“Please stop moving so much, dear. You’re making my job harder,” Dr. Hennessy urges me as the two of us sit in the infirmary back at the Bowl. I’ve been cycling through every nervous tic imaginable as Dr. Hennessy attempts to patch up my wounds from the fight with Hecatoncheires - every time she reminds me to stop, a new one crops up. Right now I’m bouncing my leg, and I dutifully will myself to be still, for all the good it does me.

  “I know you’re worried, Charlie, but you need to calm yourself down a little. Stressing yourself out isn’t going to fix anything,” Dr. Hennessy says, finishing up with the cuts on my left arm and moving on to my right. She’s slower than usual, tired, but it only makes sense. Jonathan literally ordered her to come in and heal me after he all but dragged me back to the Bowl. It’s after midnight, she was probably sleeping when he called.

  “You don't understand, Dr. H. I thought I’d seen him mad before, but this was different. He was pissed. He’s gonna kill me. Literally,” I start unconsciously fidgeting with my hand as I speak. I notice a second later and stop before Dr. Hennessy can tell me to.

  “If he was going to kill you, I would still be back in bed with my wife,” Dr. Hennessy replies, sounding a little testy. I wince, remembering she isn’t exactly happy to be here either.

  “If he’s not going to kill me, then what? Maybe he’ll banish me or something. That might actually be worse,” Even as I say that, a dozen other possibilities flow through my head. Maybe he’s going to forcibly conscript me as a reaper. Maybe he’s just planning to give me a courtesy headstart before I end up on the damned list. Maybe he is just going to kill me, and having Dr. Hennessy heal me is some kind of psychological tactic to make me let my guard down.

  “Well, I suppose then you’ll have to just ask him and find out,” Dr. Hennessy says with a sigh, “Because I’m done.”

  I look down at myself and, sure enough, my various injuries have vanished. I’m still a little covered in blood, but none of it is fresh. I’m fine - physically at least. Which means I’m now in trouble.

  “Are you sure, because I-”

  “Nope. You’re not doing that. You’re healed, which means I’m going home to sleep. Good night, Charlie. I wish you luck, but I can’t help you here.”

  I study Dr. Hennessy’s face for a moment, but I find nothing there for me, just a tired woman with stern eyes. I can tell that I will get no further with her.

  Without another word, Dr. Hennessy stands up and walks right past me, twisting her body to avoid bumping my shoulder as she grabs her bag and pushes open the door to the infirmary.

  He is standing just outside, waiting for us with his wings folded and arms crossed and his back as close to the wall as he can manage. He turns his head to us as the door opens.

  “Thank you, Holly. Have a good night,” The stern-faced man says. Dr. Hennessy only wordlessly grunts at him as she strides past, her priorities made clear.

  Jonathan is silent as she leaves. He turns his head away from me and stares at the wall, with a glare that feels like it could bore a hole through the metal. I step out into the hall, letting the infirmary door slowly close behind me on its own. It shuts with an audible click, and I flinch, as on edge as I am.

  The silence stretches on for a moment or two more, each second that passes feeling like an eternity. I stand there, fidgeting by interlacing my fingers again and again. That is, until the anticipation becomes too much for me to bear any longer. I clear my throat, expecting to have to defend myself.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Jonathan asks before I have a chance to speak. He still does not look at me. His voice is laced with some emotion barely restrained.

  “Look, I know I wasn’t supposed to be helping him, but-”

  “Not what I asked,” Jonathan interrupts again. I search the profile of his face for signs of his inner thoughts but find myself barred from access. He’s unreadable.

  “Is this going to be one of those things where I keep guessing and revealing stuff you didn’t actually know and digging myself deeper into a hole and then at the end you just casually tell me that the real answer is that I’ve wasted your time or something?” I ramble, tripping over every other word. Jonathan still does not look at me.

  “What do you think?”

  The question hangs in the air for a moment, as I try to decipher how he wants me to respond. After finding my answer, I hesitate for a moment more before just deciding to speak.

  “…I…think that would just be a further waste of your time, so…kinda stupid…and definitely not your style.”

  “That is correct, Ms. Gardner. I am a lot of things, but I am not stupid,” He whirls on me, a sudden rage burning in his eyes, and I flinch. “Which is why I know you stalked Operative Gale Force while he was on his mission.”

  My heart sinks.

