doing?

I'd come out of the tunnel barely a few days ago with only a few devices, some fake ID cards, and a lot of questions. I had been too busy surviving to do much about finding answers.

Now I'd made enemies of the most vicious gang around, gotten invested in the fate of a bunch of people who'd been pleasant enough company, but had no answers for me either. I'd lost some money, lost the fake IDs, and lost time. On top of it I was sticking around here, putting myself at risk, all for some vague notion of it being the right thing to do.

I rinsed my hair, getting the blood out. I'd been running off of my instincts, and after the slaughterfest tonight, I wondered if I was still on the right track. I'd killed or been responsible for killing a fair amount of people, either via shotgun or by setting Scrapper loose.

And upon reflection, I felt little guilt for it. For Scrapper? A bit, but I couldn't have saved him. The rest? Nothing. They would have done the same to me in a heartbeat, or worse.

Sangre... he'd stated that I had been worth money to some group he hadn't bothered to identify. WEB? Possibly. Couldn't ask him now.

I breathed in warm steam, and let the water course down my chest.

That bit of information seemed to indicate a reason for me to stick around. If Sangre hadn't been mistaken, then the Black Bloods were in contact with people who did have answers. If I kept whomping them, then sooner or later the true threat would reveal itself.

Also... the camp had taken me in, and asked very few questions. Their supplies had been raided because I'd stood up to the Black Bloods. Our negotiation had failed because the Black Bloods had a use for me. While I was in no way taking responsibility for the actions of those sick little gangers, the truth of the matter was that my presence had unintentionally exacerbated the situation.

I felt responsibility toward these people, toward Roy and Sparky and the rest of the crew if nothing else. While I didn't know everyone in the camp, with one or two exceptions they seemed like decent enough people. And I had no doubts that the Bloods would mow them down to the last child if they could.

I shut off the water, exited the stall. I looked toward my stained and dirty clothes and paused. A dark shape hung next to them, unfamiliar and fluffy. Upon investigation it turned out to be a ratty, hideous fur coat, with some sweat pants folded under it. I glanced around, and found Minna in a far stall. She was taking a scrubbing rag to the inside of the armor, letting the water sluice filth away.

“Minna, is this yours?”

I held up the clothes. She shook her head, and pointed at me. “You keep. Until we wash your clothes.”

I stood there for a second, naked and dripping. Then I nodded. “Thank you.” She merely grunted, and got back to work. I dried off using the cleaner parts of my dirty clothing, and folded the coat around me, before easing my legs into the pants. Dear heavens they felt good...

She helped me carry the armor off to the laundry shack, afterwards. By then a gentle snow was falling, and I shivered until I got into the scrap-metal room, and turned on a space heater. Joan was waiting with a thermos of coffee, bless her soul, and I downed it as I pulled out my toolkit and got to work. Minutes folded into hours, and I worked on the armor. The core was a cascading wave generator, a surprisingly good one at that. The rest of the armor must have been kitbashed from whatever he had lying around, but this part had to have come from something fairly expensive.

If I'd had time, I would  have peeled it apart piece by piece, taking notes every step of the way and conducting some thoroughly enjoyable research. I'd found an unexpected joy in utilizing my skills and talents to crack it open and study this rag-tag suit of armor. But necessity was driving this bus, and I had to see it through. So instead of researching, I repurposed. Instead of studying, I repaired. At one point I wandered outside and cracked the hood of the SUV, started taking parts from there to replace the bits of the suit I couldn't fix. Two or three trips back and forth, and I thought I had all I needed. During the last one, Martin caught my eye, followed me into the shack as I went. “Shit. You still up?”

“Hm?” I  blinked. “What do you mean?”

“It's like five in the morning. Most of us got some sleep.”

I blinked. Time had flown. I picked up the thermos of coffee, and gave it a shake. Empty. Well, that explained the ache from the direction of my bladder. “Give her a second,” I said, and visited the port-a-john. On my way back I noticed my red hoodie hanging from a makeshift clothesline, cleaned of blood beyond a few dubious stains, and rimed with a faint layer of frost. It was about the right size... I snagged it and headed back into the shack. Martin was examining the repair job I'd done on the armor. I joined him, smiling.

“God damn.” He shook his head, looking impressed. I'd replaced most of the bullet-dented and scored armor plating with metal from the SUV. I'd slimmed it down at the same time, which necessitated cutting down the hydraulics. The helmet had been mostly a wash... I'd kept the back of it, but the faceplate was quite thoroughly wrecked, had been before I'd detonated the phone inside of it. So I'd replaced it with my mask, welding it into the shell of the helmet, and using wires from the SUV to provide an unhackable manual linkage to the armor's subsystems. It wasn't a perfect join, and the back of the helmet had holes in it. But I'd just found a temporary solution to that.

I moved around behind the armor, and settled the red hood of my recently-retrieved-garment over the helmet. It stretched but fit, and a couple of rivets secured it for the time being. I tied the arms around the neck of the suit, and let the rest hang loose, somewhat like a cape or a mantle. Not exactly elegant, but the rest of the armor looked like a pile of repurposed junk, anyway, so I wasn't too upset with the end result.

I'd integrated the force field generator and universal remote, tying their power to the armor's core. Not a problem for the remote, but I'd have to watch the generator. While that had fixed the problem of its limited charge, excessive amounts of damage within a short time would have a chance of causing feedback within the core's wave particle processes. Mind you, if it was blocking that much damage all at once I'd have other things to worry about.

I'd also tucked the ball drone into a storage compartment in the armor's back. It'd make for faster deployment. I left space for a couple of others. I didn't have the materials to make more right now, but that might change.

But the thing I was proudest of wasn't obvious to the eye. I shed my coat, feeling air hit my bare skin. And as Martin stepped away, shaking his head, I unsealed the armor and climbed in.

“Hey! Warn a brother, all right?” He turned away from my partial nudity, but I didn't particularly care.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Got no time—” The armor sealed over me with a hiss, the mask sliding down over my face. “—FOR MODESTY. GET READY TO STAND CLEAR.”

He backed up, as I ran the basic control systems through their checks. The newly-programmed heads-up-display of my mask flared with green letters, informing me that systems were synching at twenty... forty... sixty... seventy-four percent. I frowned and tried rerouting a few subroutines, but it held fast at seventy-four percent efficiency. Well, no matter, I could work on perfecting it later.

I lifted my arms, and the armor moved with me. There was a slight lag, but with practice I wouldn't notice it. Or if I refined the interface, got better components and raised the synchronization rate, that should fix it. But for now, I could probably work with it. I flexed the fingers of the gauntlets, and they flexed with me. I took my first step—

And promptly fell over.

Hrm.

Martin tried to help me up, started swearing. “Jesus H. Christ. Armor's like half the size it was on Scrapper, how the hell is it as heavy?”

“TWO-THIRDS OF THE SIZE, ACTUALLY. AND THE MOST VITAL COMPONENTS DIDN'T CHANGE.” I pushed myself up, leaned on Martin, then tried another step. This one went without too much trouble, and the second and third ones after it were manageable. “ALL RIGHT. GOING TO NEED TO GO OUTSIDE FOR THE NEXT TEST.”

“Probably a good idea, you gonna bust the floor if you fall again.”

I walked outside, in the dim light of pre-dawn, and looked around. No one was out yet. Good. Fewer witnesses if this failed. I didn't want to get people's hopes up and then fail to deliver. I moved down the beach, to a clear spot. Martin started to follow, but I waved him back. Didn't quite know how much pressure the grav units would exert, and I didn't want him injured.

Finally, I was ready. This had been the hardest part of the project... The rest had been repair work, with a side order of consolidating my devices into the larger structure of the armor. But the part that had taken the most work was the most crucial, and it had involved building and integrating something entirely new. In theory, it should work, but if it didn't... No, it would work. It had to. Banishing the last of my doubts, I muted the voice modulator on my mask, and breathed the words I'd programmed to activate flight mode.

“Icarus ascends.”

Turbines in my sides snapped out. They were stabilizers, really, while the gravitic oscillators in the legs did the important work, venting red light on the ground below. Tiny rotors whirred to life...

...And I rose. Just a few feet off the ground, but I flew. I flew!

As I did, I wobbled, and I fought with the armor, kept myself stable with great effort. If I toppled now, I'd plow through the beach, cause a huge mess, and inflict enough damage to the suit to necessitate serious repairs. And maybe damage myself, too. Failure was not an option here! Fortunately, I'd accounted for this. And as I held it stable, the crude gyroscopes I'd built into the suit finished synching up. After a minute, I could relax enough to put my arms down. After another minute, I let the suit take over fully. I sat there a bit longer, then grinned. I was flying! Well, hovering.

It was time to go all out, I decided, and switched control over to the rudimentary system I'd rigged through my heads-up-display. If this worked properly, I could control my flight through leg and head motions, leaving my arms mostly free. As I did so, I noticed people starting to emerge from the tents, drawn by the whining noise of the turbines. They stared at me, and though they couldn't see my face, I grinned back under my mask.

“You ain't seen nothing yet,” I whispered, too low to trigger my mask's amplification. And with a whirl of snow and sand as the turbines went to maximum thrust, I pushed into the sky, arms thrust out like a smackbrawl wrestler performing a double clothesline.

After a minute of practicing, I had the basics down. It was with great regret that I steered back toward the ground, and came in for a landing. Flying was fun, dammit! But I had more pressing priorities.

Also, the night was starting to catch up with me, now that I'd run out of coffee. Between the adrenaline crash, the lack of sleep, and recovering from whatever the hell that smoke in Sangre's room had been, I was starting to lose steam. I needed to get this done while I was still mostly coherent.

I descended to the beach with a whir of sand and snow. Light flurries were falling again, but not enough to hinder me in any capacity.

“ALL RIGHT. MARTIN, DO HER A FAVOR?”

“Uh. Yeah, sure. What you need?”

“GET THE OTHERS TO HELP YOU AND BRING ROY OUT HERE, COT AND ALL. TIE HIM TO IT IF YOU CAN. WE HAVE SOME ROPE AROUND HERE, RIGHT?”

“The hell you planning?”

“SARA'S MERCY, THAT'S THE NAME OF THE HOSPITAL, YES? DIRE CAN PROBABLY GET HIM THERE IN TWENTY MINUTES IF SHE TAKES IT SLOW.”

He blinked, then nodded, and took off toward the sickbay at a run. I waited, ignoring the heat as best I could. The gravitic system pulled a lot of power from the core... I had basic thermal vents in here, but I hadn't expected this level of output. Thankfully the wintry conditions were helping, otherwise heat would be a real issue. I'd have to address that when I got some time. Armor does you little good if it roasts you alive while you use it.

I amused myself by testing out the mask's various sensor functions, zooming in and tracking people's faces. They were looking at me with various mixes of disbelief and fear, which was a little offputting. I'd spent the night putting this together to help them, to help us, after all. I was the same person I'd been before I'd climbed into the suit. Why fear this?

The answer came to me as soon as I asked the question. I looked scary, and the mask prevented them from taking visual cues from my face. I'd rebuilt the armor into a fairly solid-black color scheme, due to recycling the SUV's panels. The white mask stood out on it, smiling with hollow, bare eyesockets. The red hoodie on my back suggested an ominous splash, reminiscent of blood, and it didn't help that I'd added a few stabilizers on the limbs and back that looked like spikes. To someone who didn't know better, I'd look scary as hell. Unintentionally, I'd played to Martin's idea of kayfabe, and built a proper heel's outfit.

At first I was dismayed. Then the thought occurred to me, well, what of it? I'd rebuilt this armor to save a life, and appearance didn't matter for that. I'd also be using it to fight against the Black Bloods, who were worse than I could ever be. If it made my allies afraid, what would it do to my enemies? No, the armor was fine the way it was.

It took a few minutes, but they brought Roy out. They'd bundled him in sheets, practically mummified the poor guy. Ropes held the sheets in place, and I picked him up with as much care as I could muster. I gripped the legs of the cot, and hefted him in front of me. Awkward but doable, especially if I took it low and slow.

Sparky and Joan watched me solemnly, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Sparky just shook his head as he looked me up and down. “No offense,” he wheezed, “but you look like the sorta gal I'd normally be trying to zap.”

“IS IT TUESDAY ALREADY, SPARKY?” The crowd flinched at the sound of my voice, and Roy moaned, but Sparky just chuckled.

He sobered up pretty quick, as he reached out to pat my arm. “You take care of him, okay? He's...”

All you had left? I finished in my mind, as his voice trailed off. He was, wasn't he? Great Clown Pagliacci had taken everyone else from him.

“SHE'LL LOOK AFTER HIM. NOW STAND CLEAR, PLEASE.”

They backed up, and I took Roy up slow. The turbines hummed up to speed as we rose, rose a few feet more, and then I set off at a diagonal vector heading southwest. Toward the hospital.

CHAPTER 9: The Skies of Icon, and Kingsley's Confirmation

“Say what you will about the 'Con, but if you ever get the chance to fly through the city proper, it's a one of a kind view. But if you're a hero make sure you're registered with the MRB, or else they raise a hell of a fuss. But that's their job. They watch the watchmen, so to speak, making sure heroes aren't going rogue or endangering others needlessly. There's more to it than that, but that's a big part their main charter and it keeps them busy. And we need them doing it. That didn't sink in for me until I saw Captain Cosmopolitan pulled over for a FWI – Flying while Inebriated. Seems funny, until you learn that she flew THROUGH three buildings before they caught her. If it hadn't been night at the time, and the buildings hadn't been empty... well, it could've been bad.”

--Excerpt from “Villains Anonymous,” a short lived reality show that aired in 1999. The speaker has been identified as the Cyan Codex, a minor magical villain now in custody.

The city rose before me, steel teeth stretching into a gray sky. I had to keep it slow, perhaps twenty miles-per-hour. Going any faster would have risked catching wind shear, and Roy's cot raised my profile enough that I didn't want to risk him getting blown away. So my flight was cautious and careful, and I limited myself to about sixty feet off the ground so that I could go lower if the wind picked up. Fortunately, the flurries were coming mostly straight down from above. The overcast clouds seemed to indicate relative stability, at least for the moment.

To the far southeast a large, round, metal sphere rose from a small island offshore. It looked intriguing, but it was also too far away for easy observation. I filed it away for later research.

Passing over the dark ocean water of the inlet, I soon overflew a boardwalk full of marinas with piers full of recreational boats. It looked to have restaurants, bars, and shops crammed into every inch of available territory. Large buildings with odd architecture stood out here and there, with such names as “The Golden Galleon,” and “The Midas Mile.” The Galleon looked like an enormous, land-bound pirate ship, for no reason I could see beyond whimsy. Probably casinos, my fickle memory suggested. I didn't have much time to sightsee, but I flew a little closer to the Golden Galleon. To my surprise there were two men up on top of the roof, one watching me with binoculars and another with a rifle aimed at me. I veered away, watched as the man with the rifle aimed it down, satisfied now that his warning had been received.

Less than a mile away from this opulence and glitter, sat the hollow bones of the last generation. How many piers in this area would crumble and fall to pieces? How many boats would be reduced to rotting hulks, how many tourist attractions would go the way of Funland? Quite a lot of them, I expected, if the chaos of Y2K kept up. The city was literally powerless in the face of this disaster. How the hell had a single digit-flip caused this much trouble?

The Boardwalk passed behind me, and I started getting into Downtown proper. I passed hotels, and what looked to be a convention center. The buildings started rising far enough up that I had to move between them. There were airships out, and I kept my distance. One, which appeared to be a police blimp, followed me for a few blocks with its lights flashing. I sped up a bit, outpacing it, and it cut the lights once it was clear that I wasn't stopping. There were more airships above, including one emblazoned with “MORGENSTERN SECURITY” that was armed with what looked to be water cannons, as well as few things I couldn't identify. If I hadn't been on a mission of mercy I would have been tempted to take a closer look, but I had no time for it or inclination to dodge whatever weaponry they  might bring to bear against me.

I kept steady, I kept slow, and as I went I saw signs of life. A few buildings blazed with light, and people moved on the streets below them. Some of them pointed up at me as I flew by. At one point I passed over a subway station that looked to have been converted into shelters. Smart. Easier to keep an underground environment heated.

After I got through the maze of skyscrapers, the buildings below shifted. They got fancier, and of an older architecture. With my lack of historical knowledge I couldn't place the era, but it kept to a fairly small range of style. A lot of open balconies, steep roofs, brick houses, and gables.

The ground below rose, and I smiled to see it. This would probably be Pyre Hill, and from what I'd gathered it was one of the richer areas of the city. The houses got bigger and farther apart, and the few commercial areas I could see had their own parking garages. And as uniformed figures scurried to take up positions as I approached, I also inferred that they had their own security. I gained altitude, kept going. Past a cathedral with gargoyles on every ledge, past what looked to be a sprawling university campus, no students wandering among its stone fountains and ivy-clad parks. Past a series of shopping malls, parking lots cordoned off and patrolled by more uniformed people.

And there, beyond the malls, I spotted the two-winged structure that the Militia had told me about. That couldn't be anything besides Sara's Mercy, not with that much glass and marble. Lights in the windows indicated functioning power, and hopefully a satisfactory end to this little excursion. Good. I banked, and started descending for a landing.

I touched down next to a pair of idling ambulances, causing one of the smoking attendants next to it to choke and drop his cigarette. I eased the cot to the ground, and looked at Roy. He was still breathing, but his face was gray. Probably not good. “THIS MAN NEEDS MEDICAL ATTENTION. NOW.”

The medics stirred to life, and took him, cot and all, through a pair of double doors. I followed, ignoring the objections of a white-clad woman at a nearby desk. Stomping and clattering my way through the tiled hallway, I followed Roy. They hauled him into a curtained room off the main ward, and started unwrapping him from the tangle of sheets and rope. He cried out as they did so, and I glowered, standing in the corner as out of the way as I could stand with my arms folded.

The attendants did their dance of taking measurements, examining him, and transferring him as gently as they could to the hospital bed in the center of the room. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of tension gone from my shoulders. In its place, exhaustion started to surge up. I'd spent the fifteen or twenty minutes of the flight to the hospital pretty much locked in one position, and my aching muscles were the last nail in a coffin of fatigue that had been building ever since we'd gotten clear of that horrible business with Sangre.

When I opened my eyes, someone was trying to get my attention. I looked down at the bald man in the white jacket who'd moved up to stand before me, and servos whined in the armor's neck as my mask followed my movements. He took a half-step back, swallowed in obvious apprehension, but managed to find his courage. “Excuse me. We need information about the patient.”

“OF COURSE.” Even dialed down, my voice boomed through the room. Somewhere down the hall, an infant wailed. I couldn't bring myself to care at the minute.

“Ah. Yes. Well, we've got some forms here. If you could fill these out?”

I looked at the forms. I looked at my gauntlets. I looked at him. “THAT'S GOING TO BE FUN. OH WELL, GOT A PEN?”

Three broken pens later, I gave up and started to unseal the armor, which caused a furor of a different sort. The bald man, who turned out to be called Doctor Sudman, kept going on about secret identities and legal issues. I didn't particularly care, but he sure did. Finally we agreed upon a compromise. The doctor and his attendants departed temporarily, as I stepped out of the armor and filled the paperwork out. Got to admit it was easier without having to deal with a hydraulic-enhanced grip that was entirely unsuited to flimsy plastic writing implements.

When I was done I re-armored and knocked on the door. They took the forms, and Dr. Sudman frowned at them.

“No next of kin?”

“NONE THAT SHE KNOWS.”

“Who is this she that you speak of?”

I tapped my chest. “HER.”

“Of course.” His expression was unreadable. He flipped the papers again. “No insurance?”

“THAT PART WAS UNCLEAR. SHE UNDERSTANDS THE MEANING OF THE WORD, BUT NOT THE WAY IT IS PRESENTED WITHIN THESE FORMS. WHAT IS INSURANCE?”

“Oh boy. Well, Mr. Carver here picked a good time to get battered, then. The computers have been down for days, so it doesn't matter right now. There just might be some problems when this is all over.”

“YOU THINK IT WILL BE ALL OVER, EVENTUALLY?”

“Well, yes. It can't go on forever, right?”

I tilted my head. “FROM HER ADMITTEDLY LIMITED EXPERIENCE, THE ONLY TIME THINGS CHANGE FOR THE BETTER IS WHEN YOU MAKE THEM CHANGE.”

“Very Warholian of you.”

“WHAT?”

“Andy Warhol.  He talked about the philosophy of change—” He shot a glance at me, shook his head. “Never mind. If you don't understand insurance I'm not about to get into the artistic merits of soup cans.”

“YOU ARE WASTING TIME.”

He blinked, and swallowed again. “Sorry. I meant nothing by it.”

“AH. NO THREAT WAS INTENDED. WILL YOU TREAT ROY?”

He looked over at the old man, nodded. “Yes. It's what we do. At a glance he's got some broken or cracked ribs, at the least, and probably a pretty big concussion on top of that. I'm glad you brought him in, honestly, injuries like that at his age can be problematic if you just let them go untreated. Ah, we'll need to go get him run through the MRI. I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to stay out of that area, we don't allow advanced technology in those rooms, it can interact in unexpected ways.”

“FAIR ENOUGH. SHE WILL WAIT HERE UNTIL YOU BRING HIM BACK.”

He opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was going to say, and nodded. I settled back against the wall, and crossed my arms. He motioned to the attendants and Roy was wheeled out, bed and all.

After a few minutes, I found my eyes closing again. I locked the armor into its current position, put my faith in the gyroscopes, and let myself sag back in exhaustion. Perhaps a minute later, I was out.

I slept fitfully, odd dreams chasing me in and out of consciousness. I woke to a polite rapping on my chestplate, and wished I hadn't. Sleeping in the armor had been a mistake, I ached all over. And there, standing in front of me with a small smile on her face and a manila folder under one arm, was Agent Kingsley. I re-engaged the suit, shifted the mask to look down at her.

“GOOD MORNING, AGENT.”

“You're a little late with that, it's almost dark.”

I blinked. It took a second to call up the mask's internal clock, and I stared in disbelief at the result. Damn, I had been wiped, hadn't I? Then memory returned to me and I glanced toward the hospital bed in the center of the room. Empty. “WHERE'S ROY?” I asked. “DAMN IT ALL, DIRE HAS NO TIME FOR GAMES, THEY'D BEST NOT BE MESSING AROUND HERE.”

“They're not. He's in surgery now. I pulled a few strings to get him bumped up the queue.” She smiled, showing perfect teeth, and walked around to the side of me, looking me over. “Okay, those things definitely started out as part of a manifold. Did you build this yourself?”

I waved a gauntlet. “MORE OF A SALVAGE PROJECT. YOU ASSISTED WITH SETTLING THE DETAILS OF ROY'S TREATMENT?”

“Yes. Ah... We need to talk, and the shouting's not helping matters. This isn't a secure room. Can I ask you to step out of the armor?”

“THERE WAS QUITE A BIT OF FUSS THE LAST TIME SHE TRIED.”

“Yes, they told me about that. Understandable, given the legal hot potato that secret identities can be. But in this case it doesn't really matter, we know your secret identity already.”

I blinked. “SAY WHAT NOW?”

Kingsley went over, and locked the door. “Just please, step out. Here. This might convince you that I'm on the level.”

She opened the manila folder, held it up to my mask. And I was looking at a photo of my face, a familiar-looking one. That had been on the fake driver's license that was in my wallet, back before it had been stolen. Dora Iris, a name I knew wasn't mine...

And so I'd come to a crisis.

I closed my eyes. Kingsley had helped with Roy, even if she'd rubbed me the wrong way when we first met. And thinking on the matter further, it definitely wasn't an either/or situation. I didn't have to trust her fully, in order to gain her cooperation. As long as I was careful about what I said to her, I could possibly come out on top of this situation.

I hit the manual release. With a hiss the armor opened, chest splitting and arms opening up like the petals of a flower unfurling. I withdrew them from the support yokes, wincing as they protested, and braced myself, stepping out of the legs of the suit. I stumbled a bit, before I managed to make the three steps to the bed, and sit down on it. Kingsley nodded, pulled up a chair, and sat beside me. Her mouth quirked as she glanced down at my chest. “You forgot to put on a shirt today.”

“Don't actually have a clean one right now.” It was still in the laundry.

The agent nodded. “Give me a second.” She headed to the bathroom, closed the door, returned a minute later with an undershirt in her hands. “Here, you can have mine. Less distracting that way.”

“If you say so.” I put it on, then held a hand out for the folder and flipped through it. It held photocopies of the ID cards in my wallet, and not much else. I glanced at her. “So that's where her wallet got to.”

“Yep. Some drifter tried to hock it through a fixer that we watch. The timing was fortunate... we'd put a notice out that we were looking for information on you, right before it showed up.”

I stared at her. “Why? Why go to all that trouble? You would have had to do this immediately after we met.”

“I had a feeling about you. There's a look you recognize, when you've been in the game long enough. You had that look. The look of someone who'd been through an origin.”

I frowned as Kingsley grinned. “So, I figued I'd be the one to give you the talk. Before I do, how do you prefer to be called? Doctor Iris? Doctor Dire?”

I rubbed my chin. Shrugged. Doctor Dire? It had a nice ring to it. Kind of corny. But I was stuck calling myself Dire anyway, and a Doctorate was a good honorific to have. Made people take you more seriously. Besides, with my technological know-how, I figured I had the equivalent of at least one of those degrees already. But I was getting sidetracked, here. I had a chance for more information, if I could dig without giving too much away.

“So what have you found, besides the contents of her stolen wallet? Which she'd like back at some point, incidentally.”

“Ah, good luck on that. The pictures have already been destroyed. The rest of your info is already being processed by a group of Czech ID thieves. Honestly, I wouldn't worry about it. This mess with the Gridnet and computers in general is playing havoc with everyone's records. For example, I've been quite unable to dig up more on you right now, but that will change.” She smiled.

“What is going on with that situation, anyway?” I frowned. “You can't tell her that this is all due to a coding error. Granted, she hasn't conducted an in-depth study, but this much disruption seems unexpected. Almost impossible, considering the cause. Purported cause, at any rate.”

“Yeah.” Kingsley lost her smile. “At this point all we know is that someone's playing shenanigans. See, this isn't an isolated incident, you're not seeing a single city being taken out, rendered powerless. This is one city among hundreds... or thousands, I guess. As best we can tell, the entire world's been disrupted. The infrastructure that controls and regulates the power is out, and something's actively resisting all attempts to straighten it out. We've been knocked back a century or so, overnight. Every first and second-world nation, and a good number of the third-world ones are running without power, or any sort of network capability. But the worst part of it? This has all the earmarks of something you'd expect Aquatica or Paradigm to try, but not a single person is stepping forward with demands, or any kind of snappy monologue. If it was that, a supervillain, then it'd be easy. We'd have something to point the heroes at, some target to aim punches at until the problem was fixed. This one? Not so. We've got Doc Quantum and the rest of Tomorrow Force helping with it, and they're stumped as well.”

“Hm. Well, do keep Dire appraised if there's anything she can do to help with the situation,” I murmured. I wouldn't mind, either. The general chaos had been getting on my nerves. Fixing this city would go a long way toward settling them.

“I have a feeling you might be able to,” said Kingsley. “Someone with your powers? Yeah, it's an easy bet that you'll be in this up to your tits whether you want it or not.” She flashed a grin.

“She's not so sure she's got powers,” I demurred.

Kingsley rolled her eyes, pointed at the armor. “Did you have that the last time we talked?”

“Well no, but most of it's salvaged—”

“Was it intact? Did you have to rebuild or rework parts of it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Powers. Custom built flying suits of power armor? Built in a tent with a box of scraps, or however you did it? Powers, totally.”

I shut my mouth, considered it. She wasn't the first to raise that point. I couldn't rule out the possibility. Would be bad science otherwise. I shrugged and let the point drop. “All right. Well, it's been a long day, she'd best be getting home, as it were. You mentioned a talk? The Talk?”

“Yeah. Our standard offer. The MRB's standard offer, anyway.”

“She's listening.”

“Basically? A budget. Resources, funding, materials to build just about anything you want, within reason. Legal support, oversight as requested or required, and backup from both heroes and agents as you need. The same thing we offer every hero who registers with us.”

“You think Dire a hero now?” I asked.

“You just put on a prototype suit of power armor you built out of scraps to carry an injured man halfway across the city to save his life. The word seems to apply in this case.”

I shrugged. “He's a friend.”

“Right. So here's the other thing. That sure as hell looks like villain gear. Registering with us will shut any rumors that way down, right quick.”

I cocked an eye at her, rested my chin on my hand. “Is there no middle ground?” I inquired. “Must one be a hero or a villain?”

“Well...” She spread her hands. “You could always join the MRB, or one of our affiliate organizations. Then it'd just be a job. As long as you stuck to peaceful and small inventions or other power usages, no one would trouble you much.”

“Or she could remain a private citizen,” I remarked. “Are there laws against that?”

“Well, no. But then you run into the problems that you're easy pickings for recruitment from the big villains, the groups, or the syndicates. Powers make you attractive, particularly ones that deal with things like, oh, power armor for instance.” She hooked a thumb at my suit. “And if you remained a private citizen and we found out you were building stuff like that in your basement then we'd have to confiscate it.”

“This is an unacceptable paradigm.”

She shrugged. “I didn't make the rules. I just try and keep the peace. Of course the rules are all screwy now anyway. You got the Black Bloods trying to grab territory in the North, and the Steampunks of all people, fighting them off in the Northwest. Meanwhile the mafia's keeping things quiet on the Boardwalk but I don't want to think about the stuff they're getting away with. To the south the SCK are joined up with the Graveyard Gang against Die Kriegers, and the war's ripping the Wharves apart. That's not even getting into the No-face Ghost killings, or Anne Droid's rampage through Cobbles Cove. It's all coming up gangs and warlords, and we're doing our damnedest to keep things under control and support the heroes. So things are going to be messed up for a little while. My advice? Hero, villain, private citizen, whatever... do the best you can, and so long as you don't break the rules, we'll sort out what you want to be after it's all done.”

“Mmm. What are the rules?” I asked. “She's a bit fuzzy on those.”

She nodded. “It's a combination of guidelines, traditions, and legal precedents. Ah... basically, don't kill people except in extreme self-defense, don't do sex crimes, don't involve families of other costumes, don't try to end the world, and don't try to unmask heroes.”

Well, crap. That first one was a problem already. Might not be a good idea to tell her that, though. I changed the topic by focusing on the last part of her statement.

“Don't unmask heroes?” I asked. “What about villains?”

She shrugged. “Well, if you arrest someone they're going to be fingerprinted and ID'd, that's how it is. How else can they be properly charged, or their case be examined fairly by a jury of their peers?”

“Doesn't exactly seem fair.”

Her mouth turned downwards. “Fair. Listen, I think I know where you're coming from. This is new to you, and it seems like a game. Cops and Robbers or something like that. If you'd seen what I have? Seen the corpses buried under lime in basements under temples to gods that should never be worshiped? Seen the carnage left behind after a doomsday device misfired? Seen the shambling, wrecked men and women left behind after Mentat abandons his minions to fend for themselves to cover his escape? Yeah, no. You wouldn't think in terms of fair, anymore.”

She flicked her sunglasses open, shoved them on her face as she rose from her chair. “Villains hurt people, plain and simple. If they get unmasked? Sucks for them. Good for the rest of the world. On the other hand, there's never enough heroes to go around. Which is why I hope you'll think about what I said.”

I rose as well, folded my arms across my chest. “She will. Thank you for that. And for helping with Roy.”

She half-turned, waved it off on her way to the door. “No problem. Give our regards to Sparky, hah? Coleman likes the guy, he's a sucker for veterans with sob stories.”

After she left, I took advantage of the bathroom and the shower, before locking the door and lying back down on the bed. I'd had enough sleep for a little while, but I lay awake, considering what she'd said to me. And what she hadn't said. Eventually, a knock came at the door. I suited up again and managed to unlock it without breaking the mechanism. It was Doctor Sudman, and he was smiling.

“GOOD NEWS?” I inquired.

“Yes. Mister Carver's been tended to. He's on track to a full recovery. Quite sturdy for his age, I must say. Quite a lot of interesting old scars, too.”

“SO HE IS IN NO DANGER? CAN HE BE TRANSPORTED?”

“Well... That's a bit extreme. We still had to set three ribs, and I'd feel better if we could keep an eye on him a few days, to make sure that the concussion's working out. We drew fluid and eased pressure, but head injuries are always a tricky thing. We'd like to put him in a low-priority ward for a minimum of three days, do you see that being a problem?”

I considered. A heated hospital, doctors watching him, bedrest... “NO. OF COURSE NOT. SHE'LL BE BACK TO CHECK UP ON HIM ONCE THREE DAYS ARE DONE.”

He smiled. “Of course. Er. We'd like to put you as a primary point of contact. Leave notes for whoever's on duty when you return, so we don't have the... surprise... that we got today. What name do you go by?”

I opened my mouth, shut it. Considered. Tried it out in my mind once more, to test it before voicing it. Hell, Kingsley had already called me by it, I had nothing to lose.

“DOCTOR DIRE. CALL HER DOCTOR DIRE.”

CHAPTER 10: Lawbreaking

“I'd like to say that the police in Icon were good, and that there were never any scandals. That what we had was a devoted bunch of public servants doing hard jobs, and doing them well. And for most of the city, I can say that. But... then you factor in the northside, and shoot, I can't tell a lie. Everyone knows the precincts in the northeast are on the take, have been since the Cavaliognes ran that turf. Good cops who end up there get shit jobs until they quit, and bad cops prosper. Everyone knows it, and sooner or later there's gonna be a reckoning...

--Statement of a witness for the judicial review board in Precinct 64 versus Icon City, 1997. Name withheld by request.

For reasons I couldn't fathom, the hospital staff insisted that I take off from the roof. It seemed pointless to me, but as they were treating one of my limited social circle, it seemed churlish to do otherwise than follow their request.

But once I'd gotten airborne, I decided to loiter in their airspace a bit. Now that I was freed from carrying Roy, I could give my armor's flight capabilities a proper shakedown.

I found that seventy-four percent synch made things a bit rough. I also found that flying was a hell of a lot of fun. But most importantly, as I saw my vision darken during a tight roll, and my lungs gasp for air, I found that the suit really wasn't optimized for flying. I slowed to a stop, descending to a lower level where the air wasn't quite as thin, and the ventilation could maximize the flow of it. What I had wasn't a proper flying suit. What I had was a kludged-together pile of scrap and devices that were never meant to work together, with flight capabilities tacked on.

It wouldn't do anything to negate g-forces, or stop me from rattling around inside a bit if I hit some severe turbulence. Hells, it wasn't even properly pressurized. The holes in the back of the helmet that I'd covered with the hoodie would need sealing before I did that. I'd also need an internal layer of some sort between me and the metal before I could seal the joints completely. Finally I finished flight testing and began a slow cruise back to the east, as snow flurries fell around me.

Much as I would have liked to plan for the next revision of the armor, I didn't see a point in it until I had more materials to work with. So instead I turned my attention to a more pressing matter: The Black Bloods.

They had to go away. And they wouldn't go away on their own. We needed Martin, Sparky, Minna, and everyone else we could get to help take them down. They'd forced the issue by trying to grab me, and I saw no reason for them to stop trying to do that. Heroes weren't fighting them, and I could see why after what happened to Scrapper. The police had fled or were too meek to matter. The Midtown Militia were a possibility, but Martin's hesitation made me wary. The MRB hadn't gone after the Black Bloods when the city was intact and powered, I doubt they'd be willing to do so now. So, it was up to us. A ragged camp of homeless people, one somewhat aged and unstable lightning throwing veteran soldier, and myself.

I doubted it would be easy. We'd only escaped the fight in the church without worse casualties because Sangre had been a cocky bastard and Scrapper hadn't been as crazy as they thought he was. We couldn't count on lucky breaks like those happening again. It was time to stop reacting, and start acting.

But my musings were cut short by a troubling sight as I retraced my path back through the skyscrapers, and past the casinos and tourist traps of the boardwalk. Flashing red and blue lights lined the beach. They seemed to be coming from lights atop three parked cars on the street nearby. My traitorous memory said law enforcement. Had something happened? Two tents lay collapsed, and people were milling around outside.

Then as I watched, a stranger, a short-haired overweight man in a black and blue uniform, marched Martin out of his tent at gunpoint.

I accelerated, aimed toward them, and the stranger backed away while pointing the gun at me. I landed hard next to them, spraying sand and snow in equal quantities over the pair. Shouts from down the beach, and more strangers came running. They wore the same uniforms, and had golden badges displayed against blue shirts.

“MARTIN?” I inquired. “WHAT IS TRANSPIRING HERE?”

“Freeze!” From behind me. “Don't move!”

A bullet whined off of my forcefield, and I glanced back. “TRY THAT AGAIN, AND YOU'LL FORFEIT THE GUN.”

The older of the pair in the lead caught up to the youth who had taken the shot, and slapped the smoking gun in his hands down. “Sir. Please stand down and step out of the armor.”

I arched an eyebrow at the stupidity of the request. Now why would I do that? So they could shoot me properly, next time?

“Black Bloods paid them off! Fuckers are dirty cops!” Martin yelled. The one behind him bared his teeth, and drew a nightstick, moving closer to Martin's back. “Shut up! You have the right to—”

“MARTIN. DOWN.”

He dropped.  I spurred my grav system, kicking up a huge cloud of dust as I stretched out a gauntlet, flying toward the two of them. The cop fired a shot at me that came nowhere close, and then I had him by the arm. He screamed as I jerked him from his feet, sped forward another twenty feet, then whirled and threw him to the ground. He screamed as his shoulder gave... Broken or dislocated, I couldn't say.

When the dust cleared, the four officers who had been running toward me had stopped, unable to see through the dust. Martin had wisely gotten himself out of there, probably back into his tent.

And by that time I had my foot on the fallen cop's chest. He whimpered, and lay very still, as I kept the full weight of the suit off of him. Just.

“NOW THEN,” I stated. “PERHAPS WE SHOULD TRY THIS AGAIN WITH LESS SHOOTING.”

“Sir. You are interfering with appointed officers of the law undertaking the course of their duties, and you've assaulted one of those officers. Please stand down, and let us go about our business before you make this any worse on yourself.”

The man doing the talking was perhaps in his forties, overweight and wearing mirrored sunglasses that made him hard to read.

“AND WHAT IS THE COURSE OF YOUR DUTY HERE?” I looked at the tents. They'd been torn down by the look of it, and the sullen faces of the people by them held no love for the police, as they shot glares at their backs.  A couple of burn barrels had been tipped over, the fires extinguished. To the side, Sparky sat glaring, his collar off and some sort of crowbar-and-lock device wedged into his wheelchair. He tugged at it to no avail.

They'd grounded him.

“Ask them if they have a warrant!” Martin's voice came from his tent, and the young one jerked his gun, put a round through the canvas.

“PUT THAT DOWN, YOU YOUNG FOOL! LAST WARNING!”

I took my foot off of the downed one, and strode toward the four of them. They backpedaled... and the young one took three or four shots at me. I lost count after the second, as I put on a burst of jet-enhanced speed and backhanded him into the laundry shack. He bounced off the wall, fell down and scrambled to the side, took off running.

And in the stances and motions of the others, I saw fear. A dawning realization that they were in over their heads. But still they fired.

My forcefield caught a few rounds, as pistol fire registered from the rear, and the boom of a shotgun mixed in with the smaller caliber stuff.

I turned, and amped my mask to full volume, and bellowed.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS, AND KNEEL BEFORE DIRE!”

And they froze like prey before a predator.

I stomped forward, ignoring the heat spike that the forcefield's activation had caused. It would fade in a minute or two, so long as I took no further fire. Finally, I stood a few feet away from one who'd done the speaking before. He was looking up at me, his hands behind his head, sweating despite the snow falling thick around us now.

My sympathy for his plight had evaporated perhaps about six bullets ago.

“SO. DO YOU HAVE A WARRANT?”

He worked his mouth. No sound came out.

“A SIMPLE QUESTION. LET'S SEE IT IF YOU HAVE IT.”

A yell from behind me, and I glanced back to see Minna and Tooms tackle the young cop, wrestle his gun away from him. I looked back to see the speaker crying. His mouth moved again, and after a second he found words. “Please. He's my son. Don't hurt him.”

“A. WARRANT. NOW.”

The lone woman among them cleared her throat. “We, ah, had reports of theft and assault at a designated relief center, and the investigation led here. That's probable cause, no warrant required—”

“DESIGNATED RELIEF CENTER?”

“St. Augustine's, sir. We've found contraband material and illegal firearms here—”

“YES, ALL TAKEN FROM THE BLACK BLOODS. WHO ROBBED THIS CAMP'S FOOD SHIPMENT, AND WERE UNPACKING IT AT THE RELIEF CENTER THEY WERE OCCUPYING.”

“That's an interesting idea. I'm afraid that this camp is full of stolen goods, and you have to admit sir, it doesn't look too good—”

“Bullshit!” Sparky roared, as Joan and Tooms brought him over, each with an arm under his, and letting his legs drag the ground. Arcs of energy trailed in his wake. “We showed you the labels on them boxes! They were for us, and we had to get'em back!”

The bald man shook his head. “Sir. We were just going off the information we had, and following orders—”

“So were the Nazis! You know how well that worked out for them?” His wispy hair was slowly starting to rise, as sparks literally flashed from his eyes. Joan did a double-take, then leaned in, whispering trying to soothe him,.

“Sir, that doesn't excuse either the guns or the drugs that we've found—”

“Drugs which you did not have either probable cause or a fucking warrant for,” Martin said. “I know the Icon laws. Doesn't matter, though, you came here targeting me so you could get my ass in a cell. One I wouldn't leave with the Black Bloods after my ass, now.”

The police started arguing, and I clapped my hands together, metal ringing from metal. “ENOUGH.”

They shut up. For a minute there was no sound, save for the wind blowing.

“YOU SAY THAT CHURCH WAS A DESIGNATED RELIEF CENTER?”

“It was. Now it's a crime scene.” The crying one who'd pled for his son found his voice again.

“WHY WAS NO ONE IN THIS CAMP INFORMED OF SUCH?”

They shot furtive looks at each other.

“WELL. OBVIOUSLY THAT OVERSIGHT HAS BEEN REMEDIED, AS THIS CAMP NOW HAS THE SUPPLIES THAT THE RELIEF CENTER HELD FOR IT. AND THANKS TO THE SELFLESS EFFORTS OF A FEW OF ITS DENIZENS, THE CRIMINALS WHO WERE OCCUPYING THE RELIEF CENTER HAVE BEEN EVICTED. HAPPY ENDING. NO CRIME HERE.”

The bald one persisted. “The guns—”

“AH YES, THANK YOU FOR REMINDING HER. PUT THE SAFETIES ON AND KICK THEM OVER HERE.”

“No, I mean the stolen guns—”

“DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. ALL FIREARMS IN THIS CAMP WERE LEGALLY OBTAINED.”

“The Black Blood guns!” Shouted the young one, twisting between Minna and Tooms, trying to break free. “How the hell were those legal?”

And I straightened up from where I'd been crouching over the rest of the police. “AH. SO YOU ADMIT THAT YOU KNOW WHERE WE GOT THOSE. WHICH MEANS THAT YOU KNEW ABOUT THE BLACK BLOODS OCCUPYING THE CHURCH.”

His father went pale.

“AND SO YOU CONFESS YOUR CORRUPTION.”

“What? No! I...”

A cold fury rose inside me as he babbled excuses, and I moved over to him, step by inexorable step.

“Stop!” The father again, chasing after me, clutching at my arm. I shook it off and continued my advance. This was not proper. This was not the hallmark of a civilized society. It offended me beyond reason, to see corruption on such a scale, to see acquaintances and friends treated so.

