3.2

“Front 18 collapsed some time ago. With the arrest of their top contributor, Rapture, there wasn’t anyone else left in the gang to act as firepower. You would think hunting down the remains of a broken criminal organization would be easier than taking on the top gangs in the city.

It’s not. Why, exactly, is this guy so hard to find?”

— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 3, page 12

A stream. I find this description of my power is usually the most accurate. It’s a constant flow of information and diagnostics, too dense to understand all at once. Picking out details is difficult. Smaller bits are hard to find and harder to hold on to.

It helps to just let the information rush past me, taking it all in one step at a time, and when I find I don’t need something… letting it go in favor of something else.

My power is very good at feeding me big-picture information, but when it comes to specifics —

Unless, of course, the specifics indicate extreme changes, or, in this case, damage.

I resurface just in time to feel the sting on my forehead and watch the dirty tennis ball bounce against the concrete ground.

“Wow, you didn’t even try that time!” Clockwerk shouts, already winding up another ball.

“I’m gonna be honest, this whole negative reinforcement thing isn’t really working for me,” I comment, holding a hand up and rubbing my forehead.

The borrowed clothes Clockwerk was gracious enough to give me sit oddly against my skin, especially in the cold city air. We’ve temporarily stolen an empty lot further downtown.

Another ball bounces off my skull. “Ahg!”

“This was your idea.” She complains. “What is even the point, anyway? My arm’s gettin’ tired.”

“I can’t move while I’m using my power yet, and I’m probably gonna need to if we have to make any quick escapes — stop throwing shit at me!” I whine, ducking under a third ball.

“We? Who’s this we you speak of?” Clockwerk counters, palming another ball. I scramble to find a projectile of my own.

“We both know you’re coming with,” I mutter, snatching a discarded tennis ball and tossing it her way.

She ducks out of the way, and the ball impacts the concrete building behind her, sending out a harsh crack. It splits on contact, spraying soft bits of tennis shrapnel.

Clockwerk turns back to me, eyes wide. “You, miss, have a ridiculous throwing arm.”

I wince. “…Sorry.”

She smiles. “Nah. I like a bit of danger.”

I roll my eyes. “I know a couple guys closer to the residential zones — I think I can get them to work with us.”

“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do that?” Clockwerk leans over and bounces a tennis ball against the ground.

“They get to go first, obviously.”

“You can’t just leave a gang around here, not that easily. What are you gonna do when Cook hunts them down looking for this mysterious cure you’re handin’ out?” Clockwerk states.

I hesitate. “…Would he even know it exists?”

“He’ll find out eventually, especially if your ‘guys’ drop off the map with no side effects.”

A thump, as Clockwerk’s ball touches the ground and rises to meet her palm.

“We can’t do this without someone pre-established within the organization.” I scowl and brush back my hair.

Abruptly, Clockwerk’s eyes take on a sharper glint. “If you’re gonna bring someone into a project like this, you gotta be able to protect them.”

I grit my teeth. “We can protect them through anonymity. By the time Cook knows anything, his little empire will have collapsed.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“I know,” I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. “But… I don’t want to hurt anyone if I don’t have to.”

Unbidden, my eyes drift to the mark on the wall, and the shredded bits of tennis ball littering the ground.

Clockwerk follows my gaze before I can school my expression.

She snorts. “Fine. We’ll try it your way.”

A fifth ball impacts my cranium.

—

Clockwerk does so happen to have a spare hat. And glasses. This time, though, I’m not so confident it’ll be enough.

Trucker hat, thick sunglasses, dusty t-shirt, jeans, a cardigan wrapped loosely around my waist — the outfit isn’t typical of me, but it doesn’t exactly seem subtle, either.

Threads of snow-white hair poke out from under the brim, and as much as Clockwerk is trying to convince me my eyes aren’t visible, I can tell she’s trying to ignore the sharp glint of red as I turn away.

“Clockwerk —“

“Chloe!”

“Chloe,” I correct myself. “There is no universe in which I’m not spotted immediately wearing this. The hideout isn’t that far from my house, and —“

“It’ll be fine so long as you don’t go tryna have your picture taken,” she reassures me, adjusting the hat by the brim. More paper-white stands fall out and rest against my cheeks.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I try to brush them away. “What?”

“People don’t call in supervillain sightings as much as you think downtown. Not good for your health. And anyway, the whole ‘evil monster girl’ thing helps with your intimidation factor!” She points out, wearing a wide smile.

“We shouldn’t need to intimidate anyone, if this goes well,” I grumble.

Clockwerk — Chloe barks out a laugh. “It won’t! Count on it!”

“You’re a buzzkill.”

“I dunno what you mean,” she retorts, strapping on faded belts and pouches of equipment. “I’m the life of the party!”

Chloe boots the door to her shack open with a loud clang, and marches out into the street.

I quickly follow along, pointing her in what I hope is the right direction. I remember where Mike’s hideout is in relation to my house, but it’s difficult to tell where I am among the crumbling buildings.

Thankfully, the streets are fairly empty. Occasionally, we pass by a shifty-looking person or two, or a car slowly rolling over the cracked pavement nearby, but for the most part, the streets are empty.

Not so different from the rest of the city. People prefer to take the back alleys, or better yet, to not go out at all. Only place I ever saw that was packed was when my dad took me to his office when I was really young. The parking lots over there are always packed.

It doesn’t take much time to find the hideout once I orient myself. The run-down building isn’t nostalgic, exactly, or familiar.

At least it’s still here. Hopefully no one’s moved out. I wouldn’t put it past anyone involved with a local gang, but the place had looked lived-in last time I was there, so hopefully Mikey isn’t in the habit of just up and leaving.

“This the place? Not much to look at, huh.”

