Low hung the sun over the horizon. Brilliant hues of red, and orange, and yellow cast over the sky, while specks of pale blue shone in the cracks. Between tall buildings—which gradually grew more and more dilapidated—occasional golden beams streaked through stagnant air, illuminating both the people and cars as they passed by on the street below.

A slight chill ran down Ayda's spine as she rode through the tinted light, perhaps a bit faster than she should have been. It would be a frigid night, or, at least, as close to cold as Texas ever fell. A cool evening sounded good, a decent change of pace from the heat, both literally and figuratively, of earlier that day.

Even though it had been about an hour of driving at this point, her heart still beat fast, though not quite as much as before. Adrenaline still pumped thin streams through her veins. She was awake and alert, despite the exhaustion which gripped her bones. Simultaneously Ayda wanted to bungee jump and take a nap. Both at the same time probably wouldn't work out, though. But, it would be an impressive feat.

No. Focus. Her mind felt like a beehive, buzzing constantly with uncontrollable activity. Eyes on the road. Fingers on the handlebars. Control the throttle. At least try to go the speed limit. Even though it just happened, dwelling on it would not help her. She had to live in the moment, the absolute current time and place. There would be time for much revelry momentarily.

She hung a left onto a very familiar street, a route she'd been down many times in the past week. She wasn't even at her destination yet, but her heart swelled with a warm, comfortable feeling. The promise of camaraderie and friendship filled her with an insurmountable joy. She pinned the throttle just a bit further. Hopefully no police crossed her path along the way.

In the distance a brick building appeared, taller than it was wide. Ayda knew it well. It was a place of belonging, of happiness, and—sometimes—of solitude. Of course, her home also served all these purposes, but she needed to calm down before going there. This was the perfect place to calm down.

Ayda parked her bike in the lot, switched it off, and made her way through the entrance. The long metal bar hanging from the vehicle was probably suspicious, but she didn't care at all. Once inside the main hallway, she progressed to a door on the left. Quickly, the girl fished through her pockets to extract a key, which was promptly inserted into the lock. Without knocking or any indication of her presence, Ayda opened the door and stepped inside the apartment.

There, she found Elliot sitting at his desk, hunched uncomfortably forward as he typed away at his computer, a bad habit of his. The man perked up immediately after seeing her entrance. He stood from his chair and took a few steps toward her.

"Hey, you're back," he said. "Are you alright? You didn't really talk much on your way here and—"

Elliot's words swirled uselessly around the room as Ayda pounced. Again without warning she leapt forward and wrapped her entire body around him, holding herself up on his shoulders while her legs gripped his waist. Elliot stepped back to brace himself against the sudden, and surprisingly heavy, weight on his shoulders. That second part he kept to himself, though. The slightly older man returned the embrace in kind, pulling her even closer into a hug so tight it almost hurt.

"I did it," she nearly whispered in his ear. "We did it, El."

"We did, didn't we?" Elliot said, as if the reality of their accomplishment just hit him. "We really did."

Ayda lowered her feet to stand, mostly because hanging from Elliot far too much effort after the day she'd had. Otherwise, she would've stayed like that. The hug was nice, and exactly what she needed. But this was nice, too.

The embrace maintained a moment longer, each participant taking solace in the contact of the other. Ayda's breaths were slow and relaxed. The adrenaline slowly drained from her body. Her heartbeat lazed to a normal rate. But she wasn't the only one. Ayda could hear Elliot's heart also slow. He must have been anxious while waiting for her return, and she knew it made him nervous whenever she fought. She could only imagine what such a large, harrowing battle did to him.

With a deep breath in, and then out, Ayda released her friend. The two separated at the same, uncommunicateded moment. She raised her brown eyes to his. There was gentleness in the latter set, mixed with concern and kindness, but those two were always present. That may have been what Ayda liked most about him. Elliot wouldn't hurt a fly, much different from many of the men she usually interacted with, but that wasn't a fair comparison.

"Are you really okay?" Elliot asked, gesturing toward a visible bruise on her right bicep.

"I'm fine," reassured the teenager. "A little banged up, but I've had worse." Ayda plopped down on the couch, more of a fall than an actual sit. The furniture shifted back about an inch at the sudden weight. She let her head crest over the back cushion to stare at the ceiling.

