“No.”
“Yes.”
“Jav—I don’t think you’re old enough to see this.”
“How dare you.”
“Here we see him follow her in . . .”
“Unbelievable.”
“Do you think he followed her all the way from her place?”
“Probably, creepy fuck.”
“Ex-boyfriends, man. They’re worse than us.”
“Shut up, you’re going to miss it.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, and here’s where the bouncers turf him.”
“This is beautiful.”
“Is that dude wearing a gimp mask?”
“Play it again, play it again!”
“He gets serious air when they throw him and everything.”
That ugly little incident wasn’t public knowledge yet, as the Alliance was just barely able to cajole and threaten the club into keeping quiet about the whole thing. Besides, when you’re a club with a St. Andrew’s Cross in the back room, you’re not really in the habit of narcing on your clientele. Still, we learned two crucial things from the encounter:
Tardigrade was a top who frequented a BDSM club (okay, so I guess part of my job was to kink-shame).
Glassblower was ready to tip over into a complete breakdown, and Tardigrade’s accident seemed to have made things even worse.
“He holds it together here. He doesn’t melt anyone to the floor, he just takes it. He’s not quite at rock bottom yet. All he needs,” I explained to the team, “is a little nudge. We are going to be that nudge.”
“I’m shocked he bounced back from this,” Darla said, gesturing toward the monitor, where Nour and Jav were still giggling at a loop of Glassblower getting his ass handed to him by two men wearing chest harnesses and assless chaps.
I shook my head. “I’m not. It’s bad. It’s embarrassing, but that’s all it is. There is no way anyone at Oil & Leather is shocked by one whiny sub having a bad night.”
“So you think he’s got room to get worse.”
“I do. And when it happens, I want him to be surrounded by people holding their phones, smoking rubble everywhere, and great lighting.”
The proposal we submitted was unquestionably our most ambitious to date. Glassblower was weakened, vulnerable, and poised on the brink of a breakdown. He was already acting out, sending flowers to Tardigrade that she refused to allow first into her hospital room and later into her high-security apartment. His teammates were trying to play it off like this was just a manifestation of his extreme concern as a former teammate and colleague, but he was every inch the jilted lover about to snap. The time to strike, we noted, was now.
Which meant we needed to deploy a tactical team. I wasn’t entirely sure I was even allowed to do that, but I requested one anyway. I proposed that we get some run-of-the-mill villains to take the fall for Tardigrade’s unfortunate accident, have them release a video gloating over their success, and then appear very conspicuously in public. When Glassblower struck, we’d provide cover for them to get away as safely as possible; they’d have the notoriety (which often led to more-high-profile villainy) and we’d have, we hoped, Glassblower forgoing every standard of professional heroic conduct and straight up trying to murder whoever he thought were the culprits. We’d make sure it happened somewhere public, highly populated, and very surveilled.
I was so certain that I was going to be immediately shot down that when Molly called me into their office a matter of hours later, my first impulse was to be worried I was going to be fired.
“How bad is it?” I said, sitting down. The desk, a disaster of paper and components and neglected memos, stretched between us.
“What?” They sat down slowly, looking for space to fold up their long legs in the mess.
“How much trouble am I in?”
“Oh, none, really. It’s all good news.”
“They’re going to let me do it?” An entirely different kind of panic came to replace what had been there before. If it was good news, I might actually have to execute this ridiculous plan.
“There’s good news you are going to love, and good news you are going to hate.”
“Give it to me.”
“Starting with the pure good, you made Leviathan cackle when he saw and approved your proposal, which is a sound I have not heard in too long.”
I found myself suddenly unable to control my face and grinned awkwardly. “You’re lying.”
“Absolutely not. You impressed him.”
“So what’s the part I am going to hate? Because right now I feel like nothing could ruin my mood.”
“The field mission is approved on the condition that you are present.”
The smile drained out of me like a plug had been pulled somewhere just below my diaphragm. “I’m sorry, what.”
“They want you there. He wants you there.”
“I don’t do fieldwork, Molly.”
“I know.”
“I am a fucking delicate flower.”
“Blame Keller.”
“Fucking shit balls.” Bob Keller was the head of Enforcement & Tactical—our in-house Meat department—and I was generally under the impression that he hated me. He seemed to have decided that, since he wasn’t sure what my job was (to be fair, I was still figuring that out), I was a useless waste of space. This was, I was certain, some kind of a test of his. My body couldn’t decide if it was furious or in a state of panic.
Molly looked as sympathetic as their lean, robotic face allowed. “Keller said that you had to be there, since it was your mission, for ‘accountability.’ He wants to make sure your ‘strategic vision’ is properly implemented.”
“Bullshit. He thinks I won’t do it, and then the mission will get shit-canned.”
“Will you?”
I felt my mouth tighten. “Leviathan signed off on it?”
“He did, and agreed to Keller’s terms.”
I sat for a long moment, thinking. “Can you, like, put a panic button in my cane?”
They held out their hand for it. “How about a taser? I’ll hide it; that way you look clean if you all get detained.”
I sniffed. “That sounds nice.”
