3.21

“Smuggling isn’t done, in the city. With the blast walls in place, travel beyond is severely limited to those able to bypass the protections, and survive the journey through untamed wilds.

That’s not to say the outside world is crawling with monsters, or any such nonsense, no matter what some internet boards would tell you. No, it’s simply that the only remnants of civilization outside the walls are naught but rubble by now.

Disasters have forced us to consolidate. It’s difficult to smuggle when the roads are nothing but ash and dust.

And, after all, why pay for illegal transport at all, when the USMC facilitates safe, easy transportation from their headquarters? The only downside is the wait times. Corporations always seem to get priority.”

— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 18, page 20

“You good to go, G?”

“Don’t call me G, Doc.” I grimace, shooting a small glare out the window of the abandoned building I’ve taken residence in, towards a small figure standing on the street below.

“Not you too,” I complain. “I sort of hoped defecting from the government would let me pick my own supervillain name.”

Gordon snorts, the sound fuzzy over the phone. I watch him make a similar motion some distance away. “You shoulda’ picked it earlier, then.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. There’s still time. Maybe if everything goes well, the wider public won’t even know the Doctor existed.”

“Optimistic.”

“Don’t be a downer, G. Here, how about you help me workshop?”

I hear a groan over the speaker. “How much longer until the shady dealer arrives? I’d rather deal with them.”

I ignore him. We’ve still got around twenty minutes to go, and I’d noticed he was getting twitchy a while ago.

“My power’s at least a little bit medical, so it’s not like ‘Doc’ is a bad name,” I start, thinking out loud, “But it’s only really intimidating in a specific context. Evil doctors make me think experiments, fucked-up surgeries, that kind of thing, which is counterproductive if I want to continue healing people.”

Another groan, deliberately louder, this time. Well, he doesn’t have to be listening for me to air my thoughts.

“Visually, I end up pretty bloody a lot of the time, so maybe it’d be more effective to reference that? The USMC seemed to think so, going with Redline, but I can’t continue using that name without at least loosely associating myself with them, which wouldn’t end well.” I hum, tilting my head. “Anything more explicit runs the risk of being too edgy to take seriously, and doesn’t produce the image I want…”

Gordon finally sighs. “…Well. What kind of image do you want? What kind of message?”

I shrug, even if he can’t see it from a distance. “Dunno. Something scrappy, maybe. More grounded. The USMC, and Brightheart especially always seem a little… distant.”

“Pretty sure that’s on purpose.”

“All the more reason to, uh. Not do that.” I lean a little out the window, feeling the breeze on my cheeks. “…Maybe something like… Rodent? Cockroach? Because I’m hard to kill?”

Gordon snorts. “Unless you start growing bug parts, I don’t think anyone’s gonna make that connection. You’re… not growing bug parts, are you?”

I shudder. “No. I will not be doing that.”

“Good.” A pause. “So…?”

“Mm… Patchwork?” I mutter. “No, not that. Reminds of Cook. Roadkill?”

My eyes narrow. “Maybe…”

The phone crackles with Gordon’s startled exclamation. “C — Claire!” He hisses.

I snap back into focus, eyes darting down to Gordon’s place on the sidewalk as he peers into an alleyway. “Yeah?” I prompt, looking away for a moment in order to locate Chloe, who gives a short wave as we make eye contact from her spot across the street.

“I think this is the guy…?”

I suppress a huff. “If you’re sure. Go ask him if he’s here to meet someone. Say you’re here to speak for an associate, and then put the phone on speaker.”

Gordon mutters something about bait and getting a pay raise, which I block out in favor of shoving myself back from the window and creeping further into the building. I step slowly through the hallway, trying to find a better vantage point to see the alley from.

The device in my hand emits a low buzz, and I think I make out a soft rustling as Gordon moves. “…Hey, uh. Hello, sir?”

I resist a snort. Sir? Really? I poke my head out a different window, squinting in an effort to see clearly across the street.

From what I can pick out, the guy Gordon speaks to is wearing a fine suit, and carrying a smaller briefcase. I hear muffled sound over the speaker as the figure shifts, and I assume he’s speaking, but his words don’t make it across.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Yeah. Yeah, uh, I’m speaking for C — an associate.”

Another muffled reply.

“Ah — sure.” Gordon pulls the phone from his pocket.

“Good evening. You are the client?” The voice is clipped, authoritative. I frown. I know I shouldn’t let my expectations color this interaction, but I was expecting someone more… shady? This guy talks like he has money.

“I am,” I reply after a pause, mimicking his precise tone.

“You contacted us about the possibility of purchasing weapons. This is a preliminary meeting, to discuss supply, pricing, and the possibility of future business. After this meeting concludes, you will be provided a separate contact that you or an associate can reach at a later date.”

I nod, again realizing that no one is around to see it. “Understood.”

“Good. First things first, how many weapons are you looking to buy?”

Mm. I lean my head against a hand, resting my elbows on the windowsill. Might have to start winging this. It’s not that I haven’t thought about the specifics of arming a militia, but I’m not yet totally certain how many people I’ll have at my disposal, or how much I’ll be able to pay for it.

