Issue 2 - Dealing with Nova

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~*~
Five minutes later and I'm on the phone, calling Bill.

"Hey, Bill. Got anything for me?"

"Jesus, Jack," he says. "It's been, what--two hours?"

"Yeah. You got something, though, right?"

"Well, yeah, of course I do. Just sayin', though."

"Good. Meet me at your mother's house."

"My--huh? Wait, what?"

"I need new digs. My current apartment is compromised. Also, I need more armanents, fast."

"My mom's not a gun-runner, Jack."

"No, but she's got a garage, and tons of old junk."

"She doesn't like you, Jack." He pauses, then adds: "Says you're a bad influence."

"Smart woman. Tell her the life of a teenager hangs precariously in the balance."

"She won't buy that."

"Tell her I'm in trouble with dangerous people and need to lay low."

"She'll buy that."

"Good. See you in about fifteen." I hop into the car I stole earlier. Before I start it up, I dial up Marlowe's number.

The armsdealer sounds groggy and displeased. Just how I like 'em.

"Yes?"

"Hey, buddy. Just wanted to call you about that girl. You didn't mention she had other suitors."

Speaking in code is a good way to keep outside listeners guessing. More importantly, it builds credibility--criminals trust you if they think you're just as worried about getting caught.

It takes Marlowe a moment to catch on, but he's a fast learner. "I didn't think that was important."

"How the hell do you expect me to woo her when I've got to deal with a legion of pick up artists?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Yes, it's a fucking problem. Some shithead just screwed up my approach. Made a mess of things. She's gone to stay with her family." Family, in this case, means Vanguard. Marlowe's a clever boy; he'll figure it out.

"I see," he says. "Will that interfere with your ability to win her heart?"

"No. It's still on. Just changing some of the details," I tell him. "For starters, I was just doing this as a favor--but I assume these chucklefucks are in it for the dowry."

There's a long, dreadful sort of pause. "Yes," he says. "I suppose they were."

"In that case, I think I want in."

"I see," he says. "And how much do you think her dowry was worth?"

"I'll just have to find out," I tell him. "And when I do, I'll probably figure out a way to triple it. Let's call it the 'Dealing With Chucklefucks Tax'."

There's nothing quite as lovely as the sound of a bad guy choking on his own spit.

"You think that'll be a problem, old bean?"

"No," he says, "No, I'm sure you're quite capable of securing that amount." His voice is raspy. Whatever he's offering these other assassins, it must be a hell of a lot.

"Good to know. I'll call you after the honeymoon." I hang up and start the car.

~*~
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Issue 1.9 - Meet Jack

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~*~
Agent Duncan springs to her feet and pulls her gun. The barrel is pointed at my temple.

I slowly raise my hands.

"Are you joking?" she says. "Fucking amnesia?!"

"Agent Duncan, I'm--"

"Shut up!" The rage flashes through her eyes again. And something else. Something else I should have recognized. Something that's been nagging at the back of my brain this whole while, but only comes screaming to the front when I piss her off enough to pull iron on me.

Why did she pick that particular assassination file to show me?

"Look at the file," she says, and she motions the gun down to the folder. I follow the barrel with my eyes, back to the image of the woman on the floor. "You don't remember that? Is that the shit you're trying to sell me?"

I should have seen it before. It wasn't mentioned in any of the files I snatched on her, but that's probably because she took pains to hide it. Her anger when we first met--the obsessiveness with which she's been stalking me. Why didn't I figure it out?

"You knew her."

"And you killed her."

"Yes."

"And then you somehow got the Agency to grant you immunity."

"Yes."

"And now," she adds, the gun trembling in her hands, "when I've finally got you, when I've finally managed to corner the son of a bitch who killed my sister, you pull out this Jason Bourne shit."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't get to be sorry."

The advantage of having a tactically oriented mind is knowing precisely what line you need to walk to get what you want. The disadvantage is that the line often runs straight through the hearts and minds of those around you.

"Fine, then. Shoot me. Or throw me to the Agency. But just remember that if you do, Jessica Wheatley dies."

"Who?"

"The girl I'm trying to save."

"And what about after this? There's always more people to save. Will you take another job? If I try to turn you in then, will you feed me this same horseshit?"

"Yes. I won't stop doing this. I won't stop scheming to save more lives. And eventually, you might get tired of watching me play the good samaritan. Whatever. I don't care. Either stop me or get out of my way."

