I tasted copper.

  My tongue moved uncomfortably in my mouth, pressing onto the other side of a bruise on my cheek. I swallowed and tried to get any sense of where I was. My head was pounding. I opened my eyes and blinked blearily a few times. They eventually agreed to focus and I began to take stock. I was in a chair, a cheap office piece, held together with glue and hope.

  My arms were taped to the armrests; my rig was nowhere to be found. I tried to move my legs and found them trapped against the chair as well. Glancing around, I noted the walls. They were similar to the ones in the building that the Acolytes had been using, which didn’t really mean much. I shifted my leg and didn’t feel the familiar weight of my phone. Taken, I thought.

  I leaned forward, which sent my head spinning and I almost threw up on myself. Closing my eyes, I swallowed the bile trying to fight its way up my throat. Crowley, the thought echoed through my head, as I tried to cut through the nausea and focus on the problem. It only kind of worked. Whatever he’s up to, he hasn’t exactly been gentle with me. I glanced around the room again. Probably the same building. It’d be hard to have gotten me out without notice. Probably couldn’t have gotten through my phone’s security. Couldn’t access my Popp without it. Even with the glasses.

  The armrests creaked in agony as I vainly fought against the tape. Footsteps echoed down the hall and eventually Crowley came into view. He took me in, a smile spreading across his face. “I thought you might be waking up around now.”

  “Awfully kind of you to let me wake up,” I spat, not bothering to keep the vitriol out of my tone. His implaccable smile didn’t fade at all. Rage coursed through my veins. The chair creaked more as I willed myself at the man. He watched me struggle for a moment, a cat toying with a half-eaten mouse.

  “Well, I figured to show you the same kindness you showed me.” The smile he wore never reached his eyes. “After all, I’m just returning the favor; a hostile takeover for a hostile takeover.”

  “Why don’t you cut me free, then?” I replied as evenly as I could, still pulling up on the armrests and chair legs. Gotta stall the fucking idiot, I told myself. The longer he blathers, the more time I have to figure a way out of this.

  “I don’t think so.” He turned away from me. I watched his profile as he continued. “Do you know what your biggest problem is, Curtis?”

  “I’ve been told I have problems with authority,” I muttered in a growl.

  “God, if only that was your issue,” Crowley mused, shaking his head. “No, not at all. You lack vision.” He held up my glasses. The sight of them, the violation of having this worm touch my things, my key to a free life, sent spikes of rage piercing my chest. I clenched my fists, but never let up on my assault on the arm rests. “You can do the impossible. And what do you do with it? Petty theft! You rip off a couple of bucks from corporations that won’t notice. You could change the world; really change the world!” He paused leaning into my face. “Instead, you go around, dating that selfish bitch, stealing trinkets and art. You know what you do is a waste. That’s why you cling to this bullshit Robin Hood facade of yours. To assuage your guilt; the guilt spawned from your cowardice.”

  “So, is your plan to bore me to death?” I asked softly. There was no point in yelling and most of my energy was being spent trying to ignore the growing tension in my arms and legs as I kept up the pressure on the tape. I felt the armrest on one side come up a little bit more. He glared at me.

  “No, I’m not.” He retrieved a gun from under his coat. I met his gaze, sitting a little straighter. I hoped that would distract him enough as I pushed down on my toes. He put the gun in my face. I laughed. It was a bitter sound. “And what is so funny, Reese?”

  “What are you going to do about Cindi?” I asked, staring past the barrel into the man’s eyes.

  “I’m sure I can find a way to kill her and the empath bitch.” The gun in my face never wavered. “Afterall, now I have infinite time, now that I have your little device.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have said that,” I replied, eyes wide, focusing them obviously just over his shoulder. He groaned, keeping the gun on me but turned slightly too look over his shoulder. When he did, I threw myself back, toppling the chair, still straining my arms and legs against the tape. Crowley fired several times and I felt something tear through my shoulder and another through my abdomen. I grimaced as the chair slammed into the ground. It hadn’t been a lot of momentum, but it was enough to break the loose armrest.

