I can hear the club’s music from out on the street. Apparently, it’s not enough to drink too much, or to blow your money on strippers and prostitutes, you have to deafen yourself as well. Otherwise it’s not real entertainment. Still, I must admit it’s easy to get lost in the mood. The alcohol and music, certainly. This is entirely the wrong sort of strip club for me, but the ones I like don’t make nearly as much profit. But I’m not here for pleasure; I’m here for business, and business means reassuring our paying customers. Business means putting on a tight-fitting bodysuit and doing my hair up into a ponytail, when I could do the job much better from inside the security hub, nursing a cup of coffee.

Still, they’re not bad people by any means – even if they get a little leery at times – and I do like the nightlife every now and then. Admittedly, I like it a lot less than I used to, but that’s a hazard of the job. Who’d have thought it would be possible to get bored of going clubbing? Apparently, all it takes is turning it into a job.

Michaelson smiles at me, looking like a mountain in his jet-black suit, broken up by the grey plastic armband that holds his ID. He’s one of ours, just like every other bouncer, leg-breaker and security guard in the district, so I make sure to spend a while chatting with him as he waves people through, cutting an imposing figure as I lean against the wall. The line of clubbers slowly files past me as they’re let into the club, always held back just long enough to keep up the illusion of a full room, regardless of how many people are actually in there. They could pack then in there like sardines if they wanted to – not like I’d care about fire safety limits – but then the club wouldn’t look busy anymore.

The patrons themselves can tell you a lot about the place. This isn’t one of the districts’ best, and the customers reflect that. They’ve made an effort, of course, but Michaelson isn’t going to be turning anyone away for being underdressed. I wouldn’t be standing outside the sort of place that would; better for everyone that security stays out of sight and out of mind whenever Seattle’s best and brightest want to do lines of cocaine and screw prostitutes. It makes it easier for them to forget to check for hidden cameras. Most of them have cottoned on – thanks to a nosy PRT sting operation – and switched over to house calls, but the stupider ones still walk into our web, and there are a lot of stupid people in the world.

By the look of the line, it’s ladies’ night. Of course, the posters could have told me that but I like to keep my eye in. All it basically means is that the club hires a couple of male dancers for the night, adds free entry and discounted drinks for the ladies’ benefit, and an amateur night competition for the men’s. All that adds up to is a line that’s roughly two-thirds male, rather than ninety-five percent.

Most of that third is made up of three different hen-dos, as well as some enterprising sorority girls from the university and a few unfortunates who were dragged here by their boyfriends, or dragged them here. There’s also what looks like an incredibly ill-thought-out business outing, which is already five different scandals waiting to happen. It’s a complete clusterfuck, better known as just another night in the Amsterdam of the West Coast.

I can see the hens looking at me as they titter to each other. I can’t say I’m overly fond of the attention, but that’s the price I pay for being one of our more ‘public’ capes. Not completely public, of course, but enough so that people around here tend to keep an eye out for me. I’m part of the local flavour, apparently. That being said, the first one of them to ask for a selfie will end up flat on her ass. They know it, just like I know that won’t stop them from asking. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to smile and shake their hand, to subject myself to the whims of some bullshit PR department. I just don’t understand how they can do it without snapping.

Unless they’re Fume, of course. The bitch.

A man steps out of the club wearing slicked back hair, a bright red shirt and an apparently genuine smile. He steps over to me, and shakes my hand. There’s a glass of something blue in the other hand, but I know there’s no alcohol in it. It’s an illusion; part of a carefully constructed persona.

“Mister Lao,” I greet him.

“Ember,” he responds, almost mockingly, “how many times do I have to tell you to call me Ethan?”

“One more time, I’m sure.”

He chuckles, just like he chuckles every night. This is the main part of my job; checking in with the movers and shakers of the Red-Light district. It helps them feel like they’re getting value for money, and it gives them a chance to air any grievances or concerns they may have. There’s usually some spot of trouble every three or four places, but the bouncers can deal with most of it. I’m there for the serious trouble, the sort of stuff that comes in from outside the district.

Lao starts to ramble, a long spiel I’ve heard many times before in which his business troubles somehow manage to merge with his personal troubles and a half-hearted attempt at flirting that’s more a product of habit than any genuine interest. He tells me about the son of an aerospace exec, who got dragged out of the club by his own mother, or the money he’d lost gambling on the fighting pits. One of those is a problem I might need to deal with, especially of the exec is one of ours, but the other is just Lao’s shit eye for fighters. Of course, when I say as much to him, he turns it into an excuse to eye me instead.

My earpiece crackles into life, saving me from his half-hearted attempts at ‘romance’.

“Ma’am, there’s trouble outside Roxxie’s. Triad affiliates, moving in force but without cape support. Looks like a ram raid.”

“Copy that,” I reply, glad for something to save me from the tedium, “move Charlie and Delta teams around to cut off their escape.”

I’m about to make half-hearted apologies to Lao, but he waves me off. I nod, grateful that he can be serious when it matters, and start to sprint through the streets as a faint smile spreads across my face. A ram raid; a bunch of doped up fuckheads trying to smash as much stuff as they can, while pocketing all the money they can find. I can feel tongues of fire lapping at my heart, but it’s not time yet.

The crowds scatter at my approach, while the bouncers and security guards give me respectful nods. I catch a flash of orange light on my left, as a matt-grey car speeds past on a neighbouring street, hazard lights on full blast. I wanted to make them green, to really stick it to those tyrants in the PRT, but apparently there are laws against that sort of thing. Still, in this neighbourhood orange is as good as gold. The police come by occasionally, but they generally prefer to stick to the safer parts of town, and the PRT wouldn’t dare send any of their pet heroes here. Instead they get us, and Sagittarius PSC.