For a long time, we just stare at each other. The gun doesn't go away.

"This is going to be your last case," she says.

"I'm not going to stop."

"I know. But in 48 hours, I'm turning over everything I've discovered to the Agency. That means you've got two days to save this girl's life. Then you're done."

She puts the gun away. I feel my hands clutching at the chair--my fingertips are digging into the wood. As she walks away, she stops to throw me a parting glance.

"You know," she says, "you could just kill me."

"I don't do that anymore."

"You're tempted, though, aren't you? It'd make things so much easier." Most of it is just her trying to get a rise out of me, but I pick something else there, too. Something pained. As if she's almost hoping I'll take her up on the offer.

I can relate.

"No. You're a good person, Agent Duncan."

"But you aren't. Even if all this nonsense is true, there's got to be some part of you that remembers. Some part of you that's still a killer. People don't change, Jack."

She leaves. My hands are trembling.

~*~
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Issue 1.8 - Meet Jack

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~*~
By the time I get back to my apartment, I'm exhausted. I've leapt out of a window, peppered myself with explosives, and gotten punched hard enough to dent metal. I imagine I must look like shit.

"You look like shit."

Agent Duncan is waiting for me. She's sitting at my desk with a new folder placed out in front of her.

"It's been a long day," I tell her.

"I really don't care." She slides the folder toward me. "You're fifteen minutes late. Be thankful I waited."

I pick the folder up and flip it open. Inside are some pretty gruesome photos--a crime scene. Woman with her brain splattered all over her kitchen floor. Gunshot wound. Sniper rifle, by the look of it.

"You know who that is?" she asks.

"Yes. Her name was Dove. It was a nasty piece of work." I put the folder down.

"It was your piece of work," she said. "And there are dozens more just like that. I've got cabinets full of it. Six years of assassinations--of murder and mayhem. Not just capes, either--military targets. Government targets. Civilians."

When someone drops that sort of weight on you, there's not much you can say back. So I don't say anything at all.

She pulls out another folder and puts it on the table. This one's a bit thicker. I can see newspaper clippings peeking out from the edges. "You're something nasty, alright," she says. "So when the analyst gets finished connecting the dots on all these articles, I have to wonder--just what the fuck are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing anything, Agent Duncan," I tell her.

She stabs her finger down into the folder. "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

"No."

"A kidnapped heir, returned unharmed. A bank robbery foiled without a single shot fired. A terrorist cell shows up at the police station, hog-tied and with all the evidence needed to convict strapped to their chests. All these crimes inexplicably solved--with no pattern, no explanation, no connection. Except for you."

I fold my arms and lean against the wall. Partly, it's because I don't know what to say, but partly, it's because I'm just so goddamn tired.

"You've been saving lives," she tells me, and then, for a moment, she looks like she's about to vomit. "Please tell me you aren't trying to make up for what you did."

"If I saved every man, woman, and child on this planet, it wouldn't make up for one life I took," I tell her.

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"Right now? I'm trying to save a girl."

"You deserve to be in prison," she tells me. "You deserve to be dead."

"Probably," I agree. "But it'd be a lot harder to save her if I was."

"If the Agency knew about all this--"

"Then, yes, they'll revoke my immunity and put me in prison," I tell her. "Or they'll just shoot me. But if that's where this is going--if that's what you plan on doing--please tell me first, so I can try to find some way to save her life before I disappear."

Agent Duncan hasn't looked at me with anything besides raw, uncloaked hatred since the very moment we met. But for a moment--just a single, spurious moment--I see something else slip into her expression.

Hesitation.

"A year ago, you disappeared," she says. "You were gone for three months. What happened?"

"If I tell you, will you let me finish this job before turning me in?"

"I'm not making any promises."

"You hear of Project Vigilance?"

"I read the file," she says. "Some sort of bizarre attempt to turn operatives into sleepless soldiers. Everyone involved either died or went insane."

"Not everyone."

She stares at me with a look that can strip you bare to the bone. "I told you not to bullshit me, Jack."

"You've been tailing me, right? You must have noticed. I don't seem to stop, do I?"

"So you don't sleep much."

"I don't sleep at all."

"Fine. Let's pretend what you're saying is true. What's this got to do with anything?"

