Chapter 8
The rain was coming down hard as I drove back to my workshop. Despite my best efforts, my arm had become infected. I needed a real doctor and that required real money. The little white bag on the passenger seat hadn't been cheap, but I needed it. So here it was.
Rain hammered the windshield in heavy drops, making it hard to see, which was why everyone, including me, was driving slowly. Everyone except the blue truck that flew past.
The radio played and hissed. It had never worked well, and I couldn't be bothered to fix it.
"Downtown Ravenport is still recovering after the clash last night."
I picked up my coffee, still warm.
"Our own homegrown protector, Landslide, went up against his longtime rival, Electrocoil, yesterday afternoon."
I swirled the coffee. Not the worst I'd had.
"The damage to the downtown quarter is manageable. The worst of it was contained to Griffin and First, where most of the fight took place."
Traffic slowed further, brake lights flaring red through the rain. I leaned forward, trying to see what the holdup was.
"Electrocoil's intense electrical powers caused significant property damage after police responded to a bank robbery. Thankfully, Landslide's earth-based abilities proved to be a perfect counter, saving the city from far more grievous destruction."
I finally saw it. The blue truck, half in the ditch, its nose crumpled. I'd been right.
"Emergency officials are calling the outcome a success, citing Landslide's timely intervention as the key factor in keeping casualties extremely light."
The truck driver sat on the curb, soaked and shaken but upright. The other driver stood under an umbrella, phone pressed to their ear.
"We here at Ravenport Real News want to issue a heartfelt thank you to Landslide for his heroic deeds in returning a dangerous criminal to prison."
That's the thing about driving unsafely. You can do it for years. Nothing happens. Every time you walk away, it reinforces the lie that it's fine.
Until one day, it isn't.
I clicked the radio off.
Extremely light, they'd said.
I tightened my grip on the wheel with my metal hand.
Avoidable deaths.
My workshop smelled wet as I stepped out of the van, the garage door banging shut behind me. No way to keep the weather out, not completely, I thought, pushing aside the tarp divider and stepping into my dark workshop.
Almost dark.
My heart lurched. The only light came from the suit room.
The suit room with the door open.
A narrow slice of white cut through the shadows, spilling across the floor.
I dropped the meds.
Moving slowly carefully, I crossed the room. Every sound felt too loud. I peered around the corner.
It was just the suit.
The left arm lay half reassembled, exactly where I'd left it. The ring light above the rig was still on.
I stepped fully into the room and spotted the problem: a screwdriver had rolled into the door's path, keeping it from closing. I must have forgotten to shut it properly before I left.
I exhaled shakily and rubbed at my warm forehead, my injured arm throbbing in time with my pulse.
"Maybe I should just go to bed and work tomorrow," I muttered.
I looked back at the open door.
"I need to be more careful," I scolded myself.
I let out another shaky breath. "Stupid mistake."
I woke up with a start and ripped the covers away, only to find that nothing was grabbing my hand.
I didn't have a hand to grab.
I pushed down the bubbling emotion in my gut.
I looked around the room. A strip of sunlight spilled in from the other room. On my bedside table sat the drink I'd made myself the night before. I'd fallen asleep without touching it.
I considered finishing it now.
Nah. I'm not that bad yet.
I got up and went through my morning routine. My arm was finally starting to look better. Antibiotics are amazing. I wrapped it in fresh bandages and, with one white arm and one black arm, went back to work.
Finally, the suit was back in one piece. The explosion had damaged some of the hand components but had largely spared the armor. The pulse emitter v2 was now embedded in the suit's left palm. The follow-up test had gone well, but I'd only be installing one. The left arm could take more abuse than my meaty right.
So there I was, in the suit, looking at my enemy for today.
My prototype.
I'd had to drag it out of the hole I'd dumped the pieces in, but it was back together. As together as it could be.
Instead of me, the suit had a new pilot: one watermelon stuffed into the chest compartment, sealed inside a garbage bag. I'd learned my lesson from the last test, cleaning up watermelon was a nightmare.
I stood a few meters away and aimed my left hand at it. Now fully integrated, I didn't need the control screen. I switched the emitter to the new mode I'd installed.
Armor bypass.
I took a deep breath and fired.
The suit went from sitting… to lying flat on its back.
