Volume 9: Eclosion

Issue 3: Reticle

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

The Pontiac cruised down a street lined with small shops and restaurants, their neon signs barely visible in the burnt hue of a sinking sun. From the passenger seat, Stagehand flipped between radio stations, while—next to him—Spindle drummed her fingertips against the steering wheel. “Should be somewhere around here,” she muttered to no one in particular. The radio settled into snippets of electropop in between static.

From my seat in the back, I looked out the window. After my catastrophic study session with Hannah, Amber had told me to get ready to head out. When she picked me up, Camilo was already in the car—both of them in costume. It turned out that, while I was at Aesop’s, Amber had overheard a conversation between “Lee and Toby“ on her way to volleyball practice. While she ignored my question as to who these people were, the important part was that Lee’s brother had just gotten out of prison—and he had told Toby to steer clear of Chinatown tonight.

“What’s our plan, exactly?” I said, as I studied the rows of buildings passing by us. “If we find her…”

“When we find Reticle,” Spindle said, “we’re going to ask her some questions.”

I wasn’t sure Dragon’s Teeth were the kind of people you could just wander up to and talk to. When we tried negotiating with Bōsō, it hadn’t ended in peaceful resolution…

But, we had been through a lot since then. If we could survive literal dinosaurs and tackle whatever monsters showed up at Chapel, maybe we really could take on someone like Reticle.

That is, if we could find her at all. Of course, being told to “stay clear of Chinatown tonight” was barely any information at all. But it had been enough for Amber to—without consulting Camilo or I—corner Lee outside of Chapel, in full costume. Apparently, coming face to face with Spindle had intimidated Lee enough to give away a few more details: Reticle would be making an appearance tonight, escorting drugs to a Dragon’s Teeth safehouse in Chinatown.

If there was anything I had learned from reading the scarce news articles and forum posts on Reticle, it was that she was reserved. She seemed to operate from the shadows, rarely making public appearances at all. If Lee was right about this, this could be our only shot at meeting her.

If we asked the right questions, maybe the puzzle pieces which had hung over me for the last semester would finally start coming together...

I found myself wondering what sort of interrogation Spindle had put Lee through, but—before I had a chance to voice my lingering question—the Pontiac slowed down, then snuggled up to the curb as it came to a halt.

“This it?” Stagehand said, eyeing the laundromat we had stopped nearby.

“No, but we’re not finding better parking than this,” Spindle muttered. She let go of the wheel. “Should be the block up ahead… Or somewhere around here, anyway.”

Her answer didn’t exactly instill confidence in me, but I had little choice but to follow as she got out of the car.

While the area wasn’t particularly busy, it wasn’t as desolate as I would have preferred. As soon as the three of us stepped out on the street, I sensed the puzzled stares of strangers around us—random people who had been walking to and fro, probably minding their own business as they were heading home from work or taking their dog on an evening walk. They looked at us as if they were trying to decide what we were: heroes, villains, or simply a carnival?

Spindle took the lead, seemingly oblivious to the attention we were drawing as she strode down the street. But, although she held her chin up—never returning anyone’s look, as if not noticing them at all—I knew she was far from unaware of our surroundings. I tried to imagine the bonds she must see in the air around us, perhaps looking for one that would take us in the right direction. And, if anything, she probably enjoyed the limelight…

Stagehand seemed similarly at ease as he caught up to her, falling into her stride. “What was the name of the place again?” he asked, his tone strangely casual for the circumstances.

“Something spirits, or ghost?” Spindle replied. “Some kind of nightclub, either way.”

I briefly caught the gaze of a pizza delivery guy as he crossed the street. As soon as I looked in his direction, he scurried into a nearby apartment building—probably about to finish his delivery. I quickly turned my attention to my feet, hanging my head low as I followed after my teammates.

At least, it didn’t seem like anyone around here recognized us like our classmates at Chapel would have. In some way, I appreciated the anonymity—but, at the same time, it somehow seemed wrong to be walking around in costume so openly. The weird looks people gave us, the way they maintained a cautious distance…

I felt more like a disruption than a hero.

“Are we close?” I murmured, hoping we could get out of the street as quickly as possible.

We paused at a crossroads, before Spindle nodded down the street to the left. “This way,” she said—although it wasn’t really an answer, I followed.

I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but—if nothing else—this gave me something else to think about than my meeting with Hannah. As we walked through Chinatown, the sky’s deep orange gradually darkened, dripping purple. Around us, the neon signs of various clubs and bars flickered to life. While I didn’t recognize any of them, this could fit Lee's description. Maybe we were on the right track, after all.

