I limp out of the old factory, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. The chain link fence blocks my exit, and I scrabble against the metal unsteadily before pushing it aside enough for me to squeeze through. I could have ducked into the shadows and passed below it without effort, but I didn’t. I could still slip into the darkness, as easily as breathing, and lose myself in the city. It would lift the fog from my mind; I always feel a little clearer when I’m hiding, a little less emotional. I don’t want to. Not now. If I did, then I’d start to remember, and I’d only feel worse when I leave the shadows, and feel the weight of my body once more.

So I leave, stumbling through the shadows of the city, or clambering up crumbling brickwork and rusted fire escapes. Part of my mind drifts back to everything I’m leaving behind: my home, furnished with woven rugs that have started to lose their colour in the cold air, and rot away in the damp; my pile of rotten wood and scraps of cushions and cloth that serves as a passable bed, home to a forest of ticks and what few rats I haven’t yet driven off; my radio, my one window into the wider world, lovingly cared for against the wind and the rain. The room downstairs, and everything in it.

I feel like I should be crying, like oily black tears should be pouring down my face, but it seems I can’t. It seems I’ve lost my tears, just as I’ve lost my voice. Somehow, I’m certain I had them once, certain that I’ve cried my eyes out and shouted myself hoarse many times before, and that makes their absence hurt all the worse. Instead I simply wander, hoping that distance can soothe the ache in my heart, until I can no longer bear to do even that.

I creep furtively through the streets, darting from shadow to shadow rather than flying through them. It’s slow, almost agonisingly so, but that gives me the time I need to think, to turn my mind to the simple concerns of moving and hiding. I duck into an alleyway, almost the same in character as the one I woke up in, and clamber up on top of a dumpster to get myself off the cold concrete, curling up on top of the dumpster’s lid – made of that strange material that’s neither metal nor wood – with my head resting on my hands.

I simply wait and listen as the city moves on around me. I hear the sound of tyres on tarmac, as cars and trucks wheel past the edge of the alleyway, mingling with the clack of heels on concrete as the occasional person passes by the entrance. There’s a bar nearby – just around the corner from my alley – and I can hear the clink of glasses, the murmur of intimate conversations merging with celebratory shouts and angry, accusatory, words. I can’t make out the words, but the mingling tones speak of their worries and fears, their friends and lovers.

A pair of voices draw closer, a man and a woman laughing and giggling at each other’s slurred speech. They round the corner, their hands wandering up and down each other’s body, but I can’t find it in myself to move. I just can’t bring myself to hide, or to run, or to do anything. The scream is inevitable, as is the brief panic as the man scrambles backwards and the woman falls to the floor, twisting her heel. Something about the naked concern in his eyes as he looks at her sets me off, and I screech, leaping off the dumpster like a coiled spring.

I drive two claws into his chest, knocking him off balance so that we both fall into a heap onto the grimy floor. I pin him down as I slash at his face with my hands, before curling them into fists and pounding them into his jaw and cheeks, over, and over, and over again. I hear a scream, right next to me, and something tries to pull me off the man, but I ignore it. I just keep hitting him, until a high-heeled shoe kicks my face, and forces me to look up. The woman is there, tears running through her mascara as she looks down at the man. I take another look at his face, and see the vicious cuts and bruises, weeping red slashes crisscrossing a sea of purple splotches. My jaw drops, and I slip into the shadows without thinking.

I hurl myself backwards through the pitch-black alleyway, watching the couple as they shrink. She’s crouching over him, clutching his face in her hands as she dabs at the blood with her expensive coat. They dwindle into nothing as I hurtle through the alleyways, and the cloud around my thought fades. It’s too late now, to stop myself thinking about all the signs I should have noticed, every warning I wilfully ignored because I just wanted it to be real. I just wanted him to be happy, because that made me feel happy too.

It’s all my fault. I’m the reason he’s dead.

