“If you think that counts as a sufficient explanation, I regret to inform you that it does not.”

Kellan chuckles, which seems inappropriate in the presence of an eight-foot mechanical samurai with blood-red eyes.

“I’ve been preparing for a day like this ever since we took down the old Council. It was always possible that what we did to them, someone else would try to do to us. So I’ve been keeping an eye out for... undiscovered talent. Recruiting and training metas that nobody’s heard of. They’re my ace in the hole.”

I process that for a moment, finding myself impressed by Kellan’s cunning. It’s also characteristic of him in particular. Where his mentor would have made contingency plans, he recruits contingency people.

“And we can assume it’s not an illusion, because Reign would have no idea who he is?”

“Precisely. I put together what we were dealing with not long after we got separated, and called him in.”

“How? The communications blackout is--” I break off for a moment, checking my implant to confirm. “Still active.”

“I had my Watson drone broadcast the message on repeat, then sent it outside the blackout field. Reign probably noticed, but she couldn’t do anything to stop it, because it was too far away from her area of influence. Besides, if they’ve got everyone else captive, she probably figured nobody would be coming to the rescue.”

That makes a certain amount of sense. I don’t see any obvious exit points, but the drone could easily have located a ventilation shaft and found its way out. Its navigation software is certainly powerful enough, considering Zero wrote it. Still, I task a part of my brain with staying alert for any hints that we’re still inside one of Reign’s illusions.

“I suppose it must possess some degree of immunity to Reign’s abilities, if it was able to get close to her without being captured like we were.”

“Yeah. My guess would be that she goes into some kind of trance while using her powers. It would explain how she could manipulate and perceive such a vast environment, but not notice a giant samurai right behind her.”

As per usual, Kellan’s deductive skills impress me. Trying not to look the Demon Armor in the eyes, I observe Reign’s unconscious form, dangling from one of its hands.

“Is an interrogation worth the risk of awakening her?”

Kellan considers it for a moment.

“Even if she doesn’t need to enter a trance, she’d still be trapped. And we need all the information we can get on these guys.”

“I concur.”

Taking a step towards the Demon Armor, Kellan addresses it in Japanese. If there’s a living language he doesn’t speak by now, I’d be surprised. The armor nods solemnly, and I suspect it just received instructions to kill Reign if she takes any hostile action. It holds her out towards Kellan, and he smacks her hard across the face. She looks almost exactly like her illusory self, which surprises me somewhat.

Snapping awake, Reign flinches back from Hawkshaw, and struggles in the Demon Armor’s grasp, trying to pry its fingers from around her neck. That fails completely, which does make me feel a little bit of schadenfreude, considering how much pleasure she seemed to take in having Kellan and I trapped.

“Welcome back,” Hawkshaw says coldly. “Just to be clear, if you try to use your powers, my friend here will crush your skull like a grape. Nod if you understand.”

Eyes flickering between Kellan and I, Reign nods. I suppose she’s wondering which of us will be playing the role of the ‘good cop.’ Unfortunately for her, the answer is neither. Still, she manages a grin.

“You two really have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

It’s such a stock bad-guy line that I almost sigh aloud. I’ve been in situations similar to her current one before, and having your banter game on-point is crucial for when you’re at a hero’s mercy.

“Oh, I’ve got a few theories. You’re with the Arcana, aren’t you? The Devil?”

Reign laughs aloud, though the Demon Armor’s grip makes it a bit hard for her to tilt her head back properly.

“Oh, nothing gets by you, does it? Looks like Mister World’s-Greatest-Detective here has some competition!”

Part of me wants to smack her, but that would be far too undignified of me. Instead, I stand with my hands behind my back, and let Kellan do it for me. His heavy metal gauntlets hit harder than my gloved hands anyway.

“You’ve already contacted them, haven’t you?”

It would be a pretty significant unforced error on her part not to have, given how we understand the Wheel of Fortune to work. The real question is why she hasn’t used it to teleport away from us, and back to their Tower. At a guess, the anti-translocation tech they’re using to keep Kellan and I here also extends to their own teleportation capabilities, which is certainly good to know for the future.

“Nope. Blackout field, remember?”

“She’s lying,” I retort immediately. I’m not as certain as I sound, but it’s a possibility that has to be considered, at the very least.

“I could be,” Reign says calmly, before Kellan can respond. “But if I was, wouldn’t Atlas have already flown in to kill you two?”

That’s a fairly compelling point, come to think of it. I’m still not prepared to take her at her word, though.

“So he’s a part of your club, then?”

A brief look of surprise flashes across Reign’s face, as she realizes she just let slip a bit of information we didn’t yet know for certain. It’s swiftly replaced by the same calm demeanor as before, which now seems just a fraction less genuine.