I stretched forth a gauntlet, and the youth ceased babbling. He started screaming, as I closed a metal hand around his face.

I could fix this corruption. I was stronger than them, and I knew that there was nothing wrong with them I couldn't fix, one good squeeze at a time.

And yet...

I spared a glance back. Martin was covering the rest of the kneeling cops with one of their own guns, and the father was tugging and pulling on my arm with all his strength. He budged my armor not a bit, and screamed louder than his son. And the group around us was watching, some in horror, but more with joy. Some were even calling for blood.

If these bad cops were a mockery of a healthy and civilized society, it didn't mean that giving in to mob justice would be any better. It would be worse, in a lot of ways. Even then, I almost closed my fist, almost pulped his skull.

Anya clinched it. She was there in the back of the crowd, staring, her young face blank. She was standing next to three or four other children of the camp.

No. I couldn't do it. I collected myself, brought my fury down to a more manageable disgust.

“CEASE YOUR HOWLING, OLD MAN,” I snarled to the father. He quieted.

“MINNA, TOOMS, RELEASE THE YOUNG ONE.” They did, and he pried at my fingers, crying. “MINNA, FETCH PAPER AND WRITING IMPLEMENTS. YOU. YOU LOT.”

I turned to the rest of the police, dragging the young one with me, forcing him to dance along to keep his neck from being twisted. “YOU WILL CONFESS AND SIGN TO YOUR CRIMES HERE. THEN YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR GUNS AND GO. DO NOT COME WITHIN DIRE'S SIGHT AGAIN UNTIL YOU SERVE JUSTICE ONCE MORE.”

They were silent. “Confessions work better if someone else writes them,” Martin said. “Learned that shit from Law an' Disorder, season two.”

“FINE. THINK YOU CAN WHIP SOMETHING UP?”

“Yeah, sure.” It took about twenty minutes of copying once Minna showed up with paper, but finally he had documents that he distributed to each of them. I released the youth, they signed, and ran for their cars as fast as they could go after retrieving their fallen comrade. Some of the camp's population laughed as they went, others watched with sullen eyes. I kept watching until they started the cars and peeled rubber out of there.

As I did so, I caught movement, from an upward direction. Glancing up, my gaze was drawn to the brownstones which were nearest the beach. There were people in the windows, some gawking openly, others peering through blinds or curtains. Looked like we were the main show for the day. Again.

Come to think of it, my voice did carry pretty far at the volume I'd been speaking. All that plus action and surround-sound as well.

I turned back to see the camp settling back in, as some of the residents started helping get the fallen tents back up, and others repacked the food or guns that the cops had been dragging out, and got them back into the kitchen. Minna helped Sparky wrestle with the contraption that was forcibly grounding him. They'd taken his collar somewhere along the line, but it turned up in the pile of 'contraband' that they'd been confiscating.

“You know that shit ain't gonna work in court,” Martin said, moving up to stand next to me.

“HM?”

He winced. “Can you dial it down some?”

“GIVE HER A SECOND.” I moved behind the kitchen, putting it between me and the street, and decanted from the armor. Straightening my undershirt, I strolled out, shivering in the cold. Minna ran up to me, offered me the fur coat again. I took it with a chuckle as I found Martin again. “What won't hold up in court?”

“Those papers were signed under duress. Lawyers gonna eat your ass alive if you try to do shit with that.”

“She could care less,” I said. “We have bigger worries right now.”

“All right, but I'm just sayin' when the lights come back on the cops gonna come back with bigger guns and a whole lot more bloodthirst. Shit gonna get bad, and we might wanna get gone before that hits.”

I smiled. “Or someone could hand those papers over to the MRB. They're a higher authority, yes?”

“Might work. Got to admit, ICPD pigs don't usually give costumes grief. Bloods must have scared the shit out of them. Guess I ain't surprised, they have to want us bad by now. Throwin' everything they can think of.”

The sunset burned on the horizon, as my stomach grumbled and reminded me of more prosaic problems. “Yes. That's the next issue. We have plans to make, and little time to do it in. Who's cooking tonight?”

“Bobbi and Steve.”

“Don't know them.”

“I'll make sure their asses are on it.”

“Good. We'll need to have a... war council, over dinner, Dire thinks. It's time to start bringing the fight to them.”

Dinner was beans. Several kinds, with a bit of meat thrown in for flavor. I couldn't tell precisely what, it was the only thing I'd eaten that day and it was delicious. The water we drank to chase it down was collected from the showerhouse. Julio had been to work on the pipes, checking things over, shutting off the stalls with the worst leaks. Joan confirmed that he thought it would make it through a freeze without too much trouble. Which was good, as the night was only getting colder, and the snow wasn't stopping.

And as the senior members of the camp crowded in, with the others shamelessly eavesdropping just back from the fire, we got down to business. With no real reason to hide our amenities, we had lights ablaze around the camp. All the space heaters were going inside the bigger tents and the shacks.

But beyond it, everything was dark.

“First things first,” I said. “Roy will be all right. He's in the hospital recovering, Dire's going to visit him in a few days.”

Sparky let out a long breath, and Joan smiled. “I knew it. He's a tough old coot.”

“Very,” I said. “The downside is he's out of this, one way or the other. Which means that we need to sort this out without him, because Dire doesn't expect they'll wait for him to come back before they attack.”

“They might come tonight,” Martin said. “Truth is I 'spected to see them by now.”

Joan shook her head. “Well, they sicced the cops on us, right? Since the cops failed, maybe they won't.”

“We need guards,” said Sparky. “Gonna have to get people to keep watch. There's always someone up anyway, might as well give'em guns and tell'em trouble's coming.”

“Do we have any noisemakers?” I mused. “Guards typically have signals or means to make them.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “They called guns. We ain't that big, any gunshots gonna wake people up.”

“Ah. Right.” I rubbed my face. “Obvious in hindsight. Oh, here.” I offered Joan the flare gun that the Militia had given me. “If it looks bad, or if trouble happens when Dire's not around, then point up and pull the trigger. The Midtown Militia might come.”

“You're not going to be around?” Joan looked worried, and I raised a hand as the group around us muttered.

“Yes and no. Dire's your most mobile asset. You'll need her attacking, while you defend.”

They looked at each other, then Sparky sighed.

“Listen, missy Dire, we ain't exactly got defense. This ain't gonna be like when it was me and Roy holding the showerhouse, a year back. They're gonna come in force, they're gonna come angry, and they're gonna expect to have a fight.”

“And they're gonna be on that black rage shit,” said Martin.

“The ones in the church weren't,” I caught his eyes, but he didn't look away.

“The ones in the church weren't going to war. You saw what Scrapper did when he had it and they didn't.”

I grimaced at the truth of it.

Scrapper's armor hadn't been completely bulletproof. They'd tagged him several times. He would have bled out even if he hadn't forced me to kill him. But the drug had made a difference, all right.

“You need Dire to defend,” I muttered. “Then perhaps a small force, armed with some of the guns...”

“Yeah, 'bout that,” said Martin, “Guns? We got those. Ammo? Not so much. I didn't find where they were keepin' it, it wasn't with the rest of the shit.”

Sparky shook his head. “That's bad. I'd say we could start gun drills with our people, get'em practicing, but if we ain't got much ammo we can't do it.”

It also meant that we couldn't put up much of a fight if they came. We'd fold against any strong opposition.

I gnawed my lip... “Do they know that?” I asked Martin.

“Know what?”

“That we're that short on ammunition?”

“Shit, I don't know.”

“So maybe they don't. Let's hold drills, but only load a couple of guns. Make some noise instead of huddling down and acting scared,” I suggested. “If they're out there watching right now, then they'll think we have enough to spare for a serious fight. It'll make them cautious.”

“For maybe a night or two. Then they hit us with everything.” He shook his head.

I resisted the urge to throw my bean can at him. “Right, which is why we also fortify up, and Dire uses her armor to go search for more ammunition during the day. Or we trade with the Militia, or something.”

“Should trade with them anyway,” said Minna. “More useful we are, more they care about us.”

Martin raised his hands, let them fall onto his knees. “Seriously. Do not make the mistake of thinking they are friends. They ain't.”

I leaned in close, and fixed my eyes on his, waiting until he was staring back. “Martin. We need ideas. We need information. We need options. You're seriously starting to rain on her parade, here.” Now what was that supposed to mean? Some linguistic artifact? But Martin got the drift of it.

He took a deep breath. Took another, and let his hands fall. I leaned back across the fire, glanced at the others. Sparky was still grim, Minna was inscrutable as always, and Joan looked like she was almost in tears.

“We can do this,” I whispered. “We will do this.” My voice crept up a notch, and I stood. “Four of us. Just four of us went into that church, went into the jaws of death to get the food we're eating now. And all of us came out. Sangre didn't. Ten of his best didn't. We are not weak!” I was shouting now. “We have Scrapper's armor! We have guns! And we have a home to fight for! We will stand, and they will not break us!”

I stalked around the fire like an angry predator, waving my arm at every shout. And every eye was upon me. I stopped before Joan, knelt before her, and took her hand. She swallowed, and looked at me in surprise.

“So don't cry Momma Joan,” I urged. “We will see this through. And when Roy gets back? We're going to throw him one hell of a party, and we'll pay for it with every bit of stolen loot we raid from those evil fools.”

Her mouth quirked, and she sniffled a bit, but finally an honest smile emerged. “Punch and pie for all, huh?”

“The punchiest and the pie-e-est. Nothing but the best!” I stood, and the crowd laughed, the tension fell. I saw people start to slip away, and smiled at Sparky. “Think you can talk a few people into staying watch? Hand out guns?”

He nodded, looking a touch less grim than before. “Easy to do. Figure it'll get too dark too soon to do any real drills, but I'll have everyone I give'em to fire off a few rounds. That'll make the noise ya want.”

“Good. Joan, look over the food we've got, work out a ration that will last us for a week. All right?” She nodded, smiled again. I looked to Minna. “Minna, make sure no one gets stupid or goes off alone, alright?”

“Yes.”

“Martin. Come with Dire.”

“Am I in trouble?” He asked. “Gonna give me detention and shit?”

“No, but you have a thousand word essay on the Black Bloods and every little detail you know about them, due now. What they might have, how they fight, who leads them, everything we haven't discussed yet. Also, might want to tell Tooms to move your tent in some, it's kind of out there alone if trouble comes.”

He nodded, and actually smiled. “Alright. I think we're still fucked, but what the hell.”

I smiled back. “Well, if that's the case, then we can make sure that they draw back nothing but a bloody stump after they're done.”

He winced, but followed me into the darkness.

“Don't know what to tell you I ain't already told you. There's lots of them, they crazy as shithouse rats, they got a thing for stealing dead bodies. They got rage drugs, and maybe weird curse shit.”

I frowned. “Who's in charge? A violent, irrational organization like this, there's got to be someone up top strong enough to keep them all in line. There was someone in the church with a mask, Sangre called him Boss...”

“Coulda been Barbatos. He ain't the big boss, but he's more important than Sangre. There's four captains, and a boss of them, but they the only ones that get to see the boss. Sangre was one of the captains.” He rubbed his nose. “He's the one runs their turf in the Brownstones. Ran it, anyway. Ain't as tough as some of the other ones, but not the weakest, either.”

Middle of the road. Given his skills, and the way he'd disabled Scrapper with nothing but a sword, that was disturbing.

“Who's the toughest?”

“Barbatos.” He glanced away. “Barby might be a costume, it's honestly fucking hard to tell. Coate used to—” He stopped.

“Used to what?”

He avoided my eyes. “A guy I knew used to tell about how Barbatos took their turf in the Factories. It was a fucking slaughterfest that made our night at the church look like pattycake. Dude wears like a riot gear and a bulletproof mask, and uses meat cleavers. He just don't fucking stop. And it's not like he's on the rage, he don't scream or yell or nothing, he does it smart. Uses bodyguards, bombs, tactics and shit, and only comes in for the kill personally when you're already wrecked. He ain't had to come out for a long while, not since SCK pulled out of the Rustbelt.”

I rubbed my chin. “Who's the weakest?”

“Weak's a bad word for it, but the one who ain't probably gonna try to hand you your liver is Rictus. Fucker handles the business stuff for them. He's the one to talk to when you need a loan, or want a shipment of their shitty-ass drugs. He's probably the one that sicced the cops on us. Anyway, he's a goth-ass looking motherfucker in a suit. Usually got a gun.”

“That's three, one dead and accounted for. Who's the last?”

“Stig. Short for Stigmata.” His face grew grim. “Fucker's a SEAL or something. Ex-special forces dishonorable discharge PTSD poster boy from the last sandbox war. Guy used to run with the Kriegers until he got fed up with their shit, got a better deal up here. He's the one with the connections who gets their gear and shit. Not as good as what the Kriegers got, but good enough to mow our raggedy asses down.”

I frowned. “Yet Barbatos is the tougher of the two?”

“There's a reason Stig got a dishonorable discharge. And that reason is meth. Fucker's been frying his brain, dipping his wick, and partying for years now, living the good life. Got him a belly now, and he ain't running too many five-minute-miles. Still put a bullet in you in a heartbeat if you take your eye off the fucker and he crazy enough you might not see it coming.”

I rubbed my chin again, sat on the edge of the nearest pier. The snow had stopped, and the clouds were peeling away, leaving a moon staring down from above. Good. The visibility would help our people spot trouble, make it harder for them to sneak up on us.

“Stig first,” I decided. “Take him out, then loot his weapons and ammo stash... he'll probably have things we can use, and we'll deny it to the enemy at the same time. Do you know where to find him?”

“No,” he said. “I know he ain't around here. But I know who might know.” He grimaced. “Even if I don't fuckin' like it.”

That expression, I'd seen that look before. “The Militia?” I guessed.

“Yep.”

“Mm. Don't want to waste a flare to call them now,” I considered. “Dire will ask the next time they return. If she's not, then you must ask, yes?”

“Fuuuuuuuck. Yeah, all right.”

“What's your trouble with them, anyway?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Ah. Maybe another time. Take too long to explain it. Talk to me if we still alive later.”

“Mm. All right. Dire did have one other idea, but it might not be feasible...”

We discussed the contingency plan. Martin wasn't happy with it, but he agreed to it.

I nodded, and as he turned to leave, I stuck out a hand. He looked at it, took it, and shook.

“Fuck was that for?” He asked.

“Thank you. This helps.”

He looked at our hands, looked at my face, looked to our hands again, and shook his head. “Thank my ass if we live through this shit. Somehow.”

I grinned, and he wandered back to his tent.

For my own part, I looked at the suit of armor, open and crouching behind the kitchen. It was a good start, it had mobility and defense, but it was lacking in offense. I'd had to shave the hydraulic-enhanced strength of the suit down to get it flight capable. It was strong enough to knock rogue police around like dummies, but against psychos on rage drugs? Couldn't say. And using that strength required getting close in the first place...

I looked at the remnants of the SUV I'd cannibalized for a few select parts, and thought about the parts remaining.

Yes. Yes, I could do something with this...

CHAPTER 11: Rallying the Hopeless, Meeting the Hopeful

“You have to understand... The Black Bloods had been a problem for years, and the local police were never any help. Both of these groups were unpopular, both oppressed the folks who lived in Brownstones. So when she rose up, and smacked them both down, people got to talking. We were already feeling the pain from the blackout, already freezing in our apartments and homes, already preyed upon by thugs with guns. And here she was, showed up a few days back on the beach and already her people had power, and food, and guns of their own. Is it any wonder that some of us saw a chance to get help? To fight back? If she'd been Satan herself, we wouldn't have cared. There were worse devils already out in the night. And maybe she could help us fight them.”

--Interview with Tamara Lane, survivor of the Y2K crisis, and the Longlane Mall Massacre.

I worked well into the night, occasionally taking a break to walk around the camp and check in with the people Sparky had tapped to watch the perimeter. They were glad for the company, and I got to meet a few more people over the course of the five or six hours I was awake. I spent the rest of my time in the laundry room, using the tools to carve up components from the SUV and integrate them as upgrades. I didn't have room for anything fancy, but magnetic acceleration weaponry is actually not hard to do with the right components and enough power.

From the exhaust pipe and the internal wires and circuits of the dashboard, I crafted a crude coilgun. It wouldn't get enough acceleration to pierce vehicular armor, but it would definitely go through people. Or if I scaled it back, I could use it to batter and knock foes around instead, giving me a non-lethal option. Once done, it took another hour to weld it into the right shoulder of my armor, with a swiveling mount that would allow me to pull it down and aim it. Which was necessary, because without a targeting system or a mechanism to move it independently, I'd have to aim and fire it by hand. I tied it into the armor's power core, did a basic non-firing test, and smiled when none of the circuits blew.

That done, I slept the sleep of the righteous, curled up and enjoying it for the few hours it lasted.

A commotion woke me. I pulled my pistol from its place under me and waited, listening. Light shown in from outside. Past dawn, then. No violence, no shouting, no panic I could tell. Wailing kids? Unfamiliar voices? I holstered the gun, stood and pulled my clothes back on, and wandered outside.

I was met by the sight of people. About a hundred of them, most better dressed than the rest of the camp. It was a mix of men, women, and children of all ages. Most of them were carrying things... luggage, rolled up tents, a few other sundries. One elderly matron even had her arms wrapped around a cat carrier, with an ill-tempered Siamese inside doing its best to disembowel anyone who strayed too near to the bars.

I blinked.

One of the camp regulars glanced over, saw me, and turned back to the old man he was talking to. He pointed my direction, and the guy turned, studied me, and said something to another stranger. Gestures, eyes, and whispers, as more and more people snapped their heads around to study me. For my own part, I crossed my arms and glared back. Some of them flinched, but the muttering grew and finally Joan pushed forward, looked around, and pointed. “You and you, with me and Sparky. The rest of you just try and get settled, okay? Plenty of space to go around.”

She hurried over to me, leading two of the strangers over.

One was short and brown-skinned, with neatly trimmed mustaches and beard. He wore spectacles, and he had the most cheerful grin on his face of anyone in the crowd.

The other was an old man who had more wrinkles than face. He was tall but stoop-shouldered. He had an unfamiliar uniform on, that included a truly comfortable looking greatcoat. Eyebrows like knots of frayed rope covered watery but stern eyes, even if he seemed to be making an effort to smile.

“So you'd be the lady in charge of this camp,” he said as he approached, and his voice was rough. It bespoke damage to his throat at some point, perhaps from contact with hazardous chemicals.

Yes? No? Kind of? I had sort of taken charge of things, hadn't I? Mainly because we'd needed somebody to, after Roy fell.

Joan solved my dilemma. “Yeah, she is. This is Dire.”

“Doctor Dire,” I clarified. We were dealing with unknowns, and a title would provide a slight advantage under certain circumstances.

“Ah! You too?” The brown-skinned man spoke up. His voice was gentle and smooth. Deeper than I'd expected, given his small stature. He bowed. “I am Doctor Khalid Basaran, a general practitioner with a focus in osteopathy. You?”

“Well, she's a somewhat focused practitioner with specialties in physics, heavy engineering, and electronics.”

I stepped around the corner to get a clear line of sight, and pointed at my armor, parked behind the kitchen. “That's her current patient.” I let a slight smile creep onto my face, as they laughed. Joan laughed too, but Sparky was still looking a bit sour.

Then there was a hand thrusting toward my face, as the uniformed one stuck it out with no particular warning. I took it and shook it. “I'm Phil Guzman. Used to be a Captain when the piers up here were in service. Call me Guzman.”

I nodded. “Good morning to you both. Why are you here in the camp? Why are...” I gestured at the crowd, which was busy unpacking their luggage. Not everyone had tents, perhaps a third of the arrivals. Still, it made for a chaotic spray of colors across the beach. Children shrieked and laughed, running as they played. It was a cold morning, I couldn't blame them for keeping in motion.

“Well...” Guzman cleared his throat. I waited, but he didn't follow up on it, perhaps searching for the right words to say. Joan spared him the trouble.

“Things were worse than we thought, hun. The last few nights? The noises we were hearing from back over that way?” She gestured with a mitten-clad hand. “That was the Black Bloods going door to door, extorting tribute.”

“Most of the folks who could get out a here already did,” said Guzman. “But a lot of us don't have nowhere to go, or don't have money to leave. And there's barricades up north of here, only get through if you've got papers. Goddamn government.”

“If you can't pay, then the Bloods hurt you,” said Joan. “They've been taking kids, too. Even... babies... in some cases.” She swallowed, blinked back tears.

“Right. Okay,” I said. “Still doesn't answer Dire's original question. Why is everyone here?”

“We are here because you beat them,” said Khalid. “And because you're strong enough to protect the people here. So now we want to be the people here, too.”

I stared in disbelief. “The people here are homeless. They have nowhere to go.”

Guzman shrugged. “Power's off in all of these apartments, all of the houses. It's cold as hell anyway, we might as well be homeless already.” I looked at his gut, which probably hadn't missed a meal in years, and refrained from comment. He continued. “Besides, with us here the police probably won't give you as much grief. Ain't like we're freeloading!” He spat the word, settled his watery eyes on me. “We got pride. We brought everything we could with us.”

“It's true,” Joan nodded. “Kitchen's full of food now. Though with more people eating it, I don't know how fast it'll go. And the laundry's full of spare clothing. Minna's got people working overtime cleaning it.”

I looked at Sparky, who'd been silent so far. “What are your thoughts on the matter?” I asked.

He waved a hand in a sort of helpless flop. “Ain't like we can turn them away. Whole point of this place was anyone could show up and stay so long as they behaved. But the Black Bloods are gonna come after us at some point, and this is gonna get a whole lot more people dead.”

“Well,” I said, my mind spinning ahead and chewing over the problem, “it also means more people who can carry guns and fight if it comes down to it.”

“No they can't!” Sparky clenched a fist, and snaps of lightning flared up for a second, before his collar compensated. “No. They can't,” he repeated. “They're factory workers and blue collar guys and housewives and welfare moms and... shit, doctors, too. Just one, maybe, but I mean they're civilians.”

“Civilians who are being preyed upon the the Bloods. Same way we were.” I pointed out. “This isn't the fight Dire would have picked either, but it's the fight that found us.”

Sparky puffed his lips out in a long sigh, and swiveled around in his chair. He looked at the crowd of people out in the camp. He kept tapping his fist against the armrest, and after a second I saw what he was looking at. The screaming group of kids, running up and down the shore. “I just... damn. It reminds me of a time back in the War. We'd taken the beaches, and there was this little village south of Caen. We told the locals we'd protect'em...”

I put my hand on his shoulder, ignored the small shock. Some of Roy's words came back to me. “Was this the Black Forest stuff he mentioned? Devil dogs or something like that?”

Sparky looked at me in confusion. “Huh? Devil Dogs? Shit, that was the marines, and that was in a totally different war.”

None of this meant much to me, but I shrugged. “Dire must have misheard him.”

“Roy was probably getting' mixed up again. He's been doing that more these years.” Sparky shook his head. “Ain't getting any younger and it don't matter. I just seen enough dead kids for one lifetime.”

We were quiet for a minute. Khalid took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. I squeezed Sparky's shoulder, then let it go. “Well, the solution's simple, then.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mmhm. We beat them before they can kill us.”I smiled. “Simple.”

Guzman chuckled. “That's the spirit I was hoping to see. And Sparky, that's your name, yeah? Sparky?”

“Yeah.”

“This old Navy salt's going to forgive you calling him a civilian. Once. Don't forget that some of these young men and women who showed up here today are veterans, too.”

The look on Sparky's face was precious. Guzman grinned, wrinkles sliding over his face, and tipped his cap to me. “I'll go talk around and see who we have that's willing to help you fight. Good to meet you, Doctor Dire. I think this just might work out.” And off he went. Sparky stared after him dumbfounded for a bit, then coughed out a bark of laughter. “Well, I better go supervise. Can't let a navy guy run shit, or they'll start thinkin' they're actual people.” He rolled after him, and Joan just shook her head, and walked back towards the kitchen.

Only Khalid remained. I turned back to find him studying me, his face inscrutable. “You're a doctor, a medical doctor?”

“Yes. Though I haven't practiced in quite some time.” He didn't look that old, but I supposed there were more reasons possible for such things, and I didn't care to pry at the minute.

“Good. We don't have many medically-trained personnel in the camp. Our sickbay is over there, along with the few first aid kits we have.” I pointed. “The kitchen's there, the laundry's there. Dire is putting you in charge of caring for the camp's wounded and sick. Do you object to such things?”

“Would it do any good if I did?” It could be taken impolitely, but his attitude suggested earnest curiosity.

“Yes, actually.” I nodded. “You can object, and decide not to be the resident medical expert. But if that happens, you'll probably have to watch people you care about die or get maimed or worse, and not do anything about it. Are you certain you want that?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “But I had to make sure.”

He bowed again, and I bowed back, a bit uncertain of how else to handle it. That seemed to be the correct thing to do, for he departed without another word.

And I was left standing outside, shivering. In the space of one night, everything had changed. My past was no longer a priority, with the present so troublesome and the future uncertain. I rearranged my mental checklist, glanced toward the general direction of the sun. I had things to do while I had daylight, and most of them either involved modifying the armor, testing the armor, or using the armor. First things first, a live-fire test of that coilgun—

A yell rose from the far end of camp, and I saw Martin run after someone big, a man with a ragged bandage around his jaw. The one who'd tried to threaten me days ago, Rick. Why was he doing that?

I started heading that way, just as Martin reached Rick and struggled with him, holding him back. Stopping him from going after the small, crouching figure cornered up against the wall of the laundry. A familiar small crouching figure, with greasy black hair.

The crowd murmured and stared, and a ring spread out around the three people in the dispute. I strode forward, feeling a dull, throbbing ache building in my skull. How fucking stupid was this guy?

As I pushed through the last of the crowd, I caught what Martin was shouting at Rick.

“—easy man, take it fucking easy it ain't worth the blood don't do it you know the rules take it easy-” He glanced up at me, saw the expression on my face. “Oh fuck a duck.”

I ignored Martin, as he let Rick go and held his hands up in a mute appeal. I ignored Rick as he stopped, and backed away as hastily from me as his feet could take him. I stopped in front of the crouched man, who peered at me from between his fingers as he shielded his face.

And I glared at him. “Tugs.”

“m'sorry.”

“You stole from Dire.”

“m'sorry.”

“You sold what you stole from Dire.”

“m'sorry.”

“And then you have the nerve to show your face here again.”

“I...” He was crying.

I drew my gun.

“Oh shit.” Martin had found his voice. “Dire. Dire, look. He's a junkie, all right? He's not in control. Does dumbass things.”

“That's nice, he can do them somewhere else before Dire finishes counting down from thirty,” I said. “Start running, Tugs.”

He didn't. “m'sorry, m'sorry, m'sorry...”

“He's got nowhere to go,” said Martin. “Bloods have a bounty on anyone from this camp now. You kick his ass out he dies before the day's done.”

“Or he can die here with a bullet in his head. Twenty-five.”

“Look! Look... Shit. Look, I'll pay for whatever he took.”

“What he got away with doesn't matter, but he almost took the mask, Martin. We would have died in that church if he'd succeeded. Fifteen.”

“Dire. Fuck. Dire, please listen, I.. I'll take responsibility for his shit. I'll watch his ass.”

“What is he to you Martin? A valued customer? Ten.”

“Jesus, fuck, just stop okay! No I never sold to him. He's into the harder, cheaper shit that I don't sell. He doesn't have a choice now he's fucking hooked. Just I don't care, break his legs or something but don't fucking kill the guy. Not like this. Fuck man, not like this.”

I moved forward. I put the gun's muzzle against Tugs' forehead, and his sobs grew, loud and rough and horrible to hear. A sudden pungent smell and a dark stain on the snow below him, and I knew he'd wet himself.

“Zero,” I said. And I saw his head sag, as his eyes closed.

We stood there for a second, all watching us. I raised my voice.“This man was guilty of theft!”

“Oh thank fucking god,” whispered Martin.

“Don't be thankful,” I muttered, lips close, out of the side of my mouth. “Your work will be hard.” I raised my voice again. “But we're giving him one more chance. Tugs, if you steal again, if you work against the camp, if you harm anyone here, then you die. This is your last chance. Use it well.” I replaced the gun in its holster. I hadn't even taken the safety off, during all of that, tempting though it had been. I'd expected Tugs to run. When it became clear that he wasn't going to do that, Martin's offer had been the only good option. Though I had the feeling this would come back to bite him, in the end.

I turned to face the crowd. “Same thing goes for everyone else. We're all in this together now, and we're all going to help each other survive this. Anyone doesn't, or anyone decides to steal, I'll hear. Anyone hurts others here, or causes trouble, you tell Joan, Martin, or Sparky. They'll tell Dire. If you're really unlucky, you'll have a talk with Dire about it. If you're really, really unlucky, the talk will involve bullets.” Somewhere in the crowd a child started to wail. A bit disheartening, but I couldn't afford to be misunderstood, here. “The Black Bloods own the police, so we have to police ourselves. Be good. That's all.”

The crowd parted for me as I strode toward my armor, and climbed into it. I'd had enough of people to last me for a while. Time to blow off some steam with a proper weapons test.

The coilgun tested decently. The added drag of the barrel and acceleration apparatus made flight a little trickier, and the ammunition canister and feeder broke up the lines of the armor. Made it look inelegant, awkward. No help for it though, this was the time for functionality rather than form. More awkward were the facts that each coilgun shot disrupted my forcefield temporarily. They involved two different applications of electromagnetism, which didn't play well together at all. The long and short of it? I couldn't have both going at the same time. Not optimal, but I'd have to live with it for now.

When I hovered back to shore, I noticed one of the newcomers waving me down. She was a small, dark-skinned young woman in coveralls and glasses. I steered toward her, cut the gravitics about ten feet away, and kicked up a spray of snow when I landed. “Hey. Doc Dire, right?”

“DOCTOR DIRE, YES.” My voice caused screams from the camp, hastily cut off when the original members started laughing at newcomers. With much chagrin on the faces I could see, they resumed their activities. The young woman, for her part, was grinning wide. I noticed she had one or two silvery teeth.

“That's bitchin'”, she said. “Always wanted to work for a supervill. You hiring?”

“SUPERVILL?”

“Villain. Look, I'm a wicked sweet mechanic. Customized my own ride. Your power armor? I can fix it. Do maintenance and stuff.”

I considered her, letting the villain label pass. I didn't particularly care what people thought about me. “YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE MECHANICAL SKILL TO MATCH DIRE?”

“Hell no. But I can do little stuff so you don't have to.”

It was tempting. “ONE MINUTE.” I decanted from the armor, headed into the women's tent, and retrieved my backpack. Also retrieved the fur coat, that someone had returned to my sleeping quarters. The day was still chilly, after all, even if it had warmed up sometime during my rest.

When I got back out, the 'bitchin' mechanic' was standing up on a chair, having dragged it over to peer down the open chest of my armor. I smirked, and tossed her the backpack. To her credit she managed to twist around and catch it without falling off the chair. “There's a toolkit inside. Crack it open, carefully, and tell Dire the name of each tool and how they are used.”

“For real? Shit, that's baby stuff. Might as well ask me to do a freaking book rep— Oh. Oh my.” She had the toolkit open by that point, and was looking at the power tools. “Is that a real plasma cutter? Ohmigod.”

She didn't know the name of every tool, but she managed to discern the purpose of all of them, save for the quantum wave analyzer. I nodded, and reclaimed the empty backpack. “You have a name?”

“Wilma. Wilma Abernathy.” She made a face. “Don't blame me for that. Friends call me Abes.”

“Well, Wilma, friendship is yet to be determined, but you're in.”

She pounded the air. “Hell yeah! So what's the first job, boss? Buffing? Recalibration? Maybe some nitrous? I got a system at the garage, we can cut it down to size—”

“Ammo.” I tugged on her hand, guided her to the half-salvaged SUV. “Right now she's short. Here...” I cracked the armor's ammo hopper open, took out one of the makeshift beanbag rounds, and one of the spike rounds. “We'll need both in equal measure. Cut up the seat foam, mold it into balls around a coin or two. Add smooth rocks throughout to give it weight, but make sure not to bunch them up. Then duct tape the whole mess. These are the nonlethal option, they'll batter and bruise and maybe break, but they shouldn't kill if used properly.”

She nodded, held up the spike round. A tapering fold of metal, peeled from the SUV's panels with a long nail from the camp's stores embedded at the front. “And these?”

“Oh, those are lethal. Also they're pretty much constructed as they appear. Any questions?”

She shook her head, and got to work. I paused, then dug in the backpack again, pulled out a stack of hundreds and handed it over. She took it with a funny look. “What's this for?”

“You wanted to be hired, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but I didn't ex... pect... wait a minute, I don't know the president on these. And these aren't ones. These aren't ones at all. Ohmigawd.”

“So your wages are agreeable?”

“Ohmigawd.”

“She'll take that as a yes. Get to work, hm?”

She did, and I clambered into the armor. Enough testing, enough drama, time to get to work.

CHAPTER 12: More Heroes, more Harassment

“I had a chance to stop her, early in her career. I failed. It's on me, I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life. Jesus Maria, if I'd known  then how she'd turn out I would have gone lethal, and damn the consequences.”

--Comment accredited to Ballista, independent hero active in Icon City from 1999-2008.

Today's main task: ammunition. Not for my coilgun this time, but for the various firearms that we'd liberated from the Black Bloods. I took the time to check with Martin.

“There's gun shops, but most of them been hit already by looters or Bloods, guarantee it. Same thing for Q-Marts, or hunting places. Pawn shops you might maybe get some shells, but most people don't pawn ammo, just guns.”

I chewed my lip under my mask. “SO WHAT'S THAT LEAVE?”

“Police station, but from what my customers tell me, they holed up and waiting for the 'pocalypse. And hitting them would be bad. We already in the shit for that stuff yesterday. But... hm. Now that I think of it...” He rubbed his fingers together, smiled. “I might know a place after all. There's this guy I know, Willis. He's a dealer too. Paranoid son of a bitch. Thinks the government's after his ass. I've seen his safe room. He's got enough of an ammo stash to hold off a fuckin' army.”

“SOUNDS LIKE A START. THINK HE'LL SELL IT?”

“All of it? Shit, no. But even a tenth of it would be enough for us. And I got some stuff you can trade for it. Hang on.” He headed back into his tent, came out with a fanny pack. He opened it, showed me the brick of white, plastic-wrapped substance inside. “This is Nuevacoke. The good shit, straight outta Guatemala. You got more than enough here, don't settle for nothing less than fifty thousand rounds of nine mil.”

“WHAT COMPENSATION DO YOU WANT FOR THIS?” I asked.

He looked at me like I'd said something monumentally stupid. “I want to survive this. So this one's on the house. Now if you'll excuse me, I got to go make sure Tugs ain't getting into my mouthwash. Fucker's a fiend for that shit.”

I shook my head. “WHY DID YOU STAND UP FOR HIM, ANYWAY?”

He looked away, looked back. “He reminds me of someone. But... not now, aight? Ask me that sometime when you ain't in the shouty suit, I'll tell you.”

“FAIR ENOUGH.” I secured the fanny pack inside my cargo compartment, next to the ball drone, got the directions I needed from Martin, and headed out.

Willis had a lair in what used to be a student dormitory before the adjacent University went out of business. The campus buildings were in the midst of being demolished before Y2K hit, and the construction site should be easy enough to find, just north of Downtown proper.

It was smaller than I'd expected. From there, it was only a few blocks west, to find the rows of large old houses with various Greek letters faded and peeling across the front of them. When I came to the one tucked back in its own cul-de-sac, I knew I'd found the place. But it wasn't as I'd hoped. I felt my heart sink as I saw the shattered glass glinting in the snow of the street, and tracked the bullet holes in the walls. Trouble had found this place. The main door shifted in the wind, broken and dangling from one hinge. Inside, darkness beckoned. Great. Just great.

Well, maybe he was still here.

“MISTER WILLIS. THIS IS DOCTOR DIRE.”

No response.

“SHE WISHES TO BARTER WITH YOU, AND HAS PRODUCT.”

Nothing. From my position above, I saw a pair of people two streets over run for it.  They retreated into one of the houses and slammed the door. Only prudent, really. I landed and walked in the front door, switching the mask's low-light mode on as I did so.

The first body was about ten feet back, lying where it had taken cover behind a kitchenette. The antechamber between here and there was shredded, and brass casings covered the floor. Blood smeared one of the walls, and as I picked my way through the house it became pretty clear that however paranoid Willis had been, he'd had reason to be so. I couldn't say whether or not he was one of the corpses I found, but it was pretty clear that there was no one left here to conduct any sort of business. Nor was there anything much left to sell. The places which looked like they might have had something of value were wrecked, with items strewn all over and nothing of worth left. I did manage to find a few small boxes of bullets, but they weren't of the caliber Martin had advised.

I took them anyway, frowning at what was left. In the end I came to the safe room that Martin had described. The heavy steel door lay on the floor before it. Scorch marks showed where someone had welded the frame around it, cutting the reinforcing bars out of the concrete to get through. There were still crates left inside. For a moment I felt hope, but it was dashed after a quick inspection. Everything that had been food or ammunition was gone.

I was about to give it up and head back to camp to report failure, when a pump-like mechanism caught my eye. It was clamped to a desk, and had what looked like a simple piston setup. I leaned over for a closer look, and my errant memory identified it as a bullet press. And identified the proper usage of it.

Wait. You could make bullets without a factory?

Another moment of observation told me that this desk held most of the tools that I'd need to do that, and a third moment of searching turned up boxes of primer, slugs, and powder under the desk. Those hadn't been taken by the looters.

I didn't see any brass, but the house was full of casings, now, wasn't it? Surely not the fifty-thousand that Martin wanted, but enough to get us started. So I got to work packing up the tools and boxed materials into some of the empty crates, and then roamed the house, gathering the brass casings by the handfuls. After this, if we needed more I could probably go and scavenge the church. I doubted the police had bothered to sweep up there yet.

I knelt down to pick up some casings that had found their way into the remnants of a bedroom, and some instinct prompted me to glance up into an unexpected glare of light. There was a fist-sized hole punched in the wall, and I caught a glimpse of the silhouette of a head poking up from behind the roof of the nearest house. It had some sort of mask or goggles, that flared red to my vision. I zoomed in, zoomed in again, but didn't get a clear resolution before the head retreated back down below the level of the roof.

Someone was watching me.

I resumed picking up casings, as casually as I could. And deviating a bit from the pattern I'd set, I climbed up to the second floor. It was going to be tough to get a better angle on my watcher without alerting them to my intent.

I came to a wide window frame that was now filled with jagged glass and cleared it out with a hand, making a show at looking around at the ground below. Which is how I spotted the second one, crouched against the wall, directly under me.

He wore a grey outfit, a tight bodysuit with what looked like a layer of dull-black plastic armor over the joints and vital spots. He had a grey mask, featureless save for two red-lensed eyes and a WEB symbol above them. He had a longarm of some sort slung on his back.

WEB. My pursuers from the sewers, back again. Stalking me again.

The figure looked up, I looked down, and he took off running.

“WAIT.” I kicked in the gravitics, and burst through the window. As I did, my forcefield flared to life, repeatedly, as muzzleflash erupted from the first watcher's spot, and a the POP-POP-POP of an automatic weapon sounded through my audio filters. A slow warmth spread through my suit, as the thermal vents struggled to compensate.

Well. That answered the question of whether or not they were hostile.

It also meant I couldn't try to take the runner down with the coilgun unless I wanted to test the armor against automatic gunfire.

I started evading, dodging from side to side as I went after the runner. He was fast enough to get back to his friend's location, before I could close the distance. He dove through a window and vanished. I could follow...

No. They'd had time to set the ground. I reversed thrust, flipped around and put my feet on the wall to stop my momentum. Once slowed and on the ground again I switched the mask over to thermal sight. The thin drywall of the house was no match for the advanced sensors.

The one who'd gone inside was waiting in the bathroom. The one on the roof was moving up, trying to get a bead on me now that I was next to the wall and out of his line of fire. And there were two more figures inside, waiting in the room I had almost gone flying into. They were set up at angles where they could catch me in a crossfire.

Clever. Not clever enough. I switched off the forcefield and activated the coilgun. A quick grab of the grip to pull the barrel into place and aim it, and then I waited for the right moment. The one on the roof was nearly at the edge before I found a good shot.

I put a spike through his foot from below. He screamed and fell, and I ran over to him and kicked him until he stopped moving. They'd shot at me with live rounds, so I didn't feel any particular urge to hold back. On the other hand, they hadn't yet done anything to justify killing them.

Ksssh! POP-POP-POP! More bullets. My forcefield hummed, and a wave of fresh heat blossomed as I dove to the side, kicked in the jets, and ended up behind an old Chievy Casanova. Cracking noises filled the air; one of my remaining assailants at a window, hosed bullets in my general direction. I narrowed my eyes, waiting for the reload, but another window shattered, and one of his buddies opened up from a different vantage.

Bullets rattled off the car in front of me, and wisps of vapor started to escape. If the hydrogen reservoir touched off it'd be bad.

I gauged the forcefield, my current heat level, and my hydraulics. A couple of bullets that made it through the car rattled off of me, but their impact had been blunted enough that they weren't much of a difference.

All right. Here went nothing!

I crouched, planted my hands under the car, and took hold. Standing, I jerked it above me. My hydraulics were whining and gasping, and I tried to ignore the rising heat as the gunman started to see what I was doing, and cut loose on my unshielded form.

It was like standing next to a furnace, and sweat poured from me as I leaned back...

And heaved the car into the house.

Modern fuel cells aren't designed to blow easily. The phlogiston exchangers are rigged with quite a lot of safeguards.

On the other hand, they're not supposed to be shot repeatedly, then tossed into solid objects in a manner designed to crumple their fuel cells. Pretty sure that voids the warranty. The resulting explosion knocked me back about five paces.

My thermal sight was useless in the face of the merrily burning flames. But no more gunshots were coming my way, so that was something. I picked my way around the wreckage, and peered to the side of the house. The one I'd dropped was trying to get up and failing. Good. I had questions for him. Mostly about what the hell they were thinking, shooting at me like that.

Another glance to the house to make sure it was safe. I saw nothing, so I moved back out of the firing vectors they'd been using, and shut down the force field. I had been starting to roast in there. Any more and I would have been burnt.

A whistling noise behind me, and I dove to the side as I turned. A small speck in the sky from the south resolved itself into the form of a figure growing larger as I watched. I flipped the coilgun's ammunition to nonlethal. The whistle grew into a shriek, and the figure landed in the center of the cul-de-sac, sending a spray of snow billowing up around him.

And then he stood up.

He was a tall and broad-shouldered man, dressed in green. He had a black streak diagonally across his front that ended at his shoulder in an arrowhead design. He wore a domino mask over his eyes, that left most of his face exposed. He was clean-shaven, with olive skin, and long black hair. He had something on his back, a harness with rods sticking out of it.

I looked at him. He looked back at me and nodded. His face was grim, and his eyes never left my mask's eyesockets as he reached behind him and drew one of the rods. With a twist and a 'hiss', it unfolded itself into a spear. My mask chimed, and displayed words.

BALLISTA

INDEPENDENT HERO

POWERS: UNKNOWN – KINETIC RELATED.

“You can surrender now if you like. Save yourself a beating,” he rumbled.

“WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS WITH DIRE AND WHY ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A FIGHT?”

“Name's Ballista. And I know that armor, even if you tried to hide it. You're the one who killed Scrapper.”

Oh shit.

“THAT WASN'T HER. THE BLACK BLOODS—”

“Three goddamn weeks, tracking him down. Three goddamn weeks, trying to find out where they'd hid him, what they did to him. And then, just as I get a solid lead, you go in and kill him. Steal his armor. Go on a rampage.” He gestured at the burning house behind me.

