Volume 9: Eclosion

Issue 5: Street Level

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

After several twists and turns through the alleyways past Linghun Lounge, the stranger had led us to what looked like a run-down neighborhood. Ahead, the final rays of the setting sun pierced the skeletal remnants of a burnt-0ut building. The aftermath of a fire was evident in the scorch marks covering its remains, only contrasted by the pop of colorful graffiti scattered about.

As we walked toward the building, I got a better view of its hollowed-out rooms. I could see scorched bathtubs, burnt mattresses, the leftover frames of various furniture… Had this been some kind of apartment complex?

Sheltered in between the left and right wings of the building, there was a small courtyard with an empty pool in the middle. A few outdoor loungers lay around it, tipped over on their sides. Graffiti paintings—ranging from more obvious gang symbols, like dragons, to more abstract geometric patterns—covered the bottom of the pool.

Whatever this place had been, it had clearly seen better days.

Stagehand was the first to break the silence. “What happened here?” he said, voicing the question at the front of my mind.

The stranger idly twirled the pink rod between their fingertips. “Dragon’s Teeth happened,” they said, pausing the twirling motion as they pointed the rod at the ruins. “This used to be the lovely, two-and-a-half stars Clay Plaza Hotel. At least, until last summer, when Vortex and Wasabi got into a slight altercation with Qilin…”

I surveyed the burnt-out shell that remained of the hotel. Signs of the powerfight were everywhere: holes through walls, as if something had blasted through them, and a sea of rubble. Among the rubble, I glimpsed empty bottles and spray cans—hinting at the presence of people passing through, although I couldn’t see anyone else here now. There were a few signs around the hotel that probably had said “keep out” or “construction” at some point, but had since been spray-painted over.

If this was what a “slight altercation” with Qilin looked like, I hoped to never run into him.

“And you’re sure no one will come here?” Stagehand asked.

“What does it look like?” the stranger retorted. Before any of us had a chance to reply, they jumped into the empty pool. As they landed onto the graffiti-covered tiles, a crow that had been prodding at a piece of wrapper at the bottom of the pool cawed and took off.

I exchanged a look with Spindle and Stagehand. When they seemed hesitant to follow after the stranger, I muttered, “I’ll set up a perimeter.” Bees still roamed all around us, and had trailed restlessly after me since they scattered during our confrontation with Reticle. Although I could still feel an aching in my chest, the swarm had sealed up the worst of the wound. I emitted a pheromone signal, ordering them to scout out the hotel; and keep a lookout for any intruders. They scattered around me, taking off to the darkening sky and ruined building.

I leaped down after the stranger. I didn’t think that they had any intentions of harming us—if that were the case, they could have just left us to our fate against Reticle. But, even if they were a hero, it wasn’t anyone I recognized. I couldn't rule out that they were part of the Yakuza or another rival of Dragon’s Teeth… Still, that seemed less likely—considering they had arrived alone. Honestly, I was more worried that Reticle—or, hell, her boss, Qilin—would make a comeback.

If anyone else showed up, I hoped that my scouts would alert me in time.

Stagehand jumped in after me, while Spindle climbed down a ladder; its steps were slightly uneven, as if they had been molten by heat. Meanwhile, the stranger walked over to an old, plastic chair which lay tipped on its side. They stepped onto one of its legs, flipping it back up into an upright position.

After taking a seat, they folded their hands together—creating a hammock for their chin to rest on. While a cloth mask concealed the lower half of their face, I could see the upper half in more detail now. Strands of black hair stuck out from underneath their hoodie, and a thin scar ran down their cheek; their complexion a tawny brown. Now, their dark eyes darted between us, until they finally said:

“Alright, so who the hell are you?”

Stagehand and I turned simultaneously toward Spindle. She didn’t return either of our gazes, instead looking down at her feet. I expected her to say something; normally, by this point, she would be steamrolling the conversation with some sort of snarky-Amber-remark. But, instead, she remained uncharacteristically quiet.

It dawned on me that she hadn’t said much at all since the fight… Maybe Dragon’s Teeth had gotten to her nerves somehow, but usually she didn’t waste any opportunity for theatrics.

Her silence was… strange.

It was Stagehand who answered at last. “Well, people call us… the Chapel Trio,” he said.

“Never heard of you,” the stranger replied.

“We’re…” He hesitated, glancing at Spindle again, before continuing, “We’re more of a… Ah, well, a localized team, you know? We work street level.”

I supposed that was one way of putting it. I looked at him expectantly, wondering where he was going with this.

“Localized… where?” the stranger pressed.

“Oh, well… Just the Mission District.” Stagehand paused, as if mulling it over. “At least, fairly local to Mission…”

The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“I-I mean, we operate mostly in Chapel Hill,” Stagehand stammered. “Really, more specifically, uh… Chapel High.”

“You’re… localized”—at this, the stranger drew quotation marks in the air before continuing—“out of a single high school?”

