Isaac chewed on a breakfast bagel, glancing around the café at the early morning crowd — or lack thereof. Judging by the sports paraphernalia on the walls, the place catered to the local university and the Star City Superjump basketball team, and college students slept late. There weren’t many people around as he pulled out the heavy clamshell of his minicomputer and extended its cord, plugging it into one of the café’s jacks.

  He wasn’t in any particular disguise, just wearing a hoodie and some cosmetic glasses, on the off chance anyone cared enough to track him down after he checked his mail. It wasn’t likely, but he had to check just in case Cayleb had made contact over the weekend. Just in case there was something he could do. Unfortunately, the mail program turned up nothing but an update about one of his regular conventions — the largest one in Star City.

  Even he was shocked by how much that cheered him up, pulling him away from the dug-in terror of the super-fight. The sheer force and danger involved, how damned close he came to just getting splattered all over the place — or doing the same to someone else. He hated it, but he needed to do it if he wanted to reign in Blacktime and the damage his super-fights did. Not to mention, moving forward was the only way he’d find some leverage to get to his brother.

  All of those were longer-term worries, and he’d drive himself insane if he only stewed on them. Instead, he needed something to keep human, and even if Isaac was momentarily homeless, he wasn’t going to crouch and sulk in the self-store or get drunk at Lovely’s. The convention wasn’t for a couple weeks, but it’d be nice to indulge in a bit of normalcy and attend in costume. It wasn’t like he’d be any less anonymous.

  It also prompted him to change his focus from the super-fight itself to what he could do to make up for the damage he’d caused. Not in a substantive way – he couldn’t help rebuild, since with insurance and construction metas he’d be worse than a hinderance – or even in a karmic way. Thinking about evil and good as some sort of mechanistic balance made him uncomfortable. More, he wanted to move himself in a different direction, keep his own actions and habits to something he knew he could do and knew would help.

  He returned the minicomp to his backpack and left the café, heading back to the self-storage long enough to change. Overalls, a bald cap, and a gloriously bushy fake moustache. A little name badge that read Lou.

  Isaac took one of his credsticks and bought something he really should have a while back — a miricycle. Somewhere between a motorcycle and a bicycle, with a tiny add-on piece of crystal-tech from the Deep Kingdoms aiding the rider’s own efforts. Certainly better than walking everywhere, and it even had a saddlebag-like arrangement to hold some items. Walking it out of the store, he got on and began pedaling in the direction of the foster center.

  It was a big block of a building that set the tone for the rest of the area, brick and brownstone made in haste after the disaster. The distinction between the disaster area and the surrounding city was clear even all these years later, with the dense and bland block buildings on one street, and on the next arched concrete and glass, bright colors and neon signs. It was a sharp dividing line that everyone in the Lost Generation could see, a marker of a world that didn’t belong to them. Not everyone had taken it to heart, but so very many had.

  He let himself into the front office of the foster center, lifting a hand to greet the rotund woman who was busy scribbling entries into forms. She glanced up, a heavily lined face lighting up with a smile that showed all those lines were from laughter, though Isaac remembered her to be stern as often as not. Dolores had run the foster center from the very beginning, and so far as he could tell she only recognized him as Lou, the volunteer, not as a former ward.

  “Lou! Oh thank goodness, I’m so behind on the cleaning. Marcus had the flu and then everyone else got it and…”

  “Oh, don’t worry Dolores, that’s why I’m here!” Isaac laughed, and it wasn’t feigned. He could have – and for a while, did – resent Dolores, as a representative of the authority that had stuffed them all into a building and practically forgotten them. But after he’d gotten out on his own, he’d realized – not through his own efforts so much as listening to wisdom from people at the gym and the hospital – that he shouldn’t. That she had been doing the best she could with what she had.

  Which had led him to think about what he could do to improve things with his own meagre talents. Ultimately, it became obvious the skills he’d picked up from his day job were actually the most useful things he could contribute. When he was living in care, it would have just been so much nicer if everything had been clean. Given that he was practically a janitor, it wasn’t too hard to volunteer as one.

