Much later that night, upon returning home, Ayda found it difficult to sleep. Her entire body was heavy with sleep. Her eyes were impossible to open, arms and legs tied down with lead weights. Even her hearing faded in and out in random spats. Despite all of this, she remained awake. Her mind whirled at a mile a minute, an endless hurricane of thought bursting at the seams with possibility. It made even the motion of sleep a far off possibility.

Adrenaline didn't help matters much. Having stayed up far past any sort of relatively decent hour—and far longer than her excuse could account for—Ayda had been forced to sneak back into the Belmont mansion. Her abilities were not exactly geared toward stealth. Most of the time, her objective was to go through an enemy, not around. So, her ninja skills were quite lacking

Her motorcycle proved the biggest problem. She did love it so, but the thing made an ungodly racket. The ritzy hills were often quite silent after the sun went down. These were mostly old folks with no use for a nightlife. The sound of an engine would rip like gunfire through the peace and darkness. Ayda had to be careful.

Of course, she reminded herself this wasn't necessarily different from any other night. Sure, the hour fell much later than normal, but the recently aslumber were none the wiser. In reality, no further caution was justified. She could do the same thing as always and get away with it. Even though Ayda knew this in the back of her mind, she still pulled slowly up to the house in an attempt to keep the volume at a bare minimum.

Once inside the homestead, the rest was rather easy. She sometimes left her boots next to the door inside, so doing so on this occasion raised little suspect. Steps in her stocking feet made little sound. At times she felt uncomfortable with a bedroom right next to the stairs, almost as if it were on the edge of a cliff. A dumb fear. On this night, however, Ayda thanked her lucky stars. She could get up the flight and flash right into her room without missing a single beat.

And that brought the teenager to her current status, drifting somewhere between sleep and awareness. It was late, well into the early morning. Ayda and her new partner in anti-crime, Elliot, had stayed up far past their respective bedtimes conversing their alliance. They had a long way to go, and a lot to learn, but both were excited about the prospect of working together as a dynamic duo. He was the brain, and she was the brawn. Together, they made a perfect pair.

Excitement was just the beginning of her problems. The cut on her back was still sore. She was strong enough to largely ignore such minor aches, but they made sleeping difficult. Most of the time Ayda slept on her back, but that wouldn't be possible. Any attempt to do so shot fiery spikes up and down her spine. She always woke up sore from laying on her stomach during the night. So the only available option was to turn on her side, which would eventually make her arm fall asleep. Funny, the comic books and movies never mentioned this particular part of the whole vigilante thing.

But a tired body always found its way around to rest, one way or another. Sleep would come, as it always did. After what felt like an eternity—but was really about thirty minutes—Ayda fell away to the rolling seas of slumber. Exhaustion gripped her, dragging the girl down a pit of relaxation. No dreams filled her unconscious consciousness. None that she remembered, at any rate. It was probably better that way. A dream would just give her another thing to think about on what was sure to be a busy day.

Ayda skipped school the following day. She woke up far too late for those kinds of shenanigans. Not that education really fit into her plans anyway, regardless of how early or otherwise she got up. School would only serve as a distraction. In reality, anything unrelated to her mission was a distraction. For the next day at least, her devotion would be single-minded.

The sunrise hours were a blur. Ayda spent mostly the entire time waiting for night to fall. As such, she occupied her time doing a whole lot of nothing. She didn't want to spend much time training, since that ran the risk of either burn out or injury. She needed to be in prime condition. These were the most important operations she'd ever run, and couldn't risk compromising herself. That would just be irresponsible.

The hours trickled by at a rather nominal pace, despite the complete lack of anything to do. To think, she expected to wish she'd actually gone to school. That was not the case, though. The day progressed no quicker nor slower than any other, which Ayda found honestly surprising. Maybe it was put down to the fact that she simply wasn't used to having nothing to do. She'd been going all out for a month. If it wasn't school, then she spent her time patrolling the streets. A day to relax gave a nice buffer to all the work, only if she would be going out at some point later. Ayda never realized the virtue of rest before, but perhaps a day off would help her focus; to recharge her batteries, so to speak.

The only real obstacle to her short sabbatical was Emma. Her adoptive mother allowed the teenager to remain home without asking any questions—which was a relief—but it would be quite suspicious if Ayda left late at night after abstaining from school. She could always sneak out, but in her experience, lies gave way to the truth after a while. She didn't want to be caught. It would be a rather awkward conversation, and one she didn't really want to have. Emma had no idea even about her powers. To find out Ayda wasn't a normal girl, as well as a vigilante, would possibly shatter the woman. Ayda didn't need that on her mind.

