“You caught it…” the Captain says, her face breaking into a grin, “You caught it.”

  I stare incredulously at my own hand, amazed at the feat I just performed. Clutched in my palm is a round synth metal cylinder that tapers off into a rounded tip—easily the size of my head and weighing over fifty pounds despite the lightweight material. A goddamned anti-SAU shell, capable of turning year-ago me into paste with a single shot. My eyes flick up to the gun—cannon really—almost convinced it had been swapped out for something weaker without me noticing. It has not: ASA-415, the moniker of the newest model of light anti-SAU artillery, is still painted on its side.

  I’ve done it—I’ve surpassed Jonathan’s feat.

  Now I just need to train enough to do it reliably.

  “That’s…probably enough for today, recruit,” the Captain says begrudgingly. I know that just means she’s impressed though—the old drill sergeant almost never lets me leave early unless I find a way to convince her myself. I still can’t say I like her, being a reaper and all, but some small part of me still feels a surge of pride.

  “Yes, Captain,” I reply, still examining the shell in my hand. I kinda want to keep it—it’s not technically an unexploded ordinance, as explosions have diminishing returns on hardier targets like those the shell is meant to pierce, so they just stopped making them like that. It couldn’t be that bad to keep if it’s not dangerous, right?

  “Oh, just take it,” the Captain says, clearly sensing my dilemma, “We all have trophies, and it’s a tame one at that. I still have several shards of Oberon Vasile’s skull sitting on my nightstand.”

  I grimace, “Isn’t he alive?”

  “Barely,” the Captain replies, smiling, “Just because he’s alive, don’t mean I can’t have pieces of his skull. Bastard’s tougher than he looks and we had a healer on hand.”

  “Knowing that makes me feel worse about keeping this,” I admit, staring at the shell, “No offense, but I don’t want to end up like you.”

  “Recruit,” the Captain says, “keep the goddamned shell.”

  I hesitate a moment longer, before finally deciding I want it and it’s not like it’s some kind of gateway trophy that’ll have me keeping the skulls of my enemies later down the line. It’s more like keeping the boards you break in martial arts—I know Elias used to do that, and he isn’t exactly a murderous reaper even years later. It’ll be fine.

  “Right,” I say half to myself, “Well, until tomorrow, ma’am.” The Captain and I exchange a nod before I hurry out of the training room. I hadn’t expected to be let out early this time, so I slow down for a minute, letting my brain catch up to my body and figure out where to go next.

  I have a meeting with Rowan in two hours, but it’s way too early to go down there now. Instead, after a moment of deliberation, I decide to swing by Allacia and Elias’ to see if either of them is there to hang out for a bit.

  I knock on their door, and a little surprisingly, Allacia opens it almost immediately.

  “Hey, Charlie!” she exclaims, “You’re out early.”

  “So are you,” I reply.

  She shrugs, “It’s quiet today, so Elias and I decided to take our lunch break together. Wanna join? We have pizza.”

  I nod vigorously, “Can’t say no to pizza.”

  Allacia steps aside to let me in, and I enter to take my place on the chair opposite their couch where Elias sits, gorging on a slice of pizza from a box on the coffee table between us. I set the shell down on the table with a soft thunk and move to grab a slice of my own.

  “Charlie, what is that?” Elias says, setting down his pizza and swallowing.

  “Hgrmmplh?” I reply, face stuffed with pizza.

  “The thing that looks like a rather large bullet,” Elias elaborates, “and is currently sitting on my nice coffee table, smelling vaguely of gun smoke.”

  I swallow my bite of pizza as Allacia sits on the couch next to Elias, “Oh, that. It’s an anti-SAU shell from training.”

  “That is mostly clear,” Allacia interjects, “but I think what Elias is trying to ask is why?”

  “I managed to catch it just now,” I explain, “so I kept it as…well, I don’t want to use the word ‘trophy,’ but basically that’s what it is.”

  “You caught it, as in you caught it when fired from its respective gun?” Elias asks.

  I nod, still eating another bite of pizza.

  Allacia and Elias share a strange look.

  “Well,” Elias quips, turning back to me, “Any other bombshells you’d like to share with the group?”

  I almost choke on a bite of pizza; Allacia rolls her eyes while Elias grins like a madman.

  “Not funny, babe,” Allacia says to him before turning to me, “Though I will admit, you’re making a lot of progress. Do you think you’ll be ready in time?”

  “Two weeks left,” I reply, “I sure hope so.”