  Dolores bustled out of the office and unlocked the door for him, handing him the key to the janitor’s closet. The cart there was stocked from last time, and he pulled it out, rolling it along the halls. It didn’t require much to ply a mop or broom, and doing something that didn’t require his power was actually quite refreshing. That the actual work was just cleaning up after a bunch of kids didn’t bother him like it might have before he’d had time in the real world.

  “Hey, Mister Lou!” The words came from a kid that couldn’t be more than five years old, peeking out from one of the rooms.

  “Hey, Davey,” Isaac said. He knew a number of the kids by name, but he was careful about getting too friendly with them, since they were just passing through and he didn’t want to tie any them down, even by accident. “Too sick for school?”

  “Yeah…” David said, clearly torn between delight in having a day off, and the undeniable misery of being under the weather. Something that had happened to Isaac more than once. Most physical supers were resistant to the typical seasonal illnesses, but of course Isaac wasn’t actually a physical super.

  “I get it,” Isaac said sympathetically. “How about you go get a drink from the cafeteria, and I’ll clean your room for you?” He generally just tidied up the building, as the kids were supposed to take care of their own rooms, but it was hard not to indulge a sick kid.

  David nodded, emerging from the room and wandering off to the cafeteria in socks. The fact that he didn’t run, or slide on the newly cleaned floor, showed how rotten he actually felt. Isaac watched him go, then stepped into the room and started stripping the linens from the bed. When he had lived at the foster home, he’d needed to share a room with Cayleb, but fortunately now there were considerably fewer children and so most of the kids had their own, if they wanted.

  The simple motions of running laundry, of vacuuming and sweeping and taking out trash, helped settle Isaac. He still felt wrong for having indulged in a super-fight, and he had no idea what to do about that last revelation. Seeing Cayleb’s work meant that his brother was still alive and mostly fine, somewhere in Star Central, but that didn’t help Isaac figure out what to do about it.

  It wasn’t like Isaac even wanted to pull Cayleb out. Superhero work was nothing Isaac wanted to be a part of, but for someone like Cayleb it was perfect. More than anything, Isaac just wanted to know what was going on and make sure Cayleb was safe. The ongoing lack of communication was beyond suspicious, and maybe his efforts would have been better served prodding Star Central rather than Crash.

  He mused over it as he dusted cabinets and lockers, replaced paper towels and toilet paper. The problem was, he had planned on the same wedge for Blacktime and Glorybeam. Proof, actual proof and documentation, from Crash. Messages, dates, anything to move from rumor to fact. For Blacktime, publicizing hidden connections and operations would force the authorities to move on it. For Glorybeam, publicizing her involvement would create some greater scrutiny to prevent that kind of rot from happening elsewhere. Isaac wasn’t so foolish as to think he could topple sovereign-class supers – and wouldn’t even want to, since that would just be a recipe for widespread strife and destruction – but he could maybe prevent another tragedy.

  In the meantime, he could mop floors and think about how to do better in the future. While he was a regular at the gym, keeping himself in shape, he hadn’t ever taken any actual fighting classes. The first and most important reason for that was that he didn’t want to start thinking of his power as something for combat. Given how closely convention-goers tracked all the super-related gossip, it was obvious how many who considered themselves both heroes and villains framed their abilities in exactly that way — and how that fed back into their entire lives.

  The second reason was more pragmatic. Isaac Hartson was only a nominal-class metahuman, but even nominal metas raised flags when they took combat lessons, as that was the first step to becoming a super — someone who worked for the law, or against it. Someone who had combat as a calling, and Isaac had absolutely no interest in that kind of life. It would have been out of character for the fairly unimaginative janitor he played anyway, and he didn’t want that attention. The super-fight he’d been in both affirmed and challenged that decision at the same time.

  On one hand, he wasn’t a natural-born combatant. He’d heard some people talk about the rush of combat but he’d just ended up with his guts kicked in. On the other hand, he absolutely needed to know more about it and be better at it, because either he’d get his face kicked in or he’d end up hurting someone else while in the process of preventing said face-kicking.

  Isaac escorted David back to bed under Dolores’ watchful eye before finishing his sweep of the place. It only took a bit over an hour for everything, a shockingly short amount of time considering what had been done, and then he took his leave from the foster center. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t much, but for David and the other kids, a nice, clean-smelling home could mean a lot. Certainly a better legacy than just smashing buildings.