  I listened to the man’s footsteps as he stepped around the chair. He leveled his gun at my face again. I groaned and threw my free arm at his groin, toppling the chair onto its side. I connected and he crumpled, but kept hold of the gun. I batted it away and continued to struggle against my binds, hot blood leaking down my sweating back.

  Crowley was already recovering. I used both arms to tear at the tape of my still bound hand. It seemed like it took an eternity, but finally, I got through. Crowley had stood unsteadily up. I didn’t have much in the way of leverage, but I had both arms and threw myself at his knees, the chair slamming into my back as I did so.

  He shot more times than I bothered to keep count of and I felt more tears through my flesh. Nothing that would immediately kill me. I hope. I pulled on his legs, robbing him of his balance and he began to topple. As he did, I suckerpunched him in the gut again. He’d emptied the clip. And I was still alive. Thank fuck he was a lousy shot. He fell over and I crawled over him, slamming my fist into his stomach as he tried to crawl away.

  I felt woozy and weak, but I grit my teeth through it. I knew I was losing a lot of blood. But that would have to wait; I’d been shot before and probably worse than this. I wavered on top of the man, lip curling in rage. His own face was etched with fear and hatred. He started to reach up and wrestle me off. I slammed my fist into his trachea, stealing his breath. He coughed and I leaned down, pressing my elbow, armrest still attached, into his throat as I shook with rage and blood loss. Through clenched teeth, I spat into his face. “Do you know what your weakness is, Crowley?” He started to gurgle a response. I pressed my arm harder into his neck. “You’re too stupid to know when you’re beat.”

  I pushed my entire weight and all the force I could muster into his windpipe. He struggled, but I was heavy and he’d been out of breath before I’d even started choking him. I watched life leave his eyes. Numbness, both physical and emotional, ate away at my consciousness.

  After I was sure he was dead, I collapsed to one side. I knew that I needed to keep moving. That I needed to get my legs free. Find my phone. Call Des. Call Cindi. Tell them I loved them. But I felt heavy. Sluggishness and fatigue embraced me. My eyes started to close, as the cold closed in around me.

  I sat in the parking lot of the Bellemere Rehabilitation Center.

  They had recently changed the name and the new lettering looked bright and glossy, compared to the drab concrete that had gotten no such facelift. It had been the Bellemere Correctional Facility, but it had been getting a lot of bad press. Smash Gal and I had been talking to the press about the situations we had found there. And despite the new District Attorney’s disturbing rhetoric on vigilanteism and the “meta threat”, the governor said that he took our concerns seriously and would do something to change the policies of the facility. A name change was easy. Something that was ultimately meaningless.

  Perhaps it is a harbinger of good tides to come, I tried to assure myself. Something I might do for my patients. A twinge of guilt contorted my stomach. My patients, I thought. I hadn’t been seeing as many of them since I had started focusing more on heroism. And since I had found out about Blanca and Scott.

  I shook my head and got out of the car. I’d driven here to give me a little more time to work up the courage I’d need for today. While I couldn’t fly quite as fast as Kari, even on my best days, it was still much faster to cut over fields and forests at hundreds of miles an hour. I was in my civvies. A sweater vest and polo that hid my form well, glasses, and a hunch. I sighed and shook my head. You’re stalling, I chastised myself. And I was right. I made my way to the entrance. Everything was much the same as it had been when I’d visited Blanca. I was planning to see her today, but she wasn’t why I needed strength.

  The man behind the desk, Jenkins, according to his name tag, looked up at me as I picked up the pen to sign in. He spoke, making an effort to sound conversational,“Who are you visiting?”

  “A patient,” I said, a little cryptically, then I realized that answer probably wouldn’t be able to allay him. “Scott Springs.”

  “You’re not his doctor,” the man accused without heat. On a hunch, I extended my empathetic senses to him. I kept them as tightly reined in as I possibly could when I was here, lest I become overstimulated, but this Jenkins seemed off somehow. Immediately, I got a rush of emotions off the man. I spent a moment sorting through the senses. Apprehension, suspicion, fear, hatred. A lot of the last two. All controlled. I frowned at the man. Without delving deeper, I couldn’t know what any of the sources of these were. But it didn’t really matter. I was here to help a friend.

