3.0
Jennifer Zhao sits quietly in her office, sipping on a modest cup of hot tea. The bags they store in the rec room on this floor are always disgusting, so she keeps a small box of the better stuff in the bottom drawer of her desk. It helps to center herself, to calm her nerves and allow her to think clearly.
It’s not working as well as she’d like. Her mind is a storm of half-formed thoughts, ideas, improvements — she can’t seem to keep herself from thinking of what she could have done better.
None of the ideas bouncing around inside her skull are particularly helpful. Sure, she could have detonated the defense lattice the moment Red had closed in, injuring herself and possibly mortally wounding the child, and she could have ordered an almost-lethal dosage of the sedative from her scout drone after catching the child off-guard, but —
None of these things were going to happen. And as much as Jennifer’s genius mind can provide combat alternatives, when it comes to the words she’s said, she seems to draw a blank.
Frustrating, to let such a promising division member slip away like that. Not to mention the damages her little escape caused — it’s going to take months to requisition the materials to rebuild her forces.
Still, it could have been worse. Faust may be missing an arm from that ridiculous stunt, but it’s possible he could have chosen to sacrifice more. It had been two minutes of intense combat and protective measures on her part, and there might actually have been casualties if it had gone on any longer.
Jennifer places her mug of tea gently back onto her desk. It’s dark out, and the stark white of her office lamp is starting to get on her nerves. She closes her laptop, shuffles away her remaining paperwork, and steps out of the office.
—
Commander Luka Burke stands in the records room, near the labs, sifting through the records of a certain individual’s abilities. The records are thin, which is to be expected, but they are not incomplete. Rook is, if nothing else, thorough.
He’d been warned Redline was a flight risk, her handler had made sure to emphasize the possibility, but while Burke would never admit it, the kid surprised him. He’d heard the warning, categorized it and applied it in his mind, and still the child was strangely unreadable.
A learning experience. Burke knows, in spite of popular opinion, that you’re never too old to pick up a new trick.
Regeneration, suspected enhancement aspect… body modification? Versatile. Thankfully, the girl hasn’t thought to expand the definition of her abilities. She’s still in the early stages.
If he needs to, he can have her captured and detained. He mentally logs Redline as a low priority and shelves the file.
As important as information gathering is, Burke likely won’t be encountering her any time soon. The girl has committed a federal offense, and as such, if she tries to return to the headquarters or to any sort of normal life, it’s probable that she’ll be discovered and prosecuted.
For better or worse, the kid’ll merge with the rest of Westpoint’s criminal ecosystem.
Idly, Burke wonders if she’ll choose her own villain name, or if the forums will choose it for her.
—
Olivia Burns isn’t having the best time. To be fair, neither is the training dummy her rocket-powered leg slams into for practically the fiftieth time today.
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The dummy rattles, padding shredded and falling off, covered in soot and scorch marks. Olivia’s shin is starting to ache.
She ignores it.
The strike training provides a rhythm, a motion she can put everything into without distractions. It helps her focus, helps her find balance.
It’s supposed to. Her leg impacts with another sharp thwack.
It rarely seems to do what it’s supposed to.
It’s just — fucking Jake — Red, whatever, Olivia absolutely knew she was going to do something stupid.
This specific dipshit plan, though, wasn’t something Olivia predicted. This dumbass, reckless, completely irresponsible, totally unhelpful plan —
Another thwack. The real issue Olivia is having here is comprehending what in the fuck Red was thinking — what exactly was going through her insane little brain to spit that pile of garbage out.
‘Oh yes, I’m just gonna beat up Rook in the middle of the USMC headquarters, break two supervillains out of containment and run off with a USMW issue suppression vehicle! Surely this will have no outstanding consequences! I am very intelligent!”
Thump. Not!
The dummy tilts under the force of Olivia’s strike, tongues of flame reaching towards the ceiling.
She just can’t understand why Red would —
Olivia snorts quietly to herself. Why would Red leave? Better question is why wouldn’t she?
Great job Livvy, you managed to make the most goody-two-shoes girl on the planet become a supervillain just to escape your shitty ass. Your father would be proud —
Thump.
Olivia huffs out a breath, smoke drifting from her legs and arms.
Fuck.
—
A man sits quietly on a couch in his apartment. His hair is unkempt, but not dirty, and only a small brush of stubble graces his chin. He wears baggy, but practical pants and a tank top, his heavy jacket cast aside for the moment.
He sits quietly on his couch, reading a book.
At that same moment, the man is also making breakfast, taking a shower, and negotiating a mercenary contract about a mile from the apartment.
And yet, the stove is cool, the water is not running, and the 12th Hour Dogs remain unpaid.
Curious.
There is a knock on the door to the man’s apartment.
A number of things happen at once.
The man steps out of the shower, turns down the burner and calls out a greeting, and picks up a loaded gun sitting on his table, all at the same time.
While the man plates his food, he greets the visitor. “C’mon in, Nick, the door’s unlocked — take yer shoes off at the door, yeah?”
While the man steps out of the shower, he walks calmly towards the door, and swings it open, ignoring the shocked cries of his visitor, and casing the hallway of his apartment building. No tails, and no ambush.
While the man picks up his gun, he strides quickly to the door, swings it open, and drags the visitor in, placing the gun against his temple.
“Well, how’re you settling in, kid?” The man asks, sliding a plate across the table.
“Were you followed?” The man comments, standing naked in the apartment complex hallway.
“Who are you — how did you find this place.” The man demands, pressing the barrel against the child’s skull.
“Ah, y’know, beats juvie.”
“No? Dude, what are you doing…”
“P — please, you t — told me to meet you here —“
The clink of a plate. The click of a door latch. The crack of a gunshot.
About a mile away, on the exact same day, at the same exact second, Highlander makes a phone call.
“Hey. Yeah, he’s clear. Yeah. Hey, bud, can you swing by my apartment later? I think I left my door unlocked.”