"Project Vigilance was more involved than just cutting out a piece of your head." I pull out a chair and sit down across from her. "They had to create a whole new structure--new architecture. Most of the volunteers didn't survive; those that did either went insane or turned into vegetables. But my case was special. Doctors said I didn't go mad because somehow, the process reset my brain."

"Reset your brain?"

I take in a big, healthy breath.

Here goes.

"The man I was died on the operating table. When I woke up, the doctors realized I'd lost all my memories."

~*~
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Issue 1.7 - Meet Jack

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~*~
When pretty much everyone in the cape community either hates you or doesn't know who you are, it pays to have a few friends.

Three months ago, a small, aggressive international security firm working for a foreign power made a move for William Terrence, aka Elasti-Lad. They wanted the formula that gave him his rubber-based powers; when they found out he didn't have it, they decided to try and tear it out of his spinal cord.

The police were out of their league, and the cape community had stopped returning his calls years ago. Bill didn't have anyone else to turn to. So I stepped in.

Now he thinks I'm some sort of caped crusader.

He opens the door after the first knock, grinning like a school-boy with a secret. He's a tall, very heavy guy with a shaggy, unshaven face. He's wearing a Zombie Batman T-shirt and some sort of flannel PJ bottoms. Before I even step in, he's enveloping me in a giant man-hug.

"Oh man, Jack--I've missed you!"

I groan and shudder as the squeeze nudges my rib in just the wrong way. "Bill--please."

He sets me down. Even years after his powers have dwindled into nonexistence, he's still strong as an ox. "Oh, right. Sorry! Are you okay?"

I wedge my way past him and into the apartment. "Need some patching up," I tell him. "Also, your expertise."

I'm well informed when it comes to capes and masks, but everything I know could fit in one sentence inside a book shelved in the library of Bill's mind. The man is obsessed with superheroics, both fictional and real--if Sovereign so much as pops a pimple, you can bet that Bill's got a video celebrating the event.

His apartment is flooded with comic books and action figurines--an impermeable mass of superheroic lore. Some of it is neatly organized, but a lot of it is flooding off tables and shelves, threatening to spill across the floor. I limp my way past a table dedicated to evidence of Superman's dickery and drop myself on the couch.

Bill arrives with a first-aid kit and a tray of ice. He passes both over to me, then turns to get me a drink. "So, what's the situation, Jack?"

I undo my tie and start unbuttoning my shirt. "You know a cape named 'Nova'? Aka, Jessica Wheatley?"

"Oh yeah, the singer? She's pretty cool." He brings over two cans of pop while I peel the shirt off and inspect the dark, multi-colored bruise that's spread out across my lower left ribs. Luckily, I don't think it's cracked--still hurts like hell, though. I bag up some ice and hold it to the wound with one hand and take the pop with the other.

Meanwhile, Bill continues. "She can absorb and project light. Lots of talk on the forums about how she could even convert light into other forms of energy."

"Someone's trying to kill her," I tell him.

Bill blinks and pops open his can. "Really?"

"Really."

"She's a member of the Vanguard Society. Not really--I mean, she doesn't fight crime or anything--there was this whole flamewar on the Capes and Masks site because of that. But she's still considered a non-active member."

"I know. Someone's put a contract out on her," I tell him. "Any idea who?"

"I dunno. She's basically just a teenage starlet, doesn't have any arch-enemies or anything. You contact Vanguard yet?"

"No. I think someone in Vanguard ordered the hit."

Bill stares at me. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You gotta be wrong about that, Vee. I mean, Vanguard--they're like the Justice League, y'know?"

"I know. Been tracking stolen villain tech since last December," I tell him. "Lead me to Vincent Marlowe--armsdealer who operates on the east coast. Come to find out Marlowe has inside intel. Then, just two weeks ago, I catch his end of a phone call where his contact is feeding him info on shipments to Vanguard's Vault. Stuff only Vanguard would know."

"Holy crap," Bill says. "You have any idea who?"

"No. And as part of their ongoing 'deal', this person asked him to take out Nova."

"How can I help?"

I grimace, binding the ice to the bruise with the bandages. "I need a list of Vanguard members who might be willing to sell them out," I tell him. "And be paranoid. Sovereign's out, but there's got to be a few members who have beef with Nova. Maybe someone bitter about her getting to join the club."

"Maybe I should call--"

"No," I tell him. "Don't call Cassidy. We don't need her help."