I can’t go back to the factory, not with all its memories, but I don’t think I could stand setting up somewhere else. Wouldn’t I just end up doing the same things all over again? I’d trawl the streets at night, but eventually the isolation would start to wear me down and I’d throw myself at the first person to talk to me. Then they’d die, or they’d leave, or I’d scare them off and I’d be right back where I started. I don’t think I can live like this.

That’s when realisation hits me, cold and heartless. I’m not human, no matter how much I may try to ape them, but that doesn’t mean I’m alone. I think back to the armoured suit that tore those metal aircraft from the air, or the woman in the alleyway who seemed to exude confidence and menace in equal measure. I know there are people in this world who are separate from the rest of humanity, who have powers they lack. Maybe they’ll be tougher, maybe I won’t get them killed. There’s something in me that finds the idea of seeking safety with another cape – though I’ve never really thought of myself as one – strangely appealing. It would almost be comforting, if I didn’t still feel like a failure.

With my mind set, I start to slide through the shadows of the city, absent my usual enthusiasm. I don’t run along the rooftops, instead ducking down into the drains to travel as I used to when I first got here, before I became stupid and overconfident. I pop up every now and then to get my bearings, but spend the majority of my time floating through brackish water, the only interesting sight the occasional rat. I’m safe down here – nobody can see me, and nobody will find me – but the price of that safety is any connection to the city above.

Eventually, I start to see a faint red glow in the distance, and I duck back into the drains before emerging into the shadows of another alleyway, one end bathed in the red light of that familiar district. I creep up the side of the building, not emerging from the shadows, and start to peer out onto the street from whatever patches of darkness offer me the best view. It’s getting late, later than usual, and the flow of men and woman through the district has slowed, but they’re still there. I see her, standing alone amidst a crowd of people. She’s still dressed in that black and orange costume, talking to a man in a suit outside a gaudy-looking building.

I reform myself within the shadows of the alleyway and a part of me instantly wants to turn and flee, but I push it down. I can’t stay on the streets. I just can’t. I hesitate for a moment at the very end of the alleyway, in the last scrap of shadows before the red glow of the street, looking across at the cape, at her easy confidence and strength. I need to do this. I can’t repeat the same mistakes as before. Something needs to change.

I step out into the light, placing one clawed foot in front of the other as I crawl my way across the street, blinking nervously in the harsh light. Instinctively, I try to slip into the shadows, only to realise I can’t. I can’t escape from this, not now. I’m stuck here whether I like it or not. Someone spots me and I hear a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly, dozens of eyes are looking at me, as hushed whispers start to echo throughout the alleyway. The cape turns at the sound, and I see her eyes widen briefly in recognition, before a small smile spreads across her face. She steps forwards and meets me in the middle of the street, right where everyone can see.

“You came back.” She drops to one knee in front of me, bringing her head close to my own and resting a hand on my shoulder. The contact feels good, and it’s nice not to have to crane my neck. If she’s at all unnerved by my appearance, she doesn’t show it.

“I thought you might,” she continues, “though I wasn’t expecting it to be this soon.”

That sends my mind right back to everything I’ve lost, and she seems to notice the change in expression on my avian face.

“Come on,” she says as she stands, beckoning with her arm, “you look like you could use something strong.”

I follow her – it’s not like there’s anything else I can do – as she steps off the street and into the dingy doorway of a two-story building with a woman’s body outlined in glowing pink tubes across the façade, a glass silhouetted in her hand. She steps past the guard, who stares at me but doesn’t make a move, and into the main room of a large bar, with women dancing on a stage that runs through the centre. The cape exchanges a few words with a man in a light blue shirt in a strange pattern, and he leads the two of us up a set of stairs.

The upper room is more intimate, with plush carpets rather than hard wood, and magenta curtains draped over the windows. There is a row of doors along one wall, and our guide briefly peers through one before holding it open for us. Inside is a small group of chairs set around a plain table. The cape sinks into a leather armchair, leaving the couch free for me. I stretch out my entire length along it, looking up at the cape as she leans back in her chair. We wait there in silence for a while, as her eyes roam up and down my body. She’s sizing me up, or she’s just curious. It’s a better reaction than fear, I suppose.

