As I turn the key and push open the creaky door into the apartment, I’m greeted by the smell of beef and the soft crackle of something cooking on a skillet. I hang my jacket on a small hook on the wall and make my way over to the kitchenette attached to our central room, where I find my eccentric roommate cooking some kind of stir-fry.
“Didn’t you have dinner at your thing?” I ask the bear of a woman currently chopping various vegetables on our counter. 6’6” and over 200 lbs. of rippling muscle, Latasha Thorton, aka Rhea, has got to be the most physically intimidating person I know. I’ve met scarier and more dangerous individuals by the dozen, but she sure looks the part. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve seen her in battle before. Some supes are frankly inhuman.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, Mags cooked for me, but it’s been a few hours and I knew you’d come back hungry,” She replies, turning and grinning at me in a way that is terrifying given the nasty scar running down her face, “besides, it feels nice to be doing something while I’m still recovering.” She wiggles her left arm slightly to demonstrate, as much as she can given the sling it’s currently in. By now, time and a supe’s adaptability have conspired to make even the grievous wounds she endured near disappear, but remnants still remain. She continues to keep her arm in the sling when not out and about, and while I can't see it now, I know she still walks with a limp.
“Is that so,” I calmly reply as I slink into my room to drop a few things before coming back into the kitchen, “Everything go okay? I know it’s been years since you last saw her.”
“As well as it could!” Latasha barks a dry laugh, “She didn’t take me back or anything. She actually has a wife now, believe it or not. A hero too - guess she’s got a bit of a type. But she didn’t throw me out or refuse to talk, and I didn’t expect any more than that. And you? This is later than I expected, you meet somebody cute or something?”
“Not in the sense you mean,” I reveal as I reach into the fridge for a soda, “I’m late ‘cause I ran into some trouble.”
“What kind?” Latasha asks, voice dropping into a serious tone.
“A hero, a damned, and a reaper,” I reply, “In that order. I’m fine, but if I disappear in the next week then assume it was probably Jonathan Alston.”
Thwack! Latasha slams her knife down into the board much more forcefully than before and glowers menacingly at the poor vegetables. I notice with a start that the entire time she hasn't been using a cutting knife, but instead a long, dark colored dagger that faintly thrums with barely restrained force. Hells, is she using one of her charms to make dinner?
“What did he do?” She asks in a quivering voice that betrays her hidden rage.
“Nothing!” I hurry to reply, “Just threw some threats around. He probably won’t act on them, he knows better than that. It’s fine, really.” Latasha may be injured, but she’s still the type to throw down with very dangerous people at a moment's notice, and she has a long track record of doing precisely that on my behalf. It’s probably best if she doesn’t hear the entire story.
“It’s not fine,” She seethes, “You need to stop letting powerful people push you around just because they could kill you if they tried. There are rules here, and goddammit but he will follow them or so help me I will remind him exactly who ran from whom at White Sands.”
“I know,” I tell her, my voice tenser at the unwelcome reminder of my past, “I told him as much, if more concisely. I’m serious, I don’t actually think he’ll hurt me.” A moment or two of tense silence passes in the room, broken only as a timer loudly goes off on Latasha’s phone sitting on the counter. She curses under her breath, then quickly moves what she was chopping over to the stove and dumps it into the skillet.
“Food will be ready in a few, if you want some,” Latasha informs me with her back still turned. I take that for the hint it is and turn to leave, heading back into my room.
Inside is just how I left it: sparsely decorated and boring. A bed is pushed up against one corner beneath the singular window. At its foot is a small dresser, and a desk I’ve never once used is set up across from it.
The apartment is rather nice, all things considered. Spacious and comfy. But we’ve only been living here for about a week and I didn’t have much to start. Anything I wanted to bring from my old home I had to carry several thousand miles through harsh wilderness and even harsher settlements. As such, I only brought a few keepsakes: a picture of me from my 18th birthday, a bough of rowan from the tree I was named after, and a small quartz prism given to me as a gift when my ability first manifested.
That last one I pick up and slowly run my fingers over as I plop down onto the bed. It’s been over a decade since I got it; the friend that gave it to me is long dead, like so many others. I don’t even really remember her, not her face or what she was like. But the small trinket means so much, simply because of the small rebellion that it was to keep it.