"But she loves working with you," Bill says. "And together, we make such an awesome team!"

"We aren't a team, Bill," I tell him. "I just need your help."

Bill looks down at his feet. I sigh.

"Fine," I say. "But I swear to God, if you start calling yourself Robin--"

"Robin was a sidekick," Bill responds. "I'm more of a Nightwing--your dark protege who went off into a whole other direction."

"Just get me the data," I tell him. "You have my phone number. I've got somewhere to be." I get up, setting the pop to the side. "And don't contact Cassidy. This job's getting violent enough as it is."

~*~
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Issue 1.6 - Meet Jack

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~*~
It's only after the danger has passed and your system has flushed all the adrenaline and endorphins that you start realizing how much damage you've done. My body lets me know by way of a politely worded missive with the word 'PAIN' written over a hundred times, delivered directly to my brain.

So when I get the phone call, I'm not exactly in the most talkative mood.

I pop into an alleyway. I've put a good six blocks between me and the concert hall; that should be enough to keep any suspicion off my back. I open the phone and hit 'answer'.

"We need to talk." Agent Duncan. Not at the top of my 'to-talk-to' list.

"Why? Planning on arresting me?"

"I could."

"On what charges? Looking damn good in a suit? I know I'm a repeat offender, officer, but surely we can come to a compromise."

"Cut the BS, Jack. I've had an analyst looking over those newspaper clippings in your apartment."

Shit. She must have taken pictures. Why didn't I think of that?

"You there?"

"Yeah," I say. "So, what? You think you got a lead on finding Mr. Scruffles?"

"I'll be at your loft in two hours. Meet me there."

I groan. "Actually, I was hoping to lay down for a bit."

"Be there or I turn over what I've found to my superiors."

Fuck. "So should I wear a suit, or...?"

"Come as you are." She hangs up.

I limp my way out of the alley and start thinking. Worst case scenario--she's got enough to bury me three times over. As far as the Agency is concerned, I'm on complete lockdown--I'm not supposed to run so much as a traffic light. If they got wind of how many operations I've been running, it won't matter what evidence Agent Duncan digs up. As far as they're concerned, 'rights' are imaginary things that apply to imaginary people. They only care about results.

I don't have much of a choice in this matter. Do as Agent Duncan says, or find myself in a prison that doesn't exist, located in a place you won't find on any map.

In situations like this, all you can do is hunker down and try to keep moving forward. So I call William.

The 30-something wonder boy sounds groggy and displeased. "Hello?"

"Bill. It's me."

"Jack?" His displeasure melts away the moment he recognizes my voice. Mine is just starting. If there's one thing I hate in this business, it's having fans.

"Yeah. Need some help. Can I stop by your place in, oh, fifteen minutes?"

"Oh, oh yeah, absolutely--uh, could you give me an hour first? I need to clean up--"

"Sorry, but I'm on the clock," I tell him. "Has to be now or not at all."

"Oh, sure. Are you on a mission right now? Oh man, yeah, just uh, I'll leave the door unlocked, or you can come in through the window, or--"

"Door'll be fine, Bill. I'll be right over."

I hang the phone up, spend a few moments clutching my ribcage in agony, then make my way back out into the street.

~*~
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Issue 1.5 - Meet Jack

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~*~
Fighting a high-end supervillain in a one-on-one fight is less than ideal, particularly when you haven't had sufficient prep time. When your only 'real' power consists of chronic insomnia, it leaves you a little vulnerable to people who can light you on fire with their mind.

One plus, though: People who regularly trade blows with folks like Vigil, Aegis, and Sovereign are likely to underestimate the little guy.

And if there's one thing I love, it's being underestimated.

The door we just came through breaks open beneath Jackal's foot. He charges into the parking lot, low and fast--meanwhile, Nova and I both run for my car while she drains what little light surrounds us.

After Marlowe and Blockhead ditched their vehicle, I made sure to make note of the spot. A quick call to a towing service followed by a stop at the nearby classic restoration shop and I had myself a fresh engine inside of a 1931 Imperial Roadster.

I see it as we turn around the corner. Sunlight pours in from the open wall besides it--Nova immediately steps into the light and spreads her arms, absorbing as much of it as she can. Meanwhile, I slam my fist into the trunk and pop it open, then reach inside and pull out Marlowe's shotgun.

