3.27

Grimy tile, upturned tables, suspicious burn marks, and stainless-steel incomprehensible chemistry equipment. Cook’s lab has all the makings of a mad scientist’s lair.

I’m not sure if the trashed sections and splintered wooden shelves add or detract from the whole experience. Highlander seems to think it’s charming.

“Love what you’ve done with the place, bud! Really complements the whole ‘dumpster-diver chic’ you have going on!” He backs up a step as Cook whips out a sprayer and layers the area with a settling purple fog that looks to eat away at the floor under it.

Cook doesn’t reply, in stark contrast to our scuffle a few nights ago. The look on his face is almost pained as he ducks around releasing smoke and attempting to dodge the potshots Highlander shoots him from across the room. It’s hard to get a good look at him, but I do note that I can see a bit of crystallized red poking out from underneath his shirt — he must have retained some injuries. That plus the bags under his eyes paint a harrowing picture.

That, at least, is encouraging. The ridiculous state of his lab, less so for my purposes. While Highlander chases the mad scientist around the room, I dart off to the side and start rummaging through the shelves, sifting through paperwork and trying to ignore the supervillain banter.

It’s a load of poorly-printed notes, stained ink, crumpled paper… sheafs of files using chemical notation I have no hope of understanding. Not what I’m looking for. I sigh and duck around Cook as he stumbles into a nearby desk, taking careful note of which way Highlander’s gun is facing, and make my way towards the back of the room.

Filing cabinets line the wall, and even if they’re a little dented a couple of them look to be occupied. I jimmy open one of the drawers and start sifting through.

A groan sounds out from the younger supervillain somewhere behind me. “Come on, man, we don’t have all day! Finish him off already!”

“Ah, you’re too hasty. He’ll never learn his lesson if I don’t knock him around a little.”

“He won’t have to learn shit if you just take care of it, moron.”

The crack of a gunshot. I glance over, and somehow Cook still isn’t dead. He’s injecting another vial of something-or-other and skittering under a desk.

I turn back to the cabinet. Material lists, equipment orders… bank manifests? Or something similar? Something involving a large amount of money.

Obviously Cook would be moving a large amount of money. I’m like ninety percent sure that’s most of what his operation is for. Looking closer, though… where exactly is this money coming from? If it’s profit from his… business, wouldn’t it be listed as such, instead of as additional income? Is Cook the type to obfuscate records like this? I was half-expecting them to be encoded, actually.

I’m not sure I’m reading this correctly. I snatch some of the papers, stuff them into my coat and turn towards a desk near the back of the room. Landline, decade-old laptop, blueprints stapled to the walls — this stands out among the clutter as something a little more personal. In fact…

Resting haphazardly on the desk is a small, black touchscreen device. His personal phone? Was he really not expecting us?

I gingerly pick it up, activating my power for a quick second to make sure it’s not poisoned or something, and click the power button.

It’s unlocked. Arrogant, or tech illiterate? You’d think a mad scientist would be good at this kind of thing, but he seems partial to paper records.

A loud crash from the center of the room heralds G’s entry into the fight. I ignore them. Ideally, I’d like to get my snooping done before they finish, and I end up having to answer some awkward questions.

I crack open Cook’s — I assume — phone. It’s sparse — few pictures, mostly lab-related, essentially no apps, next to no contacts save for a couple labeled in shorthand.

‘PLNT1’ looks to be one of Cook’s distributors, as well as PLNTs two through five. The last, though, ‘ENFC’, is more interesting. It’s one of his men, obviously, but it seems more like they personally know each other, and Cook mentions preparing ‘additional canisters’ for this contact more than once. Suckup, then?

But if that’s the case, why…?

ENFC: m serious

ENFC: nothing I can do cook

ENFC: boss was clear abt it

ENFC: sorry

Boss? Who —

A gunshot, a scream — I whip my head around, and Cook is clutching his chest with a haggard expression on his face. His eyes wild, his head jerks frantically until he locks his gaze onto mine. “So this is your answer?!” He screeches. “Hiding behind your betters?! Despicable! Cowardly!” He barks a laugh. “Shrewd! You’d do well in this city! It’s only a shame you have no idea what you’re dealing with!”

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

My eyes widen. I take a step. His laugh devolves into a harsh wheeze as a cluster of rebar arrays itself behind him.

Shlunk.

Blood spills from Cook’s lips, and the light fades from his eyes, along with any answers I might have gotten. I can’t heal him now, not in view of the other two, and even if I did, there’s no guarantee he’d cooperate, but —

I grit my teeth, push past the slight wave of nausea at his speared corpse. and pocket his phone.

I turn away, plaster on a smile, and walk towards the exit. “Our agreement is over.”

G rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

Highlander smiles back. There’s a ping, the sound of a coin launching into the air. “Sure is. You’re good company when you’re not scheming.”

My smile becomes strained. What did he just — ?

