3.26

“Like vultures, the lot of them.”

— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 17, page 25

Walking down the street in broad daylight with two supervillains bickering in full costume is not exactly how I imagined this going.

“You sure you don’t wanna stop at a Toys R Us or something? Get you a barbie? Or a hot wheel — I don’t judge.”

“Shut your jaw or lose it, fuzzy.”

“I’m just saying, a good hot wheel really hits the spot nowadays. I had a whole box of them when I was a kid — especially the dino ones, you know those?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Eh? Maybe Wonder Woman-shaped cars are more your style?”

“Gah!”

Ad infinitum. Highlander strolls along with an almost lazy gait just behind the kid, who I’ve elected to call G mentally, and not at all out loud if I can help it.

Since yesterday, Highlander’s elected to don a pair of tinted sunglasses in addition to his black-and-white ensemble, but the kid’s outfit remains relatively similar, with a heavy leather overcoat that’s several sizes too big for her, and an all-black shirt and pants combo.

This time, though, she’s got a matte-black beret leaning off her head.

I follow along behind in a ratty trench coat and practical jeans and tank-top, straining to keep a placid smile on my face. We’re walking through the docks, at the moment, and one of Cook’s supply houses looms a little ways down the road — I’d been expecting it to be a little more difficult to find, but after Suckup received his beating, it seems like his lips have gotten looser.

“Well, what about you, hot stuff? Batman, Superman — Doctor Doom?”

Is he still talking about cars? I give him a condescending smile. “I was more of a Bakugan kid, myself.”

Highlander barks a laugh. “That tracks!”

Huh? How does it track?

“Bakugan is for nerds!” G shouts, stomping down the street and taking a hard left, stepping up to the doors of a large warehouse out next to the water. She lifts her hand, clenches her fist, and whips her arm to the side.

There’s an audible buzz in the air, and the screech of torn metal as the doors crumple and fly off, landing in a shower of sparks, scraping against the pavement.

G wipes a line of blood from her lip.

“Drama queen,” Highlander sing-songs, stepping jauntily into the warehouse and drawing a gun from his belt.

I slip off to the side, keeping a close eye on the other two gang members — this warehouse, unlike some of the others around here, is pretty full — crates of material, spare vehicles, all of it lies in an organized fashion around the warehouse, making for a surprisingly dense maze of objects.

A maze I fully intend to take advantage of as Highlander casually twists on his heel and fires his gun around a corner.

Surprised shouts tell me he’s hit his mark, and a large crate next to G begins to rattle.

The crate I’m standing behind, actually. I step to the side, finding new cover, as the crate sails across the room and slams into a cluster of goons running along the wall.

The crack of Highlander’s gun continues to echo, and I catch glimpses of the man strolling casually through the warehouse, peeking behind stashed vehicles and stepping around corners, gun waving around almost aimlessly.

Almost. He’s a really good shot. Or, maybe that’s just because he seems to only ever take shots he know’s he’ll hit.

Every so often, I see him idly flip a coin in his other hand, glance at it, and change directions on a whim.

It seems important. I make a mental note.

G, on the other hand, seems to prefer waving her arms and throwing everything in the room around aimlessly with psychic power. A constant stream of blood drips from her nose, one which she has to wipe away every few seconds, but that doesn’t really seem to bother her. It certainly doesn’t stop her from laughing maniacally at every stray box that shatters against the far wall, or every goon she decides to pick up and spin like a helicopter.

She doesn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. I’d assume that her bleeding out would be more of a concern, but the blood she loses doesn’t seem to be anything drastic — just messy.

They’re not even trying, and this — I’m assuming — heavily fortified crime base is practically crumpling.

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A shout from nearby draws me from my observations, and I suppress a sigh. At least I don’t have to do this in front of the other two.

One of Cook’s hired goons — and, I assume, some of his buddies close behind — rounds the corner, startling at the sight of me but quickly readying his weapon.

I quickly drop into a crouch and activate a pressure booster in my leg, blasting forward, catching his face in the palm of my hand and slamming it into the concrete.

I take stock. Three just around the corner, group over near the center of the warehouse, currently gawking as a cloud of bullets hangs in the air in front of G.

I focus on the ones in front of me, taking a heavy step and grabbing the front goon by the arm and dragging him in front of me in time for one of his pals to fire a spray of bullets into his back. I slip to the side and into a shoulder-check, knocking that second guy on his back and stomping on his weapon, crumpling it around the middle.

The third guy tries his luck in close combat and fails miserably as I haphazardly bat his rifle away and punch him in the throat. I turn to re-assess.

Shit. One of the goons from earlier decided to retreat, scrambling through the towering crates and into my line of sight, frantically raising her weapon. Getting shot doesn’t really slow me down, but I don’t want to be wasting energy so early, here —

Bang. Blood sprays, and the henchwoman drops dead. I turn to Highlander, standing inexplicably beside me, twirling his gun.