“Sure is. Strength card, natch. And you assholes never even knew. His boyfriend was one of ours too, before he disappeared. Good thing we never got around to filling the Justice seat, or he wouldn’t have been able to contact us from your little jail.”

“We have a blackout field around that whole facility,” Kellan says, in a tone I associate with his ‘detective mode’ frown.

“Guess our blackout tech must be better than yours,” Reign chuckles.

“If that’s true, they must have given you a way to contact them without leaving the field. Otherwise they’d have no way of knowing what your status was.”

“They sure did,” she shoots right back. “Check my left jacket pocket.”

Kellan looks to me, head cocked expectantly, and I reach into the pocket she indicated, pulling out a small silver disc with a stylized letter A etched into the surface. There’s a single button on the other side, which I’m careful not to touch, as it presumably activates the communicator. These must be immune to the Arcana’s blackout tech- I’ll have to open it up and figure out how they accomplished that, the moment I get a chance.

“How long between each check-in?” Kellan demands.

“Half an hour. And my last one wasn’t too long ago, so if you hurry, you might be able to get away before someone notices I haven’t called in and comes to kill you.”

She could be lying- in fact, I’d bet money she is. But she’s right either way. We need to get going if we’re to have any chance of surviving this debacle.

“Fine. Last question. Where did they send the others?”

“No idea,” Reign responds gamely. “Standard opsec, not that you clowns would know anything about it. But I can tell you who’s guarding them. Codename is Equalizer, but his card is Death.”

That doesn’t bode particularly well for the other Council members who were captured. Hopefully she’s bluffing.

“Just one? That seems a bit overconfident, don’t you think?”

“Not if you know him. But he’s only guarding two of your people. Atlas is dealing with the rest personally.”

Nobody speaks for a moment, and I’m about to suggest that we deal with her and move on, before Kellan leans in closer to her, as if studying her face.

“You’re short-staffed, aren’t you? The Vitruvian couldn’t get the whole group to commit.”

Again, Reign looks surprised, even shocked, but this time she doesn’t manage to cover it up fast enough. Based on my own prior experienced, Kellan wasn’t as sure as he sounded, but her reaction confirmed his guess.

“Wow, I guess they weren’t kidding about the detective thing,” she says eventually, looking shaken. “Yeah, a few people wouldn’t help out, but nobody who matters. Now just kill me already, get it the fuck over with. This is getting boring.”

Another brief stretch of silence, then Kellan chuckles.

“No, I don’t think so. When you wake up, send your people a message. Tell them- all of them -that we can still resolve this peacefully.”

Following that, he says something in Japanese, and the Demon Armor shifts its grip on her head, opening a brief space between its fingers. Kellan pulls an injector gun from his belt, and jams it into Reign’s neck. She tries to pull away, but fails, and a moment later goes limp, unconscious but alive.

“Are you sure that was wise?”

“No. But I’m not going to kill her in cold blood, either. Now let’s get out of here.”

After a moment, Kellan nods, and says something to the Demon Armor in Japanese again. It releases its grip on Reign’s neck, and instead slings her over its shoulder, following Hawkshaw and I towards the nearest door. As expected, it’s locked, but a single round from Inquiry, Kellan’s sidearm, takes care of that.

Outside, we find ourselves next to a landing strip, in a densely-wooded area. The scenery certainly seems to suggest that Reign wasn’t lying when she claimed we were in the state of Washington. Following what seems to be the path out of the woods, we walk for a few minutes before passing one of the pylons that’s generating the blackout field. As our implants regain full functionality, I look to Kellan expectantly.

“Where are we sending here? Avernus?”

“Yeah. Inside of a cell. Security might be fucked, but she still won’t be able to get out. And she’ll be able to send them my message.”

“If she chooses to. Besides, couldn’t Atlas just go break her out?”

“Not without leaving our people unattended.”

With a shrug, I pull a one-time translocator out of my utility belt, program in a destination, and attach it to Reign. A moment later, the Demon Armor sets her down on the ground, and we send her on her way. Some of the tension in me lightens, simply knowing that she’s not here to distort reality anymore.

In the meantime, Kellan recalls his Watson drone and stows it back in one of his trenchcoat’s many pockets. With Reign taken care of, and some distance between us and the hangar, we can figure out our next move.

“I could call in the Hercule for pickup,” Kellan says, “but it would be a few hours before it got here, even at top speed. And Atlas will be coming here sooner or later, once he realizes something happened to Reign. If he spotted us, we’d be sitting ducks.”

“Agreed. In fact, before we do anything else, we ought to shut off our implants. The Vitruvian may be tracking or otherwise monitoring us through them.”

As I’m speaking, I follow my own advice, disabling all of the device’s functions. Kellan follows suit shortly after. It could mean the others will think we’ve died, as our biomonitor readouts will suddenly disappear, but that may end up being to our advantage.