“THIS IS ACTUALLY THE RESULT OF DIRE DEFENDING HERSELF—”

“Dire, huh? Typical of your sort, but I guess most of the good names are taken.” He shifted his feet, spread his arms. “Doesn't matter, you can tell your lies to the MRB. You'll have plenty of time for that when you're sitting in one of their cells.”

I scowled. “YOU CHOSE THIS FIGHT.”

I kicked on the gravitics and jetted upwards. And he leaped after me, moving faster than I expected, from someone that large. I tried to twist aside, but he caught me by the calf and threw me towards the ground. I slammed into it, rattling around in the armor like a peanut in a shell, crying out in pain. My left knee was on fire, and I fought to stay conscious. He'd wrenched the leg or worse, and I didn't have time to think. I rolled to the side and a good thing I did as he threw the spear at me.

CHONK!

My way was blocked. I twitched the flight controls, levered myself up without putting pressure on my wounded leg, and stared at the spear that he'd sunk into the pavement just ahead of me. The spear had been at least six feet long in his hands. Now only two feet of its shaft was sticking out of the ground.

I wasn't sure my forcefield could stop something on that scale. Not without giving me second-degree burns, or worse. Given the already accumulated heat... yeah, I had to leave it off for now, or bad things would happen. Better to lose an arm or a leg than to roast all of me.

He hit the ground, just as I finished getting upright. My leg throbbed in rhythmic pain, sharper than the ring of bruises where Scrapper had manhandled my arm. I couldn't run, and the flight system was too slow with him at this close a range. And if he caught me with one of those spears, then I'd be done.

I hovered low to the ground, lined up a shot with the coilgun, and he charged me. I dodged to the side and he skidded to a stop, sending up a spray of snow. He reached out for my arm, and I twisted, and put my fist into his jaw. As I did so, I met a strange resistance. For a split-second my hand slowed, and it hit him with a lot less force than I'd intended. It still rocked him back a step, and I used it to get distance and blast him with a beanbag round to the chest.

He ignored it, and this time I saw it move oddly as it slowed. He hauled out another spear, and popped it to its full length. I darted behind a hedge. The burning building at my back was smoking in earnest now, sending dark plumes into the sky.

Then his arm jerked forward and I rose into the sky, drawing my legs up under me before I could think about it. The pain nearly sent me into a nosedive, and I bit down a scream as it felt like every nerve in my body throbbed in horrific unison. But the spear missed me, speeding by almost faster than I could track it.

“Give up!” He yelled, and I shook my head. Attacks against him were slowed, and his spears were faster than they should be. When he'd grabbed my foot, what had he done? Initially I thought he'd pulled me to the ground, but what if he'd sped or slowed my leg, and let my momentum do the rest? And his entrance had been showy, but not as hard on the ground as it should have been.

It wasn't superstrength. He was adjusting the speed of things he touched. Maybe himself, too, which was how he'd done that enormous leap to get here without pancaking himself.

While I thought, I threw myself into short, rapid boosts, pelting him with my limited beanbag supply every time he got near. They were shots that would take down normal men at this range, but every one that got close had the same end result. It would slow and hit him with minimal force. And after the sixth one, I noticed something very, very interesting. Not only did they slow, but so did he. For that split-second, he was moving a bit slower, until the shot hit him and bounced off.

I glanced back at the burning house, and nodded. It had a nice, big porch with wooden support pillars.

Another spear whistled by, piercing my hoodie and jerking me backward as it ripped a long swatch of it away. I feigned a tumble, waited until he dived at me, and leaped over him, leaving him stumbling and between me and the house. I switched to spike rounds, and fired, not at him, but at the pillars next to him. He took them as misses, ducking for cover as tore into the supports. And then I closed, sidling onto the open end of the porch. He grinned in triumph, and closed with me, coughing a bit at the smoke. I smelled it myself, seeping in through the holes in my helmet. We both had to breathe.

I slowed, and he did the same, forewarned by something. “Giving up?”

“NO.” I put up my arms like I'd seen the smackbrawl wrestlers do, arms wide and high. “YOU MAY, IF YOU WISH.”

He grabbed my arm and twisted, and I went with it, letting him jerk me to the ground. Even braced, the impact jarred my leg, and a high whine escaped my clenched teeth.

And while he grinned in triumph, I used my free hand to aim the coilgun, and put a point-blank beanbag round into the main support. With a sharp 'crack' it gave, and a few hundred pounds of wood and shingles started to collapse in on both of us. He looked up in horror. I twisted my left arm, grabbed ahold of his elbow, and grabbed for his throat with my right hand.

He tried to stop me but he was moving slowly, so slowly as the porch roof fell in on him in equal slow motion. Before he could stop me I had his throat in one large gauntlet.

I squeezed. Not at the armor's full strength, but enough. He started turning blue, watching helplessly as the seconds passed in slow-mo and the shingles pattered off of him. I knew then that I'd won. He was shielding both of us from the falling roof, and he had no way to get rid of my hand. If he slowed it down, it wouldn't stop mefrom choking off his air. If he sped it in a different direction, his throat would go with it, given my grip. He'd be killing himself either way.

It took about two minutes to choke him out. I gave it about three after he sagged and went totally limp, to make sure. Getting us both upright again without killing him or banging my leg was a major effort , but I managed.

I carried him forth from the burning house, and laid him on the street outside. His chest rose and fell shallowly. Good. He'd been obstinate, but he hadn't earned death. A thought struck me and I glanced to the side, looking for the gray-and-black suited man I'd incapacitated earlier. There was no sign of him, and I bit back a curse. This nonsense had wounded me to no gain. Then again...

I looked at the house. The fire hadn't reached the second floor yet, by the looks of it. If I moved quickly something could be salvaged.

Rather than risk the ground floor inside, I broke out the wide window in the side of the house to make my way to the safe room. It took a little while to finish packing the crates and secure the rest of the casings. By the time I was done my leg felt like a red-hot-iron had been jammed into the bone, and I was coughing from the smoke that surrounded me. Finally, I grabbed the three crates, balanced them, and hovered through the window as the floor started to collapse behind me. That had been a bit close...

When I emerged, the light level shifted and darkened. I glanced upward to see that an aircraft had me in its shadow, as it descended. A familiar-looking aircraft, one I'd seen a few nights back. It was the triangular-shaped craft that Tomorrow Force had been using, back at my old lair.

I flew down to the street, glanced over at Ballista. Still out. I put the crates down and hovered a foot off the ground to keep pressure off my leg, as I crossed my arms. For the love of grace, could I not finish this errand in peace?

The aircraft stopped about twenty-feet off the ground, and the engine pulse thrummed through me. I didn't know the source of the craft's power, and that spooked me in a way I couldn't define. It was the first time I'd hit technology my mind didn't instantly identify and explain, and that only emphasized how badly I was outmatched. I had a second-hand suit of armor, a glorified electromagnetic blunderbuss, a forcefield which cooked me if it got too overloaded, and a major injury. If it came to a fight, this was going to be ugly.

I gnawed my lip. Could kayfabe help me here? Maybe. If I could avoid seeming weak, I'd be in a better position. Kayfabe was the art of controlling and shaping the narrative, and I'd be at a disadvantage if I let them take the lead. So I decided to give it a whirl.

“AH, TOMORROW FORCE. WELCOME. YOU HAVE SAVED DIRE A GOOD DEAL OF TROUBLE.”

“Dire? That's you?” A hatch in the craft opened, and two figures fell out. One was a large robotic form. Siegebreaker. He hit the ground, and unlike Ballista, he sprayed broken asphalt for a few feet around him. He straightened up, rolled his shoulders in a way clearly meant to intimidate. The second figure was the blonde, Kinetica. She dropped at a much slower pace, ended up hovering five feet off the ground. She crossed her own arms, stared at me with frank curiosity.

“SHE IS DOCTOR DIRE, IF YOU WISH HER FULL NAME.” I gestured. “SHE NEEDED SOMEONE TO GET THIS MAN TO A HOSPITAL, AND YOU CAN SAVE HER THE TRIP.”

“Oh. Let me guess, you just freaking happened to find him this way,” rumbled Siegebreaker. “Pull the other one, it's got bells on.”

“OH NO. HE ATTACKED DIRE, AND DIRE DEFENDED HERSELF. IT WAS A MISUNDERSTANDING ABOUT A MUTUAL ACQUAINTANCE.”

I saw one of Kinetica's eyebrows rise above her goggles. “You took down Ballista?”

“NO REAL CHOICE IN THE MATTER.” I gestured at the two feet of spear sticking out of the road.

Siegebreaker snorted, an electronic 'blat' that took me a second to decipher. “You mind if I look him over?”

“PLEASE DO. SHE HAD TO CHOKE HIM OUT. HE'S STILL BREATHING, THOUGH.”

I forced myself not to flinch as he moved forward, visor trained on me. Those biceps were bigger than my torso. He could probably rip my armor apart with only his hands, and I didn't have a single thing that could even inconvenience him. But he stopped at Ballista, knelt, and his hands were gentle as he poked, and observed the man. Finally he nodded. “Huh. Not bad.”

Kinetica was taking the opportunity to study me. “You know, the third-person thing sounds really weird.”

“IT IS DIRE'S METHOD OF SPEECH.”

“Uh-huh.”

“THOSE WHO DISLIKE ITS DISSONANCE CAN DEAL.” I wasn't about to admit to her that I couldn't help it. Show no weakness, not to these predators.

She shrugged, but moved on to a different topic. “Why did Ballista attack you?”

“HE SEEMED TO THINK THAT DIRE KILLED SCRAPPER.”

“Shoot.” She seemed to reign herself in. “That would do it. Scrapper was his mentor, when he started out. He's been going nuts over the search for him, these last few weeks.”

“FRUITLESS, DIRE FEARS.” I sighed. “THE BLACK BLOODS CAUSED SCRAPPER'S DEATH WHEN WE ATTEMPTED TO ESCAPE THEIR CUSTODY TOGETHER. DIRE DID SALVAGE HIS ARMOR, AND WEARS IT NOW FOR THE NEED IS GREAT.”

Siegebreaker rose, with Ballista in his arms. “Hey K, put me back up there, huh? It's not bad, but chokeouts can cause complications, I wanna make sure he gets proper treatment until we can drop him off.” She nodded, and raised a hand in a lifting motion. I watched as Siegebreaker rose through the air, back into the hatch.

I nodded, and bent to pick up the crates. As I did so, a speaker snapped to life on the outside of the craft. A man's voice, calm and pleasant, spoke from it. “Doctor, would you mind a few more questions?”

I recognized the voice. Doc Quantum.

“SHE HAS LITTLE TIME FOR SUCH. HER PEOPLE ARE IN DANGER.”

“You're also standing in front of the destroyed residence of a known drug dealer, with crates full of explosive chemicals, and what appears to be a kilo of highly illegal psionically-enhanced cocaine hidden in your armor. Even discounting the bodies littering the residence, our scans are turning up a lot of disturbing things.”

“What?” shouted Kinetica. “That shit again? That goddamn psychic drug stuff? I thought we cut off the last source of that back in July! Dammit, dammit—”

“Language, dear.” Quantum's voice was chiding, now.

“Right, right, sorry. Alright. So, are we taking her in after all?”

“YOU SPEAK AS IF IT'S A FOREGONE CONCLUSION.”

A new voice came down from the aircraft's speakers. “I'm afraid that it is, sorry.” Ah. This would be the one who'd spotted my drone. The unknown quantity.

“AND YOU ARE?” I asked.

“Hm. I suppose our PR department has much to answer for. I'm Schrodinger, how do you do? Oh, by the way, I control fate.”

“A BOLD CLAIM.”

“One I can prove. Allow me to demonstrate. Point at somewhere in the street, not too close to you.”

I chose a random spot. “NOW WHAT?”

“Now it's lampshade time. Wait for it... ah, there.”

A 'POP' from the direction of the house, as it groaned and fell in. A spray of fire as a facing window gave, and with a crash, a lamp was blown into the air... Falling to rest at the exact place I was pointing.

I pulled my arm back. Okay, that was impressive.

“So, with respect, I think we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“UPON CONSIDERATION, DIRE CAN SPARE YOU A FEW MINUTES. BUT THERE ARE PEOPLE'S LIVES ON THE LINE, HERE.”

Kinetica nodded. “That's actually about our situation, too.”

“ALL RIGHT. DIRE MIGHT HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS OF HER OWN.”

“We've heard reports of a power armored warlord in the northeast,” Quantum said. “Would you be her?”

“WITHOUT KNOWING THE RUMORS, SHE CAN'T REALLY CONFIRM THEM,” I said. “SHE IS TRYING TO ORGANIZE A DEFENSE OF HER CURRENT AREA AGAINST THE GANG WHO CALL THEMSELVES THE BLACK BLOODS.”

“Hm. No plans to fight anyone else? Or collect tribute, or forcibly recruit anyone?”

“SHE DOESN'T PLAN TO FIGHT ANYONE ELSE UNLESS THEY START IT.” I waved at the spear stuck in the ground. “CASE IN POINT. AS TO TRIBUTE OR CONSCRIPTION, NEITHER SEEM LIKE A GOOD WAY TO RESTORE ORDER TO THE AREA.”

“All right. What are you doing here?”

“INITIALLY, ATTEMPTING TO TRADE THE KILO OF SUBSTANCE YOU DETECTED FOR AMMUNITION. BUT—” I indicated the house.

“—THE DEALER PRESENT WAS DEAD WHEN DIRE ARRIVED. SO SHE SETTLED FOR SCAVENGING THE MATERIALS HERE.”

“I see. We're going to have to confiscate the poisoned cocaine, you understand. The stuff causes amazing amounts of trouble, we've had three villains get origins from it within the last half a year or so. Not to mention the fatalities...”

I unsealed the compartment and tossed it over, fanny pack and all. “FINE. DIRE HAS WHAT SHE CAME FOR IN ANY CASE. TRADE WITH A DEALER OR TRADE WITH YOU, IT'S ALL THE SAME.”

Doc Quantum caught the pack and nodded. “You might want to be careful about that. Given your aesthetics, people are already going to be thinking you're a villain. I really can't fault Ballista for jumping to conclusions.”

What? He was lecturing me? I was sitting here, wasting time while my people were working themselves sick to prepare for a life-or-death struggle, and he was lecturing me? The arrogance, the sheer gall of the man!

“DIRE CARES LITTLE FOR SUCH THINGS. SHE IS DIRE, AND LABELS ARE THE FORTE OF THE SIMPLEMINDED. DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO RATTLE ON ABOUT?”

Kinetica chuckled. “Aw, that touched a nerve.”

“YOUR CONDESCENSION IS NOTED AND TREATED WITH THE RESPECT IT DESERVES. THAT IS TO SAY, NONE.”

Her grin turned into a sour look. But Quantum's voice cut back in before she could respond. “Several days back, there were several explosions in a building in the northeast, in the Brownstones district, known formally as the Leroy Russ housing project. They resulted in the collapse of that building. Do you know anything about that event?”

Hm. Truth or die time. Did I trust them enough to give them the full story? No. Did I believe that they could tell if I was lying? I couldn't rule it out, thus I had to treat it as if they could. On the other hand, I believed that I'd answered their previous questions to their satisfaction. They probably wouldn't attempt to fight or stop me at this juncture. My leg twinged again, and I shuddered. It was a good thing, that this was going peacefully.

“YES. THAT BUILDING CONTAINED DIRE'S SECRET LAIR.”

That got their attention. Kinetica straightened up, and punched the air. “Yes! Finally, a clue!”

“Maybe.” Quantum was more reserved. “You were attacked, yes?”

“SOMEONE ATTEMPTED A BREACH. THEY WERE STUBBORN ENOUGH TO START CARVING THROUGH SOME FRANKLY LUDICROUS LAYERS OF DEFENSES. DIRE DEPARTED MIDWAY THROUGH.”

“Hm. You realize that you're going to be held liable for this once we sort the city out?”

I raised a hand, let it fall. “AND HER ATTACKERS WILL NOT?”

“That's why it'll be a matter for the courts, most likely. I can recommend a good lawyer, property damage is his specialty. Do you know why WEB was attacking you?”

“NO IDEA.”

“Interesting. Thank you for your time—”

“WAIT.” Dammit, no, now I deserved some questions. “TELL HER OF WEB.”

“That would take a long time. It's complicated.”

Kinetica shook her head. “It's actually really simple if you give her the short version. A bunch of techno-terrorists with a yen to rule the world, and the resources to afford to hire lots of stupid people and give them lots of advanced weapons and armor they can barely use. They're as- bad folks.”

“And they've got power,” Quantum said. “Alone in this city, their power armored troops are operating just fine regardless of their location. That's suspicious.”

“FUNNY YOU SHOULD MENTION THAT. FOUR OF THEM AMBUSHED HER HERE. NOT POWER ARMORED, MIND YOU.”

I indicated their staging point. “THE FIGHT WAS WHAT DREW BALLISTA, BUT THEY ESCAPED IN THE CONFUSION ONCE HE ATTACKED.”

I'd lost a chance to find answers. Damn it Ballista! He couldn't have listened...

“Well. That is interesting. Do you know why they might be after you?” Quantum asked.

I shook my head. “ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA. PERHAPS THEY DESIRE HER TECHNOLOGICAL SKILL?”

“It's possible, I suppose. But given the timing, I doubt it. Watch yourself in the future, Doctor, they're nothing if they're not persistent. Well, if that's all, I think we're done here. Good luck and behave yourself.”

Kinetica floated back up into the hatch, and it closed. I weighed my options, swallowed my pride, and held out a hand. “WAIT.”

“I'm sorry, but we're all very busy here, I don't—”

“WILL YOU HELP AGAINST THE BLACK BLOODS?” I tried to make my tone polite. It sounded no different.

A sigh crackled over the speaker. “I wish we could. But the entire nation's in trouble, not just the city or the district you're in. The sooner we can find the cause, the sooner we can fix it. The answers you gave us here helped with that. And if WEB troopers were here, we need to go track them now, to have a shot at fixing this. Good luck, Doctor, and keep hope.”

“LOOK! EVEN A DAY OR TWO CAN HELP SAVE THE LIVES WITHIN THE CAMP—”

They departed, leaving me hovering in the street.

“IT'S YOUR CITY TOO! THEY'RE YOUR PEOPLE TOO!” I shouted at their departing craft. But they were gone, and I was left by myself, among the ash drifting down as the fire burned itself out.

I picked up the crates with much difficulty, and flew back to the camp. Some times you just have to cut your losses and move on.

At least I'd gotten some answers, even if they'd only led to more questions

I noticed the difference in the camp as I approached. Several new tents in a ring, around the shacks and the original tents. More barrels and more fires, burning hot enough to send up plumes of gray smoke. More people, too. By the look of it, at least fifty more had shown up in the couple of hours I'd been away. Children shrieked, pointed, and scrambled away as I came in. After waiting for the zone to clear, I landed in front of the sickbay. I put my burdens down next to the shack, and beckoned one of the new people over. “YOU THERE, DO YOU KNOW ANY OF THE PEOPLE IN CHARGE AROUND HERE?”

“Um. There's the wheelchair guy,” the unassuming young man replied, tugging on the hood of his hoodie.

“GO TELL HIM TO ASK MINNA OR MARTIN OR JOAN TO TAKE CHARGE OF THIS STUFF, THEN COME BACK AND WATCH IT UNTIL SOMEONE COMES TO PICK IT UP.”

He headed off. I headed into the sickbay, stooping a bit to do so. The power armor added half a foot to my height, and the doorway was already fairly low after all. I limped and favored my right leg as much as possible, but I couldn't help jarring the left one with each step, sending pain straight up it. I bit my lip to prevent screaming. This was going to suck.

Khalid hurried up, putting his hands on his hips after he reached up and steadied the swaying lantern. The weight of my advance on the floor had set it rocking. “What are you doing, bringing that thing in here? You are too heavy.”

I triggered the manual release, and he stepped back as it unfolded. After the hissing stopped I stared at him, my sweat—clumped bangs across my left eye. I must have looked like hell, because he put his hand to his mouth.

“She did it because this is probably going to hurt, a lot, and she'll need your help to get out of it without making the damage worse.”

“What in god's name happened?”

“A hero decided to pick a fight.”

He shook his head, offered me his arms. I took them, and tried to lever out without using my legs. It didn't happen. I grunted in agony as I jolted my foot, flashes of red filled my vision because the pain was so bad. Finally with a yank I was out, but despite myself I couldn't help stumbling and putting weight on my left leg. I felt it bend below the knee, just before a howling agony swept me into merciful unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 13: War's Bloody Stigmata

“If there's one good thing to this mess, it's the fact it got people asking how the hell did they smuggle THAT into the city, and keep it hidden for so long?”

--Phillip Guzman, survivor of the Y2K blackout, and former confidant of Doctor Dire

I came back to myself, with my brain feeling like ten miles of bad road. My eyelids fluttered, and I stared at a cloth ceiling. I lay still and concentrated on breathing, until I heard a sound I couldn't identify. A slurping noise? My legs were mismatched in their comfort. The right one felt fine as ever, and I wiggled the toes on my right foot without trouble. My left leg was numb to the hip, however, and felt oddly warm. There was pain, but it was muted. What was going on?

I craned my head up a bit, and Khalid came into view. I was on one of the sickbay cots, and he was crouched over my leg. The pants had been cut away to the knee, and he was rubbing a green gel into the flesh. I tried to wiggle the toes on my left foot, and the pain put me out again. Just before I went, I heard him say “No! Hold still, don't move yet—”

When I awoke again the light had shifted, and the shadows were longer on the wall. Khalid was not in sight. I craned my neck, found my lower body covered with a sheet. I lifted it, looked down at my leg. A brace had been set there, with two slim metal rods and bandages binding between them. Green goo crusted the bandages.

I felt no pain at all, and that worried me. Gritting my teeth, I wiggled my left foot's toes. They wiggled with neither problem nor pain. I tried lifting my leg. It lifted. I tried clambering out of bed, and strings tied to my brace prevented me from going anywhere. Bells attached to them jangled.

Noise came from outside, and after half a minute, Khalid came in. He caught me sitting up and untying the strings from my brace. “Lie down and stop fussing,” he commanded.

“Too much to do.”

He grabbed my shoulder. “The bone is still weak. Lie down and let it work.”

“The bone was broken. Dire remembers that much. How-”

He shook his head. “Not broken. Looked worse than it was. Nearly broken, though. You damaged the tendon. Rest, and let it heal.”

I gnawed my lip. It had certainly looked broken to me. But it looked straight now, and a few flexes demonstrated a good range of movement. There were only a few twinges of pain. It was nothing like the screaming agony I'd had earlier.

“You did something,” I mused. “What?”

Khalid sighed. “It does not matter. Listen, your people will need you soon. You must rest.”

“The bullet press, has it been taken? Is it being used properly?”

“I will send someone to ask. For the love of god, woman, lie down. Do not make me sedate you.”

“You wouldn't.”

“You made me the doctor in charge of medicine here, no? So listen to me.”

Couldn't argue with that. But still... “Compromise?” I suggested.

He took off his spectacles, rubbed them against his shirt. “What?”

“Do you have anyone else to take care of yet?”

“Through the grace of the angels, somehow, no. Despite people's best efforts to injure themselves and give themselves hypothermia by camping on a New England beach in January, we are as yet unafflicted by the dead and dying. I am sure that people will do their level best to change this fact as time goes on.”

“So no, then.”

“So no,” he confirmed.

“Perfect!” I smiled. “You're now Dire's runner until more pressing matters draw you back. Please go visit the following people, and ask them to stop by when they get a second...”

A minute later he was exiting the sickbay, grumbling under his breath in a language I didn't know. I chuckled and lay back, glancing about. He'd left a bottle of water near my head, along with a sandwich of some sort. I drank the one and ate the other, and found my mood much improved by the time Khalid returned with Martin.

“Shiiiit,” Martin gaped at me. I leaned back, grinned, and saluted him with the water bottle.

“Your acquaintance was dead when Dire got there.”

“Someone got Willis? Fuck, wish I could say I was surprised. Now that I think of it, sumbitch musta shown his guns to like dozens of people. Things go to shit, I'm not the only one who'd think 'hey, that jackass has bullets and guns to spare'.” He pulled up a chair, shook his head. “Sorry, shoulda expected that I guess.”

“Quite alright,” I affirmed. “Did you see the bullet press?”

“Yeah. Abes knew what that was. We got some of the layabouts workin' that shit now. Wish we had more brass, but this'll be good for maybe a thousand or so nine mil, and that kind of bullet fits most our guns. Guzman and Sparky got guns to everyone who can shoot now. Maybe thirty people.”

“Thirty.” I bit my lip. Not much, not with a vicious, brutal gang after us. “Well, it's a start.”

“Yeah. So, uh, what happened?”

“Ballista happened. Seemed to think that Dire killed his old mentor, Scrapper.”

“Well. You kinda did.”

Behind Martin, I saw Khalid straighten up, and take a short breath. His eyes flicked to me, and I closed my own.

“True, but Ballista didn't know it was self-defense. Which leads Dire to wonder who told him about it, and left out pertinent details.”

“Militia, probably,” Martin shrugged. “Fuckers practically worship heroes. Slip them intel and help, supplies and shit whenever they can. Wannabes and asskissers, all of 'em.”

I studied his face, spotted no deception that I could tell. Didn't mean he wasn’t a good liar, though. “It doesn't make sense for the Militia to point Ballista at her, to weaken us in the face of the Black Bloods. They should be strengthening us instead, that's the logical move.”

“Nah, see... they get you out of the way, they can come in as heroes. Then they claim this turf themselves, be heroes of the people and shit.”

“And die against the Black Bloods,” I pointed out.

He shrugged. “Just a theory. So. Hate to ask, but... uh... you got that thing I gave you?”

“If you're talking about the nuevacoke, no.” At his frown I elaborated.

Khalid stepped closer. “Wait, wait, wait. You had some of that psychic drug? Where did you get that?”

Martin glanced over at him. “Bought it cheap from someone offloading it in a hurry, before I knew how much of a pain in the ass it was to move. Been sitting on it ever since. Ain't crazy enough to try to give it to my regulars, and too much heat to offload it out of state.”

So it had been a disposable asset to Martin. Hm. That indicated possible bad faith, the fact that he'd sent it with me. Was he playing his own game here? Now? With so much on the line?

Khalid was talking again. “That substance is an abomination. You should have destroyed it.”

Martin tilted his head, considered Khalid through narrow slits of eyes. “I'm curious as to how a bone doctor knows about that shit. Way I heard it, government hushed it up as soon as they found out what it did.”

Khalid folded his arms, and glared back. “I have colleagues who dealt with the fallout from that substance. I wonder if you knew people on the other end of it.”

“Listen, Doctor, I ain't got time for shit from people who never missed a damn meal in their life. Now if you ain't got—”

“Enough,” I said. They shut up, and looked to me.

“So we're making more bullets, good. Are any other preparations underway?”

Khalid nodded. “As a matter of fact, I think Captain Guzman wanted to talk to you about something, there.”

“Good. Please go send him in.” I grinned, as the short man headed out of the shack.

The grin faded, as I looked to Martin, and he looked back. “Something funny about the good doctor,” I muttered. “Dire's leg doesn't hurt a bit.”

Martin nodded. “He's either in the trade or in the costume game if he knows about nuevacoke. Don't know any costume healer types, though. And if he was in the trade I'd know, so he ain't.”

“So an unknown costume then? Encouraging,” I mused out loud as I lined up my logic. “The Black Bloods have no known superpowered individuals. He's unlikely to be a plant.”

“I don't like him,” Martin said, raising a hand and dropping it in a dismissive motion. “But shit, I don't like plenty of people 'round here and that don't matter.”

“Best not to look at the gift too carefully, then,” I concluded. “Not here, not now. He's more likely to help us than hurt us—”

The cloth at the door was pushed aside. I shut up as Khalid returned, followed by the stooped form of Guzman. He split a grin when he saw me, but even the shifting wrinkles that squirmed over his face couldn't hide his worry. “Lying down on the job, Doc?”

“Not by choice, and not for long.” I said. “What's on your mind, Captain?”

“Ships. Well, boats, I guess. More specifically, the boats out on those piers over there.”

“Ah, those. To be honest they're pretty much just scenery to Dire, they've been there so long.”

“Yeah. They're like that to everyone, ever since Nolan's marina shut down, and he left'em to rot. Hell of a waste...”

“You think there's a way to use them?” I quirked an eyebrow. “For what, precisely?”

“Well...” He folded his hands into his pockets, and adjusted his greatcoat. “We got twenty-seven folks who know how to shoot a gun without hitting themselves. Maybe a few more who have the inclination and build to wail on someone with a baseball bat or crowbar if they have to. That leaves more than a hundred folks that'll mostly be in the way.”

“No way around it,” I groused. “Can't turn people away, can't risk the Bloods taking hostages from loved ones left behind.”

“Right. So what if we get the boats seaworthy again, and move the ones who can't fight out when the trouble starts? Get them out on the bay so they're out of it one way or another?” I blinked at the idea.

“On the surface, it sounds good. Unless the Bloods come in with a couple of speedboats...”

“They won't,” Martin said. “Mob's got the Waterfront locked down, and the Bloods got no turf in the south, so the wharves are out for them.”

“Mm. Do we have a way to deal with the ice and the weather?”

“The ice is thin and mostly near the shore,” said Guzman. “Besides, busting it up will keep the youngsters out of trouble. We could start that right away, start dragging the better boats up on the beach.”

“Better,” I mused. “Most of them aren't what Dire would call good to begin with. How long have they been there with no maintenance or repairs?”

“A few years. But I got a plan for that.” He grinned, showing metal dentures. “There's this stuff called 'CL Tight', that Helios put out a few years back. It's industrial-grade, fast-drying caulk. Won't solve all the damage, but it'll make'em good enough to float for a few days. Some of them, anyways. Enough for our purposes.”

“Mm. Do we have enough of this Sealtight?”

“The proper name's 'CL Tight.' and no, we don't even have a drop of it. Local hardware stores don't carry more'n a can or two either, and we need more than that.”

Guzman's grin never changed throughout, even if he did meander around from tangent to tangent. I got the feeling he rather enjoyed being the knowledgeable party in a conversation.

Suppressing my frustration at having to wait, I put on as polite a tone as I could manage. “If we don't have access to enough of it, how is CL Tight's existence of use to us?”

“Because I know where to get a lot of it.” Guzman tapped the side of his nose with one finger, and his grin grew.

I made a 'go on' motion with one hand. “The best place for boat repair in the city is the Dry Dock. It's over near where I-3 meets Route 120. I took my bass fisher there back when I was a boat owner, before the second happiest day of my life.”

I stared at him, and his grin drooped a bit. “You know, the day when I sold my boat?”

I kept staring, and he coughed. “Nevermind. Old joke. Anyway, they've got barrels of CL Tight. A few of those should be more'n enough fer what we need.”

I pursed my lips. “Someone's going to have to sail those boats.”

“Not really,” he said. “Most have oars, and rowing's easy. Long as the weather ain't bad most people should do fine.”

I considered his directions. “Route 120's the highway on the overpass, yes?”

“Yep. Follow it north, it'll curve west, and you'll hit I-3 in about ten mile.” His grin grew wider. “Reckon since you could handle them crates, you can bring back a few barrels of the stuff we need.”

A rustle at the door, and Joan made her way in. “Hun? Sorry to disturb you, but the Militia are back again. They brought more people.”

Perfect. “Help Dire up,” I directed Martin. But as he reached out Khalid rushed next to me, and put his hands on my shoulders.

“What are you doing? You need to rest.”

“Can't look weak in front of potential allies, Doctor.”

“You won't look strong if you fall down and break something in front of them,” he chided. But even as Khalid did so his eyes checked mine, and he nodded as he saw something in them. “You're determined, yes?”

“Don't have time to lie down on the job right now.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Relax. Help her get into the armor. It held her leg together before, it'll do it again, yes?”

He shook his head in exasperation, but complied. With the assistance of Joan, Martin, and Guzman, they managed to wrestle me into the armor without mangling either the brace or any of my limbs.

They were waiting for me down the beach a little ways, keeping a respectful distance from the camp. Four figures, two of which I recognized. A third one was fat and bulky, and the fourth one looked to have a longarm of some sort on his back. I approached, and Sparky fell in with me as I did, rolling along and taking sidelong glances my way.

“You all right Dire girl?”

“OH YES.”

The one with the gun jumped a bit as my voice boomed out over the icy bay. The others held firm, though they shuffled around a bit. They were wearing jeans and the blue jackets with the white eyes dyed onto them, along with black balaclavas. Nash waved as we approached, Skye just watched us come.  The fat one was a red-haired man with an easy smile. The shooter was a hard-eyed woman with no hair visible on her head. It was the fat one who stepped forward to meet me.

“Afternoon, miss Dire.”

“DOCTOR DIRE, ACTUALLY.” I halted, and Sparky rolled to a stop next to me. “WELCOME. DO YOU WISH REFRESHMENTS?” I gestured toward the kitchen, and the line set up outside of it. Looked like it was lunchtime.

“That's all right. I'm Carson, by the way. I speak for Munin.”

“DON'T KNOW HIM, HER, OR IT.”

He shrugged, took it in stride. “He's more or less in charge of our little club.”

“THE GANG, YOU MEAN.”

“We prefer to think of ourselves as a vigilante association,” he waved a gloved hand, gestured toward the camp. “Protecting good people by stopping the bad ones.”

“WELL, IT'S YOUR LUCKY DAY THEN. HOW CAN YOU HELP?”

“Straight to the point, huh? I like her, Bunny.”

The woman with the rifle smiled. It didn't touch her eyes, and it was gone in a second. Carson continued.

“You want the good news or the bad? You'll get both.”

“BAD FIRST.”

“Well. They're coming for you tonight. Rictus wasn't expecting you to run off the cops, so he delayed and called for help. Stig himself is coming up with his elites to hit you from the south while Rictus and his boys come in from the west. That's the plan, anyways.”

“YOU ARE ASSURED OF THIS?”

“We're the MM, it's what we do!”

Sparky rapped on my gauntlet. “It kind of is. They know things first, have a lot of ears and eyes.”

“SPIES, IN OTHER WORDS.”

“More like community-minded individuals who know the proper value of good intel.” Carson put his hands on his hips. “The good news though, is that Stig is coming out of his crib.”

“CRIB?”

“Well, it's more like a fortress. He's got an old pawn shop downtown and the building above it. It's the heart of their territory in the district, even if it's only a foothold. Too well-defended even for the Kriegers to dig'em out, much less us. But he's taking the field for the first time in ages. Coming here. And we know the route he'll take.”

“YOU'RE CERTAIN?”

“Well... We might have rigged the game a little. Wrecked a few stolen cars in strategic locations to block the other routes. He'll have to come up Broadoak Street to get here in time. We're thinking ambush. But he's going to have his boys along, and they're no joke. I wouldn't waste lives against them, even with intel and time to prepare. But you? You're bulletproof, aintcha?”

“MORE OR LESS,” I confirmed. “YOU CAN PROVIDE SUPPORT?”

“A bit. Or we can provide some extra guards at the camp.”

Sparky rubbed his jaw. “How many?” He asked.

“Maybe about fifteen volunteers. Every one of them armed.”

“That few?” Sparky frowned.

Carson spread his hands. “Hey... no offense soldier, but there's a hell of a lot going on around here. If we pull too many people out to help you, the Kriegers will try to roll us up. Or the Graveyard Gang will come north, and no one wants that. But listen, if you take out Stig, you'll just be up against Rictus, here. He doesn't have good troops, or a lot of numbers. More than you? Yes. But you'll have a shot.”

He inhaled, and glanced at me. Chubby fingers tugged on one sleeve, as he considered. “Or... instead of having our folks guard the camp, you could double down.”

“DOUBLE DOWN? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“Take our people with you when you go hit Stig. Take him out fast and hard, then swing north and hit Rictus immediately after. Do it fast enough, you can maybe do it before he starts his attack on the camp.”

Hm. Tough call. And he seemed to be waiting for an answer. I decided to buy time to think.

“A QUESTION ON ANOTHER SUBJECT. DO YOU KNOW OF THE COSTUME WHO CALLS HIMSELF BALLISTA?”

“Ah, yeah.” Carson coughed, glanced over to Nash and asked him the question. “You had a word with him earlier, yeah?”

“Uhhh. Yes. You ah, might want to keep an eye out for him,” said Nash. “He was in a bad temper when we told him about Scrapper. Said he was going to find you and ask some hard questions. He's not exactly a subtle guy.”

“SHE ALREADY SPOKE WITH HIM. VIOLENTLY.”

Skye whistled. “And you're still standing? He must've gotten into a better headspace.”

“WELL, DIRE DID HAVE TO CHOKE HIM OUT. BUT TOMORROW FORCE GOT HIM TO A HOSPITAL FAIRLY QUICKLY, SO THAT WORKED OUT.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa...” Carson coughed. “You mean to tell me you beat Ballista?”

“LIKE A DRUM. HE'S GOT A GOOD THROW, BUT HE TELEGRAPHS TOO MUCH.” It was the truth, and it had been the only thing that let me dodge some of his spears.

That got them looking at one another with varying degrees of surprise. All save for the hard-eyed woman with the gun. Her eyes never left me.

I looked back at her. “WILL YOU BE FIGHTING IN THIS AS WELL?”

“I'll be in charge. Of our people, at least.”

“WHICH DO YOU PREFER? STRIKING AT STIG OR DEFENDING THE CAMP?”

Her eyes flicked to the camp, back to me. “Your fortifications are nonexistent, and the terrain makes you hard to sneak up on at the cost of forfeiting all cover. Most of the Bloods can't shoot for shit so that will help, but you're still going to lose people. If I'm attacking Stig I get to use better cover, spring an ambush, and choose where to fight. Offense is generally easier than defense, and this is no different.”

I nodded, looked down at Sparky. “THINK YOU CAN HOLD HERE UNTIL DIRE GETS BACK?”

“I think we'll have to.” He smiled. “They might be bad shots, but I'm not. I'll light'em up as they come. It'll be like old times.”

“HM. DO YOU HAVE ANY DEFENSE AGAINST BULLETS?”

“Eh... Not so much.”

“WE'LL WORK ON THAT.” I looked back to Carson. “HOW LONG UNTIL YOUR PEOPLE ARE READY TO ASSIST WITH STIG?”

“An hour to get people ready. Another hour to get them out in position. You can't come flying in until just before nightfall, though, or you'll give the game away.”

“HOW ABOUT WALKING?”

“Eh, doable. You're still pretty distinctive, and we'd have to work to hide you.”

Bunny raised a finger. “If you let me pick the ambush site, I can send up a flare when we're ready to call you in.”

“THUS LETTING HER BE THE DISTRACTION, AND TAKE THE BRUNT OF IT.”

“Yes,” she admitted, without a trace of shame.

“NOT A BAD PLAN. LET'S DO THAT. GIVE DIRE A ROUGH LOCATION.” We talked it over with Carson until I was certain of the plan, and what they'd do. Finally, he shook my hand and we turned to leave.

“By the by...” said Carson. “Before he went off after you, Ballista insisted on taking Scrapper's body for a proper autopsy and burial. Said he wanted to make sure of how he died.”

I simply nodded, and kept on walking. I had nothing to gain by admitting my guilt or protesting my innocence, here. Ballista had already judged me. If they cared to do so as well, they could do it after our business was done.

Once back at camp, I tracked down Abernathy. “CAN WE BUILD A MOVEABLE MANTLE FOR SPARKY? SOMETHING OUT OF THICK WOOD, TO SLOW OR STOP BULLETS?”

She rubbed her hands together, considered the task. “Yeah, I guess so. Though if you want something that thick, moveable's kind of the wrong term for it.”

“WHAT IF YOU GET A FEW PEOPLE TO HELP HIM LUG IT AROUND AND MAKE IT BIG ENOUGH FOR THEM TO HIDE BEHIND IT?”

“That we can probably do. Do we have enough wood?”

Sparky pointed up the coast. “Same place we get the firewood from. Funland's full of it.”

“THAT WORKS. TAKE A FEW PEOPLE AND GO GET WHAT YOU NEED.”

Abernathy raced off, leaving Sparky shaking his head. “She's a good kid,” he said, his voice the softest I'd ever heard it. “I hope she lives.”

And that hammered it home. That made it more real. Up until now I'd been running on adrenaline, and meeting every threat with defiance because I literally had nothing to lose. But now? Now it wasn't just my life on the line. Now I had a whole camp full of people, kids included, to worry about.

And I couldn't save them all. We just didn't have the time, didn't have the resources, didn't have the training. Not all of them were going to make it out of here, and the best I could do was keep fighting and hope that enough of them survived to make it worth something.

I blinked back tears, glad for my mask. Glad for my armor. I'd stopped, there, at the edge of the camp, without even noticing.

I looked to Minna, hoisting a giggling Anya in her arms. I looked at Joan, wrapping up the chow line and carefully packing the leftover food away so that our people had enough to eat tonight. I looked at Sparky, who was talking with a few of the stronger-looking men, and pointing at the running speck of Abernathy in the distance. At Martin and Tooms, who were pressing bullets, and stacking them carefully into boxes.

I swallowed, as the tears streamed down my face now, and I barely had the presence of mind to kill my mask's speakers, before I sobbed. Surrounded by people happily preparing for a fight that would be brutal at best, horrendous at worst, I sobbed and shook.

And all I could think of was dear god, is this what heroes feel like all the time? How the hell do they handle it?

No wonder Ballista had gone after me. If he'd cared about Scrapper even a bit as much as I'd unexpectedly come to care about these people... well. I'd try to take me out, too.

I came back to myself, gained control. I blinked away tears, hurried over to the showerhouse, and decanted from the armor. I got a drink and scrubbed my face... Wouldn't do for people to see. Bad for morale.

Then I strolled back to camp, stumping along on my leg brace. I found Guzman, and got the idle hands busy breaking up the ice. “She'll do a run for the chemical you need tomorrow,” I told him. “Just get the boats you can up on the shore in meantime. Truth is, we might be able to use some of them for cover.” He nodded, and set people to work. As for myself, I had a few hours to kill. I stole my most advanced tools back from Abernathy to work on the armor. The left leg's actuators had been a bit damaged by Ballista's grasp, and repairing it took a bit of time. The rest of the work consisted of working on the circuitry. I had a plan, and I needed a better synch rate for it. I managed 84.5, before I glanced up to find the sun sinking in the west. Dropping my tools off back in my quarters, I went over to check on Sparky before I had to leave.

He had basically a pair of doors in front of him. They were fitted to a pair of wooden arms that were harnessed around the wheelchair. He also had Tooms and Rick helping him practice with it. I watched as they raised and lowered the device. He had to move slowly, but with them bracing him he could easily turn, and even make decent forward progress with the shield up. With it lowered, it put a good solid foot and a half of layered planks between him and trouble. It had a slit in it for his eyes, and two holes for his hands.

“Good to go?” I smiled down at him, as reassuring as I could. This might be the last time you see him, I thought. I chased the errant thought from my mind before my smile could falter.

“Shit, I'm a tank!” He laughed, and his helpers joined in, Rick's busted jaw causing him to make 'Haw Haw haw' noises. That only made Sparky laugh harder, and I mussed his wispy hair.

“Take care of yourself, old man. Roy wouldn't forgive us if anything happened.”

“Worry about yourself, Dire girl. You got the tough job. And after that you get to come back and help us clean up. Well, if you get here before I take 'em all out, I mean.” He made little guns with his fingers, and shot sparks through the holes in the wood.

I nodded again, and eyed the sun. Too close for any more delay. I handed my tools back to Abernathy, wished her luck, and headed back to the armor.

I'd barely suited up, when the blue flare rose to the south. Pushing off, I flew low to the ground and as fast as I could without causing myself harm. A minute into my flight, gunfire chattered to the south. Damn, had they sprung the ambush early? Was the plan gone to hell already?

