2.23

Piles of cleaved scrap litter the hallway, and the remnants of a thick cloud of steam are still dissipating.

I’m tired. But It’s not over yet.

I turn to Rook, who’s wearing a tight expression. Only her defense lattice remains, and I’m ahead of schedule. It’s been about a minute and a half.

Still, I can’t resist.

“What, not gonna tell me it’s not too late? That I can still be the good guy?” I mock, taking slow, deliberate steps towards her. She doesn’t look impressed.

“No, you’ve made your position very clear.” Her expression… softens? “As much as I may have misjudged you, it seems you’ll always be extraordinarily determined.”

For a moment, I’m caught off-guard.

Just for a moment. I curl my expression into a mean smile and break into a sprint, lunging with my blade arm outstretched.

The lattice reacts instantly, arraying itself into a solid shield wall. My blade collides with it, forming a hail of sparks and an ominous pulse, just like last time.

Unlike last time, when the second pulse arrives, I relax my arm.

My blade is flung backwards, wrenching my arm out of my socket and chipping the sharp end slightly, even as my body remains planted in front of the lattice.

I drop into a full leg sweep, lashing out under the lattice and knocking Rook off her feet. The lattice starts to reform, but before it can I lunge under it, kicking out with a heavy stomp towards Rook’s face.

Her mechanical glasses shatter, and I hear her let out a grunt. The lattice drifts, formation broken.

One minute, fifty-two seconds. I try to ignore the urge to help her up as I lift my boot from Rook’s face.

In spite of the scuffs and bloody nose, Rook wears an expression that feels best described as disgruntled.

I pretend to dust off my costume. “Well. See you on the streets, old lady.”

Then, I take off. I need to get to Vincent’s transport before they get around to moving him, and I want to try to find Clockwerk somewhere along the way.

As I round the corner heading to the garage, I could swear I hear a chuckle from the floor behind me.

—

Sprinting into a hallway closer to the garage, I run into Clockwerk, as well as two USMW guards escorting her. They’re armed, but not alert, and it looks like she still has most of her gear on her, besides the bolt gun at least.

Perfect.

I pick up speed, and when they finally notice me and start to raise their weapons, I drop into a slide, stopping at their feet and positioning my right arm behind me.

I launch myself upwards, feet first, landing a kick to the face that results in a harsh crack and the guard crumpling immediately.

I lever myself into a standing position just in time to watch Clockwerk, elbow the other guy in the nuts. I make it a point to hook my boot around the first one’s dropped gun and kick both of them off to the side.

Clockwerk seems to start with a sarcastic quip, but stops herself when her gaze lands on me. “Whoa, girl, are you doing alright? Jeez, that’s… a lot of blood.”

I blink, and do another general check using my power. I’ve sealed all the immediate wounds… “What are you talking about.”

She winces, and then chuckles. “Ah hah. I just mean it’s… I mean wow, it’s really everywhere. Do want, like, a band-aid, or —“

I scowl. “No time.” I grab her arm and pull her into a run. “If you want to escape, you’re going to help me.”

“Oh — oh, great! Fantastic! I was beginning to think you’d never ask, actually!” She shouts, a little nervously as she follows me at a sprint. “I was just thinking — is that a sword?! In your arm!!”

“What? Yeah, of course,” I reply absentmindedly.

We grind to a halt in front of the garage door. I start explaining the plan.

“Okay, so — the plan is simple. We’re going to immediately make a break for the holding truck —“

I’m interrupted by retching sounds next to me. I turn to look.

“What are you doing?”

Clockwerk tries to cover her mouth with her hand. “N — nothing! Uh, but, could you maybe put away the flesh knife…?”

My expression flattens. “You wouldn’t be escaping if it weren’t for the flesh knife, y’know! Be grateful!” I wave the flesh knife at her.

She starts turning a little green. Is it the fingers? They’re not operable now that the bone’s torn through most of the muscle in that area, so they’ve ended up being a little floppy.

“It’s not that bad,” I reason. “Aren’t you a supervillain? Get over it.”