Or if I even should. This is all too well-organized, it’s beginning to get suspicious. It seems unlikely to be a set-up specifically for me, but…

At the very least this dealer is more well-equipped than I expected.

“Enough to arm a small militia,” I respond, trying to keep the hesitance from coloring my voice.

The figure in the alleyway shifts in a way that suggests a nod. “Preference for the make and model?”

“Small arms, handheld. Do you provide ammunition?”

Another nod, I assume. “For a price. Smith & Wesson, SD9 2.0 9mm Luger, twenty instances, as well as two full magazines for each… twelve thousand dollars.”

I let myself wince, seeing as he can’t exactly see my face, but resist the urge to gasp out loud.

That’s… a lot of money.

“…When do you need it?”

A sniff. “You’ll be contacted at a later date with a drop point for the payment. Upon delivering the payment, your product will be shipped to a separate drop point, which you will be informed of upon delivery. The opportunity will remain open for one month following this meeting.”

“Though…” And the dealer’s tone takes on a harsher streak. “You’d best remember your manners in this regard. We won’t be kept waiting.”

I scowl. This is dissolving. Better to wrap it up. I lever myself up and out the window, ensuring my mask is secure against my face. Gripping the edge of the windowsill, I swing myself over to land on the fire escape, making my way sedately down the rusted stairs and keeping a close eye on the alley.

“Understood. We’ll be prompt.” Even if we don’t end up using the weapons, I find myself wary of getting on the wrong side of this type of thing.

I hit the ground just as the dealer hands Gordon a slip of paper and oozes a few more ominous warnings. As I make my way closer to the alley, scanning the nearby docks, I catch sight of movement out of the corner of my eye.

Another figure — a little taller than me, wearing heavy gloves, knee and elbow pads, and — a bandana. They stalk forward as the dealer makes to leave, and I try to reconcile the sight.

Weird outfit, especially since they’re not carrying a skateboard or anything.

It immediately puts my heart in my throat. I glance back at Chloe’s spot and see a similar expression of tension gracing her face as she hefts a bolt gun.

My pace speeds up, and even if the strangely-dressed figure doesn’t seem to notice, their stride gains confidence as they round the corner into the alley where Gordon is standing and open their mouth —

I’m moving before I can really process what’s happening, flesh-blade extending with a sickening crunch as flesh parts, and a sharp hiss heralds a pressure booster being fired in my left leg. I dash, kicking up steam behind me, blade angled in a low swipe.

The stranger turns their head at the sound, eyes widening as they sidestep the attack.

“Woah!” They twist, transitioning into a smooth hook that I barely manage to duck under, and bring their knee into a vicious strike to my gut. I lower an arm, tanking the hit but being forced to skid back across the concrete.

Gordon startles, stumbling. I deliberately move my focus away from him, but try to make sure to keep him in the corner of my eye.

The stranger takes a quick step, and I move to intercept. Before I can follow through, though, they dart to the side, taking advantage of my movement to slip past and make for Gordon.

I consider using a pressure booster.

The stranger steps, and the concrete next to them shatters. For a moment, I think it has something to do with their power, before they stumble aside, revealing a long piece of rebar protruding from the ground.

I glance back. Chloe’s reloading.

I move to pursue the stranger. They regain their balance, entering a more stable stance, before their gaze flicks to the side.

Distracted? I risk a look beside me just in time to watch a spectral figure whirl into place, edges fuzzing like static, colors shifting fast enough to make me vaguely ill. Past all the obvious visual distortion, the thing looks like an exact copy of the person in front of me.

Down to the last detail apparently, because it strikes with a sharp hook that catches me directly in the face.

My head snaps back, and I stumble, shaking off the starburst of pain that explodes in front of my eyes. The clone fades, but in its place another one seems to burst into motion, driving a knee into my side and sending me sprawling.

I scramble to my feet, struggling to lift my un-bladed arm to deflect a number of jabs from the real stranger, and finding they’ve advanced closer into my range than I’m usually comfortable with, especially with the sword out.

From the confident glint in their eye, they know that as well as I do.

I scowl, brushing aside another jab, and find myself completely unprepared as they feint a hook, duck under my arm, and kick the back of my knee.

I don’t fall, but I stumble, and another buzzing clone appears prepared with a jab to my throat that I can’t help but take head-on.

The thing looks to be pushing to continue its attack. I haul my leg into a low kick that shatters the projection like glass, and follow through into an instinctive roll.

I’m on my feet in an instant, which isn’t enough to gain any breathing room. This person’s hand-to-hand is already more than competent, in spite of its obviously self-taught nature, and combined with their ability to create projections it makes for an opponent that can sustain pressure in a fight indefinitely.

I can’t match them in combat, and though I might be able to in endurance, they’re expending less energy than I am by using those clones.

But — the clones are fragile. With a strong enough blow, I should be able to shatter any close enough, and break through their guard to incapacitate them. I’ll need to use one — no, two, most likely, and aim for their arm to ensure I don’t accidentally decapitate them —

I lean forward in preparation, hefting my blade, when I hear the scuff of boots behind me, a soft breeze on the back of my neck, and suddenly a blade is held to my throat.

I freeze.

Wonderful.