  Returning to the self-store, he returned to a normal hoodie and jeans and started some exercises. It took time for him to invest or divest inertia in an object, and despite how long he’d been at it, he hadn’t been able to get it down to something instantaneous. His body was fastest, followed by an initial change in whatever he was touching. It really did seem to be like a muscle, where the equivalent of body-weight exercises just weren’t enough to strain his maximum lift. He had to apply force to something else, shoving against the limits of what he could put into or take out of any given objects, if he wanted to improve what he could do.

  If he could flip between the two instantly, it’d solve most of his problems. If he hit with invested inertia, he hit like a truck; if he took a hit with no inertia at all, it’d be like kicking a leaf. No matter how much force the super put behind it, he just wouldn’t absorb much energy — probably, anyway. Isaac’s power was tricky, with plenty of edge cases he just couldn’t test, nothing like the more straightforward toughness, speed, or strength of other supers.

  So far as he could tell, lowering inertia didn’t make things fragile in the way raising it made things tougher. Presumably because there was a floor of toughness based on molecular bonds, something Isaac’s power didn’t touch, but that was the sort of wild guess that could get him into trouble. Powers all operated by their own, individual rules, and while some had aspects in common with Earth physics or lunar magic – or for that matter, the crystal technology of the Deep Kingdoms – that didn’t mean it was the same.

  Maybe he needed to compromise by keeping his clothes – or armor, if he got any – full of inertia, but lowering it for himself. He’d be a lot easier to throw around, but still impact resistant – and more importantly, less likely to go through a building or hurt some bystander if he got in another fight. Which he didn’t want to do, but there was always a cost, and there would always be someone or something standing in opposition to his goals. He wasn’t willing to pay any price to make sure Blacktime and Glorybeam had some constraints on them, but he’d always known there would be some consequences to his actions.

  He spent a while hopping around the self-storage, jumping up on his car and vaulting off, wishing he had invested more time into parkour. There was a tiny course by the gym, but Isaac’s ability to judge distances and such was nothing compared to the real experts. Some of the normal people he’d seen were better at moving around than metas with genuine movement powers, ignoring flight.

  “Hup!” Isaac launched himself back onto the car roof. He could fake a bit of a super-jump by reducing his own inertia, squeezing out a little bit extra from regular muscle power, and then immediately investing extra to create more inertia moving upward. Of course, he had to reduce it again to land, so he didn’t crumple the car — or break his own legs if he got things wrong. He’d used the trick before as Dimetria, but he could definitely use some more practice with it.

  After some more fooling around and shifting inertia this way and that, he picked up one of the chains for his ganger alter-ego, swinging it thoughtfully. Despite his complete lack of competence in using a chain as a weapon, it had been fairly effective. Enough so that he really needed to think about how to use that sort of option in other personas, although nothing so close it’d be obvious he was the same meta.

  In theory, the most potent type of offense he could make would be thrown objects. Darts, baseballs; the specific type didn’t matter, so long as he could pump it with inertia. The problem was that his inertial investment didn’t go away. If he made a baseball with the same inertia as a five-hundred-pound safe, it’d be like that forever so far as he knew. Which wasn’t something he was willing to put into the world.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Isaac thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead as the thought sparked one of the memories he hated. When he’d first found out he could extend his power to objects he touched, and not just himself, he had not been very careful. An inertially amplified hoodie, left discarded on the floor, had sent Cayleb sprawling. With his oversized head, falls were dangerous, and Cayleb had ended up in the hospital for a bit with a neck injury and a skull fracture.

  He’d sworn then and there not to allow anything like that again. Especially since he wasn’t intending to be a super. It still bothered him that there was a small puddle of inertially-boosted spit somewhere from when he’d been kicked in the stomach. Probably diluted and gone, but somewhere in the water cycle there was an ounce of super-inertia water, forever messing with at least some tiny portion of the ecosystem.

  He settled down on one of his boxes, which almost collapsed under his weight and he scowled, instead having to relocate to his car before he could actually start work. To start, he leafed through his notes to find an alternative to chains for weaponry. Something like a cord or a whip would work too, though perhaps it’d be too similar, and besides he had no idea how to use a whip. Something like that was more likely to hurt him or an innocent bystander than be a useful deterrent.

