Justice adjusted her mask as she drifted her bike to a stop just outside the base of CERBERUS – a prominent PMC. She’d be damned, if she didn’t say that it certainly wasn’t a scene. Various police cars left abandoned as they secured the scene, the vigilante walking in, the police all gathering around felled drones, emergency services dealing with all of the death and fire. The dead were being dragged out in stretchers, and – while some seemed to be granted the honour of having mostly intact bodies – an unfortunate majority found themselves cremated, into sickly, ashy wretches of bone.

Justice cut in between some of the emergency staff squatting down over a felled soldier – one of the few who hadn’t been unfortunately immolated. She put a gentle hand against the warrior’s neck. It still felt warm, and squishy, but the pumping, the symbol of life, wasn’t there. Then she looked down at the abdomen of the soldier. She looked up at the field medics, police, and escapees gathered around her.

“This man is dead now,” said Justice, “and it would be a waste to try. Would there be any issues if I investigated the wound?”

“Well, what do you need to check?” asked a soldier. She was clearly anxious – it wasn’t every day that, while posted overseas – she would find herself face to face with a lady who looked as though she jumped out of a superhero comic magazine.

“What ammunition this terrorist was using to attack your outpost. Any survivors?”

Another troop then stepped up. Clearly unarmed. Clearly not uniformed. He was drowsy – most likely the type of soldier to stay shut in their room in their barracks, not the type to escape a violent killer. “It was… scary when I woke up. I don’t know how to describe it. Like, there was fire, everywhere. Alarms, too. Buddies weren't there either. Suddenly, my door was kicked in – this man, he wore this… hazmat suit. He gestured me out of the barracks, told me not to fight.”

“Did you see the man shoot?”

“Y– Yeah!” shouted the man. “Just as I turned the corner, right? I saw him shoot his gun at the door of our base commander. But, like, you know the flash that usually pops out of the barrel?”

“What about the muzzle flare?”

“It’s… I don’t know how to say it, but – instead of that – out of that gun’s barrel – fire came out. There wasn’t just a quick flash of gunpowder, but… it was like there was this blowtorch inside that shotgun he was holding!”

“Dragon’s Breath…” muttered Justice.

Then, she charged in, vaulting a barricade on her mad dash in. The killer, whoever he was, had left one or two shell casings on the floor, leading her to one of the buildings – surely enough, the primary barracks of the base. She could already see– smell – the crispness of the fire within the building. Nonetheless, she charged in.

She followed the direction that the grunt had given her – the General’s office. With her trench coat and catsuit keeping the flames at bay long enough for her to charge through them Justice burst into the office.

But she was too late.

Almost the entire office was marked with ash, as though it had been cleared out by a flamethrower. On the floor, his suit charred and his gun partially melted, immolated, only blackened sinew left of his flesh, were the smouldering remains of a man – most likely the base commander. Left on the officer’s desk was a card – again, with the Burning Man sigil. Once she swiped this card, Justice began to survey the room once more.

There was another route that she had yet to act on. When I mentioned ‘almost the entire office was marked with ash’, I did indeed mean almost all of it. Left untouched by the flames was a single bookshelf. This bookshelf was pushed to the side, leading into a pitch-black stairwell, its walls made of cobblestone – a stark contrast to the (normally) manila walls of plaster, and the carpeted floors. So she descended them.

Then, Justice found herself in a cellar. It was reminiscent of the interrogation rooms in police stations – walled off, simplistic. It was fairly spacious, however. In the room there was a single chair, bolted to the ground, surrounded by splatters of blood. Fresh blood – this was likely some kind of breakout, for whoever was sitting atop that chair, for nobody was sitting on it then. The arsonist had already managed to evacuate whoever it was he needed to break out.

Suddenly, there was a gunshot. Justice reflexively dove to the ground before scanning the dark room for whoever was shooting at her. Then, and only then, did she finally see the man that the unarmed soldier claimed to have been rescued by.

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Sure enough, he wore a bunker suit – the same type that you’d expect a fireman to wear, albeit painted a darkish red – reinforced by a large, black ballistic vest. In his hands was a twin-barrelled shotgun, the barrel shortened most likely by saw, and – mounted on his back – was a tank, connected via hose to some kind of improvised sprayer holstered at his side. His face, although shrouded by shadow, was covered by a plastic caricature mask of some militaristic figure in a beret, whoever it was escaping Justice’s mind as of then.

She slinked deeper into the shadows. Fortunately, somehow, the arsonist hadn’t seen her. At least, that’s what Justice thought. Out of nowhere, the man in the bunker suit raised the flamethrower holstered at his thigh in a quick motion, before a burst of flame lit up the room. Justice dove out of the jet but – in another quick motion – found her leg grazed by a round of flammable buckshot.

