I didn't sleep that night, though oddly, not for the reason you would expect. A psychotic, sentient scythe was dead-set on taking me out, and you'd think that would put me on edge, but somehow, it was almost calming. The problem was my mind needed to finish working through things, despite Anna's call to tell me that I should absolutely get sleep. There were cops out front, much good as they would do. Not to discredit the cops, mind, but this was out of their weight class, and Kevlar wouldn't matter for shit against this thing. He'd tracked me not to my home, but to Aimee's. Why? Why that moment? I got not coming at me in the H.A.A., but the way that he'd talked, he'd found me far earlier. Was it just because I was alone?

Why give me a heads-up? Why the dramatic entrance? He'd talked at length, repeatedly, given me time, when it was far more efficient to just pop out of nowhere and end me, "I need more information, but where..."

H.A.A.. While I wasn't allowed to technically do crimefighting, self-defense, and emergencies were considered an abridgment of the rule. It was unreasonable to expect supers to just sit around and die for a rule. He was hunting me, and it wasn't over, but why? He had me, distracted, alone, in a city where I'm the only super with a combat-centric ability, so no backup. I needed access to H.A.A. files on him since the public ones didn't contain much except for the physical descriptions of the suit, and the list of crimes.

And if the scythe was running the show, why run from the cops? He hadn't blinked at fighting me after I started laying in damage to his puppet. I went back over the fight, but I needed a visual aid. I grabbed my sketch pad and started drawing out the fight step-by-step, just like a comic book would be laid out, but making each page of the sketchpad a single panel. As I finished each panel, I hung them, forming a circle that laid out the fight, complete with dialogue boxes. I re-examined it, and yeah, he cut out as soon as the cops showed up, but he promised he was coming for me.

The scythe might be untouchable, but the body wasn't. The scythe didn't care about general damage to the body, sure, but a bullet through the brain might render the body useless.... the scythe is reliant on the puppet just as the puppet is under the control of the scythe. If the scythe could animate itself, I'd be well since dead, since I could just be attacked again and again on both sides, but that didn't happen. Okay, that opened up getting the scythe out of the puppet's hand, but I wasn't really trained on disarming weapons. Sensei Bill had admonished us to not fight people who had a knife or a weapon, to just go with things. That wouldn't work here, because his direct objective was to kill me.

And I couldn't let that happen either, because if he got his hands on my ability... fundamentally, he wouldn't be able to be stopped. He could just train the powers he already had, just like I trained myself, and there was a potential that the powers would improve, become more efficient, and more powerful. My broken power was all that was holding him back. I drew a 1:1 sketch of the scythe and started working, grabbing pool noodles, piping insulation, and duct tape. I recreated the scythe itself. He'd been able to use this thing like it weighed nothing, but the weapon was huge. This much steel should have required near super-strength to wield in an effective manner. I'd felt the heavy weight of the blade when I grabbed it, so obviously, it did have weight, but not for the wielder of the blade? So kind of a Thor/Mjolnir kind of thing?

When Darryl found me in the morning, I was standing on top of a ladder in the backyard, spinning and slashing the 'blade', changing hands... wait. Reaver hadn't changed hands. His right hand wielded the scythe, and he only used the left to send out the tendril. even that attack had been simple, straightforward. I was missing something, something that I had no way to know or notice. I came down the ladder, and finally saw Darryl standing there, "Oh... hey man. How are you doing?"

"How am I doing?! Dude, you fought your first supervillain, and you almost died!"

I sighed, walking past him, "Yeah, I'm kind of sorry you missed it. I could've used a camera angle. Come on, I need caffeine."

Darryl had begged off school, wanting to make sure I was alright. Aside from being a bit sleepy, I was fine. I had to consider everything, but Information Overload could also be a detriment. It was an issue in scientific research, police work, and of course, hero work. Not everything is a clue, and separating the legitimate clues from the false leads was the difference between a decent investigator and a great one. Darryl trailed after, asking questions about the fight, til I held a hand up, "Just go up to my room. I have notes and drawings. Need fresh eyes. I'm going to Plaid. Need caffeine."

I left him there, and walked out the front door, stopping off to ask the officers out front what they wanted from the store. They told me I should stay inside, but eh, fuck it. If he's coming for me, he's coming for me. I told them to wait there and ran to the store. Not like they could catch me before I got there. I loaded up on the big triple espresso drinks and got myself some sausage, egg, and cheese croissants. I needed to think, and if that attack was coming again, I needed to be ready, and ready fast.