“Now, we need to figure out where the others are being held. Starting with this Equalizer seems prudent, if he’s as bad as she made him sound.”

“Actually,” Kellan says, the ghost of a smirk in his voice, “I’ve already dealt with it.”

“Pardon?”

Now he’s making no effort to hide how smug he feels. If he’s telling the truth, however, he’s completely earned it.

“The DA here isn’t my only ace. I already called someone else in to rescue the heavy hitters.”

“And how do you suppose he’ll do that? They’ll be under a blackout field as well- finding them won’t be as easy as accessing their implant’s tracking data.”

“He’s got his methods,” Hawkshaw replies.

“I’ll take your word for it. In that case, we should meet up with them at Rally Point Aleph. Trying to free the remaining captives ourselves would be a mistake.”

If they’re even still alive to save.

“Yeah. But we’re gonna have to take the long route. Can’t trust the translocators.”

He’s right. The Vitruvian will likely have cracked our tech by now. At best, he’d be able to track us, at worst actively alter our destination so we’d jump right back into his clutches. Going incognito is the best option available.

“Very well. In that case, we had better start walking.”

With that, we continue down the trail until we reach a small road. It seems the facility we just left was kept under wraps, as not a single car comes by while we walk. Not that it matters, as Kellan is an internationally famous terrorist/vigilante. Not many people would be willing to give him a lift, to say nothing of the Demon Armor.

“So,” I finally ask, as we continue down the road. “Where did you find this thing?”

“Kind of a complicated answer,” Kellan says. “Apparently, it was originally forged during the Satsuma Rebellion, about a hundred and fifty years ago. Last stand of the samurai, that sort of thing. But before it saw any action, the Imperial Army put the rebellion down. The armor was kept safe by the survivors, but eventually stolen years later. Then it ended up in Africa during World War Two, where the Nazis figured out how it worked. It was captured by the Allies after the end of the war, but they thought it was just an art piece, so they shipped it off to a museum. Then the museum went under about fifteen years ago, and they auctioned it off to a collector. A couple of years ago, the collector gets robbed, there’s a fight involving some metahumans, and it ends up getting lost again. Next thing you know, a twelve year old kid from Detroit finds it, puts it on, and--”

“Puts it on?”

Kellan glances at me for a second, then realizes what I’m missing.

“Right. It’s actually just the helmet that he puts on. The rest of the armor only appears after somebody does that.”

I turn and look at the armor, which hasn’t reacted in the slightest to any of this conversation. It keeps marching, a few yards ahead of the two of us, showing no signs of fatigue.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“There’s a kid in there?”

“Not exactly. It works more like the Myrmidon. While the armor is active, his body is elsewhere. Except he’s not even controlling it like Gilgamesh was. Apparently he’s inside some sort of mental construct, being trained as a samurai. Until he’s ready to control the armor himself, it operates independently. And since the kid- his name’s Darius - pledged to me as his daimyo, it follows my commands”

I suppose that’s as plausible an explanation as anything.

“Are you sure it’s wise to let someone so young be conditioned by an artifact of a feudal culture?”

“Not entirely, no. I offered to take the helmet off his hands, find someone more suitable, but he said no. And it doesn’t work for anybody else while the current user is still alive, so I couldn’t exactly take it away. Besides, his situation before he found the helmet was... not great. Kid needed some structure in his life, and if bushido is what works, so be it.”

It takes about two hours until we even reach the proper road that this winding offshoot is connected to. The entrance is covered by foliage and fenced off, preventing vehicles from entering, but we slip past with relative ease- aside from the samurai, which has to cut down a few low-hanging branches that are in its way. The katana it wields has an edge that appears to be perpetually red-hot, as if fresh off the anvil. I’d certainly rather not find myself on the business end of it.

Before going any further, Kellan sends up his drone again, and has it scout out which way leads to the nearest town. Fortunately for us, there’s one just a few miles to the west. Not especially large, but sufficient for our immediate needs. A few cars go by, but most of them just ignore us. I suppose it’s easier to rationalize us as a bunch of cosplayers than actually accepting that two wanted criminals and a robot samurai are walking on the side of a random road in upstate Washington.

A plane passes by overhead, and I tense, reaching for my sidearm. It’s not Atlas, though. If he’s noticed Reign’s absence and come to investigate, we’ve seen no sign. Perhaps he’s unwilling to leave his captives unattended even for a moment.

Once we can see the town in the distance- Grayling, Washington, according to the sign -we stop in our tracks.

“You two are a bit conspicuous,” I say dryly. “Find somewhere out of sight and stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Kellan nods his assent, and I take off my mask, tucking it into a pocket. With my jacket zipped up, the rest of my uniform is hidden entirely. My utility belt is visible, but besides the holstered sidearm, it’s fairly inconspicuous, and I don’t think open-carrying is too uncommon in this part of the country. Hawkshaw and the Demon Armor hop the barrier and situate themselves in the wooded area just off the highway, while I make my way into Grayling.