Automatic shotguns are a special breed of weapon. They rely on their ability to project a brief, impermeable wall of lead into the face of your target. Not very useful when you want precision or endurance, but when you're up against a killer-for-hire in power armor, it's just about perfect.

Jackal leaps around the corner just in time. I swing the barrel around and smile.

Firing a gun like this is like composing poetry. When I pull the trigger, the sound is not far removed from rapid-fire lightning. The barrel belches out a tongue of flame; each boom is a beat, each rumble a serenade. There is music in the clatter of spent shells as they fall to the asphalt--and the thwack thwack thwack as shot after shot strikes Jackal in the chest.

Getting pummeled by an automatic shotgun hurts, even through power armor. Jackal buckles under the barrage and springs for cover behind a car. But not before he throws something at me.

I block it with the shotgun. It makes a beep.

I throw the weapon as far as I can. The sticky bomb explodes, taking the gun with it.

Jackal braces himself against a concrete column and slams his foot into the side of the car he's using for cover. Metal creaks before the vehicle jack-knifes around, barely missing Nova. She leaps on top of my car, a concentrated look on her face. I notice the lights here are still dimming.

"Whatever you're doing, do it faster," I tell her, and then I charge in close.

Getting into melee range with a guy who can reduce your bones to paste isn't fun, but it's better than the alternative--letting him stay out of range and hit you with whatever he's got in his pockets.

He takes a swing as soon as I clear the hood of the car. I duck under it, grab his wrist, and let inertia do the rest. He rolls over me and hits another concrete column with enough force to crack it; I help it along by spinning around and slamming the heel of my boot into his chest.

He grabs my ankle and pulls. I'm thrown into a nearby car, hitting it back-first; the metal dents behind me. Pain stabs through my spine and ribs as I slump to the ground.

Jackal lands in front of me, produces a nasty set of gold-tipped claws, and moves in for the kill.

A single beam of light spears burns through his stomach and keeps going. He shudders and spasms, before arching up in pain.

I reel my foot back and slam it directly into where the wound is--throwing him back and to the floor. He groans, clutching at his belly.

"Oh god," Nova says, her hands clasped together--formed into the shape of a gun. "I think I--did I kill him? I didn't mean to--"

"No," I tell her as I get up. The sirens are getting louder, now. Police will be here any minute. Along with Vanguard. "Cauterized the wound as it passed through. He'll live, if he gets to a hospital fast." I step toward her, moving out of earshot of Jackal. "Police are going to ask what happened here. You fought him off on your own. The shotgun was his, you blew it up with your laser beam. Got it?"

"I--what?" she asks, bewildered.

"I wasn't here," I tell her.

"Who are you?"

"The guy who saved your life. And I need to stay invisible."

"I just saved your life," she responds, giving me 'The Look'. The one that says 'I'm not buying your bullshit for one second, Mr. Tall Dark and Mysterious'.

Okay, so the kid's not a moron. Score her a few more points. Between this and how quick she was to pull my ass out of the fire back on stage, I'm starting to warm up to her. Even if she is a corporate-funded poptart.

"Yeah, fine," I tell her. "Look, my ass is on the line here. You tell anyone about me, I'm in serious danger, alright? Just let me do my own thing." I hand her a card. Blank except for the number on the back. "If you need to contact me--if there's an emergency--dial this number."

Sirens get louder. Any second, now. "But I should tell Vanguard--"

"No." God, no. "Listen, I don't have time to explain. But if you tell anyone--particularly, Vanguard--I'm a dead man. Okay?"

I take one look into those puppy-dog cinnamon-brown eyes and I know she won't whisper this to a soul. She's a good kid. Too good, maybe. That sort of goodness can get you killed.

"Okay," she says. "I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks." I go for the opening, look around, and choose a spot to jump.

"Wait--we're three stories up!" she says. "You can't fly, right?"

"No, but I'm pretty good at landing," I say, and I leap out.

Taking a three story fall isn't conducive to living. Particularly when you're already nursing what's probably a fractured rib. But it helps when you've got something besides solid asphalt to land on. Someone's parked a car directly beneath the complex. My feet hit first, and then I drop into a ball.

Metal gives beneath me. The windshield cracks and pops. Every nerve-ending stabs a fiery bolt of anguish straight up my spine.