  “Any changes on the reaper front?” Elias gently prods, “I can’t help but wonder why things have been so quiet.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if they haven’t actually been,” I reply, “I saw Jayce again yesterday, but he was weirdly quiet about where he’d been. I know something happened though, because he had a cut on his face that looked to have been stitched shut with glowing threads.”

  “Really? Dr. Hennessy didn’t heal him?” Allacia says curiously.

  “There’s a healer stationed in Saintsport with a power like that,” Elias interjects before I can reply, “She can stitch wounds closed or even missing limbs back on without issue. The threads fade after a few days with almost no transition period—it’s a top-of-the-line healing ability. Dr. H would’ve had no reason to treat him if he’d already technically been treated—no need to waste her energy.”

  I give him an incredulous look, and he just shrugs, “What? It’s not like that’s classified intel—there’s no way they can afford to keep any healers reaper only with how rare they are.”

  I swallow the crust of my pizza slice before grabbing another, “Yeah, well, it’s still pretty clear that something happened. I just have no idea what.”

  “Do you think they could be keeping you out of battle intentionally?” Allacia suggests, “It might just be that they gave him a mission that otherwise they’d have given you.”

  I consider it for a moment, “Maybe. I could think of several reasons why the BCCSI might do that—everything from Vermillion’s support to trying not to get me killed before the Exhibition to Jonathan just plain not trusting me to do reaper jobs. No way to confirm any of that though.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Elias quips, making me turn to him in surprise, “I’ll ask around. I can’t do much regarding reaper internal politics but checking if heroes scheduled for the Exhibition tend to get less missions is well within my skillset.”

  I gesture with a limp slice of pizza in a mock toast, “Hrgrmmmphl.” I say gratefully through the bit of pizza in my mouth.

  “Why yes, Charlie, my stunningly genius intellect is sexy, thank you for noticing,” Elias jokes, “Unfortunately, I am flattered but taken.”

  Allacia laughs, “I don’t think that’s the side she’s worried about, babe.”

  I cringe inwardly as I swallow, “Hey! That was a long time ago and I was going through a confusing time.”

  Elias coughs, shifting our attention, “Speaking of, um…‘past loves,’ I feel like I should probably give you fair warning that a certain someone is almost guaranteed to be at the Exhibition.”

  We all fall silent as the mood suddenly shifts darker. I see Allacia and Elias do that whole ‘speak with the eyes’ thing as they shoot each other a series of glances, and while I can’t read them quite as well as they can read each other, I can get the gist from context.

  Elias probably shouldn’t have said that.

  “Thanks for the warning, Elias,” I sigh, shifting their focus back to me, “I have already considered that, but I’m not really sure what I can do about it. She’ll be there one way or another, and I can’t avoid her. Trying would only make it more awkward.”

  “We’ll be there to support you,” Allacia chimes in, “However you need.” I flash her a grateful smile, which she returns with a sad one.

  “Sorry for bringing it up,” Elias says honestly, “I just want you to be able to steel yourself, is all. Just because you can’t avoid her doesn’t mean you’re better off not thinking about it until it’s too late.”

  “I know,” I hiss. It comes out a bit harsher than I mean, and I feel my cheeks heat as I look away from both of them, “I’m sorry—I should go. Thanks for the food.”

  Before either of them can protest, I take the shell from its place on the coffee table and stand. Neither of them stops me as I exit, my mind simmering with unhappy thoughts.

  Running isn’t very heroic of me, but I suppose it is in the name.

  —

  No longer wanting to talk to Allacia and Elias leaves me with very few options for how to spend my time, so instead I decide to head back down to the training room for a little extra practice. There’s a small chance someone else is using it, but even if so I might as well ask to share.

  To my surprise, however, I exit the elevator to find someone I honestly hadn’t expected: Jayce, good old Operative Gale Force. He has his back turned to me and is standing in the center of the massive synth metal dome, not moving. His left hand is resting on one of his blades, and for a moment I wonder if he’s preparing to do something.

  The strange part is, no matter how long I wait, he doesn’t move. I stand there just outside the domed room for the next five minutes, watching him not move. Eventually, I just get bored of watching him, and step out into the room.

  “Hey!” I call out, “Jayce! What-”

  I’m cut off as Superhuman screams a warning at me, and suddenly I’m taking a half step back as something passes in an arc through where my neck had been a second ago, so fast I don’t even hear it until it finishes its path and suddenly a loud roar follows its wake.

  Jayce’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he finishes his swing, but my eyes are already firmly the size of dinner plates as I stare at him in shock, dimly aware of the feeling of something warm trickling down my throat, followed by the tiniest sharp pain.