I looked up fighting gyms in Portland and found one I could use. I needed to check in with Darryl... my phone. Son of a bitch. I mean, if the scythe had to be in hand to operate the puppet, then there's no way I'd have missed some dipshit walking around with an 8' tall scythe. So he'd used my phone to track me. It was so basic, and it wasn't like celebrities didn't get cyber-stalked pretty consistently. I'd need to correct that, but first, I could use it to test the theory.

I went into the house, heated up my breakfast, and then went up to my room, where Darryl was going through my notes, sitting in the middle of a circle of giant comic panels. He looked up, and I tossed him a drink, which he did catch easily enough, "Man, this is actually how the thing went down?"

"More or less, but I can't be certain of the level of objectivity. Memories are affected by emotions, but it's as close as I could get. You think of something?" I cracked open my own drink and started in on my first sandwich.

"Mostly, I came to the same set of conclusions you did. The scythe's in control, and it has to kill to absorb the powers. But there is something you missed." He came up to his feet, and went over and started going around to the panels, "This actually sounds like a comic book villain, like it's trying to approximate what it thinks a supervillain is, but with comics as its only reference point.

"Supervillains don't do big monologues, not in the real world. They don't announce their presence to their target before they attack. That's purely an artifice of storytelling, like Chekov's Gun, where if you introduce an element in the first act, you need to use that element in the second or third act. You're right, if it had just wanted you dead, it would have just ended you on the first strike before you knew there was a problem, but it didn't. It dragged out the conflict. It allowed you time to fight, to talk, to answer questions, and time for the police to arrive."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He directed me to the second panel, where he was coming down the street, dragging the scythe, "Right here. Look, man. You said red and black, but that's not actually true. The base of the mask is white, and the scythe and belt are a deep purple color. A literal four-color supervillain, even though the current fashion for the enhanced is two contrasting colors, maybe three blended colors at most. Instead, these colors are distinct, and the outfit looks custom-made. Then we have the reports of him previously, where he's silhouetted. I don't think they were mistakes or lucky shots, I think it was actually posing like that."

He dug in his bag and produced a tablet, on which, he had a huge collection of comics, so that he could read them without damaging his collection, "Alright then, Darryl. If that's the case, if it's mimicking a comic book, what's the next move?"

Darryl brought up some comic pages, "To back off, then come back at you, preferably after you've had a chance to prepare a bit, and in some sort of more public forum, since the initial meetup was private. It might try to take someone you care about, but because of how you are, it could kidnap anyone and you'd be just as likely to jump in to stop it. The point is to draw you out, and it's going to be a big display. No matter what, you'll be fighting around people, and he's likely got one or two tricks he hasn't broken out yet."

I tossed an empty can into the bin next to my desk, and cracked the next one, "Okay, so in other words, we have a limited window to act on our own. We should move everyone to somewhere safe."

He shook his head, "No good. That just changes the target. To Reaver, this is being treated like a duel or a game. There are rules, but if we try to break the rules, then we just remove the leash, and it might start killing indiscriminately. It could take a teacher, Fred, pretty much anyone that's had contact with you."

Darryl very rarely was this confident, and his reasoning was sound, "Okay, so then, operatively, we're safe for right now. I sent you a link to a fighting gym. I'm gonna get a nap, so I need you to call them, and see if they can work me in today."

He nodded, and I went crashed for a few hours. I don't remember dreaming, but when I woke up, I had an idea, and called Darryl back, "Darryl, he's operating by rules. No Game No Life. You remember?"

"Oh yeah, great dialogue. So what's the plan?"

"Meet up. I'll leave a note in the usual place." I hung up, scrawled a quick note, and grabbed the last can of caffeine. I went back up to the cop car out front, "Hey guys, when your relief gets here, need a favor. Take my phone to the H.A.A. for me. I was accidentally recording during the fight, and they might be able to map the voice or something."

As I went back inside, I dropped the note in a small gap between the edge of the frame, and the drywall. We'd used it before. He knew where it was, and just to make sure, I'd written it in a code we'd used before. It was from an old issue of Boy's Life, a Boy Scout magazine. Now, to lose my protectors.

That part was easy enough, since unlike the cops, I was willing to jump out a second-floor window to a tree branch. I hopped the back fence, then one more fence to the next street, and took off at a strong run. I already knew where I was heading, and Darryl would catch up when he could. The destination was an MMA gym.

