Monan was enjoying himself. First, in the hotel, watching the boy die, and then somewhere completely different. Into the next life.

  He was at a bar, a pretty expensive rooftop bar for the late-night galavants and chick hunting. He was surrounded by loud music, hard liquor, colored lights, and people who didn’t know they had 12 hours to live.

  He looked down into his drink. Bourbon and Coke. A classic. He stared into it. The ice was melted. And the bartender was pouring him a second glass.

  “For your friend,” he said.

  Monan didn’t acknowledge him. As the bartender walked away, he downed both drinks.

  He looked back around him, loosening the collar of his button-up. These kinds of clubs had to have unnecessary dress codes. He found himself annoyed, like he always did when he was brought back here.

  Then he just started laughing, remembering things that weren’t as boring as this place. “The new guy is too easy to torment. He definitely hates my guts.”

  “Hey, buddy.” Sam slapped him on the back, high and giddy. A brown-haired stickler, stuck with the same girlfriend from high school, had the same job out of college. A real yes man with a haircut to prove it.

  “You get the drinks?…” Sam noticed the two empty glasses before he even asked.

  Monan shrugged him off.

  “Man. You got a problem, you know. You ask me to pay, and I don’t even get a sip… I guess it's fine. Watching you drain my hard-earned money is better than watching you waste away in that dingy apartment. That’s exactly what I was saying before. We gotta get you back out there. Into the real world. When’s the last time you got a haircut?”

  “Piss off, Sam.” Monan trudged towards the closest exit, not caring who he bumped into on the way.

  “Where you going?”

  “To get a tattoo.”

  “Oh... Want me to come with?”

  “Not this time.” Monan feigned a smile and was off without another word.

  He showed up at one of those late-night tattoo parlors—the one’s by the clubs, hoping to catch people making drunken, bad decisions. But he always asked for the artist. He never messed up, a savant of his craft. And he was always quiet, never asking questions, except for the first.

  “What do you want?”

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  “A number… 11670.” Monan sat in the chair as the artist geared up his needles, starting the buzz that led to his skin job. Monan relaxed as the painful vibrations stung his neck like tiny mosquito bites.

  He wondered what he was going play this iteration. He still had plenty of plays in the playbook he’d built over a long career of being a Redeemer.

  He figured he should probably be done with the goth bird. She was too easy pickings. Made the game far too predictable. But he couldn’t deny that T’balt was coming into his own. He was good at stacking his loot. He might prove to be a good opponent in no time, and then maybe he could finally have some fun again.

  The lights went out in the parlor. Monan kept his eyes closed as the others in the building started shouting expletives and rushed to find the breaker room. “Ugh... god. These guys,” Monan groaned.

  Then a glass broke, and a grenade trickled into the middle of the room. After a second, it exploded into a stream of smoke. Then came its buddies, at least 3 more smoke canisters. Monan still didn’t move from his chair, like he was still waiting for the dentist to return.

  In the darkness, he suddenly found a light flashing on him—a flashlight attached to an assault rifle. He opened his eyes to stare down the barrel and into the mask of a soldier in stealth gear, practically standing on top of him.

  “Don’t be so dramatic with the entrances,” Monan said.

  The responding voice was modulated, but Monan could tell there was anger in it. “I know this is you. What the hell are you up to?”

  “I just made a new friend, is all. I’m just breaking the ice. The same I did with you,” he said.

  “Another Redeemer?” The gun was shoved deep into his neck, aggravating him. He went from motionless to sweeping the soldier from their feet, disarming them, and putting his combat knife to their throat.

  They put their hands up in surrender.

  “You know you really shouldn’t stand that close to me. I get nervous, you know,” Monan said.

  “I know.” Another modulated voice came from behind him. He heard the racking of the rifle aimed at his back. He squinted at the soldier in front of him.

  “That’s the first time you’ve pulled that trick, Io. Was it a good idea to waste it on a simple checkup?”

  The soldier behind him answered. “I haven’t decided if this is just a check-up.”

  “You gonna try to get kinky with the handcuffs again? I could go a round.” The first soldier snatched his gun back from Monan and took the knife while he was at it. Monan, satisfied, sat back in the artist's chair, relaxing.

  “You need to end this. Or we’re going to have a problem.”

  “You know you need to let me have my fun… or I go crazy.”

  They lowered their weapon. “How long?”

  “Don’t know. This one’s different from the rest of you. He doesn’t remember taking on the Redeemer. I don’t think he’s pieced together at all what’s really happened to him.”

  “That is what it is…” They didn’t seem to care. “You better end it soon, or you’ll face the wrath of all the Redeemers.”

  Monan sighed. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to save the world? You keep saying you’re making progress, and it always resets back to zero. You should really have more fun with your gift.”

  Io looked at him, and then ten other soldiers pulled out of the shop, all dressed down in masks and stealth gear, leaving him with the cowering civilians. By the time they were gone, there was just a broken window as evidence.

  Monan looked in the mirror, seeing the unfinished number on his neck.

  His artist was trembling underneath his table. Monan snapped at him a few times to get his attention.

  “Get off your ass. It's just a broken window. You got a job to finish.”