  “Charlie?” he mutters in confusion, “Oh, shit! Charlie!” He scrambles out of his fighting stance, sheathing his blade in a smooth, practiced motion.

  “I was going to ask what you were up to,” I say in a calm shock, placing my hand on my neck and staring at it as it comes back red, “I no longer think I want to know.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “I was practicing my air sense,” Jayce replies instantly, “I didn’t…nobody else was supposed to be down here at this time. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say with a little more confidence as my mind slowly catches up, “It’s a shallow cut. I’m just lucky you’re not the only one who’s been training.”

  I take a little more time to look at Jayce as the two of us slowly calm down. He looks more haggard than the last time I saw him, but strangely enough the cut on the left side of his face looks a lot better—it’s less red and the glowing blue stitches have lost a great deal of their luster. It’s not as good as Dr. H’s work, and he’ll probably still have a scar, but it’ll be a good scar and if he doesn’t like it then adaptability will handle it in time anyway.

  Other than that, there are bags under his eyes and he looks a little thin, but presumably he just came back from a mission, so any number of things could’ve happened to him. I’d pry, but I tried that yesterday and things didn’t work out for me, so I at least have to be a little more subtle this time.

  “Um…we might want to figure out how to clean that up,” Jayce suggests, gesturing to the no longer expanding swath of red at the top of my shirt.

  “Eh, it’ll be fine. Not the first time I've walked around with visible blood on me, and I doubt it will be the last.” I gesture dismissively, “More importantly, what are you doing attacking people who come down here?”

  Jayce puts a hand on his temple and turns away, “I…I didn’t mean to. It’s just, nobody’s supposed to be down here and I was hypersensitive due to my training and it’s been a long week and I just reacted, I suppose. I sincerely apologize, in case that wasn’t already clear.”

  “Long week?” I pry, sensing opportunity.

  “I’m definitely not supposed to tell you about it,” he replies, turning back to me.

  “You’ve told me classified stuff before,” I press.

  “And it got me in deep trouble,” he counters, “I’d like to learn from my mistakes, if at all possible.”

  “Fine, be that way,” I say argumentatively, “I’ll just guess. Obviously you fought some sort of damned at Saintsport.”

  He flinches, then quickly masks his expression. I have him.

  “Given the nature of Saintsport, I can probably guess why this particular encounter was classified,” I continue, “Being, you know, a port, the biggest problems for the city are either something that affects shipping or something from outside the USC. Given that it’s classified, I’ll assume the latter, possibly both.”

  He shuffles his feet awkwardly, looking like he wants to say something. I’m getting warmer.

  “Come on, are you going to make me say it?” I continue, fully aware I’m out of guesses, “You were in Saintsport because-”

  “Because of the council meeting!” Jayce cuts me off, “Alright?! I was there to protect the Upper Council while they met with foreign diplomats. Is that what you wanted?”

  “Actually, I had a different guess,” I say mysteriously, “but do tell me more.”

  He flinches, then sighs, “Fuck, I have to tell you now, don’t I?”

  I nod. He sighs again.

  “The Upper Council has yearly meetings with representatives from a few of the more stable nations outside the USC,” Jayce begins to explain, “This is, naturally, a very dangerous time for them as it’s the only time any outsiders have knowledge of where that many council members are, so I was on a team of reapers trying to protect them. It was a long, stressful week and I never want to see a crab again, but it’s classified so this is the last we speak of it, okay?”

  Crabs? No, focus Charlie.

  “Just one question: why wasn’t I invited?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jayce replies, “You’re probably better off that way, trust me.”

  I give him a hard stare. He sighs for a third time.

  “It’s because of your ties to that villain girl,” Jayce replies, “Or, that’s the official story at least. I can’t say if politics got in there, but I do know that being chummy with an immigrant in an isolationist country isn’t exactly going to score you brownie points.”

  “That’s rude, but understandable,” I reply, “Considering the circumstances, I wouldn't have told her, but I guess they don’t know that for sure, and even I can agree that Rhea finding out somehow would be a very, very bad thing.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Jayce agrees, “Just because she doesn’t have a history of that type of action doesn’t make it any less so. The woman could singlehandedly decapitate the USC if she had that intel—the Upper Council’s greatest shield has always been its secrecy.”

  “We’re in agreement there,” I reply, “I may not be a model citizen, but I still don’t want to watch us all die over a stupide mistake.”

  Jayce nods, and the two of us stand in awkward silence for a moment.

  “Anyway,” Jayce says, clearing his throat, “I’m going to get back to training. You should probably at least get cleaned up, if not healed.”