He gives me a daring grin.

I don’t dare drop my placid smile. “…Thanks, guy.”

“All in a day’s work!” He chirps, then sighs. “So many hired guns, so little time. Oh, well, let’s move on.”

…Let’s. Highlander walks off further into the warehouse. G rounds a corner, cackling as an array of formerly-well-bundled steel beams fly through the air and pulverize anything near the wall they impact.

I move to follow, and then stop. Groans echo out through the warehouse, when they’re not overshadowed by the boom of telekinetically thrown crates and the crack of gunfire up ahead.

…I can’t exactly drop everything just to help out Cook’s henchmen, not when I’m actively attempting to depose him.

So… a compromise. I make my way across the room, dipping into my power to extend a needle from my wrist, and taking a moment or two to stabilize them. A lot of them won’t be waking up anytime soon, but they’ll have no lasting damage, and none of them are going to die.

I can’t do much for the ones that are already dead.

I’ll just have to make sure this works. I finish up in under a minute, and dash farther into the compound.

—

The warehouse opens up soon enough, into a small courtyard bordered by a couple other large buildings and industrial equipment. Forklifts, portable elevators… a lot of it looks like it hasn’t seen use in some time, but the sheer amount of material here is vaguely intimidating. I don’t have much experience with mad scientists beyond Chloe, who seems content sticking with her current arsenal and usually settles for routine maintenance at her desk. Cook uses chemical weapons, as far as I’ve seen. Would it make sense for him to use any of this? Maybe it was left over from when he acquired the building? The docks weren’t always quite so… abandoned.

Highlander hums, spinning a gun on his finger. “Which way, which way…?” He flips a coin.

G scowls. “Are you some kind of idiot? You’re still throwing that coin around?”

“Hey! My grandpapi gave me this coin!” I glance at it as it slaps against his palm. It looks like a regular quarter to me.

“I wouldn’t care if the president himself flew down to give it to you, we got the tag-a-long for a reason, dumbass!”

Oh, that’s me. I open my mouth to mention reports I’ve gotten about the smaller building closer to the water when Highlander seems to come to a decision.

“Aaaand… this way!” He marches off. Towards the small administrative building I was about to point out.

I follow along absentmindedly, as G complains and jabs him in the gut, restarting their bout of constant bickering.

It’s definitely some kind of subtle power — and I’m sure he’s using it at this point, likely has been every time I’ve seen him. That coin he brings everywhere likely has something to do with it as well — it’s possible the thing’s a diversion, with the way he flaunts it, but it’s equally possible he’s just like that.

Or maybe he does need the coin, but he knows how obvious it would make it if he tried to hide it, so he makes it part of his character.

I suppress a scowl. I think I’m beginning to see why all the supers in the city are so… colorful, with their personalities. Highlander is infuriatingly difficult to get a read on. Even G is a little hard to navigate without knowing more about what sets her off.

I tentatively add ‘locked doors’ to that mental list as she growls and whips a hand out, blasting two heavy metal doors off their hinges and into the building proper.

“Come on out, you two-bit lab rat!” I start to wonder if this kid might have read a few too many golden-age comics, and stifle a snort as the effect is ruined by the way she wipes a sleeve against her bloody nose.

Highlander seems to have a similar thought. “What happened to all those big-girl curse words you like so much?” He drawls, smirking.

She sniffs. “Don’t need ‘em.” She whips her head to the side.

I’m not able to hide my own slight smile fast enough.

G stops, stares, and I freeze in turn. Her eyes narrow, her posture shifts —

“Hey.”

All at once, a heavy presence of something blankets me, weighing down my shoulders, pressing insistently against the back of my head. It’s almost like gravity itself decides to take issue with my existence, and it’s everything I can do just to stay standing.

I hunch over slightly with a grunt, gritting my teeth under the onslaught. Somehow, I manage to catch the kid’s eye.

She stares back impassively, eyes lidded and nose tilted upwards.

She doesn’t bother wiping away the blood.

“You’re the tag-a-long here,” she says. “Remember that.”

The pressure abates, and I let myself gasp in a breath.

“Y — yes, ma’am,” I reply, not trying too hard to play up the shaking in my voice as I throw up a hasty salute.

Fortunately, she seems satisfied with that. Not-so-fortunately, Highlander seems to give me a considering look afterwards — at least, as much as I can tell watching him from the corner of my eye. As soon as I glance over, he looks pretty convincingly disinterested.

…It’s easy to forget, with the way that they banter, that these people are monsters.

Hopefully, pointing them in Cook’s direction is enough. G struts confidently down the hall, ignoring Highlander’s pointed jabs as he twirls his gun, and I force myself to follow.