Scene 1 - January 2nd

Exterior City, Evening

Quinn Kaufman

“...and then the bartender says, that’s not a bear, that’s my husband!”

“...is that the punchline?”

Canaveral sighed. “You kids just don’t get my humor anymore,” he complained, then ran for the next gap between rooftops. He dove for the edge of the roof, flipping over it and springing forward across Kasdan Boulevard.

I followed, an extended push against the street canceling out gravity and letting me take a nearly-horizontal trajectory. “You’re growing old, boss. Soon you won’t even know what third-wave meta-thrash punk is,” I quipped.

“...please tell me you’re joking.”

“Oh, hold on a sec.” I had caught a flash of something potentially suspicious in my presence as I landed, and wanted to double-check. Mindful not to stick my head - or even just my hand - over the edge of the building, I instead shifted my presence into my sense of hearing.

It was, as usual, a little overwhelming - more so now, as I wasn’t wearing the PA4 to help shield me from the backlash of my powers. Instead, I just wore padding underneath a mundane version of my costume that the gift store had had on hand. Still, I was getting better at shrugging off the headaches it tended to induce.

After a moment, I relaxed my mental muscles, allowing my presence to return, and pointed to the alley between the building we were on and the next. “Three muggers and possible rapists down there,” I quietly informed Canaveral. “They have a woman against a wall and are gagging her - I assume they spotted us and are trying to keep her silent.” Not silent enough, thankfully - her whimpers of distress had been quite clear to my expanded hearing range, as had the four elevated heartbeats.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Zookeeper, you get that?” Canaveral asked, his voice equally hushed.

“I got it,” she confirmed through our earpieces. “Routing police now. ETA 90 seconds.”

“We can help her before then. You coming, Newton?”

I hesitated before, feeling guilty, I shook my head. “Not without my actual suit, sorry. I can’t safely throw around the kind of forces that will let me fight properly without it.”

“No worries.” He silently vaulted over the edge of the building. A few thumps, some grateful thanks, and a minute’s wait later, he was back on the roof with me, the woman having been handed over to the police officers who were now arresting her attackers and taking her statement. “Let’s keep moving.”

A few minutes later, we paused briefly on the roof of the Higgins Museum, and Canaveral said, “So... your suit.”

“Yeah?”

“Still messed up?”

I nodded. “Yeah, Anima burnt it out pretty good. Whatever power was making it work, it’s completely drained.”

“It’s been two weeks,” he observed. “Have you looked into fixing it?”

“I’ve read through mom’s notes, but... it’s pretty high-level, and I don’t know where to even begin. Anima tried pumping energy back into it, but it just animated.”

“Why haven’t you talked to Starling about it?” he asked.

I shifted a little uncomfortably. “I... I don’t know. I just haven’t.” That was a lie - I knew exactly why I hadn’t asked him. Starling was a dick - and more than just an anti-social asshole, he also refused to use the right pronouns for me - although he couldn’t settle on either ‘she’ or ‘he’, his inability to consistently gender me was small comfort when he still continued to try.

Canaveral took a breath, seeming to be thinking about something, then said, “I know that you don’t get along all that well with Starling, but... can you at least try? You’re in the same job, kid, and in a few months you’ll be on the same team.”

“Assuming I don’t get transferred out.”

“Right. But even then, sometimes you’ll have co-workers that are dicks. You still have to get along with them - especially when they’re the artificers or tech wizards who maintain your gear.” He gave me a patient smile. “It takes Ben a while to warm up to people - maybe that’s all it is? Spend a little time with him, it’ll get better. Ask him about fixing up your suit.”

It wouldn’t get better, but I didn’t bother explaining. “I’ll do that.”

He walked to the edge of the museum’s roof before pausing and looking over his shoulder. “Third-wave meta-thrash punk... please tell me you made that up?” I hid a grin under my mask, and didn’t answer. “Please?”