Eight years passed from that day in the blink of an eye. Not much of my dad’s body had survived the explosion, obviously, but apparently there had been enough to identify who the Toymaker had been. And I, little orphan girl, had soon found myself bussed from foster home to foster home like a hockey puck blasting between players.

  Some were okay, some were shitty, but generally I never stayed at one home for long. The nice ones were put off by me, and I made life hard for the shitty ones until they said uncle.

  Not that I minded. Foster homes and my education were the last thing on my mind. My interests were grander in scope. Continuing Dad’s work, and investigating Bonfire Night for myself.

  That was what brought be out to the Argent City docks, among a maze of shipping containers that reeked of brine and seagull shit. I paced from side to side, booted feet kicking chunks of gravel with each step, my hands tucked into the pocket of my orange hoodie. The bag behind me stirred and rustled, my toy soldiers restless.

  I let out a sigh and scanned the avenues on either side of me. I’d been careful with this meeting spot, picking an area where I couldn’t be boxed in. Just in case the cops or any masks showed up, or if my prospective buyers got... weird.

  They were running late, to my annoyance. I shouldn’t have expected street thugs to be punctual.

  Slowly, with care, I fished my makeshift mask from my pocket. It was nothing fancy, I lacked the budget and resources for a costume like my old man. The mask in my hand was a repurposed piece of airsoft gear, the mouthpiece fitted with a voice modifier while the visor was a piece of neon green glass that could see in the dark.

  Nothing fancy, I thought to myself as I slipped it on, but it would get the job done. With it on, and my hood up, I looked like some scrawny and indistinct stranger. Last thing I wanted was any buyer to know my face.

  I perked up as the sound of muffled rap music echoed through the air, drawing closer and joined by the sound of tires squeaking and squealing on concrete. A bulky purple muscle car came to a halt at one end of the makeshift alleyway, and a quartet of burly men rushed out. All four of them wore purple prominently, the colour of the Grace Heights Kings.

  My mind drifted briefly to the bag as the four men approached, my toy soldiers standing to attention inside. A little army I’d built by hand with plastic, wire, and tiny circuits. The man at the head of the incoming group, distinguished by the black and white bandana around his head, narrowed his eyes at me as he approached. A pistol was visibly wedged down the front of his pants.

  I didn’t doubt it was an intimidation tactic, but frankly it looked uncomfortable. At least he had the sense to put the safety on.

  “You’re late,” I said sharply.

  “Shit. Get the stick out of your ass,” the young man said, turning and spitting into the ground. He was probably only a few years my senior, but he was two heads taller than me. Even so I looked him dead in the eye. “We’re here, ain’t we?”

  “Eventually,” I said. “Professionals have standards, and basic punctuality is not too much to ask. But, fine, let’s get to it. You’re here because your gang has been having a rough few weeks.” I paced around as I spoke, well aware of four sets of eye on me. “The Corinthians have been hitting your turf and hitting hard, beating you back and killing your people. They have Apex tech, and it’s something that normal guns struggle to compete with.”

  “Yeah. Obviously,” said one man, fatter than his allies.

  “Well. I think my little helpers will be able to help you even the odds.”

  I motioned to the bag, which seemingly unzipped itself from the inside. The toy soldiers emerged, marching in twin columns. Twenty in total, sporting rifles and carrying them like troops during a parade. The Kings stared at them in silence for several moments as the column came to a halt.

  The leader rolled his eyes. “Oh my fuckin’ god. You tryna’ sell us toy soldiers?” he asked. “This a joke?”

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  I sighed, plucked a tin can from the ground at my feet, and flung it upward. I sent a mental command to the toy soldiers who snapped to attention, and the air became filled with rattling gunfire as the whole squadron opened fire in unison with unerring accuracy. The can was bounced and juggled in the air, tiny energy bullets punching clean through the aluminium.

  What fell to the ground was little more than a few thin metallic cords.

  “Those shots can tear through a human body just as easily. They’re fast, able to scale walls, and can position themselves at any conceivable angle. Used wisely they can ambush and wipe out an entire group of you rivals.” The soldiers stood to attention again, tiny rifles hissing plumes of smoke. I snapped my fingers and pointed at one of the Kings. “You a good shot?”

  “Uh...” he blinked, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I guess.”

  “You think you could hit a target that small from over a block away?”

  “Probably... not...” he reluctantly admitted.

  “Then odds are the Corinthians would have that trouble too.” I smirked. Dad said folks often underestimated the toy soldiers. Until they saw them in action.