"And are we gonna talk about what happened?" Eliot continued to prod, stepping around the front of the couch. Ayda lazily turned her head toward him, still on the cushion.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"You know very well what I mean," said Elliot. "The fight, with Tahoe. It didn't go well. He had his way with you."

Eliot knew he was treading on thin ice with this line of conversation. Not only did he bring up an embarrassing loss, he also—if indirectly—insulted the form of a vainglorious warrior. Add on top of that Ayda's boundless confidence and superpowers, and Elliot set himself up for potential disaster. It was a talk, though, they desperately needed to have, and sooner rather than later. Nothing had been done since the previous encounter between Ayda and Tahoe, and this last fight proved just how little progress had been made in circumventing the problem.

His fears in broaching the subject were quickly revoked. Instead of fire, all Ayda felt was acute self-pity. With a sigh she leaned forward, letting her head hang just slightly. She cradled her right cheek in the palm of her hand.

"I don't know how to beat him, Elliot," she admitted. "I mean, my entire combat strategy is 'hit it until it breaks.' What am I supposed to do when that doesn't work?"

"You beat our A.I training program a while back, remember?" Elliot quickly recalled a previous test in which Ayda fought against a hardlight projection which she also couldn't physically hurt.

"That fight had rules, El. Tahoe is trying to kill me. There are no rules on the battlefield."

Ayda covered her face with both hands and let out a long breath. Elliot know what this gesture meant. The girl made this exact motion whenever she was frustrated, and needed a moment to think. To her, this was not a complete victory. She may have destroyed the meth lab, but the fight was still lost. Her pride was hurt.

Elliot sat gently on the couch next to her. He placed a soft hand between her shoulder blades and made slow circular motions, all in an effort to comfort the tense and trialed teenager.

"We'll think of something, okay?" He said lowly. "Tahoe's tough, but he's not invincible. No one is."

"Tell me about it." Ayda said, voice muffled by her palms.

Elliot did not respond, opting instead to place his hand on her opposite shoulder. As soon as he did, Ayda lowered her hands and held them palm up in front of herself, another show of vexation.

"It would've been easier if my staff wasn't getting in the way," Ayda said, dropping her hands.

"Your staff?" Elliot questioned, straightening as his hand fell to his side.

"Yeah," Ayda confirmed. "It's too long. It kept getting caught on stuff. I mean, he had the same problem, but it was still annoying."

Elliot considered this for a moment, a cursory scratch of nonexistent facial hair as he did.

"I might be able to do something about that," he said. "Just give me a little time."

"Sure, whatever," Ayda agreed, probably not really hearing him. She stood up and walked toward the kitchen, but did not actually enter it.

"I bet," began Elliot, chasing after her, "kicking the snot out of some more drug dealers would make you feel better. Want me to set up a meeting for tomorrow?"

"No, not yet," Ayda denied. "I think we both need a break." She turned to him with a half-smile, the most she could do to reassure him. "We've both earned a day off."

"Really?" Elliot raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I expected you to say."

"I just blew something up. I think that deserves a break." Ayda clarified, sliding by him and back into the living room. As Elliot turned, he rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of following her around.

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"Alright, I get it. Just keep me in the loop, okay?" He said.

"You'll be the first to know if anything comes up," agreed the girl. "And I'll call you tomorrow to talk about our plans moving forward." She hadn't the faintest idea what to do next, but he didn't need to know that.

"Okay," nodded Elliot. Ayda returned the motion, then turned around and headed for the hall. "Where are you going now?" He called after her.

"To use your shower," she shouted back. "I can't go home looking like this."

'"Oh," Elliot looked away awkwardly. "Alright. Go ahead, then."

He slowly made his way around to the couch and sat upon it. Having an underage girl naked in his apartment always made him a little nervous despite how well they knew each other, even if she were on the other side of a locked door.

…

Late the next night, well after the sun sank below the horizon, Ayda found herself—perhaps strangely—in the garage belonging to the Belmont family. Or the hangar, as she liked to call it, for all the vehicles inside. Just like she'd said to Elliot, the teenager took the entire day off. She did literally nothing except sit in her room watching internet videos and occasionally playing a video game. But the time for inaction was over. Finally, in the wee hours of the night, she had something to accomplish.

All around her in the garage were vehicles, most of which were never actually used. Like many aging and unfathomably rich gentlemen, Bernard had a collection of classic automobiles. A red Mustang, blue and white Bel Air, green Dart, yellow Diablo, and a bunch of other old cars, many of them more expensive than some low-end houses.