Highlander’s arm raises almost in slow motion, firearm in hand, expression stock still, as it discharges point-blank into my skull.

My sight flickers, and I can vaguely feel myself stumbling backwards. I’m pretty sure I’m in pain.

He — I —

My knees buckle. I activate my power.

Shredded skin and muscle, split shrapnel, no exit wound. Shattered jaw, base of skull, likely paralysis, slight brain damage from kinetic impact and minor shrapnel abrasions. The bullet seems to be a high-caliber hollow-point round, thankfully managing to miss the center of my brain and instead pulverizing my spine where it meets the base of my skull and coming to a stop in the remaining viscera.

If I were a normal person, I’d be completely immobile, and dead in minutes. This is not the case. Almost reflexively, I begin smoothing over the gaping wound in my face, drawing extra calories from my larger muscle groups and the fat stores behind my stomach. The bleeding stops in under a second, followed quickly by only the most necessary repaired bone structures.

In my panic, I deal with the shrapnel the quickest way I know how. This deep embedded into my flesh, the instinctive understanding that my power provides every other part of my body seems to bleed into the bits of metal, and almost before I realize it I’m breaking down the metal directly and diluting the individual compounds into my bloodstream.

Some of the metal is more than salvagable as energy, but the rest is broken down until it’s mostly harmless as a compound and filtered throughout my bloodstream.

Then it’s reinforcing bone structures, attaching tendons and muscles, repeating nerve patterns through my spine, double-checking my work and trying not to panic.

Distantly, I estimate four seconds since the bullet impacted my skull. I’m halfway through crumpling to the concrete floor when I drop my power and immediately launch myself into a low sweep —

— Just as Highlander finishes taking a couple steps back, well out of the range of my strike.

His gun comes around, moving as if through molasses. I take note of his trajectory, as well as the movement of G’s hands gesturing a good distance away.

Another ping. A glint, shining off sterling silver. The coin lands faster than I can react.

I twist into a crouch, extend a blade from my right arm with a meaty thunk, and activate a pressure booster in my leg. I dash at a slightly upward angle, whipping my blade in a diagonal, slicing clear through air as Highlander carelessly steps to the side.

Another ping. Then, a second time in as many seconds. He barely glances at the coin. G’s hands clench.

I twist my arm around, this time activating another pressure booster. I’m not nearly as fast as I need to be without it, not when I’ve actively cannibalized a good portion of my muscle mass to force a speedy regeneration.

Highlander’s already leaning back, just barely avoiding my swipe, with an almost bored expression on his face.

I’m not sure what my expression looks like, but I can feel my eye twitching. This guy kind of pisses me off.

I try to prepare another strike — Highlander flips another coin — and I find my arm frozen in mid-air. A quick glance behind me reveals G slamming her palms together with a vicious smile.

“Gotcha!”

My arm — and a good portion of my torso — immediately crumples, overwhelming my senses and ripping the breath from my lungs. The kid swings her clasped hands to the side, and an invisible force launches me sideways, impacting the far wall hard enough to pulverize bone and shatter brick.

I scramble to activate my power, intending to burn another chunk of calories to bring myself back up to working order, but even as I begin repairs I’m dimly aware of Highlander smoothly aiming his gun.

So instead, I pump matter into the muscles in my neck, not so much repairing as flooding the area with mass and forcing my head to the side, just clear of the resulting bullet.

Highlander’s gun is semi-auto. He adjusts his aim. G raises her hands.

I know when I’m outmatched. I need to leave. Now. And the fastest way to do that is…

I peel myself off the wall, half smoothing over injuries and half jerry-rigging everything, and activate the second pressure booster in my leg, disregarding Highlander and making a beeline towards G. She’s scary strong, and obviously not averse to violence, but at this point I’m counting on that.

I close in, she raises her arms, and her eyes widen. Her gesture transitions into something a little more panicked, and all at once an invisible force seizes my torso and pushes, quickly reversing my direction back into the brick wall behind me.

This time, the impact breaks through the wall, sending me tumbling out onto the street. I skid to a stop on the concrete and, against my better judgment, take a moment to lay motionless on the ground.

Okay. I’m out of the building. That’s a start. If I’m lucky, the data on Cook’s phone is still recoverable, and those other two are too busy arguing to finish me off.

I take the time to repair some of my more grievous injuries, slowing my rate of regeneration to make up for my lack of resources. It takes about a minute until I feel ready to begin levering myself into a seated position.

The kid stomps through the rubble, small flip-phone pressed against her ear, and my stomach drops.

“Of course I’m sure, moron, I’m the boss here! Just do what I say and get rid of her, got it?!” She grunts, ripping the phone away and flicking it shut. “Useless.”

I haul myself to my feet, mind racing. In this context, with this timing, there are very few people she could be referring to.

I grit my teeth, tighten my stance, and put on a smile. Seems like running isn’t exactly an option anymore —

What kind of supervillain would I be if I didn’t go save my henchwoman?