Then a memory of that day comes into my head, then another and another. Images flash through my mind: multicolored flames, the feeling of bone shattering beneath my fists, that horrible smile… it’s all too much. But then I breathe, in and out. In and out. I clasp the prism in my hand and focus on it, let it ground me. It’s all I can do, just those two things, but after a moment it begins to fade. The memories dissipate, and slowly but surely the panic does too. I let out a shuddering breath and lean back against the wall.
“Fuck…” I mutter under my breath. Another panic attack narrowly avoided; at least the methods Doc recommended are working. It’s been almost a year since I last saw that hellhole, but even now I still find every little thing reminds me of what… that man did. What he made me do. Doc said that adaptability would take care of it, eventually. That once I felt safe, the most debilitating parts of my trauma would be carved from my psyche by a superhuman's natural defenses, and I could begin to heal. I’m starting to wish we could've brought him with us. God knows I still need therapy, and lots of it.
I sigh and force myself to sit up, reaching over to place the prism back on my drawer where it belongs. I glance over at my clock as I do: 9:34 pm. It’s mid-fall, so it’s been dark for a while, but it’s still pretty early, all things considered. I went to the bar at seven, but I could’ve sworn the whole thing took longer than it did. Maybe it was the stressfulness of it all.
“Food is ready!” A voice startles me - Latasha’s, coming from the other room.
“Coming!” I reply. Turning towards the door, I mentally reset myself. It wouldn’t do to let Latasha see how off I was a second ago, she might actually kill somebody.
Finally ready, I open my door.
—
As one travels further up the dome-shaped headquarters of the Bureau, one often finds the hallways begin to shrink, a fact that normally causes no issue, but is rather annoying in my case. Keeping my wings at full length isn’t just an intimidation tactic, it’s more… comfortable, in a way. I don’t ‘feel’ the feathers in the same way I might be able to feel my limbs, but I am acutely aware of their physical state at all times. Moving them at all out of shape, even for combat, is just generally less comfortable. A small worry, as entering the Roost immediately provides me with more room to spread out.
The many birds which make this room their home are immediately agitated by my presence. They squawk and flutter about noisily as I make my way to the center, and many fly away rather than allow me to get too close. Animals don’t like me, especially small ones. There are many reasons I’ve heard over the years for why that happens. Some say it’s because they sense an apex predator, or just something unnatural. Others say I’m simply too large and shiny, and that annoys them. I never really cared. It’s been that way ever since I first developed Angel, and I’m used to it by now.
“Sir,” The elder who watches over the city dutifully greets me, “What may I help you with this fine night?”
“A few matters,” I reply, “What is the status of number forty-three seventy-eight?”
“Still in the city,” The Birdkeeper provides, “More active after dark. He’s currently prowling the docks, perhaps searching for targets.”
“Keep me posted, we should handle him soon,” I order him as I sit myself down on one of the couches provided in the room. A small bluejay flees from my path.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Will do, sir. Are you thinking of letting the boy take this one? He’s due his first mission,” The spymaster launches a crow off from his hand and out a window into the night.
“Perhaps,” I say, noncommittal, “Any suspicious movement from the Titaness?”
“She returned to her apartment in the early evening, and I informed Dr. Hennessy of the current situation. The other one just arrived as well, not more than a few minutes ago, but neither have done anything strange.”
“Her charity case?” I murmur, “I met the girl today. Didn’t much care for her. Bring me her file, I should review it.” He hands me a small envelope, which I open. I skim the several papers inside briefly, catching up on what’s changed. Everything seems in place: she recently assumed a villain name and got into a few fights, escaping from custody later. As expected. Then a new note under ‘known relationships’ catches my eye.
“She was involved with him?” I ask incredulously, “How did we not know this? That’s a grave oversight, Birdkeeper. It might’ve changed the Council’s decision.”
“Many apologies, sir,” The old man bows to show humility, “It’s hard to learn of someone’s past when nobody speaks of it. We already knew there was a possible connection, through the Titaness, but that particular detail comes only from the word of the Empress in the South. She may just be trying to stir up trouble.”