  I look back down at the red stain over my chest and grimace, “Fine, I relent— I’ll change.” I turn away, grumbling, “It’s your fault anyways.”

  “And I said I was sorry!” Jayce calls back.

  I blow a raspberry back at him as I leave, but even so my heart isn’t in it. I can only follow a single train of thought, ever since Jayce let something huge slip:

  The USC isn’t supposed to have contact with the outside.

  —

  I’m lucky enough that I had to change anyways, as despite my escapades I did have something else to do today—or, rather, tonight. This evening I’m finally meeting the costume designer with Rowan and getting myself a new supersuit. I stand outside an alleyway between a pair of dilapidated brick buildings, silently hoping this is just a meeting spot and not the location of the designer as I watch Rowan slowly walk up.

  “Hey,” I greet her as she gets close.

  “Hey to you too, princess,” Rowan replies, “Ready to go in?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” I sigh, “Only two types of people set up businesses in alleyways, and both are criminals.”

  “Relax,” Rowan says languidly, only making me more nervous, “You’re not even the only hero she serves—good service is valued by both sides, after all.” She slides past me into the alleyway, then turns around and beckons me to follow with a wave. After a moment of hesitation, I do so.

  The two of us get about halfway to the end of the short alley before Rowan stops at a thick iron door with no visible handle and one of those slits with a slide-away panel to see through that I genuinely thought only existed in movies. Seriously, I’ve been a hero for over four years and not once have I seen a villain—or anyone, really—actually use one of those things. Probably because they just look suspicious and any half-decent SAU can knock down an iron door with ease.

  Either way, Rowan raps her knuckles against the door, something that would be a bit painful for anyone who wasn’t a SAU and is probably a security measure of sorts in its own right. After a few seconds of silence, the slit slides open. I catch a glimpse of blue eyes before the slit slides right back into place and the door begins to creak open.

  Behind is a tall, burly bouncer who happens to be the owner of those blue eyes. He steps aside to allow the two of us through, and Rowan just walks right past him without any acknowledgement. I glance at the man as we pass, but he just seems to ignore me.

  “What’s the security system here?” I whisper to Rowan, “It seems like a shapeshifting ability is all you would need to bypass that.”

  “The only shapeshifter in the city works here, princess,” Rowan says back without turning, “and the security is only to ease the minds of Ara’s more unsavory customers—it’s really just ceremonial. Not like anyone has reason to break into a clothing store.”

  I bite back a snarky reply and consider her words, “A shapeshifter works here? Doing what?”

  “You’ll see,” Rowan replies mysteriously, pushing aside a curtain of beads to reveal a much, much larger room.

  The first thing I notice is all the bright colors: dozens of machines spin threads of every color and even some I’ve never seen before in my life, while the walls are draped with curtains and tapestries that are discordant in their variation yet somehow each seem to fit perfectly into the larger room.

  Then I spot the people. A short African-American woman dressed in a multicolored shawl that almost seems to camouflage her with the room sits hunched in front of a sewing machine, looking down at a piece of cloth through thin, wire-frame spectacles. Sitting on a table, swinging their legs and humming to themself is an androgynous-looking child dressed in tan shorts and a purple blouse. I notice their ears are pointed like an elf’s, then a second later are somehow like a deer’s, then in another moment are shaped normally but suddenly blue.

  “Hey, Ara!” Rowan calls for their attention, “And Io! How’s my favorite little abomination to nature doing?”

  The two look over at us, while the child’s head suddenly splits open into a four-sided mouth that definitely doesn’t belong on anything of this world.

  “Good!” the child warbles, making Rowan chuckle.

  “I’m guessing that’s the shapeshifter?” I whisper to her, “and their…mother?”

  “Charlie, meet Arachne—the supersuit fashionista of the hour—and her adopted and horrifying child, Io,” Rowan introduces helpfully. The kid, despite Rowan repeatedly calling them names, giggles excitedly as if they’d just been called pretty instead.

  “A pleasure to meet you, dear,” the woman—Arachne—says, standing and offering a hand to me.

  I take her hand and shake it politely, “Same to you, ma’am.”

  “So,” she begins, “I hear you’re in need of an updated supersuit for the Hero Exhibition—congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” I say, nodding.

  “And formal wear!” Rowan pipes up, “We should also get her some bulletproof formal wear. You never know when that might come in handy.”

  Arachne nods sagely, as though that is a totally reasonable assessment.

