Cammy’s plane touched down in D.C., the slight bump of the landing gear and quick deceleration jostling her awake. Hers was a small plane, barely qualifying as a jet, so disembarking was done at a side gate with the option to enter the airport to find transport or to take the waiting glassteel tube down to the d-metro. Once she’d collected her bag, she headed to the gate to the airport proper, and her phone came to life with a notification that her ride was already waiting.
It was 6:14 a.m. according to her phone. The sky was beginning to lighten with the rising sun, dulling the shimmering purple and green auroras that materialized in the upper reaches of the deflection dome. Across the river, street lights began to wink off in preparation for the day and the silhouettes of the ever present flocks of courier drones could be seen zipping in tight vertical parabolas from ward to ward.
Out front, Banks was waiting for her in a Company car, another Origami Beetle model, though this one was black with smoky tinted glass wrapping around the entirety of the cabin. The back hatch opened for her to allow for her bag.
“Hello, Banks,” she said coolly as she plopped down into the driver’s seat.
Good morning, mum. I trust your flight was comfortable but not overly so.
“Wow. Good guess. How do you like the car? Better than the one back in Montana?” She asked as the car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic without her input. Apparently, Banks had his orders to conduct her to HQ with no possibility for deviation.
I am concurrently operating in over six hundred and forty vehicles, mum. Once you have worn one, you have worn them all.
Cammy reached up to take the wheel but thought better of it. If the Company wanted to make her feel like a prisoner on her way to solitary, that was fine. Reaching up to adjust the mirror, she began cleaning herself up. As she suspected, her face and hair looked a little rough after passing out against the window on the plane, and it wouldn’t do to see her superiors looking like a hung over sorority girl. It was a good thing she’d spent enough time being a hung over sorority girl to know just how to fix the look.
Banks was kind enough to fire up her "Mornings" playlist as he ushered Cammy over the bridge and into the District proper, precisely weaving through the traffic in a manner that fell just on this side of the confident/aggressive scale. He cut too close to other vehicles for Cammy’s liking and took turns a smidge too tight, especially annoying while she was applying eyeliner.
Banks’ decisions were based on perfect awareness of the vehicle’s dimensions and capabilities as well as complicated behavior prediction software that cost more than some countries' entire gross domestic products. Even so, not being in control rattled Cammy, even if she didn’t want to admit it. It’s not that Cammy didn’t trust Banks to get her there safely. Far from it. The loss of her agency, even for trivial things like this, was what set her teeth on edge. She fought the urge to engage the manual steering and make a couple left turns just to show that she could. More than likely the Company was already evaluating her through Banks’ eyes, and a childish maneuver like that, though satisfying, wouldn’t help her advance her career or Firebreak's.
No. She refused to be rattled just yet.
Up ahead, the giant cylindrical glass skyscraper of the gardens was the first structure to get direct sunlight, catching the rays and refracting them downward into its 90 floors of lush greenery until the entire tower glowed warmly. This early in the morning, with the rest of the District in darkness, the gardens looked like a fluorescent tube hovering in the middle of a model city to assist the model maker as he tinkered. If what she’d read about Splicer was true, the imagery probably pleased him greatly, the most powerful, prosperous nation on the planet, its capital dwarfed beneath the enormity of the genius' work.
Company HQ was its own city block, an imposing, brutalist structure thin and oblong at the base then flaring out as it climbed twenty stories into the sky. On top of that, an irregular concrete and metal spire rose up from the building’s center to give the whole thing the shape of a sword thrust straight into the Earth with the executive suites on top being in the “hilt.”
Good luck, mum. I will be waiting for you in one form or another.
Cammy tried to keep her gaze level, fixed on the sets of double doors that lead to the bottom floor of HQ, though she could feel the structure looming larger as she left Banks behind and trotted up the sidewalk and around the larger than life sculpture of Derrick Eckles, cape billowing behind him while he held a child’s hand and pointed up into the sky. The child’s face was frozen somewhere between wonder and terror, sparking many debates over the statue’s meaning and level of propriety. The words “Salvator - Tyrannis” in big, bold letters encircled the statue, taking up the entire sidewalk so that people entering HQ would have to walk over them to get to the doors.