“No, yeah, I — sure, sure, just — are you sure there’s no way to —“

I kick the door open and tilt my head at her.

She huffs. Still, we both sprint out and towards the still-idling transport vehicle.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like they’ve moved him yet. Unfortunately, it seems as if they were about to. A large amount of USMW soldiers congregate near one end of the garage, all armed and in formation. They notice us almost as soon as we burst into the garage.

I tug Clockwerk along as we make a beeline for the truck. Bullets start flying sooner than I would’ve liked, the crack of gunfire echoing around the garage and bits of concrete kicking up from the pinpoint impacts.

We reach the truck and duck behind it, next to one of the tires. The USMW soldiers still lay down a moderate amount of suppressing fire, but we’re protected for the moment.

Then, the gunfire stops. It’s replaced by the distinct sound of boots on concrete.

We need to get into the truck.

Clockwerk must have a similar idea, because she darts to the side, closer to the driver’s doors.

They open, and the driver in question steps out, sidearm raised.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Clockwerk reacts quickly. The guy steps out, and she closes the gap before he gets a chance to fire off a shot, batting his gun aside and pulling him the rest of the way out of the vehicle.

She waves me in, and we both scramble into the driver’s side, slamming the door shut just before the squad of USMW soldiers forms a blockade around the vehicle.

“I hope you know how to drive,” I mutter. The truck’s bulletproof, and very expensive, so no one starts shooting yet. Instead, a couple officers run up to try and yank open the doors while Clockwerk flicks down the locks.

She starts fiddling with the keys. “Yeah, of course! Definitely! For sure!”

Not encouraging. Still, no time to worry. I climb over the controls and make my way to the back of the truck.

Vincent sits slumped on the bench where I left him, cuffs on and lights out.

I grab the cuffs and tear at them with my blade arm. They snap easily, and clatter to the floor.

Vincent slumps farther, and I have to steady him with a hand. I grimace. We could really use his help at the moment.

I find myself wishing my power worked on other people.

The heavy thumps from the officers outside increase in tempo, and the vehicle rocks slightly. Clockwerk still hasn’t started the engine.

What do I do if we can’t get out of here?

If Vincent…

My eyes drift downwards, towards my bladed arm.

Wait.

I look up, staring at Vincent’s peaceful, sleeping face.

What exactly counts as ‘myself’? How does my power determine what exactly I can manipulate? Is it something intrinsic to my body, my cells? Or…

I hear shouting from outside, but it’s hard to focus on. Instead… if my power allows me to manipulate biology throughout my body, and it’s not intrinsic to me, then it has to determine the cut-off point somehow. It’d have to measure distance, or physical connection to other organic matter in some way.

This is a last-ditch effort, but if we’re going to get out of here, we’re going to need some more firepower. If my power works the way I hope it does, it just needs a sufficient connection to biological matter in order to manipulate it. So, if that is the case…

I lift my blade, and insert it gently into the flesh on Vincent’s arm, piercing the skin and pushing until I touch bone.

He doesn’t twitch. Strong sedative.

I let out a low, soft breath, and activate my power.

My biology unfolds in front of me — and so does Vincent’s.

It’s not like a mind-link or anything, I can’t feel what he’s feeling, but in terms of my power, I get a complete readout of his status just like I would for myself. It only takes a moment to identify the foreign elements in his body and burn them, consuming a minor amount of calories from my own body to fuel it. Then, I stop the bleeding from my incision and remove the blade.

He jolts awake, eyes darting around before settling on my face. I don’t know what he sees, but he calms down slightly. At least, until he registers my arm.

Before he can say anything, a harsh banging, from the back door this time, shakes the truck. I hear the distant crackle of a megaphone from outside.

Rook’s voice, distorted in the way that signals she’s using her humanoid drone, rings out. “All occupants, exit the vehicle immediately! I’ll give you until the count of ten!”

“If you’ve got a plan, now would be the time!” Clockwerk shouts back. “They’re surrounding the truck!”