  “I’ve never been shot at during a formal event,” I say, “I don’t think it’ll happen.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, dear,” Arachne says, ushering me over to an empty corner of the room away from the machines, “Now, let’s start simple: what are you looking for in a supersuit?”

  I hesitate, “…practicality?”

  Arachne gestures dismissively, "Everything I make is provably nigh indestructible and as light as can be, with built-in thermal regulation and insulation against electric shocks—unless requested otherwise, of course. Practicality is the standard, dear, what I want from you is direction regarding style.”

  I shrug, “My old supersuit was just a grey jumpsuit, I’m not really the type of person who knows what looks good, so, I guess I’ll just leave myself in your capable hands? I don’t know, super strength is kinda hard to theme around.”

  Arachne scoffs, “Only for amateurs. There’s a multitude of options—tight clothing to show off muscles, military gear from any era, even using red tones to symbolize a theme of the body, or internal organs. You could even go the route of no theme at all, or theme yourself around your values. Remember, dear, before there were real heroes, the ones in fiction all dressed in red, white, and blue regardless of their powers. It was a point of national pride.”

  “Let’s avoid tight clothing,” I say, glancing at Rowan, “and I know I already said ‘practicality,’ but if we’re going to suggest values, what better one is there? I mean, aside from compassion or mercy or stuff like that, but I feel like all of that would come with too much religious meaning as well.”

  Arachne hums thoughtfully, “I assume movement is also a priority?”

  “Absolutely,” I agree.

  “Alright, I have some ideas,” she continues, “Io, dear, let’s try starting with an eleven in blue and work our way from there.”

  The child nods, and steps forward, standing to face me. I turn toward them and for a moment wonder what they’re about to do, when suddenly they begin to shift. Half a second later I’m looking in the mirror—an exact clone of myself stands before me, except dressed in a simple shirt and pants colored a deep blue.

  “Oh,” I exclaim, “So that’s why you need a shapeshifter.”

  “Yes, yes, they’re very helpful,” Arachne says dismissively, “Focus, dear. Io, let’s try lightening that up a bit.”

  The color of the clothes on my clone shift to a much lighter baby blue.

  “What do you think of that color for the base?” Arachne asks.

  “Ummm…” I hesitate, “Maybe more greyish? Like the cat breed—that sort of color.” I don’t know why, but instinct draws me in that direction.

  “Grey for practical restraint, blue for trustworthiness and stability, I like it,” Arachne muses, “Let’s try that, Io.”

  And so begins my next hour and a half, all spent trying designs on Io’s clone of me. Arachne will make an adjustment, or I’ll suggest something, or even occasionally Rowan might step in, and slowly but surely we begin to develop something that works. Eventually, looking at Io standing there as me, I almost believe they’re a better version of me, someone more confident and responsible. It’s a miracle what good clothes can do.

  “How did I ever settle for the old suit?” I murmur to myself as I stare at the shapeshifter.

  “You never know what you’re missing until you have it,” Rowan comments, “but seriously, even you should’ve been able to tell it was terrible.”

  I nod, too speechless to argue.

  “Yes, yes, I’m a genius, now I believe there was the matter of acquiring some formal wear?” Arachne buts in.

  We then proceed to spend the next two hours finding a tuxedo for myself and a dress for Rowan. By the end it’s well past dinner time and I feel like I’ve been here all day, but I’m amazed at the sheer quality of work done by Arachne. Rowan and I both leave happy, albeit significantly poorer. Arachne tells us to come back in a week to retrieve the finished product—an awfully long wait for clothes but well worth it for custom pieces.

  As I stand outside the alleyway with Rowan, still a little dazed, she turns to me with a smile.

  “So, was it worth it?” Rowan asks.

  I nod, “I’ll admit, I was skeptical, but that woman is really good at what she does.”

  Rowan nods as well, “She is. It’s too bad I can’t have her make all my stuff, but that would get expensive fast. I’ll just have to settle for the dress, I suppose.”

  I give her a questioning look, “And your suit, right?”

  Rowan simply smiles at me sadly, “Good night, Charlie. I’ll contact you when the clothes are ready. See you around.”

  Then she walks off, leaving me alone on the dark street, a little confused. Today has definitely been a long day, but even so I have a hard time convincing myself it was a bad one. Certainly a busy one, if nothing else.

  As I turn and begin to make my own way home, I find myself letting out a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that things could only stay that way.

  —

  Far away, on dark waters, a small boat rows ever closer to a dark island.

  It approaches, and the world around it seems to tense in fear.

  What is coming will not be grand, it will not be a comfort, it will only be pain.

  But it cannot be stopped, not yet.

  One can only wait.