The question hovered over us; only the background noise of restless traffic filled in our silence. Stagehand shifted uncomfortably, while Spindle remained in place—her demeanor still entirely undecipherable to me.

“Oh boy.” The stranger sighed deeply. “Isn’t it getting late for you guys? Don’t you have homework or something to do?”

Somehow, after everything we had gone through, it didn’t seem like our base of operations should matter. At the very least, I wasn’t in the mood for some stranger’s commentary on it. “If I were doing homework,” I said, more quietly than I intended, “who would have taken that bullet for you?”

This silenced the stranger, who only stared at me in response.

“Yeah,” Stagehand chipped in. “Who the hell are you, anyways?”

They turned to look at him now. “I call myself Vorpal,” they said.

There was a pause, as we waited for Vorpal to say something more. When they didn’t, Stagehand nodded, as if to prompt them to keep talking.

“I patrol Chinatown,” Vorpal added as an explanation. They spun the rod restlessly in one hand, while pushing their feet to rock the chair back and forth—stopping just before it threatened to tip all the way back.

“So… You’re some kind of superhero, then?” Stagehand said.

Vorpal stopped rocking the chair and let out a scoff. “I prefer the term vigilante.”

“You realize that sounds worse than superhero, right?”

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“So?” the self-declared vigilante said. “What are you going to do about it, report me to the cops? It’s not like any of you are licensed…” They paused, cocking their head as they looked us over. “Are you?” they asked, a hint of uncertainty in their voice.

“No…” Stagehand took a deep breath. “We’re not… licensed.”

“Then you’re technically breaking the law as well,” Vorpal said.

“Alright, fine.” Stagehand raised his hands defensively. “Chill out.”

Spindle’s voice nearly startled me when she finally spoke. “This is all stupid,” she muttered. “We’re here for the same reason…” She looked between Stagehand and I, before facing Vorpal again. “Reticle,” she finished, her voice quieter now.

The sun’s final rays slowly drew back in the ensuing silence, and the hotel’s shadows darkened—shrouding the empty pool—in tandem with the dimming sky. As the last slivers of sunlight faded, I could imagine that the hotel must have looked something like that charred, orange color as it burnt.

“Fine,” Vorpal finally said. “You’re right. We’re here for Reticle.”

Spindle crossed her arms over her chest, maintaining her grip on the handle of the baseball bat as she did. “What were you doing at Linghun Lounge?” Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. “How long were you watching us?”

“Long enough to figure out you weren’t going to stop Reticle,” they retorted.

“That doesn’t explain why you were there in the first place,” Spindle said.

“I’ve known about Linghun being a spot for trafficking drugs ever since last year, when I saw Seraph and Stitch take down some Dragon’s Teeth pusher outside… I’d feel worse for the poor fucker if he didn’t have it coming.” They paused, as if the memory of the incident had sidetracked them and they now needed a moment to recollect their thoughts. “Anyway,” they continued, “when I overheard that Reticle might make an appearance tonight, I thought odds were good that she would go through Linghun. And I was right.”

“Okay, so…” Stagehand momentarily trailed off. “What’s your beef with her, exactly?” he finished.

“It’s not that personal. She's a Dragon's Teeth enforcer. And Dragon’s Teeth is a fucking blight on Chinatown. I simply want to take her out—remove her from the equation.”

Next to me, Spindle shifted slightly. She had kept her arms crossed over her chest, almost protectively, and now she used one arm to caress the other as she looked away.

“What about you guys?” Vorpal continued. “Why would a bunch of Chapel High-exclusive heroes be interested in Reticle?”

Stagehand and Spindle turned to me now. Perhaps their looks were warranted, as I had been more hung up on the issue than either of them, especially in the aftermath of the doppelgängers and Extinction Refuge…

“Well…” I sighed as I wondered where I would even start, when I decided it best to keep things simple. “We know she’s been hiding in Chapel for some time now.”

“How would you know that?” Vorpal asked.

“Heard it from Bōsō,” Stagehand said. He pretended to inspect his nails—although he wore gloves. “After kicking his ass, that is.”

“Bōsō?” Vorpal straightened up, their eyes widening in surprise. “But… Why trust him, of all people?”

“Because Bōsō hates Reticle,” I said. While those weren’t his exact words, it made sense that he would send us after someone he despised. After all, their first reported confrontation had resulted in Reticle humiliating him, rendering his bike useless after firing a single shot.

Not unlike how she took us down, with little to no effort. While I didn’t like that I now had that in common with Bōsō, I at least didn’t have to question his credibility on the matter. After meeting with Reticle today, I had no doubts left that she had something to do with what was going on at Chapel.

But, as Vorpal still looked at me with a skeptically raised eyebrow, I continued, “And, as far as I can tell, Reticle has been inactive for the last while… I haven’t found anything on her since before February, around the time she would have appeared at Chapel High. Unless you know something we don’t?”