"She always is,” I reply, “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Keep watch on her as well, same protocol as the Titaness. I need to know if she’s still in contact with him, or if he’s the one she’s fleeing from.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” The Birdkeeper moves to grab another crow, and sends it off, “Is there anything else you need?”
“What do you know about a hero named ‘Frontrunner’?” I ask, still reading the file I already had. Better to deal with such chores now.
“Young Charlie?” The old man sounds surprised. I look up to see worry on his face, “A kind girl, I hope she hasn't gotten into any trouble.”
“She has, not that it matters to you,” I chastise the man, “Don’t tell me the Heron Hunter of all people is going soft.”
“I’m an old man now,” He smiles kindly at me, “I’m allowed to be a little worried for the youngin’s, now aren’t I? No need to bring up my rebellious youth. If you must know, Charlie’s an excellent young hero, no cause for concern. She’s got a wonderful ability, a good heart, and even a well-respected family: she’s Colonel Gardner's daughter.”
“Fred’s wife?” I ask, “Interesting. Seems it really is a small world. Tell the Colonel I want to meet with her, and engage protocol Owl on the girl.”
“Owl? Oh dear, she really is in trouble isn’t she?” The old man sighs and replaces his worried look, but moves to obey.
“That depends on her,” I assert, “But rest assured that I have no intention of harming Fred's only daughter unless I absolutely have to.”
“That does put me at ease,” Agrees the Birdkeeper, “Anything else you need me to do, sir?” I watch him silently for a moment, considering.
Then, all of a sudden, I will a single feather to slam into the floorboards at the edge of the room with a resounding thunk. The old man flinches at the noise, and several dozen birds panic and fly higher into the rafters away from me. Just beneath the feather, something wriggles for a moment, then stops. Something large, many-legged, and rather quite hairy.
“Just to keep an eye out for pests,” I tell him. He recovers quickly from his surprise and looks over at what I killed.
“Is that a goliath bird eater? Rather on the nose for the Entomologist; I must have agitated him. Many apologies, sir, I’ll be more careful in the future,” The Birdkeeper lifts up the dead spider as I remove my feather. He tosses it up into the air and a falcon or some other bird of prey swoops down to snatch it up.
“Good. That will be all,” I say, standing and turning to leave.
“Defy the Prophet, sir,” The veteran hero calls out in farewell.
“I’m trying, old friend,” I reply, “As hard as I can.”
—
“Everything okay over here, mister?” The young boy in the neon green costume asks, his face marked by suspicion.
“Just peachy, kid, unless being cold is somehow illegal now,” I bark at him. It’s a chilly night, and working the graveyard shift down by the docks is always a shitty job. So I might look a little odd, smoking by the side of an old warehouse, alone in the dark, but I deserve a break just like everybody else! This hero - if you can even call him that - should really learn to mind his own business.
“If you say so, mister,” The boy turns and strolls off into the dark, looking back at me as if he expects me to start shooting fireballs or something the moment he lets his guard down. Damn jumpy kids. A real hero would be one thing, might even make some of the younger men feel safer about being out so late, but this brat? He looks like a high-schooler, not more than sixteen or seventeen, and the inexperience shows.
“Smalls! Get back to work, you lazy ass!” The foreman - a fat, mean, stump of a man - yells an order at me from the loading dock. I sigh and put out my cigarette, strolling over to where the rest of the crew are busy moving crates off the boat and into the empty warehouse.
Time was that large dockyards like this one would’ve unloaded ships the size of entire city blocks and filled with massive shipping containers as large as trucks. Now most port business is small business, just people taking advantage of how so many cities are on the coasts these days. Not like just anybody can get permission to sail past the cloudwall to trade in Africa or Europe, even if they wanted to.
I grab a crate and lift, finding it delightfully light. A clank from the inside reveals why: it’s a shipment of synth metals. Some insane bastards found out early on they could replicate abilities by investing billions into studying just a few, and since then all kinds of bullshit materials have entered the markets. These crazy light, crazy strong bits of steel are probably gonna build heavy machinery or something. I don’t care. All I care is that it’s easy to move.