  “I swear, I already used up the best idea I had,” Isaac said aloud, sighing and putting his notebook aside. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about such things before, but he’d never been in a super-fight before. And the problem was, the fight had been so fast and so out of control that trying to think through it wasn’t possible. He had to know what he was doing ahead of time, build up reflexes and approaches in anticipation of combat, and that was the opposite of how he wanted to live his life.

  He wandered out of the self-storage with his hoodie up to protect his identity, climbing the fence and pacing along the mostly-empty sidewalks of the industrial district as he thought. In the distance, the enormous spire of Star Central glinted in the sun, with the specks of flying supers arriving and departing. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, though whether for some sort of metahuman issue or an ordinary problem it was impossible to tell.

  The sound of some voice, amplified by technology or power but still garbled after bouncing off of buildings, created an almost-comprehensible accompaniment to the thrum and rumble of the factories and the growl of trucks. A vibration ran through the ground as a train slid through somewhere below his feet, the subterranean stations linking up with the other city-states of the Five City Alliance — and the Deep Kingdoms, with their outpost up in Hyperborea.

  Isaac turned the corner and caught a glimpse of the moon, a sliver low on the horizon, and then the solution hit him. He had fallen into exactly the kind of trap that he was worried about. Thinking about his power, and how to weaponize it, when he should have been thinking about what he actually wanted to do. He wasn’t a super, he only played one. A stick was a stick and chain was a chain, unless they were shown to be something else.

  He turned on his heel and hastened back to change identities, then hauled his miricycle over the fence and headed off to the more commercial area of the city. Most of what he wanted was fairly cheap, but he didn’t have everything for his idea. Generally he worked with leather, cloth, foam, and plastic. Thanks to Cayleb he had a tiny amount of knowledge of off-the-shelf electronics, mostly switches and batteries. Enough to make things light up, more or less.

  Under the guise of Harkeem, he went shopping. Partly for comfort — he was willing to endure some hardship, but he wasn’t going to be a homeless bum. A small hotel was enough for him to sleep in, and a few things like chairs and lights and fans for the self-store, given how much time he was going to spend there. The money he had from the softchip heist was more than he’d make in a couple years normally, so while he wasn’t wealthy he was flush enough that he felt he could justify spending a little bit on comfort as well as necessities.

  A few stops at the hardware store and some hobby shops and he had what he needed for another identity — though not a villain, this time. Chains would do for the gang, but if he wanted to go out as someone else with powers, he needed someone else. Whether it was to do something good, connect with superheroes or vigilantes, or act as a vigilante himself – all of which might be necessary – he had to have a cover identity. He could feel the design coming together in his head as he returned to the self-storage, though he wanted to make sure he wasn’t too much like any existing super.

  For the so-called weapons, he wrapped foam around two small metal rods and shaved the bottoms into handles, while painting the tops with shapes like lunar runes. Usually only the moonies could actually use those runes, but magical artifacts still existed, and some supers were super by virtue of those artifacts. So, he had a pair of batons, decorated with metallic colors and neat rune circles, with a few lights stuffed under the foam and the switches embedded in the handles.

  He attached a short chain to the handles, terminated by a foam ball adorned with costume jewelry, and swished the end result through the air. He could use it as a baton or mini-flail, depending on how he held it, and either way it was his power investment that made it effective rather than the basic construction. They looked fairly good, although maybe someone who had handled real magical artifacts could tell it was just fakery — though once he added inertia, they were genuinely dangerous. It wasn’t like he knew any martial styles anyway, so it hardly mattered they weren’t standard weapons.

  The costume was going to be a female one, as the easiest way to make people think this particular super was very much different from Chains was to pretend to be a woman. Not that he was great at a female voice, and vocoders were pretty expensive, but he was good enough for it to work for a few minutes. So no extra height, and a complete face covering. A hat with a stitched veil, secured to the costume, would do the trick for that and keep him anonymous. A voice was one thing, but it required far more of a prosthetic workup to actually look female like he’d done with Dimetria. Using foam armor, sprayed purple with some silver pseudo-rune highlights, would have to be enough.