A HORRIFYINGLY SHORT few days later, I found myself on the verge of a panic attack in the back of a car.
“It’s going to be fine,” Melinda said soothingly. Her voice and face were calm, but she was eyeing me with deep concern in the rearview mirror. I was too upset to be awkward around her.
I looked for a way to recline the seat in the back of the tactical vehicle in an attempt to loosen my shoulders, but quickly gave up. I rubbed my forehead.
“I know. It’s not a big deal.” It was a huge fucking deal.
“You’re not even getting out of the car, there isn’t a police cruiser built that can keep up with us, and we’d be a catch-and-release anyway.”
“We’ve been over this,” I said a little too sharply, then, “I’m sorry; I know. I’m just anxious.”
“Take your time. They’ve all been briefed, they might not even need to hear from you. The comm’s still muted.”
I nodded and looked away, out the narrow window in the side of the slip car. This was a very different kind of vehicle from the one she’d picked me up in for my interview. While the shape of that automobile had evoked the muscle and grace of a puma, the slip car was shaped more like a toad: squat and sturdy. What it lacked in aesthetic appeal it more than made up for in armor thickness and evasive capabilities, with precise friction controls and shocking acceleration. If we needed to get out of a situation that went sideways fast, this was the thing to be in.
I tried to use that thought—of how safe I was in that car at that moment—to still and anchor me. A fragile little sprout of confidence and composure had started to grow in me over the past few months, and I tried to draw on that for every possible ounce of strength available.
I clung to that tiny island of serenity, while all around me roiled a vast, crawli
ng ocean of anxiety. It wasn’t just my body that Supercollider had injured; the prospect of enduring another risky encounter with a hero filled me with so much dread it felt like a physical weight was crushing my chest.
I told myself that this time would be different. I was safe in the car, and actually valued by my employer. The tactical team deployed to engage Glassblower had specific instructions to guarantee my safety. I had my own exit strategy and getaway driver. My role was almost ceremonial. Still, the certainty that something terrible was about to befall me made me chilled and nauseated.
“They’re moving into position,” Melinda informed me.
My heart started to hammer harder against my chest, and my focus narrowed. I activated the display screen in the rear console with a swipe. Two blocks away, the tactical team was taking up positions in nearby buildings, while Defense Mechanism and Denial, the two supervillains Leviathan was “collaborating with” (a term used to mollify their superegos—he had hired them for a not insignificant amount of money), made an extremely dramatic show of taking a seat in the window of a small café together. Their disguises were terrible: trench coats and false beards. Thin as tissue paper; exactly what we needed.
Our own tactical team members, Leviathan’s grade-A Meat (they tended to refer to themselves as Filet Mignon), were cool and professional, but the three heavies Denial had insisted on bringing were amped-up and jumpy, cluttering my comm feed with chatter.
“S’gonna be sick.”
“Gonna break some heads, brah.”
“Time for some action.”
“Shut up and clear the line,” said one, who was mocked by the other two for actually having displayed good sense and discipline.
As annoying as the first two were, I found I sympathized with them, all coiled energy and cramped nervousness, nothing to do but let the tension build until the hero actually showed. If he showed. As much as I was afraid of what might happen, waiting for it was exponentially worse. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers into my temples.
“I bet this goes nowhere.” That was Keller’s baritone growl. He was openly furious that I’d taken his bait and become, however temporarily, part of this tactical mission.
Something about his snark centered me. I toggled the mute on my comm off. “Your mic’s live, Keller.” I sounded a lot more cheerful than I felt.
There was a fumbling, coughing noise as one of the Meat frantically muted their voice before laughing.
“I know it’s live, Tromedlov. This is a waste of time. How do you know Glasshole’s going to show.”
“Glasshole! That’s great.” I was genuinely impressed.
He grumbled audibly. I caught myself smiling. I felt a glimmer of hope that this wasn’t going to be as awful as I expected.
“He’ll show,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“Bread crumbs.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
What I meant was we had left a strong trail of bread crumbs for Glassblower to follow. We’d laid a deliberate trail, using everything we knew about him. Defense Mechanism and Denial had gleefully taken the fall (the video mashup of Tardigrade being frozen to Foreigner’s “Cold as Ice” was a nice touch), and had been “spotted” meeting at nearby locations a few days in a row. All of our research showed that Glassblower was decaying in his mental state and was spoiling for a fight and a grand, romantic gesture. I’d felt awfully confident when I called for the tactical mission; I tried to unearth that sense of surety again, if only to use it as a shield.
Keller was getting impatient. “Tromedlov, I trust you as far as I can—”
Melinda suddenly slammed her comm live. “Here he comes,” she said.
I looked back at the screen and, sure enough, there was Glassblower, walking just a little unsteadily, but with extreme aggression and purpose. He stomped toward the café where Denial and Defense Mechanism were very visibly sitting, doing their best impressions of ne’er-do-wells planning dastardly deeds.
I felt an incredible adrenaline surge. It was one thing to bank on him being reckless and foolish enough to try to win his former partner back with ill-advised violence, but to have bet correctly was exhilarating.
I tapped my comm again. “Let Glassblower fully engage with D&D before you move in. I want to see property damage before you confront him.”