Vorpal shook their head. “No, I haven’t seen her around, either… Unless you count today.”

“Well,” I said, “we asked her today.” An involuntary smile appeared on my lips, and I was thankful for the veil covering my face. Rather than joy, it was a smile out of a bizarre, nervous sort of excitement… But this was the closest I had come to a confirmation of my suspicions for the last month. “She didn’t deny being at Chapel.”

“And now…” Stagehand gestured his hand toward Spindle, like a magician revealing his assistant. “We have a way to find out. For sure.”

Spindle stiffened, tightening her grip on the handle of her baseball bat. For a moment, I was confused before I understood what he meant.

Now that we had actually fought Reticle… She would be able to see the bond between us and whatever student hid behind that green-eyed helmet of hers.

The silence dragged on before she spoke. “I’ll keep a lookout…” Spindle said, “But no promises. For all we know, she doesn’t actually go to Chapel, and just has some underling there. Like Bōsō did. Then I wouldn’t be able to see any bonds…”

“What the fuck's a bond?” Vorpal said.

“Oh, I can see the relationships between people.” Spindle tossed her braids back, and—for a moment—she looked more relaxed again. “Which is why I know you're a complete loner,” she added, some of her usual sass returning to her voice.

But the moment was short-lived, as she lapsed into another silence. Vorpal stared us up and down, twirling the rod between their fingers again. “What do you all do, honestly?” they said.

“What's it to you?” Stagehand said.

The vigilante paused as they rose from the plastic chair, stretching their arms casually. “Reticle is too strong for me to take on alone. She nearly killed me, probably.” For a moment, Vorpal's gaze flickered to me—I suspected that was the closest I would get to a thanks. They continued, “And, it looks like she was too strong for you guys, too… But, maybe if we all worked together, we could take her out.”

I studied my teammates, trying to figure out what they thought about this proposal. Stagehand shrugged—maybe he, too, wasn't so sure we could trust someone who was virtually a stranger—while Spindle avoided my gaze, instead poking at an empty bottle with the tip of her baseball bat.

I turned to Vorpal again. “How about you tell us what you can do?” I said.

Without warning, a pale white blade—the same one I saw during the fight, shimmering like it wasn’t quite real or unreal—burst from the tip of the pink rod in Vorpal’s hand. Its glowing, ghostly quality became more apparent to me now, in the darkness of nightfall.

“Careful,” they said, swinging the blade through the air, “it’s sharp. Deadly, sharp.” Then, just as quickly as it had materialized, it disappeared. “I can use any object to make the blade, but I like to use my hilt,” they said, before pointing the pink rod—or, “hilt”—at us. “Even without it I’m stronger than I look. Now, your turn.”

“I’m Hive,” I said. I recalled Vorpal's expression of horror when they first approached me—how they recoiled when my bees started to swarm them… “You've already seen what I do.” I didn't want to summon the swarm back to me now, unless I had to.

“And I already told you as well,” Spindle said shortly.

Stagehand spoke next. “Miss Sunshine over there's called Spindle,” he said, nodding her direction. “And I'm Stagehand.”

“Stagehand, huh?” Vorpal echoed. “And what’s your shtick?”

Stagehand snapped his fingers, as if he had been waiting for that question. At the same time, the rabbit charm which hung from Vorpal's hilt started to kick its small, fluffy legs. In a sudden jerk, it hopped off the hilt. It landed on the ground, where it started to sniff the air. The rabbit’s cartoon-like shape made its motions especially uncanny, as it testingly jumped over a cracked tile.

“The fuck?” Vorpal said, taking a step back.

Again, Stagehand snapped his fingers, and the charm returned to its original place—dangling from the hilt. “Just a trick of the eye,” he said, stifling a chuckle. “I create illusions.”

“That's…” Vorpal flicked at the rabbit charm as if to make sure that it was really there. “That's surprisingly handy.”

“Not sure if that's a compliment or an insult,” Stagehand replied.

“If you have to ask, maybe you don't want to know,” Vorpal said.

“Hey, you're the one asking for our help.”

“Well, only if you think you can handle it. The world isn't always so nice, outside your little high school…”

“You try going to class while monsters attack your school every other week.”

As Vorpal raised an eyebrow, I decided to interject before this exchange could go on any longer. “We'll think about it,” I said. “Tomorrow, after class, Spindle might know more about Reticle's real identity…” I glanced at her, although she still avoided my gaze—instead staring off into the night. I continued, “Once we can figure out why she's at Chapel in the first place, we’ll decide what to do about it.”

Stagehand nodded slowly. “How can we reach you?” he said to Vorpal.

“Let's meet again tomorrow night. Same place, same time,” Vorpal said.

With that, the vigilante turned their back to us. In one swift motion, they leaped back onto the pool ledge—then took off toward the ruins of the hotel. All I heard was the soft patter of Vorpal's footsteps as they disappeared into the shadows, and quietly faded into the night.