“You remember what we talked about?” I asked her.

“Yeah. I won’t pull any punches. I know this is important,” Vivienne answered.

I didn’t notice from the back seat, but she’s dressed differently. It looks like my words got through to her. She’s taking this more seriously. Vivienne’s wearing leather pants, a cropped black hoodie with a black undershirt, and combat boots. I follow her toward the elevator until she stops suddenly, heading to the emergency exit stairs. There’s a vending machine and one of those garbage cans with an ashtray next to them. I fish a plastic bag out of the trash and buy two sodas and some snacks from the machine. Vivienne looks confused at my actions but doesn’t question me. I place my purchases inside the bag and tie it closed as we begin our climb.

The only sounds in the stairway are our boots and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above. My body falls into a steady rhythm as we climb the floors. Vivienne opens the door to the fifth floor, and we enter a run-down hallway. The carpet on the floor has so many stains I can’t tell what the original color was, and the floor creaks with every step. The paint on the walls is a nauseating bright orange, the color of cheese puffs, and it’s peeling away due to mold. This place is noisy. Sounds of children crying, adults arguing, and old gameshows blend to bleed through the paper-thin walls. This isn’t the type of place you live if your life is going well. These apartments are the end of the tracks; if you’ve found yourself here, there is no recovery.

Vivienne stops at the last apartment at the end of the hall. The plastic numbers are gone and only the discoloration of the paint reveals the apartment is number eighty-two. The door is scratched, and there’s mail piled in front of the door. Inside, I can hear someone watching tonight’s game. He’s home. I’m glad I don’t have to wait for you, Mr. Sursich. I motion at the door, and Vivienne takes my cue. She knocks repeatedly and then hides off to the side. I press the button and quickly hide the mask in my hoodie. I stand in front of the keyhole and ruffle my hair until it hangs over my face. The keyhole shifts, and I know Kitt is on the other side.

“Go away. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want,” a gruff voice said from behind the door.

“I’m here to deliver food. This is apartment eighty-two, right?”

“I didn’t order shit. Now scram,” Kitt said.

“My app says eighty-two, so I gotta drop it off here. It fucking sucked finding this place, and I don’t wanna be here either. So, just let me take a picture of the stuff in front of the door. You can even keep it. I just need the picture so I can get the tip. Please, man, I need the money,” I pleaded.

“Fine. Take your photo, and then get out of here.”

I place the bag at his door, pull out my phone, and hold it up as if I were taking a picture. My photo app isn’t even up. I’m just stalling, waiting for him to get agitated. After a few minutes of not moving and pretending to fidget with the phone, he barks at me.

“Hurry the fuck up!”

Perfect. I jump back and drop my phone on the ground. “Sorry, sorry. I’m I’m not. I didn’t mean to bother you,” I stuttered.

“Uggh. Fuckin’ kids and stupid apps,” he grumbled from behind the door.

I got you now. Kitt Sursich steps into the hallway wearing boxers and slippers. There are sauce stains on his hairy chest, and his boxers look damp. The man is identical to V’s description.

“Fucking idiot,” he said while reaching for the bag.

He’s so focused on my act he doesn’t see Vivienne move. She steps out from her hiding spot and delivers a two-handed overhead strike that knocks him out cold. Efficient. I activate my helmet as Vivienne drags him into the apartment. Before I close the door, I grab my bag of snacks. It’s going to be a long night, and I’ll want something to eat later. The back of his door certainly verifies V’s claims. Four deadlocks, two security chains, and a drawbar are on it. He’s paranoid about people coming to get him. Is it a prior mental condition or a result of the drug use? No matter; it doesn’t change tonight’s outcome.

His small apartment is cluttered but not terribly disgusting. It’s the difference between unorganized and messy. The room we enter is a combination kitchen and living room. To our left are two doors leading to probably the bathroom and his bedroom. There’s no furniture besides a table covered in beer bottles, a pleather recliner, and a large TV on the floor. I’m thankful for my helmet if Vivienne’s face is any indication of the smell. Where’s the database? Is it kept offsite somewhere?

“I’m going to search his bedroom. Find something to tie him up, and don’t take your eyes off him. I’m serious. Don’t let him out of your sight, V.”

“Got it.”