However, sneaking out was pretty much the only option open to the teenager. She could never come up with a satisfactory excuse to get herself out of the house without raising undue suspicion. It wasn't preferable, but nothing else, theoretically, worked. Good thing her bedroom window was only a two story drop.

Eventually, the sun went down, casting brilliant hues of red and orange across an endless sea of fluffy white clouds. The city slowed down, gradually grinding to a more casual pace as the commuters left for their respective suburban homes. Slowly darkness gripped the streets and buildings. A distinct chill ran under the heavy air. A slight fog rolled in from the docks, a bit of a rarity in El Puerto. It was a rather nice night, a perfect time to crack a few heads. Although, if luck prevailed, she would only need one head.

When the time came, Ayda ended up skipping the window dive. She could survive the drop just fine, but the ensuing blast to cushion the fall provided too much of an issue to deal with, far too great a disturbance to pass off. Instead, she opted to just use the back door. It was further away from the living room, and made less noise to operate.

Once outside, Ayda made her way straight over to the Belmont family motor pool, also known as the garage. Inside she found her motorcycle, a beautiful and dormant beast. She walked it into the road. When the two were roughly a block away from the mansion, a press of a button brought it roaring to life. A spin of the throttle took her away, a screaming demon set to prowl the night. This would be fun.

As it had on many a similar evening, her route brought her into the industrial district. Dilapidated buildings passed her by, interspersed occasionally by a person or two shuffling along the sidewalk. The place usually filled her with a sense of distinct dread, and this occasion was no different. How any responsible city leader could allow such a large section to fall into horrible disrepair was far beyond her. It seemed almost impossible, and yet she saw evidence of it every single day.

The people she passed were what really set her off, brought her blood to a boil. They had no purpose, no hope. It was terrible. These people had been oppressed by the city leadership, and the organized crime presence only exacerbated the problem. Before starting her campaign, Ayda had little love for these people, but after a month of dealing with them on a daily basis, she was sure. Justice still fueled her fire more than anything else, but she would save the industrial district from itself. Both goals required the same objective, the elimination of the Chinese Triad.

To that end, Ayda pressed on through the barren streets and moldy walls, destined for a sting against her greatest enemy. It would be yet another step in removing the gang threat altogether, in liberating the citizens from their oppressors.

Briefly, a breeze kicked up. It ruffled Ayda's clothing. This time around she wore a slightly different outfit. The cropped leather jacket she usually wore had been left behind during the fight with Tahoe. In its place, the teenager sported a charcoal grey hoodie, which made her look quite a bit like the thugs she normally chased down. The garment was not quite as baggy as those she'd seen on her opponents, though it still flapped uncomfortably in the wind.

Her destination neared. It was just another in a long line of nondescript meeting places, a spot relatively out in the open which garnered neither suspicion nor a second look. Specifically, the place in question was the mouth of an alleyway somewhere just outside the industrial district center. The Triad seemed to prefer the openings of alleys. Most of Ayda's deals took place in analogous locales. There was probably a valid reason for this, but she hadn't the gumption to figure it out.

This particular occasion allowed for a brief and yet all too welcome return to form for her. Instead of riding her motorcycle dangerously close to the deal, Ayda parked it a few blocks away. It felt absolutely liberating to stash her most precious of possessions a safe distance away from the action. That weight off her shoulders alone filled her soul with confidence.

Stolen story; please report.

Ayda deactivated and dismounted her bike. She began walking down the street, and pulled her phone from her pocket. The girl quickly dialed a number but did not wait for the recipient to answer. Instead, she stuffed it in her front right hoodie pocket.

A minute or two of walking brought her within sight of the meeting. True to form, a single man waited at the mouth of the destined alley. He fit into the professional archetype, wearing a black suit, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of smooth, toned skin. With sharp features, he was rather good looking, for a criminal. Something about his face, though, made Ayda want to punch it.

The dealer looked from left to right, first up the road, and then down. At first, he completely passed over Ayda, disregarding her as just another citizen. The long metal staff in her hand should have been a dead giveaway, but it was not. Her sudden change in outfit took the blame on this one. The rest of her looked exactly the same, but the hoodie was just different enough to conceal her true identity, if only for a moment.

After glazing over her once, the dealer did a swift double take. His head whipped back around. They locked eyes. Ayda gave him a sly smirk. Now he knew what kind of trouble he was in. Now he knew his life of crime was over. He'd lost control of the situation. This was no longer his fight. Instead of the pusher, he was the product.