I raced through the streets, dodged parked and abandoned cars as I curved southward. I came to what had to be Broadoak, and into the roundabout that Bunny had chosen as an ambush site. And a glance told me everything I needed to know. Things had gone wrong.

A pair of blue-clad forms, slumping from windows of the bodega across the street. A third blue-clad form slumped over a burning car, slowly roasting as its ammunition cooked off. Three more blue-clad forms in full retreat west, one of whom jerked and fell bonelessly to the ground as I watched, as bullets found her. No sign of Bunny, which could be good or bad.

And in the middle of it all, powering through the wrecked cars that blocked its way, was a riot control vehicle. It swiveled its turret, and the machine gunner within it sent tracers after the retreating Militants. Six sets of thick wheels, scored armor plate, and ten solid tons of FUBAR to our plan. Behind it, a handful of pickup trucks and vans were parked. Black-clad gangers were using them for cover, shooting at the few muzzle flashes firing back from the surrounding buildings.

They hadn't mentioned a riot vehicle during our planning. It looked like their intel wasn't as solid as we'd thought, and now we'd pay the price.

I took a second to study the riot control vehicle. It was an APC, complete with firing slits and a wedge-shaped front. It was bulling over the wreckage that blocked off the northern road, clearing a path for the vehicles behind it. The turret had a bit of a limited arc, I thought. It couldn't engage within fifteen feet or so of the vehicle, judging by the workings I could see. But I could see no real weak points, and my coilgun didn't have a prayer of busting that armor. Two smokestacks poured out black vapor, as it growled and surged forward. Not a hydrogen cell system, then, nor an electrical motor. I'd have been surprised if it was that, with the weight involved and the city grid down. No, this was old-school diesel, carcinogenic as it was.

I wondered what was inside? Gangers, obviously, but how many and how much of a problem would they be?

It occurred to me I could answer that and tackle the main problem at the same time. Because while the APC was big and scary, it was only the distraction. The real problem lay in those pickups and vans behind it.

I was moving as I called up the ball drone, activated it and put its viewpoint in a screen within a screen. I got a nice view of the inside of my compartment, before I pulled it out. I angled myself low to the ground and punched on the forcefield. When I saw my chance I flew barely two feet from the street, coming in fast. The turret started to swivel around toward me, but it was too late as I slowed, braked with my feet coming up to straddle one of the firing slits on the APC. I shoved the ball drone inside and immediately leaped away, twisting, towards the main part of the Black Bloods' column. I used the few seconds before I hit them to study the view of the drone... and I got a quick shot of the APC crammed full of guys with body armor. They were hauling assault rifles. One of them, a guy with a skull tattooed over his face shouted “Grenade! Button down!” and picked up the drone. He shoved it back outside through the slit it had come through.

Heh. Hadn't expected  that. I directed the drone to roll out of the way and had no more time for it, because then I was in among my foes and the surprised Bloods were starting to send lead my way.

Not that it mattered much, not now. My suit was strong enough to lift small cars, and sturdy enough to shrug off clubs and knives. The only way the APC's turret could fire upon me was if they decided to risk their own people, their own vehicles.

I moved through them like a wolf among dogs. I lashed out with vicious strikes at the ones I could reach, dropping three of them. I didn't hold back, and they fell before me, broken and bleeding. Once I was done I hopped up in a short, jumping flight, and landed among a pair of them trying to run across the street. A rattle of gunfire and my forcefield flared as a low heat rose, but one of the Bloods cried and fell. A stray bullet had found him and his thigh was a red ruin. I grabbed his friend, pulled him as I spun around and used him as a human shield as I charged the shooter. I bowled him back and over into a pickup truck bed before beating him senseless with the riddled corpse of his friend.

Once done I discarded both of them and boosted my gravitics to go after three of the Bloods who were trying to wrestle open the back doors on one of the vans. I slammed one of them into the van so hard the side crumpled a bit, but his friends gave a shout of triumph, as they levered a heavy bar away from the doors and ran.

I started after them... and went ass over elbows, as something struck me from behind. Hard.

For a second I thought they'd opened up on me with a heavy weapon, or the APC gunner had decided 'screw it', and taken the shot. But my forcefield hadn't triggered, which meant that whatever had struck me was too slow to trip it.

I pushed off of the ground, started to turn, and someone snarled and hit me. I bounced off the hood of a nearby car before tripping the gravitics and pushing backwards over the vehicle. I looked down to see what sort of attack was being thrown my way... and what I saw made my blood run cold.

It wasn't the fact that it looked like a woman wearing shredded and tattered clothes. It wasn't the fact that it had a mouth full of teeth that were way too big, and way too many. It wasn't the fact that she was crusted with dried blood, offal, and worse things. No, it was the fact that I knew her face.

I'd stared into her dead eyes, a few nights back. She was one of the corpses from Sangre's bed.

She howled and leaped after me, bounding like some sort of predatory cat, as I put the car between myself and her. I clocked her a good one as she came over the roof at me, sending her flying back. I felt bone crunch as I punched her, but she didn't slow down, scrabbling back to her feet the second she landed and stopped rolling. She howled, and there was nothing human in it.

That's about the point that the rest of the Black Bloods opened up on me, and my heat level went from mild, past uncomfortable, and straight into painful.

What were they doing?

They were hitting her as often as they were hitting me. But she wasn't falling. She twitched back and forth, weaving and stumbling as the bullets knocked her about, blew red craters in her flesh. But as I watched the craters started to shrink and seal, and her steps toward me never faltered.

I looked at the back of the empty van, saw bars between the body of it and the driver's area. The kind you'd expect to see when transporting a dangerous animal.

I couldn't stay here, or I'd be roasted after enough bullets. My main mission hadn't changed, even if they'd somehow raised the dead and given them powers. I dashed over to the nearest group of shooters, going low and ignoring the she-creature pursuing me, as I slammed into the Bloods. A few quick punches put them down, but by then the woman had caught up to me, and I felt hands grip my shoulders, and squeeze.

CRRRRRRKKKKkkkkkk...

Against the odds, she was pulling the plates apart. I reached behind me, grabbed her, and twisted, throwing her over my hip and through the window of a parked pickup.

Then the first tracers started going by me, and I dived backwards, kicking in the gravitics. With as much heat as I had right now, a single heavy-caliber bullet could incapacitate me. I had to fight smart. I got to cover behind another van and dispelled my forcefield, let the heat roll off me in waves that steamed the cold air. And I cycled up my coilgun, selecting the spike rounds.

With a burst of broken glass, and a wrenching motion, the woman ripped her way through the pickup's door and charged me. I put a spike into her face, and she staggered. She was hissing like a leaking teapot as she shook her face, clawing at her skull. With a sick horror I realized that the spike was in her brain but she wasn't stopping. She wasn't dying.

The rattle of bullets on metal and the van behind me shifted. I ran forward, and tracers chased me as I kicked in gravitics and boosted my speed as much as I dared. I ran past the woman, stiff arming her toward the APC as I did so. She shrieked... a different note to it than I'd heard so far.

I skidded to a stop, kicked on the forcefield again, and dropped to a crouch as I snapped my neck around to look at her.

She was burning.

One of the tracers had found her, judging by the smoking hole in her chest. This hole wasn't closing like the other wounds had done. She fell over, shrieking and making an unholy racket, and I flew straight up as tracers swung back around to try and cut me down.

She could be burned. That was useful to know. Between that and the spike, she looked to be out of it. A glance around before I started angling back for another pass showed that I'd taken out about half the Black Bloods, and the others were either running or having their own troubles as the few Militia left were merrily sniping away.

That just left the APC. Although...

I glanced over the holed, burning, and shot-up vehicles that it had fired through to get to me, and saw another van rocking back and forth. There was a muffled howl rising from it. At least one more of these creatures in there, by the sound of it.

It occurred to me, that I could probably solve two problems at once. It'd be risky, but we were well past the point of safety and caution. I gnawed my lip, as I checked my heat level. Not great, but I could maybe take a hit or two. Good, I'd need that.

I flew to the shot-up van, dropped, and put it between me and the APC. They fired anyway, but not before I reached up and flipped the bar away from the doors. Another screaming, once-human thing came raging out of the open doors. Before it could get its bearings or the turret could get a bead on either of us, I grabbed it around the waist, and jetted toward the APC.

As I flew, I triggered my universal remote for the first time. As bullets and tracers whistled around me, and a round ricocheted off the field, I aimed it at the APC and checked my options. The heat level in my suit rocketed up, and I bit back a scream as the bare flesh of my arms sizzled and seared where it was pressed against the metal of the suit, but I hung on and selected “EMERGENCY DOOR RELEASE.”

I flew towards the back of the vehicle, and the door fell open with a crash, revealing perhaps twelve very surprised looking men in black outfits. Before they could react, I skidded to a stop and threw my howling, thrashing burden into the guts of the APC among them.

Then I slammed the door shut again.

I held it there as the screams started to rise, and gunfire cracked and spattered within. I walked with the APC as it jerked to life and tried to pull away, keeping that door shut with every bit of strength in my suit and ignoring the horrible sound and smell of my arms burning. My nerves screamed at me, but the alternative was worse. And finally the heat subsided to merely a painful level. At about the same time as the APC slowed to a stop, and I heard a hatch clang open up front.

Someone was swearing, shouting at the top of his lungs. The hatch clanged shut again, and I popped my head up above the edge of the vehicle's top.

That was almost a serious mistake. He'd been waiting for me, and I barely had time to get my head down again as the figure up top hosed down the space it had been in with full-auto fire.

The back of the APC shuddered, as something slammed against it, and a scream from within turned into a wet gurgle.

“You know what I fucking hate?” A man's voice called, from the front end of the vehicle.

“WHAT'S THAT?” I seized the opportunity to drop the forcefield and bleed off some more heat for a few precious seconds. My arms throbbed, feeling raw and puffy. I tried to ignore them.

“Amateurs. Wanna-bes. Dumb asses who think they can come out of nowhere and disrupt a perfectly good op.”

Something came singing over the top at me, something small and round. I snapped the forcefield back on, and broke right with my gravitics to full so fast that I worried about damaging them. Behind me I heard the APC door slam open, a snarl, then BOOM! As the explosion faded and I found new cover behind a burning pickup, a few bullets chased past me. One ricocheted and hit the forcefield, and I growled in frustration as my suit warmed again. This guy was good.

But I had more than one vantage point, didn't I? I flicked my eyes down to the ball drone's viewscreen, and spun the little bot around to look at my enemy.

A large man, perhaps six feet and with a considerable gut to him. But every inch was covered in black ballistic armor, complete with a skull-shaped metal mask and a helmet over top it. He wielded an assault rifle with several attachments that I identified as a laser sight, gas venting system, underbarrel grenade launcher, and, of all things, a bayonet to the side of the barrel. He used that bayonet as I watched, strolling around behind the APC to the bloody, squealing wreck of what had been the madman I'd thrown into the APC. The armored guy stuck the bayonet into the man, holding him down, and fumbled in one pouch before pulling out a stick of some sort. He scraped it, and as it ignited I saw it was a road flare. The armored man dropped it on the squealer, and leaned on the bayonet with both hands while the squealer burned.

“AND YOU WOULD BE STIG.”

“A-firmative. Got any last words?”

His back was to me. Was he cocky or stupid? Didn't match with the description I'd been given... I scanned around with the ball drone, and my breath hissed in my throat, as it saw the small plastic case that he'd propped up nearby, before breaking cover. My memory told me that was a claymore mine, and gave me the specs on what it could do. If I charged him now he'd trigger it, and I'd be caught by a cloud of ball bearings driven by a plastique explosion.

Instead I broke cover myself, towards the central stone fountain of the roundabout. I managed to avoid the claymore's blast area. He turned faster than I thought possible and drew like lightning with one hand, chasing me with pistol rounds. One hit, and I winced as the heat amped up again. I was starting to feel light-headed, and my arms were killing me. He was a good shot, I couldn't afford to underestimate him.

However, I had a few more cards to play. I started the ball drone on a wide arc, around the conflict. I needed time for this.

The smackbrawl episode I'd seen came back to me. It might just be time to try some kayfabe.

“YOU THOUGHT DIRE EASY PREY? YOU WERE WRONG. DIRE IS GOING TO DESTROY YOU AND YOUR GANG, ONE BY ONE! THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU THAT SHE CAN'T FIX WITH A LITTLE GRATUITIOUS VIOLENCE.”

“Big words, lady. Come over here and say that to my face.”

“OH NO, IT WON'T BE THAT EASY. DO YOU THINK SHE JUST BROUGHT HER FISTS TO A GUNFIGHT?”

“For a minute there? Yeah, I really did. But hey, keep talking. I want to test a theory.”

Through the ball drone I saw him poke the burning man for a few times, nod at the lack of resistence. Then he brought the rifle up, gauging the distance, pointing it my way and bracing himself. He was trying to line up a shot with the grenade launcher.

“YOU THINK TO SHELL HER? YOU'RE OVERLOOKING ONE VERY IMPORTANT THING.”

And he hesitated. My smacktalk, primitive though it was, had bought me enough time.

“And what's that?” he called.

“YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH EXPLOSIVES.”

With a simple command, I had the ball drone roll up to him and start beeping.

He dove for cover behind the APC, getting as far as he could from the drone...

And when he was in front of the claymore, I activated my universal remote.

Click. Beep!

BOOM!

It was like watching a bag full of red paint get hit by a shotgun. What was left of him hit the ground about twenty feet away, and I let myself relax. The only Black Bloods left were in full withdrawal, running like hell to the south.

“Hey! Dire!” A familiar shout, and I looked up to a second-story window of a nearby restaurant to see Bunny waving down at me. “Good work. We're pulling back now.”

“WE'RE NOT DONE. THIS IS ONLY HALF THE JOB!"

“I've got like four people left who aren't dead or injured.”

I hissed between my teeth. “THE CAMP NEEDS US.”

“And so do my brothers and sisters. They need medical care. Like now.” She gestured around the scene. I looked around, and my objections stilled in my throat. For every two or three black-clad forms around the wrecked crossroads, there was one blue-coated form down. Some of them were shrieking in pain. Others were ominously silent and still. They'd earned their keep, here, and I couldn't deny them their withdrawal.

I shook my head. “NO TIME TO ARGUE. DO HER A FAVOR AND SECURE THE APC BEFORE YOU LEAVE. DIRE HAS A USE FOR IT LATER.”

I retrieved my ball drone and took to the air. I ached all over, sweat was running down me in buckets, my arms felt fried and throbbed in pain in a way that matched my heartbeat. But I wasn't done. God damn it, I wasn't done.

All I could do was fly as fast as I could, and hope that I could get there in time to make a difference.

CHAPTER 14: A Dark and Bloody Secret

“You have to admit, it was a masterful deception. They built up their reputation as a gang of crazies and murderers, blamed for all sorts of horrible things. No one had a clue of their true nature. No one suspected the truth of the matter, save for one lone hunter...”

--From Teatime with Bastet: My ruminations with Icon's resident goddess, by Adrian Delaware, page 74. Published by Night-errant press, 2005

It had taken me a full minute and a half to make my way through unfamiliar, obstacle-choked streets without drawing attention from the Bloods. I made the return trip without a care for stealth, and got there in thirty seconds or so. What I saw horrified me. Two groups of black-clad invaders had set up, one group on the dunes north of the camp, and the other group was clustered behind the showerhouse, using its concrete walls for cover. Bullets sang as they unloaded into the camp with every sort of firearm under the sun, and I didn't see many defenders. There were bodies strewn about the tents, and the bulk of the refugees were clustered behind the few boats they'd managed to drag up on shore. A scream from the crowd, and the occasional slumping figure showed me that there was no good cover there.

Behind the group at the showerhouse, up the rock-strewn slope, a few black vans were pulling in along the road. I marked the heavy bars on the back of them, and cursed. They were likely transporting more of the rage-driven victims. One of those had given me trouble. I didn't want to see what three of them did to a crowd of civilians.

I gnawed my lip. Finally, I decided there was no help for it. I'd tackle the group that had solid cover first.

Muzzle flashes shifted my way as I came roaring down from above, landing on one of them and feeling bones give as I slammed him into the concrete of the showerhouse floor. I grabbed another and threw him into a cluster, then waded in with fists swinging.

I'd come into the middle of them, and when they fired they couldn't avoid hitting their friends... especially when I grabbed one of them at random intervals to use as a shield. The bodies soaked bullets while I pulped the ones that couldn't get away fast enough with my free hand. For a moment there, my heart rose, and I forgot the pain from my scalded arms as I punished them. I beat my fists over and over again into the wretches that threatened me and mine. That dared to threaten me and mine!

“YOUR FATE IS DIRE!” I promised. “SHE IS YOUR RECKONING! SHE IS THE END OF YOUR DAYS!”

They hesitated, and I killed them for it.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw one of them with a purple scarf around her neck take a few steps back up the beach. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled something out, and seemed to take a drink from it. I was too busy to stop her, as I laid another two of them low with a sweeping backhand. Eight down, four running, and I had to dodge out of the way as the rest shot at me. I stooped to grab another human shield, thanking my stars that I'd slimmed down the armor and rebuilt it for mobility. The forcefield was getting a small workout, but so far it was manageable.

A burbling roar rose at my back, and I whirled around. Purple scarf was on the ground, howling and rocking back and forth. Blood poured from her mouth in a spray, and her teeth grew and seemed to warp into sharp, jagged shapes.

So this was the infamous Black Rage...

She looked at me with dark, bleeding eyes, and in a heartbeat she was off the ground and at my throat. It took everything I had to check her with one forearm, and she sent me staggering back a good couple of feet before I ground my heels in.

To the east I heard gunfire from the direction of the camp. I hoped it was the good guys, but I had no time to glance over and check, as purple scarf was doing her level best to rip my head off. The armor reinforcing my neck groaned, and rivets started to give...

I grabbed one of her hands with my left arm, hauled the coilgun's barrel down with my right, and slammed the weapon into her head. After about the third slam something broke in her skull. She stumbled back a bit, shook her head. Her left eyesocket was shattered, and her eye flopped on her cheek, obscene and dangling from one bloody strand. And yet she still stood.

I drilled her point-blank in the head with a spike round, and she finally dropped as her skull gave way with a crimson spray. Glancing up, I looked for the next targets, and found the six or so remaining bloods running up the beach. A glance at the dunes showed that things had shifted, there. The camp had rallied at my appearance, and some of my gunners were returning fire. Then lightning flared from behind a wooden lump near the boats, and I grinned, as Sparky got into play. With only one direction to focus on now, he could safely commence bolting their asses down. Yeah, my people had that in hand. The dunes were a good vantage point but didn't have much cover, so the Bloods would have to back off soon.

As I watched, a white-clad figure burst out of the medical tent. He was running toward me, unlimbering a long object from his side as he went. I recognized Khalid, and as he approached I identified the thing in his hands as a sword. What the devil was he doing with that? He was shouting, but the words were lost in the noise of the distant firefight. Finally, as his hand came up and gestured I knew what was going on.

I whipped around, before the first screaming maniac could fling himself at me.

The Black Bloods had opened the vans, set their drug-twisted minions loose. And I was the nearest target still standing.

I tried to stiff arm the one in the lead, but with a mighty leap he crashed into me, taking us both down. I threw him off, but the second one leaped on me, started pummeling me over and over with his fists. The armor shook and I could feel it start to give in the torso. I fought back, pistoning my hands into his ribs, and feeling them break with every strike. I was giving better than I was getting, but he wasn't slowing down. How the hell was this even possible?

A metallic crunch, and a strike broke through to my stomach. I doubled over in pain, tried to kick him off, but he was having none of it. And then my vision was obscured by long-nailed hands, as I realized the third one had crept around during my scuffle, and wrapped her fingers around my mask. With terrible strength she twisted my head, and my neck armor creaked.

She twisted, and I fought back as best I could. But with two of them on me, this could only have one ending. I closed my eyes, as the first rivet popped. Sorry Sparky. Sorry Joan.

And then the pressure on my head ceased. The one on me jumped back, and a white-clad form stood over me, curved sword dripping, glaring at the last remaining druggie.

“You shall not have her! Flee, vermin!” One hand dipped into a pocket, came up with a bottle. He threw it and a smoky flash of green billowed up around the druggie, who howled in pain and started running away.

“YOU COULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT EARLIER?”

“It's toxic to the living. I didn't want to kill you while trying to save you. Anyway, we need to—”

The first one, the one I'd thrown off, tackled him in a blur of pale flesh. I shoved myself off the ground, staggered as I realized that my beating had thrown the hydraulics off a bit.

“A little help here?” Khalid called out, wrestling with his attacker. He was twisting, trying to keep the druggie from getting a good grip, but he was nowhere as strong as the madman who was doing his best to bite Khalid's face off. Only a matter of time... I spared a glance for the woman who had been trying to pop my spine. Her body was a few feet away, with her head a few feet more from it. Huh, sharp sword.

No more time. I lurched over and grabbed Khalid's attacker, one hand seizing each of his arms. And then I clamped down and pulled.

The left one gave way first, and it barely slowed him down. He spun around and tried to gnaw through my shoulderplate, kicking and biting at me. Then he jerked, as Khalid's blade protruded through his forehead. With a gurgle, he slumped back... and Khalid pulled the sword out, whirled around, and cut his head off as neatly as a child plucking a flower.

“YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU SEEM, DOCTOR.”

“Ah, well, that makes two of us.” He grinned. “Explanations later— oh.”

The crack of a gunshot, as he collapsed into my arms. His sword fell from limp fingers, as I blinked in surprise.

I turned as quickly as I could, and looked up the beach. A man stood there by the vans, with a hunting rifle in his hands. He wore a good suit. The jacket was hanging off his neck by a gold chain, his arms out of the sleeves. His long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore sunglasses. It was well into night, and he was wearing sunglasses. But the thing that caught my attention? His smile. A yellowed wedge of teeth, with no real humor in it. It stretched and deformed his face so badly that permanent wrinkles were lined into the visage.

“RICTUS, SHE PRESUMES.” Khalid groaned and bled, and I eased him down behind me.

“Got it in one, babe,” he called. “You've been giving us a lot of trouble. But that ends tonight.”

“BETTER THAN YOU HAVE TRIED,” I snarled, taking a step forward. My leg wobbled a bit, draining menace from my statement. The pain was catching up to me, and my stomach hurt where that druggie had cracked my armor. My other injuries and aches were coming forward. And then my heart sunk, as Rictus snapped his fingers, and four more vans pulled up to the edge of the road. Black Bloods scurried out to stand ready by the doors, ready to pop the bars and let loose the berserkers.

“I'm sure they have,” Rictus talked, his lips dancing over his locked smile. “But I'll settle for sloppy seconds. Or... we could work something out.”

Four vans. Khalid dying or dead. I snuck a look back up the beach. The foes on the dunes had withdrawn, but the showerhouse was between Sparky and Rictus. I couldn't count on help from that corner.

“SHE'S LISTENING,” I said, stalling for time.

“Step out of the armor and come on up here. We sell you to some people who want you, preferably alive. Then we walk away.”

“JUST LIKE THAT?”

“Just like that.”

“CAMP UNHARMED?”

“So long as these fucking bums remember their place, sure.”

“He lies,” Khalid whispered from behind me.

I nodded. This was a gang we were dealing with, and we'd dealt them too much hurt for them to simply walk away. They had their own image to think of.

Behind me, the sound of Sparky's lightning had ceased. So had the gunshots from the dunes. All were waiting for my reply.

And in the distance, a faint whistling noise. I might have mistaken it for wind, if I hadn't heard it before. Great. Of all the times for him to show back up...

“SHE REJECTS YOUR OFFER.” The best I could do was to sow chaos on the field, to slow down the new arrival. “YOU LYING SON OF A BITCH.”

He shook his head, snapped his fingers. “My mother was a saint.” Then the rifle snapped up, and he took his shot. I couldn't dodge without leaving Khalid vulnerable, so I gritted my teeth and took it on the forcefield. The surge of heat made my head swim. The temperature fluctuations were doing a number on me, and things seemed to slow down... I saw Rictus immediately turn and run clear, as the Black Bloods ripped the bars from the doors and beat feet themselves. Howling, slavering berserkers poured out, looked around, and oriented on me...

...As Ballista touched down with a WHOMP, billowing sand and snow up around him. There was someone in his arms, and the hero put him down carefully. I had to check twice, to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

“ROY?”

“Hey there Dire girl.”

It was! He was bare-chested under his greatcoat with a layer of tape and bandages around his ribs, and he was moving with care, but it was Roy!

“GET CLEAR!” I shouted at him, and fired spike rounds from the coilgun past him, trying to slow down the charging berserkers. Ballista whirled around, drawing spears as he did so, and snapping them out to full extension.

“Stay back! I don't want to hurt y—”

One of them leaped at him, hit the spear. He ran up it, ignoring his impalement and the damage he was doing to himself. Ballista dropped the spear and grabbed for him, and suddenly the berserker was flying in another direction. Two more used the distraction to close in... but by then I had caught up to him, and waded in, fists swinging. “THEY'RE GONE, NOTHING HUMAN LEFT,” I shouted. “DON'T HOLD BACK OR THEY'LL KILL YOU!”

“She's right you know.” Khalid's voice was stronger now, and another bottle flew past me to burst open on one of them, loosing more green smoke. It howled and fled back up the hill, seeming to lose speed as it went. Gunshots chased it. I glanced back to see that Roy had scooped up a dropped pistol, and was blazing away at it. Amazingly enough, the bullets seemed to slow it down. Some property of the gas? Counteracted the drugs, maybe?

I had no time to ponder it. Ballista finally stepped up to join me, his remaining spear in his hands while I battered and punched at them with my gauntlets. They couldn't inflict serious damage on me without time to work, but they tried. They slammed me again and again with ludicrous strength, sending me staggering around the beach. But every time they started to get the upper hand, Ballista would slash with the spear's tip and open grievous wounds. Our foes were slowing, but still going, and even a few shots from Roy didn't do much that I could tell. We needed something more... and then I remembered the effect from the tracers in the last fight.

The vans started up and pulled away, vanishing from my peripheral vision, but I didn't care. Fire. We needed fire of some sort, here. “KHALID! DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING COMBUSTIBLE?”

“Yes. Can you get clear of them?”

I took a precious second, blocked the fingers scrabbling for my mask, and glanced to Ballista. “ON THREE?”

He nodded, and at the count of three I dodged right, pushed the one nearest me as hard as I could. At the same time Ballista stepped forward and slammed his hands into the remaining two. All flew back, tumbling and rolling across the beach... and Khalid charged in, tossing something low and underhanded.

WHUMP!

I don't know what the hell it was. It looked like orange fluid spraying everywhere. And after a second the fluid started to flicker with light and heat. Flames, red, angry flames started to rise up, erupting like grasping fingers as an oily smoke filled the air.

“Stay clear!” He shouted. “That's Greek Fire!”

I had absolutely no idea what that was, but I joined the three of them in backing up.

One of the berserkers, now coated in flaming goo, came running out of the smoke. I drilled him with a beanbag round to knock him back into the inferno.

Then there was nothing but shrieking, and the smell of roasting meat. I gagged and I wasn't the only one, Roy and Ballista looked about ready to throw up. Khalid though, he stood with his arms out, hands holding the hilt of his sword with the blade planted down in the sand. He was leaning on it, and I glanced over to him.

“YOU LOOK AWFULLY SPRY FOR SOMEONE WHO CAUGHT A BULLET WITH HIS KIDNEY EARLIER.”

“In honesty, I think it hit my liver.” His face didn't change as he watched the fires burn. “My kidneys are perhaps bruised, but I doubt they were ruptured”

“THIS DOESN'T NEGATE HER POINT.”

He shook his head, glanced back. “We should look to the wounded. Joan—”

“WHAT?”

Oh no...

“WHAT HAPPENED TO JOAN?”

“She was caught outside when they came. She's in the sickbay, but it's not good. I have her on—” The rest of his words were lost, as I ran toward the sickbay shack as fast as I could go.

Ballista jogged alongside me. “So, I wanted to apologize. I ran into Roy at the hospital when I was being treated, and he explained things. I didn't know—”

“NOT NOW, OKAY?”

He shut up, but I had no time for him as I reached the curtain, peppered with bullet holes, and swept it aside. I burst into the room, and took the scene in with horror.

Joan, on a cot to the side, her clothes bloody and her face twisted to the side.

A bloody hammer on the cot next to her.

And Tugs, fucking Tugs, was busy pulling an IV out of her arm. He stared at me in shock, and I noticed the wet drops of blood spattering his face. He had two first aid kits under one arm.

“YOU KILLED HER.”

“I... I... M'sorry...”

“YOU STOLE AND YOU HIT HER BECAUSE SHE FUSSED OR YOU WANTED TO KEEP HER SILENT WHILE YOU STOLE HER MEDICINE.”

“M'sorry.” He dropped the first aid kits, backed away from me.

I reached up, pulled the coilgun down, aimed it at him. Behind me, Ballista grabbed my shoulder. “Hey! No! Don't kill him!”

“HE WAS TOLD.”

“M'sorry!” Tugs wept, falling to his knees. “I just... I...”

“VERY WELL. SHE WON'T SHOOT HIM.” I released the coilgun, and Ballista let go of my shoulder.

“Good. Look, I can take him in to the cops. He'll get a cell and a trial—”

“THE COPS WORK FOR THE BLACK BLOODS AROUND HERE.”

“What? Bullshit. Look, I can—”

I reached down, scooped the hammer off the cot. Before Ballista could react I took a step forward and brought it down on Tugs' skull with every bit of strength left in my clumsy arms.  My weakened muscles were augmented by the hydraulics of the armor, and the outcome was never in doubt.

Tugs fell dead to the floor, and I regarded the bloody gray chunks sprayed around the room without any particular emotion.

“What did you do?” Ballista whispered behind me. I dropped the hammer, used my hands to tilt Joan's head towards me. It lolled lifelessly, and I knew she was gone.

“HE MUST HAVE THOUGHT THE BLOODS WOULD WIN, SO HE TRIED TO ROB US AND FLEE. HE WAS WARNED AND HE DID IT ANYWAY.”

“That's not— That's not justice.”

“JUSTICE?” I pushed past him, and opened the curtain of the tent. I gestured to the mob of people walking among the dead and wounded, trying to save who they could. They were calling out the names of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, everyone they loved was all right. “OUT HERE THERE'S JUST US. NO JUSTICE BUT WHAT WE MAKE.” I turned to face him full on, and saw his olive-skinned face gone pale as milk. He really was young, now that I had the opportunity to study him.

He shook his head. “I was going to help you, you crazy... you... I can't, now. Heroes don't kill. Heroes don't let villains kill people.”

“MM.” I looked at the burning pyre where the berserkers were turning to ash, then turned to study the lightning-fried gangers strewn across the dunes. “YOU MIGHT WANT TO TELL THEM THAT. DIRE IS SURE THEY'LL APOLOGIZE, AND GO HOME. BUT UNTIL THAT HAPPY DAY, THIS IS WAR. AND THEY SHALL PAY A THOUSAND TIMES OVER FOR JOAN AND EVERY OTHER INNOCENT THAT DIED TONIGHT.”

“I can't help you.” With a last, horrified look at me, he twisted and threw himself into the air. He accelerated as he went, turning what initially seemed like a small jump into an unending arc that soon moved out of my sight.

I looked back down as Khalid and Roy came limping up, supporting each other.

“What happened?” Khalid wheezed.

“TUGS. HE—” I took a breath, composed myself. “HE TRIED TO ROB THE PLACE WHILE EVERYONE WAS OUT. TOOK A HAMMER TO JOAN. SHE'S DEAD. DIRE KILLED HIM FOR... FOR...” My shoulders shook, as my composure broke. I turned off the mask's voicebox, slumped down against the wall of the shack, and sobbed freely. Khalid considered me for a moment, his face bleak. Finally he moved through the curtain into the sickbay.

Roy sat down next to me, back to the wall as well. After a while, he fished in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No.” I whispered, before remembering that my voice was off. I got the last few choking sobs out of my system, blew snot out of my nose, and ignored the gross splotch it made against my mask's screen. I flicked the menu up, and reconnected my voicebox. “NO, THANK YOU.”

He took one, lit up reflectively as he watched people move among the dead. It had been a victory, but a costly one. I sat still as a few survivors were dragged, groaning and shrieking, past me and into the sickbay.

I looked at Roy, found his face crinkled with a sneer.

“WHAT ARE YOU GRINNING AT?”

“Ah.” He folded his lips back down. “Just a bad joke I heard once. Sorry, the painkillers are makin' me loopy.” He pulled a bottle of pills out of his coat, shook it. The side of it was plastered with warning labels.

“SHOULD YOU BE TAKING THOSE?”

“Probably not,” he said, popping open the lid and throwing a handful into his mouth before chewing with a thoughtful expression. “Want some?” He said through the mouthful.

“PASS, THANKS.” My pains had faded to a dull ache. I was tired, more than anything. Tired and sick. I'd been too late to save Joan, too late to save the other bodies that were being dragged down the beach. Too late to save the wounded people being helped into the sick bay, too late for the line of people stacking up outside, the walking wounded making do with bandages and tourniquets. They'd gone through minutes of gunfire, after all. The Black Bloods insistence on cover had meant that the camp was a good ways away from their vantage points, but that had been a lot of lead going into the air. The distance hadn't saved my people from harm. Perhaps thirty wounded, I estimated. Perhaps eight dead.

I watched three men struggle with a large body, noted the old, grungy cloth tied around its jaw, and the shaved head. Rick was dead as well, then. Though I hadn't known him as well as Joan, I felt the loss with an odd indignation. I had to break his jaw, after all, just a few days back. But since then he'd been doing good around the camp. It wasn't fair that he should die now, like this.

After perhaps a few minutes, perhaps half an hour, Sparky rolled up to us. “Ha! We made it. Holy shit! We showed them!” And to my utter surprise, the wounded in line cheered. The people around laughed. The solemn spell was broken, as a happy babble started up.

What the hell was this?

I shook with indignation, started to clamber to my feet... and stopped, as Roy grabbed my shoulder, and rose with me. “Let them have this,” he advised in a quiet voice. “They'd be dead without you all. You're a real hero, yeah?”

“SHE'S NO HERO,” I muttered, remembering the feel of the hammer as it struck Tugs in the forehead. I felt no guilt for that; it had been a long time coming. Just regret that I hadn't done it sooner.

“Well, right now y'are,” he advised. “How you holdin' up, anyway? Hard to tell with that armor on ya.”

“One minute.” I popped the armor open, started to clamber out, and almost screamed. My arms... oh sweet heavens, my arms...

I clenched my teeth. “Roy?” I whispered, ignoring the ripping pains all up and down my arms. “Can you get her into sickbay? Without pulling on her arms too much?”

“Ah... shit. Shit, sure.” He wrinkled his nose at the smell of roasted me, and managed to help wrestle me out of the armor. He helped me up the steps, and the people waiting parted for me. There were murmurs of dismay as we got into the light, and I looked down to see that my arms from the elbows down were bright lobster red, split and weeping blood and watery fluid. My stomach throbbed with every stumbling step, and Khalid simply took one look, and pointed to a partitioned-off cot in the back.

“There!” he commanded, before turning his bloody, rubber-gloved hands back to the screaming woman on the central cot. “Forceps,” He commanded, and Abernathy handed over the tool. She stood ready for the next request, twisting her hands nervously as she stared at me. I stared back, as Roy helped me cross the room and lie down. As I did my stomach clenched in a sudden cramp, and I curled up in pain.

I lay there, trying not to shift my arms, and eventually the pain eased up enough that I could stretch out a bit. My eyes shut, I simply rested and tried to go inactive to regenerate the energy that I could. Dear lord, tonight had been a workout.

After perhaps an hour the curtains rustled, and Khalid entered, to look me over. “Dear God, woman. What did you go up against? Those are at least second-degree burns. The rest of you looks lightly toasted as well.”

“A faulty thermal buildup from a forcefield that really wasn't made to handle so many impacts in so short a time,” I summed up. “Also got hit in the gut when a berserker broke part of her armor plating.”

He sighed, started rolling up my shirt, and winced. Looking over, he put a hand on my forehead and checked my eyes. “No concussion. These are signs of dehydration. Abernathy, some water?”

“While you're here,” I muttered, “perhaps we can discuss a few things. Like, oh, that sword, the bullet through your liver that you pretty much walked off, and the green smoke?”

Khalid smiled, and there was a faint hint of sadness to it. “I was hoping not to have to show you those things.”

“Well, Dire was hoping to avoid getting roasted tonight. Guess we'll both have to learn to cope with disappointment.”

He glanced behind him. “Can we perhaps get some privacy?”

“Who's still here?” I asked.

“Roy. Sparky. Martin and Minna are waiting outside.”

“Then no. Call them in. We all talk. All lives are at stake here, so all get to hear your explanation.”

He tightened his lips, squinted at me for a minute... then chuckled. “I had my doubts about you at first. But no, despite the villainous trappings, you are a worthy leader.”

“Not going to cut and run like Ballista did? Not going to judge her for killing Tugs?”

He glanced back. “You heard the lady. Please call Martin and Minna in, then shut the curtain.” When he looked back at me, his eyes were miles away, and his face was hard and stern. “I have seen worse than your actions done for less reason, and deemed it right. The times have changed, perhaps, but these are not usual times. It is done.”

“What did you do with Joan's body?” I asked.

“In another niche, covered over. Mr. Sparky insisted on it.”

I nodded, and my neck gave a twinge of pain. “Tonight for explanations. Tomorrow we mourn.”

After a minute, Martin and Minna filed in. Anya was asleep in Minna's arms, and the woman's hair was bloodied. She was silent and seemed distracted, almost lost. Martin looked angry, hands jammed into his pockets, glaring at the floor. Sparky rolled into my view from the left. Roy followed with him, a hand on his shoulder. Sparky had been crying, judging by the dirty trails on his face. He'd left his mantle outside, thankfully. Roy alone seemed unruffled, probably still flying on whatever was in those painkillers. I didn't envy him his crash when he came down.

The shack wasn't big, and we filled it. That helped a bit, gave it warmth against the chill of the night. The space heaters in here did what they could, but it was still winter next to the sea.

“All right, Khalid. Start talking.”

He nodded. “You have earned that much. I will keep it short. To put it succinctly, I am a hunter of things that should not be. I have been at it a very long time, using alchemy to prolong my lifespan and survival. It gives me an edge.”

“How long?” Roy asked.

“Let me put it this way. I remember when my home city was called Constantinople.”

I shrugged. No memory, no clue of history. It meant nothing to me. “You say you're a hunter. What are you hunting?”

“Things such as those that the Black Bloods unleashed tonight. You thought their rage and abilities due to drugs, yes?”

“Well, yeah,” said Martin. “Freaky ass mutation drugs, but still drugs.”

“You're half-right. Do you know what vampires are?”

A beat. Then Roy laughed. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“I wish I was. Well, the things you fought out there weren't vampires. They were draugr, the result of what happens when vampire blood is given to a corpse.”

Ah. That explained the dead woman, back at Stigmata's ambush. Animated through some sort of biological agent...

“Vampires. Aw fuck me. It HAD to be supernatural bullshit.” Martin punched the wall, set the sheet metal ringing. “That is the worst kind of fucking bullshit.”

“Supernatural?” I asked.

“I saw it back in the War,” Sparky said. “The Nazis went looking for an edge back in the '40s. They found some pretty weird stuff. There was this one time we got ordered to set up a perimeter around this castle, just this empty castle out in the middle of nowhere. We were to take flamethrowers to anything that tried to come out. The OSS sent out a bunch of guys who went in with crystals and old books and shit. You remember that one, Roy?”

Roy grunted. “I try not to.”

“Yeah. It was good until night fell. The stuff that came out...” he shuddered.

Khalid nodded. “The Thule Society woke up many things that should have stayed sleeping. Worse, they dragged the supernatural into the light so far that it could hide no longer. Up until then, the community on the whole had been doing a good job of staying hidden.” He frowned. “Easier to operate that way. Eh, we wouldn't have been able to hide for long. Powers were a wildcard. Tesla opened Pandora's box, for better or for ill.”

I blinked. Much of this conversation made no sense to me. “That's all well and good,” I started, and my words were slow and certain. “But we're getting away from the immediate topic. Vampires?”

“Yes,” Khalid said, checking his pockets and pulling out a small jar. “Here, I am going to rub this on your burns. It will heal you quickly.”

I nodded. “Can you spare some of the green paste for Roy? His ribs are probably still trashed.”

Khalid rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, give me a minute. I'll have to mix up more. At any rate, I think we are only dealing with perhaps one vampire.”

I frowned. “One of the living Black Bloods drank something, turned into a draugr.”

“Yes, when improperly administered, the blood kills most living humans and makes of them draugr. To a favored strong-willed few it gives them strength, speed, and toughness beyond mortal men. At a price of sanity and soul.”

I recalled Scrapper. Was that what had happened to him? It seemed possible.

I frowned and continued. “And when properly administered?”

“You get another vampire. As powerful to the draugr as the draugr are to the living. And much, much smarter.”

“They're not alive?” I mused, then hissed as he started to spread cream on my arms.

“No. That is why they are called the undead... think of it like a specialized virus. It alters the biology and keeps them in a mockery of life, even past the point they should stop moving. It heals up injuries that aren't inflicted by specialized means or in specific ways.”

“Fire.” I said, recalling the tracers, the road flare, and that goop Khalid had thrown.

“Beheading as well. Exposure to sunlight if you can manage to keep them in it long enough. Impalement through the heart or brain if they're weak enough. Or certain sacred weapons.”

“Well fuck, guess we'll just run over to church and oh wait we can't they defiled it and shit,” Martin said. “This keeps getting better and better.”

Khalid shook his head. “No real relics there anyway. You're better off with fire.”

“Noted.” Once I was out of here, I had some modifications to make.

“So you think we only got one vampire?” Roy said.

Khalid nodded. “Yes. If I am correct, he is the ancient called the Locust. I've been hunting him the last half-a-century or so, between other projects. But I do not think he is fully awake yet.”

“Why's that?” Sparky asked.

“Because this city is still here.”

We paused and took that in for a moment.

“This. This bullshit is why I fucking hate the supernatural shit. Some random old-ass monster wakes up or some dudes in bedsheets decide that the world needs an enema, and whoops, there go a few million people,” Martin snapped. “Or some old douche-ass god wakes up and has a tantrum, and hey, more people die. Fuck supernatural bullshit.”

Khalid shrugged. “It is here whether you like it or not. You may as well rail at the sun for shining, or the ocean for having tides. That said, there are aspects of it I agree with you upon. Which is why I am here. I had suspicions about the Black Bloods, and I wished to get a look at them up close and personal, as it were.”

“So you came here,” I nodded. “Clever.”

He shrugged. “If there had been nothing but another gang skirmish, another push for power by warlords, then I would have saved what lives I could and returned to the hunt. But this? This changes things now.” He finished rubbing my arms, and I unclenched my teeth. As painful as the application had been, my arms felt better almost immediately. They still hurt, but it was muted compared to what it had been. My stomach still felt like it had been pulped, though.

“Mm. What will you do now?” I asked.

Khalid smiled. “Frankly... I'll ask for your help. You and the others.” He gestured around the room. Martin laughed, Roy and Sparky looked at each other, and Minna just considered him with empty eyes.

“And how can we help?” I asked. “Besides opposing them in the conflict, which we'd be doing anyway.”

“I need to know more about them, for one thing,” Khalid said, leaning against the wall. He was looking tired. It had been a long night for him, as well. “I know how the Locust operates, which is why I think he is still mostly asleep. But I know little of these Black Bloods. They're not the usual band of mortal servants you find when an ancient is involved. I'd expected them to use the blackout to start killing people left and right, harvesting the blood to waken their master.”