“What did that hero want?” One of the younger men asks me as we carry our crates into the warehouse. He’s young for this job, maybe twenty or so. Clean shaven and soft.
“Just lookin’ around,” I tell him, “Don’t get all panicky now, he’s prob’ly just on patrol. All you gotta remember is that if a villain does show up, they can’t fire you for runnin’.” The poor sap pales at that, considering the possibility. I laugh loudly in his face.
“Relax, that ain’t gonna happen,” I assure him, “I’ve been here seven years, only ever seen it twice. Both times not one person got hurt but the villain and the heroes that stopped them. Jesus, kid, grow a pair.” I say that last part as he doesn’t seem quite convinced, then leave in huff. I knew the hero would make somebody nervous, same way a cop snooping around gets people on edge. Especially people like us - you don’t get a job moving crates in the dead of night without being at least a little down on your luck.
I set the crate down, and turn back to go grab another one when I notice something weird. One of the men - Aaron, a long-time veteran and a solid man - has stopped, somewhere between the warehouse and the ship, and is staring slack-jawed at something out in the night.
“Yo, big A!” I call out to him, “What’s up? You see somethin’?”
“M-m-m-m…” He stutters, eyes big as dinner plates.
“M? M what? Is it a mouse?” I joke, causing a few of the guys to chuckle.
“Murder!” He screams, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground. That kicks us all into high gear, and I hear several crates drop as everyone rushes to see what he’s looking at. I reach him second, and the man before me is already frozen too, staring ahead.
When I see what they see, I immediately understand the fear. It flows through me, ice cold, stopping me like a deer in headlights. Completely frozen. I’ve felt fear before, fear like this. I lived through the Upheaval, was fighting age during the reign of the Prophet. I spent two years in SoCal, battling the rebellion. I know fear like this all too well: the fear a man faces when he looks death in the eye - death in superhuman form.
A dozen arms, if not more, sprout from the man’s back, each dark as night. Some are normal size, others giant, and a few more still of infant-like proportion. Of the two largest, one is wrapped around the head of his victim - the boy hero from earlier. The massive hand covers his face entirely, but too much blood drips down for it to be anything else: his skull was crushed, broken open like a watermelon.
The other large hand is tearing open a crate, almost absentmindedly, as the villain doesn’t even look as he does it. Two smaller hands hold it down while the larger tears open the wood with ease. The hands greedily pull out bars of the synth metal, squeezing them so tightly that even the overly strong substance creaks and bends.
Lazily, blinking like a man who just woke up, the villain turns his head away from the limp corpse of the hero and towards us. Upon the realization that he’s looking at me, I decide now’s the time to do something. I have to flee, or I die.
“Villain!” I shout, warning the others and trying to shock them from the same stupor I was just under, “Run! Run for your fucking lives!” Just like that, I’ve done all I can. I book it in the other direction, fear carrying me forward faster than I’ve ever run before. I’m no hero, even with an anti-SAU gun and a squad at my back this would be an uphill battle. Staying now would be suicide, and I have a family to get back to. So I book it, screw this job, screw the others, I refuse to die here today. A few people already started running when I shouted, that’ll have to be enough to settle my conscience.
Then my world becomes pain. Pain and nothing but pain, especially in my legs, as I fall to the ground hard enough that my arm shreds on the rough concrete. My vision goes red on the edges, or maybe that’s something else, something a deep, dark red scattered around me. A man rushes by me, not stopping to help. I reach weakly for him.
But then he explodes, or part of him does. There’s so much blood and everything hurts too much to be able to think. He falls too, and doesn’t move. Something catches a bit of light from the dockyard, gleaming as it sits in his torn-up corpse. I hear screaming, laughing, someone retching. All I feel is pain.
Then something rolls me onto my back. A massive black hand hovers over me, as the villain crawls his way across the ground on a dozen small hands towards me. Several more reach off past my vision, and I hear crunching and more screams.
“A valiant effort,” The man cackles, “but I never miss a throw.” I groan weakly. The hand comes down, pressing down on my chest. I can’t breathe, can’t move, everything hurts. Something breaks inside me, and pain replaces every sense I have. My vision dims, then fades to black.
Maybe that’s just my luck, but I wish there’d been a real hero here today.