  “I also know that’s the reason he decided to reach out to you.” His eyes burn. “And that you only agreed to aid him so that you could dig into the secrets of the reaper corp - against everything you’ve been told - and how you tried to discreetly hint to your friends about said secrets earlier tonight. I know you’ve intentionally stayed in contact with a villain you know is aware of more of these secrets than most and that you’ve been staging your fights with her. And most importantly, I know you attacked a reaper on duty for doing their fucking job!”

  “Sir, I can explain-”

  “Goddammit, Gardner!” He slams his fist into the wall, caving in the metal with a screeching crunch. His entire face is contorted in rage, angrier than I've ever seen him before. “If you were anybody else I would’ve sent you the same way I did Hecatoncheires!”

  What?

  A million thoughts pass through my head in a moment.

  He thinks he should kill me. He dented the wall; I can’t dent the wall. He wants to kill me. Who am I to him? He dented the fucking wall. Who am I that stops him from killing me?

  “…What?” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat with the tone of a child who has been told for the first time that someone they knew had died. I’ve had to give that talk before, and I know the sound. It pains me to hear it out of my own mouth.

  “Your father was exactly the same,” Jonathan begins, “Always had an opinion, always had to change things, always stuck his nose where he didn’t belong. The difference, between you and him, is that he was strong enough to do that. He had the power, the authority. And we respected him for it.”

  Jonathan removes his fist from the wall, huffing a little as he brings it to his side.

  “You. Are. Not. Him. You are an upstart young girl who can barely call herself a hero at the best of times. And I have to tell myself that every time I speak to you just so I don’t give you more leeway than you deserve.“

  “I-”

  “Clearly I failed.”

  “Sir, please-”

  “I have to do something about you. I know I do. But even now I can’t bring myself to hurt his only daughter. I just can’t.”

  “Jonathan!” I shout, trying to get him to acknowledge me. This is no longer a conversation. Maybe it never was.

  “You will be placed under temporary exile.”

  I freeze.

  “During this time your hero work will be suspended. Additionally, you will be forbidden from contacting or attempting to contact anyone aside from myself and the operative I will be assigning to watch over you.”

  “Wait,” I try, “but-”

  “You will be given until the arrival of said operative to say your goodbyes. All communications will be monitored, and if you attempt to spread classified information, including what will be your actual whereabouts and reason for leaving the city, you will lose the privilege of said communications.”

  “You can’t-”

  “The actual location you will be staying at will not be disclosed to you at any point, but it will be a safehouse within the country - somewhere rural, I think. You will remain there until I have reason to believe you have sufficiently learned your lesson. If you resist, you will be handled by the assigned operative. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Jonathan, sir, please let me-”

  “Do. I. Make. My. Self. Clear?” He glowers down at me, and suddenly I feel so very, very small. A moment of this passes, as I search his eyes for any hope. I fail to find it.

  “…yessir,” I agree, deciding not to test him.

  He waits a beat.

  “…Good. The operative is on his way. Your final opportunity to say your farewells starts now.”

  I nod. It’s all I can do.

  —

  I’ll be leaving soon. I can’t say where but don’t worry- “Nope,” I mutter to myself, scrapping the message immediately. That draft is way too vague and suspicious, it sounds like I’m being kidnapped. Allacia would definitely go looking for me.

  My mind is still racing - it was worse a few minutes ago - as the various bombshells just dropped on me are far too much to process. Every time my mind slips, I tell myself to remember to focus on what I can change, what I can do. Taking action is healthier - mentally, at least.

  I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell Allacia and Elias goodbye for a while, waiting in an empty office with a locked door - I checked - and no provided clock for my “assigned operative” to take me into exile. I was told I could tell Mom the truth, since she’d be informed anyways, but I still need to give Allacia and Elias some excuse, otherwise they’ll worry. Probably Rowan too, but I haven’t considered that yet.

  Last-minute hero mission came up. I'll be gone for a while. Can’t say where. This one’s a bit better. At least Allacia and Elias know better than to look too much into potentially classified hero business; at least, that is if they don’t find my supersuit. I changed out of it and left it in my locker a second ago, and it would seem kinda suspicious if they ever stumbled upon it, but they probably won’t. I decide that, given I have no idea how much time I have left, it’s my best option and move on to Rowan.