None of the townsfolk, who mostly seem to skew older and whiter, pay me any mind. I probably scan as a lost hiker to them, or something similar. It only takes a few minutes of strolling down main street for me to find a clothier, and I step inside, grateful for the air conditioning, which makes a pleasant change from the ambient humidity. Wasting no time, I purchase a set of clothes for Kellan- trousers and a button-up shirt, both black. After that, I identify a chain department store and buy a cheap suitcase and backpack. The woman at the register looks too old to be working such a menial job, and I make a mental note to recommend that Optimization Group prioritize their plans expanding the social safety net. Then I remember that one member is dead and the other is indisposed for the foreseeable future. That alone is reason enough not to lay down and die in the face of the Vitruvian and Atlas. Whatever our moral imperfections, we’ve done more good for the world than they ever did. They’ve got no right to judge us.

“Planning on taking a trip soon, dear?”

“Indeed. Somewhere exotic.”

“Oh, how lovely. Well, you have a nice day now.”

“And you.”

The gray-haired woman beams at me as I head out. After that, I swiftly return to where I left Hawkshaw and the Demon Armor. Thankfully, they haven’t moved, save for Kellan taking a seat on a tree stump, which I’m fairly certain was an actual tree when I left. The Demon Armor doesn’t even have the decency to look appropriately guilty when I glance between the felled lumber and its blade.

“Really?”

“You try walking around in heavy armor all day during weather like this,” Kellan says, grumbling slightly. I pass him the bag, and he sheds the suit swiftly, pulling on the shirt and pants under his undersheath. Then he peers back into the bag, and I realize I neglected to get him any shoes.

“Apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll pick some up myself.”

Pressing a few hidden buttons on the back of his armor, Kellan collapses it into several pieces, and stows them in the suitcase. Then he opens up the backpack, and issues another command to the Demon Armor. It turns to face him, and reaches up to remove its helmet. The armor glows red, and then disappears, leaving a young man with close-cut hair and a serious expression holding it.

“Darius. You have my gratitude for your timely response,” Kellan says, taking the helmet from the boy and placing it in the backpack. One of the horns sticks awkwardly out of the top, forcing him to leave the zipper just slightly open to accommodate it. Darius takes the bag, slings it over his shoulders, and gives Kellan a nod before turning to stare at me suspiciously.

“My name is Conrad Winters,” I say, extending a hand to him. He reaches up to shake it. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he replies.

“We’ll be securing transportation in the town nearby,” Kellan explains. “Also, I need a pair of shoes.”

Darius reaches down to remove his own sneakers, before Kellan waves his hand in a negatory gesture. They probably wouldn’t fit him regardless.

“I meant I’m going to buy a pair. But thank you.”

With the helmet’s bearer just as silent as the armor itself, we set off back into town. I provide Kellan directions to the clothier, and he leaves Darius with me. I’m not exactly great with children, particularly ones as cold as this.

“Have you eaten recently?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

“If that is what you wish.”

If such compliance makes me uncomfortable, despite what Father described as ‘tyrant genes’ in my very DNA, I can only imagine how it makes Kellan feel. I head further into town in search of somewhere to eat, texting Kellan to inform him of my plans. We locate a chain eatery a few minutes later, and I pick up a premade sandwich. Darius expresses no preference as to what kind he’d like, so I get two more of the same, and a hot tea for Kellan. Prosciutto and swiss seems a fairly unobjectionable choice, unless the boy has an allergy, which I certainly hope he’d have mentioned.

We seat ourselves outside, under an umbrella, and wait for Kellan to return. He does so not long after, shoes on his feet and the suitcase containing his armor at his side. He nods gratefully when I gesture at his sandwich, and greedily gulps down the tea.

“I passed a TV display showing the news,” he says, after putting the paper cup down. “I didn’t know those even still existed. Anyway, the bad news is that everybody is freaking out about Axel. But there’s good news too. It sounds like the prevailing theory is that it’s an Andromedan attack. So the people who are in charge aren’t threatening to nuke each other. At least, not yet.”

“Perhaps the Arcana helped supply that narrative in order to mitigate the worst of the crisis.”

“Yeah. Or maybe we got lucky.” Kellan tears open the wrapper on his sandwich. “Either way, we need to deal with this fast.”

He leaves it at that, and we eat in silence for a few minutes. Darius doesn’t relax for an instant, his eyes constantly flickering around at various passers-by, likely scanning for threats to his daimyo. Of course, Kellan and I possess many of the same instincts, but seeing them from someone so young is unexpected, to say the least. After a while, I take out my phone and peruse headlines pertaining to the ‘Coma Crisis,’ as it seems to have been termed. Mostly speculation for now, with everyone in the media who isn’t comatose themselves trying to identify the full list of people who are. I suspect doing so would take months, even if all of them remain in the same condition the whole time. It also provides a fairly stark reminder of how great our dependence upon Network is. If losing him would cripple so many of our operations completely, we ought to spend more time worrying about how to prevent that. If nothing else, we’ll have to devise a way of safeguarding him against memetic attacks, to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.