  “Most doctors welcome a second opinion,” I replied, keeping my tone placid.

  “If you say so,” Jenkins responded, not bothering to hide the doubt in his tone. I shrugged and started to make my way down the hall. The security door buzzed and the lock released. Another twinge of guilt spread through me. At least once, I had subverted this door’s locks once before, which had been a mistake. I had let my emotions control me and should’ve let patience and caution drive me. But it had allowed Blanca to start putting herself back together again. For Scott to wake up.

  I continued down the halls, taking a path that felt familiar now. Panic, no, fear, terror, undiluted by anything, else tore through me with sharp claws. It was so palpable that it took me a moment to realize it wasn’t mine. I took a few deep breaths and started guarding myself again. It’s nothing, I tried to tell myself. Institutions like this are terrifying. That thought sent another stab of guilt through me. I pushed on. I’ll . . . I’ll check on it on my way out, I assured myself.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  After what seemed to take an eternity and a half, I finally got to Scott’s room. He was a shadow of his former self. He’d once been strong, vital, good-looking. And now he was a husk of his former self. Just bones and hanging skin. Much of the machinery they’d been using to feed him was gone and he was eating under his own power when I came in. His sunken eyes traced me as he brought a shaky spoonful of jello to his mouth. I waited until he swallowed, smiling softly. “Hey, Scott.”

  “Chuck,” he said in a rasp. There wasn’t a lot of warmth in his voice. “Blanca said you’d be by.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged, uncomfortably. I almost extended my senses out to see what he was feeling, but the courage I’d built up piecemeal to be here might crumble under anything worse than apathy. “Sorry it took so long. I . . .”

  “I know, Chuck.” He nodded down to himself. “I’m not quite what you want to remember.”

  “It’s not that,” I mostly lied. That was a part of it, maybe even a big part of it. But not the whole. “I just . . . I didn’t think you’d . . .” I trailed off, not sure of what to say; where to start. How do you even begin to apologize for something like this?

  “I remember the coma,” Scott said, staring down at the jello. “The dreams, I mean. I remember the last one especially. You . . . Thank you, Chucky.” A mixture of a grimace and a smile fought its way onto my face.

  “You know I hate that name,” I said softly. “I’m not some psychotic killer doll.”

  “No,” he replied, bony shoulders slumping further down. “You’re not a killer, Chuck.” I took a hesitant step closer. He looked up into my eyes, his own were cavernous in his skull, which gave him a slightly deranged look. “Blanca told you what I’m going to do, huh?” He snorted, shaking his head. “Of course she did.”

  “She asked me to talk to you.” My voice was small, just barely audible. “Scott . . . Our powers . . . They don’t make us who we are, but they are a part of us.”

  “You can’t change my mind, Chuck,” he said firmly. It was the first time he’d sounded like Scott Springs. Like Cannon Punch. “I . . . Your powers can be used for good. Mine . . .” He clenched a bony fist. Pain and regret clamped around my heart.

  “Yours can be used for good, too, Scott,” I tried to assure him. He shook his head, but I continued. “I . . . I met someone. Another hero. Stronger than us. A lot stronger. And she’s having the same problem. But we’re doing better. She’s learned control. If she . . .”

  “It’s too late for me, Chuck,” he said. I felt my lip tremble and tears sting my eyes. As I stared down at my friend, Esvanir’s words came back to me, Professor Mind-Destroyer. Those words stabbed at my insides, tearing through my courage.

  “S-Scott, I . . . This is . . .” He shook his head.

  ‘I just want to do it, get back up and find a way to have a life again. A normal one. No powers, no . . . no chance to hurt anyone else.” Tears didn’t fall from my eyes, but the threat was always there. Anger tainted the guilt and pain I was feeling. I knew I could reach into him and take this out; those thoughts, those feelings.

  But you’ve done that before, a small voice in my head reminded me. And that’s what turned him into a killer in the first place. He may have done the deed, but you were the reason. I blinked back the tears and swallowed my self-loathing as best I could.