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  I’m not entirely sure if the same excuse will work on her. Actually, I’m not entirely sure I even need to give her an excuse - she definitely needs to know I’m gone so she won’t expect me to be available for staging another fight, but would she worry if I left without a good reason? Are we close enough for her to care? Am I overthinking this?

  Eventually I settle on a simple, “Will be out of the city for a bit. Not sure how long. Sorry.” Deciding that she probably doesn’t need to know any more. Probably. I hope.

  The next thing I do is hastily pull up a GPS map, trying to deduce where I’ll be taken. Not knowing feels so wrong, like a bit of control I didn’t really have was taken from me anyways. It’s not like I could run if I tried, best case scenario Jonathan will find out eventually no matter what. Not to mention, even that is assuming I can handle the “operative” which, considering that’s how Gale Force introduced himself, is definitely going to be a reaper, and probably not a rookie one either.

  The closest option is probably New Jersey, which is mostly unpopulated now but stable enough to easily supply a safehouse if necessary. Further away there’s always Canada, or somewhere in the Midwest. Basically anywhere in the USC more than a few dozen miles away from a major body of water is an option, if they want me to be isolated. I’ll have to judge based on direction and time as much as I can. Geography and wildlife too, if we go far enough for either to change significantly.

  As I try my best to memorize the various routes out of the city and where in the country each of them could lead me, I suddenly perk up when I hear a knock on the door. I briefly reconsider my potential for running but the fleeting, instinctual thought is crushed down when a short, broad man opens the door. He’s about as tall as I am, which is a nice change of pace, and dressed like a chauffeur, with a simple, all-black suit with brass cuff links and the little hat they wear. Besides that he’s pretty average looking, with a big smile.

  “Ms. Charlie Gardner, I presume?” He asks.

  “That is me, yes,” I say, hastily turning my phone off, “Are you here to transport me and my… guard?”

  He chuckles, never losing the smile. It doesn't even look fake.

  “In a way, yes. Call me Operative Multishot, miss. I will be your ‘guard,’ as you put it, and I will also be handling your transportation.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, unable to help my surprise, “You don’t…” I trail off, realizing that what I was about to say might come off a little rude.

  “I don’t look like a reaper, you mean? Rest assured, miss, I can handle myself,” Operative Multishot says with a smile and, more subtly, a slight lifting of his suit jacket to reveal a handgun painted visibly with the characters “ASA-327.” I don’t recognize the number, but ASA always stands for Anti-Superhuman Armament - military grade weaponry designed to kill people like me when used properly. A reaper could probably use it properly.

  “Noted,” I say, swallowing my fear, “It’s good to meet you, sir.”

  “You as well, miss. And please, just call me Multishot. I’m no person to go around calling ‘sir’ all the time,” Multishot says, continuing to grin, “Now, no more reason to stall, up you go, let’s get moving.” He beckons me to hurry with a wave of his hand as he holds the door open.

  I stand up, making a show of brushing myself off in an attempt to hide how I slip my phone into my back pocket. Then I stroll as casually as I can manage over to the door. Just when I’m about to exit, though, he clears his throat expectantly.

  I stare at him blankly for a moment.

  “Your phone, miss,” Multishot asks, holding out his palm. I keep my face clear as I take it out and place it in his hand, but inside my heart sinks. It was a long shot, but I was hoping…

  Nope! That line of thinking will get me nowhere. I tried something, it didn’t work, so try again or try something else. That’s how I’ll get through this. I step out into the hall and Multishot closes the door, directing me down a nearby stairwell with an outstretched arm.

  “Anything I need to bring with me?” I ask, casually fishing for opportunities to smuggle something with me.

  “Your needs will be taken care of,” Multishot replies, simultaneously answering and avoiding my question. I shrug off my disappointment once more.

  “How will we be getting…wherever we’re going?” I ask.

  “There’s a car out front, miss. I’ll be driving,” Multishot provides. Stymied once more, I decide this avenue is a dead end. He’s too careful to reveal anything that easily.

  We exit the Bowl, the city having slowed quite a bit as it grew later into the night. There are still people moving about, but much less. We’ve reached the point where it’s no longer night, but arguably morning - closer to 4 or 5 am, though I still have no access to a clock. I’m nearly running on empty myself, and gratefully take my seat in the grey minivan Multishot directs me toward.

  I don’t, however, fail to notice the sleek black shotgun sitting on the center console that bears the label “ASA-227.” This one I do recognize - an Anti-SAU gun nicknamed “The Pulper” for what should be obvious reasons. It’s the upgraded version of what that damned with Hellhound used on me.