  “Mysteria?” Isaac muttered, trying to come up with a name for the alter ego. “Lumine? Esoterica? No, that sounds like a stripper. Ravdia, maybe. Not Lunarian, but I don’t want them coming after me anyway. Ravdia it is,” he concluded, leaning against the exterior of the self-store with the door half-cracked to dissipate the spray-paint fumes.

  There was no telling when he’d be using the costume, but better to have it ready. In fact, he should make several, keeping them ready for the future, but he didn’t have the mental energy to create more designs at the moment. Besides which, he felt the press of time despite the fact that he’d left all the requirements of his former life behind. His involuntary appointment with Star Central was the morning of the next day, and that was really the point of no return. Up to that moment, everything he’d done could be ignored, discarded, and he could go back to what he was before.

  It was tempting. He could imagine playing dumb with the power testing and going back to being a janitor, but that was probably unlikely if Glorybeam herself had noticed him. More, there was no telling how long he’d coast if he stopped now; it had taken him years to work up to actually doing something, and changing course at this point seemed impossible.

  Isaac just sighed and went to change back into Harkeem Jural, returning to the tiny hotel room he’d rented for the week. Practically a closet, but it wasn’t like he was doing anything there but sleeping. Even though it was silly, he felt like he was expecting a knock at the door at any time, and the usual thumps and bangs and sirens of the city twitched him awake.

  Morning came as usual, and Isaac went to the nearest gym – not his usual one – to get a shower and his normal workout. The radio played news in between old, scratchy recordings of bands that hadn’t been active since before Isaac was born, and most of it was the usual. Rumors of the lunar rebellion, saber-rattling from the Great Scaled Kings from the Deep Kingdoms, some claims from the Abyssian Empire about reproducing empyrean crystal. The usual. Except for one thing that did get his attention.

  “Additional attacks throughout the Five City Alliance yesterday using technology verified to belong to the villain Mechaniacal. Authorities have assured us that he remains safely imprisoned on the moon, as he has been for the last sixty years. Mechaniacal has not been active since he agreed to exile after Teraton foiled his attempt to seize control of the Cosmic Orrery — but could this be a sign of his return?”

  The dry, measured tones of the newscaster undercut any attempt to be dramatic, but multiple attacks by the same person usually meant something big was stirring. The incident at the hospital had been due to Mechaniacal’s forces, too, and Isaac had been living in Star City long enough to know that escalating problems meant that he had to be ready to take cover. Literally so, as there were shelters discreetly tucked all over the city, and as tensions increased people tended to stay near those. Bus and train schedules would change, certain shops and cafes would become more popular.

  It wasn’t a major change, not one a foreigner or tourist would recognize, but it was a low-level anxiety that didn’t do much to help Isaac’s mood. Especially since there was no telling when things would come to a head, whether it was in a day or a year, or whether Star Central would track down the problem before anything happened. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, but it might well help with his actual goal. If some other supervillain was making moves, Crash might bunker down, and give Isaac a chance to snoop.

  With that thought, Isaac returned to his self-storage and got into the persona of Chains. He’d have to be a little bit more voluble if he wanted to ingratiate himself with the gangers, though he was surprised by how quickly he had been accepted. It didn’t seem possible that Star Central hadn’t tried infiltrating before, and while Isaac’s costuming was good he didn’t think he could deceive super-senses. Such as Columbuzz, since the fly-man was pretty obviously in the gang for that specific purpose. He’d either managed to bamboozle Columbuzz, or the gang had figured he was enough on the level to give a chance.

  Well, the more fool them.

  ***

  “He’s not at the apartment, Administrator, and he didn’t go to work at the hospital.”

  Administrator Ike sighed as the tinny voice of Cyberlocution sounded over the radio, the massive monitors in his office fuzzing briefly as he pulled up the small file they had on Isaac Hartson. He was another one of the Lost Generation, a nominal-class strength super. After Machine Head had been pulled in, they’d given him a brief look to see if he was a telepath, but some observation at the hospital had shown that he really did have a strength-type power, although an odd one.

  Generally, the specific wrinkles of powers didn’t matter to the broader view. All powers were idiosyncratic, whether they were natural, granted by magical artifacts, mystical knowledge, or alien technology. One person might have ultra-dense muscle, another might have tactile telekinesis, and a third might have a flat weight offset to something they handled. Bulk Press could simply lift literally anything over his head, no matter how heavy or solid, but since he couldn’t do anything other than that with any degree of strength he was relegated to rescue and construction. Yet, he knew exactly how his ability worked so he was very good at it — and so, when it came to the top end of metas, the wrinkles could make a difference.