After a while, one of the club’s staff, dressed in an absurdly risqué outfit that my host doesn’t even seem to notice, comes in with two glasses and a glass bottle of some golden-brown liquid. She sets the drink on top of the table between us, and accepts a wad of green bills from the cape before departing.

“They deserve a nice tip for everything they put up with,” she says by way of explanation, as she half fills the two small glasses and slides one over to me. I take a deep drink, biting down the strong taste as fire flows down my throat.

“Anyway,” she leans back, her own drink in her hand, “introductions. When I’m dressed like this, I’m Ember.”

I nod sagely, not entirely sure what she means. She pauses for a moment, before continuing.

“And you are?” I just stare at her, opening my beak. “Unable to talk. Sorry, I should have realised. Do you have a name?”

I pause in disbelief as I realise I don’t. For some reason, the thought panics me. I feel like I had a name, once, and I’ve only just noticed its absence. Ember notices my distress, and stares at me with naked pity in her eyes before reaching over to rub her hand against my shoulder. The pity hurts, even though it’s also strangely comforting.

“It’s okay. We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

She picks up the bottle as she leans across the table, and I hold out my glass so that she can refill it. She seems a little less now than she did outside, calmer and less predatory, like she’s letting her guard down. I’m not so sure she should, not around me.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” I shrink into myself. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to tell me about it if you don’t want to. You’re a little different than you were earlier, that’s all. I assume you’re here to accept my offer?”

I fortify myself with another drink, practically throwing it down my throat, then nod. She hesitates before pouring more golden-brown nectar into my glass.

“You know” - she smiles before putting on a fake scowl that doesn’t quite reach her eyes - “if you’re just going to drink all this in one go then I’m going to stop giving it to you. This whisky was imported from Scotland and it deserves better than that.”

I take gentle sips this time, letting the oaken liquid roll down my tongue, tongue being something I have in abundance. It’s nice, sharp enough to keep me alert while strong enough to stop me thinking too hard.

“Anyway, the offer still stands. We’re always looking for new Parahumans to recruit, and we’d be willing to bring you on for a very competitive wage. I can also offer you a place to stay, at least until you get on your feet. You’re not the first cape we’ve recruited who’d have trouble interacting with normal society.”

I smile a little, as I consider just how much of an understatement that is. Ember shares my mirth as a grin spreads across her face.

“As for what we’ll expect from you” – I tense up – “from what I understand of your powers, it’ll mostly be recon work, though you may have to fight on occasion. Will that be a problem?”

I pause to think for a moment, before nodding my assent. In all honesty, fighting doesn’t scare me in the same way it once did. Attacking that man in the alleyway was stupid, but at least it felt like I was doing something. It was the same with that corpse in the north end. I need to keep myself active, so that I don’t slide back into bad habits and complacency. So I don’t let anyone else down.

“Great. You’ll be working directly for me for the most part, but you might end up doing odd jobs for some of our other capes, if they need an infiltrator. The important thing to remember is that you’ll be part of the West Coast’s largest parahuman organisation, and I mean every part of that. We’re run by parahumans, for parahumans. That’s what makes us unique, and it means we’ll look after you, so long as you look after us.”

She leans forwards again, holding out her hand.

“So,” she asks, “are you in?”

I look at her hand, and all the promises it holds. All the restrictions, too. Part of me is afraid, but my decision was made the moment I stepped into the light. I can’t stop now, can’t go back to wandering the streets, too blind to notice that I was helping my only friend kill himself by inches. I bite down my doubts and keep moving forwards, stretching an oily-black arm across to her. We shake hands over the table, and she refills our glasses.

“Welcome to the Elite,” she says, as we clink our glasses together. “The name might not mean anything to you now, but I promise it will soon.”