  “You sure like your guns,” I comment. Multishot nods solemnly as he starts the car.

  “‘Like’ is a strong word. Not everyone who uses guns has to be a firearm enthusiast. They do their job, though, I’ll admit to that,” Multishot explains as he pulls out into the road, heading south. He seems a little more grim than he was before, though in the dark I can’t quite tell if his smile falters - his face is almost entirely obscured.

  “I assume they have something to do with your ability?” I press, emboldened by the comparatively candid response, “The name makes it pretty obvious.”

  “You would want to know, wouldn’t you?” Multishot jokes with an amused exhale and a right turn, “Don’t worry, I don’t blame you. My ability is Volley, if you must know. It lets me create temporary copies of a projectile that follow the same flight path.”

  I study the man for a second, looking for any hint of a lie. If what he said is true, that puts him in a completely different light. It’s not a godlike ability, but, considering the circumstances, could I beat him? I doubt he’s very likely to miss, with a power like that, and with the weapons he carries…

  Still, it’s not like he’s invincible. And I doubt he can move very fast, either, unless he ends up having some weird interaction between his ability and, say, a grappling hook. I might have a chance of escaping from him if I ever feel like it, though I should still probably table that as a last resort. It would be risky regardless.

  “That’s…useful,” I say instead of voicing my more treasonous thoughts.

  Multishot’s next laugh is dryer than the ones before, much more so in fact. It’s the first definite sign of any negative emotion from him and it surprises me a little.

  “For killing, you mean, and not much else,” He says, “Would it only be that I had an ability that could do something other than causing death.”

  “You don’t like killing?” I exclaim in confusion, “But you’re a…reaper.” I almost say something else, but it feels insensitive to even think. It’s not as though he isn’t aware of what he’s done, I just thought he’d have different morals, like Jonathan and Gale Force.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I see the good I can do as a reaper. But I’m a man of faith myself, miss, born and raised. I wholeheartedly believe I’ll go to Hell one day for what I do. And yet it must be done, so I do it anyway,” Multishot explains, his eyes never leaving the road.

  Silence is the only response I give him. That, and a questioning look.

  “You don’t agree?” He prompts after a moment, still not facing me.

  “I think…I think if you understand how what you’re doing is wrong, it makes you even worse if you do it anyway, not better.”

  Multishot doesn’t respond for a moment, and I feel a surge of panic, thinking I offended him. I tense up, awaiting the lecture or screaming match or whatever is to come. Instead I get a soft voice, pondering out loud in the quiet.

  “I have a nephew. Bright kid, gets good grades, makes friends wherever he goes, has the type of insight even adults don’t. He has an ability similar to mine - he can make copies of objects - summon them, technically. They’re perfect replicas, functional and everything, only catch is he has to hold the original for a while. He volunteers his time at a local hospital, making everything from medicine to new organs. He’s saved hundreds of lives already, and he wants to be a doctor in the future, too. Kid’s a saint.

  “When I was his age, I’d already lost track of the number of times I’d killed. I was a rebel, fighting for peace in the campaign against the Prophet. I shot magazine after magazine into people who, for all their faults, were only trying to survive, just like me. I believed in my fight - still do, in fact. But I had to kill to win it, and I never got over that.

  “I can’t see my nephew anymore. Even just knowing about him I put him in danger. A reaper can’t have family, not unless that family can protect itself. Too much risk. But I think about him a lot. About my sister-in-law who’s raising him, and about my brother and who he’d have wanted his son to be. Anywhere else in the world, there are only two options for that boy: either he makes weapons for people who want them, or he dies by those weapons. There would be no in between. He could never use his power for good, despite just how good he is at that.

  “I fought a war near a decade long to keep this country from following that path. To keep it safe. To make it so people like him can afford to be good people. I killed thousands. But even despite all the effort we as a nation have invested in that goal, there are still people out there that seem to be trying their hardest to change that. They fight like the monsters they are to raze what we have built. And so I kill them. Every single fucking one that crosses my path.

  “I’m a sinner, miss, don’t forget it. But if the choice is sinning or leaving my nephew to sin in my place, then by God I swear I will tear this world apart brick by brick searching for every malcontent and ne’er-do-well alive so I can personally send them all to Hell ahead of me. And I may regret that I live in a world where it must be done, but I will never regret doing it. I’m a reaper, miss, and thus I shall reap. I shall show the world that evil people, no matter how strong, can still die. That is why I kill. That is why I sin.”