I grit my teeth and rack my brain. We likely can’t just drive out now, not without running over multiple people. Plus, I haven’t seen Rook’s humanoid drone in action yet, but it’s not unreasonable to assume that it’s at least capable of halting our movement.

We need a way out. I can’t think of one.

Vincent stands. His expression’s softened to something… accepting?

“Vincent…?” I say. My voice sounds smaller than I’d like.

He looks down, and gently takes my hand. The one I’m holding Sera’s necklace in.

“Ten!” Rook’s mechanical voice pierces the air.

Vincent speaks, barely a whisper.

“’Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing — with wavelengths, just as light and sound have’.”

He looks up. “That quote — you know it, right?”

“Nine!”

I blink. “What? Of course I — Vincent —“

“There’s an abandoned house on 7th — that fight, the one that was on the news. Under a floorboard near the back corner, I keep a number of encoded notebooks.” His voice is raw, ragged.

“Yeah, I know, I’ve been there. What are you —“

“Eight!”

Vincent brushes a hand over the necklace.

It’s a silver chain, with a small, heart-shaped pendant engraved with the initials ‘C.C.’ No idea what it stands for. The necklace itself came from a thrift shop down the road.

We used to jokingly try to guess what it meant. Sera’s bet was Chris Crowley. I remember hating that.

The memory still stings.

“Seven!”

“…You two were very close. I still remember the day she came home from school after meeting you. The light in her eyes…”

Tears start to form on his face. “I think that, even in some small way, you — saved her, in a way I couldn’t.”

“She used to avoid talking about anything that happened at that school. It seemed almost taboo, you know. I think she didn’t want to worry me.”

“But then she met you, and it was like — like nothing seemed to bother her. Maybe someone made fun of her outfit, but you rolled your eyes at them, so it was okay. Maybe some girl called her a slur, but you flipped them off, so it was alright.”

“Six!”

His voice shakes. “Maybe the world was cruel in ways I couldn’t protect her from, but — but you were there when I couldn’t be, and I have a feeling you don’t understand how important that was.”

Vincent makes eye contact.

“I need you to know; what happened that night —“

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He cups my hand, and pushes the necklace towards my chest.

“She would have wanted you to have this.”

“Five!”

I look Vincent in the eyes, desperately trying to communicate — I want to tell him how wrong he is, how much of a miserable, confused ass I was, how much she saved me —

I want to remind him that the least I could’ve done was make sure she wasn’t torn in half two blocks from my house.

He leans forward, and wraps me in a fragile, desperate embrace.

“I love you.”

“And… I’m sorry.”

“Four!”

Vincent turns, unlatches the door, and steps out.

I stare at his back. The broken necklace feels like it could shatter at any moment.

“Three —“

Rook stops the count. “Is this meant to be your surrender?”

I can’t see his face. Even so, I can hear the slight melancholy smirk in his voice as he drops down off of the truck.

“Not quite.”

Vincent bursts into a pyre of scarlet flames, and a huge runic circle spreads across the concrete beneath his feet. The wind inside the garage whips, harsh enough to shake the blockade of USMW soldiers, destroying their footing.

My eyes widen. I thought he needed a sacrifice…?!

He lifts his left arm, and another pillar of swirling fire erupts around it.

“Come, Lucifer.”

The crimson tongues of sulfuric gas snuff out in a storm of black feathers, covering the garage in a haze so thick I can’t see even a foot past the exit of the truck.

The vehicle lurches, engine revving as Clockwerk steps on the gas and the thick, pulsing cloud of smoke and feathers and unfolding chaos slowly shrinks behind us. Soon enough, we break out into open air.

I grip the handle next to the back door, and make myself pull the latch closed.

Abruptly, the cabin is silent, save for the quiet rumble of the engine.

I climb back into the passenger seat.

“…Sorry,” Clockwerk offers.

I grunt, and wipe a hand down my face.

There’s a beat of silence.

“So… my name’s Chloe. What’s yours?”

I stare out at the glittering skyline, plodding along while we speed down the highway.

My gaze drifts to the broken necklace.

I start muttering, absentmindedly.

“Y’know, I was thinking something like…”

“Claire.”