3.9

“Finally, I have convinced Beelzebub to tell me of his origin. What he tells me is not… unexpected, exactly. Still, I hesitate to take his word as fact. Regardless of the strange… aesthetics of my ability, I acquired it the same way everyone else does; or so I assume.

Is it more likely that Beelzebub is a construct created with a world of demonology in mind? Or is it perhaps more reasonable that out of all of the supers with a theme, an aesthetic that goes beyond marketing, that only mine is real?”

— Vincent Hall, Encoded Notebook; Section 2, page 23

It doesn’t take long for Chloe to sell all the shit sitting around in her little shack. She tells me it’s because stuff like that is better sold as fast as possible — less evidence if you get bagged.

I think she just noticed the not-so-subtle glances I’ve been giving it for the past couple days. It’s difficult to not feel bad, especially after sifting through all that jewelry and seeing the unique designs, engraved names, worn-down edges and insides.

It’s not their actual value I’m worried about. Financially, everyone we stole from will have lost basically nothing, I know that. Banks in Westpoint legally aren’t allowed to let you sign on unless you use an insurance policy; one which they usually provide, for a fee.

Dad used to complain about it all the time. Said the policies cost more than the stuff you keep in there anyway, and anything he didn’t want to lose he just kept at home.

Obviously, not everyone agrees with him, considering the sheer amount of distinctly sentimental stuff lying on that desk.

At the same time, it’s startlingly easy to… not dismiss, exactly, but ignore the vague feeling of guilt I get from it. It’s for the greater good, right? From a purely utilitarian standpoint, the harm I’m inflicting is greatly outweighed by the good I’m doing — saved lives has to be worth a couple missing rings, surely.

I sound like — like a supervillain. I sound like a supervillain, and I can’t really find it in me to be broken up over it.

Well. Maybe I should work on being less dramatic.

While Chloe’s out selling some of the legal documents we stole, and I’m lounging in the corner of her shack, the burner phone chimes. I roll over and snatch it from its place on the floor.

It’s a number I don’t recognize, but that’s to be expected. I can tell by the wording of the message, it’s from Ava.

She tells me to meet her on the corner of a street, just a little ways from here. She doesn’t specify why, or how, really.

Probably for the best. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about.

I roll further, off the couch and transitioning into a march towards the shack exit, picking up my hat and glasses along the way.

Trucker hat, sunglasses, tank-top and jeans. Perfect attire to perform supernatural miracles for the general populous in.

Chloe isn’t exactly a fashionista, but I’ll take what I can get. We’re already similar in build, and wherever we’re not I end up adjusting using my power.

She insists we go steal me a new wardrobe. I’ve been having little success stalling that particular idea.

I step out onto the street, checking the address. It would be a long walk for a mundane person, but with my stamina it’s practically nothing. I check the street for cars, and then set out.

The sun stands high in the sky today, and I’m somewhat glad for the sunglasses — even the crumbling buildings around here have shattered glass or large window panes lying around, reflecting giant spots of light across the ground.

I spot Ava standing at the intersection before she sees me. Keeping my steps light, I sidle up next to her.

“Yo.”

She doesn’t startle, which has me scowling internally. Instead, she calmly looks over, flicking her cigarette onto the street.

“You ready?”

I huff. “Yeah. Who is it this time?”

She turns, and stalks into a nearby building. “Doesn’t matter.”

I don’t reply. The place is abandoned, again. I’m starting to wonder if there’s more decrepit buildings around here than usable ones.

That’s probably not an incorrect assumption, actually.

Ava walks in, and nods at an elderly man lying on a couch nearby. He pulls himself upright, and stares at me.

I try not to shuffle.

“This the chick?”

Ava rolls her eyes. “This is the, uh… Doctor I told you about,” she says, sliding me a glance.

I shoot her a glare. She shrugs.

Shaking my head, I move to step up next to the couch, and stop when the old guy seems to tense.

Hm.

“Do you… give consent to a general wellness body modification…?” I ask tentatively.

It’s Ava’s turn to shoot me a look, apparently.

“It’s the principle.” I mutter.

The older man sits up a little straighter. “Sure, man. Whatever you want.”

I nod, and take a knee next to him. Dipping into my power, I quickly eject a bone needle, and move to take his arm.

His eyes widen, and he jerks away. “Woah, what — what in the fuck is that?”

I frown. “It’s superpower bullshit, and it’s gonna hurt. I don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but —“

“Nah —“ He chokes out. “Nah. It’s — it’s fine. Get it over with, lady.”