After a few minutes of walking, Spindle abruptly stopped. “Huh…” she said, seemingly to herself. As I traced her gaze, I realized what had grabbed her attention; rounding the corner, a delivery van rolled slowly down the street. Upon first glance, I wasn’t really sure what about it caught her eye. Aside from the van’s faded blue color, it was entirely nondescript. Although it looked like any other delivery van, it didn’t have a logo or anything else indicating an affiliation.

Perhaps its lack of anything interesting was what made it so. “What’s up?” I asked, my voice falling to a near-whisper.

“Back up,” she said, ignoring my question. She turned around, and—as she did—forced me to step back, unless I wanted to let her walk into me. The three of us quickly retreated, falling into line against the brick wall behind us.

“Stagehand, cover us,” Spindle snapped.

Stagehand rolled his eyes. “Of course, your majesty,” he replied mockingly. Then, he pointed down the street; approaching from the opposite side from the van, a pickup truck emerged. As the van turned into an alleyway—just next to what looked like some sort of night club—the pickup truck slid up to the curb.

The night club’s name, Linghun Lounge, glowed neon pink above its front doors. Although it was still early evening, I could hear the light thrum of a bass coming from inside, alongside faint chatter.

“Follow me,” Stagehand said. He headed toward the pickup truck, dodging behind it just as it came to a halt on the side of the road.

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Spindle and I followed suit, taking cover with him behind the pickup. Although anyone from the street would still be able to see us hanging out behind the pickup truck, it shielded us from the view of the Lounge—and, more importantly, the delivery van which I could now see parked down the alley.

I reached out to touch the pickup, to make sure that it was Stagehand’s illusion and not just someone’s vehicle that we had clustered around. My fingertips moved right through its image, like it was mere air.

“What do you see?” Stagehand said, as Spindle peeked over his illusion.

“Their bonds…” she said. “The drivers have really close connections to whoever’s inside this… Linghun place.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s from any company either,” Stagehand said, just as one of the drivers exited the vehicle. “At least, they’re not wearing uniforms.” He was right—the driver had a plain gray shirt and cap, but nothing akin to any delivery companies I knew of. “You think they’re Dragon’s Teeth?”

“Yeah, duh. Random delivery drivers aren’t usually besties with their customers,” Spindle added. She glanced back to me and, hesitating for a moment, said, “There’s something else, too…” Her voice faltered, trailing off.

At the same time, the driver circled to the back of the van and reached for the door handle.

I met Spindle’s gaze as she looked between Stagehand and I, but—whatever else she had been about to say—was interrupted by the back doors swinging open, followed by noises of shuffling movement. A moment later, two men—wearing the same nondescript outfit as the driver—stepped out. They carried a crate between them; if this really was what Lee told Spindle, I could only assume they contained drugs.

Then, from out of the shadows, a third shape followed. A metallic helmet concealed her face; numerous, spider-like eyes glowed green across its black surface. Her body was concealed in an exoskeletal frame, caging in her torso and limbs with metal plates and wires. But, as she leaped out of the back of the van, the exoskeleton followed her movements with ease—as if supporting her, perhaps even strengthening her. She moved with a surprising amount of grace, considering the bulky and boxy machinery that cluttered her body. Beneath the exoskeleton, she wore a well-fitted, gunmetal gray bodysuit.

However, my eyes were most closely drawn to the long, blocky shape on her back. It was at least a yard of unpainted gray metal, its features a chaotic collection of boxy protrusions from the device’s surface. One distinct feature was discernible, however: the unmistakable image of a rifle’s grip, trigger, and butt…

Although I had never seen as much as a photo of it before, I knew it from the handful of PowerWatch articles I read: Reticle’s trademark sniper rifle.

“Oh shit,” Spindle gasped.

There she was; neon lights from Linghun Lounge catching on the wires of her exoskeleton, as she loomed with nothing but a mirage between us.

Reticle.

A surge ran through the swarm; my own sense of anticipation mirrored in their buzz. Simultaneously, Reticle spoke for the first time. “Get a move on,” she barked at the two carrying the crates. Her voice was distorted, almost robotic—her helmet’s doing, I assumed. “Let’s make this quick.”

She watched as the “delivery drivers” lifted the crate towards the Lounge, where people emerged from the backdoor. More Dragon’s Teeth members, I had to assume. A group of five men in different clothing swarmed the van. The only thing they had in common was a distinctive dragon tattoo. Even from across the street, I could see it wrap around each of their left arms. Without so much as a greeting to the “delivery drivers,” they set to work on unloading the boxes.

I looked between Stagehand and Spindle. Spindle had fallen into a strange silence, her mouth hanging slightly open. Only Stagehand met my gaze, his expression concealed by the eternal smile of his mask.