Trusting that she’s got it under control, I walk over to the first room. The door swings open, revealing the bathroom. I move on to the next door and twist the knob. Inside is Kitt’s bedroom, but calling it a bedroom would be misleading. There’s no bed. A lit monitor, a keyboard, and a mouse sit on top of one of those cheap fold-out tables. A single lone computer chair is facing the table. A display port and power wire lead off the table into a massive custom rig. The case is the size of a medium-sized fridge; thick cables are coming off it and draped all over the ground. Six box fans are blowing straight at it, and the thing is radiating heat. I sit on the chair and press enter. The screen changes and prompts me for the password. Of course, it’s password protected. I can’t risk typing the wrong answer. He might have set it all up to wipe itself if a wrong answer is entered. There’s no telling what kind of measures a paranoid, coke-addicted detective has.

I bring the chair back to the living room. Vivienne is sitting in the recliner, and Mr. Sursich’s wrists and ankles are tied up with bungee cords. Her feet are propped up on top of his body. The detective has been reduced to a human ottoman. I’m in no shape to lift a grown man, so I ask Vivienne to place him in the chair. I undo his wrist bindings and retie them to the arms of the chair. A separate bungee cord surrounds his waist to secure him to his chair. Vivienne wraps a thin towel around his mouth as a gag. While waiting for Kitt to wake up, I explore the kitchen for information-gathering tools.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but are you squeamish around blood?” I asked.

“Naw. I’d be a shit fighter if I couldn’t handle some blood,” she responded.

“And what about murder?”

“I’m a fighter, not an executioner. But I don’t expect every Cowl to agree with me,” Vivienne replied.

Good, I’d hate for her to attempt to stop me. Kitt owns two sets of silverware: two steak knives, two spoons, and two forks. Why have a flatware organizer if you only have two sets? Unless he’s hiding something underneath it. I lift it and find my prize: a loaded pistol and extra ammunition. His cupboards don’t hold any other secret weapons, just plastic cups and paper plates. My exploration of the remaining kitchen drawers nets me a couple of rolls of wire, pliers, a wire stripper, and a complete and intact soldering kit. I need to make him talk. I can’t have a repeat of that woman with the sound power. I drag the table to where he is strapped up and start cleaning. All the beer bottles go into the trash, and I place everything I’ve found on the table. I plug the soldering iron into one of the extension cords on the floor to start heating up. Going into the bathroom, I take several towels and then fill up two cups of water in the kitchen. Once I’ve organized my workspace, I change the television from sports to one of those 24/7 concert channels. Some nu-metal band is playing, and I gradually increase the volume until it drowns out the noise from all the other tenants.

“Time to wake up, Mr. Sursich,” I said as I tossed water into his face.

He groans but doesn’t wake, so I hold his head back and pour the second cup into his face. The water splashes up his nose and into his mouth, trailing into his chest. He sputters and spits as he’s forcefully awakened. His brown eyes tremble as they peel wide in panic. They jolt around the room until they settle on me. A muffled scream erupts from behind his makeshift muzzle. It’s just like the man at the docks. The eyes are capable of projecting raw terror in such a unique way.

“Quiet, Mr. Sursich. We don’t want to disturb the neighbors,” I said. His body stiffens at the sound of the overlapping voices from my helmet. He thrashes against his bonds, but we tied them tight. Struggle all you want. You’re going nowhere. “I’m going to move the towel around your mouth and then ask you a question. You are going to answer honestly, or I’m going to have to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you.”

I pull the cloth down, and he glares at me. How quickly fear turns to anger. I wave Vivienne over, and she stands by my side.

“Did you look into a Cowl named Nobody for this woman? Remember, don’t lie.”

“What are you doing here, Vivienne? And who the fuck are you?” He said angrily.

“Don’t look at her, and don’t speak to her. You and I are having a conversation. Now, did you or did you not look into a Cowl named Nobody for her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Avoiding my question feels like lying to me,” I said.

I move the muzzle back into place and walk over to my table. I plan to start slowly and ramp up the pain levels as we go. Gathering information is all about controlled escalation; I want to build a rapport with Kitt until he understands that lies lead to pain and the truth will set him free. It won’t, but I’ll let him think that. I don’t want to appear as someone who enjoys this but merely sees it as a means to an end. There are so many options that I have a bit of choice paralysis. It subsides as I look at the soldering wire. That seems like an excellent first test. This is my first time doing something like this, and I have to be careful. If he dies before I get my information, this whole night will fail.