That was it.
I checked the little green pilot. Still intact. I sighed and looked down at the device in my palm.
When the original pulse emitter exploded, it bypassed my suit's armor and tore up my arm. I wanted to be able to do that on demand. To someone else.
So what was I getting wrong?
I was also actively searching for my next target. Two options had popped up.
"Watch out. Freaks in the lowland. They're moving around a lot. The animal ones."
That would be the Pride Gang. A group of teens—well, former teens—who all had animal mutations. Unlike Ringmaster's hybrids, these people were born this way. It left them looking like cartoon characters with bad attitudes. They were usually handled by younger hero teams.
Guess the established heroes couldn't be bothered with what amounted to a nuisance gang.
Too bad they still killed.
The second post was more concerning.
"Guys, rat freak in the sub-tunnel system. Stay away. People are going missing down there."
Rat freak was easy. That could only mean Ratking. A black-market super broker. The middleman between unstable supers and the tech or weapons they needed to cause the kind of chaos they preferred.
It wouldn't surprise me, but it would sicken me to learn he'd bought the sun core from Renia.
What bothered me was the comment about people going missing.
The tunnels were dangerous. People vanished down there all the time. But Ratking usually avoided that kind of attention. No trafficking charges. No bodies. The less noise he made, the longer he stayed invisible.
The tunnels were easy enough to find, and only a little harder to access. The city had blocked the entrances, but that didn't stop people who needed shelter from the rain.
But I couldn't just wander down there and expect to trip over him. The tunnel system was huge. Confusing.
"Fuck," I muttered.
"How do you find a rat who sells guns?"
After a bit of searching, the answer seemed kind of obvious.
How do you find a rat who sells guns?
You buy one.
That line of thought was how I found myself walking into a bar in a less police-patrolled part of the city, near one of the tunnel entrances. At least, one of the entrances I knew about.
I pushed the door open and walked straight into a wall of smoke. The poorly lit interior smelled of alcohol and something sharp and tangy. It wasn't pleasant.
I immediately felt out of place. It felt like all eyes were on me, and I instinctively reached for my blaster.
All I got was a handful of jeans.
The sudden reminder of vulnerability sharpened my awareness.
No walking in wearing power armor would probably make people less willing to talk. Or at least less willing to talk without drawing a lot of unwanted attention. So there I stood: black coat, blue jeans, biker gloves, trying to hide my hand.
I wandered to the bar and took an empty stool. The bartender—a very large guy who looked like he'd fit right in with a biker gang—was talking to a couple of men at the other end. I watched him, trying to figure out whether he hadn't noticed me or was deliberately ignoring me.
I sat there, feeling stupid. Probably looking it, too.
I'm here… now what? Movies always made this look easy. Walk in, buy a beer, find the guy you need. Maybe I just needed to ask the bartender. They always knew, right? If I could get his attention.
Then I reminded myself this wasn't a movie. This was real life.
I waved.
He glared.
This was going great.
I sighed. Maybe I should just try a different bar. This one was packed, and no one here looked particularly upstanding.
I was about to get up when the bartender finally came to stand in front of me.
"What," he said.
It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
I suddenly felt very small. "Can I get a beer?" I asked. His stare made it feel like I'd just asked the dumbest question imaginable.
"Forty dollars," he said flatly.
"For a beer?"
"For you." He crossed his arms.
I took a slow breath and pulled out a hundred.
"A beer," I said, holding the bill out, "and maybe some help?"
He took the money. A beer appeared in front of me without another word.
"Ah. Thank you," I said, looking at the amber liquid. "I need help finding—or, uh, buying…" Why did this always look so easy on TV? "I need a special gun," I finally blurted.
"Do I look like a black market?" His voice darkened.
"No!" I said quickly. "I just thought you might—"
"And what dealer do you think a hundred bucks would buy over?" he cut in.
"Well, I just wanted you to—"
"Jesus, motorized Mary," the bartender growled.
"Hey, look, I'm not trying to upset—"
"Hey! Ronnie!" the bartender shouted.
The only man in the bar bigger than the bartender turned around.
"Yeah?"
He looked like he spent every free minute in the gym, the light gleaming off his bald head.
"This fucking guy wants to find your boss," the bartender yelled.