A sour feeling curdles in my gut. “Two minutes,” I say, gently taking his arm and positioning the needle. “Two minutes, and then it’s done.”

It slides in smoothly. I burn some extra fat from my own stores to make the changes go a little quicker — they’re small, basic things, so it’s not too expensive. Foreign substances, malnourishment, muscle atrophy. In this case, mild arthritis as well, which I can partially fix.

Arthritis is sometimes genetic, if I remember correctly, but it usually takes a lifetime for symptoms to build up. Fixing it now should last as long as it needs to.

After a final check to make sure everything works, I seal the puncture wound and remove my needle.

The man gasps, retracting his arm and rubbing it with his other hand.

He seems shocked.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I walk out before he can say anything. Ava can deal with the — the fuckin’ networking, or whatever.

—

The days continue to pass by. After another week, I end up going to two more ‘appointments’, and Chloe finally goes to collect her car. I’m not sure exactly how necessary her paranoia is, but I’m not willing to call her out on something I don’t actually have any experience in.

Plus, the thing’s a hazard. The longer it’s away from the shack, the safer both of us are.

The appointments go well. As well as can be expected, considering…

I sigh and lean back into the couch I’ve made my residence these past couple weeks. I can’t help but feel like I could be doing more. Most of my time is spent laying around Chloe’s shack, and I’m starting to feel like a leech. I need to — to do something.

“I need a way to get at more people,” I mutter.

Chloe chuckles. “People eater.”

“And I need to do it,” I continue, ignoring her, “without drawing attention. That’s our shield, right now, but we still needa’ expand the operation, somehow.”

She hums, but doesn’t respond.

A series of small clicks from over at Chloe’s work desk catch my attention. I swing myself off the couch, and stalk closer.

“Watcha’ doin’,” I mutter, leaning over her shoulder.

Her hands, undoubtedly in the middle of a very complex operation involving a number of tangled brass gears, springs and wires, freeze abruptly. She lowers the piece clutched in a pair of tweezers into place, and then sighs.

“I’m makin’ stuff, Claire.” She adjusts the magnifier arm so that it rests closer to her project.

Looking closer doesn’t really shed any light on the thing’s purpose for me. It really is kind of a tangle of metal scrap, loosely falling out of a brass… shell? There’s a couple metal rings laying nearby, as well as some kind of glass lens.

“What’s stuff?” I ask.

She huffs out a laugh. “It’s a pocket-watch.”

I squint. “Why’re you makin’ a pocket-watch…?”

“I went and finished repairs and maintained all my other shit, so… gotta make somethin’.”

“That right?”

She turns, and gives me a side-eye. “You ever have a thing you just… gotta do? Not all your, like, bleeding-heart shit. Something personal.”

I scowl. “Yeah.”

“Touched a nerve?”

“Ugh.” I lean back, dragging a hand down my face. “Nah, jus’ remembered. Left my fuckin’ guitar.”

“Uh. Huh?”

I make a one-eighty, grab my hat and glasses, and make to slip out the door. “Imma go steal an axe.”

“You’re gonna what? Hold on, it’s like ten after nine —“

“Nah, it’s fine,” I tell her, trying to compose myself at least a little for the trip. “It’ll be quick. In an’ out.”

She huffs. “You don’t even know where it is, dude.”

“I do!” I protest. “It’s uh.”

Very quickly I realize that I only know how to reach the guitar shop from my house in the suburbs.

I scowl.

Chloe chuckles. “C’mon, I’ll take you.”

She herds me out the door and onto the darkening streets. The roads themselves are lit with a stark wash of fluorescent light dotting the sidewalks, but especially downtown the lights are seemingly always flickering, or off-color, or straight-up missing. The lights never usually reach the alleyways, anyway.

Chloe leads me to the guitar shop in relative silence.

It’s nice. Aside from the sirens echoing between buildings, and the distant sound of gunshots. Or explosions.

City’s lively tonight.

We step into the guitar store, and the familiar jingle overhead feels almost welcoming.

“Welcome to Jack’s, be with you in a sec.” I hear a familiar voice from the front desk, the store clerk that helped me buy my first guitar. I’m pretty sure the old guy’s been working here since I was born, and he’d always give me a wave when I came in to buy extra strings, or pedals or whatever.

I sigh. The theft plan isn’t looking as appealing, now.

I’m about to start perusing the aisles of instruments when I notice who he’s talking to at the desk.

