The weeks blurred into a haze of sleepless nights, cheap takeout, and the ever-present weight of survival. Time, once measured by the ebb and flow of my shifts at the bar, now felt fragmented, defined by the city’s chaos and the quiet moments in between when I dared to think about my future.
I found work where I could. The Meta Fight Disaster Relief apartment wasn’t going to last forever, and my dwindling savings reminded me of the ticking clock over my head. Paul had been kind enough to offer shifts at the shop again, but I couldn’t bring myself to take his charity. Something about his pity-laden stares made my stomach twist. Instead, I threw myself into small gigs—anything to stay afloat. Cleaning up after construction crews, loading shipments in and out of warehouses, even a short stint as a courier. The jobs paid little, but they kept my mind occupied and my body too tired to dwell on the nightmares.
Each day started to feel like a carbon copy of the last. I’d wake up to the hum of the city, slip into work mode, and push through the hours until exhaustion claimed me. But the monotony didn’t dull the undercurrent of tension that had settled into my bones. Every shadow felt heavier, every unfamiliar face in a crowd seemed like a potential threat. The Red Hands loomed in the back of my mind, their warning a constant, gnawing reminder of the stakes I’d tangled myself in.
Evenings were quieter but no less restless. I spent them honing what little control I had over my powers, finding abandoned lots and crumbling buildings to practise in. I didn’t gain anything but maybe a better tolerance for continuous uses. I didn’t gain much—a better tolerance for continuous use, perhaps, but not the mastery I craved. The tether remained an enigma, its potential vast and terrifying. Each time I pulled on it, I felt a jolt of something primal, a reminder that this power was as much a predator as a gift.
By the end of each night, my body would ache, and I’d return to the apartment with my clothes covered in dust and my hands trembling. Sleep came fitfully, fractured by dreams of shadows and eyes, of tethers that stretched and snapped.
But through the haze of work and survival, a singular thought began to crystallise: I needed to define myself better. With something other than the rags I used for my current costume. I needed to make use of my previous notes.
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The first time I’d made my "costume," it was a crude, desperate thing—a tangle of black fabric and torn leather scavenged from thrift stores and alleys. It wasn’t much, but it gave me anonymity. And more importantly, it made me feel like someone else, someone stronger than the shattered girl clawing her way through the wreckage of her life.
But now, it wasn’t enough.
I wanted something functional, something that would let me move freely and protect me from the rough edges of this new life. More than that, though, I needed something that represented what I was becoming. Not a hero. Not a villain. Something in between. Someone who survived.
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Late one night, as the city outside slumbered fitfully beneath a blanket of sirens and distant gunfire, I found myself trawling through the depths of MetaWiki. It was a patchwork of information—some of it credible, some of it wild conspiracy theories—but one thread caught my eye: costume makers.
Apparently, there was an underground network of tailors who specialised in outfits for people like me. People who didn’t want to rely on the sterile, standardised gear issued by Metapol or the over-the-top flamboyance of villains. These were artists, crafting works that blended practicality with personal identity.
One name stood out among the others: D’Angelo. The comments described him as the best in the business, a genius who could take a concept and turn it into reality. His work was supposedly expensive but worth every penny.
The more I read, the more convinced I became. If I was going to do this—if I was going to embrace this path, wherever it led—I needed something that matched my resolve.
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The address wasn’t easy to find. D’Angelo didn’t exactly advertise his services openly. It took me three nights of combing through forums, piecing together fragments of conversations, and following cryptic directions to an unmarked door in a shadowed alleyway.
The building was nondescript, blending into the crumbling surroundings with an anonymity that matched my own. The door had no sign, no window—just a small buzzer to the side. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the button as a flicker of doubt crept in.
What if this was a trap?
I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the alley. It was empty, the faint hum of the city’s nightlife distant and muted. My stomach churned, but I pushed the doubt aside and pressed the buzzer.
A soft click, followed by a smooth, mechanical voice: “State your alias.”
My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t expected this level of formality. “Replica,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
There was a pause, then the sound of another click. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase that descended into the building’s depths.
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D’Angelo’s workshop was a masterpiece of organised chaos. The room was larger than I expected, lined with bolts of fabric, shelves stacked with tools, and mannequins draped in half-finished designs. The air smelled faintly of leather and something chemical, like glue or dye.
Behind a wide workbench cluttered with sketches and swatches stood a man who could only be D’Angelo. He was tall and lean, his silver hair tied back in a neat ponytail. His piercing blue eyes studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“Replica,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “You’ve been keeping busy.”
The comment caught me off guard. “You’ve heard of me?”
He smirked, gesturing for me to step closer. “Word gets around in my circles. Now, tell me—what are you looking for?”
I hesitated, suddenly feeling exposed under his scrutiny. “I need something practical. Durable. Something that can handle a fight but still let me move.”
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D’Angelo nodded, pulling a sketchpad toward him. “And aesthetic? You’ve got a name—Replica. That suggests mimicry, reflection. A copy of something real. How do you want that translated?”
D’Angelo’s pen moved like lightning over the sketchpad, the lines forming with a precision that felt almost mechanical. “Replica,” he said again, testing the name as if it were an ingredient in his design. “A reflection, an echo, but one with power. Not a copy—an evolution. Yes, I see it now.”
His hands swept over the table, pulling out swatches of fabric that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light. “Kevlar weave for durability,” he mused, holding up a dark, matte-black piece. “Light enough to move, strong enough to take a beating. But we’ll need something more flexible here…” He grabbed a sample of a strange, elastic material. “MetaSuppressor fabric,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s resistant to certain types of meta-abilities, though not invulnerable. Cost me a small fortune to get my hands on.”