“Seems like we underestimated the Arcana,” Kellan says thoughtfully. I roll my eyes.

“Hardly. They’d have never been capable of doing any of this if we hadn’t given the Vitruvian too much information.”

“Still. We should have known about Reign, or this Equalizer guy.”

I might be projecting, but there seems to be a hint of accusation in his voice. After all, I run Extinction Group- it’s my job to see things like this coming, yet it’s his contingency plans that saved us.

“You’re right. We should have. This can’t happen again.”

From the look on his face, I think he knows what I really mean- that I won’t allow this to happen again.

In the periphery of my vision, I notice an older man approaching us. Putting my phone down on the table, I surreptitiously place one hand on my sidearm’s holster. Kellan remains calm, though I’m sure he’d leap into action the second any danger presented itself.

“You three are looking very stylish,” the man says congenially, before gesturing to Darius. “Is he yours?”

“Yes,” the boy replies without hesitation, staring daggers at the man. Seemingly unbothered by the unbridled hostility, our visitor smiles and claps his hands together.

“How wonderful. I’ll leave you to your meal. Have a nice day now.”

“And you,” I reply automatically. As the man wanders away, Kellan and I share a look, both suppressing smiles. Darius is already back to eating, eyes still burning a hole in the old man’s back.

“I think we should split up,” I say, once I’m certain the man is out of earshot.

“What?”

“There are people I need to meet with. Their assistance might prove crucial, but your presence would complicate matters. Besides, at least one of us should head straight to the rally point and coordinate with the others. If your ‘ace’ is able to secure them, that is.”

“I’d bet money he already has.”

“As you say,” I reply, somewhat skeptically. If there was anybody of that caliber not currently accounted for, I think I’d know of them. Then again, whatever his faults, Kellan isn’t one to overestimate someone’s competence.

“Well,” Kellan says slowly, in between bites, “I trust your judgment. Darius and I will go on ahead to Aleph. If you don’t meet us there within six hours, I’m going to assume you’re dead.”

“Eminently reasonable.”

Once the three of us are finished eating, Darius silently disposes of our trash, which makes Kellan frown slightly. Then he gets up and extends the handle of his suitcase. The boy-samurai slings his backpack over one shoulder, and I notice that he’s got one of the disposable plastic knives that came with our food in his hand. Something tells me he could kill a grown man with it, and if Kellan said to do so, he wouldn’t so much as hesitate.

“Okay, Winters. Don’t die.”

Kellan gives me a one-handed hug, which I do my best to return without much awkwardness. Then, smiling mischievously, he plants a light kiss on my cheek, chuckling to himself. I roll my eyes and gently shove him away.

“I’ll see you soon, dear,” I reply sardonically. He laughs, and heads off to call a car, Darius following close behind. I rub my eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted after the day’s drama, and head down the street in the other direction.

One of the benefits of ending up in such a remote town is that there are still honest-to-goodness payphones. Not many, but a trio of them standing next to a bike rack and some incomprehensible graffiti, down at the end of an alley. Using my own phone probably wouldn’t be much of an issue. After all, if Atlas and the Vitruvian could use them to track us, they’d have done so already. But considering who I’m planning on contacting, it’s probably best to be safe.

Holding the plastic receiver in one hand, I tap out a number from memory. The phone rings twice before someone picks up. The voice on the other end is that of a younger woman, full of all the false friendliness of a receptionist.

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Roman Arialdi, how may I help you?”

“I need to speak with the Thresher.”

An uncomfortable pause.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell him it’s Conrad Winters.”

Several moments of silence, though I can faintly hear her calling to someone in the background. Then a rough, sandpaper-like voice comes through, full of warmth despite its harsh quality.

“Conrad?”

“Good afternoon, Mister Arialdi.”

The Thresher laughs genially.

“It’s Roman, kid. Now, what can I do ya for? Need something?”

“I was hoping to speak with you in person. And the rest of my father’s associates, if they’re available. It’s rather urgent.”

“Kid, you got great timing,” Roman says happily. “Mac’s here at the office like usual, and Otto’s in town til Sunday. I’ll send a car to go get him.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but you may wish to wait before extending your summons. I’m some distance away, but I’ll be on the next available flight.”

“Aw, no, no, no. You don’t hafta worry about that, kid. Just leave the line runnin’, and I’ll have somebody over to getcha in no time.”