  The leader grunted. “Alright, they ain’t useless. But how the fuck do we control them? You didn’t even do anything to make them do that.”

  “True,” I raised a hand airily, “I can control my machines mentally. Since you don’t have powers, you’ll be doing things the analogue way.” My other hand fished a silver remote from my hoodie pocket, blocky and crude in design with a laser pointer used to the top. “This has two settings. Point the green light and the army men will move toward it.” I had the soldiers do a quick lap around me as a demonstration. “Switch to the red light, and they shoot whatever it’s pointed at. Simple.”

  I tossed the remote to the leader, who deftly caught it. He examined it, then gave me a flat look. “What’s stoppin’ me from having your little dudes cap you, so we don’t have to pay?”

  “Have you read Asimov?”

  “Ass-in-who?”

  I sighed, knitting my brows together. These guys probably struggled to read anything more complex than a McDonald’s menu. “Isaac Asimov is a sci-fi writer most famous for his three laws of robotics concept. Ironclad rules that robots must follow. My machines have similar ironclad rules. The big one is... nothing I create can harm me.”

  The leader snorted. “Well shit, we could still just shoot you before you give the command to those lil dudes of yours.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted, shrugging. I tried my best to keep in shape, but I was ultimately human physically. I couldn’t outrun a bullet, and certainly wouldn’t survive being hit by them. “But you wouldn’t be faster than the soldier on your shoulder.”

  “The wh-” He gave a shrill gasp as a tiny knife pressed against the skin of his neck, right beside his carotid, and his friends jumped back in shock. A toy soldier had snuck up his back during my demonstration, an extra I had in reserve. He kept his balance, plastic face flaring at the man’s neck.

  I cocked my head and leaned back. “I’m new on the scene, I know. Being totally honest? This is my first time ever selling my product to people. But... new or otherwise, I want you to know something: Don’t ever try to fuck with me. It won’t end well for you.”

  By now my toy soldiers had their weapons trained on the Kings, and they made no move to go for their guns.

  “Let this be your first and only warning,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “So. Are you buying?”

  “Y-yeah. Yeah we are, just... chill, yeah? D, give her the money.”

  The fat member of the gang slid a duffle bag my way, and I took my sweet time inspecting and counting the various rolls of somewhat wrinkled bills. The Kings made their money primarily through drugs and protection rackets, and so they had a decent amount of cash to splash. At least, until the Corinthians really ate into their turf.

  Still, most would say that eight thousand dollars for a cluster of toy soldiers was a low sum. I would agree, I could have asked for more. But for someone just starting out in the industry, where guys like Workshop and Infernus were so well established, you had to start small. And you had to be willing to undercut the competition.

  Given I had made these guys with a box of toy soldiers from a pawn shop, and some junk I got from dumpster diving? I got a profit regardless.

  I slid my old bag, now empty, into the duffle, and then hoisted the bag to my shoulder. “I hope you get in touch if you want to cut a deal in the future. Ideally without any of this... unpleasantness.” The soldier on the leader’s neck hopped down, a tiny parachute opening from his bag to allow him to glide to the ground. He hurried toward me and clambered up into my pocket. “The Toymaker’s shop is now open for business.”

  I wasn’t worried about using my dad’s old title. Largely because my record was entirely sealed. Like someone from witness protection, or a kid who’d been charged with a really violent crime, being the kid of a supervillain meant that I was to be entirely anonymous and next to nobody knew the original Toymaker even had a daughter.

  Plus people taking up the identities of dead villains was not uncommon.

  “For a kid, you’re not half bad,” the leader said, offering me a smirk.

  “Kid or not, I’m a professional. I’ll keep those guns trained on you for... a few minutes after I’ve left. Just to be safe.” I whistled sharply, and a series of metal footsteps came padding from the darkness between two shipping containers.

  Lassie emerged, as large as a greyhound, her red LED eyes glowering toward the Kings. “It’s okay girl, they’re friends. Aren’t you?”

  “Oh... aha... f-for sure,” the fat King said, giving the robot dog a forced grin.

  I hurried from the docks, Lassie quickly chasing after me. It was only after we were out of sight that her metal limbs began to shrink, polymer plates being drawn close together and changing colour from black to white, until she was closer to the size of a toy dog.

  “Well,” I said, giving Lassie a glance as we hurried along. “Not bad for a first day, huh?”

  Lassie’s eyes changed from red to blue as she barked in agreement.