The bar went quiet.
"Oh?" Ronnie set his drink down and stood up. The two men with him just smiled and stayed seated.
Oh no, I thought. I was not getting warm, fuzzy feelings about this.
As Ronnie approached, I turned to stand. He grabbed me by one shoulder and shoved me back onto the stool. If the bar hadn't been right there, I would've gone over backward.
"Now," Ronnie said, picking up my beer, "why the hell would you be interested in my boss?"
He took a long gulp of my forty-dollar beer.
The whole bar was watching. I'd never felt so exposed. I hated it.
"Uh. Well…" His eyes were like black pits. I glanced around. Everyone was waiting. Watching. They looked entertained.
"I need a gun that can kill a super," I blurted out. "A weaker one—but still tough skin."
I finally forced myself to meet his gaze.
"Oh yeah?" he said, taking another gulp. "For who?"
I looked around again. "Uh…" What, did he want my life story?
"My… boss," I said, inventing it on the spot.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
"He's awful," I rushed on. "But he's got, like… unbreakable skin. His gimmick at Christmas parties is letting people hit him with weapons he brings in."
"Sounds pretty cool to me," Ronnie said.
A few chuckles rippled through the bar.
"Yeah," I laughed nervously. "But he's cruel. Doesn't care about safety. Total bully."
"He got something to do with your busted wing?" Ronnie asked.
I blinked, confused, then looked down. My sleeve had ridden up when I'd grabbed his arm, revealing the bandages.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "He didn't give me a choice."
Ronnie nodded, thinking.
Finally, he seemed to reach a decision.
"Kid," he said, "crime is bad."
He poured the rest of the beer over my head.
"Go fucking home. Quit your job. Move on."
Damn it.
"W-wait, I have the money!" I said.
That was a lie. I was nearly broke.
Ronnie's fist slammed into my face.
Stars exploded across my vision as my head snapped back.
"Don't care," he said.
"No use for weak cowards like you."
He lifted me off the stool like a child and carried me outside.
Moments later, we were in the rain-soaked alley. He walked me over to a dumpster and threw me aside like a bag of trash.
I wasn't sure if I landed in it or just beside it.
I came to laying in a puddle, forcing myself upright. My head spun violently. I didn't know how long I'd been out, probably not long but sitting up took real effort. I leaned back against the green dumpster, stars still dancing across my vision.
"I probably belong here anyway," I muttered, staring up at the rain-slick sky.
I was so cold.
I checked my pockets.
Phone. Wallet. Keys.
Gone.
Perfect.
I had spare keys. The phone and wallet could be replaced. Still it felt violating.
"A real fucking great detective I turned out to be," I muttered to no one.
I pressed a hand to my head, hoping it would steady the spinning. People passed the mouth of the alley. No one looked in. No one noticed me.
I tried to stand.
Failed.
I focused on breathing. On not throwing up.
My fingers tapped the empty pocket where my phone had been. Who would I even call?
As the alley finally began to settle and the rain came down harder the bar's side door creaked open. Three large men stepped out and headed deeper into the alley.
The one in front had to be Ronnie.
I pushed myself up. I had to follow them. It was literally my only chance.
I staggered after them, my limbs feeling like lead. Well, three of them did.
Either the rain was loud enough, or they were drunk enough, because they didn't hear me. I wasn't exactly being quiet. The cluttered alley made it easy enough to stay out of sight. One of them carried a light, which made following them easier.
They reached what looked like a subway entrance, blocked by warning signs and a heavy lock. They opened it without effort and disappeared inside.
I stopped at the door.
What if they were waiting just inside? What if it slammed shut behind me?
I pulled it open slowly. If it creaked, the rain drowned it out. I slipped inside and eased it closed.
The stairwell was eerily quiet compared to the storm outside. Glow sticks lined the steps, few, but enough. Their dim light continued down the hall.
I followed as quickly and quietly as I could.
At a fork in the tunnel, the glow sticks stopped. One of the men pulled out a black light and swept it across the wall until a bright pink arrow flared into view.
They followed it.
I didn't.
So that's how they navigate.
I turned around and made my way back out. If I followed them now, I probably wouldn't get back out at all.
Outside, the rain welcomed me back.
A success after all.