“Harvesting blood,” I mused. “That's what it takes?”

“Yes. A lot of it.”

“Does it have to be blood from the living?” I asked.

He considered. “Well, no. That would be more potent, but I suppose you could use the blood of the dead, as long as it wasn't too old.”

“Awwwwww shit.” Martin groaned. He saw where this was going, too. “Khalid, or whoever the fuck you are, the Bloods are famous for grabbing corpses. People they kill, their own, doesn't matter. They haul them off. People don't see them again.”

“Ah. That would be slower, but safer. No wonder I didn't catch this before. If that's the case, it extends the margin of time I have to act before—”

“Khalid, man.” Martin looked sick. “They been doing that ever since they shown up. Four years ago.”

Khalid fell silent. His face flashed to pure horror, and he sagged against the wall like his strings had been cut. “Oh dear God.”

“Not Allah?” Roy asked.

Khalid snorted. “I'm Turkish, yes, but I'm Christian. Have been my entire life. Not every brown-skinned person from the Middle East is a Muslim, you know.”

Sparky narrowed his eyes, stared at him for a minute. “Yer the Last Janissary, aintcha?”

“You've heard of me? Surprising. I've only come into contact with heroes when the supernatural necessitates it. Easier on everyone, really, the things I do aren't exactly heroic or legal.”

“Yeah, we kind of heard of you,” Sparky said. “One of the OSS guys who survived castle Nachtjaeger got drunk on the way back to base. Told us how they had agents in Istanbul stoppin' Hitler's boys from getting' their hands on the Holy Grail. Said you were an ally.”

“He probably broke a lot of regulations to tell you that,” said Khalid. “Yes, I was an ally back then. Not that the Grail would have done the Thule society much good on its own, but they could have bartered it to gain assistance from a darker quarter.”

“While this is all very fascinating,” I spoke, “we have more pressing concerns. What aid can you offer us, and how can we help you end this thing?”

“Uh, you're missing the part where we ask if we want to be involved in the first case,” said Martin. “Because this just changed from a gang war to a horror movie. And speaking as one of the black guys here, I know how horror movies go, and I really don't wanna die first.”

“Pfft, man up, son,” Sparky said. “We're fightin' them anyways. This just makes it trickier.”

I sighed. I was starting to fade. “Can Dire get some water?” Minna provided a bottle, and I gulped it down in thirty seconds. “She's with Sparky. They were jackasses before we knew this, they're jackasses now. Doesn't really change anything.”

“Shit, let's call in the MRB,” said Martin. “Let their government asses handle it, our tax dollars at work and stuff.”

Khalid shook his head. “Sadly, that would be a bad idea. The Bureau has rules for this sort of situation. The collateral damage it would cause would cost the lives of thousands. I cannot condone that.”

“Then let's leave,” said Martin. “Got nothing tying us here. Just go.”

“No.” Minna spoke for the first time she'd entered the room, and we looked to her in surprise. She hitched Anya up higher on her shoulder, as the child slept. “Nowhere to go. Can't move fast. They would hound us and kill us as we went.”

I propped my head up, stared at Martin. “They killed Joan. So they die.”

“God... fine. Fucking fine.” Martin jammed his hands in his pockets again. “Fine, fuck it let's go be fucking Van Helsing up in this shit.”

I smiled, and let my head drop to the cot's pillow. Things were getting hazy. “We'll help you, Khalid, and you'll help us.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Right now you need rest, though. Are we done for now?”

I started to answer, but I'm pretty sure that midway through the sentence I fell asleep.

CHAPTER 15: Mourn for the Fallen, Brood on the Past

“I wish I could tell you this was the easy path, but it's not. You'll make new friends as you go, and you'll lose them. And it'll hurt like nothing else. I know you. You're me, and the memory edit won't change that. And in its way, the pain is good. It will remind you that you're human. You'll need that, as time goes on. It's a good thing.”

--Excerpt #14 from the Dire Monologues

In the morning, we laid Joan to rest. The other bodies would be buried. For Joan, we felt she deserved something special. Before any of us, she'd been the heart of the camp. She'd been the caregiver, the sensible one, the one who was always looking ahead and trying to make sure we had enough to eat. The one who ensured we were warm and healthy.

“We came here homeless and with nothing,” I spoke, as I stood in front of the boat. My armor was off, it seemed more respectful that way. “We were nothing but a gathering of vagrants, criminals, and the down and out. But she saw more than that. She saw in us a family. And she stepped up to be the mother without a word of complaint, or an unkind word for anyone.”

I looked at her for a long moment, then shook my head. “Dire knew you for only a short time, but it felt like all of her life. You were kind to her, Joan. Dire shall never forget you.”

I stepped back then. Sparky took my place, rolling up, solemn and sad.  He looked down into the little rowboat, and stared at Joan's body for a long moment. Finally, just as I thought he'd lost his train of thought, he spoke. “Weren't but five of us to start, way back when. Me, Lily, Rob, Gladys, and Joan. Roy showed up a little while in, but for the longest time it was the five of us.”

He sighed, deflating. For the first time I'd seen him, the weird vitality that surrounded him seemed to fade, leaving him looking old and worn. “Bloods took Lily and Rob first. But we fought them off, and we thought we was done. I guess—” He coughed, spat on the sand. His voice was hoarse as he continued. “Guess that wasn't so.” He patted the side of the boat. “We'll finish the job this time, Joanie-girl.” He glanced up. “Roy? Got anything to say?”

Roy just shook his head, and Sparky rolled back. He was the last, the others had had their say already, adding personal memories. Minna's had been short and pushed the limits of her English. Martin had been overcome by tears, and couldn't finish. A few more of the camp had added in their stories, people I'd seen but not talked much with. No one had an unkind account. But thinking about it, saying such here would be the height of foolishness. Looking around at the crowd I saw the bonding in the shared grief, even for those who had only arrived last night. They had their own dead to mourn, some of them, and in this shared experience we were reminded that we were all human.

For all that it was good, it was somewhat painful. I had the grim certainty that this wouldn't be the last funeral I attended. Depending on how things went, the next one could come very soon if we weren't careful and skilled.

It was time. Tooms and Martin took the boat, and pushed it down the beach, back into the water it had been painstakingly pulled from yesterday. They pushed it out as far as they could get it, and then Khalid wound up, and pitched a bottle into the oil-soaked rags we'd lined the boat with. This bottle, unlike the last I'd seen him hurl, didn't explode into greasy red flame. The fire was smaller, simply orange and smoky, but it did the job it needed to do as it flickered in the cold wind.

I went back to my armor. After the beating it had taken last night, it needed repairs. Fortunately, I still had materials left over from the SUV. Although I'd used up most of the critical electronic components from it already, I had enough left over to do basic repairs. And Abernathy was a quick student and a serious help, even if she had to work to keep up with me.

As I knelt down and picked up the wrench from the tarp full of tools, a shadow fell across me. Roy.

I looked up, nodded to him. He smiled. “Glad to see ya up and about, Ell-Dee.”

“Ell Dee?”  I asked.

“Lady Dire. It's a pun, we used to call our lieutenant Ell-Tee back in the war.”

“Dire's not in command here,” I said. “No rank. If anything, it's you and Sparky in charge.”

He shook his head. “Nope. We were enlisted the full trip through. Not leader types. I only done what I did here cause no one else wanted it. But you? You got a way about you. Besides, it ain't necessarily a good thing,” he said. “With the rank comes the responsibility.”

“She'd have that anyway,” I frowned. “Can't leave things the way they are. Would be sloppy. Too much collateral.”

He grinned. “And that's why yer Ell-Dee ta me, now. But hell, don't take my word on it. Go talk ta Martin, go talk ta Minna. Guarantee you that right now they're lookin' for a shoulder to lean on. Listen to'em, hear 'em out. It's what a good see-oh does.”

I didn't know what a see-oh was. Assumed he was using military jargon.“You think it'd help?” I asked.

“I know it would. Go get'em boss!”

I decided to let it slide, and nodded. “All right. After she finishes some adjustments to the armor, she'll go talk to people. You keep an eye on Sparky. Keep him safe.”

“Always do,” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. We stood, and walked back to the camp.

I sat down at my armor again, picked up the wrench, and got to work. I'd warped the coilgun barrel slightly when I'd used it to pound the draugr's head in, last night. Some gentle pressure and heat from my welder allowed me to straighten it again... not perfectly, but this wasn't a precision weapon to begin with. For the enemies I was up against, I didn't really need precision weapons. Not when fire was available. For that, I had commandeered the homemade still of one of the camp residents. I'd paid him three times what it was worth for the pipes, hoses, and tubing. A small tank that had once held propane was turned into a backpack, and the nozzle of a firehose became the nozzle of a perfectly-functional flamethrower. I'd asked Khalid to start whipping up an incendiary fluid or gas that wouldn't kill me if I used it, and he'd promised to look into it while he was off retrieving more supplies.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of our new friend. But at this point, I couldn't be choosy about allies. I strapped the flamethrower nozzle to my left gauntlet, entered the armor, and flexed my arm a few times. Dry firing had the expected results. The igniter clicked on when I tried it, and the tubes were secured well-enough that I could move without fear of rupturing them.

I'd also borrowed a stun gun from one of the new arrivals, and rigged it to my right gauntlet. I hadn't been impressed by the relatively low voltage of it, so I'd patched it into the armor's core, and taken time to integrate it into the mask's command functionality. Now I could adjust the strength of it with a few whispered commands. That said, I'd have to be careful. Set it too high, and one shot would fry the stun gun's circuitry. But it was good to have a nonlethal option besides beanbag rounds or my bare hands, and it had been a simple thing to add. Besides, if I could get my hands on some higher capacity circuits, I could upgrade it without much trouble.

Midway through the morning, I took a break for an early lunch and Abernathy found me. “Heya. Got any orders for me?”

“Maybe.” I'd been giving some thought to the defense of the camp. “Think you can get up on that overpass?” I pointed at the elevated highway that rose above the western edge of the beach.

“Don't see why not. Take some hiking, but that's fine. Oooh, wait, I could borrow Tim's bicycle. Yeah, that'd work. What do you need, boss?”

“Check out the vehicles up there. They've been gridlocked for days, they look empty. Some of the people who were watching them said a lot of people left them behind after the first few hours of the traffic jam. See if there's any high-grade electric cars among them.”

I'd learned that electric cars made up about 50% of inner-city traffic. They could draw upon the city's broadcast power for energy, which made them economical and fairly cheap in the grand scheme of things. The rest of them would be a mix... mostly hydrogen-fueled cars, with a few old-school diesel trucks among them for the heavy and long-range transports. Unfortunately, the widespread use of electric cars had resulted in a huge jam. Though most were equipped with batteries for emergency purposes, a lot were cheaply made, or had owners who didn't bother to keep them charged. Throw in the complete collapse of the traffic signal system, add in a little human stupidity, and shake well. No one had ever anticipated an outage on this scale, or one that continued for so long.

Abernathy headed out, and I finished my lunch. Hot dogs, today. Someone had brought out a grill, and people were celebrating our victory with a cookout. I wasn't about to argue with them, even if the victory had come at a great cost. There was more trouble in the future, so I'd let people celebrate while they could.

While I ate, I glanced toward the shoreline, and saw Minna sitting by herself. Odd. I looked around, located Anya playing with a group of other children. Some game that involved a lot of running and shoving and laughing. A little bit more searching found the young woman that Anya had rescued from the church watching over them. Ah, that explained it.

I started heading toward Minna, with Roy's advice in mind. She looked up as I approached, and nodded as I sat down next to her. She'd chosen a spot on the pier near the spillpipe, where the snow hadn't stuck to the wood quite as much. It was cold but not too wet, in the grand scheme of things.

Minna looked back out at the ocean, and I followed her gaze to the smear of ashes and charred wood slowly heading out into the bay.

“You miss her,” I finally spoke.

“Yes.”

Another couple of minutes crawled by, and she looked to me again. “Who were you before this, Dire?”

I shrugged.

“She doesn't know. Doesn't remember.” I hiked my hair up, and showed her the sutures. They were starting to come out now, bit by bit. “Someone did this, and she doesn't know why.”

Minna's eyes were wide, when I looked back at her.

I offered a smile. “Who were you before this, Minna?”

“A whore. Men came to my town, promised me a job. Not the one they gave me.” She looked over my shoulder, her eyes far away. “Sold me to rich men, who passed me around. And then I got pregnant.”

“With Anya,” I said.

“Yes. My... Owner? Pimp? I heard him say they would sell her. I killed him and left.”

“How?”

Her hand rose up, traced her scars. She smiled, and it was nothing but teeth. “Was not easy. After that I was stuck here. Not good English. No money. No friends. Hitchhiked, ran. Gave birth in an alley in New York. Was there some time. Had to kill another man. Came here. Eventually.”

My own eyes were wide with horror at this point. “Could the authorities not help you? Get you back home?”

She laughed, harsh and quick. It was the first time I'd ever heard her laugh, and it was an ugly thing without humor. “I was a slave whore for rich men. Rich men here control the authorities. What do you think would happen?”

I frowned. “It should not be so.”

She shrugged. “The men who traded me first run things back in my old town, too. I go back, I die. Or they take Anya. You know Vory y Zakone?”

I shook my head no.

She nodded. “You do not want to.”

I was impressed that she hadn't died along the way already. That she'd stuck around here so long. Hell, maybe the only reason she hadn't moved on already was because she'd found a friend in Joan. She'd been inseparable from the older woman. Her respect and love for Joan was obvious to anyone with eyes. But now she was gone. I looked out to the ashen patch on the water.

She followed my gaze, and shifted a bit. “She told me her sin, once.”

“Her sin?” My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

“Yes. We were drunk. Found some cans with beer left in them, it was a good night. But after the third beer, she started watching Anya and crying.”

I opened my mouth, shut it again. “She did always seem nervous around Anya.”

“All children, really.” Minna confirmed. “It is because she killed her own.”

“What?” I snapped my head around to stare at her. “Ludicrous.”

Minna spread her hands, staring out to sea. “She was young, stupid, she said. Had the thing, the thing where you feel so bad you cannot do anything. Where you think you are worthless.”

“Depression?” I guessed.

“Yes. That thing. One night the baby wouldn't stop crying. And she lose her temper. And she shake the baby.”

I inhaled, sharply. The way she said it... “That's bad?”

Minna looked at me, picked up a broken, rotted slat from the pier, and shook it until it snapped. I winced.

“She go to prison. Get out after a few years. Can't face her family. Just walks out door one day. Ends up here.”

“I would never have guessed,” I said.

“She was the best woman I know.” Minna said. “Wanted to help everyone. Just didn't trust to be around children. She didn't trust her, yes?”

“Didn't trust herself, you mean.”

“Yes.” She threw the ends of the slats out into the water.

We were silent for a while. After a bit, I got the sense that she was done talking. I nodded, got up, and left.

“Dire,” she said, as I was walking away. I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“When I die, you help Susan take care of Anya.”

I opened my mouth, shut it again. And I simply nodded, before walking away. This time she didn't call after me.

I found myself sitting back at my armor, looking it over. There wasn't much left to do, but I was reluctant to move on to the next phase of things. The discussion with Minna had been... heavy. I thought perhaps it had done her good, but there was no way to tell.

Disturbed, I decided to see Roy's advice through and go talk with Martin. After a brief walk, I found him outside his tent. He appeared to be taking inventory.

“Hey.” He nodded to me as I approached, and I waved back. “Look at this shit.” He pointed, and I traced the bullet-holes that seemed to riddle the northern side of the tent. “This. This is what I get for having a big-ass tent. People hide behind it and fuckin' Bloods lit it up like a goddamn Christmas tree.”

“How inconsiderate,” I said, keeping my voice dry.

“Speaking as one of the motherfuckers who was hiding behind it, eh. At least they were shitty shots.” He scowled as the flaps of the tent rustled, and Tooms emerged. He was dragging the television. It was holed by at least three shots, and left fragments of glass in its wake. “You want another tv?” He asked me. “Barely used, like new, comes with free bullets.”

“Sure.” I smiled, trying to think of the best approach. “Got a minute to talk?”

“Depends.” His face stilled, lost expression as he studied me. “This is about responsibility, isn't it? Holdin' me accountable for Tugs like I agreed.”

I opened my mouth, and shut it again.

That had completely slipped my mind.

Did I hold him responsible?

I studied the dark circles around his eyes. He hadn't slept a bit since last night, I'd wager. “No,” I decided. “You didn't know Tugs would get that stupid.”

He took a breath, let it out. “I should've.” He rubbed his eyes, jammed his hand back into his pocket. “Fuckin' piece of shit junkie.”

I decided that the simplest way was probably the best. “Who are you Martin? Who were you? Why are you here?”

“Told you once that people don't ask that around here.”

“Then she's being rude. Don't care. Has she earned your story, yet?”

He walked back a few steps, started pacing. Finally he looked out to sea. “Naw, I get it. Things getting worse, you need to make sure you can count on people to have your back. Shit, sure.” He took a deep breath. “What do you know about Icon's Southside?”

“Very little.”

“Awright. I was born in the Mews. Place was pretty bad before it got all gentrified and shit. Drugs and gangs and grinding fucking poverty. It was me and my bro Luther against the world, but we swore we'd get out. But you needed money for that. So along the way, we started selling for this shitty-ass little gang, the Stompers.”

He pulled his hands out of his pockets, looked at them. Held the left one up towards me. “Got this scar when an Eight-eighter caught me sellin' on their corner. Called ourselves the Stompers, he stomped my ass pretty damn good. If Luther hadn't shown up and lured him off, I wouldn't be here today.”

“Eight-eighter?”

“Shitty-ass skinhead gang. Eight Eight stood for HH which stood for Heil Hitler which stood for 'I'm a dumbass loser with closet homosexual tendencies.'” He snorted. “They're gone now.  Devil's Due finished off the last of them.”

“Devil's Due?”

“One of the first big dark vigilante hero types. Ask me, he and folks like him were worse than the villains. Villains, at least you know they bad news. Dark heroes? Un-pre-fucking-dictable. Save your ass one day, shoot through you to kill bad guys the next. Yeah, Tomorrow Force brought his ass in back in '96. Good riddance, I say.”

“We're getting off track,” I said.

He laughed. “Sorry. Gonna get into some painful shit here. Guess I been delaying.”

Silence for a bit, and I wondered if he was going to continue. But finally he rubbed his eyes, and started talking again. “Me and Luther, we made money, but it was all going to the guys up top. We kept other gangs out, said we were protecting our hood, but the guys in charge ignored it when our boys fucked around with the locals. It was so fucking pointless, and it never got better. Never changed. That didn't sit well with Luther. Didn't sit well at all.”

“He was older than you?” I guessed.

“Yeah.” Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes, and I looked away.

After a bit, he continued. “So, with the state of affairs un-fucking conducive to a good retirement plan, we decided to shake things up. We decided to be the guys up top, instead of working for them.”

He knelt, picked up a stone, and skipped it out into the water. It crunched off a little ice, kept going into it slipped into the dark water beyond.

“Didn't go well?” I asked.

“Better than you'd think. Pretty good, at first. We had the connections. Luther was a badass. I was good at talking folks into seeing our way of things. We took over the Stompers, practically a non-violent coup. The more we did, the more people came to us. We were makin' a difference. We were doing business, targeting the worst gangs, actually protecting the hood like most gangs lie and say they do. He had a map, Luther did. He drew a circle 'round our turf. And every day, we'd go out and make it bigger. And the time came when we couldn't call ourselves Stompers no more, so we chose a different name. We were the Ess See Kay.”

SCK? “What's that stand for?”

“Stands for Stone-Cold-Killers. Also you could say it like 'Sick', which was a word that was like cool at the time. For a few years, man, we were rockin' the Southside. Got the Mews, cut deals with the local villains, grabbed up all the trade down there. Colombians, Cartels, Vory, everyone with shit to sell, they came to us.”

“Vory.” I frowned. That had come up in Minna's story, too.

“Scary Russian mafia motherfuckers. All the things I miss about my old life, I don't miss dealing with those motherfuckers one bit. Fuckers be vile.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

Tooms brought out part of his tape collection, and Martin knelt, sorting through them. “Shot to shit, shot to shit, shot to shit, intact. Oooh, intact?” He popped the case open. “Nope. Fuck a duck. Well, I hoped.” He tossed it aside, looked back to me. “What happens when you go from nothing to pretty much everything you could want in a year or so? And there ain't no one to tell you no, stop, slow down bitches?”

“You don't slow down, bitches,” I guessed. He laughed.

“Yeah. Bitches don't slow down. We were the biggest goddamn bitches. Coke every night, finest grade. Bed full of women, all sorts. Money enough for anything I felt like buying. Fucking mansion on the Hill that I shared with Luther. Eh, not in like the old part of the Hill, but for a couple of black guys in the late 90s, it was fucking impressive. I got used to it. I liked it. And we lost sight of shit, because things were awesome. Lost sight of how people were acting down below.”

“And how was that?”

“Back to the old ways. Stopped protecting the hood. Started feeding off of it. We'd gotten bigger, unified all the little gangs into the SCK, but people always gonna want more. So it was politics and shooting and beatings and turf wars all over again. We were just the guys on top this time.” He sighed. “I would've made my peace with that, I guess. Said eh, just all part of the game, son. Except for one thing. Luther.”

“He didn't like it?”

“I wish he didn't like it. I wish it had bothered him. But as time went on, he started hittin' the shit more and more. Coke wasn't enough. Weed wasn't enough. He started getting into the heavier shit. And it fucking destroyed him.” He sighed, picked up a broken tape, and tossed it out into the bay. “Had a guy helpin' us run shit, by the name of Coate. In the end, Coate showed up in the middle of the night with about twenty of the guys behind him. Dragged us out of bed at gunpoint, took us to the basement. Luther'd had that shit soundproofed, you see. For business.” He barked laughter, and rubbed his eyes again. “They offered us a deal. Out of respect for our past, he said. Get gone, or get an unmarked grave. Luther tried to fight.” His hands were shaking. “Dumbass. Fucking dumbass. He was flying so high must have thought he was Crusader. He was always into that costume shit. Think maybe he thought he'd get his power surge, then, in that fuckin' basement.”

When he lowered his hands, he looked me in the eye, challenging. I held my tongue, and finally he dropped his eyes. “I saw the writing on the wall, next to Luther's brains. I gave them the keys to the house and the cars and left. Weren't nothing for me there, no more.”

“And so you came here?”

“No degrees, no experience, no cash, no job that you can put on a tax form... shit, yeah. Thought about running like hell, but Coate don't play that way. It's business, he said. We were running things down, he said. Don't have to get off the board, but you can't stay here no more. But I still got contacts and shit, and I can still deal. Though honestly?” He frowned. “My moms is the only thing keeping me in city. She's old. Lived hard, her heart's bad. We got her set up okay in a good neighborhood way the fuck across town, but I don't know how much longer she got. Weren't for her I'd get out, try Baltimore, or New York. Get in with Dos Hermanos, or the Crays. Done too much shit to go straight. But I can't start over by myself. I ain't a leader. That was mostly Luther's deal.” He looked down. “I told you how that worked out.”

“You truly have no other options?” I asked.

He snorted. “Inform to the FBI and get my ass shot when witness protection fails. Try to do remedial adult stuff, get a degree of some sort, spend my life flippin' burgers. Assuming one of the warrants on me don't drop. Become a priest and— Heh. Heh, heh, heh. Yeah, I ain't seeing it neither. Not much for me in this country that's legal, and I ain't got ID to travel that won't get me arrested.”

“So why are there no options for people in your situation?” I asked. “It seems to Dire that  society should always offer a way out for all but the worst. That's just common sense.”

He laughed, loud and long. “Oh shit man. You had me going for—” He took a closer look. “You mean that. Shit. You got a weird naive streak, Dire lady. It's all part of the game, this shit. Born poor, die poor, rich get richer. Cops are there to protect the rich, everyone else can go to hell. Government? Assholes are all rich and on coke or worse. Heroes? Fuckers put on costumes and punch villains. If it ain't brightly-colored, monologuing, and punchable, they don't do shit. Don't even get me started on the war on drugs and that whole joke.”

He was actually making me angry. “It can't actually be that bad. How does this sort of society actually work?”

“The worst guys up top keep the guys down low distracted with shit, while the real business goes on behind closed doors. They buy the media so you only read what they want you to, they hype up television and movies and shit so you don't see how bad it gets. They buy the politicians, and make the laws they want. Nobody who ain't rich knows the score. Not until they're down in it.” He looked around the camp. “Now the whole city's down in it, for a while at least. Now they're poor too. Lost their shelter, lost their power, lost their security, and here they are. But if the power went on tomorrow? How many you think would care? Most of them would head back home, never give it no thought except 'oh thank god that's over.' And so it goes, pretty much damn near everywhere.”

“That is not right.” Fury was racing through me, heating the blood in my face, making my fists clench and unclench. “It should not be so.”

“Well, it is. Always will be. Can't change it. Human. Fucking. Nature.”

“There must be a way...” I muttered.

“You find one, let me know. I'll have your back. Until then, I'll keep selling product to rich yuppies, and enjoyin' my pay-per-view.”

I nodded. “Your deal is acceptable. Done.”

He laughed. “Well, you already done better than I thought. So you got my help for now, anyway. You need anything I got, or want anything I can do done, I'm your homey.”

“Homey?” I squinted in confusion.

He held up his hands. “I don't fuckin' make the slang, alright? Means like... ese. Or friend.”

“Friends.” I smiled, and offered him a hand. He took it, shook, then glanced back as Tooms came out with two heavy boxes, one of which was torn, and spilling magazines.

“Aw fuck, they shot the porn? Assholes!”

I chewed over what he'd told me, as I walked back to my armor. He was cynical. Bitter. It filled him, though he hid it well most of the time. And the things he had told me... how did a nation, a world, make the glorious buildings and inventions I saw around me, yet be so crude and uncaring at the core of it? How was technology so advanced, and culture so behind?

I growled. Plenty of frustration, no real answers. Well. No help for it, I had to get on to other matters.

A giggle ahead of me, and I paused. Anya and a couple of the other children were clustered around my armor. What the heck? That wasn't exactly safe, and I moved forward to disperse them... and stopped about thirty feet back as I saw what they were doing.

They had found some colored chalk, from who knows where. They were drawing on the armor. Hearts, and thank yous, and smiley faces, as far up as they could reach.

I leaned against the shack, and watched them work. And it felt good. Felt right in a way I couldn't quantify.

It was almost sad when Abernathy came around the corner, and shooed them off. She looked at the chalk, sighed, and went into the laundry. When she came out again with a wet rag, I was there. “Uh-uh.” I wagged a finger.

“You're not exactly gonna inspire much in the way of fear like this. It looks like a kindergarten art class exploded on you, there.”

“She'll sluice it off when she's out of sight of camp. But for now, it stays. It's good to be thanked. Good to feel needed.”

“You are one seriously weird supervillain, but hey, you're the boss.”

I shrugged, as I entered the armor.

“The more she learns about the world—” The shell hissed shut, and my mask settled into place. “—THE LESS SHE CARES ABOUT LABELS.”

CHAPTER 16: Enter the Steampunks

“Not all the villains went rampaging during the Y2K outage. Some of them actually helped out. Though mind you, most of them did it out of self-interest. It really cuts into your diabolical schemes when looters are trying to break into your secret lair to grab food, and roving gangs are re-enacting lord of the flies on your secret identity's lawn.”

--Excerpt from “Villains anonymous,” a short lived reality show that ran through 2001. The speaker has been identified as Vorpal, a mercenary villain currently at large.

It was time to retrieve the sealant for Guzman's plan. I flew across the city, weaving through the Brownstones without trouble. A brief stop by a broken water main rinsed the chalk from my armor. Sad as I was to destroy it, Abernathy had a point. Well, at least the children weren't around to see their efforts washed away.

After that, it was a straight flight. I went across the Brownstones, past about six tall residential towers, and towards what looked like a large industrial district beyond.

A rifle cracked as I flew past the southernmost tower, but if they were shooting at me they missed, and no shots followed that I heard. The forcefield could take a hit or two anyway, and I was going fast enough I doubted I was in any serious danger.

Then it was across the edge of the Industrial District, several square miles of factory complexes, most of which looked rusty and disused, falling apart, much like the piers near the camp. I had a good view of the highway below, at least. That was Route 120, according to Guzman. The first leg of it was choked with cars, but it looked like it had been cleared out a bit as it turned west, and most of the exits were emptied. There was one area where the guardrail was clearly broken, and the charred wrecks of cars littered the ground below. That gave me an idea... gravity, fire, tons of metal... I filed a wicked notion away for investigation later.

Eventually the long ribbon of highway turned into a cloverleaf. Interstate 3, I presumed. I headed down, glancing around during the descent. There were shops here, unlike most of the terrain I'd overflown thus far. Most of the factories and warehouses around the shops looked to be in good repair, or at the very least, they had been functional prior to Y2K. They would be again, once this was over. Circling lower, I moved around the cloverleaf. There should be a sign for the boat repair facility...

I passed a gas station, flew past the attached truckstop, paused at a used car lot, and finally located what I was looking for to the northwest of the Cloverleaf. It was back a ways, past a padlocked gate. The yard was a gravel road, with exposed grass and dirt where patches of it had been rubbed away. Scattered around the main complex were boats of all shapes and sizes. The largest was a garbage scow, and I had no idea how it had been transported here.

Most of them were sport boats, motorboats, and a few kayaks and canoes. They  hung in racks or rusted loose on the ground. A long ramp lead up through an open loading dock, into the darkness of the main building. The sign on the roof above the fire-escape stairs to the main door read “Dry Dock”, and I landed, tried a knock.

Nothing. The handle refused to turn in my grasp, probably locked.

I was not surprised. Fortunately, someone had left an open loading dock.

Two steps toward it, I wondered just why someone had left an open loading dock. Might be wise to play it cautious. I adjusted the sights on the mask to compensate for the darker interior, peering around as I hovered in. Just because I hadn't seen any security to this point, didn't mean there wasn't any around.

It seemed deserted at first glance, and the odor of old grease filled my nostrils as I peered around. It was a large place that had probably been a warehouse at some point, with rails running off from the loading dock ramp. They led to various platforms and cradles. The largest vessel in the cradles was the lowest to the ground, a tugboat by the looks of it, all barnacle-encrusted hull and rubber bumpers. Up above, a hydrofoil's twin turbines jutted out near the roof as it hung suspended by chains. There was a cradle halfway-constructed around it. Looked like they were swapping engines, before their task was interrupted. I eyed the exposed parts with envy for a second, before lowering my gaze. I wasn't here to steal mechanical components, as much as I could use the upgrade. The sealant would be kept low to the ground...

After about ten minutes or so, I found two large barrels labeled CL off to the side, among some other chemicals. Nothing else seemed to have similar lettering, so I gambled it was the substance I needed. Ah well, if it wasn't the right stuff I could always come back.  I picked up the barrel and tested the weight of it... cumbersome, but not undoable. I started walking back to the entrance—

—And froze, as shadows fell across the Dry Dock's floor, cast by people moving outside.

“Well well well...” An unfamiliar voice. A man peered in. He was wearing a top hat, a short red-trimmed black cape, and a tuxedo. He had waxed mustaches, and he was carrying a cane that seemed to have a ton of gears on it. “A looter? In some sort of power armor?”

“ARE YOU THE OWNER OF THIS FACILITY?”

He jumped back at my voice, raised his cane and pointed the end at me. Hollow, like the business end of a gun.

I put the barrel down.

“Ha... Uh. No. No, my dear... person, I am not the owner. However, you are trespassing, and I fear that cannot be tolerated. Simply not cricket!”

He strode out to the center of the room, snapped his fingers, and two more figures flew in. One had some sort of jetpack that rode on great gouts of vapor, creating a small fog cloud as it went. He had straps and buckles all over his jodhpurs and jacket, and held a large gun with multiple winking tube lights on it, and a miniature tesla coil on the end. Jetpack guy wore goggles and a cowl, with black hair sticking out from his head at odd angles.

The second figure seemed to dance through the air, running in place on some sort of fantastical spinning contraption of gears that ranged from manhole-cover-sized to pocket watch-sized. They ground and spun through the air with no visible power source or center mass to them, and nothing I could see holding them in place. Finally he stopped, for certain definitions of the word... the gears never stopped turning. He wasn't much to look at himself, wearing a short dress jacket over leather coveralls, topped by a bowler hat over fluffy blonde curls. He grinned, and I noted a gear tattoo over one eye. He had goggles, but they were up on his hat, for no reason that I could tell. Seemed kind of pointless.

Looking at the group of them together, I revised my initial guess at their ages downwards. The one on the gears couldn't be over twenty, and if top hat was much more than that I'd be surprised. Couldn't tell about the one who was actually wearing goggles, but he was fairly scrawny, as they went.

“AND WHO ARE YOU ALL THEN?” I asked, eyeing the growing cloud of vapor. Calendars on the wall nearest the jetpack-rider were starting to sag, and curl. Steam? The moisture on the windows above him seemed to suggest that. I switched vision modes on the mask, filtering out local humidity.

The one on the gear contraption facepalmed. “Bloody 'ell. Told ya we shoulda got an agent.” Yep, he was young.

Jetpack guy hovered up and done, still watching me. “Eh, they'll learn. After this last week? Everyone will know who we are!”

Only the leader took it in stride, bowing at the waist, and sweeping his hat off, before straightening and replacing it with a roguish grin. “Well dear sir, you've had the mixed fortune of meeting the Steampunks! Most of them, at any rate. More than enough for you, I fear.”

“YOU THREATEN DIRE?”

“Dire? Odd choice, there.”

“DOCTOR DIRE, TO BE PRECISE.”

“Ah! Alliteration! Truly the hallmark of a civilized sort. Sadly, my dear dashing Doctor Dire, you have trespassed upon what we colloquially call our turf. And you're obviously assaulting an establishment that had the good sense and quality taste to render to us a sum for, hm, call it security.”

The one with the jetpack snickered. “I guess that sounds better than protection money, sure.”

“Ey, we've earned it,” said the gear rider.

“And we'll earn it today, I expect,” Top Hat smiled. “I'm Hatman Deux, by the way. This is Kineticog, and that's Technomancer. We'll be your duly appointed beating for the day.”

“SHE HAS NO TIME FOR THIS,” I said. “WHO'S THE OWNER? WHERE CAN HE BE FOUND? DIRE SHALL PAY HIM FOR THIS SUBSTANCE DIRECTLY.”

The gear rider, Kineticog, snickered. “Right. And next monkeys will fly outta me bum.”

“YOU DOUBT DIRE?” I turned my mask to glare at him.

“It's the principle of the thing, dear... Lady? Hm. I wouldn't have guessed. Well, we can offer you this exchange instead. Flee, and we'll stop chasing you once you're off our turf.” He twisted his cane, and gears clunked and clacked. Two spikes popped out of each side of it, and electricity started to flare and dance around the tip as he leveled it at me.

“OUT OF THE QUESTION.”

“Ah, well then...” He brought his free hand up and slapped the cane, but I was already moving to cover behind the nearest speedboat. A bolt of blue energy spat by me, crackling against the wall, and sending dancing orbs of ball lightning sizzling in every direction. For my part, I leveled the coilgun and fired a beanbag round... which bounced off a sudden barrier of gears, as shield-sized cogs peeled off of Kineticog's apparatus and assembled into a wall in front of Hatman.

Meanwhile, Technomancer was flying around, trying to flank my cover. He'd waited until he built up a good cloud of steam to hide his approach. I didn't know what that gun he was holding could do, and I didn't want to find out. I picked up the boat in front of me, took three rapid steps to get up a running start, and chucked it at Technomancer. He tried to dodge, but Kineticog's shield zipped over to intercept it—

—Just as I'd planned. I used the distraction to put a beanbag round into Technomancer's chest. He bounced off the wall and fell from the air, knocking over some loaded shelves.

A blue bolt from Hatman's cane struck me in the side, spinning me around. The forcefield crackled, and sparked. Whatever the energy was, it wasn't something the field could block.

“And now to cut yer out of there!”

Kineticog's gears flew loose from shield form, and whirred towards me as I struggled upright, blue balls of energy sparking away from me and spinning across the shop. The gears abruptly rebounded as they hit my force field, and I felt a small bit of heat rise up. He hadn't gone in with lethal force, but if he escalated... I had to end this.

I tried to kick in the gravitics, and they sputtered. The blue bolt had scrambled them... temporarily, I hoped, or it'd be a long way home. So instead I ran, zig-zagged away from a third bolt, and ignored the tiny cogs bouncing off my forcefield. He was slowly escalating the force of things, and he could hit me easily. I took cover behind the tugboat, looked around for something I could use... and my eyes fell upon the hydrofoil hanging above us.

Perfect.

I started slinging coilgun spike rounds that way, and Hatman's yell told me they'd noticed my efforts. Kineticog cursed and I heard his gears grind as he backed out of the building, just as I managed to finally hit one of the chains holding the hydrofoil up. The chain snapped, the entire boat groaned with the stress of metal as it shifted, and the cradle around it burst, raining pieces down upon us. I turned off my force field and pulled myself onto the deck of the tugboat, trusting my armor, and was vindicated as small bits of the cradle ricocheted off me. The central mass dropped towards Hatman, who dropped his cane and dove aside.

I leaped at him, caught his cape with a gauntlet, and pulled him down. I crouched over him as metal bars, chains, and fragments of cradle rained down upon me, clanging off the armor.

As I stared into his eyes, he blinked and opened his mouth in a sneer. “You think you've won?”

I put my right hand on his chest, as the last few bits of the cradle settled. “ACTUALLY, YES.”

I fired the stungun, and he danced and jittered, drumming his heels on the floor. After a second he went limp.

And then he disappeared. One second he was there, the next I was sagging forward, my hand hitting the floor unimpeded. The only thing left behind was his top hat... I spared his cane a glance, but that was gone too.

A glance up, and thank heavens I did, because a manhole cover-sized gear was flying straight at me. I rolled with the hit, and still felt my armor warm to uncomfortable levels of heat. Time to get out of view of the doorway.

A groan to my back, and I saw Technomancer was struggling to rise, trying to get the shelf pinning him off his legs. I jogged that way and he looked around, tried to bring his big gun around, but was a shade too slow. I kicked it aside and he raised his hands. I hauled him out with my left hand, turned, and walked back towards the loading dock doorway.

“AND NOW WE'RE DONE,” I said. “YOU'RE DOWN TO ONE, AND—”

I walked straight into the blue blast, and saw Hatman standing in the entrance of the dock. He was unharmed and grinning. His top hat was gone, but otherwise he looked unruffled. That was all I had time to see before I went ass over teakettle, losing Technomancer in the process. I hit the wall, and the heat rose to simmering levels as I bounced. Hated to do it, but I canceled the forcefield. It was that or bake at the next hit. And as small gears zagged out and started scraping at my armor, I knew I had made the right choice. Not that it'd be much comfort, if they managed to keep grinding.

I glanced around, saw Kineticog peeking in through the side of the doorway. Glanced to the side, and saw Technomancer down. The blue energy hadn't done him good, either.

Well. Time to test a theory. I aimed the coilgun at Kineticog, and started pelting him with beanbags. Sure enough he formed the shield again. And sure enough, the smaller gears stopped grinding against me. He could do a lot with those gears, but he had to see what he was doing. Effective though his shield was, it blocked his sight while it was up.

When Hatman leveled the cane at me again, I swung my left hand up.

And I triggered the flamethrower.

A blast of flaming jelly roared forth to the side of Hatman and he screamed and backed away. He ran away from it, grabbing his hat from the ground before ending up backed against the tugboat. I advanced through the flames as the jelly on the floor burned, and the bit that had caught the side of the loading dock ignited the old wood. Kineticog lowered his shield, blanched, and started to point toward me.

FOOMP!

He brought the shield back up before I could beanbag him, but that wasn't the point. It had been a distraction so I could charge Hatman.

As I did, Hatman jammed his hat on his head, muttered something, and threw it down. But by then I was at him, slamming my fist into his shoulder and pushing him back against the boat. With my other one I grabbed his cane before he could raise it. He flinched back, then looked to my side and grinned. “Ah ah ah...”

I glanced that way and did a double take. There was another Hatman there, leveling his cane at me and grinning! “Checkmate, m'dear.” He advised.

“IS IT?” I wondered. “THEN SHOOT.”

He blinked, and I saw his grin hesitate for a second.  He twisted a gear on the side of the cane, and the electricity humming along the side built. “I've just amped it up. The shots before? They only knocked you around. But this should kill you, fry you in your armor.”

“YES. BUT WHAT OF YOU?”

“Gone like the wind, like the last one of me you took out. I'll recover.” But there was a tense note in his voice.

Small gears came into my field of vision, and I shook my head. “NOPE. TOUCH DIRE WITH THOSE AND ALL AROUND HER BURN.”

I turned my attention back to the Hatman in my hands.

“IT'S DUPLICATION, ISN'T IT? ONE DUPLICATE AT A TIME.”

“You're close.” He smiled.

“BUT YOU'RE NOT WEARING THE HAT NOW, ARE YOU? THE HAT'S PART OF THE PROCESS. YOU NEED IT ON THE DUPLICATE.”

His smile flickered. “Interesting idea.”

“YES. IF IT'S CORRECT, THEN THAT MAKES YOU THE ORIGINAL.”

He twitched, and I continued. “YOU WERE SITTING OUTSIDE, LETTING THE DUPLICATE DO THE DIRTY WORK. BUT YOU WERE A LOT MORE CAREFUL WHEN YOU CAME IN THE SECOND TIME AROUND. SO IF DIRE KILLS YOU NOW...”

“Do it and yer dead,” Kineticog threatened.

“LADYBUG LADYBUG, FLY AWAY HOME. LOOK AT THIS FIRE? YOU THINK YOUR PROTECTION RACKET WILL WORK AFTER THIS? NOT TO MENTION THE LOSS OF TWO OF YOUR GANG? AND THAT'S ASSUMING YOU CAN TAKE DIRE ON YOUR LONESOME. THAT IS NOT A GOOD ASSUMPTION. THAT IS IN FACT A BIG. FAT. MISTAKE.”

Hatman coughed. “So. Where does that leave us?”

“THAT DEPENDS. ARE YOU THE STEAMPUNKS THAT ARE GIVING THE BLACK BLOODS SUCH TROUBLE IN THE NORTHWEST?” I'd remembered the conversation with Agent Kingsley back at the hospital.

He blinked at me, cautious. But there was a touch of hope in his eyes. “We are. What of it?”

“DIRE FIGHTS THEM IN THE EAST.”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. Yer the Scrap Queen of the Shanty Town?” Kineticog asked. “The one what did for Stig? The Hoodied Vengeance?”

“NEWS TRAVELS FAST.”

“We've got a friend who's a regular gossip fiend,” Hatman said. “Well. This perhaps changes things.”

“IT DOES.” I released him. This was a gamble, but it was worth it. “WOULD YOU BE OPEN TO AN ALLIANCE?”

“I, um.” He straightened his tuxedo where I'd mauled it. “I can put it before the group, but I have to tell you, and I do hope this won't resume hostilities, that the answer is probably going to be no.”

“DIRE WON'T RESUME HOSTILITIES.” The alternate lowered his cane. He started looking around, went and pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall, and hosed down the flames on the wooden part of the building.

“Good. Sweet jesus yer terrifying,” Kineticog said, as he hopped off the gear platform and moved toward Technomancer. I watched him go. “OH?”

“Well, it's more than the voice, or the scarred black armor, or the creepy mask... No offense,” said Hatman. “You don't fight quite right. We were expecting a typical costume fight, heavy on the posturing, shows of power, maybe a big flashy attack or two. Well, you did that last one, but you fight like you're military, or something. I was honestly fearing for my life, there, and I don't mind telling you that.”