He offers no further elaboration, so I do as instructed and let the phone hang limply by the cord. If the Thresher has access to translocation technology, it’ll be the first I’ve heard of it, but how else he’d arrange rapid transportation, I have little clue. That is, until a miniscule figure emerges from the phone’s speaker, and grows to full size before me. He’s wiry, tall, and wearing a harness of some sort, which I presume is what allows him to manipulate his size.

“Winters, right? I’m supposed to take you to see the boss. Here, put this on.”

He offers me a disc, and indicates that I should place it against my chest. When I do so, straps emerge and snap around to lock it in place against my body. Then he reaches out a gloved hand, the other pressed against the phone’s receiver.

“Hold on tight. The boss won’t be happy if I lose you.”

I do as instructed. A moment later, we both shrink down to the size of dust motes. I only have a moment to marvel at the transformation, before we’re pulled into the phone’s receiver. From there, everything is a blur of light and sound. While concentration is nearly impossible, I manage to deduce mainly based on context clues that we’re somehow riding a soundwave through the phone line. Then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over.

We emerge in a stately, well-appointed office, growing back to regular size less than a second after exiting the phone. By the time I’ve gotten over the disorientation, the size-manipulator is gone. My vision swimming, I see the Thresher approach, and place a hand on my shoulder. He guides me over to a couch, and I sink into it gratefully. He’s looking at me sympathetically as everything comes back into focus.

“It’s always rough the first time.”

I nod, stomach still doing somersaults, and notice belatedly that the transporter must have taken the harness I was wearing at some point. This feels far worse than my first time using a translocator. Suppressing the urge to regurgitate my sandwich all over the Thresher’s carpet, I lean back against the cushions and close my eyes.

“Getcha anything to drink? I’ve still got a bottle of your pop’s favorite scotch.”

“Just--” I break off for a moment, breathing heavily. “Just water. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The former supercriminal pours me a glass, and I drink it down swiftly. Soon, I begin to feel less violently ill, though there are still bright spots in my vision. The Thresher notices me blinking rapidly to rid myself of them, and frowns.

“Did he not give you the goggles?” When I shake my head, he grumbles to himself. “They say you’re supposed to always wear the goggles. I’m gonna dock that rat bastard’s pay. Unless you’d rather knock some sense into him yourself.”

“That... won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

“Ain’t nothing.”

He’s now leaning against the front edge of his desk, arms folded. When he speaks, I get a glimpse of his infamous teeth- rows of razor sharp fangs, like those of a shark. The Thresher was a member of Father’s crew, known as the Terrors. He also came out of it the best of any of them, parlaying his cut of the loot and years of underworld experience into a position as the top crime boss in Chicago. Of course, he’s officially retired now, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the game entirely. In fact, I’m counting on it.

“Who was that, if I might ask?”

“Nobody special,” he replies. “The shrinko-thing ain’t his, if that’s what you’re asking. We got a genius-type pumping ‘em out in one of your dad’s old labs.”

“I see.”

“Hope you don’t mind. Figured you weren’t using it for anything.”

“No, not at all. What do you use them for, besides transit?”

“Moving goods, mostly. I got a whole crew of ‘em, bringing contraband all over the country. International, too, if you’re willing to pay extra. You get a friends an’ family discount.”

He smiles, and despite baring his teeth, which I’m sure could tear my throat out with ease, it’s not threatening in the slightest. When we met for the first time, he told me I could call him Uncle Roman if I wanted.

“You’re too kind. But surely you’d stand to make more money taking the operation legitimate, no?”

“What, and start one of those Uber-type apps? I’m a crook, kid, but I ain’t evil.”

The two of us share a hearty laugh over that. Roman is on the older side- it occurs to me that while I’ve been face to face with two of Father’s enemies, neither of them has aged commensurately with the amount of time that’s passed since his era. The Thresher, on the other hand, has to be in his late sixties at the youngest. Probably even older, just in better shape than the likes of Professor Superior, since he had access to the best doctors money could buy while Beringer languished in prison for a decade and a half. Besides, some of the new antiaging treatments Optimization Group funded research into have been hitting the market over the past few months, and it wouldn’t shock me if Roman managed to get his hands on some early. Despite his fearsome reputation, however, he’s shown me nothing but warmth, and the smile lines on his face tell me that’s not rare for him.

“So, you wanna talk about whatever it is you need? Or are we waiting for Mac and Otto?”

“I think it’d be best to wait,” I reply. The last vestiges of my discomfort have disappeared, and I shed my jacket, revealing my uniform underneath. Roman grins at the sight of it.

“Gotcha. Glad to see you haven’t hung that thing up, by the way. You ain’t been in the news in ages, I was startin’ to wonder if you were out of the game for good.”