“Tactical is aware of the mission parameters, Tromedlov,” Keller snarled. I bit back a laugh; his annoyance was delicious.
“Here we go,” I said to myself as patrons started to hurriedly flee the restaurant. Glassblower was standing next to the villains’ table, gesticulating wildly and swaying just a little on his feet.
“Steady,” Keller said. Glassblower had grabbed Defense Mechanism by his lapels, hauling the skinny man to his feet while Denial shoved himself back, reaching for his concussive knuckles.
I couldn’t see exactly who threw whom, but suddenly the front patio window exploded outward and all three tumbled onto the sidewalk, nearly squashing a young woman walking a schnauzer.
“Go, go, go!” Keller bellowed.
Our four-person tactical squad and the trio of Denial’s Meat leapt into action. Two of our team were supes with low-level, thermal-based abilities and, using their breath and psychic powers, respectively, began working to drop the ambient temperature around the battle as much as possible. Keeping things cool was critical, and not just for comfort on a surprisingly muggy spring day. Glassblower’s powers involved creating tiny, superheated pockets in any substance he touched. He often kept sand on him, which could be manipulated into liquid-glass weapons in an instant, but anything would do in a pinch. So as he picked himself up, he began scooping chunks of asphalt out of the road around him and throwing the suddenly molten projectiles at the incoming Meat, like balls of bubbling pitch.
One of Denial’s goons took a molten hunk of sidewalk right in the face. His screams were awful. Glassblower’s normal level of typical hero restraint had been eroded by his alcoholic bingeing, rage, and misguided quest for vengeance. It didn’t make it any less terrible to watch.
Seeing one of their fellows down, another of Denial’s Meat screeched, “Motherfucker!” and threw a punch at Glassblower. The hero, enraged and distracted as he was, dodged the blow.
I slammed my comm on. “No overt attacks!” I yelled. “Let him look like a fucking monster. Defensive moves only.”
That was easier to say from the back of the car, but it was crucial for the plan to work. Whether or not we won the fight was entirely secondary.
The two unpowered members of our tactical team were providing covering fire for Denial and Defense Mechanism, trying to let the villains withdraw to a safe distance. Glassblower noticed the focal points of his rage were trying to escape and began grabbing chunks of shattered glass up from the sidewalk. He threw the suddenly liquefied, superheated glass all over the feet of the nearest Meat, who howled and toppled, while our two cold guys did their best to deflect the worst of his assaults from themselves. This was the break Glassblower needed and he surged after the pair of retreating supervillains. The situation was starting to get out of our control.
“Tase him!” Keller ordered.
“I can’t get a clean shot!”
“Fucking hell,” I spit out, then muted my mic.
“I’m going to pull us back,” Melinda said, activating the slip car. “They’re getting too close to us.”
“No, stay.” Our eyes met in the mirror. “We might be the last thing that keeps this idiot from beating us.”
Melinda didn’t say anything, but the deep thrum of the engine wound down.
Glassblower was herding the pair of increasingly panicked villains and two of our tactical unit closer and closer to the alley where my car was parked, trying his damnedest to reduce them to piles of steaming offal. Our unpowered team members were both wielding long-range weapons—glue and net guns designed to slow, rather than kill—but Glassblower was craftier and angrier than
they were. They were forced to dodge more than they could attack, and the raging hero was coming perilously close to getting his hands on one of D&D. In the state he was in, he very well might shove a bubble of superheated concrete down Denial’s throat. Another gruesome injury caught on video would have been an asset, but it was a level of violence I didn’t have the stomach for yet.
I got out of the car.
“Anna! . . .” Melinda began, but I gestured violently for her to be silent. I could hear the sounds of conflict on the other side of the building. Denial and Defense Mechanism were no longer playing decoy, but genuinely fighting for their lives while our team tried, precariously, to hold Glassblower back.
I pressed my back against the damp brick wall of the alley, right at the lip of the street. The fight would pass by me in moments. I slid open a small panel that had recently been installed in my cane. There were several buttons inside, and I placed a thumb over the largest.
Suddenly, he was a couple of feet away. Glassblower’s back was to the mouth of the alley, one foot stepping into it as he shifted his weight. He was grabbing bricks straight from the wall now and lobbing them, smoking and incandescent, after his quarry. I could smell the sweat and staleness of him, the unwashed, rank despair. His costume was stained at the armpits and his hair stuck in sweaty clumps to the back of his neck.
I raised my cane so that the handle was level with his shoulder blades and pressed the button. The two electrodes, trailing wires, shot out and sunk deep into the flesh of his back. He wrenched backward, contorting at the surge of electricity, and dropped hard to his knees with a croaking yelp. Our two cold-weapon units, who had been unable to get as close as they needed to him, saw their chance and leapt in, one jamming a gas pellet into his open mouth, the other covering his face with a fume hood to keep the gas from escaping. Glassblower went limp and they let him crash to the ground unceremoniously.
Once they were sure he was incapacitated, one of the tactical squad immediately turned his attention to me.
“Ma’am, are you hurt or distressed in any way?” he asked.
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