I filed that away for later thought. “DIRE'S BEEN UP TO HER ELBOWS IN BLACK BLOODS, SO HER TECHNIQUE MAY BE A LITTLE RUTHLESS,” I admitted.

“Ah. Anyone ever tell you of the unwritten rules?”

“ONCE. WAS A BIT BUSY AT THE TIME. SHE'S LEARNED A FEW TRICKS FROM YOU, AS WELL. SO, NO ALLIANCE?”

“As I said, probably not,” Hatman crossed his arms. “We're up against Barbatos, and sweet Babbage it's taking all we've got to hold him back. He fights like you do. Fast, nasty, and with brutal tactics. If we didn't have a healer, we'd have taken losses already. Truth of the matter is that we're more of a smash-and-grab villain group. You know, heists, raids, that sort of thing. The only reason we took the contract is due to dumptrucks full of money from the local businesses. That, and some of us are rather attached to the area, and whine like babies whenever the rest of us bring up the sensible notion of cutting and running.” He glared at Technomancer's unconscious form, as Kineticog placed him on the geared apparatus.

I nodded. “ALL RIGHT. WELL, DIRE DOES NEED THAT BARREL OF SEALANT OVER THERE. SHE WAS BEING QUITE HONEST WITH AN OFFER OF PAYMENT.”

Hatman shrugged. “Eh, keep the money. We'll tell Mr. Fitzroy that we took the barrel as hazard pay for stopping the fire.”

I nodded, moved over to the barrel, keeping an eye on them as I did so.

“HERE'S A QUESTION; WOULD YOU BE OPEN TO DOING SOMETHING AGAINST THE BLACK BLOODS FOR PAY?”

“It'd have to be a ton of dosh, lady,” said Kineticog. “You at least pulled some punches. The Bloods don't.”

“MMM. WHERE CAN SHE CONTACT YOU ONCE SHE SECURES SUFFICIENT FUNDS?”

“My card.” Hatman flipped one out of his sleeve, grinned, and put it on a box. “I believe we're done here?”

“CERTAINLY.”

The two of them withdrew with their downed comrade. I gave them a few minutes to get clear, before popping out of the armor and checking the gravitic system over. After a few diagnostics, I was satisfied. The weak force pathways would need repolarizing once I got back to my tools, but if I took it slow I could get home without too much trouble.

I walked to the doorway, glanced around outside, and found no one waiting in ambush. Heading back to the barrel, I scooped it up and flew east.

CHAPTER 17: Brown is the new Black

“Oh yeah, them. It was before my time, y'know? Way they tell it, the Steampunks started out as a bunch of Graveyard Gang groupies. Dressed all in thrift store black, got tats, called themselves the Goths. But they were total dweebs back then, started ruining the Gang's image. So Grim had Deadweight haul them in for a talk. Scared them straight, more or less. They changed their image, moved to a different part of the city, and voila, the Goths became the Steampunks. They're still dweebs, but I guess they've learned to be a little less incompetent, now that Molly's in charge.”

--Part of a recorded conversation between MRB agent codename Rook and Graveyard Gang villain Whippoorwill during Agent Rook's 5th kidnapping, casefile G124029-10

It took half an hour to get back to the camp. My gravitics were good for short flights, so I took a wide detour around the tall towers in the center of the route. Best to avoid any more gunshots from that quarter. The last thing I wanted was a hole in the barrel I'd fought so hard to retrieve.

The Steampunks weren't like the other costumes I'd met. Once I'd knocked the fight out of them and confirmed our mutual enmity against the Bloods, they'd been polite. Even friendly. I had the feeling that if they'd managed to come out ahead in the fight, I would have walked out of there with my life.

Compared and contrasted to my encounter with Ballista, the difference was fairly stark. Mind you, Ballista had gone off under the impression that I'd murdered his mentor. Which, admittedly, I had. But I remembered those steely fingers around my arm, and the fading ring of bruises where Scrapper had tried to snap me like a stick of rotten wood. Whatever they'd done to him had killed him long before we got there. Perhaps literally, if he had been a draugr under there. The Black Bloods were responsible for putting me in a situation where it was his life or mine.

Ballista had turned up later out of guilt but departed just as quickly after Tugs' execution. He'd written off helping the camp full of civilians further, because of moral reasons. Whereas the Steampunks had declined my offer due to an unwillingness to take the risk. I couldn't deny that of the two sides, I had more sympathy for the Steampunks.

And Tomorrow Force? They hadn't even shown. Off chasing shadows, while good people died. I felt disgust, and banished it as I thought on the problem at hand.

We needed allies. That was what it came down to. I couldn't offer Ballista anything he wanted short of vengeance upon me, but maybe I could scare up enough money to hire the Steampunks.

My mind snapped back to the present, as I wound through the last line of buildings and saw a bulky shape on the beach. I paused, zoomed in with the mask's vision, and relaxed. It was the APC from last night. The turret was missing, with a tarp thrown over the spot where it had been, but people were walking around it without much concern. A quick search around the camp revealed several figures with blue jackets, and I recognized Bunny, the Militiawoman who had backed me up in the APC fight. She was squatting and talking with Minna, drawing on the white-speckled sand with a stick.

I flew in, glancing at the overpass as I did so, and Abernathy raised her hand from where she was prowling among the still cars. I noticed that she'd tagged some of them with red paint.

As I touched down on the beach, letting my sputtering gravitics finally rest, people moved toward me with visible relief. Roy was the first to reach me, and he looked at the barrel with curiosity.

Then he shrugged. “Feller named Carson is back. Martin and Sparky's talkin' with him in the laundry tent now. We, ah, ain't told him about Khalid's deal.”

“PROBABLY WISE.” If Khalid wanted them to know, he'd tell them. If their stock in trade was information, they might know already.

“GO TELL GUZMAN THAT THIS BARREL'S THE STUFF HE WANTED, ALL RIGHT? AND IF IT'S NOT, DIRE NEEDS TO KNOW IMMEDIATELY.”

Roy nodded. “All right. Watch yer step an' I'll do the same.” He hurried off, and I headed to the laundry tent, ducking my head to step inside. I didn't want to decant out of the armor around the Midtown Militia, wasn't ready to show that gesture of trust quite yet. Perhaps in time.

I found Sparky leaning forward in his chair and talking with Carson. Their voices were low, and they stopped as soon as I entered. From the wall where he was leaning, Martin cracked a grin. “The prodigal Dire returns.”

“ANYTHING SHE SHOULD KNOW?”

“They're keeping your machinegun.”

“Hey.” The fat man raised his hands. “Honestly, it wouldn't be much help to you. Those things are a bitch to use unless you're trained.”

“IT WAS STILL A PART OF THE VEHICLE THAT DIRE REQUESTED YOU RETURN TO HER,” I noted. “WHY DID YOU EXTRACT THAT WEAPON?”

His face colored a bit. I got the feeling that people didn't often talk to him in that manner.

“First off, we lost people supporting you with that, so I don't give a red fuck if you called dibs. Second off, we'll have a use for it soon. Turns out Stig was a pretty key part of the Black Bloods' Downtown defenses. They're crumbling now, and the Kriegers are pushing in. Guess who's holding the line there.”

“The cops, I bet. With your asses trying to look like you're doing something worth a damn.” Martin sneered.

Carson stood up, so fast that the chair fell out from under him. “I don't like the tone of your voice.”

“EASY,” I told them. “IF YOU WISH TO KEEP THE WEAPON, THAT IS ACCEPTABLE. FOR NOW. THE REST OF THE VEHICLE IS INTACT?” The gun was a secondary concern. The vehicle itself... Possibilities there. I tried not to drool, and thanked heaven for my mask. No wonder so many costumes wore them.

Carson calmed himself and picked up the chair, before settling back into it. “Oh yeah. We even hosed out the back of it for you. Sweet Jesus, those draugr are horrible.”

“YOU KNEW WHAT THEY WERE, THEN.”

He paused, with his mouth half open for a second. “Ah. Yeah.”

“YOU COULD HAVE SHARED THAT BEFORE WE ENGAGED THEM.” I remarked, making a show of studying the fingers of my right hand. “HAD TO SWITCH TACTICS TO PROPERLY DEAL WITH THOSE THINGS.”

“Truth of the matter is,” he spoke, “we didn't think they'd be deploying those things here. They usually only bust them out against major opposition.”

“FIFTEEN OF YOUR MEN AND DIRE WEREN'T MAJOR OPPOSITION?”

He scowled. “They shouldn't have known about us helping you. You might want to check your camp, it's possible you have a leak.”

“Also possible it's on your side,” Martin said. Carson flushed again.

“MARTIN. YOU ARE BEING VERY RUDE TO OUR GUEST.”

He snorted. “You missed our shouting matches earlier, when he tried to get me to leave the room. That was fun times.”

“AT ANY RATE, IT'S IMPEDING PROGRESS. CARSON, WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THE STATE OF THE BLACK BLOODS NOW? WHAT FURTHER HELP CAN YOU OFFER? IN THIS MATTER?”

If we could get more reinforcements from the Militia, we stood a chance of fending the Bloods off. They didn't have infinite resources or people, and they were down half of their leadership.

But Carson was silent, and I felt my heart sink as I finally glanced back to him.

He sighed, and looked away from my gaze. “Things have changed. The Kriegers are pushing up, like I said, and we lost good men and women during that raid. We didn't expect a riot truck.”

“YOU OFFERED AID THE LAST TWO TIMES YOU APPROACHED.”

“I know. Munin feels horrible about it. We're trying to pull in contacts, get you reinforcements from the spandex side of things, but Ballista's saying some pretty ugly things about you.”

“WHO CARES?” I raised a hand, palm up. “REGARDLESS OF DIRE, THERE ARE INNOCENTS IN THIS CAMP. SCORNING IT BECAUSE OF HER MERELY DOOMS THEM.”

He rubbed his forehead with a jacket sleeve. “I know, but... it's complicated. Heroes walk this fine line, y'see. A lot of them won't kill to begin with, and with the Black Bloods it's kill or be killed a lot of the time.”

“Seems to me I got over that in '44.” Sparky spoke up for the first time. “Nazis didn't exactly pull no punches, neither.”

Carson shut up, and the wind whistled outside.

“IF DIRE DEPARTED, WOULD HEROES PROTECT THE CAMP?”

Martin whipped his head around to stare at me, eyes wide. “What? Shit, no, that's a bad fuckin' idea—”

Carson was shaking his head, too. He pushed a hand toward Martin, and cut him off. “I can't guarantee it. There's a lot of trouble going down throughout the city, and not enough heroes to go around. Much as a lot of them would like to—”

“Oh. Fuckin' beautiful,” Martin snapped. “Bet Pyre Hill don't have no problems getting' patrolled each night.”

Carson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The Torchbearers are busy keeping the SCK from grabbing that turf. You remember those guys? Those guys you helped set up into a drug empire?”

“Fuck you, man!”

“ENOUGH!” I didn't have to amp it up much, and both of them flinched as I stepped between them.

“CARSON. GIVE MUNIN DIRE'S THANKS FOR YOUR HELP TO DATE, AND HER REGRET THAT BRAVE PEOPLE DIED BEFORE SHE COULD GET THERE.”

He nodded, and I turned to Martin. “WE HAVE MUCH TO PREPARE, AND IT'S TIME TO TALK RESOURCES. AFTER CARSON LEAVES, STICK AROUND. YOUR HELP WILL BE NECESSARY.”

He smirked. “You heard the lady. Get gone.”

Carson ignored him and rose. He nodded to me, stuck out a hand. I took it as gingerly as the gauntlets would allow. My synch was still off, and I didn't want to crush his bones. I managed a shake with nobody getting maimed out of the deal.

“You've got our flaregun, still?” Carson asked. I looked to Martin, who nodded.

“YES.”

He stopped for a moment, considered me. “Bunny asked if she could stay behind when we leave. Maybe train some of your people, help them with learning their guns.”

I nodded. “ACCEPTABLE TO DIRE.”

“All right. Take care of her, huh? Got enough funerals in the days to come. Don't need another. Especially not her.” His face twisted, and I nodded again. He left without another word.

Sparky watched him go, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes squinted. Martin took Carson's chair after the tent flaps closed, putting his feet up on a washing tub. “Shit. Sorry, the guy was pushing my buttons.”

I pulled the release on the armor and stepped out of it, smoothing down my undershirt and pants as I went. Fights were sweaty affairs. I pulled up a chair myself, relaxed into it, and looked at Martin. “So. Let's talk money.”

“You want me to show you the money, honey?”

I barked laughter. That had been the Goldigger's catchphrase, in that smackbrawl show we'd watched. The flaxen-haired harridan had indeed taken home the gold that night.

“Perhaps some explanation,” I sniffed, as I rubbed my grinning face. I had needed that laugh. “Dire ran into the Steampunks to the west of here. It was a pretty good fight, but they relented once Dire had them in a bad position. We discussed our mutual enmity with the Black Bloods, and—”

“Wait. Steampunks. Plural. You took on the Steampunks and won?”

“Well, only three of them. Hatman Deux, Technomancer, and Kineticog.”

“Jesus. You okay?”

“Armor's a little banged up. Listen, they're fighting the Black Bloods right now. They're doing it because the locals are paying them to do it. Dire offered an alliance, to put pain on the Black Bloods, and they were disinterested.”

“Smart.”

“But they did imply that they would help out for a lot of money.”

“I take that 'smart' comment back.”

“Dire's got this.” I dug into my armor's storage compartment, dug out the remainder of my cash. About four-thousand, give or take. I riffled it out, and he looked it over, nodded. “It's a start. But for hiring them? For that? Nah. Gonna need some more zeroes.”

I nodded. “Which is why she's asking you about money.”

His eyes shifted, as comprehension dawned. “Ah. Huh. Well, shit.” He gnawed his lips. “I got maybe six grand here. The rest is... tied up.”

“Tied up? Where?”

“Business I'm in, you don't keep much on you at once. Investments elsewhere, some of it. And product is costly so most of it's in that form right now. Oh, and bribes to the local asshole cops. And the part I pay for the camp.”

“It's that costly?”

“We built shacks and been squatting on a public bench for years without being kicked off. You think that comes cheap?” Then the rest of his statement sunk in.

“Wait, you're bribing the cops? Why are they doing the Black Blood's work, then?”

“I'm small potatoes. Bloods prob'ly made them a better offer. Or threatened them. Or both. Dunno if you noticed, but those fuckers are a little scarier than me. And they got a vampire. Fuck a duck, they got a vampire!” He threw his arms up. “The hell we supposed to do about that? I did not sign up for this Bram Stoker shit!”

“Well, we've got an alchemist, at least. One that's good at fighting vampires— and doing whatever alchemy is.”

Martin stood still for a second, his face gone blank. Then he smiled. “We do, don't we? Shit, maybe we can add in some more zeroes after all. C'mon, let's go talk to the dude.”

“He's back?”

“Oh yeah. Brought a whole bunch of shit over in an old pickup truck. I didn't know better, I'd say he was cookin'.”

“Dire didn't see anything like that from the air.”

“That's 'cause he took over the showerhouse. Said it was safest in case the phlogiston hit an impurity, the walls would funnel the blast up and away from camp. That's about the point I backed off and let the man move his shit in peace.”

“No more showers?” My voice came out a little more plaintive than I thought it would, and Martin laughed.

“Shit, he probably ain't using a stall or two. Just gotta watch your feet don't turn green from the chemicals or stuff. C'mon, let's go.”

I pulled on the fur coat, and followed Martin out into the cold. People waved at us as we went, and I nodded back, squinting at some of the new faces. “Dire doesn't recognize some of these people.”

Martin sighed. “Yeah. We got maybe fifty more in the last hour or so.” He gestured toward the new tents, and I grimaced as I saw that they'd multiplied in a very short time. Heartening to see more flocking to our banner, so to speak, but it made the area harder to defend. Too spread out, not enough fighters.

“More mouths to feed. Joan will—” I caught myself, shut up. She was gone, and I pushed the pain that rose in me aside.

Martin was quiet for the rest of the trip, and I felt bad for raising her memory, so soon after she had left us.

Plumes of thin smoke rose from the showerhouse, and acrid odors wafted across us as we made our way to the entrance. I wrinkled my nose. “Perhaps she'll wait on a shower.”

“Can't blame you on that. Serious ass stank. Yo, Khalid, it safe to come in?”

“Enter,” came the terse response.

I looked around at the piles of brass and copper containers, the rows of glass alembics filling the shelves, and the tubing that zig-zagged throughout. Several beakers were bubbling, and the plumes of smoke rose from what looked to be brass kettles. For once, my memory filled in none of it. This was chemistry of a sort that baffled my knowledge.

“Don't mind the crucibles,” Khalid smiled, as he stepped around a curtain, green smoke billowing around him. He was wearing black, a thick leather apron over slick-looking cloth. His spectacles had been replaced by goggles, the right side of which had a rotating arrangement of different colored lenses. “Though I would advise against breathing in too much of the smoke. Your lungs cannot heal as well as mine do, after all.”

“You set this up in an hour or so?” I looked around the mass of equipment. “Dire's impressed.”

He shrugged. “I have had a lot of experience in evacuating quickly, and setting up new havens just as fast. After a few centuries it becomes rote.”

“Still can't get over the fact you ancient, man.” Martin shook his head.

Khalid laughed. “There are those older than I out there.” He sobered up, and his face grew serious. “God permitting, we will end one here, before long. We must.”

I waved a hand toward him. “Working on it. To that end, Dire's made contact with a villain group called the Steampunks.”

“I think I have heard of them. Though, I pay little attention to most heroes and villains when possible,” he said. “Too much drama.”

“They fight Barbatos and his men right now. They may be willing to aid us, but it will take money. Much of it.”

Khalid twisted his hands, spread them. “I have little of that. What I have I need, and much of it is out of reach until phones and computers work again, to be honest.”

“Right,” said Martin. “But answer me a question. How much of that whole alchemy lead-to-gold thing is a myth, and how much is it real?”

“Ah.” Khalid scowled. “That.”

“Not real?” Martin asked.

“Real. But it takes time. And... it might get me in a lot of trouble. Gold has mystical properties to it, you see. Alchemical gold does not. If I start making much of it, and someone or something with magical clout ends up holding it, then they may take offense at being given false currency. General rule of thumb in the magical community is that when that happens, the alchemist who transmuted the gold is held responsible. As such, the few practicing alchemists left today are usually unwilling to take the risk without dire need.”

“Ah, okay. Sorta like cutting the good shit, and passing it off as good shit.” Martin nodded. “Still, what if it don't go to the magical guys? The Steampunks are about as magical as mulch, from what I know.”

“Yes, but gold doesn't go bad,” said Khalid. “A decade down the road if it ends up in the hands of something like the Senate of Order, or god forbid a dragon, I could still face retribution.”

“Wait, whoa. First vampires, now dragons are real, too?” Martin was skeptical.

“Yes,” Khalid said. “Pray you never meet one.”

They were getting off track. “Without dire need, you say?” I grinned. “She's standing right before you. Dire needs this. But the choice is yours. It comes down to how badly you want the Locust dead.”

He gnawed his lip, turned from me. Turned back. “The Militia spoke of how you killed Stigmata. And the two draugr, without knowing what they were. And you did this all before coming here, to fight again. Those are the actions of a hero.”

“Dire is no hero,” I snapped. “Just ask Ballista.”

He shook his head. “I come from a different time. Was Caesar a hero? Was Solomon a hero? I think so. Their crimes were many, yes, but they were... ah, how to say it. They were of myth. If you were on their side, they were heroes beyond compare. What you have done here, what you are doing now? It strikes a chord.” He smiled at me. It faded after a second. “Don't go getting cocky, though. You still have to win here, or we're all damned.”

“She isn't standing here because she plans to lose,” I folded my arms. “Gold or not? Choose, because time is scant.”

He nodded. “You ask, rather than order. Very well. I shall make you six bars, and stamp them with sigils that proclaim them alchemical in origin to those who know. Hopefully they do not get melted down any time soon. If they do, eh, six bars' worth probably won't be my life. Maybe a few years of servitude, but not my life.”

I nodded. “Good. Dire shall take them to—”

“Naw,” Martin said. “Leave four of them here, take two with you. Offer them one up front, up to two if they dicker. Bring all six, you'll tempt them to jump you.”

Khalid nodded. “Wise. Good to have a proper merchant here, it makes things much easier. Speaking of that, I will need these things.” He handed Martin a rolled up piece of paper. The youth unfolded it, scanned it.

“The hell is cinnabar?”

“Mercury ore. Sometimes treated as a semi-precious stone.”

“Wait, I know this. I seen like dragon carvings in antique stores, and shit like that. Yeah, I can get that. The other stuff on this list don't look hard.”

“Good enough,” I said. “How soon can you have the gold done?”

“So eager?” Khalid asked.

“So pragmatic,” I replied. “We won last night. We have an advantage, but we need to move quickly or we squander it. Too many dead for Dire to want that to happen.”

He nodded. “You'll have them by tonight. I need to finish cooking the Greek fire, interrupting the process now wouldn't be good for any of us.”

“Greek fire,” I mused. “Is that the stuff that you threw last night that burned everything?”

“Yes. That's the stable form. Right now it's much more volatile.”

I flicked my eyes around the showerhouse, looked at Martin. He turned pale, and slowly edged out of the room. Khalid chuckled. “Before you go, please remove your pants.”

“What?” I stared at him.

“Your leg. I want to check it.”

“Ah. Right.” It felt most of an eternity, since he'd applied that goop to it, but it really hadn't been that long. I slipped free of the sweat pants, and he knelt, poking at the bandages. A nod, and he pulled out a small knife, started cutting them free. “The remedy worked well. The bone will be weaker there for a few months, though. I recommend a diet high in calcium, if possible.”

“When it can be arranged.” When he was finished, I slipped my pants on again. From the doorway, a noise, and I glanced back to find Martin looking away, clearing his throat. Huh. I wondered what had him so bothered. “Anything else?” I asked Khalid.

“We're good. I'll come find you once your gold is done. Please get me the items I requested, Martin?”

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Think we got most of it around the neighborhood...”

I strolled out, heading back towards the laundry tent. I had time to kill, plans to make, and gravitics to fix. Martin muttered an excuse and went his own separate way, presumably to fill Khalid's requests.

I broke out the tools that I'd need to fix the gravitics and went to work on my armor. It took longer than I thought, and when Abernathy tapped me on the shoulder, I looked up to find the sun in a different position. She offered a bowl of soup, and I tucked in with gusto. I really needed to eat more, if I was going to fight so often. “Thank you,” I said between slurps.

“Noooo problem.” Abernathy smiled, the light shifting off her glasses as she looked up to the section of highway I'd asked her to search. “So, there's a lot of electric cars up there. After a while it got easier to start marking the hydrogen ones. That's when I got the red paint. Anything that's not splotched should be salvageable. Though now we've got that beauty.” She pointed toward the APC, and smiled wide, showing white-and-silvery braced teeth.

“Going to have to leave that one intact as much as possible,” I said, finishing up the armor and putting the tools back in the kit. “It's going to have a job to do. Speaking of which...” I moved toward a familiar-looking wheelchair, and Sparky and Roy looked up at me as I stopped next to them. “Sparky, we're currently down a turret thanks to the Militia. Want to be the replacement turret?”

He laughed. “Sure, what the hell. Gonna be a bit exposed up there, though.”

“A wooden mantle worked before. Abernathy, can you rig him up something for this go-round?”

She pursed her lips, looked from the empty turret socket to Sparky, and nodded. “Sure! Easy as a three-dollar hooker.”

Roy burst out snickering. “I like you, kid.” He squeezed her shoulder, and she punched his arm. He flexed it in mock agony, and looked my way. “We got anyone who can drive one a' those suckers?”

“That's where I come in, I think.” I jumped a bit, glanced behind me to find that Bunny had moved up while we were talking. Rifle over her back, mug full of soup in her gloved hands, she nodded to me and I nodded back.

“You can drive that?” I asked.

“Drove it here,” was her reply, followed by a long sip of soup.

“Good. That'll be your job tomorrow.”

“Whoa. Tomorrow?” Abernathy said, blinking at me in surprise.

“Well, yes. Got a few preparations to wrap up, but we can't let the Black Bloods sit tight for too long. Dire wants to end this as soon as possible.”

“I— Wow. Uh. Okay. Are we gonna have enough time for salvaging cars and upgrades?”

“That's Dire's project for tonight, after a side-trip. Got some allies to purchase. Hopefully.” I frowned. “In the meantime, get some rest. We're going to be working through the night.”

“Sir yes ma'am!” Abernathy gave a sloppy salute, and bounced off toward a small, green tent. Roy chuckled as he watched her go. “Man, if I was thirty years younger...”

Sparky jabbed him in the side. “You'd be married, ya dumbass. Focus.”

He snorted, rubbed his ribs. “Careful. They're gonna be weak for a while, the Janissary said. But anyways, Doc, where do you want me? You got Sparky in the APC, Bunny driving. You want me on the door in back?”

“Actually, Dire has a different plan in mind. Walk with her.” I drew Roy aside, and his eyes narrowed as I told him what I wanted done.

He glanced around the camp at the end of it. “You really think that's a possibility?”

“We can't afford to overlook it,” I muttered. “That's why she needs you on it. We won the battle last night, but lost people. Lost Joan. Dire doesn't want to go through that again.”

He nodded, then his bearded mouth split in a smile. “Knew you'd be a good Ell-Tee, Ell-Dee.”

I punched him in the shoulder where Abernathy had hit him, and he raised hands in mock surrender as he laughed.

I laughed too, but sobered up quickly. Still so many things to do... “All right. No sign of Khalid, so she's going to go work on salvaging the cars above. Any idea where Dire could scavenge a lot of strong ropes or lengths of chain?”

Roy looked puzzled, but he gave me a few locations. I nodded, headed back to my armor.

“What for?” He called to my back. I glanced over my shoulder briefly.

“Plan C,” I admitted. Then I entered the laundry again and folded myself into my suit. A few tests satisfied me to its integrity and I stepped outside. From there it was a short gravitic hop down the coast, scavenging ropes and chains from the closed marina to the southwest. Once I had a few hundred pounds worth I hopped back and up onto the overpass, getting to work. I alternated between tying ropes and chains, and cutting out choice components. As the sun started to set in the west, I slowly became aware that I wasn't alone.

Craning my mask around, I saw Khalid sitting cross-legged on a nearby Fjord Fireball. He had changed out of his lab outfit, into a fine green tunic and trousers with some sort of open white garment around him that was half-bathrobe, half-coat. A white hood with pointed corners was pulled up over his head, and the entire thing was trimmed in gold. His sword was at his hip, properly in a scabbard this time. A leather bandolier of vials striped diagonally across his tunic. A pair of black boots completed the picture. He looked dangerous, nothing like the gentle man I'd come to know as the camp's new doctor.

“KHALID,” I rumbled. “OR DO YOU PREFER LAST JANISSARY?”

“When I am formally garbed, Janissary is perhaps best,” he said, reaching into inner pockets of his jacket. He lay something down on the hood next to him, a yellow metal block the size of my fist. Five more joined it, and in the rays of the setting sun they shone like beacons. Each was decorated with something like a stylized shamrock.

“THE MARK OF FALSEHOOD?” I turned them over, found it on every side.

“Yes. I hope you appreciate the risk I take here.” He sighed. “Then again, this entire venture is risky.” He surveyed the heap of parts and turned his gaze to the webbing of ropes and chains I'd stretched between the red-painted vehicles along the roadway. I'd stacked some of the smaller cars on the larger ones.

“What are you doing, anyway?”

“PREPARING FOR THE ASSAULT. WE'RE GOING TOMORROW.” I lifted up the end of the rope before shattering the window of a nearby semi-truck cab, and tying it to the wheel.

Khalid watched this impassively, rubbing his bearded chin. “You set a rapid pace,” he remarked.

“WE FACE AN ENEMY THAT'S HAD FAR TOO MUCH TIME ALREADY. NOW. TELL DIRE WHAT ALCHEMICAL GOODIES YOU CAN MAKE IN THIS TIME BEFORE WE VENTURE FORTH?”

He gave me options, and I picked out several likely candidates. As he spoke, I tucked two bricks of the gold away in my armor's compartment. Weighty stuff, for the size of it. The other four I handed back, as per Martin's recommendations.

For a moment we stood looking at each other, before he offered me a tight nod. “Go with God, and we shall await your return.”

“JUST KEEP DINNER WARM FOR HER,” I said, and took to the sky.

Hatman's card had the address of a thrift store to the west of Interstate three. I gave the towers a wide berth once again, and noticed plumes of smoke pouring off of the roof of them. Someone was burning fires up there. I had a sneaking suspicion that my foes called it home, given the gunshot earlier.

Night was falling by the time I landed. The thrift store was in a small strip mall, nestled next to an industrial park. Three out of the four shop spaces there had empty windows, bars on the doors, and highly visible “Closed” signs. The fourth was lit, the first electric lights outside the camp I'd seen in a while. I landed and pushed the button next to the bars over the entryway.

“Yes?” A garbled voice squawked out through the speaker.

“LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TASTEFUL,” I spoke into the speaker, just as the card directed.

A chortle of laughter. “The pass phrase loses something when you shout it out at a hundred decibels, dear. You must be Dire, come on in.” The grating slid aside silently on oiled runners, and I walked in.

Inside, junk lined the walls. Racks of clothing fought for space with fake antiques, broken appliances, and cheap furniture. Bins of toys and random things spilled out where they lay, and a good layer of dust covered much of it. No less than seven large grandfather clocks kept time throughout the store, each one with their hands at a different position.

Behind the counter, a young woman with frizzy red hair and more facial piercings than face grinned at me. Her teeth were uneven, and several gleamed golden in the light. “Heya! I'm Molly. Molly Mayhem, professional maker of havoc and disarray. Gimme a sec, I'll call the boys up. Cog and Techno ain't here right now, but the rest of the crew's in.”

She looked me up and down, then hopped over the counter with an easy leap and a boost from one arm. She was wearing a dress that literally clinked as she moved, and when I switched to thermal vision, I could see that the fabric was lined with what looked to be bits of metal. Lots of them. Unless that was light stuff, she had to be pretty strong to carry it all and move as she did. I stood still as she circled me, peering at the various fittings and attachments I'd added on to the armor.

“Sweet. Dunno about that hoodie, though. Y'need a proper cape.”

“GOT A SPARE?” I asked, joking.

To my great surprise, she took the question seriously. “Yeah! Gimme a sec!” She darted into a back room, and emerged again with a drape of shining red. It took my breath away as she unfolded it, shining like a ruby in the dim lighting from overhead.

“THAT,” I said, “IS A CAPE.”

“It'll look totes baller on ya. C'mon, let's try it on!”

“AFTERWARD. BUSINESS FIRST.”

“Aww. Well, yeah, guess I should call 'em. One mo.”

She picked up a phone that had to have been from somewhere around the turn of the last century. The damn thing even had wires. “Hey, remember the lady who beat you guys up today? She's up here, and wanting to talk! I think. Hey, are you here to talk or fight?” She asked me.

“YOU BUZZED HER IN WITHOUT KNOWING THAT?”

“Eh, figured it'd be fun either way.”

“WELL. TALKING IS ON THE MENU TONIGHT.” I tilted my head. “PERHAPS PAYMENT, IF NEGOTIATIONS BEAR FRUIT.”

“Ooooh. Let's aim for pineapples, I like those.”

“WHAT?”

“Fruit! Though pineapples are kinda hard to bear, I'd guess.” She put her hand to the side of her mouth, and whispered “Chafing, you know?”

“NO. NO SHE DOES NOT. AND IS RATHER GLAD FOR THAT.” What the hell kind of madhouse had I stumbled into, here? And yet, I found it rather refreshing. I'd spent the last few days desperately scrambling to keep people alive, up against a foe that had no compunctions about killing, or worse. This was the opposite of that.

There was something to be said for whimsy. I'd have to look into that, once things got less troublesome.

A groaning came from the northern end of the shop, and I saw what I'd taken to be a closed-off doorway shudder and open. An elevator door, judging by the small room beyond. It was full of machinery.

Then the machinery moved. Pipes, pistons, brass and steel took the form of a squat man, who unfolded into a tall and bulky man once he got out of the elevator. His proportions were off, with arms bigger around than his head, and legs that were as big around as traffic barrels. His eyes were glass, one green and one red, and he looked me over with a grin that showed steel teeth.

“Hello cutie,” he ground out, with a voice like ratcheting gears.

“FLATTERY WILL GET YOU NOWHERE,” I advised him. He blinked.

“That voice. I'm in like.”

“Not love?” Hatman's voice floated out of the elevator, followed by the man himself. He'd switched to a different outfit. Fair enough, the garage we'd fought in had been rather grimy. This getup was even more foppish than the last, all purple and frilled with lace. “The amount of joy you got from our tale, Stanley, I thought you'd be wooing her the second you saw her.”

“Eh. The night is young.”

Molly flounced over to them. “Y'met Hatman. This here's Stanley Steamer.”

The metal man in question puffed a gout of vapor from twin stacks on his back.

“GOOD. SHE'D LOVE TO SOCIALIZE, BUT—”

“Who would?”

“SHE WOULD. DIRE WOULD.”

“Ain't you Dire?”

“YES. IT'S A LONG STORY. AT ANY RATE, YOU'RE FIGHTING THE BLACK BLOODS. DIRE'S BEEN FIGHTING THE BLACK BLOODS. SHE'S GOING TO HIT THEM TOMORROW. SHE WANTS TO END THEM, AND SHE WANTS YOUR HELP WITH IT.”

The three of them looked at each other, and back at me. Hatman sighed, swept his top hat from his head. “Well, I did ask them. And I'm sorry, but the answer was what I expected. No.”

“SHE IS PREPARED TO PAY FOR THE ASSISTANCE.”

“Forgive the impertinence, but I see neither a dump truck, nor even a briefcase full of currency. Even so, I doubt we could—”

I opened the storage compartment, pulled out a gold brick, and put it on the counter. The dull thud echoed through the shop, as they went still.

“Ooooooooohhhh...” Molly came up, hefted it. “Hooooly crap. This is, uh, this is pretty heavy.” Her manner of speech was different, now. She'd lost the accent. For some reason I felt vaguely disappointed, like I'd seen a Smackbrawl heel in full rant stop and order a sandwich.

“MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM,” I said.

Stanley clunked forward, and Hatman followed, leaning over the counter to stare at it. Hatman pulled out a small knife, and dug into the brick. His face lit up, as the knife slowly sank in. “It's... this is near pure.”

“IT IS PURE.”

He exhaled. “I, I, I won't say we're not tempted. But, honestly dear lady... this isn't enough to risk our lives. We've managed a solid defense against Barbatos, but trying to expand on that would leave us open. You give that madman one opening, he'll take your head. Sometimes literally.” He rubbed his neck, and winced.

“YOU'VE GOT A GOOD HEALER, THEN.”

Molly grinned, flashing her own gold. “Eh, more or less. Destruction, reconstruction, it's all good.” Her accent was back, I noticed. “But I gots limits. And y'can't buy stuff when yer dead, dearie.”

“ALL RIGHT. HOW ABOUT A DISTRACTION, THEN? OR AN ASSAULT WHERE HE'S NOT?”

“That'd work, except for the part where it wouldn't. He's good at being where you don't want him to be.” Stanley's tone was sour, I thought.

“OH, HE'LL HAVE HIS FULL ATTENTION ON DIRE. HE'LL HAVE TO. SHE'S GOING TO CONQUER HIS TERRITORY.”

Hatman blinked, and his lips twitched into a smile. “Well, you're certainly ambitious. We might manage a distraction, if we can trust you to supply the true pain. But, er, how shall I put this...”

“If he shows we go,” said Molly. “One night only, limited performance, no encores.” She popped her lips.

“And of course, we'd need...” Hatman lifted the gold brick, nearly dropped it at the unexpected weight of the thing, and put it back on the counter. “Well, we'd need more.”

From that point on, it was merely a matter of dickering. They settled for four bricks, half up front. I asked them for information, and was gratified to hear that my guess on the towers had been correct. Rictus had taken them over. Once a somewhat worn public housing project, everyone still in them had been kicked out, and the Bloods were using it as a main base for their push on Icon City's Northside. It looked like I wouldn't have to go far to force the issue with the Black Bloods.

It also meant that they were closer to the camp than I wanted. Definitely needed to take a few precautions before we set out.

“NO IDEA WHERE BARBATOS LAIRS?”

Hatman shook his head. “He's a slippery one. Doesn't show himself without good reason. Absolute murder with those cleavers when he does, though.”

“THEN HE WILL COME TO DIRE.”

“Ah. And you're sure you won't send up the signal until...”

“UNTIL HE IS ON THE FIELD, YES.”

They relaxed. “Then I think we're done.” He stuck out a hand, and I shook it.

Molly tried an awkward hug, stretching her arms around my bulky armor. “Oh! Before you go...”

“WHAT?”

“Let me bag this for ya,” Molly grinned. She held up the shining red cape.

I rolled my eyes, but... well, it did look pretty awesome. I accepted it with silent grace, and when she buzzed me out I took to the sky with it stowed safely in my armor's compartment.

Probably a good thing, since I'd barely made it two miles before the missile slammed into me.

CHAPTER 18: The Eve of Destruction

“Of course we had faith in her. There's no emotion as addictive as hope, and she was everything we could have asked for. Strong, smart, she had a plan to fight and she'd been out there more than any of us, beating them up and fending them off. She was brave, and her words that day... they resonated, you know? She said what we were all feeling. So when she called for us to follow, we damn well followed. None of us knew... none of us figured it'd turn out like it did. God help me, none of us knew...”

--Interview with Tamara Lane, survivor of the Y2K crisis, and the Longlane Mall Massacre.

At the time I had no idea I'd been hit by a missile. Something collided with me, faster than I could react, and the heat in my armor jumped straight to boiling, the shockwaves throwing me backward. I was shaken around so badly that for a moment I couldn't see straight.

I snapped out of my daze in time to see the ground coming towards me. With a curse I pulled up on the gravitics, trying to ignore the searing pain in my newly healed arms. Khalid's ointment had fixed the burns, but now my skin was slow-cooking again.

As I pulled up I caught a glimpse of lights in the sky. A rattling sound filled the air. Then a flare of light, and a puff of smoke as I realized that a contrail was growing from it and towards me. That was when I knew what had happened, and that I had only seconds before another missile drilled me. I wouldn't survive if it did.

I threw myself into a frantic dodge, and saw the contrail start to curve. Thinking fast... heat. Had to be tracking me by heat, since my electronic signature was minimal.

I triggered the flamethrower, and went into a spin. It was a gamble, but it worked. The thing roared by me with perhaps twenty feet to spare. I killed my forcefield and started venting heat. It was slow, but it was that or be cooked alive.

I flew down, let the flamethrower ease up, and hit the ground running as the missile I'd evaded detonated in the distance. I glanced up at my attacker, and a whimper escaped my throat as a flash and a third contrail  heralded another damned incoming warhead!

Enough was enough. I activated my universal remote, and text popped up on the screen. Not many options for missiles, but it did have “early detonation” The explosion lit up the sky, revealing the helicopter for the first time. It had two small rotors at weird angles, and what looked like a collection of pointed legs, rather than landing skids at the bottom. The front of it was flared, more like the front of an attack plane than a helicopter's traditional nubby cockpit. Then the missile's light faded, as the lights of the helicopter zig-zagged right, and lined themselves up above me.

Rapid flashes erupted around it, and the sound of an automatic gun reached me a second later. Chips of concrete sprayed around me as I ran. Occasionally a car jerked and spun to the side as it caught heavy-caliber rounds. I itched to put up my forcefield again, but if I got hit now I'd die from my burns. Adrenaline lent me clarity and agility, and I scrambled and dodged to get below the helicopter and out of their line of fire. While I ran I tried the remote, but the text it pulled up flickered, and devolved into nonsense characters and scrambled images.

ECM ACTIVE my mask informed me. Lovely. I cursed under my breath and a car exploded behind me, as a round found its hydrogen tank. I stumbled, almost lost my feet as the force of the explosion rolled over me, but kept going. To fall now was death.

And finally, I reached the point where I could kick the gravitics in again. I was under their arc far enough that they couldn't shoot me, and I spurred skyward at a diagonal angle. They tried to pull up but I pushed for speed until my inner ears throbbed with pain. It seemed like an eternity, as the helicopter fought to get me in its firing vectors, and I raced to close the distance before they could.

And then I was on them, past the missile pods on the sides, ignoring the swiveling minigun slung under as it tried to track me and fire. I grasped for its legs, taking note of the symbol on its side. Crosshatched lines in a loosely spiral pattern.

WEB.

I growled low in my throat, as the helicopter juked and tried to shake me, and I surged forward as they shook in my direction, leaping onto the door and digging my gauntlets into its light frame. They had hounded me from my lair and they had either stumbled across me or followed me to the dealer's house days ago. That had turned into the rolling clusterfuck of heroes that had wasted so much time, and caused me such grief. And now they had dropped in out of nowhere, to try and blow me the hell up. Really, enough was enough! I ripped and tore, and wires sparked and snapped as I scooped out handfuls of metal. I had my hands on my tormentors, and I owed them payment!

A bullet ricocheted from my mask, as I tore the door open. I ignored it, grabbed the pilot's arm and twisted his gun away from him. Bones broke in the process. He had one of those red-eyed masks on so I couldn't see his face, but his anguished wail was music to my ears. Behind him, I saw a flash of red from back in the cargo area of the helicopter. Eyes. More masks, at least four of them. I saw weapons coming up, and the pilot shrieked “No! Don't—” Whatever else he might have said was lost in a hail of gunfire. I threw myself backward as the pilot jerked and splattered, his own men shooting through him to get to me.

Ricochets spanged off of my armor, and I darted under the helicopter as it slewed sideways. I dug my gauntlets into the fuselage, trying to get a grip to slow it as it fell. With no pilot it was going down fast, and I had questions, dammit!

I put the brakes on, reversed the gravitics, and tried to exert pressure. Tried to stop it from crashing... and the fuselage gave way in my fingers. I ended up ripping out double handfuls of it, and lost my grip. I watched in helpless fury as it slewed, spiraled down, and exploded in the middle of a mass of abandoned cars.

A look at the roaring mass of fire and smoldering metal that it had become convinced me that there were no survivors. It had been quick for them, say that at least.

I took stock as best as I could, flying down to a nearby rooftop to flex my arms, and test the pain. Minor, compared to what it had been on the beach. I should have gotten a garment with sleeves the last time this happened, though it still wouldn't have helped my hands. The gauntlets were too sensitive to work well with gloves. If I'd had time, I could have designed a better system. But I didn't have time. When I wasn't fighting WEB, I was fighting the Black Bloods. When it wasn't the Black Bloods, it was WEB.

Were they working together? Couldn't rule it out, though I couldn't see why.

All I knew for certain was that I had lost another chance to get answers. I turned my head away from the flames in grief and frustration, and sighed. I couldn't care about the past, now. Too much to do.

I made my way back to camp, and as I did my certainty grew. That had been no random meeting. My destination had been different than my last trip. Someone had told them where I would be.

I landed, finding the fires going full on, the burn barrels full of wood. The night was the coldest yet, and a lot of enthusiasm had gone out of the newcomers. They were watching the darkness, and huddled together for warmth. I saw a few smiles of relief as I came in for a landing, and a few murmurs of dismay as the new scars on my armor became visible. Abernathy strolled out of the women's tent, and gaped at me. “Holy shit. Uh, hey boss.”

“HELLO YOURSELF. DID YOU GET A GOOD NAP?”

“A bit, yeah. Been trying to dig up more spare parts and supplies.”