I freeze. Livvy…?

She’s not in her hero outfit, but it’s obviously her over there, with — is that my guitar? On the desk in front of her?

Without turning around, I flail a little and grab Chloe’s arm, dragging her into a nearby aisle.

“Wh — Claire?!”

Livvy’s head whips around.

“Shh!” I hiss, pressing my back against the shelves.

“What are you doing?!” Chloe responds, reasonably.

“Shut up! I don’t think she’s seen us yet —“

I poke my head around the shelf and almost run headfirst into Livvy’s crossed arms.

“Agh!”

She glares. “Red?!”

I start sweating. “Uh. Dunno. Who you’re talkin’ about?”

“You — !”

“I can see you two need some time to yourselves,” Chloe mutters, turning to stalk along the back of the store.

I try not to cringe as the full weight of Livvy’s attention lands on me.

“Listen —“

“Red, wh — what did you do?”

“I —“ My throat feels tight all of a sudden. “I had to do something.”

Her glare softens, a little. “What happened?”

I swallow, glancing over to the front desk. The guy looks distracted, but I make sure to keep my voice low.

“That Faust guy, the supervillain? It was — it was Vincent.”

Her eyes widen. “Sera’s dad? That Vincent?”

“Yeah, I — I hadn’t seen ‘im since she, uh, died, an’ he was saying all this bullshit about, like corruption? And —“

My eyes are starting to sting. It’s stupid. I’m like five months from being an adult, I should be breaking down like this.

“They said they were gonna send him to the…” I wave my hands around. “The Pit. The Panopticon. Super prison, whatever you wanna call it.”

Livvy’s face slowly starts to morph into understanding.

“You tried to break him out. Fuckin’ hell.”

I press a hand to my forehead. “…Yeah.”

Abruptly, I find myself being pulled into a tight hug. “You’re an idiot.”

“Sorry.”

“Please be careful.”

“I will.”

A sigh, from her. “Your guitar and amp are both over there. I brought ‘em ‘cuz I didn’t know how to maintain any of that, and I figured they’d be able to tell me around here.”

I huff a short laugh. “Thanks.”

Livvy pulls back, and fixes me with another glare. “You will find a way to keep in touch.”

“I will,” I nod.

She nods back. Then a small grin splits her face, and she throws a punch at my arm. “Go collect your new girlfriend while I tell Jared you’re not gonna steal anything.”

I scowl and punch her back. “Fuck off.”

Livvy rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she announces, stalking back over to the front desk.

I find Chloe wandering through shelves at the back of the store, shrouded in a strange amount of darkness.

“Didja sort it out?” She asks.

“Yeah,” I grin. “Got my guitar back, too. C’mon.”

—

I almost have a heart attack when we get back to Chloe’s shack and I realize I need electricity for the amp to do anything, but she gestures towards an outlet in the corner, and all is well.

When I ask where the power comes from, she tells me she has a generator.

I poke my head outside for a moment and catch sight of some kind of gear-laden contraption topped with a heavy-looking crank, spinning and whirring slowly.

I won’t pretend to understand how that works.

Thankfully, the amp, the guitar, my pedals, it all still works. The strings need a bit of tuning, which Chloe complains about, but once everything’s tightened correctly, I can just —

Play.

I don’t bother going through any standard practice, or warm-up or anything. I bang out chords, riffs, any bits of songs I half-remember, just an endless stream-of-consciousness. The axe practically growls in my hands, chomping at my fingers after every chord, roaring through every note.

I miss a note, produce some sort of unholy cacophony through the layers of violent distortion. It doesn’t slow me down, but it does make Chloe bark out a laugh.

I return it, deliberately launching into a more complex riff, ending in a higher octave, and bringing it back around to land on a hard beat.

She starts head-banging, a mockery made better by how much effort she puts into it, culminating with a thrown chair on her part and hastily covered instrument on mine.

By the end, I’m breathing heavy and sweating buckets, and I’m sure I’ve woken up everyone in about a mile radius.

Chloe drops herself into the stool next to her work desk with a huff.

“Y’know…” She says between breaths, “you’re pretty good.”

I shrug. “Enthusiastic… I guess.”

We take in the silence, for a moment.

“Hey. You said you wanted to reach more people, right? Without anyone noticing?”

I tilt my head. “Yeah?”

“Dude. You got the perfect excuse, already.”

“What’s that?”

She grins. “Get on stage, baby.”