  “I . . . I don’t think this is a good idea, Scott,” was all I could manage. He shrugged an emaciated shoulder, eyes resting on the plate again.

  “I do.”

  “We don’t even know if it’s safe.” I tried to find logic to argue against what he was doing. It wasn’t hard; the plan he had was insane. But whether or not it’d convince him . . .“What the other effects of this drug would do. If it targets the genetics of what makes you . . . you, what else could it do?”

  “I’ve spent almost two decades in a coma, in a bed. It’s not like I have anything to lose.” He crashed back onto the bed a little more roughly and turned away from me. “I’m tired.”

  I stood there for another few moments, trying to find something else to say, a way to apologize, to make things right, but there was nothing. I made my way out of the room. My footsteps sounded hollow as they echoed down the halls. I couldn’t hear any of the other patients. Anything else. It was deathly quiet. I thought about seeing Blanca, but I didn't know that there was any real point. After seeing Scott, I wasn’t sure I could be of any help to her. Or to anyone else.

  I made my way down to the hall leading out and froze, staring in the direction of the terror I’d felt before. Tentatively, I opened up my Empathy and pushed it out in that direction. There was still the prickly sense of fear there, pain. I finally got to the consciousness of whoever was making it. And my breath caught. I recognized the person. Doc Oak.

  I switched directions and traveled through the halls until I found his cell. The skinny, beautiful man I’d seen was haggard, thinning out. What had been a healthy, lithe build had become bony and angular. But that wasn’t the most surprising thing about him. His skin had been a soft green. Now it was a sickly yellow. I recognized it from medical school. Jaundice. I looked around and didn’t see anyone. The guilt in my stomach redoubled and threatened to overwhelm me.

  There were, of course, no plants around; that was too obvious a risk with his power set. But with the state that he’s in, I don’t think it matters. I frowned, trying to think my way through the problem. I could just bust him out. It wouldn’t even be that difficult. I shook my head. But that would effectively end my life as Chuck Berry. Maybe as Professor Mind as well. I started back the way I came, eventually getting back to my car, barely noticing the suspicious glare of Jenkins as I did. I couldn’t get the image of Doc Oak to go away. The image of Scott and Blanca, and what this place was doing to them all. I found my teeth gritting, coming up with a thousand plans, none of which would work.

  Despite everything, you’re not a criminal. You’re not built for this. I sighed, tapping my fingers on the wheel. Kari would know what to do. Another voice in my head countered, Would she? She may agree that it’s a bad situation, but she’d insist that justice needed to happen above all else. My teeth squeaked under the increased pressure and I took a few breaths, trying to get myself to come down. Whatever this is, it’s not justice. Then something occurred to me. I got out my phone and dialed a number.

  “The person you have dialed is unavailable. Please leave a message at the tone.”

  “Mister Drei,” I began. “I . . . I think I need your help.”

  My eye twitched violently.

  Irritation filled my every cell, which made my skin feel tight and overwrought. On the screen I was staring at, there was a blurred, pink image. I transferred to a different camera, trying to follow the movement and missed. I exited out to the broader view and watched. There were those hot pink smatters all over my screen. I slammed a fist on my desk, screaming, “This is unacceptable!”

  Stacy poked her head in my door, a single eyebrow raised curiously. “Sir?”

  I glowered at her and gestured to the screen, a growl bubbling up in my throat. “The system isn’t fast enough to keep track of Smash Gal.” I put as much vitriol as I could in the words. Stacy’s heels clicked on the linoleum as she walked over. I watched her legs as she did so, unbothered by her cool stare. She leaned over and watched the ever changing streets of Avalare. She grabbed the mouse and flipped through a couple of scenes, eyes tracking, before shaking her head.

  “It doesn’t matter, Don,” she reassured me, standing straight again. I glared up at her. “Mister Lawin,” she corrected.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter!?” I demanded, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my tone. “The entire point of this idiot system was to track these vermin throughout the city!” She was unphased, standing there with hands clasped over her lap, with only a brow raised. It was one of the things I found so attractive about her. She didn’t have many of the weaknesses of her sex. She’s seldom rash or emotional, I thought. Though, that is something of a double-edged sword. She’d make an adequate wife if she would submit more often.