I'm still alive, and if I broke anything else, I haven't noticed yet. I roll myself off the crumpled roof and down onto the street. More bolts of pain stab through my arms and legs. I feel breakfast surge up into my throat.

And then, with the sirens buzzing above and around me, I walk away.

~*~
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Issue 1.4 - Meet Jack

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~*~
When anyone with a suitcase full of cash and the right connections can get their hands on illegal tech, it's easy to become an assassin. Just buy yourself a third-rate freeze-ray, throw on a labcoat, and call yourself 'Professor Freeze Ray'. Toss in some sob story about how frostbite killed your parents, leading you to a life of crime, and the media will love you.

But for every ten yahoos with a gimmick, there's one son of a bitch you've got to look out for. Jackal's that son of a bitch.

Hell, I should know. I used to be that son of a bitch, too.

The security agents don't think--they just open fire. It's raining lead and Jackal's getting soaked; too bad his power suit is bulletproof. He grabs two of them by their collars and hurls them to opposite sides of the room, then clears the distance between him and the stage in a single bound.

Nova's power is showy, but offensively limited. But there are certain advantages to being able to control light. For instance: The moment a guy in power armor jumps on stage, she uses the opportunity to erect a wall of darkness around herself and the rest of her performers. But that won't give her more than a few seconds of time.

Meanwhile, I move. Two security agents put themselves between me and the fight.

Their mistake.

It doesn't take a lot of pressure to incapacitate someone. Just apply the right force to the right point and you can turn a hulking bodyguard into a screaming heap on the ground. I grab the first agent's wrist and thumb as he lifts his hands to block me, then twist them in a nasty sort of way, producing a few pops in the process. He drops, but not before I dart my hand in under his coat and unstrap his pistol.

The second agent turns to me, reaching for his own piece--but I've already pistol-whipped him across the side of the temple and kneed him in the solar plexus. He buckles to the ground; I pull the gun out of his hands and kick him aside.

Armed with two 9mm pistols, I leap on stage and open fire.

The bullets ping off of Jackal's armor. The gunfire is just to grab his attention--I get in close and throw one of the guns over his head to get him to look up. He falls for it, just as I deliver an open-palm strike to his upper torso--right where the armor is thickest.

He steps back, but still takes it. My hand bounces right off his armor.

His chest makes a soft beep. He looks down--and sees a wafer-thin circuit attached to his sternum. The small LCD display flashes '0:00'.

He looks back up at me.

I dive. It explodes. Jackal is thrown off stage, landing on his hands; he backflips into a crouch, snarls, and leaps toward me.

All I'm doing is buying time. Time for Nova to escape and time for me to prepare. Jackal is a high-end player; his powers consist of enhanced agility, strength, and a power suit that allows him to throw cars. My powers consist of chronic insomnia and the ability to polish off a whole bottle of vodka without passing out.

If I'm going to survive this, I'm going to have to get serious. Which means getting ugly.

When he lands in front of me, I step back and drop into a stance. That's when a solid beam of light hits Jackal right in the face, and I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Run!" Nova shouts.

Gotta give the kid points for guts. I move--but when I do, I take her wrist and pull her with me.

"What--"

"There's a contract on you," I tell her. "I'm here to help."

She hesitates, but nods. Maybe she had some notion of making a heroic stand against Jackal; maybe she figured she'd just buy some time before the police arrived. Either way, the moment the word 'contract' leaves my mouth, she starts moving. She's the target, which means wherever she goes, Jackal will follow.

The light blinded him, but he's recovering fast. I kick my way through the back door, slap another explosive pack on the side of the frame, then charge up the stairs with Nova. Just as Jackal reaches the doorway, I hear it explode--followed by a series of curses.

"How many of those things do you have?" Nova asks.

"That was my last one," I tell her. "We need to get to my car."

"I've tried contacting Vanguard," she says. "Sent a signal on my beacon."

"They might be here in five seconds or five minutes," I tell her. "Either way, not relying on it."

We burst into the indoor parking lot. Lots of cars, but mostly empty--we can hear alarms and sirens in the distance. Behind us, Jackal is leaping up the stairs.

"We might have to hold him off for a while," I tell her as I move toward my new car.

"Okay. What powers do you have?" she asks.

"Yeah, about that. When I said 'get to my car', it's because that's where I got my gear."

"Power armor?"

"Shotgun."

She stares at me. "Please tell me you're joking."

~*~
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