There were other, more practical vessels as well, most notably the now somewhat old Phantom still used as a family car. The space also played host to a black SUV, and a grey pickup truck Bernard used for work on extremely rare occasions.

These cars occupied a large chunk of real estate and many had been acquired for a hefty sum. The vapidity of owning so many valuable objects when others had so little bothered Ayda to no end. She still remembered the poverty of her home country, and what it felt like to live as a prisoner with literally nothing. While she was appreciative of her considerable wealth, Ayda tried to moderate her spending, only buying the things she needed. There were no twenty-thousand dollar handbags in her closet.

The most expensive thing she owned was her precious motorcycle, against which she now leaned, ankles and arms crossed. The tail end of a modern Metal song blared out through a singular speaker, not the best sound quality but usable in a pinch. Ayda had come all the way out to the garage with the express intention of listening to the radio. She hadn't a stereo in her room, and using the one downstairs would likely awaken her family. As for the transceiver in her phone, she'd never used it before and lacked the patience to figure it out now. This was all around the easiest option.

The song was not one she'd ever heard before, as was often the case with these late night radio stations. The further one traveled from prime time listening hours, the more eclectic became the soundtrack. She didn't care about the music, anyway. Her intentions lay elsewhere, in something with considerably greater substance.

As the song ended, it was replaced by a quite familiar DJ, a fast talker with a slightly high-pitched voice, not unlike the standard college station fare. This man—who went by the handle Casey Calamity—was far and away her most ardent supporter in town. Perhaps Ayda was a bit biased, but this was her favorite radio program on the air.

As Casey's voice replaced the humdrum melody, Ayda turned around, placing palms flat on the seat of her motorcycle. Her ears attuned to the sounds of speaking, an attempt to digest every word individually, as if they all were of great import.

"And that was Monster Force with Yarn, an oldie but a goodie," said the DJ. "Before we get on with more music, there's something I'd like to talk about. By now, I'm sure you've all heard about the meth lab explosion out in the boonies," he said. Ayda shifted closer to the speaker. "It's old news, right? I mean, it happened yesterday, so why am I talking about it now? Because, dear listeners, my good friend inside the police department has let me in on some juicy bits of info the general public doesn't have access to yet. I'm sure you'll hear about this in the coming days, but as of right now this story is exclusive. I am the first one to report on it, and I may be the only one to give a hard, honest opinion."

He paused, audibly shuffling around papers through the speaker. Ayda again shifted her weight, but this time from genuine discomfort. He as talking about her, about what she'd done. This was what Ayda had been waiting for.

"Reports from yesterday said details were scarce, but the explosion was said to have been the result of gang-on-gang violence. One of the gangs in town clashed with the Chinese Triad and apparently won, blowing up the lab in the process. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how fishy that sounds. Looking at the data presented to me here, there a quite a few holes in the plot.

"Firstly, if this was an incident of gang crime, why were so many left alive? The confirmed death toll is only three. Wouldn't a rival gang be more intent on outright killing an enemy? Speaking of injuries, I find the nature of them a bit odd. Almost all of the gangsters displayed signs of blunt force trauma, not the kind caused by a shockwave, mind you. They appear to have been hit by a very heavy and broad object. If this were two gangs fighting, wouldn't they be just shooting at each other?

"And that bring some to my third point, the bullets. Or, rather, complete lack thereof. The collection of slugs and casings found on the scene is simply scarce, not nearly enough for a pitched firefight. Let's also talk about the status of the recovered bullets. Most of them are either flat or shattered, as if they hit a wall, yet they were found out in the open, nowhere near the house, almost as if the wall they hit isn't there anymore. So, either this fictional rival gang charged into battle carrying riot shields, or something else is going on."

Involuntarily, Ayda balled her hands into loose fists. This was it. He was about to mention her. Her breathing slowed. She kept completely motionless, for any sound may drown out part of the segment.

"I think this is an obvious police cover-up. There's something they don't want us knowing about. I think our leather-jacketed hero is involved. We know the vigilante has had it out for the Triad drug dealers for a while now, and going directly after their supply is a logical next step. It would explain the lack of deaths, the blunt force trauma, the strange bullets, and the overall efficiency of the job. To me, all signs point toward her.