When I got there, people recognized me instantly, not just from the internet, but my face had been in the news all last night and this morning, so it was incredibly easy to drop some money to get gym time. I met with the gym's trainer and offered a quick bit of money to any fighters that were willing to get in the ring with me, and a larger prize each time they could take me down. No rules, no limitations, come and try to take my head off.

I realized a flaw in how I'd been conducting my ability thus far: I'd been doing so many different things, and while that was wonderful for a long-term foundation, I couldn't waste time on that now. I needed to improve and improve now. At first, I was fighting one-on-one with a kickboxer, and I was keeping up pretty well. Then another guy entered the ring, focused more on boxing, and another... and another.

They were coordinating, and it was getting harder, more intense trying to keep at it. The trainer was calling out various directions to me, and I did my best to follow them. Every swing, every block, punch, kick, and dodge, I was getting just a bit better, and better fast. I knew the technical aspect of fighting, I knew how to fight in a schoolyard, and how to spar. That wasn't what I needed. I needed a real fight, one where my opponents were really fighting to win, and weren't concerned about my safety and growth, restraining their hits, or just trying to show dominance.

I did take a break when the first batch got tired, grabbed my bag, drained four Huels, a couple of Larabars, and a Gatorade. The trainer's eyes lit up, "Jesus Christ, my man. There are guys in UFC right now who couldn't put up with that. So we're packin' it in for the day?"

"Nope, it's just lunchtime." I got up and stretched out, then grabbed a shower with the permission of the trainer. By the time I came out, Darryl was there, as was Anna, "Hey man, got the note. My phone's in your room, and I swung by the H.A.A. What's the plan?"

"Basically, we stage the fight. We hit all the right notes, just like it would set up in a comic, draw him out. Problem is, I've gotta be an absolute bastard to do it," I wiped myself off with my towel, and started on my way back to the ring. My trainer advised against it, but I assured him I was fine, and I could handle it. I mean, I think I can. As I hopped into the ring, I did my best Vegeta impression, "Alright, round god-damned two!"

This time, it went different. It was the same thing I'd learned with languages: Once you knew two languages, the third got easier, and the fourth, and the fifth. It was how you had people who could speak a wide multitude of languages. It wasn't much different with martial arts, which is what made properly trained MMA fighters so dangerous. They were constantly building, their bodies and minds trained to learn new moves, and new styles versus traditional martial arts that stayed mostly insular, karate fighter combating karate fighter. I was just doing it in a less traditional manner than usually got used. By the end of the day, I was effectively fighting five at once. Once you got over the mental hump of fighting more than one person, the general strategy was the same: Force them to one side of you, and where you could use their own numbers to cut off as many attackers as possible. I paid out the guys when I was done, and hopped out, "Thanks for putting up with me today guys. You've been great."

I was breathing hard, but it was coming down as I walked off the work, "Okay, so it's pretty basic. Thursday we have Scouts. Darryl, you're gonna bag out on the meeting. I want you at the basketball game, say you're working A/V. I'll go to Scouts as planned, and let me know the moment that Reaver makes its appearance. Everything we we talk about or text near the phones from now on has to be done as if this is just us living our lives, and that Thursday is really going down the way we're talking about."

Anna stepped in front, "Look, Darryl filled me in, and don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure you're both right, but you are not a hero, you don't have the legal ability to do this. The H.A.A. is sending in a team-"

"Call them off unless you want to make him an even stronger monster," I got where she was coming from, but it just didn't matter.

Anna looked down, "Damn it Marcus, you need to listen to me!"

"Alright, who are they sending, then? So I can know what extra powers I'm gonna be fighting against! Yeah, this way sucks. I get it, and I wish I could come up with a better idea, but if you send in a team, that's the end of the rules. No rules, this guy can pop out of nowhere, immediately bind someone, and take their power. It can strangle a baby with its tendril, and force heroes to let themselves die. That scythe dropped a one-foot cut through solid pavement without the swing wobbling or slowing once, so who've you guys got coming that doesn't die to that thing? I'm not being reckless, I don't want this fight, but there's no other way this goes down that doesn't get more people killed. And don't worry, I'm not fighting tomorrow!"

We were exiting the gym now, and she had a curious look on her face, "Then what are you doing tomorrow?"

I grinned as I turned to walk off, "Getting shot at!"