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Though I’m new to this world of powers and secret identities, I’m no stranger to hard work. My teachers always said I was a quick learner. Using the pliers, I clip a long strand of the soldering wire and wind it side to side until it’s thicker. It’s in the form of a long, condensed, twisted line. I bring my soldering gun and twist over to the man, whose eyes look so defiant. You’ll break Mr. Sursich. I promise that. The gun is faintly smoking, and I hold the wire above his left shoulder as the hot gun burns the solder, sending molten silver raindrops falling onto him. I’m unprepared for how quickly it burns, and the entire thing melts. It’s your first time, so there is bound to be a learning curve. The raindrops harden in seconds, and Kitt screams bloody murder. I’ll admit it does look painful, but the contrast between the hardened silver color and his rapidly redding skin is pleasant.

“Please, Kitt, do you mind if I call you Kitt? I told you I don’t want to hurt you, not that I won’t. We’ll try this again. Did you look into a cowl named Nobody for this woman?” I said as I moved his gag.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re that delivery kid, right? What kind of psycho breaks into someone’s house and does shit like this?”

I ignore him and move on. “And what were the results of your findings?”

“Nothing. As far as I could tell, Nobody doesn’t exist. There isn’t a single testimony, police report, or mention on any message board. Will you let me go now?” He asked.

“Kitt, I ask the questions, and you provide the answers. Next question, what was the other task she asked of you?”

There’s a change in his facial expression after I ask him that. A sudden clarity hits him. Your career as a private detective isn’t to be underestimated. You’ve pieced it together, have you? You might’ve never made the connection between a brand new Cowl and the license plate, but I can’t risk the chance you one day figure it out.

“She asked me to run a license plate. It turns out it belonged to some kid out in New Farford. But you already know that, don’t you, Eryk? Listen, kid. If you leave now, I’ll pretend it never happened. No charges will be pressed, and you’re free to go on being Nobody. We can stop this before you make a big mistake,” he said condescendingly.

“Mr. Sursich, you knowing who I am should show you how serious this is. But if you need to be taught this isn’t a game, so be it.”

The gag goes back on. What would be a proper response? I’m saving his fingers for my final question. The idea comes to me, and I grab one of the steak knives and some regular wire. I wrap the electrical wire around his bicep and tie it tightly. With that taken care of, I slowly drag the steak knife across his forearm, pressing hard enough to separate skin but not cutting too deeply. The horizontal red line slowly opens like flower petals to the sun. His breathing quickens, and together, we watch as blood flows out of him. The electrical wire should help reduce blood loss. I wipe the bloody knife clean with one of the towels. His eyes are trained on the small wound, and he forgets I’m there. That is until I shove my index and middle finger into the cut, moving them around to widen it. Painful growls transition to sniveling cries as I spread his epidermis. This isn’t even the bad part; this is the setup.

I learned from my earlier mistake with the solder. My new solder creation is a thick braid about half a foot long. Kitt realizes what’s coming, and tears start forming in his eyes. I have no doubt this will be incredibly painful for him. My gloved fingers are slippery with his blood, and I almost drop my braid. With the braid in my left hand and the soldering iron in my right, I delicately bring them together above his forearm. My first drops go wide and miss. But I swiftly correct my aim, and soon, a steady stream of the liquid metal pours into his newly opened hole. The gag and the television are working overtime to quiet his screams. The solder sizzles and hardens as it cools inside his wet, bloody wound. I continue to burn the braid, sending more metal into his arm until it fills the space I made. The chrome oval completely covers the injury, and no blood escapes from it. His arm hair around it is gone, burnt away by the heat. The surrounding of the oval is blistered and reddening. That should show him the very real danger he finds himself in.

“If you continue to mouth off, bad things will happen. I wish I didn’t have to make this visit to you, but you possess information I need. These injuries you’ve sustained aren’t life-threatening, and there’s a chance they could even be healed without a scratch. That is only if you tell me what I want to know. Nod your head if you understand,” I said.

His face is scrunched in pain, and sweat pours from his scalp. Information gathering is very messy. I should find someone to do this for me—yet another person I have to add to the list of required employees. Despite the agony he’s experiencing, he manages to nod his assent.

“Your computer in there requires a password. What is it?” I said as I removed his muzzle.

“That’s my life’s work. I can’t just give it to you. It took me years to assemble the database. You can’t have it. I refuse,” he said with such bravery and determination.