When Cammy had first seen this sculpture during her childhood, most of her class had gazed upon the form of Derrick Eckles, sufficiently awed by his physique, his looks, and the power he exuded. However, Cammy was always drawn to the child, leaning up against the statue’s base to get a closer look. She remembered thinking the child looked enraptured by whatever it was that Eckles was showing her up there in the cosmos. Over time, though, every trip past this spot over the years, the kid’s awe was slowly replaced by uncertainty and a touch of fear. It was a testament to the unnamed artist, being able to evoke such things from an unmoving medium.
She passed into the shadow of the building then into the glassteel double doors to approach the security desk, behind which a handful of security personnel drank coffee and pored over monitors.
Swallowing, she passed her Company ID over to the waiting security officer nearest her door, a young looking man with a strong jaw, clear blue eyes, and black hair under his patrol cap. Before the ID was even halfway across the desk, the card was already in the man’s hand, and he was typing on his terminal. When he spoke, his voice was clear as a bell, confident and firm.
“Camila Johansen,” he said, trying out the name as his fingers flew over the keys, pausing only to let the computer pop up with the next prompt for him to answer. “Is that Swedish?”
“Uh. Danish, actually. We’ve been in the U.S. for a long time though.” The security guard’s movements were uncannily fast as he inserted her card into a machine on the desk and typed in the requisite commands. When he pressed the Enter key the final time, he looked up at her with a smile as he waited for his computer to catch up.
“I figured as much. So, what brings you to our little corner of the Company, Ms. Johansen?” he asked.
Cammy let out a nervous laugh, partially at his little joke about the importance of this place and partially at the absurdity of having a cheerful chat about her being here to receive an official ass chewing. “A- uh- formal reprimand, actually.”
The guard grimaced at that, his boy scout features still managing to make him look hopeful even at the mention of incoming unpleasantness. “Ew. Sorry. Guess we all step out of line once in a while,” he said sympathetically. The machine that held Cammy’s ID beeped, and the guard reached over and snatched the card to hand back to her, still a little too fast and precise for a mundane human being. “Your card has the doors and routes you’re cleared for while you’re here in HQ. Don’t deviate too much, and you’ll get where you’re supposed to go. Head down the elevator to B-10, and the lights will guide you the rest of the way. Got it?”
Nodding, Cammy took the card and turned toward the elevator door. Halfway there, the guard called from behind her.
“Ms. Johansen!”
She turned around to see the guard on his feet, leaning over the desk and gesturing for her to come back. Had she forgotten something?
As Cammy approached him again, he leaned in close to talk to her in a low voice. “I don’t know why you’re in trouble, but I’ve gone through reprimands in my time. I wanted to give you a heads up. B-10 is a range floor. You get me?”
Cammy’s eyebrows knitted together at that. The Company was sending her to a training floor?
Her confusion seemed to confirm to the guard that she was in the process of understanding what he’d said, so he leaned back and plopped back down into his chair. “Good luck, Ms. Johansen, and give ‘em hell. Also, if you're available afterward...” He trailed off meaningfully.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
His fellow guards turned their heads at that, glancing between the two of them. Cammy looked down at the man’s name tag. “Thanks, Cooper. I’ll do my best,” she said, giving her most winning smile given the circumstances.
A wide-shouldered sergeant stepped over to Cooper’s side of the desk and put a hand on the counter between the two of them. “Do you need further assistance, ma’am?” he inquired formally with the hint of an English accent.
“Uh. No. I don’t, thank you. I was just about to be on my way.” Cammy replied, suddenly feeling out of place.
“Good. Off you go then. Normally, we’d be happy to let Mr. Cooper here chat you up. Seeing him shot down time and again has become one of life’s little pleasures for me. However, since you are on formal reprimand, you’re required to head to your meeting smartish.”
Cammy couldn’t keep her cheeks from reddening slightly, which she hoped she hid with a rapid turn toward the elevator. “Alright. Thank you both,” she called over her shoulder.
