As absurd as he felt about the mustang, it could certainly move; pulling onto the interstate out of Dulles he made a fairly short drive to the address his case officer had passed along; a fairly decent set of apartments less than an hour's drive south. He even found that his new ability made navigating traffic a bit easier; he could avoid idiots and merge like a professional. Granted... he made quite a few people absolutely furious with some of those moves, but that was inevitable.
When he pulled up to the apartments, he was a touch surprised; he'd been mostly out of the country for the past few years. He'd heard about some of the new developments, what people had built, and done; hell, his mustang could go across the country and back on one tank of gas and his father had considered it a miracle before he passed. But this...
A bus was loading passengers as he arrived... and what looked like a car elevator was dispensing some sort of hybrid out onto the street. The whole parking garage for the complex was underground... and apparently just took your car away, deposited it somewhere... and returned it when you came back with the right key.
He pulled up next to one of the entry ports; a heavy-duty slab of metal designed to carry the car like a tray through a maze of underground passages; and just sat there for a few minutes, watching. As he did.. a boy came up to his car, rapped on the hood.Young, dark-skinned.. probably a scrawny teenager. Low-slung pants, bandanna... ganger? Or wannabe? Jason rolled down the window, leaned out. "Sorry if I'm in the way. First time here, never loaded a car up. Just watching how it goes."
The boy gave a nod. "Figured, man. Never saw you round here, and I seen just about everybody who lives here a few times. Military?"
Jason glanced down at himself. Jeans, t-shirt... the hat was covering up both the extra eye and the haircut. "What gave it away?"
"Oh, the look. You look dangerous. Most the folks come in here kinda soft; doctors, nurses, that sorta thing. That and, well. If I pick out a hundred mustangs like half of em have a soldier driving em.Never did figure out why. Don't worry about this thing. Its like a vending machine. Just need the code and the key to the car and you're good. Nobody can get your car without your key either... its safer than a parking lot. Or a street. Or garage. Any of that. Could you imagine someone stealing from this?"
A slow exhale. After watching another driver cycle through an entry, he followed suit... pulling the mustang onto the platform.. typing in his apartment number... and scanning the key. An audible click. At first, he was confused about why it didn't start moving like the last driver's car had. The same teen laughed at him.
"You gotta back off, dumbass. Thing won't move if there's something alive on the platform, or too close." He gave a nod.. and backed off. Watching the car steadily disappear into the darkness, as another driver pulled up behind him. He turned to the teen.
"Well, thanks. Name's Jason. Friends call me... well. Honestly, they called me all sorts of things. Just Jason works." Honestly, his nickname had been Kamikaze; the way he acted everybody thought he was on a suicide mission and just wanted to take as many bad guys out with him when he left as possible. But... best to let old habits lie.
"Oh. Well, welcome to the blocks, Jase. I'm Tyler. Call me Ty. Don't be an asshole, and you'll make some friends around here."
As the boy turned and walked away, Jason looked at the numbers on the buildings; and found the right one. 35. Seventh floor, apartment 703... and started walking. The structure was fairly new; one of the more recent projects. It looked clean, well-maintained; there were a few sculptures and gardens in the ground surrounding the buildings, and each of the balconies had something on it; plants, furniture, definitely a lived-in place.
And the apartment itself? barely furnished. A desk, a bed, and a dresser... and on the desk, a note from his case officer.
~~Hey, Jason!
Mike here. I took the liberty of getting a bed, desk, laptop, and dresser for you; don't worry, you weren't charged for them. Your final pay from the military is in your account, and my Offboarding budget covered your next three months rent. You're not my only client, but I'm glad to help any time. I've passed on your information to a few employers who might be interested; unfortunately your combat record has put the DMA off the idea of getting you on as an asset, but we have no intention of leaving you in the wind; in fact, if you can't find a job that works for you, I'll even help get you unemployment or a custodial position at the DMA until you do. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything, we don't want to leave any of our newfound Metas in the dark, and that goes double for our veterans.
There's some food in the fridge; I asked your former team what you'd prefer, so blame them if its terrible. Welcome home!~~
The note was... strange. The Mike guy seemed like he was far too invested in becoming friends with the people he worked with; but then, I assumed his job was something like a social worker; trying to keep Metas out of trouble.