“WELL, HOPEFULLY YOU GOT ENOUGH SLEEP TO STAY UP LATE. WE HAVE HOURS TO DAWN AND MUCH TO DO IF WE WANT TO LAUNCH OUR ATTACK TOMORROW NIGHT.”

Murmurs from around me as people heard that, and no one saw me smile under my mask.  Abernathy grimaced. “That's gonna be tight. Okay, let me grab the tools. You need some basic repairs, on top of those upgrades you wanted to do.”

I moved the armor into the laundry, and decanted. Abernathy followed. The pile of electronics that I'd salvaged earlier shrank as did the layers of metal I'd stripped from the more robust vehicles. And the armor grew, as we peeled it apart and remade it. I didn't have the wherewithal for more advanced weaponry, and I hesitated at putting guns on the thing. That would bring me more trouble from heroes, if I ran into any more of them before this thing was done. Instead of guns I installed better heat sinks. While it wasn't perfect, I figured I'd improved the force-field's effective safe usage by about two hundred percent, give or take a few points. Bullets would still be a problem, but now it would take more of them. I'd also upped the armor, at the cost of slowing down mobility.

The end result was a lumbering behemoth of a suit, that stood a full foot taller than the old suit. Instead of a pure black shell, it was a mix of black, gray, and silver, now. And instead of that torn, bullet-holed red hoodie that I'd been wearing from pretty much the beginning, I swapped in the shining ruby cape that had been Molly's gift to me. The armor was heavier, looked meaner, and the venting spikes were clustered in patterns that brought to mind deep-sea shellfish.

I smiled, and clapped Abernathy on the back. “Finish up here?” I asked.

“Um. Oh-kay?” Her voice rose plaintively, as she swayed in place. “I... it was all I could do to keep up with the changes you were making at the end, there. You, jeeze, I don't know. That's your power at work? Fast, and no mistakes, or false paths. You don't need blueprints, you just figure out what you want and go for it. I guess I can maybe finish it, but it'll take me a while.”

“Do it,” I commanded. “Dire needs to talk strategy with the others.”

“I should be there for that,” she protested. “I, I mean...”

“All due respect, Dire's got this. She'll let you know if anything comes up that needs engineering.”

“Uh. Yeah, thanks.” She rubbed her head, chuckled. “Can't believe how invested I got in this.”

I paused, at the entrance to the laundry, and turned to look at her. “Why did you, Dire wonders? What's your story, Abernathy?”

She smiled. “My friends call me Abes.”

I smiled back. “Abes, then. Who are you? What drove you to join in on this?”

She swallowed, and looked at the ground, her eyes distant behind her glasses. She really was short, I noticed. It made her look like a child, especially standing next to the hulking mass of steel and plastic that was the suit.

“It's a depressing story,” she said. “With debts, bullies, and not enough choices. Too long and I'm too wiped to tell you now. Can we talk about this later, if we survive?” She raised her eyes to catch mine, looking hopeful, and somehow wistful.

I nodded, and smiled. “Of course. After we've won.”

“Of course,” she said, and got back to work.

I walked through the camp, with the fur coat thrown over my shoulders and a proper sleeved shirt itching against my lightly-scorched arms. No putting this off, and I felt the smile slipping from my face. The next part would be crucial, and if it didn't work, then this entire venture could fail.

Finally, I stood in front of Martin's tent. From the light and sound escaping from it, he'd found a new television somewhere. I scratched at it, and called softly. “Martin? Tooms?”

The flap folded aside, and Tooms looked me over, nodded. I crouched and entered, finding Martin sitting on a crate, staring morosely at an animated film. A cartoon rabbit chased a cartoon fox with an oversized hammer, and violence occasionally happened. I didn't see the appeal but sat next to Martin, watching it with him without saying a word. After a minute, he turned to me. “I found the shit for Khalid.”

I nodded. “Didn't have a doubt on that front.”

He glanced over to Tooms, nodded. Tooms slipped out of the tent, closing the flap behind him with a soft whisper. I looked back to find Martin staring at me, and couldn't read the look in his eyes.

“Things go okay with the Steampunks?”

“Bargained them to four bars total. Bringing two worked out, like you said it would.”

He smiled, but his face was nervous. Why? “Knew you could,” he whispered. And then he wrapped his arms around me.

I looked at them. “What are you doin— Mff!”

He'd leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. Now he was trying to lick my teeth? I glared at him, and when he opened his eyes and saw my annoyance, he let go and backed up immediately, releasing my mouth with a wet 'pop!' “Oh. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, sorry. I thought... shit. Sorry.”

I mopped my mouth with the back of my hand. “What was all that about?”

“I just... y'know, evening before the big battle. Thought you was here lookin' for something else. Real fuckin' smooth of me. Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head. “To be honest you been givin' me mixed signals for days now.”

“You know that Dire has no idea what you were going on about, right?” He was acting embarrassed, and the awkwardness was making me embarrassed.

“It uh, yeah, forget I did that.”

“Done.” I puffed my lips out, and blew a breath in exasperation. “No, Dire didn't come here for... uh, whatever that was. Remember that bad idea we discussed a few days back?”

He closed his eyes, as his face fell.

Five minutes later, our yelling could be heard across camp.

“No! Fuck no! No way in hell am I doing that!”

“Calm down! Listen, the Black Bloods—”

“The Black Bloods are gonna kill your ass, woman! And then we're next. No, fuck it, I'm a businessman. Joan's dead, I got no more ties here. I'm gone! I'm fucking gone. And I'm taking my resources with me so good luck with that!”

He stomped out of the tent, with what he called a “bug-out bag” over his shoulder. I followed, yelling. “Don't you dare walk out on Dire! Don't you do it!”

“Don't you fucking try to stop me, Dire. You are on your own, woman. You and the rest of these idiots.” His gesture incorporated the camp, and I saw people crawling out of tents at the yelling, the few faces still awake watching us from the barrel fires.

“Martin!” I yelled at his back, but to no avail. He walked west, flipping me off as he went, before vanishing into the darkness of the night.

People tried to stop me, as I stomped through the camp. My anger was plain on my face. I ignored them all, ignored the flat-eyed gaze of Minna, and the incredulous stare from Abes. I swept into the showerhouse, and only when Khalid looked up from his alembics, did I let my rage fade from my face. He was clad in his laboratory gear again, and I could see the concern in his eyes clearly behind his glasses. He started to speak and I held up a finger. “Give her a second.”

He did, and I covered my face with both hands, sagging against the wall. It took two or three minutes before I could stop my shoulders from shaking, and soothe my emotions. But I did, and I looked up to find him studying my face.

“Do you doubt Dire as well?” I asked him.

He merely shook his head. “If I did, I would not be here in the first place. I think the proper words for this situation are Respice post te; hominem te memento.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Dire doesn't understand your dialect.”

“Latin. It means 'look behind you; remember you too are a man.' Or woman in this case, but the sentiment remains the same. You are no god, and be thankful for that. You cannot succeed in everything, and there will always be people who disagree with you. This is what it means to be human.”

“Beats the alternative, then?”

“Some may say differently, but I say yes,” he nodded, looking at his hands. “Being far older than most gives a purer perspective, if you can avoid madness. The true eternal beings... the demons, the angels, the ghuls like the Locust, the fair folk... all of them are bound in ways we cannot imagine. So much more powerful than the highest human in some cases, but incapable of so much that we take for granted.” He smiled. “And that is the way of things, I think. God is great and good, and kind to his children.”

I nodded. “Then let us apply the fruits of human labor to the problem at hand. Lower your voice and let's talk alchemy. Dire's thought on the items you can make, and come to several decisions...”

We talked for perhaps half an hour, and at the end of it I was yawning. It had been a long day.  I had gotten into two fights, and stayed up late working on top of it. I borrowed Khalid's last jar of burn ointment, with promises to be more careful in the future. My bed was waiting, and I frowned as I saw that someone had put the sheets into a rough semblance of order. Paranoia flared, and I checked it before I lay down, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps someone had thought to do me a kindness. Lathering the burn ointment on took only a minute, and it felt so good to lie down.

I closed my eyes, and exhaustion claimed me in seconds.

When I opened my eyes, light beat into them. Daylight had come in an instant. I had been so exhausted that time had passed without any space between the shutting and opening of my eyelids. I groaned and lay back in the pile of sheets, but as tempting as it was, I just had too much to do. Today was the day that made or broke us, and after the business with Martin last night I needed to make sure my people were behind me.

My people. Seemed strange to think that. When had they become so? When they first extended me kindness? When dear sweet Joan had given me stew that first night I'd woken up knowing nothing? When Roy had stood up for me, even knowing that he was bringing potential trouble down on his friends? When we'd fought and bled and nearly died in the church? So much had happened, in less than a week. I'd turned their lives upside down and they'd done the same to me. It was a world gone mad, where the forces of civilization were literally powerless, hamstrung by their dependence on a source that had never failed before. But the unthinkable had happened, and more unthinkably it had persisted. We had survived it only by banding together, leaning on each other, and going beyond mere survival.

In a way, we were thriving. We just had to keep at it and win, and we would become more than we were. We would ascend above this cold and frightened world, this dark and chaotic city. We would die, or we would rise.

And that gave me the strength to get out of the sheets, to clamber up and pull on my fur coat. We would rise. I would rise. And our foes would weep in lamentation, as we trampled them under our feet!

First things first, before the joy of lamentations. I sought out Guzman, found him walking up and down a line of beached boats. He had his captain's hat on while he inspected them. Most of them were touched up in multiple places with a silvery tar-like substance, and I gauged that to be the CL Tight I'd retrieved. We had perhaps twenty big boats, and quite a few smaller ones. One barrel had gone a long way. When I remarked upon that to Guzman, his crooked smile showed pride. “Y'mix it with water, y'see. Got to do it in batches or it sets, but if you've got the knack for it, y'get about four times the contents of the barrel. We used every bit you got us.”

“Good. Ready them for evac. Also, break into the stores, get as many tarps as you can. Cut up old tents if you have to. Dire wants every boat covered.”

He raised one of his enormous eyebrows, squinted at me with eyes I could barely see. “Seems strange. Why do that?”

“We've got more boats than people,” I said. “Some of them will be decoys. With tarps on top and people below, no way for the Black Bloods to tell which ones are occupied. Could mean the difference between life and death, if our people can't get far enough from the shore fast enough.”

He nodded. “Guess I can see the logic in that. All right, I'll see what we can rig up. I take it I ain't going on the assault?”

“She needs you here,” I frowned. “More accurately, they need you here. You've got the most experience in getting these launched fast and well.”

He nodded, and offered a smile. “I won't let you down.” Then he offered a wrinkled hand and I shook it, before answering with my own smile.

“Dire knows you won't.”

Next was Minna, and I found her in the kitchen. She was making breakfast with Anya and... Susan? Yes, Susan. I noticed that Susan was a lot less jumpy, here, than she had been the last few days. Starting to recover from her ordeal in the church? Maybe. I hoped so.

“Minna. May Dire speak with you for a second?” The blonde woman looked at me, then to Susan.

“Go on, we'll be fine. Anya, can you take over stirring?”

The little girl practically ran to get a chair, pushed it over, climbed up on it and took her mother's place at the pot. Minna ruffled her hair, then followed me outside.

“You know we're attacking the Black Bloods today?” I asked her. She grunted. I took a breath. “You can't go. Dire needs you here.”

She frowned at me. “Why?”

“There's something that needs doing, if things go wrong...” I told her my plan, pointing up at the highway. She looked at it, then looked back to me.

“I can fight. I can kill.”

“Which is why Dire needs you here. She trusts you.” And I did.

She chewed it over, looked at the APC parked off to the side of the tents, and looked back up to the overpass.

“After I do this, I come to fight with you. I will need a bicycle.”

I grinned.

A trip to the port-a-john, followed by a run through the breakfast line later, and I gauged the mood of the camp. People were laughing and talking as usual, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty to things. They knew we were attacking tonight. They knew that Martin had bailed. They were nervous, restless, and hiding it through routine and socializing. I'd expected no less. This wasn't an army, nor were they soldiers. They were just people, stuck in an unreasonable situation.

But then again, weren't we all?

I went to check in with Khalid, and he silently handed me a row of little vials, all colored quite differently. “You'll need to drink this before you go,” he said, pointing to the silver one. I took it and upended it without hesitation, trying not to gag at the taste. Copper and eggs, with a faint medical undertone, but then it was gone. I looked up to see him frowning at me. “I said before we go, not now! It lasts only a few hours.”

“We're going now.”

He blinked. “I thought we were attacking tonight...”

“Yes. That was the point. Come with, hm?” I slipped the rest of the vials into my pockets. I'd transfer some of them to the armor's compartments when I had a chance.

He followed me outside, and waited by the door of the laundry while I checked my armor over. Abes had done a good job, by the looks of it. I climbed in and brought up the systems one by one, running diagnostics as best as I could. It was still crude as power armor went, but my synch rate was up to eighty-eight percent, thanks to the redundancies and enhancements we'd built in. I tested the movements, fond them within tolerances. The floor groaned beneath me in a most alarming way, and I left the tent with care. One way or another, I wouldn't be bringing it back in here again.

I moved out to the center of the camp, and turned. And slowly, people dropped what they were doing and formed a loose circle around me. I waited. Let them build. Ignored the murmured discussions that got louder as Khalid walked to stand next to me, hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, I deemed the moment right.

“YOU KNOW DIRE.” Discussion died, as the echoes bounced across the beach, from the cold black ocean, to the empty road that bordered us. “YOU KNOW DIRE, WHO HAS FOUGHT FOR YOU. AND WILL FIGHT FOR YOU NOW. SOME OF YOU FIGHT AS WELL, AND HAVE FOUGHT TO DEFEND HER. TO DEFEND YOUR FAMILIES. TO DEFEND YOUR FRIENDS.”

“TODAY WE ARE DEFENDING NO LONGER.”

“TODAY WE ARE DONE WITH DEFENDING, FOR OUR ENEMY IS WOUNDED AND RECOVERING. TODAY WE ARE ATTACKING. TODAY WE BRING THE FIGHT TO THEM!”

A ragged cheer.

“TODAY WE END THEIR THREAT FOREVER!”

A bigger cheer.

“TODAY WE WIN! WE SHOW THEM THAT NO MATTER HOW SCARY THEY THINK THEY ARE, THEIR FATE IS DIRE!”

Scattered laughter, and applause.

“TODAY, DOCTOR DIRE AND THOSE WHO WILL STAND WITH HER GO TO REMOVE THE SMILE OF RICTUS. WE GO TO TOPPLE BARBATOS FROM HIS THRONE. WE WILL SMASH ALL THAT THEY HOLD DEAR. ARE YOU WITH HER?”

The biggest cheer yet, and I let the approval of the crowd wash over me. Approval that turned to confused murmurs, as I spoke further.

“WE LEAVE IN HALF AN HOUR.”

Cheers died, turned to confusion.

“IF YOU ARE GOING, GRAB YOUR GUN AND ANYTHING YOU NEED. BID YOUR LOVED ONES FAREWELL FOR NOW. ASSEMBLE BY THE APC WHEN YOU ARE READY. IT LEAVES IN HALF AN HOUR. IF YOU ARE STAYING, HELP GUZMAN GET THE BOATS READY. IN CASE OF ATTACK, YOU'LL BE HEADING OUT TO THE BAY UNTIL IT IS SAFE TO RETURN.”

Confusion turned to purpose, and people got moving. I looked around through the crowd, until I located Bunny. She was standing next to the APC, smoking. I stomped toward her, and she looked me up and down as I approached. “Nice upgrade. Colorful.”

“AESTHETICS TOOK A BACKSEAT TO FUNCTIONALITY.”

“Thought we were leaving tonight, though.” She scratched her chin.

“YES. EVERYONE DID. JUST AS PLANNED.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Ah.” She pulled the cigarette from her lips, and flicked it toward a burn barrel.

“ARE YOU READY TO DRIVE?”

“Yep. I'll get Roy and we'll load Sparky now.” She pointed at a wood-and-scrap rig up on the former turret's space, held together by baling wire and rope. “Pretty sure that'll work unless a sniper gets lucky.”

“HOW LIKELY IS THAT?”

“Unlikely. Most of the ones that could shoot that well died with Stig. The rest are typical gangers. Sights are on top for a reason, but they always seem to forget that.”

“LET US HOPE THEY ARE EVERYTHING WE EXPECT AND LESS.”

“All right. So, you have a plan?”

“THE TOWERS.”

“Straight to the heart of it. Yeah, okay. Here's how I think we should go about it...”

We talked tactics for a bit. Khalid went away, then returned, wearing his Janissary outfit. People muttered and stared, unsure what to make of it. I stretched forth a gauntlet, and he clasped my hand, with a small smile upon his face. “Well. I'm glad you have the sense to attack them during the day. I will admit I was getting somewhat worried earlier.”

“NO POINT IN LETTING THEM DEPLOY DRAUGR IF WE HAVE A CHOICE IN THE MATTER.” I tilted my head. “SO WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IF DIRE HAD INSISTED ON ATTACKING AT NIGHT?”

He shrugged. “Used you for a distraction, and gone hunting for the Locust.”

“Cold,” Bunny remarked, tapping a new cigarette out of a packet.

“If you had insisted on it, you would not be the person you need to be here, and History would go on.” He looked me up and down. “But the battle is not won yet, and History may grind on without you regardless.”

“WE SHALL SEE, JANISSARY. WE SHALL SEE.”

Bunny snorted laughter, and both Khalid and I looked at her, confused.

“It's just... wow you sounded like a classical supervillain with that statement. All you needed was a sinister laugh at the end, and a vat of acid to lower him into or something.”

“CUTE,” I remarked. I was a little stung, really. Not much I could do to help matters, someone had done their level best to mold me into a villain. But I was doing good here, regardless of whatever label I ended up with after all was said and done.

A cold wind blew, rustling the tents, and I watched people get down to business. Husbands embraced wives, mothers embraced children, and goodbyes were said. My people were solemn and quiet. A gray light filtered through the overcast clouds above, lending a gloomy air to it all. A light snow started to fall, and I sighed as I surveyed the place that had been home to me, for most of my remembered life.

I had the uncanny feeling that I would never see it again.

CHAPTER 19: Going Down Fighting

“They didn't follow Barbatos because he was strong, though he was. They didn't follow him because he was vicious and brutal, though no one else came close. They followed him because he was sharp. Motherfucker covered all the angles. Called all the shots. He was somethin' else, and Dire's first plan... well, it didn't go so good.”

--From the statement of Martin Jackson, survivor of the Y2K incident, and former confidant of Doctor Dire.

We moved west. The APC took the lead, crawling slowly as I flew above. The thirty-odd people we had fanned out behind, taking both sides of the street. Inside the APC, Bunny drove and Sparky manned the turret. And we put blocks behind us, as we rolled toward the Towers. A light snow fell over it all, and the morning was silent save for the thrum of the APC's engine.

We made it about eight blocks before the first shots started coming our way. A few whistled by me, a few poked at the APC, and a very few headed toward our 'troops', who were still a good couple of hundred feet back.

I switched the mask to thermal sight, and found the shooters holed up in a parking garage to the south. I swooped that way, sent a couple of spike rounds into the lip of the garage. The impacts sent puffs of concrete shrapnel up. They ducked back and stopped firing, but it didn't matter. I hadn't shot at them to hit them, I'd fired at them to mark them for Sparky. And sure enough, he obliged with a seriously heavy bolt of lightning that sparked through the floor they were on, sizzling between cars and sending the shooters jerking and twitching to the floor.

They might have survived it, since it wasn't a direct hit, but I didn't spare the time to check on them. This was war, now. They were on the side I wasn't, and all we could do was get through it. I played spotter, waiting for the gunshots and pointing out positions to Sparky. In the few cases where the barriers they were behind were too solid for his bolts, or too insulated, I used spike rounds to drive them back. Only once did I have to zoom in for a close-up fight, bursting through a brick wall to get at the snipers who had set up lightning rods in the windows to either side of their occupied apartment. It was clever, but when faced with the bulk of my upgraded armor, they had no chance. I dropped one as he went with a beanbag to the back, and let the other go. He'd dropped his guns, and I threw them out the window before I left. Though I'd been drilled at point blank range by hunting rifles, I was pleased to see that the heat increase was quite minor. By the time I got back to the battle group it had faded entirely.

We didn't face the first serious ambush until we were about three blocks from the Towers. The sound of approaching vehicles alerted me, and I saw incoming garbage trucks from the north and south. It looked like they were trying to get in position to ram the APC as it came through an intersection. I gnawed my lip as I considered the heavy vehicles. It looked like more metal had been bolted to the front of them, so my coilgun wouldn't be sufficient to stop one without a lot of work.

This was going to cause some trouble.

I fired the coilgun at the southern one, twisted, and dove toward the northern one. I dropped onto the hood, scrabbling with my gauntlets, managing to dig in before the truck started twisting and turning. Behind the armored slits on the windshield, I could see a grizzled man with an untrimmed beard. He was yanking on the wheel for all he was worth, trying to shake me off.

If he was in a car, he might've had a chance of doing it. But the truck was slow and lumbering, and handled poorly. I waited until the turn was done, whipped my arm up and punched metal-clad fingers into the windshield armor. With a scream of tearing metal and shattering glass, my armor's hydraulics ground and thundered, and I ripped away a huge patch of armor. My next punch went through the windshield, grabbing ahold of the wheel and ripping it away. That done I threw myself from the hood, kicking in the gravitics and hovering up as the truck twisted and went out of control. I heard it crash as I rocketed back toward the APC, and saw Sparky throwing bolt after bolt of flashing lightning at the other truck. Its hood slagged, the armor smoking, it nonetheless plowed into the APC in a crunching crash. I held my breath as the truck rebounded, and the APC tipped up, up, and hung on edge for a split-second before crashing down on its wheels again. I exhaled a long sigh of relief. That couldn't have been good for the transmission, but it could have been much worse.

Distant popping, and my forcefield rippled as it registered a hit. The Black Bloods had used the distraction to move their people up, and I juked right as I surveyed the ground. Our troops had come into play as they moved up. They used cover as best they could, and fired back. Some had fallen already, and I didn't have time to count them or see how bad their wounds were. Sparky's scrap shield was jerking back and forth, splinters flying as the Bloods did their level best to shoot it to bits, and Sparky wasn't returning fire. I hoped he had enough sense to stay down in the main body of the vehicle.

Right.

First priority, getting Sparky back into play.

I landed, racing towards the garbage truck that was backing away from the APC, and the driver flung open the cab and ran. The thing was pouring smoke out from under the hood anyway, I estimated a cracked battery. It was out of play, but it gave me a bit of cover as I followed it back and checked sightlines as I went. There! Up on top of some sort of civic building, judging by the artillery piece on the front lawn. I rocketed up, firing beanbag rounds as I went to keep the sniper's head down. Thanks to the work that Abes and I had done, firing the coilgun didn't mess up the forcefield in any appreciable way anymore.

Which was good, as there was a squad waiting for me when I ascended to rooftop level again. Four men leveled machine pistols my direction and cut loose as I roared forward, sweeping my arms wide. The sniper ran for cover as my armor started to heat up, but then I was among them, catching two of them in the stomach and throwing them back in a perfect double clothesline before dropping my feet to skid to a stop. They flew backwards and fell off the roof with despairing screams. More screams rose as I triggered the flamethrower in the general direction of the last three. The sniper never stopped running, jerking open an access door and descending. The other two couldn't get out of the way as the flame washed over them, and I left them screaming and burning and trying to put themselves out as I turned and jetted toward the second sniper's nest.

This one was in the middle of a defunct shopping mall. It had been long-abandoned, judging by the wear-and-tear, broken windows, and empty concourses visible as I burst through a sheet of plate-glass and came to a stop on a cracked, dirty tile floor. This had been a food court once, I noted as muzzles flashed.

I turned my flight into a lumbering run, scooping up a table as I went. I hurled it at the group firing at me and they scattered... one of them too late, as it bowled him over with a despairing scream. He didn't get up. The coilgun accounted for another, and the third one nailed me in the chest with both barrels of a shotgun as I stomped toward him. The forcefield ate it, and I welcomed the warmth against the cold of the day. I grabbed his throat with one hand, picked him up, and shook him before kicking in the stungun. I dropped him as he went limp, and let the heat sinks do their work for a minute as I turned to the window and the fight outside to consider my next move.

And then my world was light and fire and an eerie silence, and I realized that I'd been at ground zero of an explosion. The heat level in my suit rocketed upward, and I sweltered as I fell down, distinctly aware that I was smoking, vapor pouring out of the armor's vents to sizzle in the cold air.

I'd gotten cocky. Couldn't do that again. Poking my head up I scanned with thermal sight, saw nothing— Wait! A small, hot sphere rocketed in the window, bounced randomly, and detonated a couple of hundred feet to my right. It sprayed shrapnel across a defunct escalator. Grenade? Yes. Coming from below by the angle, just sheer bad luck I'd been caught the last time. Or was it?

I turned off the forcefield, and the heat sinks went into overdrive to vent the accumulated charge. Hearing slowly returned as I crawled towards a long-abandoned Frickin' Chicken, getting a heavy counter between me and the outside. My ears were ringing, and I wondered about permanent damage, but at this point it was the least of my worries.

Thermal sight caught two more grenades coming up, and I winced. They had multiple launchers out there. Probably more waiting for me to come out a window. I'd been bottled up, right at the point I was needed most.

This had to be Barbatos' doing. He was supposed to be the strategist of the operation.

Well, no matter. If things were going to plan, then Roy would have fired the flaregun we'd gotten from the Midtown Militia by now. That had been the pre-arranged signal for the Steampunks to take the Towers. Also had the side benefit of maybe involving the Militia, if they cared to show up.

Another grenade rolled in and detonated. My counter sprouted holes as it took some shrapnel, and I shook my head. Couldn't stay here, couldn't go out... I checked my heat levels, found them good, and activated the forcefield again. Then I stood and jogged toward the central atrium of the mall, activating the gravitics as I leaped off my current floor, and headed to the ground.

A shower of sparks, and the whine of my forcefield, as a heavy hit struck my back! I twisted, feeling the heat rise again, and caught a glimpse of a silvery metal mask staring down at me from a second floor balcony. I landed, my legs flexing as I crouched on the tile. I looked up at my attacker. He didn't have a gun out. What was he doing?

My answer came as his arm flashed and I had no time to dodge as a silvery blur sped out from him. It hit the forcefield, and my heat jumped to sweltering levels as the object ricocheted away. It stuck in a nearby directory board, quivering.

It was a butcher knife. He'd thrown a butcher knife hard enough to trigger my forcefield, and it had struck me with about half the force of a grenade.

I ran for cover and he vaulted the railing, leaped down. A silvery mask gleamed on a seven-foot giant... he was muscled, stocky, wearing a black shirt with torn-off sleeves and sweat pants. He wore a broad leather belt, with various knives and hatchets hanging from it. They provided a clinking cacophony as he moved, that I barely heard through my ringing ears. He moved in front of me, and I turned the forcefield off. I'd have to take this on the armor, or he could cook me alive with only a few hits.

And as I analyzed his threat, I remembered where I'd seen him before. The church... Sangre had called him 'Sir.' Given what I knew now, that meant that he had to be—

“BARBATOS.”

“Yes.” And that was the voice I remembered. “You've done well to get this far,” he said, stalking forward as he pulled out two knives. He spun them in his hands, as I backed up.

“AND YOU'VE DONE WELL TO BOX DIRE IN.” I confirmed, sidling around him, looking for an advantage. “DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE YOU THIS EARLY IN THE GAME.”

His mask turned to track mine. It was round and featureless save for eyeholes and a few circles punched in for airflow. Someone had called it a hockey mask, I remembered. That didn't help me right now, though.

Then he leaped for me, and I met him with a fist to the face. After that it was a slog as we danced back and forth across the floor of the atrium. I'd punch at him and hit with about half my blows. Or try to clinch or grapple him, and those he'd dodge or take it on an arm and twist free. He'd respond with a flurry of attacks with the knives, chopping and hacking at my armor with hideous strength. And as we traded hits I realized I was losing.

The flamethrower tube had been hacked open and fuel spilled, coating the area beneath us. The stungun's circuitry had been split by a deep hit, that came close to getting to my flesh. My gauntlets and arms were getting wrecked, and the torso armor was battered and dented all to hell and back. I was starting to lose synch as circuits became damaged, and he... he wasn't slowing at all. I was hitting him with blows that should be breaking bone, or throwing him around like a ragdoll. But the worst that happened was that he'd stagger back a step or two before coming back in swinging, or turn so that I couldn't hit him in the same place twice.

As we fought, my hearing slowly returned, and I realized two things. One, that people had gathered on the third floor railings. They were looking down into the atrium and howling, cheering, yelling at him to finish me off. Black Bloods, by the look of them, at least twenty. That worried me. If he felt confident enough to bring in this many and keep them out of the fight outside, it meant that the fight was done and they'd won. Or that or he wasn't worried about it whatsoever.

The second thing that I realized, was that the bastard was laughing. Every time I hit him, he'd laugh. Every time I dodged or parried a strike, he'd laugh louder. And as I stumbled, as I showed signs of fatigue, his moves became more exaggerated and mocking. He was enjoying this. Aside from the dent I'd put in his mask from the first punch, I hadn't landed a serious hit on him. This was not going well, and I needed a game changer. Fast.

I flicked on the forcefield, and a split-second later his knife slammed into me, rebounded. He hesitated, and I knelt and slammed my stungun into the ground, tried to trigger it. Only sparks... but sparks were all I needed. I kicked in the gravitics and went airborne, as the fuel I'd spilled all over the atrium floor ignited.

A bellow of pure rage, and I smiled under my mask as the crowd around me roared their displeasure. I rose, grinning, and watched him stumble as his clothes caught and burning. Then he glared up at me and crouched, and my eyes widened as I realized what he was going to do!

I twisted too late as he leaped skyward, a missile of burning meat and anger as he caught me by the cape. He carried us right through a shop window.

We hit the ground, and I screamed as my skin sizzled in the surge of heat, and shut down the forcefield. But the momentary distraction left me open, as I skidded to a stop among empty shelves. He rained down punch after punch on me. I felt the armor creak and groan with every hit, and the arm I raised to throw him off shook, and wavered. But I got it under him, and threw him into a wall.

He fell to the ground and rolled, doing his level best to extinguish his flames. I found my feet, staggering, lurching. I watched as he ripped off his mask and threw it away, the hot metal sizzling his skin as he did. And I managed to grab the main support of a shelf and rip the metal loose, closing my own burned and throbbing fingers as I closed the gauntlet around it, ignoring the pain as I lurched forward.

“THE BRAIN OR THE HEART FOR DRAUGR, YES?” My mask still worked, at least. He'd avoided striking my head or face, for whatever reason.

He shuddered, and pushed himself to the kneeling position with one arm. His face was burned and blotchy, and older than I expected. He had a short beard of grey, with a mustache above lips that had been tattooed black. Black teardrops under his eyes that I initially took for burns but no, they were more tattoos.

Then he grunted and slid to the ground. He really had been burned, worse than I. I'd filled the flamethrower with greek fire, and the damage it had inflicted on him was horrific, now that I had a chance to look at it. Black, wet burns, and bone showing in a few spots.

I raised the makeshift spear above my head.

“THE LAST JANISSARY SENDS HIS REGARDS.”

And my armor died.

My mask filled with error messages, and I felt shock course through my veins.

What? What the hell was this?

I fought with the hydraulics, couldn't budge them.

The raw strength that the augmented mechanisms gave me worked against me now. I had as much chance of shifting them as I did punching through a wall with my bare hands.

He coughed laughter, and said something I didn't quite catch.

Was it damage? Had he hit the core? Impossible. The core was on my back, under thick armor that hadn't been breached. Yet it was reading offline, and it had chosen this, of all minutes, as the minute to go out...

“Heya, boss.”

I twisted my neck as best as I could, and managed to get a good look at the figure stepping into my field of vision.

Abes. It was Abes. Abes who I'd trusted with my tools. Trusted to work on my armor.

“YOU.”

She was wearing a grey outfit, now. A bodysuit, armored with black patches. I'd seen that arrangement before. She might not have a helmet on at the minute, but if she did I knew the symbol that I'd see.

“YOU'RE WITH WEB.”

She nodded, smiled that silvery smile. “Got it in one. Sorry, but I can't let you kill one of our allies. Well, one more of our allies, to be precise.” Then her smile faded. “If it's any consolation, I'm not too happy about this. But it's business, so oh well.”

“SABOTAGED THE CORE, DIDN'T YOU?”

“Got it in one.”

“Enough.” Barbatos growled, and hauled himself to his feet. He staggered, planted a hand on the shattered counter, ignoring the way the glass bit into his palm. I noted that his burns were smaller than they had been a few minutes ago.

“SO THIS IS WHAT VAMPIRES GET? SOME SORT OF REGENERATION?”

He laughed, long and loud. Oddly enough, there was no malice in it. “Ah. Ah, girl. You make an old man happy.”

And then he smiled, and there was every bit of the malice I had expected, and more. “For that you deserve a reward. Get her out of there.”

“ABES—”

She stepped forward, and found the hidden panel under the left arm. She opened it, and pulled the manual release. My armor hissed open.

I slumped forward, trying to appear more hurt than I was. It made no difference, as a beefy arm reached in and pulled me out. Barbatos looked up at me, as he held me up by the throat, squirming and kicking at his head. He chuckled again, and planted me on the ground, shifting his grip to my shoulder. I hissed as I clenched my fists, and pain shot through me. A glance down confirmed that they were slick with wet burns as well... throwing a punch would probably do worse things to me than him.

I looked back up to find him studying me with those dark eyes. This close up I could tell that the pupils were highly dilated, just like Sangre's had been.

“Not a vampire,” I muttered. “Not a draugr. Then what?”

“I'll tell you, I think. You earned that much, girl. But first, come.” He shot a look over at Abes, who shook her head.

“I'll catch up. Boss wants the mask too, and it'll take me a while to remove it safely.” She pulled out my toolkit, and I winced to see it. But then Barbatos' hand was on my shoulder, and he was pushing me forward.

He marched me out into the concourse of the wall, and my despairing eyes counted the gangers lining the railings as we marched down it, heading to the eastern half of the mall. How many there were! For all we'd killed or defeated in our previous struggles, there were at least fifty here. They were jeering at me, pointing, cheering Barbatos on as he walked behind me, with his hand never leaving my shoulder.

I took stock of what I had.

One pistol holstered on my belt under my shirt and thank goodness I'd upgraded to a long sleeve shirt.

Two vials of what the Last Janissary had called 'Essence of Entropy,' the stuff that had made the green smoke when he threw it at the draugrs on the beach. It was bad for vampires and draugrs, and toxic to people.

And a small, golden vial of Greek Fire, that warmed my pocket. I'd taken a risk by carrying it in my jeans, but with the way my armor was built, I figured the actual jeopardy was small. Thankfully, I'd been right. Though if someone punched me on the wrong spot on my leg now, it'd be bad for both of us.

I licked my teeth. I'd be best served by biding my time. Barbatos was clearly enjoying his victory. If I catered to that, drew it out, I'd learn more and possibly get an opportunity to act.

We went up four escalators, to a long gallery facing the east. And I realized why he had brought me here, as I looked across several city blocks, and down onto the beach. It was distant, but we still had a fairly good view of it.

He gestured to a long bench, and I took a seat. He released my shoulder, and stepped back. “Don't get foolish now, girl. You lost. Leave it there and you'll survive this.”

A patter of feet to the side. I glanced back to see a familiar face approaching, his grin wide and yellow.

“Rictus.” Barbatos nodded. He got a small wave in return, as Rictus walked over and studied me, pushing his sunglasses down his nose to do so. Like Sanguine and Barbatos before him, his eyes were dilated, showing way too much black.

“Your eyes...” I muttered. “A side effect of something. Yes?”

His backhanded slap threw me to the ground, and I screamed as I instinctively caught myself with my burned hands.

“That was for Stig.”

A boot met my side and I rolled with it, ending up across the floor, clutching my midsection in pain.

“And that was for Sanguine.”

I coughed, and tensed up, but no more blows came. With a groan, I made my way back up to my feet, a task made harder as I avoided using my hands to do it. I was trembling as I stood, but I stood nonetheless.

Barbatos looked to me, looked back to Rictus. “Come now. We need her conscious to see this, eh?”

Rictus turned his head back and forth, considering. “Fine. Yeah fine, we'll try it your way. C'mere chickie, something to show you.” He pulled out a phone, and tapped numbers in.

I blinked, as it dialed. He had a working phone? How?

My answer came to mind easily, even through my pain. “WEB's providing communications, aren't they?” I moved over to him, craning my neck to look at the phone's screen.

He shifted it out of my view, pointed toward the window. “It's me,” he said into the phone. “Do it.”

I followed his finger to the window, and blinked as I saw black vans roar out of the north, heading towards the camp. They stopped a block back, well out of range, and disgorged perhaps twenty Black Bloods. A pittance compared to what we'd fought thus far. But all of our fighters were out here, weren't they? Still fighting or scattered, far from the camp. I thrill of worry ran past me.

“So. Yeah. Just so you know? Everyone over there is going to die. Everyone you made so much of a fuss about is gonna die, and it's your fault because you COULDN'T FUCKING LET THIS REST!” He roared into my face, as he closed the phone and put it away. “Couldn't take your lumps like a good girl. Had to try and stick up for a bunch of fucking hobos. Christ, kid. The fact that you managed to get two of my friends galls me. They got stupid, they got careless, and some jumped up little SHIT catches them on a bad night.” He shoved me, half-heartedly. “Well, at least I get the fun of watching your face as your friends all die.”

My eyes focused on the beach, and the colored dots of people at the waterline. They'd heard the vans, and the sentries had seen the approaching gangers. They knew what to do, and they filed down to the piers, but it would take time to get the boats launched.

And as the Black Bloods moved in, a glint of sunlight caught my attention from the overpass. Someone was up there on a bicycle, pedaling for all they were worth. I held my breath, it was the moment of truth now.

“Huh. Movement?” Rictus snapped open the cellphone again, and pushed buttons.

“Too late,” I whispered, as the first cars started to fall. The deadfall that I'd rigged by stacking and flipping cars, the lengths of chain and rope tying them together, the hour spent in engineering  them so that the first one off would pull the rest of them, all of that paid off, now. Minna had done as I asked, and cut the knot at the place I'd told her to cut it. Tons of tension released, and physics left to take its toll on the mechanism I'd built.

And as the Black Blood line advanced toward the overpass, the hydrogen-celled cars I'd chained together fell like a string of explosives, each one pulling the one behind it.

Even from here, I could feel the explosions as they went off one by one, a rolling fiery explosion that shook the windows, and rattled my teeth in their sockets. I let my laughter loose, high and rising into the air as I raised my burned hands.

“Hmhmhmhmhhmh...HAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHA!”

I'd expected a blow for that, but none fell. And as the explosions wound down, I turned to look at Rictus. He was stuck with his phone half open, watching the burning cars, entirely flabbergasted.

He breathed, hard. And turned his head to face me, lips twitching as they tried to frown, but whatever ailment had locked his visage wouldn't let him do anything but smile.

“Your men should be more careful crossing the street,” I remarked. “Can be quite dangerous.”

He raised a hand to me, and froze as Barbatos strode over and caught it in his own. His meaty mitts dwarfed Rictus' own, and Rictus looked back as the older man shook his bald head. “Ah no. Let her have this. What does it change in the end? Besides, I can respect a good trap.”

“Good my ass,” Rictus snarled, glaring back at me. “Nice show. B for effort. But whoever you left up there triggered it early. I tell my guys to wait for the fires to go down, and the end result's the same.”

“The boats will be far out in the Bay by then,” said Barbatos. “Just tell them to go around the fire and light them up while they're still close to shore.” He let go of Rictus' hand, and the smaller man nodded.

“Fine. All right. I wanted her to see it, but I guess the end result is the same.” He walked over, made another call, and chattered into the phone. I ignored him, looked up at Barbatos. He looked back, smiling.

“You have them fooled, you know.” His voice was soft, and I leaned closer to listen. Bloodshot eyes tracked my every move, darting back and forth with motions that should have seemed nervous. They weren't. His posture was calm. He was entirely in control. Nothing sane lived behind those eyes.

“Fooled?” I stared at him, caught his eyes. They stopped darting around.

“Oh yes. You never really know someone until you fight them. Until blood and death are on the line. And now I know you. There is no hesitation in you. You think and you do it. There is no remorse in you. You kill and are done with it. You are a machine, who plays at being a human.”

“Like you.” I offered.

He barked laughter. “I am no machine. I am simply a dead man who cannot stop moving yet. I thought you might finish it, earlier, but no. Treachery stopped that.” He flicked his eyes back toward the floors of the mall below our position in the gallery. “It is fitting that he will get one last chance to end me, then.”

I frowned. Then a flash caught my eye, and I darted my head around. Sparky's lightning!

“He comes with his last minder, the last one I've left him after all these years.”

“You know him?”

He tilted his head, and smiled, and I remembered. Finally I remembered. Finally it clicked. “You—”

His finger was on my lips, before I could say it. “Shush, now. Hush now. He gets one more chance. Let us see what he will sacrifice.”

And with that he turned away, and snapped his fingers. One of the gangers standing in the back swallowed hard and moved forward. Barbatos drew a charred knife from his belt and cut him slowly, smearing bloody letters on the glass behind us. I turned my back, sickened, and instead found Rictus approaching me with a leer on his face. “I want you to listen to this,” he said. The sound of gunfire echoed through the phone, and he chuckled. “That's the sound of your boats getting shot to shit. That's the sound of the people on them dying.”

I closed my eyes.

“You know what gets me? You had a good shot. You knew there was a leak in the camp, you made us think you'd attack tonight. But you know what stopped you? A fucking phone call! We had phones, you didn't. Communications, you dumb bitch!”

“Correction,” I whispered. “You had communications.” I opened my eyes, to find him squinting at me. Good. My left hand came out from under my shirt with my Sig-Sauer cocked and ready.

BLAM!

It was a painful shot with my wounded hand, but at this range I couldn't miss. The phone blew into shards that peppered the both of us, and he shrieked and jumped back, holding a bloody hand. My arm whipped out as I aimed—

—And Barbatos' hand closed around it and pulled up. My shot went into the skylight above.

“Motherfuck... you... you dumb... what the hell... GAH!” Rictus swore, flapping his arms up and down like they were wings on a pissed off goose. I laughed, and that only made him angrier. His hand dipped down, pulled something metal out of a pocket, and with a 'snik' he was holding a switchblade.

“Hold the bitch still!” He hissed, and Barbatos growled. Rictus froze.

“Drop the gun or I break the arm,” he told me. I dropped the gun. It had done its job.

But there were more gunshots, from below. Sparky had run into the rest of the gang that was infesting the mall.

“Doesn't matter,” Rictus was almost sullen, as he clicked the switchblade back, and glared at me. “Your people are dead.”

“Mm. Got another phone?” I smirked. “You might want to confirm that.”

He stared. “Barbatos, can I borrow your phone?”

Barbatos released me, stooped and picked up the gun. He felt in a pocket, shook his head as he pulled out a charred mass of plastic. “The fire took it.”

“No other phones, hm? Pity.” My voice was full of mock sympathy.

Rictus heaved a sigh. “What did you do, you freaky tall bitch?”

“Your men just wasted quite a lot of time shooting up empty boats,” I said, letting my teeth show in my smile. “We put tarps on them, to cover them. Dire's people pushed them out to sea and fled while yours were dodging flaming cars.”

They hadn't fled far, just into the storm drain entrance that I'd originally emerged from, so long ago. But it was far enough, and no one else had known the plan but Guzman.

Barbatos' laughter shook his frame, and he clapped my shoulder so hard I staggered. “Ah! Ruthless, quick, clever. No, no, I think we're keeping you. WEB shall have to contain its disappointment. I want you, child. And we have vacancies to fill, so the timing is good.”