“What are we waiting for?” he finally hissed. Meanwhile, the first of the delivery men reached the Lounge’s back door. “We’re gonna lose them.”

I glanced back at Spindle again, expecting her to say something—still, she didn’t.

“What’s the plan?” I said, a sudden wariness washing through the swarm.

“The plan is…” Stagehand started, only pausing to shoot a glare at Spindle. She bit her lip. “We make our entrance,” he finished.

With that, he turned to face Reticle and the delivery van. His illusion of the pickup truck dematerialized.

Stagehand straightened up, standing tall as he raised one hand. Then—at the snap of his fingers—a bright-red, rolled-up carpet appeared by his feet. At this, heads turned our way. The Dragon’s Teeth carrying boxes halted in their tracks, staring at us.

Reticle’s head jerked up, and she turned to face us. The green eyes covering her helmet seemed to pierce through me. As I readied the swarm, each bristle and buzz ran through me like hot electricity.

But—while my panic rose—Stagehand kicked the carpet lightly; it unfurled, creating a crimson pathway from our standpoint to the delivery van. It looked like we were guests arriving at a gala, except—as soon as Stagehand took a step down the carpet—five guns pointed toward us.

And, most worryingly, Reticle reached for the rifle on her back.

“Hey,” Stagehand said, raising his hands disarmingly. “We just wanna talk.” The calmness of his tone took me by surprise—perhaps enforced by the illusion which deepened his voice, making it unrecognizable. Next to me, Spindle stood still, and I couldn’t quite tell whether she had been paralyzed with fear or if she simply maintained the same cool demeanor as Stagehand.

I hoped it was the latter, although I found myself wishing I could stop time; that we could work out a more concrete plan, figure out what was going on and how we could stop it…

Somehow, this felt different from our encounter with Bōsō. A different brand of danger, that I wasn’t really able to pinpoint.

“Get out of here,” Reticle snapped at the goons surrounding her. “Secure the goods. I’ll handle this.”

The four who pointed their guns at us lowered them, retreating toward the delivery van alongside those who were carrying the crates. With a newfound urgency, they started to load them back into the van—working faster than they had before.

As they started their retreat, the villain turned her attention to us. “What do you want?” Reticle’s voice was authoritative, with the same electric inflection as before.

A pause ensued, filled in by the sound of boxes being dragged back into the van, while the delivery drivers exchanged snippets of English and Chinese that I couldn’t quite make out. Stagehand looked at Spindle, who remained strangely silent.

Maybe, for once, she had realized the gravity of the situation.

Stagehand looked back to Reticle, hesitating, before he started, “Tell us…” His voice faltered, before he managed to stammer out, “T-Tell us what you’re doing here!”

“Dealing drugs,” Reticle said, matter-of-factly.

Stagehand didn’t wait for Spindle to speak this time. “In Chapel High?” he said, his voice firmer now, amplified by an illusion.

Reticle stiffened, but the glowing green eyes didn’t flinch away from us as she leveled her strange, blocky gun our way.

When she remained silent, Stagehand continued, “We heard all about you from Bōsō.”

“Oh?” The sharpness of her laughter startled me. “That idiot has some fucking screws loose.” Even as she reeled in her laugh, the aim of her gun remained perfectly still. “And I’m not just talking about his little bicycle.”

As the last of the men disappeared into the delivery van—slamming its doors close—Spindle stirred. She stepped forth onto the red carpet, coming to a halt next to Stagehand. When she spoke, her voice sounded strained, lacking its usual confidence. “We know you’re hiding in Chapel High,” she said, slowly.

Reticle remained still, pointing her rifle at us while the van started to pull away. Somehow, her silence was an answer in itself. She didn’t deny being at Chapel.

But why? It had been more than a month since Bōsō told us about her, and we hadn’t found a trace of her until now. Was she dealing drugs, like the Yakuza had? Or was it more sinister? Were Dragon’s Teeth somehow responsible for all the monsters seemingly dwelling in our school?

“We’re not leaving until we get some answers,” Stagehand said. He snapped his fingers again, and a wall materialized into thin air—blocking the alleyway which the van was heading for. The van screeched to a stop mere inches from the illusionary barrier.

Reticle groaned, as if we had inconvenienced her more than anything else. “Fucking drive!” she yelled back at the van. “It’s not real.”

She quickly returned her attention to us. Wordlessly, she leveled her gun directly at Stagehand. The weapon changed in her hands, widening at the front with the noise of shifting metal.

The swarm writhed inside of me, their hum growing as I dashed forward. When I reached my hand out for him, it felt like I was moving through water instead of air. Although he was just a few paces in front of me, it was already too late.

Reticle pulled the trigger.