The way that Roman talks is so charmingly old-fashioned that, if it were anyone else, I’d suspect they were affecting it. It’s a mix of the rough dialect of someone born and bred on the streets, and the ‘class’ of a mafioso. Before he joined up with the Terrors, that was precisely what Roman was, too. But he saw that traditional organized crime was on its way out, and supercrime on its way in. Luckily for him, he was positioned perfectly to take advantage of that fact.

“Oh, I could never. It’s in my blood, after all.”

I’ve never told Roman or the others about Father’s programming, much less the fact that I had it removed. Their fondness for me is largely because of their fondness for him, and rejecting his legacy outright might alienate them. Besides, it’s not as if it’s any of their business.

“You’re damn right it is.”

We sit in companionable silence for a minute or two. I take in the Thresher’s office slowly. There’s a portrait of him and the other Terrors framed on the wall, all wearing their costumes, with the masks off. Behind his desk is a bookshelf, with space cleared out for a model ship in a bottle. The window overlooks downtown Chicago, a stark contrast from the isolated environment of Grayling. Before long, however, Roman’s secretary calls to him from the other room.

“Boss! Mac’s here with your friend!”

“Send ‘em up,” he calls back, flashing me a smile. The teeth aren’t his only power- in Father’s words, he possesses ‘predator instincts,’ which grant him a form of short-range pseudo-precognition, as well as retractable claws and other physical enhancements that make the prospect of fighting him hand-to-hand a nightmare.

Saving me from dwelling on that subject, the two remaining Terrors make their entrance a moment later. First comes Mac, AKA Buckshot. He’s lost some weight since the last time I saw him, but still has a bit of a gut. Apparently, nobody in his life has worked up the courage to tell him handlebar mustaches went out of fashion some time ago, either. He pulls me into a hug, literally. His power is what Father called ‘shotgun telekinesis.’ Within about a foot of his body, he has a powerful telekinetic field. Unlike Vindicator, he can’t use it to fly or fire random objects like bullets, but he can pulp someone in an instant. It’s also useful for dragging someone in close to wrap your arms around them, either in a friendly way, or to wring their neck. Lucky for me, this is a case of the former.

“Look at you,” he bellows, before turning to Otto and gesturing to me. “Look at him! The spitting image of his old man, I swear.”

“Quite so, quite so,” replies Otto- better known as Reverb, the Viscount of Vibration. He’s been mocked for that moniker on multiple fronts, but I still think it has some charm to it. He’s a thin, well-dressed type, wearing a black turtleneck and sporting a thin mustache. Unlike Mac, who’s bald, and Roman, who’s gone grey, Otto still dyes his hair black. Either that, or he’s wearing a toupee. His ability allows him to manipulate vibrations, enhancing or suppressing sound, as well as bursting organs from the inside, if you’re foolish enough to let him touch you. As it turns out, I am that foolish, as I take the hand he offers and shake it. Of course, my uniform would protect me against his powers if he tried anything, but I think the gesture of trust is appreciated nonetheless.

“So,” Otto says, taking a seat in an armchair across from me, “what brings you to our neck of the woods? I take it this isn’t purely a social call.”

“Not entirely,” I admit. “It’s a bit of a tale, though.”

“In that case,” interjects Roman, “do either of you want a drink before the kid gets started?”

Mac declines with a rueful shake of the head. He gave up drinking some years ago, although he never admitted to it in such explicit terms. Roman is only offering him a drink as a formality, so they don’t have to acknowledge his sobriety outright. Of course, he exchanged one bad habit with another, hence the gut, but it seems as if whatever diet or health regimen he’s on is helping with that.

“I’d have some brandy,” answers Otto. While Roman is getting him a glass, I take a moment to get my story straight. Obviously, I can’t mention anything relating to the Council, but it should be easy enough to avoid them while still getting the pertinent details across.

“Okay, kid,” the Thresher says, handing Reverb his glass. “Let’s hear it.”

“Very well. It all began with an attempt to find my father. You’re all familiar with the details of his disappearance, so I won’t belabor the point. Suffice it to say, I found him.”

“You what?!”

“Mac, simmer. Let the kid talk.”

“Sorry.”

I wave it off with a smile.

“Obviously, he was long dead by the time I arrived, otherwise he’d be here with me. But I did find something he left behind. A message, with a section intended for all of you. I don’t have the recording with me, unfortunately, but the most important part is what he wanted you all to have after he was gone.”

Accessing the armory, I retrieve four golden statues, placing them on the coffee table in the center of the room. None of them comment on the armory portal itself- I suppose working with Father for years made them more difficult than most to impress with that sort of thing. The statues, however, they inspect with undisguised interest.

“He had them made out of four gold bars from your Fort Knox heist. I suppose you can tell which is for which of you. Except for Manowar. You’re welcome to keep it, if you have any idea who he’d have wanted it to go to.”

All three are silent for a few moments, each examining their own statue. The sentimental value is obvious, but I suspect they all appreciate having a physical representation of themselves in their prime, as well. Eventually, Roman speaks.