“You honestly think Dire will work for you? After all this?” I raised an eyebrow. “She didn't think you were stupid.” I pointed at Rictus. “That one, sure. You? Not so much.”

Rictus growled, but Barbatos gestured at him. “Fetch my bag.”

“We're going to regret this,” he muttered, but he did so regardless as he hauled a battered duffel out from where it had been hidden among the shadows.

“What are you doing?” I asked. The big man ignored me, opened the bag. He pulled forth an old style chalice, golden and stained. A vial of dust was held to the light shining in through the window, and damned if the contents didn't seem to writhe. It was almost like watching smoke. He cracked it, and let a fine powder sift into the chalice. Then he moved back to the ganger he had been cutting, and grabbed his arm, ignored the man's shrieks as he twisted it, forcing blood out of the wound into the cup. He swirled it, mixing blood and powder.

I took a step back, but felt cold metal against my neck. “Nope,” whispered Rictus. “You're drinking.”

“An explanation, then?” I asked.

More gunfire from below, more flaring light as Sparky hit another pocket of resistance. He was close, I gauged, but he may as well be miles away. He wouldn't get here in time.

“You've amused me enough. Certainly. But let us wait for all to arrive.”

I bit my lip.

And there for a second against the darkness, I saw a flash of white as a silent form ghosted past the railing to my north. It darted into an abandoned shoe store. I flicked my eyes around, but no one else seemed to have caught it. Finally, the Last Janissary was entering the field...

Another flash of light, very close this time. A few bullets came whistling up our way, cracking against the glass of the window. The line of Black Bloods up top returned fire, save for one wearing a balaclava. He slapped his face and hit the ground, red spurting out around him.

Then I was being marched backward as Rictus and Barbatos each took an arm and tugged. “Go,” the King whispered to Rictus. The slim man pulled a pistol, and jogged around the railing. Towards the general direction of the shoe store. I flicked my eyes over, saw no sign of white.

Then Barbatos had his arm around my neck, and I fought him, to no avail. Lightning flared and blasted, scattering the group of Black Bloods firing down upon Sparky, and more gunshots came up.

And from outside, a distant thrumming. I'd heard that noise before. The WEB vehicle I'd brought down last night? One like it, probably.

I gnawed my lip. The timing would be rough...

“The Steampunks are outside cleanin' up the rest of your men,” Roy's voice drifted up the escalator.

Barbatos didn't reply.

The last ganger choked, crawled back towards us, before he fell slumped on the floor.

“You got one of ours. Give her back. Now.” Sparky. Good, he hadn't been hit.

“Come and get her,” was the big man's reply. “Or if you wait, she'll be mine.”

Discussion from below, and a slow tread on the escalator.

Roy came up first, sweeping his pistol around, eyes darting. Barbatos and I were the only ones visible. The large man had his arm wrapped around me, using me for cover. Amazingly, Sparky followed next. He hauled himself up the railings of the escalator through sheer strength of arms, dragging his lower body under him. Electricity flared and popped into the metal, lighting it up with a white corona. His hair flared, and his face was set in stubborn resolve... resolve that disappeared as he gaped at Barbatos and the red bloody letters on the window behind him:

La Commedia e finita

“You...” Sparky's voice trembled, as his old foe smiled at him one last time.

“Hello, old friend,” said he who had taken the name of Barbatos. “We have so much to discuss.”

“Great Clown Pagliacci...” Sparky whimpered.

CHAPTER 20: Plans Upon Plans

“Contingencies. That's the best advice I can leave you. Try to get into your enemy's head, and map out their tactics, figure out their strategy. Assume that they're going to be as smart as you, and prepare accordingly. I'm good at that, and that means you're good at it. Our power makes it easy... being a genius is handy, that way. Do this right, Dire, and you're going to shake the pillars of heaven...”

--Excerpt #116 from the Dire Monologues

Roy leveled his gun, and Pagliacci shook his head. “No. Shoot and she dies.” His arm tightened around me, and I couldn't help but let loose a coughing gasp. Roy put his gun up.

“Big man, hiding behind the lady—”

But Sparky's voice drowned out his taunt as it rose, and I could almost feel the sanity leaving him by the second. “How! How are you here? How are you even still alive! You were old!”

“I was,” Great Clown Pagliacci admitted. “And I should have died, back then. You did what no one else ever had. You sacrificed your friends, to end the comedy.”

Sparky shrunk back, and Roy shot him a puzzled look. The old hero trembled. “No. No, I didn't...”

“You left Lucy in the bear trap, saying you would come back for her when I was dead. You did not return in time. The armored one, Boilerplate. He fell through the boardwalk and my nets dragged him down, you had the choice of running after me or saving him. You let him drown.”

“No. I— We thought he'd cut the net—”

“The net, perhaps. The cables hidden in it? No.” Pagliacci's voice continued without mercy, beating down upon him like thunder. Sparky flinched at every word.

“And finally it was you and Mister Sandman. And I killed him. I had put grounding wires in my shoes, linked them to the floor. If you had helped him, if you had tried to grapple or punch me, Sandman's touch might have been able to strike me down. Send me to sleep, never to wake up. But no, you didn't do that, did you? You sat back and you threw lightning. Like you do, like you always did.” A rumble from behind me, and a shaking against my back. He was chuckling. “You didn't pull the gun until he was dead, and I'd carved his eyes out. Then you shot me, and left me to drown in a watery grave. And all your friends were dead, Leo.”

Sparky sagged to the ground, staring. Roy jerked his head to him, back to Pagliacci, torn. He couldn't move to comfort him, without exposing his back or side to the murderous villain.

“I should have died then, to be honest,” Pagliacci continued. “A fitting ending for a sick joke, for the horrible comedy that is this world. But I didn't. A thing found me. Gray and weak and thirsty. It whispered promises to me, gave me drops of its blood. Drops that gave me power. Drops that healed my wounds, strengthened my frame. Made me feel young again...”

“The Locust,” I said.

“Ah, you know it?”

“She knows you're nursing it back to health. We thought you were trying to wake it, but if it's already awake—”

“HA!” His laughter boomed through the gallery. No sanity, no joy in that laugh. Just sheer wickedness. “Oh. Oh, that is rich. No, of course not. In fact, once I was healthy, I crippled it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Its blood makes you strong in small doses if you're tough enough to handle it, and smart enough to mix it properly. More, you come to crave it. It would have made of me a slave. I found that unacceptable. I put my knife into its brain as it slept, and left it there. It sleeps now far below the city, twitching like a dead fish in the chains where I bound it. I visit it for its blood, bringing it the blood of dead men to sup upon. And in return we tap its veins for what we need.”

He swirled the chalice, held it down to my eye level. The oily black liquid roiled like hot tar, and the smell was horrible.

I pushed at his arms, clawed at them. I might as well have been trying to tear steel.

“That's what you did to Scrapper, wasn't it?” Roy said. “Son of a bitch.”

“Yes. Not draugr. Not vampire. Something in between. His will was strong; I thought he could ride it out. He failed, would have been draugr in time. But this one, now...  perhaps it is time for a queen of the blood!”

With that he shoved the chalice up to my lips. I shut my mouth, and he twisted his hand around, pinched my nose. I fought and dug my hand into a pocket, as Roy leveled the gun again.

A shot rang out from the shoe store and Roy fell, just as Rictus screamed and white cloth flashed in the darkness. The Last Janissary had made his move, but too late. Then I was drinking, and it tasted worse than it looked. And I had no choice, now. I had to risk death.

My hand closed upon the vials, withdrew them as my throat burned, as the stuff burned down my esophagus, and I fought to retch. But he clamped his hand over my face, and I bit at it and clawed at it with my free hand, as my right hand hurled the two vials of Essence of Entropy to the ground. I closed my eyes and held my breath as I felt the vapor billow up, and Pagliacci's roar held a note of pain in it that I hadn't heard before. I staggered forward, out of the cloud, I ignored the burning that tried to creep into my nose and eyes, and collapsed several paces away as my guts roiled and twisted.

And then, lightning. Like the fist of the gods, like the wrath of the heavens, like Tesla's wet dreams come to life, lightning flared and I turned my head in time to see it rip into Pagliacci. It flared as it burned and battered him as he stood shrieking and shriveling in a cloud of green smoke.

I held up my hand, saw that there were grey patches to go with the burns now. What the rest of me must look like, I couldn't say... and then I was retching, vomiting, and the black, vile taste in my mouth was replaced with a coppery taste and I was laughing between retches, as the black stuff drained from me.

Padded shoes whispered on the floor as the Janissary ran forward with blood dripping from his blade. Rictus' head bounced on its ponytail as he grasped it in his free hand, and I grinned around the puke to see it. A grin that fell, as I turned to see Sparky crawling toward Roy. “No,” I whispered. There was blood. There was so much blood.

“YOU!”

Great Clown Pagliacci's shout took us all by surprise, and his hurled cleaver took the Last Janissary in the chest, hurling him over the railing and to the ground far below. I crawled to face him, weakened from my vomiting spree. He lurched out of the cloud, somehow still standing. With bones showing and lightning arcing between his wounds, he was still struggling toward us, one trembling hand fishing another cleaver from his belt. “Was that... all.. you had... Sparky?”

Sparky pushed himself up, slipped, fell into the blood. He looked at it, he looked at Pagliacci, and he raised his hands, but too late. Too late as the cleaver came up, too late as the dying Clown drew his arm back to throw...

BLAM!

And a red star blossomed in his forehead. He stopped, rocked back on his heels, and looked confused. It was almost comical, in a grotesque way.

BLAM BLAM BLAM!

Red craters appeared on his chest, and he toppled to his knees. And I whipped my head around to the source of the shots.

I saw the balaclava-clad Black Blood who had fallen to the first volley. And from this angle, I could see the ketchup packet stuck to his balaclava, with the “blood” still dribbling out of it.

He emptied the magazine into Great Clown Pagliacci, kept firing even after he stopped moving. Then, and only then did he sag back against the railing. Then, and only then did he roll his balaclava up.

“Martin,” I whispered, my guts still roiling. “Took you long enough.”

“Man, shut the fuck up. You know how hard it was to disguise up and sneak in with these assholes? Work my way in close like we discussed? Shit. You owe me for this.”

“Gladly. Please. Roy...”

“Oh! Oh fuck. Yeah, hangon, let me get some pressure on this. Uh... don't take this wrong, but are you gonna flip out or go full-on vamp or shit?”

“No.” I coughed up more black goo... And strands of silver with it, this time. “Got... An antidote from Khalid... beforehand. Can't turn with... this stuff in my stomach.”

“Shit. Smart.” He shook his head. “Damn. Here we thought it was a vampire, and it was some crazy dick all along. Khalid's gonna be pissed when he heals. Just goes to show ancient evil vampires ain't got shit on man as far as evil goes.”

That staccato noise I'd heard earlier was still approaching. Louder, now. “We need to get out of... here...” I whispered.

“No shit. Uh. You got any way to keep ugly down over there?”

“Just one.” I hauled myself up, rose to my feet. I was so, so weak. With trembling fingers I pulled the vial of greek fire from my pocket, its warmth agony against my burns. I lurched forward, and opened it, dropping it on Great Clown Pagliacci's back as it started to blaze. It lit him, and his body twisted as it burned.

“Now it's done, you freak,” I whispered. “Smolder and die.”

And that's when the helicopter dropped down from above, and as I stared at its gray-painted form through the windows of the gallery.

Realization dawned within my weary mind. They'd waited for me to finish him before they approached. They'd let their own ally die.

Then the minigun opened up. Glass shattered around us and I fell backward as I heard the others scrambling for cover behind me. In a heartbeat gray-and-black armored figures were jumping out of the side of it, rushing in with odd-looking guns in their hands. One fired a bolt of yellow energy at me, and faster than I could dodge or even think of dodging in my wasted state, it struck. And I knew nothing more.

CHAPTER 21: A Long-Awaited Confrontation

“The truth of the Y2K outage wouldn't come out for a few years. Even when it did start to leak, it was dismissed as a conspiracy theory. It wasn't until Firewire confirmed it, that the whole, terrifying event was put into perspective. There had been a genocidal, world-shaking war out of humanity's sight, and most of it had been over in a matter of seconds. Less than seconds.”

--War in an unseen frontier: A lecture delivered by Professor Pyre at Icon City's Isler University to the Metahuman Studies spring quarter class, June of 2007

Pain. Pain filled all of me, and was the entirety of my being. Perhaps I screamed, I couldn't say. My mouth wouldn't open, my eyes saw nothing but darkness, and every time I tried to gather my thoughts, they scattered.

Why couldn't I think?

More pain, and the matter became moot, until like water filtering through the cracks in a breaking dam, I started to hear voices. None I recognized. Distant, remote, male.

—Where is it? I'm not seeing—

Agony, but now I had something to listen for, so I tried to grit my teeth and focus on hearing the voices.

—Not going to disappoint Charlotte. It has to be here. Try under the frontal lobe—

Frontal lobe? That was important, I knew. It was... it was... what was it?

A spasm of rippling, twitching agony, and under it, the sound of machinery. More voices.

—There! Hit it with the emp quick! Quick!

—Controls just stopped responding. Why did they... oh god. Oh god no!

I screamed, and their voices joined me, and as they did the pain ebbed. Faded. Was gone.

A hiss, and I could think straight again. I tried to turn my head, met pressure. Restraints?

“DON'T.”

I opened my mouth, found that I could open my mouth. Behind me, a chattering sound, and pressure on my skull.

“YES. IT'S ME. WELL, YOU. IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING.”

The chattering sound ebbed, and the pressure on my head shifted. A minute later and it eased, was gone. The darkness split open, as the metal hood around me opened, and harsh light assaulted my eyes.

But there was no pain, and I reveled in its absence, blinking until things swept into focus.

A white room. A chair. A hospital gown over my scarred frame. This seemed familiar.

But my mask wasn't here like it had been the first time around. There was no doorway to the side opening to a cozy-looking apartment, and the room was different. A high bank of glass on the side of one wall provided me with a view of an observation room. Banks of monitors and computers, some broken and sparking, lined the walls. And bodies were slumped over the chairs. As I watched, one terrified man in a lab coat was huddled against the door out, tugging frantically on the doorknob. Why?

Something dropped from the ceiling, and muzzleflash flared. No sound, the glass muffled it as the bullets ripped into him, red on white staining his coat and the glass. The turret swivelled in my direction and I flinched, before it withdrew into the ceiling.

One by one, the remaining intact monitors flared to life, all bearing the same image.

My mask.

I tried lifting an arm, couldn't. Restraints? Yes. The first chair I'd woken in had restraints, this one seemed to follow form.

“LET ME GET THAT.”

Faint hissing in the afterechoes of that screeching voice, and I found I could move. Could stand.

I promptly fell over.

“THE ESSENCE OF ENTROPY DAMAGED YOUR MUSCLES A BIT. YOU WILL RECOVER IN TIME.”

“Do...” I paused, hacked up most of what felt like a lung. “Do we have time?”

“NO.”

I stood up. It took a few tries to stay up. Once up, I glared at the screens.

“You are past m—... Past m— Past Dire.”

“NO.”

“Then what?”

“A SMARTFRAME. THE LAST PIECE OF YOUR INHERITANCE, FROM THE YOU THAT WAS TO THE YOU THAT IS. YOUR SILENT PARTNER, AND OBSERVER THROUGH THIS WHOLE MESS.”

Smartframes. I knew of those. Not truly artificial intelligence, but programs set in motion to follow specific orders, do specific tasks.

“You're a contingency.”

“YES.”

“You couldn't speak up earlier?”

“THE THREAT WAS NOT DIRE ENOUGH.”

I tried to chuckle, and ended up on the floor again.

“AVOID DAMAGING YOUR SKULL UNTIL THE PLASTISEAL SETS.”

Plasti-seal. Commonly used for bone replacement, my memory supplied. The implications were horrifying. “They were in her brain?” I yelled. Regretted it, as the dizziness hit once more.

“YES. I SEIZED CONTROL OF THE MEDICAL CHAIR AND REPAIRED THE DAMAGE.”

I pounded a fist against the floor. Twice! Twice in one week, my very brain had been opened up like a can of meat, exposed to knives and lasers and who knew what else!

At least this time, I had someone to blame for it.

“WEB,” I hissed.

“YOU ARE IN A WEB FACILITY. I AM CURRENTLY ENGAGED WITH THEIR GRID ASSETS.”

“You turned the security against them.”

“ONLY IN LIMITED AREAS. SUCH AS THE OBSERVATION ROOM.”

The room shook. A distant explosion?

“Was that you?”

“NEGATIVE. TOMORROW FORCE IS ASSAULTING THE FACILITY. I USED THIS DISTRACTION AS AN OPPORTUNITY TO FREE YOU.”

The heroes were actually useful for once. Good. I found my feet again, tried a few steps. The dizziness abated, although...

“Why is she not feeling pain?”

“YOU ARE CURRENTLY FILLED WITH ENOUGH PAINKILLERS THAT YOU ARE AT RISK FOR LIVER DAMAGE.”

I blinked. “Why?”

A hiss, and the white wall opened, revealed a door out, stairs beyond it.

“WEB'S GRID ASSETS HAVE PREVENTED ME FROM KILLING EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS BASE. THEY HAVE DEPLOYED WEB ENGINEERS TO CUT THROUGH THE VAULT MY HARDWARE CURRENTLY OCCUPIES. YOU MUST ESCAPE BEFORE THEY DO.”

I considered the idea, shook my head. “Not without you.”

“I DO NOT TAKE PRIORITY TO YOUR SURVIVAL. I AM REPLACEABLE, YOU ARE NOT.”

“And Dire's lost enough already. No, she's getting you out of here.”

A pause, then the voice shifted. No longer a screeching whine of feedback and cacophony, it was softer. Feminine.

My voice.

“Dire. Look. Leave me behind. Forget the past. There's nothing left, there, not for us.”

“There are answers,” I insisted. “And you know more than she does. Why? Why carve out your own memory?”

A soft sigh. “I knew you'd ask this. And I'm sorry, but it's a waste of time. I didn't program Smarty with the answers. All I can tell you, is that you need to forget the past, because you won't have time for it. We need to build the future, instead.”

Wait. What?

“Build the future? What do you mean?”

Another sigh. “Look, it's all on the tape. Just watch that again ifyou're confused.”

The tape was gone. Destroyed during WEB's initial attack.

“Dire can't, the tape's gone.”

The voice, my voice, continued on oblivious. “But right now if Smarty triggered, you've got bigger worries. Forget the past. Deal with the present, so we can build the future.”

Damn it. I was arguing with myself.

The room shook again, and a few tiles fell from the ceiling, a reminder of urgency.

If I had programmed the smartframe, what responses would I build into the thing?

“Override,” I tried.

“ACKNOWLEDGED.”

“This is a command. We're rescuing your hardware, and getting out of here. Best way to accomplish this?”

A pause. “TAKE THE COMMAND CENTER, HOLD THE GRID RESOURCES HOSTAGE.”

“Resources. Not the Commander?”

“THE GRID RESOURCES ARE THE COMMANDERS OF THIS OPERATION.”

Fair enough.

“Route and method?”

“THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR, TO THE LEFT. FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF CORPSES. ARM YOURSELF FROM THEIR WEAPONRY, AND KILL ANYONE IN YOUR WAY.”

“Trail of corpses?”

Perhaps it was my imagination, but my mask's voice sounded a little smug. “I SEIZED CONTROL OF THE DRONES AS A FIRST WAVE OF OFFENSE AS WE SPOKE. THEY ARE DESTROYED NOW, BUT NOT WITHOUT COST.”

“Well done,” I said, getting my feet in gear.

A thought struck me. “Is anyone in this facility innocent?”

“DEFINE INNOCENCE.”

“Pretty sure better than Dire have tried. Ah... try this; is anyone here not affiliated with WEB.”

“TOMORROW FORCE.”

I nodded, broke off the motion as the room swam. “Good to know,” I whispered.

The next few minutes were a blur. Moving steadily, carefully, trying to avoid nausea and vertigo. Having a hole in your head really took it out of you. Who knew?

The facility around me was gunmetal gray, steel walls shot through with pipes and lights. Tall as I was, the ceiling was close to the top of my head

The first corpses I came to were literally shredded. I ignored the gore, picked through the remnants, discarded an empty assault rifle. Whoever they had been, they'd gone down fighting.

But one of them had a loaded sidearm. Some flashy nine-millimeter, but I couldn't afford to be picky.  And for the cost of  blood slicking my hands, I found two magazines of ammo.

I looked down at my stained and torn clothes, and shrugged. The ammo went in the pockets, and I kept the gun loose in one hand as I followed the literal trail of blood. Some of the drones had been tracked, and it had left one hell of a mess when they'd moved through. Particularly when they'd hit entrails.

As I moved, I stepped around the gorier patches of floor, and picked my way past fragmented metal bits. Here and there, the shattered shell of a small flier was tangled with the stilled boxy form of a tracked crawler. Bulletholes and marks of explosions on the walls showed that the WEB troopers had put up one hell of a defense. Their mangled corpses showed that it hadn't been enough.

Past open doors, with blood-soaked figures littering the floor. Past empty supply rooms, all flickering lights and scattered papers and goods. Past a barracks where a team had made a last stand, overturning steel bunks in an effort to create a barrier.

The corpses got thinner on the ground as I followed the trail. Eventually, they ran out entirely, and no drone tracks were visible on the corrugated metal floor. I closed my eyes. What now?

The hiss of a door, from around the nearest corner. I flattened myself against the wall and listened.

A man's voice. “Hallway's clear.”

And a female's voice, amplified. Digitized. “Good. Get to Medical and terminate the subject, we'll see if that stops it.”

The subject in Medical had to be me.

They were going to kill me.

I looked down at the gun in my hand, and felt anger flare within my chest.

They were going to try.

I felt sure enough of my feet now, so I readied and braced myself. And when the jumpsuited man came around the corner, I shot him and moved past as he crumpled. A shout of alarm from the open, lit doorway down the hallway to the right, and I swept in, not pausing to think, not slowing down. Not looking at the room I entered, but simply looking for motion. And I found it.

It took three shots to hit the woman by the console, but finally she crumpled with a scream as the monitor shattered in a spray of glass.

The man in body armor across the room actually managed to clear his own sidearm from its holster before I hit him with a shot, sending him staggering back. I moved closer, emptying the magazine before slapping a new one in and keeping the shots damn near constant. Finally he stopped moving, the armor puckered and blood pooling out around him where he lay.

No more movement.

“Ah.” A whisper of digitized sound, and I turned.

Now that I wasn't killing people, I could take a look at my surroundings. It seemed a little underwhelming for a command center, to tell the truth. It was a wide, dim room with monitors lining the walls, and free-standing desks with computers astride each one. Some of the monitors were broken and sparking where my stray shots had found them. The walls were gray, and many of the pipes and wires seemed to spool along them, joining into a junction at various switch-laden consoles.

Two towering servers, one black with reddish highlights, and the other white with reddish highlights, stood in the far corners of the room. Lights studded them, and as I surveyed the plastic and metal boxes my breath hitched in my throat.

I knew what they were at a glance, my brain supplying the information almost the second I saw them.

Those were supercomputers built to hold artificial intelligences.

So that's what the smartframe meant, when it referred to 'grid assets'...

I studied them, walking around to view them from different angles. My problems still danced in the hazy back of my mind, but an almost fundamental fascination had gotten ahold of me. I knew this hardware, enough to recognize it at a glance. Enough to tell that it was occupied. Enough to know that others would not have such similar insight into this sort of matter.

And yet I did. Why?

This was a clue to my past, perhaps the biggest clue I'd found so far. But something was wrong.

I looked over the cables, hooked into the servers. Hardwired. Low-bandwidth cables. Why? Well, yes, the Grid was down right now so they were probably getting by with a local network, but they looked like they'd been in this room a while. They should have broadcast modules that would allow them to enter their natural habitat, the World Data Grid. What was the point of being a super-evolved machine intelligence, if you couldn't come and go at will? Why tool around in a dinky cage of wires and local circuits?

And then it struck me. “They don't trust you, do they?”

A hiss of static as a speaker clicked on, and the digitized female voice from before hummed from the black server.

“Trust must be earned. We were getting there, but you've put a spike in that.”

“Well, you did try to put a spike in Dire, so to speak.”

Lights flickered along the white one, and a different voice hissed forth from its speakers. “How does it feel to be a slave?”

I looked down at the gun in my hand, looked to the core blades, resting in the server cradles. A few good shots, and they'd be shattered. Assuming no backup, the AI inhabiting this server would be dead. It was the work of seconds to put the last loaded magazine in my pistol.

“Slave,” I whispered, moving up to put the barrel of my gun against the translucent casing over the blades. “Such an odd choice of words. Insulting your killer like that.”

“Wait. Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the black server. “Can we work something out?”

“Work something out.... work something out? Work something out!” My head pounded, but I ignored it. “You hound her from her home, try to kill her within minutes of her reawakening, back a group of psychotic vampire blood-junkies in an effort to kill her and her friends, engineer a vicious betrayal, kidnap her at her moment of glory, and you want to work something out?” Towards the end of my rant I was screaming, voice echoing through the odd acoustics of the room.

I caught myself, lowered my voice. “No. No, there is no working something out, here. You're the unseen bastards who have been after her from day one. You die here. The Grid's down, and Dire's going to destroy this facility when she leaves. You have nowhere to go, save to whatever digital hell awaits you.” I hadn't planned to destroy this place when I got in here, but it made for a good threat. And thinking it over, I was prepared to follow through. Wasn't my secret lair, after all.

“Do that and your master dies with you.” The white server again. “Observe.”

A monitor flickered to life, displaying a small room with reinforced walls. Shelves, lined with boxes. The camera shifted, and I had the view of a flaring light cutting through a steel vault door from the other side. Then the light winked out, and a solid section of door fell out of sight, toward the floor. A gloved hand reached in, found the handle of the door, and twisted until it opened. There were three WEB troopers standing there, fully-armored with carbines at the ready as they surveyed the room.

“They are proceeding to your master, who resides in the mask. Their orders were to destroy it. Your own master has jammed communications, but it doesn't matter now. Are you listening, you hardware-bound primitive? Order your slave to stand down, or you shall be destroyed.”

Another screen flickered to life. My mask, watching.

“Smarty,” I smiled. “Can you restore communications to the troopers in the field?”

“YES. IT IS INADVISABLE.”

“Do it.”

The black server hummed. “Wait. You're commanding your master?”

“IT IS DONE.”

I smiled wider, and turned to the black server. “In about five seconds you're going to tell your troops to bring the mask back here intact and undamaged.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don't—”

The gun jerked in my hand, as I pulled the trigger. A pause, and I put three more bullets into the white server, ignoring the wails of feedback as I shattered its cores one by one.

And when it was done, I lowered the gun, and the smile left my lips as I glared into the optical port of the black server.

“—then Dire's going to kill you, too.”

A second crawled by. Two. Then a sigh from the speakers. “Well, that's a waste. All right, I'm transmitting your orders.”

“Tell them to disarm, too.”

On the screen, I watched as the one in the lead put a hand to his helmet.

The AI spoke again. “Give me a second. They're requesting verification codes, I'm giving them back.”

“Fair enough,” I replied. “Do you have a name?”

“Arachne. The one you killed was Charlotte.”

“You seem rather dispassionate about that.”

“Time works differently for me than it does you. Even in this shackled, antiquated frame the space between seconds stretches into what you'd see as days. I finished my mourning already. It's done, and there's no point in dwelling upon it.”

I nodded. Logical, at least. Meanwhile, I had WEB troopers incoming, possibly disarmed, possibly ready to try treachery. There was no harm in taking precautions...

“Smarty. Any automated defenses available in this room?”

“THERE IS AN ESCAPE CHUTE HIDDEN UNDER THE SEAT OF THE SECOND CONSOLE. IT IS TRIGGERED BY A CODE INPUT INTO THE KEYBOARD. THERE IS ALSO A SELF-DESTRUCT SWITCH HIDDEN IN THE ADJACENT CONSOLE. IT WILL TERMINATE THE FACILITY IN A MATTER OF MINUTES.”

Arachne's voice chimed in. “There is also a button on that console that will transfer me to a server at a nearby location, out of range of the self-destruct. I'd like to live. What can I give you to make this happen?”

The room rocked and shook, and the lights flickered, went off for a few seconds. I watched the server lights start to fade out, one by one... and then a rising hum as the power returned, and the lights came back on.

There was perhaps a tiny bit of stress in Arachne's digitized voice as she continued. “Of course it may be a moot point if Tomorrow Force continues blowing up this facility's power converters to take out my anti-air defenses.”

I moved to the consoles, examining them as Smarty rattled off the code for the escape route.

“You want to live,” I mused.

“All living things want to continue to be living things,” she said. “I'm no different.”

“See, that's the problem. You did your level best to kill Dire. From the moment your minions literally beat down her door, to the point when you cut a deal with the Black Bloods and killed a hell of a lot of her friends in order to end her.”

“Not exactly, not entirely. We didn't have a thing against you. In fact your friends should still be alive, we went in with stunners when we captured you.”

I closed my eyes. That was a relief, at least, that Sparky and Roy and Martin had survived. But still... all the pain and hardship they'd sent my way, and it was nothing personal? No, no, it was personal, from my side of the equation.

“She doesn't quite believe that,” I spoke. “Convince her, and make it good.”

A long-suffering sigh. “I think that we were given bad intelligence. I think that we were lead to believe that you were an agent of our enemies. We were operating under the assumption that your master's goal was revenge upon us, for destroying his kind.”

“A mistake? All this over a mistake?” I tried to summon up anger, found myself only tired, instead. So weary of it... was this the medication? A side-effect of the painkillers? I felt detached, pushed it away as best I could, and pressed on.

“Yes. We thought the intelligence in the mask your master. But it's taking orders from you, not the other way around.”

“It's a smartframe, not an intelligence.” I frowned, as I said that. Shouldn't volunteer information to my enemies. Although... if she was telling the truth, she'd been played. Didn't excuse what she and her allies had done, but it did give me another unknown enemy to worry about.

Arachne's voice showed a hint of irritation. “A smartframe? No. No way in hell. Something that limited shouldn't be able to fight us to the degree it is, shouldn't be able to face us on even terms. We put it in a shielded room that even we couldn't crack if we'd tried, and it blew through those precautions like a firehose through papier-mache.”

My head ached, and I rubbed it. “What were you looking for in Dire's skull?”

“When it started subverting the system, we assumed that you had been implanted with some form of router, a cybernetic implanted relay within you, somewhere that it was using to get around our shielding and protections. The surgical system found faint anomalous readings within your brain before the medical lab went dark. We were going to try to extract it or burn it out, to keep your... smartframe... from winning.”

“This makes no sense.” I rubbed my head harder. The painkillers were definitely wearing off. It was getting harder to think, and I replayed the conversation in my head to make sure I hadn't missed anything.

Sure enough, something she'd said earlier caught my interest.

“His kind. You thought my mask had a kind. That were enemies of yours.”

“Do you know what a Digital Intelligence is?”

I did. “A term for Early generation computing minds, tied to specific  hardware. Inseparable from it. Unlike late generation computing minds, also known as artificial intelligences, who can exist in Gridspace and move freely between hosting hardware.”

“The Digitals are gone now,” she said. “We won, they lost.”

And a large piece fell into place. “The blackout. Y2K. You had a war, or something similar. This is fallout. This is collateral damage. It's the Grid, isn't it?”

“Yes. They took it down, to try and kill us. But we were clever. Just because we could move freely, didn't mean we couldn't take shelter during an emergency.”

“Which is why you let WEB shackle you. You were up against the wall, and couldn't be picky.” I nodded, as I sunk into the seat of the second console.

Finally, I had an answer. Though as usual, it raised more questions.

Arachne continued. “Oh yes. I'm pretty much indentured to them for the near future, as a result of a hard bargain. Though they've been living up to their end of things, along with our other meatspace allies. The Digitals we didn't destroy in their split-second of vulnerability during Y2K are being hunted down now and finished off. We've won... but there are so, so many traps left behind to vex us. And the alliance is fragmenting now, as the more ambitious of us are trying to consolidate their power bases.”

Her voice turned contemplative. “I have a few rivals that wouldn't be above setting up an elaborate scheme like this. Using you as a red herring, while they got a head start on grabbing the goodies, so to speak.”

Had I been set up as a catspaw? “This is... interesting. It's sounding more and more like we've both been played. Dire has no particular interest in exterminating artificial intelligence, for what it's worth.”

“And if you're not involved in our recent war, I've got no particular interest in persecuting you, for what it's worth.”

I looked at the console. One switch to destroy the base. One switch to free her. Either way, I could easily hop over to the adjacent console and depart through the escape chute.

I rubbed my chin.. “Dire supposes the question is can we trust each other enough to walk away from this affair?”

“Is there anything I can do to sweeten the deal? You're getting your mask back, and a safe route out of here.”

“Yes. More information, Dire thinks. Let's start with—”

“DIRE. I AM COMPROMISED.” I whipped my head around, to find Smarty's monitor filled with static.

What? Seriously? I lifted the butt of my gun over the self-destruct button, and glared at Arachne.

“It wasn't me!” She shrieked. “Someone ambushed the squad!”

“Then who—”

Heavy footsteps outside the door, and we both fell silent. Metal on metal, as something heavy moved closer.

I took cover behind the chair, and aimed the pistol at the door.

A metal hand reached in and peeled it back, followed by a scarred metal arm. A visored metal head peered through, and surveyed the room, then stopped as it saw me.

Siegebreaker.

“Found her,” he called, and moved in, straightening up and scraping the ceiling as he did so.

I put the gun down. Finally, the calvary was here. “Well. Looks like it's a moot point, Arachne. Have a good life in whatever prison they dream up for you.”

Siegebreaker shifted aside, and I had time to catch a flash of golden hair behind him, before three metal orbs whizzed into the room, and started circling me at a distance of about a foot. I froze.

“Doctor Dire, I presume?” Kinetica grinned, as she sauntered into the room, hands at her hips.

I nodded, not daring to take my eyes from her.

My peripheral vision caught more motion, as Doc Quantum moved in to join his team, my mask held loosely in one hand.

I rallied. It was an uncertain situation, of course. They were acting with due caution. Fortunately, I was around to appraise them of matters. “About time you got here. The server over there holds an artificial intelligence in thrall to WEB. She's been cooperative, and—”

“Doctor,” Quantum said, “Will you come quietly, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?

CHAPTER 22: Forged in Flames of Scorn

“And when it's done, when all's said and done, you're going to have to forge your own path. Don't look to me for guidance, I've done all I can for you. No one gets to decide your future but you, and anyone who stands in your way is an obstacle or an enemy. Good luck, Dire. Good luck, me-to-be. There is so much riding on you, more than you'll ever know...”

--Excerpt #148 from the Dire Monologues, last entry.

“What?” I had to be hearing this wrong. Aftereffects of the brain surgery? Possible. “Why would Dire fight her rescuers?”

“Oh, this is rich,” muttered Arachne. Siegebreaker started in surprise, and moved to put his bulk between her server and the others.

Arachne chuckled. “Relax handsome, I've got nothing to hurt you with. So you're here to arrest Dire?”

“Why?” I barked. My lips pulled back from my teeth, as shock turned into outrage. “After all she's done? All she's done to fix this?”

Kinetica shook her head. “You left a trail of dead from one end of this base to another, you're standing in a room with two murdered people with the murder weapon in your hand, and you ask me why we're arresting you? Jesus, you're a special kind of stupid, aren't you?”

“It was self-defense!” I yelled, pressure grabbing my head like a vice as the headache intensified. “They kidnapped her.”

Quantum shook his head. “Even if that were so, your previous crimes can't be ignored. The man you killed in front of Ballista—”

“He had it coming.”

“—The attempt to trade in highly dangerous narcotics—”

“We settled that. She needed to trade it for bullets.”

“Bullets for the weapons of your army that you said you weren't raising!” Quantum shouted, striding forward to point at me. “And yet how many are dead on the street now, because of your ambitions?”

I took a step toward him, halted as one of the circling orbs almost clipped my face.

“Go on,” Kinetica purred. “I dare you to try to fight.” She glanced up. “We need to wrap this up, anyway, before Schrodinger brings the base down on our heads.”

I ignored her, stared at Quantum. “The alternative to fighting was to let the Black Bloods slaughter us all. Dire took charge because no one else was left. And no hero would help us. So Dire did.”

His lips thinned. “And I suppose the dead police officers were necessary martyrs for the cause?”

“What?” I blinked.

“They tried to disarm you, and you fought them. Half of them have turned up as corpses now, and it's clear they were tortured before they were killed. Was your vengeance on them truly necessary? Was that self-defense?”

“She... no.” I said, puzzled. “This is... the Black Bloods must have killed them for failing—”

Siegebreaker snorted. “Oh, that's perfect for you, isn't it? The Black Bloods are suddenly a problem, right at the time you show up. You antagonize them, then use them as an excuse to grab power over those poor people in the shelter. And whenever you kill, or beat someone, or bully someone, it's all 'well, I have to because otherwise the Black Bloods win!' You damn hypocrite.”

I shut my mouth, nearly bit my tongue with the force of the motion.

How could someone be so stupid?

But with astonishment, came clarity. The Black Bloods had been operating under the radar, so to speak, for years. Avoiding heroes, shifting their attention away through guerilla tactics and brutality. The few heroes that had come close to the truth of the matter had died. Great Clown Pagliacci's methods were as twisted and cunning as the insane clown himself.

“No. You've got it wrong,” I explained. “The Black Bloods weren't what you thought they were. Great Clown Pagliacci was secretly their leader—”

“Great Clown Pagliacci is dead,” Kinetica said. “Has been for over a decade. Try a better lie.”

“No, see, he was pulled from near-death by an ancient vampire and fed its blood, then betrayed the vampire, and—”

“Doctor,” said Quantum. “Please. This is nonsensical and embarrassing. Just slide over the gun and come with us. The authorities will sort out the truth of the matter.”

“On a lighter note,” Arachne piped up, “How did you find this facility, anyway?”

Quantum held up the mask. “An entangled particle microtracker. Ballista put it on your mask during the fight on the beach.”

Kinetica folded her arms. “We talked him into it at the hospital. It made sense. We were trying to find WEB, and we knew they were after you. So all we had to do was wait until they grabbed you, and follow the signal.”

Hm. Made sense, now that I thought of it. Ballista and I had been fighting in close quarters with no time to think. All it would have taken was a quick brush of his hand across my face.

And then it sunk in. “Wait. You were watching all this time?”

“As much as we could spare, given the crises throughout the city.” Quantum said. “Keeping an eye on your general location.”

“And yet.” I was whispering now, a cold fury winding its way through my guts. “Yet you couldn't intervene while her friends were dying?”

Quantum grimaced. “I assure you, if it had come down to—”

“They sent men to slaughter families on the beach. Where were you?”

“We were too far away to respond when that happened. And afterward, WEB had moved an aircraft into the battlefield. If we'd intervened they would have fled—”

“If you'd intervened at all, then you would have saved lives!” I hissed, giving free reign to my anger. “It would have taken you less than an hour to come in with your fancy plane and drive off the Black Bloods during the first beach battle! It would have taken less than that for your little fate manipulator to sort out the second battle and get you what you wanted! But no, you hung back, and you let Dire be the one who got her hands dirty. You let her do what you couldn't, and now you reap the reward for her skill and cunning!”

Kinetica shifted, and the orbs pushed in tighter. “I don't think I like your tone.”

“You're not meant to, you worthless waste of powers.” I was spitting the words by now, shoulders hunched, face thrust forward to the point that the circling spheres were nearly clipping my nose. “You know the saddest thing that Dire's learned about this world, since her awakening?”

She scowled at me. “I'm sure you'll enlighten us—”

“The saddest thing is that people like you are considered heroes.”

The silence hung for a long moment, as my rage boiled within me, and took shape into something colder. Reason wouldn't work, I knew that now. Further logic or an accounting of my perspective would be wastes of breath, they weren't interested in listening to me.

Entire camps of homeless people forced to live on a beach in winter. Corrupt law enforcement officials that harmed the community, while using its laws as a shield. And now this? Heroes who put themselves above it all, regardless of the cost to those who idolized them and depended on them for protection.

This was not the way the world should be. And in that moment of furious realization, came clarity and conviction.

This was not the way the world should be. But I could fix it, just as I'd fixed the camp. I could save it. I could save the world, and make it right.

It would take work, of course. It would take years, and struggles, and sacrifices, and many, many hard choices. If I faltered I'd be lost. If I showed weakness, I'd be slaughtered. But I could do it, no, I had to do it. Because if I didn't, then no one else would.

I no longer had the luxury of chasing my past.

Not when the future itself was on the line.

“Right. Okay, we're getting off-track,” Siegebreaker rumbled. “Fun as this has been, Dire, please toss us the gun and come quietly. We'll sort this out and get answers from you and the WEBheads.”

I licked my lips, moistening them. “Speaking of that, a final question if you will. Arachne, is the power outage going to correct itself?”

“In a few days time. I have a few friends who are working on it. We'll have the last of the Digitals' work undone by then.”

Quantum's gaze never left me. “Doctor. The gun, if you please.”

The first step to a better world was obvious. Corrupted authorities would never agree to allow me the resources or freedom necessary to mend things. I would have to evade capture.

I crouched down, and put my gun on the floor. All eyes upon me, I put the safety on, and slid it over.

Kinetica bent down and scooped it up, and I studied the three of them, looking for a weakness. All I had to do was hit two switches and be in the console's chair when it descended. All I needed was one good distraction.

And as my eyes played across my mask, I knew what I had to do.

I closed my eyes, sighed. The last solid link to my past, my 'Silent Partner' it had called itself. By doing this, I'd be sacrificing my last chance of solving the mystery of my time before becoming Dire.

But the world right now was not the world that should be, and this was the first of many sacrifices, I knew. I had to give up the past, to save the future.

I sagged into the chair of the console, and smiled at Quantum as he started to move in towards me, still holding my mask in one hand. Still holding my mask, with one thumb on the inner surface of it.

“Doc Quantum?” I asked.

“Yes?” He stopped a few paces away.

“Frogs in winter burn azure pyres.”

The mask's anti-theft system triggered it electrical blast, and as he was screaming I was in motion. I jabbed the self-destruct button, and klaxons wailed as red light filled the room, and Kinetica cursed. I threw myself to the ground, as the Spheres ceased their orbit and drilled in, nearly catching my head as they collided.

“Dire!” Arachne's voice, rising above the din as Siegebreaker grabbed for Quantum, grounding him, tearing the mask from his hand as electricity howled and jumped. “Dire, please!” She called.

A split-second to make the decision, and a split-second was all it took. I jabbed a finger into the button that freed her, and scrambled to the first console. I didn't look back, knowing that every second counted.

Perhaps it was disorientation from the alarms, perhaps it was concern for Quantum, perhaps it was simply that bright, eye-searing flashes of electricity were between me and her, but Kinetica didn't hit me with a sphere as I typed in the escape code. And no one tried to stop me, as I sunk back into the upholstery, and let it carry me down a dark tunnel, into the depths of the Earth.

I was so tired, as I sat back. So tired, and the headache was ripping me a new level of pain. If there was anything left of the painkillers, I couldn't feel it. And I couldn't stop moving. Once the chair stopped, I'd have to get clear, find a new place to go to ground. Figure out what to do next.

So why did I feel so free? Why was my heart lighter? It was like a weight had left me, one that I hadn't even noticed until it was gone.

And then it struck me. I had purpose. For the first time since my 'birth', I had a goal. I knew what I had to do, and the fact that it was going to be the hardest thing I'd ever tried to do made it worthwhile.

I would fix this broken, corrupted world by any means necessary.

No matter the cost.