  A heartbeat passes, or maybe a million. It all feels the same. Multishot’s words don't carry the same weight as an ability name might, but, even so, without his attention even turning to me for a second, I feel the hairs prick up on the back of my neck. It’s as though even the potential for me to become what he fights against is enough for Superhuman to warn me of the danger he presents. The feeling makes me shiver.

  “I…can see your point, actually. Just a little,” I tell him in the dark, “And I think…maybe, if just a little bit of my life had been different, I might be saying that as well.”

  A heartbeat.

  “That scares me.”

  “As well you should be, miss,” Multishot replies, “Mine is a path any sane man - or woman - would balk at. I wouldn’t wish it on you or anyone else. I wouldn’t even wish it on me, if wishes could change anything.”

  The silence stretches on for a little bit after that, as I have no idea what to say and Multishot seems content to let his words sink in. Then, I come upon another question in my mind.

  “Do you think someone can still do good as a hero, even if we aren’t actually the ones fighting the worst of the worst?”

  “Not my path to judge, miss,” He responds candidly, “I can only tell you what I know for sure. That is twofold: first, heroes have their own role to play. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t exist. And second, the world needs reapers. More of them, actually. Both paths have their place; ultimately, it must be you who decides which one you take.”

  “Not very helpful,” I grumble. Multishot laughs loudly at that.

  “Truly good advice rarely is, miss,” He replies, “It’s the people who tell you they know the perfect solution that are often the most wrong.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I just wish there was someone who did know, you know?”

  “We all do, miss, that’s what makes us human.”

  —

  “On another note, we’re here,” Multishot says, interrupting me in the middle of an in-depth explanation of my time as a rookie hero. Startled, I stare at him blankly for a few moments as we pull onto a dirt road.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Your exile, miss, we’re here.”

  It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but the second I do, my jaw drops.

  “Already! But…I…we were…I wasn’t even paying attention,” I stammer, searching my recent memory for the moment where I stopped paying attention to the road. I can’t even find it, and that unsettles me. How long was I talking?

  “No, miss, but don’t blame yourself. It wouldn’t do to have you knowing quite where we are. Security, and all that,” Multishot replies as he parks the car at the edge of the dirt road.

  “You…you did this intentionally. You were distracting me,” I accuse, his words finally allowing me to realize the deception.

  “If it helps, miss, I didn’t say a single thing I don’t believe. Wouldn’t have worked half as well if I had,” Multishot casually climbs out of the car, taking his shotgun with him. I stare out the still-open car door as I sit there, dumbfounded. My expression in the side mirror is one of complete befuddlement, jaw slack and eyes wide. I’d completely let my guard down.

  “You coming, miss?” Multishot peeks his head into the car once more, looking at me expectantly.

  I shake myself, throwing off my confusion, then open the door. So Multishot is better at his job than I expected, I can still handle this. No need to panic. I shut the car door behind me and finally get my first good look at where I’m staying.

  It’s an old farmhouse - colonial style, with big white-painted walls and one of those front decks with a pair of rocking chairs that you’d expect to see old people lounging in. Sure enough, a plump, elderly woman is rocking back and forth in one of those chairs, just staring at us. It creeps me out a little bit, but Multishot strides forward without hesitation.

  “Keeper McGuire of Branch 341, I humbly ask shelter in this time of need,” He says, tipping his head and accenting his words with extra flourish.

  “Oh, ‘nuff of that, Julian,” The old woman replies, “You just about live here these days, and I was never one for ceremony anyhow. Now, introduce me.”

  Multishot nods, and waves me over. I step forward.

  “Charlie, this is Nancy McGuire. All you need to know is that she manages this safehouse while it’s not in use. And Mrs. McGuire, this is Charlie Gardner. Our current cover is that she’s my niece, and her parents wanted her to get time away from the city for some perspective,” Multishot says. I wave at the old woman nervously, and she just nods back.

  “Helluva way to get ‘perspective,’ but it’ll do. Nice to meet you, Charlie. I hope you’re stronger than Julian, ‘cause I’ll be keeping you busy,” She chuckles to herself.

  “She’s not joking,” Multishot whispers in my ear.

  I barely hide my wince.

  This is going to be a long exile.