Dropping the duffel bag beside the bed, Jason sat at the desk, set the pile of paperwork up, and glanced through it, looking for anything important... as he absently ignored the fridge and whatever prank he was certain waited inside, ordering a pizza delivered instead.
If you were a meta that couldn't hide their deformities? It was counted as a disability, and you could collect that if you chose not to work. Government didn't want broke, desperate people with powers wandering around. Convenient. Did he qualify? Maybe. But he probably just needed a hat. Or an... eye-patch? And he'd be fine.
Most metas were mutants; which meant probably radiation exposure, and a bit different genetically from normal people. So the radiation made most of them infertile, and the genetic differences sometimes made it worse; and two mutants were likely even more different from each other than they were from normal humans. Most first-generation mutants could never have kids. So most of the ones around now, were kids, grand-kids, so forth of the lucky few. Even for a crap power like they thought he had, the government wanted to encourage more metas to be born; so free health care, government-paid child support. If he were a complete waste of humanity he could, in theory, live off of disability, have tons of kids, and the government would pay all of it.
Not exactly a winning lottery ticket; but he had no idea metas were so lucky.
For a moment, he leaned back in his new chair and imagined what it would be like if he'd truly won the lottery in terms of powers. Become a Titan; one of those handful of metas whose powers were functionally infinite. Valkyrie; the villainess who had literally no limit to her strength or durability... and had an active truce with the government since they couldn't take her down, and she didn't want them killing the biker gang she ran. Lightning; the superhero who was infinitely fast; his only limits were what he placed on himself to avoid, for example, obliterating a city by running through it at the speed of light.
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Or the truly incredible, old-school metas, like Zeus; those reclusive immortals that had long since stopped dealing with civilization. Nobody was completely certain what these old 'Gods' were capable of, but he was sure it was incredible; when the fascists had moved on Olympus the results had been devastating to both their tanks as well as their morale.
His daydream was cut short by the 'wake-up' tones of his laptop.. as he checked through. Bank account... check. Email containing everything about his new apartment and the bills? Check. He had enough money to live here for a few years, even if he didn't start collecting unemployment or disability. It was strange to be in a position like this; not rich; he couldn't go buying mansions. But also not really needing to worry about money.
Still.
He sent a message to a local car dealer. He wanted the mustang gone. Whatever replaced it wouldn't be red. And it probably wouldn't be a muscle car, either. He traded messages back and forth with one of their salespeople; he'd definitely sell the mustang. Whether he'd buy another car from them, he'd wait and see. By the time the pizza delivery driver was buzzing at his door, everything was worked out; he'd get about two-thirds of what he paid for it, despite only driving it about six or seven times... but that was only to be expected.
He smiled at the delivery driver; definitely reminded him of Tyler. Maybe a cousin? And tipped him before settling back down to eat, kick back, relax, and watch a few shows he'd missed out on while he was in the desert; indiscriminately getting grease from his pizza-stained hands on his brand-new laptop; despite the fact it was one of those newer, fancy laptops that you didn't even need to touch the keys.
***
In his nightmares, he was running through the desert. He could hear the screams of the dead and the dying. The explosions of gunfire. The faces of enemies with guns... enemies who were younger than Tyler. As comforting as it would be to only have to fight giant metal-skinned, fire-breathing monsters... most of the enemies looked like ordinary men. Some looked like middle-schoolers.
He'd shot them without hesitation or remorse. They'd had guns. He had to do it. It was them or him. Do or die. It was one of the things his squad had admired about him; that he could make decisions so far, give directions, move. And somehow, it had never occured to him to think about those kids.. as kids. Not just enemies.
He woke up, covered in sweat; indigestion from too much pizza combined with the horrific spiced rum that was the only alcohol in his fridge; if he found out which of his squad-mates told Mike that was his favorite, he'd track him down and fill his boots with scorpions. After a few unpleasant minutes in the bathroom, he decided to take a walk, clear his head..
A quick shower. Some green shorts and a tank-top, more appropriate for the hot summer night it had become; and the same old tattered cowboys hat. He needed to get more hats. He didn't even like the cowboys.
When he emerged from the elevator, walking out into the evening air, he decided to simply take a walk. Check out the complex, maybe say hi to any neighbors still awake. He'd seen a little awning with some vending machines, and heard a rumor they'd started making some that could confirm your ID and sell beer; maybe he'd find one of those.