The elevator door, a solid steel thing, slid to the side before she could press the button. Three supers filed out of the car wearing form fitting costumes dyed solid red, white, and blue respectively with half masks over their eyes. The one in solid blue, a tall woman with the athletic physique of a super in her prime smiled brightly at Cammy as she brushed past. Her waist length white hair was bound back in a ponytail, but that didn’t stop it from being absolutely everywhere, like a fuzzy scarf freshly out of the dryer. Cammy could feel the tingle of electricity on her skin, and her hair began to lift defiantly into the air even six feet away from the super.
Blue electric lady's companions followed in her wake, a little more subtle with their power, though the man in red left slightly deviant afterimages in Cammy’s vision that confused her sense of space and nearly made her stumble. The blocky man in white reached out and steadied her with a literal hand of granite, staying that way for a half-second until Cammy got her vision back under control. The super, surprisingly, was covered by or maybe even composed entirely of solid rock. When he smiled, his lips literally cracked apart and little motes of dust fell to the floor. “Steady there, Miss.” he said in rock tumbler basso.
“Thanks,” Cammy replied, already back to normal but unwilling to look back at the man in red again. Instead, she peered into the rock man’s steady brown gaze. She knew this guy. He’d been a staple of the D.C. superhero scene for years now from before she even graduated high school, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name. She racked her brain for the super’s name, but after an awkward couple of seconds he put her out of her misery.
“Hallowed Ground,” he said as an introduction, slowly putting out his hand to shake.
Cammy took it, her hand feeling like a child’s in his enormous granite palm. “Camila Johansen,” she replied in shame. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you up close.” It was a lame excuse, but it was all she had.
“Think nothing of it, Camila. Confluence can be a little discombobulating up close if you’re not used to him,” he rumbled, looking past her to where his team was checking out at the security desk but making no move to leave.
Cammy nodded appreciatively. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that word used in conversation.”
“I bought a word-a-day calendar a while back. A rock solid investment.”
Cammy snorted before she could catch herself.
The stone man rolled on. “Anyway. I’m off to protect our city, Camila. Keep your feet on the ground and your chin up.”
“Thanks, Hallowed Ground, I wish we had time to chat” she replied, her eyes darting to the open elevator doors. She wasn't quite ready to go down to the basement yet.
He smiled bigger at that. “Well, if you need me, just shout my name in the general D.C. area. If I don’t come, use the phone.”
The elevator door slid shut, and she was alone, going down into the subterranean levels of the building. Cammy and her class of trainees weren’t entirely sure as to how deep the Company’s complex went, but most of the guesses based on how long the elevator rides took to get there were in the upper triple digits of feet. It was a theory Cammy shared as well just based on how it felt down there, so close and cold.
Once she was out of the elevator car, she entered a dim hallway with concrete floors and walls that gave off a bomb shelter vibe. The hallway was lit only by twin streams of white LEDs that ran along the bottom corners of the floor and against the walls. The familiar chill of the air made the skin on her arms and neck prickle, just cold enough to be uncomfortable but not so cold that you needed a jacket while you trained.
Cammy had been down in the sub basements before, though never this low. In training, most of her range time was simmed, using special haptic suits and light rounds when it came time for a competitive exercise, and that kind of thing only brought her down to level B-5 at the maximum. It was no secret that the deeper you went underground, the more serious things got, so whatever Cammy had done warranted a much deeper dive into the complex this time.
She followed the lights on the floor, which stayed solid for the most part but displayed a trailing pattern to the right or left when it was time to turn into the another hallway. It reminded her of going to the movies and being ushered out as the credits rolled but without all the triumphant music and smiling faces. This place was more like a morgue: cold, still, and deathly quiet.
Plus, everything looked the same. The trip only took her a handful of minutes to walk, but she was thoroughly lost by the time she reached the door labeled Range 10-13. Stopping on the threshold she looked for a handle or a keypad, but the door opened of its own accord.
Again, the space beyond the threshold was dark, even more so now that the lights on the floor weren’t guiding her. The floor and walls were entirely black but still visible in a sort of omnipresent dim light that permeated the entirety of the room with no discernable source.