“No, it’s not,” I acknowledge. “It’s just a distribution cell. Four people total, most likely. Unpowered.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “What’re they like?”

“Mikey owns the house. He’s scared of Cook, but I think he enjoys the power trip. Gordon usually accompanies him. I think he feels guilty about it,” I finish, scratching my cheek.

“It’s not super likely anyone else will be there. Usually we only stop by for pickup.”

“We?” Chloe raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I wince. “It’s — I wanted to get to Cook.”

She stares, and I try not to fidget.

Then, Chloe shakes her head, reaches into her belt, and pulls out a metal rod. It’s not complex or anything, but the rudimentary hilt is enough to suggest that it might be a baton.

I take it, hesitantly.

“You’re gonna have a much easier time of it now, that’s for sure,” she comments.

“I hope not,” I reply.

She snorts. “Whatever. Ladies first.”

Chloe unlatches her bolt-gun from its harness and carries it casually by her side.

I grip the baton and take a breath. “Intimidation, right?”

“What can I say, I like going loud,” she smiles.

I pause, and pull down the sunglasses slightly, and glance at Chloe for approval.

She shoots me a thumbs-up. “Oh, and show those pearly-whites. It’ll help your aura of evil-monsterness.”

“Sure,” I huff, and climb the stairs, Chloe right behind.

Intimidation. I can do that.

I reach the front door, raise my leg, and kick it down.

The wooden door splinters at the handle and bangs open immediately.

It’s difficult to stomp in the worn sneakers Chloe loaned me, but I make an effort to give my stride some presence, in spite of the sporadic yelling coming from the living room.

The place is almost exactly like I remember. Typical middle-class housing, covered in a thick layer of paper magazines. Don’t even know where the guy gets these, honestly, they’re a little vintage.

In the living room, I recognize Mikey and Gordon, who have both leapt up from their spots on the couch.

“Yo,” I start, wearing a sharp smile and twirling the baton. “Miss me?”

Gordon looks confused. Ah, right.

Mikey’s hand shoots into his pocket — he’s wearing a heavy jacket that makes him look almost top-heavy — and pulls out a black metallic object.

If I had the time, I might sigh dramatically. Should have expected this.

The gun in Mikey’s hand jerks, letting out a loud crack and showering the room in a brief yellow shine. Immediately, I feel a burning pain in my neck, and a spurt of blood forces itself past my lips.

Chloe, luckily, is quick on the draw. She’s already pulling out a net trap while I instinctively slap a hand against the wound.

It’s pouring blood. Ah, and I can’t breathe, either. That’s gonna be a problem for this next bit.

As Chloe disarms Mikey and wrestles Gordon to the floor in my periphery, I dip into my power and repair the gunshot wound.

Luckily, the bullet passed all the way through. The hole isn’t clean, but it missed my spine, and repairing the trachea isn’t a huge deal.

Coming back to reality, my neck, palm, and a thick stream down my chin is streaked with a thick coat of blood. Chloe stuffs the gun into a pouch, and stands over Mikey, boot planted on the back of his hand.

I crack my neck, shake my head and try to wipe some of the blood off my face.

“Wow, right for the jugular. Thought we were friends, Mikey.”

His eyes are wide. “Wh — who the fuck are you?!”

“Aw, come on, you remember me, right?” I smile, and I’m pretty sure all the blood makes it look a little ghoulish.

It has the intended effect. I can see Mikey trying to figure out what I want him to say in real time.

I stroll over and plop myself down on the couch. “Hm. Here, lemme try and refresh your memory. Six-foot-one, blonde hair, black roots? Square jaw, scary-looking brown eyes…? No?”

I’m not seeing any kind of spark on Mikey’s face. That’s probably fine, he doesn’t need to know who I am. Gordon, however…

“Your name…” He mutters. “…Alex?”

That’s the one I used at the time. Seems so long ago, now.

“Bingo,” I grin. “See, I knew I wasn’t so forgettable.”

“What do you want, bitch?!”

I feel my eye twitch involuntarily. Mikey is loud.

“Ah, well, I guess I’ll give you the pitch.” I lean forward.

“Cook seems to think he’s untouchable, or somethin’. He thinks his little concoctions are unbeatable.” My eyes wander, until they make contact with Gordon’s. A new expression seems to be blooming on his face.

“They’re not.”

“Fuck off!” Surprisingly, it’s Gordon that protests.

“Cook’s stuff is absolute! There’s not some fuckin’ — miracle cure, or whatever you’re selling! This is bullshit!”

I tilt my head. It’d be in his best interest if there was a miracle cure. Why is he arguing?

Looking closer, Gordon’s face is a vicious, messy conglomeration of anger, despair, and…

Hope?

Oh. He’s scared.

I drop down my right arm, letting it hang off the couch. “I can see you’re not convinced. So, how about a trial run?”

My blade is long since destroyed, repairing the arm from scratch was hard enough, and I didn’t have any plans or references to reconstruct it from. Still, it’s not difficult to form a thin spine of bone and quickly push it through the skin of my wrist, sealing the wound behind it.

I hold up the finished bone needle, ignoring the sharp ache from the base of it, and give Gordon a significant look.

His expression tightens. “There’s always a catch.”

“Yeah. I guess there is,” I acknowledge. His eyes narrow.

“The catch is, you help me bring this,” I wave the needle around, “to the rest of the city.”

“…Do I have a choice?”

I let the smile drop off my face. “Yes. You do. If you refuse, I’ll find someone else.”

His fists clench, and for a moment I think this little confrontation is about to turn even more violent — but then, he relaxes, and holds out his wrist.

“Fine. Show me it works.”

“Perfect.” I reach out, and slide the needle under Gordon’s skin.