This thug's next move came as a surprise. It showed forward thinking and an element of adaptability. Instead of yelling somewhere off in the distance, from his right jacket pocket he produced a walkie talkie. The man brought it to his lips, thumb held down on the talk button.

"Guys, it's a set up," he rushed to say. "She's here! Get out!" The dealer let off the button. Whoever resided on the other end responded, but Ayda couldn't tell what was said. The dealer pushed the button again. "Yeah, I know, but I'm looking right at her. Just get off your ass and go!"

The man did not give his compatriots a chance to respond, instead stuffing the device right back in his pocket. Ayda knew what came next, of course. He'd try to run. She would not allow him that chance.

Propelling herself on blasts on the bottoms of her feet, Ayda dashed over to him. His eyes grew wide in astonishment. He attempted to posture up in some sort of fighting stance, but hadn't nearly enough time. Ayda planted a side kick firmly into his liver. The dealer stumbled backward a few steps, then teetered onto his rump. He hit the concrete sidewalk with a grimace and an oof.

Somewhere in the distance—concealed by buildings to the left—a big engine roared to life, likely belonging to some type of sport utility vehicle. It revved and sped off away from the scene, tires squealing as they searched desperately for traction. Ayda paid it little mind. Her target was right in front of her.

This ignorance confused the dealer. As he got to his feet, the man peered from the source of the sound, to his aggressor, and back again. He balked, turning paler than a ghost in the process. His little criminal mind simply couldn't comprehend the situation which played out before it. If the vigilante was not here for the drugs, then what did she really want?

Ayda decided to put him out of his misery. She closed the distance. The dealer barely had time to raise his hands, but exposed his lower half in doing so. Holding her staff with both thumbs facing each other, Ayda struck diagonally upward into his right kidney. Immediately after, she brought the other side of her weapon downward against his opposite shoulder. Neither strike featured explosive assistance. In a smooth motion, Ayda followed through with the diagonal attack into a low guard. She jabbed the man right in the sternum, finally using her powers for offense. Again the dealer took unsteady steps back, but did not fall over like last time.

Every hit brought him closer to the bombed out building at his back. Still holding her staff with thumbs facing each other, Ayda gave him a little jab with the middle of her weapon. He reeled back, and right into kicking distance. She hit him with a front push kick in the stomach. This attack put him against the wall. He collided with it butt-first.

The teenager gave him no time to recover. She pounced on the cornered man, placing her staff just below his chin. The force from the impact knocked his head into the wall. Stars swam temporarily through his vision. Still restraining him, Ayda pressed her right hand flat against his midsection.

"Alright, dickbag," she began. "Just answer my questions, and I won't hurt you."

"You won't get anything out of me!" Yelled the dealer as if he were quoting a movie. Immediately after he spoke, an unimpressed Ayda sent a sharp shockwave through his body. He yelped in surprise and pain.

"I can do this all night. How about you?" Ayda stared him straight in the face. The question lingered like fog in the air. She slammed him against the wall. "Where do you get your product?"

"What?" The dealer begged. Ayda slammed him again.

"The meth. Where do you get it from? Who's your supplier?" Ayda shouted in his face. The dealer just laughed.

"I'm not telling you that," he said through giggling spurts. Again, Ayda sent a blast through his middle. He gritted his teeth, but offered no utterance. "Nothing you can do to me is worse than what the boss would do."

"Wanna bet?" Ayda raised an eyebrow.

She shifted her grip up just slightly. Instead of his stomach, she hovered her fingers above the lowest of the man's left side floating ribs. He raised his eyes to meet hers. They were wet with fear and anticipation. Ayda released a small blast. The rigid bone fell away from her touch. A strained cry escaped from the dealer's mouth. He crumpled from the agony, but Ayda held him upright, kept him from gripping his side.

"Ooh, I bet that hurt," Ayda mocked. "You know, I've always wondered what happens when all of someone's ribs are broken. Why don't we find out, just the two of us?" She moved her hand to the next bone up, intentionally brushing her fingernails against the already wounded area. "Now, where do you get your meth?"

The dealer broke out in a cold sweat. He looked Ayda in the face, his expression twisted with both horror and pain. His eyes flickered frequently from her to the ground. Although visibly afraid, he did not speak. Something held his tongue. It fell to Ayda the task of dislodging it. She loosed another burst into his chest. Again, the dealer screamed. His muscles went even more limp than before. Ayda actually had a hard time keeping him upright, but she managed. Doubtless, the struggle to retain his restraint only deepened his suffering.