  “Miss Stewart is predictable,” Stacy pointed out the obvious as though I were a child. I clenched my fist. She bowled over my objection before I made it, holding out a placating hand. “The system cannot track her, but we can. We just need to know how she chooses which events to arrive at, then we lay a trap.”

  That did pour water on my irritation as I mulled it over. “I could get access to her device records. Most people only keep the one cellphone.”

  “Exactly, Mister Lawin,” Stacy praised me. I eyed her, letting it wash over me. When society had reverted back to its healthier incarnation, I thought, she’ll crawl on her hands and knees to me. Once we began, I knew we couldn’t stop until the idyllic reality of the fifties was reinstated. Children who respected their elders, women who knew their place, and degeneracy tamped out. The thought was divine. And it will be me who delivers this reality to the world.

  ‘I could probably get it through official channels, but that leaves me liable,” I mused out loud, not wanting to voice these thoughts, not even to Stacy. She is too small-minded to understand what comes after the destruction of degeneracy. She looked like she was waiting for me to continue. “It’d probably be accessible through a FOIA request.”

  “Does that matter?” Stacy asked, pouting her full lips. “If we succeed, then it won’t matter who knows.”

  “It’s a needless risk,” I pointed out, straightening up in my chair. “Tipping one’s hand too early is exactly what leads to the downfall of movements just like ours. Besides, there are other ways of getting that information. People seldom realize how much of their privacy they sign away in EULAs.”

  Stacy nodded, considering my words. “You’d know better than me in this case.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that I knew better than her in almost every case and merely dismissed her with a thank you. I found an information broker and paid a premium price for some profiles. Chuck Berry, Kari Stewart, Harold Bien-Aime, Curtis Reese, and Jenny Miller. It was a little expensive to get all of them, but it was fast and easy. I scrolled through the apps and information provided.

  Berry’s profile was pretty bare bones. Almost nothing there, really. I had his phone records, his most recent call going to a burner with no information on who it belonged to. They don’t even hide the fact that they act like criminals. Calling a burner. I noted the length of the call. It was less than twenty seconds long. Probably went to voicemail.

  Stewart’s profile was much more informative. She had TikTok, which I could get the records of, X, and the rest of the basic social media suite, it seemed. She also had a premium police scanner app. I checked out that app. The fact that this is legal is ridiculous. That anyone can know what we are up to. My stomach gurgled in disgust. But Stacy’s right. We can set a trap for her with this.

  Harold’s profile was much the same as Stewart’s. A slew of social media apps, nothing too interesting. He didn’t have the police scanner app. Though, he always seems to know what’s being said on the scanner anyway, I reasoned. Might be an unseen benefit of his impurity. I’m sure we can catch Thunderblast in the same net we catch Stewart in.

  Miller’s app list was much the same, just a bunch of social media apps, emails, Signal. No police scanner, but she had one built into that ridiculous chair of hers. Useless eater, I thought bitterly. That much had been public knowledge for years. I frowned. Nothing much of use here.

  I checked the last profile. Reese had a remarkably bare bones profile. No social media. Outside of the system standards that came with everything, there were just seven apps.

  I frowned at the list. It was a strange grab bag of nonsense. Things that people might use, but nothing I could see the purpose of. I knew from his records that Reese hadn’t been on EBT since he lived with his family, and even then, only briefly. I sighed and tried to think it through. My eyes unfocused on my screen. Then after a few minutes, I started moving again, getting up to call it a day, when something caught my eye. All of those dates are sequential. Half standing up, I scanned the list of apps again, my frown deepening. With a moment’s hesitation, I picked up a piece of paper and held it over the report.

  I growled in annoyance. “God, I hate that man.”

  Amazon or .

  Sakka of Pi on Twitter.

  Ghostly Bodies.

  here. I also have a novella previously unpublished, .

  Patreon.