This man was trained. But he couldn’t fare well unarmed. Aiming the Spinneret on her arm at his weapon, she shot the rope at it, and it hit true. Then she yanked. The weapon flew out of the killer’s hands and into the flame.

“You’re not too smart,” said the man in the suit, “for a detective.”

“And what’s your name, terrorist?”

“Firebug.”

The man raised his flamethrower again and filled the room with a burst of flame, but this wasn’t Justice’s priority. A single pellet of the Dragon’s Breath buckshot he’d been using had managed to dig into her thigh. It burnt – searing. Had all of the pellets hit true, Justice was certain that she absolutely would have died of shock. Taking a knife from the medical kit in the utility belt around her waist, she almost stabbed it into her shin when – suddenly – there was another burst of flame. Justice flared her leather coat for cover, protecting her from it long enough for her to dive out of the way.

“Well, Firebug,” began Justice, seething as she dug the knife into her shin, digging out the burning pellet, “why did you kill Alan Moldoff?”

The Firebug paused, his sporadic bursts of flame ceasing. “I didn’t kill him.”

Justice aimed her hand. “We found traces of burnt magnesium in his body – indicative of Dragon’s Breath ammunition. It’s clear you’re using it for yourself, too.”

“I didn’t do it!” shouted the Firebug, turning to the source of Justice’s voice, jerking upright as he pulled the trigger of his flamethrower.

But nothing came out.

He looked down at his flamethrower – the hose connecting it to its propane tank had been cut by a knife sent right through it.

Justice stepped out from behind the table she was behind. Then, she socked the arsonist in the jaw. The arsonist didn’t recoil, fall back, or anything similar, however. Instead, his jaw kicked up. Justice began pounding his chest. And nothing happened.

Bang! Justice got hit with a hook to the cheek. Then, there was a kick to the stomach. While he was certainly strong, he wasn’t trained. The vigilante stood up, readying herself for the attack. As he began a slow, rhythmic pounding, each hit about as guttural and torturous as a gunshot, Justice found that – for each hit she blocked – she found herself wearing out. For each hit on the man he scored, there seemed to be no effect.

“Why.” Punch. “Won’t.” Punch. “You.” Punch. “Fall?”

“Body armour.” commented the Firebug, blocking each. “It’s all over the inside of this suit. Takes the brunt of most of your hits for me. The thing does wonders when it comes to gunshots, actually – I don’t know what you expected your fists would do to it, but to each their own.”

Then, as though he was putting a dog out of its misery, the arsonist sent a final gunshot punch into Justice’s stomach. Some pepperoni-tasting bile climbed into her throat as she keeled over, but it took all of her resolve not to simply open her mouth, and let that vomit out.

Suffice to say, she failed to do that.

“You’re pathetic.” said the Firebug, straddling her prostrate body. He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he stood up, and walked out of the room. But something fell out of his pocket. Some kind of paper. But this wasn’t on Sandra’s mind. Even as Irina called. No. She simply felt hungry, now.

Then, she blacked out.

Four minutes later, Justice screamed as she jerked upright. Her shin throbbed – that bullet which Firebug shot left its mark on her. As her breathing slowly regulated itself, though, the vigilante steadied herself as she used her leather coat to avoid the fire while she headed to the stairs leading out of the cellar. However, there was one thing that she’d seen, dropped carelessly, facing down – a polaroid. On this polaroid was a young woman no older than Irina, happy, standing outside of a bar – ‘The Fox’s Den’. She quickly pocketed this polaroid before she began the trek up the stairs.

Opening her HUD, she saw that she had been out cold for quite a long time. In addition to this, there were almost over twenty missed calls from Jailbird, too. While she ascended the stairs, Justice did the responsible thing and called Irina’s number. Before she could say anything, however, the vigilante found herself assaulted by a series of gushing questions.

“S– Sandra!” stammered Irina, “Are you alright? Your heartrate just spiked, and your replay showed that Firebug guy–”

“No.” interrupted Justice. “That was nothing. I was out of my element. And what happened to codenames only?”

“We’re beyond that when you get beaten bloody by a serial killer, Sandra! This… career, you said it was to protect the people, to protect us, but you obviously don’t care about yourself!”

“Irina–”

“I… I’m sorry, I have to go! I love you, Sandra, but this… it’s gone on too long!”

Beep. That dial tone was just like a droning laugh track. Had the chip playing it not been implanted in her brain, and instead been a normal cell phone, she would have thrown the device away. Justice didn’t care for neurosurgery, however. She pressed on. After leaving the barracks, she didn’t bother herself with the concern of those who had been waiting for her. Justice simply continued her hasty departure.