“Nah. You should keep it. Only seems right, since he never got to meet you.”

“He’da liked you,” Mac agrees, wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief. I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment, as Manowar was perhaps the most sociopathic of all the Terrors. The reason I’ve never met him is because he ended up getting killed by one of the Vitruvian’s old teammates, after killing said hero’s family. Hardly worth shedding tears over, in my opinion, but it’s best not to express such sentiments in front of this crowd.

“You have my thanks,” Otto says. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“Yeah. Thanks, kid.”

Mac doesn’t say anything, just gets up and pulls me into another hug, sniffling and blinking back more tears. I offer a few pats on the back, and he squeezes me tighter, showing no signs of letting go until Roman approaches and gently pulls him back.

“That ain’t all,” he says, placing the statue on his desk. “Is it?”

“I’m afraid not. You see, my father was dead, but the Vitruvian was very much alive.”

“...no,” Mac says in disbelief. “No.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was. Worse still, I was careless enough to leave the gateway unattended, and he slipped through.”

Otto runs a finger across the rim of his glass slowly.

“You mean to say that the Vitruvian is currently... in the wind, as they say?”

“Yes.”

“We can find him,” Mac says. “Right?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I answer hastily. “I’m not asking any of you to get involved personally.”

“Oh, there’s no asking, kid. It’s personal for us. We all gotta get a piece of this guy. For the boss.”

“It’s personal for him too,” Roman says placatingly. “If you ain’t asking us to help fight him, what are you asking?”

“Put simply, information. The three of you have more experience dealing with him than anybody else alive. Whatever you can tell me about him would be most valuable.”

“Information,” Roman repeats thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “I think I can do you one better, kid. Just gimme a few minutes. You two, tell him everything you can remember.”

The Thresher hurries out of the room, and the other two are silent for a moment. Mac still looks a little confused as to why I don’t want him involved- perhaps unwilling to accept that he’s simply not in fighting shape anymore. Ostensibly, he remains employed as Roman’s bodyguard, but that’s mainly because his personal pride means he won’t simply accept charity. Besides, if there’s anyone that the Vitruvian and Atlas will be prepared to fight, it’s these three. I don’t need their powers, I need their memories.

“Contrary to what you might have heard, the Vitruvian is not unbeatable,” Otto says slowly. “The trouble with him is, any tool or trick you employ against him will only ever work once. If it’s particularly novel, it may take him days or weeks to devise a counter-stratagem. If it’s uninspired, it might take hours or even minutes. And if he’s had decades with nothing to do but think... I imagine surprising him would be very difficult indeed.”

“If you ask me, trying to outsmart him is never gonna work.” Mac wipes his brow, having seemingly worked up a sweat without moving more than three feet. “No offense to your dad, of course. But sometimes, the best way to beat a guy like him is to hit him as hard as you can, as fast as you can. It worked out great the first couple times we tried it, but then they got wise, and Atlas always stopped me before I got too close.”

“Mac raises a salient point. I imagine he won’t have contacted most of the others, but Atlas is still in fighting form. Do you know if he’s in play yet?”

“He is,” I confirm. Mac scowls.

“Look, kid, I’ve been thinking about putting that square-jawed bastard down for good ever since your dad disappeared. Just say the word and I’ll be right there with you.”

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but I’m already in the process of assembling a team.”

“Any names we’d recognize?”

“I doubt it,” I answer in reply to Otto.

A moment later, Roman reenters the room, a thick binder in his hands.

“These bozos give you anything good?”

“Very much so,” I reply, though I’m not certain exactly how true it’ll turn out to be. Roman seems to sense my white lie, and gives me a quick grin before handing the binder over.

“Glad to hear it. But this, this is gonna knock your socks off. No, no, don’t open it yet. Just listen. When your pop died, most of his stuff went up in smoke. Guess he didn’t want the feds gettin’ their hands on it. But he left a buncha stuff with me. Tried showin’ it to a few of my science guys, but they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. You, though, you might be a different story.”

Taking a look at the divider tabs on the side, I immediately noticed one labeled- in Father’s neat handwriting -‘Vitruvian.’ While the Terrors watch, I open it up. All of the paper is laminated, which was thoughtful on Roman’s part. It’s easy to see how his pet labcoats were confused, as it’s all written in code, but fortunately it’s a code I happen to be fluent in. And if I’m reading it right, what’s written on these pages could be the key to winning this fight.

“This... is invaluable. Thank you. All of you.”

“Don’t mention it, kid. Especially not to the feds.”

All four of us share a laugh, which does a great deal to lighten the mood in the office.

“Now, is there anything else I can help you with? You need guns? Cars? Somewhere to stay? My casa is your casa, kid.”

“Just one thing,” I answer. “I need you to get me into Arcadia.”