I blinked. “Isn’t that stuff regulated by Metapol?”
He smirked. “It is. And now it’s here. A tool, like any other. The trick is using it wisely.”
His words carried a weight that reminded me of my own power. The tether wasn’t just a weapon or a shield; it was something alive, something I barely understood but couldn’t ignore. Watching D’Angelo work, I felt a strange connection to the way he crafted his tools—not just for utility, but as extensions of the people they were made for.
“Colour palette?” he asked suddenly, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine.
I hesitated, caught off guard by the question. My mind flashed to the night of the collapse, the twisted wreckage, and the silver tether appearing before my eyes. “Black,” I said finally. “With silver accents.”
D’Angelo’s pen stopped mid-sketch, his piercing gaze lifting to meet mine. "Tell me," he said, voice measured, "what drives you, Replica? Survival alone doesn’t shape a name like that. There’s more beneath the surface.”
The question startled me, the words tangling in my throat. What drove me? Survival was the easy answer, the shallow one. But it wasn’t enough anymore. I glanced down at the swatches of fabric scattered across the workbench, my fingers brushing against the edge of a matte black sample. The cool texture steadied me.
“Control,” I said finally, the weight of the word settling between us. “I’ve spent too long running, reacting, being dragged by the chaos around me. I’m done with that. This—” I gestured to his sketches, “—it’s the start of taking my life back.”
D’Angelo studied me for a long moment before nodding, his expression unreadable. “Control, then,” he murmured, picking up his pen again. “It’s a noble goal. Dangerous, but noble.”
As he sketched, I noticed the deliberate precision in his movements, the way each line and curve seemed imbued with purpose. His focus reminded me of the tether—the way it hummed with life whenever I called on it. Watching him work, I felt a strange kinship. We both wielded tools that shaped the world in our image, though his left no bruises or blood.
“Metapol doesn’t much care for people like us,” I said, breaking the silence. “Those who exist in the in-between.”
His lips curved into a faint smile. “Metapol cares about control, too, but only the kind they can hold in their fists. You and I? We slip through their fingers. That’s why they fear us.” He glanced up from the sketchpad. “It’s also why they’ll hunt us, given the chance. Remember that.”
I nodded, the truth of his words settling over me like a shroud. Metapol was no ally to people like me, and the thought of their scrutiny tightened a knot of unease in my chest.
D’Angelo flipped the sketchpad around, revealing the initial design. The suit was sleek and angular, its lines sharp yet flowing. The black fabric dominated the design, but streaks of silver ran through it in precise, geometric patterns, evoking the imagery of the tether—fractured but connected.
“Functionality,” he said, tapping the page, “meets symbolism. You don’t just survive, Replica. You reflect the chaos, and you adapt. That’s what this suit represents.”
I stared at the design, the lines and shapes sparking something deep within me. It was more than a suit; it was a declaration. A promise to myself.
He hummed in self-contentedness, running a finger along the fabric. “Silver accents. Reflective, but sharp. It suits you. You don’t strike me as someone who wants to be flashy.”
“Flashy gets you noticed,” I said, my jaw tightening. “I don’t want to be noticed. Not unless I choose to be.”
He chuckled, the sound dry but not unkind. “Smart. You’re not just thinking about the fight—you’re thinking about what comes after. Too many people don’t.”
“What comes after is usually a mess,” I replied, a faint smile tugging at my lips but not reaching my eyes.
D’Angelo stepped back, appraising the sketches he’d made. The suit was taking shape in my mind as much as on his pad: sleek, functional, a second skin that could move with me and protect me. The materials—Kevlar weave, MetaSuppressor fabric—were illegal in some circles, prohibitively expensive in others. But he worked with them as if they were extensions of his hands, weaving purpose into every stitch.
“Control and not survival anymore, is that right?” His words cut through the hum of my thoughts.
“Right,” I said quietly.
He finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Good. Survival’s a low bar. You’re better off aiming higher—even if the fall kills you.”
The next hour passed in a blur of motion. D’Angelo worked with an efficiency that bordered on obsessiveness, taking notes on everything from my arm span to the way I moved when I twisted or crouched. He asked questions—what kind of fights I anticipated, whether I needed hidden compartments for tools or weapons, and how much wear I expected the suit to endure. His attention to detail was meticulous, and I found myself oddly reassured by his quiet confidence.
“Why do you do this?” I asked as he measured my leg. “You could make a fortune working for Metapol or some corporate hero.”
He glanced up, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And spend my days mass-producing uniforms for glory hounds and bureaucrats? No, thank you. This... this is art. Every piece I create is unique, tailored to the person wearing it. It’s not just about function—it’s about identity.”
His words lingered in my mind as he continued his work. By the time he finished, I felt lighter, as if the act of preparing for this new phase of my life had stripped away some of the fear that had clung to me for weeks.
“You’ll have your suit in three days,” D’Angelo said, standing and brushing his hands on his apron.
I nodded, pulling my coat tighter around me as I prepared to leave. But before I reached the door, he called out to me.
“Replica.”
I turned, meeting his gaze.
“You’re walking a fine line,” he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “This life you’re choosing... it doesn’t come without cost.”
“I know,” I replied, my tone steady. “But I don’t have a choice.”
He nodded slowly, as if satisfied by my answer. “Good luck, then.”
The door closed behind me with a quiet click, and I stepped back into the cold night air. The city’s pulse thrummed around me, chaotic and unrelenting, but for the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of clarity.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about taking control—of my power, my identity, and my place in a world that had tried to break me.
In three days, I would have my suit. And with it, I would step fully into the role I’d been forging in the shadows.
It’d be my new skin.