"Talk!" Ayda yelled at him, pressing on each of the broken ribs.

"It's a dead drop!" Shouted the dealer to the heavens. "Whenever I need more, I text a courier with the amount, and we arrange a meeting."

"And what do the meetings look like?" Ayda pressed. She moved up to his next rib for emphasis.

"It's always in a park somewhere." The dealer spoke quickly to avoid more pain. "We use high traffic areas. A guy drops a brown paper bag in a trash can, and I get the bag."

"Who makes the drops?" Ayda knew she didn't need to threaten him any further, but a bit of pressure on the vulnerable bone reminded him of the stakes, and what happened when his answers weren't satisfactory.

"I don't know. It's always someone different, and I don't ask questions." The dealer refused to meet the eyes of his attacker, instead looking at the ground to her right.

Ayda considered all of this for a moment. Dead drops conducted in a similar fashion were not uncommon, according to her research. Confidentiality between courier and seller also made sense. If one was compromised, it would not lead to the other. A brown paper bag and suspicious attitude were enough to go on for identification, anyway. It was a believable story, one that—more or less—lined up with what she'd heard about these sorts of things.

As with all things these days it seemed, this process also involved a cellular telephone. Ayda quickly looked her captive up and down. His fancy pants made it quite easy to discern which pocket his mobile device resided within. With deft hand she extracted the thing and stored it in her own pocket. Dealers's phones were always a valuable resource, and this one was no different.

"Well, wasn't that a nice little chat?" Ayda said, her tone dripping with condescension. "You've been very helpful."

With that, the teenager punched his lights out. A purple explosion assisted fist to the temple sent the man to the floor, unconscious before his limp body hit concrete. She gave a shake of her head and a sigh before setting about the task of leaving him for the cops. She dragged the knocked out man out onto the side of the street and zip tied him to a street light, her most common form of restraint. Utilizing his phone, she very quickly made a call to the authorities. This part of the process had become largely automatic, to the point where she barely had to think about it anymore.

When the call had been placed, and the police dispatched, Ayda fled the scene on foot. She went down the block back toward her bike. At the end the girl turned an unnecessary corner. She'd get back on track later. Removing the situation from her sight made the entire thing feel more final. Once around the sidewalk, she extracted her own phone from the hoodie she wore, and brought it up to her ear.

"Did you get all that?" She said without precursor.

"Jesus Christ, Ayda!" The familiar voice of Elliot leaked through the device. Ayda pulled it away from her ear momentarily in response to his volume.

"What?"

"I mean, I knew you were rough, but you straight up tortured that guy!"

"Did you get the info or not, El?" Ayda reiterated her opening question. She had absolutely zero patience for this argument.

"Yeah, couriers and parks, and shit," Elliot dismissed. "But seriously, though. What the fuck was that?"

"These gangsters have some stupid sense of loyalty to their leaders. I think it's a cultural thing," Ayda added. "Sometimes it takes a lot to make them talk."

"Okay, but was all of that really necessary?" Elliot continued to question her methods. "Did you have to break his ribs?"

"He'll live," Ayda said flatly. "I did something similar to Lo Feng, but you didn't complain then."

"I was still trying to figure out if it was you or not!" Elliot fired right back, pointing out the fallacies in her logic. "Plus, that was a news report. It's different when it's in my ear."

Ayda sighed. "I knew you wouldn't be comfortable with this part of the process. I'm sorry. Maybe I can just right stuff down afterward, or something? As long as I can retain the information." She spoke as if that were any sort of consolation. Predictably, Elliot did not respond. "Look, can we talk about this later?"

"Yeah, sure," Elliot agreed. From his voice alone, Ayda could tell he never wanted to touch the subject again, which worked for her.

"Okay," she nodded. "How about we meet up tomorrow and go from there?"

"Sounds good to me," Elliot confirmed. "I thought that's what we were gonna do, anyway."

"Alright, I'll see you then." Ayda paused for just a second. "Goodbye."

"Bye." He hung up, and Ayda did the same. She adjusted her jacket in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on her back wound. It didn't work. She probably should've waited longer than a day before hitting the streets again. 

Again, Ayda sighed, and returned her phone to its pocket home. That went about as well as she thought it would, all things considered. Elliot was a good person with a kind and gentle soul. Her modus operandi was bound to clash with his sense of morality. It was a conversation she foresaw coming at some point, just not this soon. Hopefully it wouldn't be the nail in the coffin. Tonight was the first step in a much larger plan. Ayda needed his help for the next phases.