  There was nothing about any of Hartson’s interactions that implied anything other than the ability to handle heavy objects. Nor was there anything in his files to imply any contacts or activities that would link him with a telepath. Not that there was much — like most of the Lost Generation, virtually all records had been destroyed in the fight. Hospital, homes, schools, all of them had been flattened; out of several hundred kids, maybe a quarter of them had a verified name from surviving teachers. All the rest just had their records start in the foster care system.

  Most of the investigation had been spent very delicately prying into Cayleb’s other contacts, something which seemed to have been a mistake. Not that Ike figured Hartson was himself the telepath, but quite likely had been influenced in a similar manner. Maybe asking Glorybeam to invite Isaac in had been too much; he’d figured that her attention would force whoever it was to leave Isaac alone. Clearly that hadn’t happened.

  “Put out a missing persons bulletin,” Ike decided. “Possible code Siren.” It wasn’t often that he had to deal with telepaths, but it did happen. “See if you can track where he might have gone.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cyberlocution said. “He has a car, but it’s an Odelle.”

  “Do what you can,” Ike said, since one out of every five cars on the road was an Odelle, surplus from the settlement between the Five City Alliance and Tinkertown itself. Once Cyberlocution signed off, Ike composed several messages, sending agents out to the various banks to see if there was anything in Hartson’s spending habits. That task didn’t need any actual supers to fulfill, thankfully.

  Ike considered telling Machine Head about Hartson’s disappearance, but ultimately decided against it for the moment. It would only distract him, and given the moratorium on contact thanks to the traces of mind control, Machine Head hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hartson recently anyway. A few more days wouldn’t matter, and they really needed Machine Head’s surveillance network.

  The Mechaniacal attacks were getting worse, and there were all too many targets. It had been easy enough to figure out what the pattern was: all the normal technology Mechaniacal had left behind. The man had provided specialty machines to all kinds of industries from medical to construction through various fictitious companies or charities, and most of them still worked.

  Ike still wasn’t certain how much of that philanthropy had been genuine, and how much of it was terribly long-laid plans. Or whether there was even a point distinguishing between the two. It was certain that nobody had been able to track down all of it either, and when the devices in question were critical medical scanners or concrete recyclers that worked at impossible levels of efficiency, nobody had the political will to confiscate or destroy them.

  “Why does everything happen at once?” Ike sighed to himself, putting in another request to speak with Moonblast. He might be forced to go to the moon himself, if things developed further, and wouldn’t that just be fun. Though that wasn’t going to happen immediately, and there was plenty more on the docket than just the lingering problems. The life support chair hummed away as he worked, making up for damage to his organs, fully oxygenating his blood and trickling in the esoteric chemicals that kept the ravages of lingering power in his body at bay.

  “Administrator.” Ike twitched as Glorybeam’s voice drew him away from his monitors. It was irksome that she could essentially teleport, in addition to all her other powers. The black and gold armor stood by the door, the woman inside completely obscured.

  “Glorybeam,” Ike said, as the life support chair addressed the spike of adrenaline with a soft, barely audible chime. “Thank you for stopping by. I wasn’t sure you’d have the time.”

  “The biotitan threat in the Remul Ocean is currently quiescent,” Glorybeam said stiffly. Ike didn’t take it to heart. She was always stiff and formal.

  “Given everything that’s going on, I’d appreciate it if your boyfriend would knock it off for a bit,” Ike said, though he imagined Glorybeam’s relationship with Blacktime was quite complicated. Exactly how it worked he didn’t want to know, but since Blacktime was impossible to kill or contain, Ike was happy enough to have some kind of leash on the man. “We may even have a rogue telepath and I don’t think that’s something anyone wants around.”

  “I will convey your request,” Glorybeam said, and Ike waved her off. She vanished in a lingering afterimage of light, and Administrator Ike returned to work. There was always more to do in Star Central, coordinating the heroes of the Five City Alliance and dealing with the machinations of criminals, mundane and super alike.

  Trouble never slept.

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