That is, except for a lone spotlight that illuminated a middle aged man lounging in a cushioned chair. His short ginger hair and well groomed beard held streaks of gray and the lines around his eyes told of time out in the sun. His age hadn't made him soft though. His hands looks strong and rough, and even through the black sleeved shirt he wore, Cammy could see the clear definition in his muscles. Seeing as how this was the first person Cammy had seen down here, she assumed this was the man she was meant to meet. She strode over as confidently as she could, willing her body not to shiver in the cold as she presented herself at attention.
The man rose from his chair. He was broad in the arms, neck, and torso but short, only coming up to Cammy’s nose. That didn’t diminish the potency of his presence, however. He seemed to dominate the room with quiet confidence, his presence expanding to all corners of the room and dispelling any notions of guff or disobedience. He gestured with his hand, palm down with his thumb tucked in, and the chair he’d been sitting on disintegrated into a cloud of sparkling motes of light.
Solid light tech. She silently made a note to geek out about that later.
“Welcome, Ms. Johansen,” he greeted her with a high, pleasantly clear voice that Cammy guessed sang beautifully. “My name is Sean Hoffman, the Master at Arms here at the Company. You know what that is, yes?”
Cammy nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“No need to be so formal, young lady. This isn’t your reprimand.”
Her eyebrows climbed higher up her head slightly. “It’s… not?”
“No. That comes later. You’re here because you got into your first life or death fight, and you lived to tell the tale,” he answered and gestured around the room as if that was supposed to tell her something. “Every liaison we send out there will be in life threatening danger eventually. It’s why we train you the way we do, and it’s fine training. I should know. I designed the program.”
Still confused, Cammy did her best to ask pertinent questions. "So, should I assume that this is a routine test, Master Hoffman?”
He frowned at that, stepping forward to take Cammy’s hand and holding her palm up. His fingers were strong and warm. “Yes and no. It’s something of a tradition. One born out of necessity.” He passed his hand over Cammy’s palm using holographic inputs Cammy couldn’t see. Then, in her hand was the familiar weight of a Mark II, its slide open and magazine unseated.
Hoffman continued to speak, now looking into her eyes intently. “So, you’ve fought. You’ve won. You’re relatively unhurt and you’re ready to get back to the job. You’ve tangled with a super powered foe and managed to live for another day. It’s commendable, and your ambition works to your credit. The problem is, we find that one of three things happens to someone in your situation.”
He held up three of the fingers on his hand for emphasis. “One. Your encounter with lethal intent backed by superhuman force has left you psychologically scarred, and you’ve lost your nerve. This can be fixed with the right training and therapy.”
“Two. You realize just how close you came to death and let the experience help you accept your place in our dangerous and arguably broken world. If this is the case, you and I will part with mutual respect, and this assessment will be just an unpleasant memory for the both of us.”
“Three. This is the most dangerous out of all of them, and the one that gave us this little tradition.” His face darkened significantly, making him look old, weary. “Three,” he began again. “You came out on the other side believing you have even a ghost of a chance of following your super into his world. You believe that because of your wit and skill, the power difference between you and the monsters in human flesh we call 'supers' isn't absolutely insurmountable. This belief will inevitably lead you to your death.”
The master at arms stepped back and looked her over, his expression indicating that he did not entirely like what he saw. “There’s a combat suit behind you. You’ll have time between simulations to change.”
Cammy looked back to see only darkness until another spotlight snapped on to illuminate a rolled up bundle of padded fabric. So, it was a test, one that she hadn’t prepared for. Her pulse quickened with excitement bordering on light panic. The weight of the Mark II in her hand was equal parts reassuring and terrifying. The memories attached to the weapon flashed behind her eyes too fast to comprehend but intensely enough to feel.
“Wait,” she breathed as Hoffman sauntered away from her toward the exit. “Wait! If this is a test, how do I pass?”
He paused in the doorway, lightly striking the frame with a balled up fist and turning around hesitantly. His face was a study in resigned sadness. “You don’t.”
“Wh-” Cammy began, but her words died in her throat as a blade flashed out of the dark and opened her throat. Bright crimson arterial blood fanned outward in a thin mist that coated the black floor in front of her as she collapsed to her knees.