"If you're listening right now, vigilante, I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I want to thank you for everything you do to keep the city safe, for putting yourself in harm's way night after night. Organized crime is a blight on these streets, and it's time someone took a stand. I would encourage all citizens to take a more active role. Report suspicious activity whenever you see it, and be on the lookout for anything shifty. The vigilante is doing her part, and we can do ours."

After that, Casey faded away to a moderately tempoed electric guitar arpeggio. This was a song Ayda recognized, one she'd heard on the station before. A wide smile stretched across her face as she straightened, still peering at the source of the sound. As always, Casey delivered a riveting and truthful report, a glowing review of previous events.

The teenager always enjoyed listening to his opinions, again for perhaps biased reasons. She realized this was, at least partially, a stroking of her ego, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. In the shadows was the safest way to conduct her work, but it could be taxing at times. A little recognition went a long way. Casey reminded her she was not truly alone, that plenty in the city supported her cause. She hadn't exact figures, but if Casey's listeners were anything to go by, her advocates numbered in the thousands.

His call to action was also appreciated. The fans she had in El Puerto likely outnumbered the Triad. As Casey said, they were all citizens of the same city, and everyone was responsible for keeping it safe, to an extent. Ayda wished not for the common folk to put themselves in harm's way, but reporting possible crimes to the police would be an aid insurmountable.

Ayda would have continued listening to the radio, at a lack of anything better to do, but at that moment her phone rang. She quickly turned the radio down until it became background noise. She dug into her pocket to extract the device, checking the caller ID before allowing a response. A swift swipe to the right and a lift to her ear answered the call.

"Hey, El," she greeted the person on the line. "Did you listen to that DJ I told you about?" She smiled, knowing she'd got him before he even spoke up.

"What the..." Elliot trailed off. "How did you know that's what I was calling about?"

"Because you called immediately after his segment about me ended, on the same day I told you about it in the first place," Ayda offered a somewhat long winded explanation. "It's not that hard to figure out."

"Yeah, but still..." Elliot thought about this for a moment, but dropped the topic. "Anyway, it sounds like at least someone's on our side."

"There are a few reporters and bloggers out there, but he's definitely the most vocal," agreed Ayda.

"He seemed pretty well informed, too," commented Elliot. "Some of the stuff I've seen is blatantly wrong."

"Yeah, it helps that his information is mostly factual," said the teenager. "Word's getting out, slowly but surely." Distantly, Ayda wondered whether that was a beneficial thing or not.

"Hey, about that," Elliot began cautiously, "the whole thing about word getting out? I've been thinking, and—"

"Oh God, not again," interjected Ayda, feigning concern.

"Shut up, I'm serious," Elliot fought back. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I've been thinking, if you're gonna be in the public eye, you should have a codename."

"A codename?" Ayda raised an eyebrow and took a step away from her bike.

"Yeah, like Wolverine, Captain America, or Spider-Man!" Elliot said. "It's to protect your secret identity."

"And let me guess, you already have something in mind." This was not a question from the girl, but a statement of fact.

"Alright, stick with me on this one." Elliot didn't even try to deny it. "What do you think about Pulse?"

"Pulse?" Repeated the teenager, face contorted in pure puzzlement.

"Yeah!" Confirmed her friend. "It makes sense because your powers are like little pulses of kinetic energy."

Ayda gave a small chuckle. "El, do you hear yourself right now?" She paused to let him respond, which he did not. "What, are you gonna tell me to prance around in fluorescent spandex next?" Even though he was not there, the teenager could feel him wilt through the phone. "I don't need a codename. Even if they know about me, no one knows who I am. I'm fine as just Ayda."

"I... kinda thought it was a good idea," Elliot almost whispered, voice small as his spirits.

"Your heart was in the right place," Ayda offered as the closest she could muster to condolences. There was a short pause, as neither was really sure how to continue the conversation, although Elliot probably didn't feel much like talking. "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" Asked the girl.

"No, I don't think so," Elliot said, sounding considerably brighter now that the moment of rejection passed.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later then, okay?" Ayda smiled.

"Okay, goodnight," dismissed Elliot.

"'night," echoed the teenager, hanging up the call.

She replaced the phone in her pocket and made for the exit of the garage. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over her in the process. This had been her first proper day off in a very long time. Ayda hadn't realized how tired she was until just then. Her lids felt as though leaden weights pulled them down. In this moment, the only thing she wanted to do was sleep like a rock. Upon reaching her room, she didn't even bother changing into more appropriate sleepwear before collapsing on the bed. Even superheroes needed their super sleep.