The resilience of the human spirit is captivating. How hard must I bend before he breaks? What is the use of defying me if I’ve already shown how far I’ll go? My mental constitution means there aren’t any lines I won’t cross to get what I want. I place the towel back into his mouth and wrap it tight. Then I grab the wire stripper. It has several teeth on each side and is rusty from use. The once bright yellow handle is now a faded mustard color. Garden shears would work better, but adaptability is the byproduct of intelligence and drive. I slot the wire stripper around the base of his right index finger. As soon as I do this, he resumes struggling and attempting to escape.

“I’ve seen a lot of movies and shows that involve questioning someone under the threat of violence. There’s a mistake every one of them makes, though. If you cut the whole finger off, you limit the number of questions you can ask to ten, twenty if you count toes. That’s why I won’t cut your whole finger off; I’ll cut a segment off. That gives me twenty-eight chances to get my answer.”

I slide the wire stripper up to the first bend of his index and slam my hand shut. It doesn’t slice through as I hoped. Instead, it bites in and gets stuck on the bone. I knew this might happen, but I’m prepared. Up and down, release and clamp, I use the tool like a hound’s jaws to steadily gnaw away the phalanges. It’s messy and shreds like a fork through pulled pork. Mr. Sursich is whimpering like a lost puppy now. Shock hasn’t set in, and I’d hate for him to miss it. There’s blood oozing out of his severed fingertip, and I need to stop him from dying before I learn the password. The soldering iron can cauterize the wound. He doesn’t notice me switch my instruments, and I press the scalding hot metal tip against his finger. It takes a few tries to ensure I didn’t leave any leaks, but I get it. If his boxers were damp with sweat before, now they’re soaked in piss.

A look over at Vivienne shows she’s watching me intensely. Yes, look at what happens to those who oppose me. Ingrave this moment in your mind, your soul. Remember that I’m in control, and I am immensely dangerous. I repeat my question, and Kitt spits at me. I put the rag back over his mouth. It's an expected outcome, but I have all night to make him talk. Walking away from him, I grab my plastic bag from earlier. Inside are two bottles of soda, candy bars, and some salted nuts.

“Hey V, do you want orange or root beer? I asked my silent companion. Her surprise at my question is evident on her face. “I’d hate for Mr. Sursich to think I’m a bad person who would deny you a break.” All of this has been an act designed to unnerve Kitt and make him uncomfortable.

“Ooh, Orange. I hate root beer; it tastes terrible. I’m a little hungry, too; what do you got for snacks?”

My snack break has changed the atmosphere of the room dramatically. The heavy, morbid nature of our outing is broken up by the unserious question I asked. While I want Vivienne to memorize this scene, I don’t want to scare her away. She’s far too valuable to let go. I wipe my gloves on a towel and toss her the orange soda. Neither soda appeals to me. I fill one of the plastic cups with water and press the button to free my head. The mask falls into my other hand, and I leave it on the table. My hair is damp after being in the helmet. I toss the bag of candy bars at Vivienne after taking out the salted nuts. The two of us don’t speak; we eat while the television blares. Washing down the salty taste, I lick my lips and put my helmet back on. Now that break time is over, it’s time to get what I want.

Like when I counted the money, I enter a zen state of repetition. I ask him for the password; he refuses, and I rip and tear a portion of his finger off. Let it bleed for five seconds, and then sear the flesh shut. I’ve created an easy-to-follow cycle. After the tenth cycle, he stops responding. Kitt’s missing the tip of every single finger. I don’t want to be out all night. I need to up the stakes of this and be quicker. This is taking too long.

“What is the password for the database?”

“Fuck you, just kill me. I’m not going to tell you shit,” he said furiously.

“Wrong answer.” I grab the knife and stab it straight through his uninjured arm. My hand twists it in a circle to free up some space. His voice is hoarse from screaming, and barely any sound emerges. I pick the soldering iron off the table and stab the hot metal into the hole I made. Somehow, his voice finds its second wind, and he belts out more curses and painful cries. I grab the rootbeer Vivienne didn’t drink and pour the soda right above his arm. It rushes into the hole and rapidly steams upon contact with the soldering iron. The carbonation and sugar rapidly evaporate into him, and he experiences true agony.

“TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT THE FUCK OUT! I’LL TELL YOU, JUST TAKE IT OUT!”

“What’s the password?”

“FUCKING SHIT! IT’S ONE FOUR THREE TWO TWO FOUR SEVEN EIGHT ONE FIVE FIVE SIX TWO ONE! THAT’S THE CODE. TAKE IT OUT!”