But instead, he heard a scream. Shouting voices. 'Stop! You're gonna kill him!' The normal reaction of any apartment dweller would be to, logically, call the police. Get back home. Avoid problems.
But of course, Jason wasn't normal. He was overconfident; believing that with his new ability, and his existing skills as a soldier, he could handle anything. Even if it were metas!
A quick jog, heading for the corner, keeping his eyes and ears open... and he came around the corner.
Two men; tall, white. Maybe russian? Both wearing black slacks, leather jackets. One was repeatedly hitting a boy on the ground... was that Tyler? Alternating between kicking him and swinging a club. The other was brandishing a gun. A few onlookers were staying back, clearly afraid of getting shot; mostly boys around Tyler's age; maybe 14, 15.
There was screaming; the boy on the ground was beyond screaming, just giving a spasm of pain each time a blow connected. The man holding the handgun yelling out... 'Stay back!' while the attacker was shouting on his own.. 'Stay down motherfucker!'
He could see it. Clear as day. If he stepped around that corner, the man with the gun wouldn't see him at first. For the first few seconds, he'd be clear. He could make it to the guy trying to kill the poor boy before even being spotted.
Did he have any weapons on him? Of course. He left his gun in his duffel bag like an idiot, but he had his knife. And while bringing a knife to a gun-fight was a terrible idea under most circumstances, for him...
He weighed the options. How he'd need to throw. How hard. The angle.
Jason sprinted around the corner; tossing the knife one-handed; it slammed into the hand of the gun-wielding attacker, right through his wrist; sending the gun flying through the air and the man screaming as he clutched his suddenly agonized, bleeding arm, the blade wedged right between the bones of his fore-arm; as Jason tackled the other man from behind.
From his perspective, one moment he'd been kicking the helpless teen; the next, a massive weight had slammed into his back; and driven him face-first into the pavement.
Jason grabbed the club, gave a single swift swing; and with an audible crack, the attacker was unconscious. The other man looked up in fear, and scrambled to pick up his gun with his left hand; Jason simply moved forward, a quick few steps, every movement he needed to take laid out before him as if he were following a script; yanked the knife out from the man's fore-arm, and with one quick strike, stabbed it into his back, penetrating his left lung, as his left hand ended up knocking the gun away rather than grasping it.
Sliding the blade free, he rolled the man over; the man seemed to be grabbing for something on his chest. And thats when Jason saw it.
A badge. He didn't recognize which style, but it was definitely a police badge... directly over a black box, some sort of equipment that included a body camera. A body camera with a conveniently placed strip of black tape; this man had been avoiding recording what was going on.
Jason was too stunned to respond as the man reached a shaking hand up, pressing a button on the camera, and let out a wheeze. "Need.. backup... Officer... Down."
Jason looked up. The other teens were scattering. The one who had been attacked... definitely Tyler, now that he got a good look at him... was lying limp on the ground. Was he a drug dealer? Did he attack these cops? Why were these men beating him? For a moment, Jason considered finishing the cop off. The first one had never seen his face. He could get away, free and clear. He'd covered up his own camera. If Jason took the club and the knife...
The officer fell unconscious; whether from the agony of trying to breathe with blood filling one of his lungs or something else, Jason wasn't sure... but for right now.. No.
These were clearly bad guys. Doing something they felt the need to hide; crooked cops. Violent, abusive criminals in uniform. But still. Just killing a wounded man lying on the pavement? No. Maybe he'd done that before, in the desert. But this wasn't the desert. And that isn't who he was anymore.
Taking the club; and cleaning the blood off his knife by wiping it on the officer's pants; he sprinted back for cover... only belatedly realizing that somewhere during the conflict, he'd lost the old cowboys hat. After a brief moment of even more intense panic, he stopped to retrieve it, and headed back for his apartment.
With the cameras off, and both officers knocked out... or possibly dead.. he had a narrow window in which he could prepare to run. If it turned out he didn't need to? Great. But for right now... If that cop survived, he'd seen a three-eyed man stab him and knock out his buddy. He'd be looking at assault with a deadly weapon. Maybe attempted murder; sure as hell the cops would lie about what happened.
And if he died? Eventually, they'd figure it out. One of the other boys there would talk. Maybe the audio from the cameras was still working. Did he say anything? He couldn't remember. He hadn't meant to. Bootprints? Who knows. They could do all sorts of things with forensics these days.
He needed to go. And right now.