I rush over to his bedroom and enter the code into the computer. Nothing happens until the screen goes black. He lied. I’ll make his last night on earth a living hell. Turning around, I start to leave the dark room until a light shines on my back. On the monitor is the word database with a search bar below. He actually gave me the real code—so much knowledge at my fingertips. I slowly type in Neuvohuman and press enter. A loading bar steadily fills in, and then the screen changes to be covered in tiny green squares. I mouse over one of them and click. A page opens, and it’s of a Neuvohuman. There’s so much information on it. It shows the Neuvohuman’s age, real name, alias, area of operations, known associates, power classification, and power rating. There’s even more information farther down, and the bottom of the page has pictures and videos of them.

This is incredibly illegal, and it’s now mine. Happiness fills me, and I’m grinning like a kid on Christmas. Kitt’s noises wake me from my reverie. I reluctantly leave the database and come back into the living room. Vivienne raised the volume on the television while I was in there to drown out Kitt. She’s lying in the recliner and watching the concert while eating. The contrast between Kitt’s mutilated body and Vivienne’s cozy figure is striking. I yank the soldering iron out of his arm as I promised. The hole is blackened, and the skin is bubbled and oozing a dark brown liquid. The heat burned the tunnel of flesh into his arm permanently. When I squint, I can see the chair’s arm through it. I step behind him and move the bungee cords holding his body. Given his state, I’m unsure if he thinks I’m letting him go, but he isn’t prepared for the knife as I stab it through his ear into his brain. No witnesses.

My ears aren’t ready for the quietness caused by Vivienne shutting off the TV. Her facial expression isn’t unhappy, but she looks uncertain. It is almost as if she’s waiting to see how I feel about this situation. My phone shows that we’ve been here for six hours. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow for my talk with Maria. The sleep schedule I’ve had throughout high school has been thrown into disarray because of my moonlighting criminal activities. By the end of the summer, I’ll be a complete night owl.

“This was a productive night. I want to bring the computer with us. It’s far too valuable and dangerous to leave it here,” I said.

“Okay,” she laughed. “And what do you wanna do about the dead guy you mutilated?”

“Leave him. It’s not exactly like he’s going to be missed. There isn’t anything that can tie it to us. Make sure you bring the trash with you.”

Vivienne picks up all the wrappers, bottles, and cups. Then we enter the bedroom, and I look over the computer. Now that I’m not rushing, I can take a minute and examine this technological powerhouse. There’s a hum coming from it, and as I touch it, I notice it’s vibrating slightly. The case is sleek and extremely hot. I can feel the heat through my gloves. I knock on the case, and it’s solid. It could probably fall over and not even damage the internals. The fact it’s so durable makes me more confident about moving it. At the top, I find a singular button and push it. A slow whirring sound comes from the case as it powers down. The light from the monitor shuts off, and I follow the cables coming off the machine.

It takes us thirty minutes to carefully disassemble the cables and cords. It could’ve been done sooner, but this computer is like a treasure chest filled with gold; I won’t risk breaking it. The wires go into a large trash bag we grabbed from the kitchen, and I put the extra ammunition into it. I tell Vivienne to grab the giant machine. She effortlessly picks it up and wraps her muscular arms around it. As we exit the apartment I softly shut the door behind us. Rather than make Vivienne carry it down the flight of stairs, we take the elevator. It’s damp and shakes the entire time we ride it.

The ride ends without disaster, and we walk into the parking lot. I put the bag I’m carrying on the passenger seat and head to help Vivienne at the back of the vehicle. Her SUV has one of those sensors on the bottom that opens the trunk when you sweep your leg below. Luckily, her vehicle has a lot of space in the back, and we get the computer inside with the two of us. She puts down the back seat on the side I don’t sit on, and it’s soon secured. She shuts the trunk, and as I walk to my door, I hear a hissing sound followed by a thump and the sound of flesh on concrete.

The parking lot is deserted at this hour, and we’re the only ones here. That noise must’ve been Vivienne. Someone got the drop on her, which means I’m next. The gun is loaded, and whoever is here is close enough that I cannot miss a shot. I should shoot first and ask questions later. Both our lives are in danger. I reach for the gun at my waist, and something cracks into my hand. Before I can turn to my attacker, a metal rod collides with my leg, dropping me to the ground. My hand and leg ache, and I fall over when I try to stand. I glimpse one of the attackers' faces as the bat rocks into my helmet. The concussive impact sends me to unconsciousness. Who attacked us?