Roxxie’s is right around the corner, so I pull on the flames in my heart and let the heat spread through my body until it feels like I’m going to burst into flames. Then it stops, all sense of temperature, smell and touch falling out of reach as everything becomes clear…

There are thirty-three people outside Roxxie’s, twenty-one of whom are wearing the light-blue armband of the Triad. The rest are customers, and one bouncer putting pressure on a stab wound in his gut. I dismiss them, focusing on the threat. Beyond the armband, the Triad gangsters are a mix of different ethnicities loosely aligned around three separate gangs. They could have been acting on the orders of a Triad cape, or they could have simply come together in a coalition. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they haven’t yet battered down the doors to the club.

One of them sees me, shouting a warning, and I simply raise an ashen hand, sending a bolt of orange cinders right into his face, knocking him back with concussive force and burning into his skin before dissipating. They panic, as I expected, and start to scatter. One of them, brave or foolish, pulls a thirty-eight special from the belt of his pants, and puts three rounds into my chest. I feel the bullets pass through me, shifting ash and fire, before exiting out of my back, taking insignificant flecks with them. I return fire, my whole arm glowing from within before releasing a spear of condensed cinders that knocks the gunman flat onto his back, taking a good chunk of his skin with it as he writhes in agony.

Four of them, the ones closest to the back, turn and run at the sight of their screaming colleague. I fire blasts from my hand at them as they run, but I’m not overly concerned about stopping them. The others can handle that. The rest of them find their courage, and rush me with a collection of bats, pipes and knives. The knives are nothing to worry about, but those are few and far between. I start to duck and weave around the blunt weapons, letting the knives sink deep into me while I burn the hand holding it. The mathematics of displacement, performed while sending off cinder blasts and heating up my exterior for scorching blows.

Eventually, their numbers start to dwindle, as more and more of them slip away from the back of the melee. They don’t get far, as a dozen men – armoured, and carrying riot shields and clubs – block off the other end of the street. One of the enemies, the leader, pulls his men back and tries to break through the shield wall, only to be battered down in a hail of clubs. It’s over, and the guards start to line the Triad gangsters up against the wall. The leader is dragged in front of me and forced to his knees, his shoulders held in a vice-like grip by two burly guards in black uniforms.

I stare down at him before igniting the cinders in my hand until it glows with a bright orange heat. I press my palm against his cheek and, almost tenderly, curl my fingers around his face as he writhes and screams. When I let go, there’s the image of a hand burned into his face, burned almost to the bone. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, I push back against the fires, and smother them in ash…

Flesh returns, and with it the smell of burning flesh and the taste of ash in the air. I force down my nausea, drawing upon long practice, and look down at the barely-coherent leader. He can’t hear me, not like this, so I turn to the two dozen others pressed against the wall.

“Next time bring a Cape.”

That’s all I can bear to say to them, before I start striding back into the district. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like playing the terrifying warlord, but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable looking over so many burns. Jaarsveld falls into step besides me, looking every inch the professional in his riot gear. He’s not from Seattle, like most of our guys, having been recruited in Oregon and transferred up to Washington when we set up here. Before that he was a bouncer for a club, and before that he was in the South African Army. He fled in ninety-five, but if he has any issues with me then he’s never shown them. He’s far too much of a professional for that.

“Jaeger arrived at the office, ma’am. He says he wants to talk to you.”

Shit. Isn’t he supposed to be out of the city?

“Right then. I’ll take the car.”

Jaars nods, waving forwards one of the two security cars – with their yellow flashing lights and mesh covers over the windows. I wanted to buy jeeps or armoured cars, but apparently that would be too overt. Instead we get a few four-door Fords, which I have been assured are used by police somewhere in the world. I still don’t see it, but we got a decent deal on them.

The crowds duck and weave as we travel through the streets, orange hazard lights flashing to advertise our presence to even the drunkest of customers, before pulling into the car park of a squat grey building at the centre of the northern edge of the district. It used to be a cluster of four houses, sandwiched between two roads, but it’s almost unrecognisable now: concrete barriers have been put up around the perimeter, topped with thick coils of razor wire; the windows have all been given an additional coating of wire mesh; and, of course, there are all the heavily armed bastards standing around the place.

The driver – Grayson, I think – parks up next to three more identical Fords, with a couple of Transit vans next to them. It’s not a large operation, certainly not when compared to the Northgate precinct the PRT inherited from the National Guard, or even the nearby Police precinct in Green Lake, but it gets the job done. In all honesty, we don’t really need the fortress. If our guys are spending their time behind the perimeter fence, then they’re not protecting our customers.

The closest house to the entrance is the public face of the operation: holding a lost and found office, a few cells for drunks and a few slightly less friendly cells for whoever deserves it. The next two are more general purpose – one for the bouncers and one for the better armed and better paid security teams – holding changing rooms, showers, armouries and break rooms. The last one holds the command and control centre for the district: our CCTV system, Jaars’ office and a few rooms on the top floor for the ‘consultants’. It also has a slightly disproportionate number of twenty-something black girls working in it, but that’s neither here nor there.

Jaeger’s waiting for me in my office on the top floor, having rather kindly sat himself down in my guest chair, rather than my considerably more comfortable swivel chair. He cuts an impressive figure in his dark green uniform, with its ceramic mask attached to a tall peaked cap. I’ve thought about making a pass at him more than once, but workplace relationships are a bad enough idea without adding capes into the mix. Instead I just slump down into my seat and rest my feet on my desk, something I know annoys him immensely.

“I thought you were supposed to be out of the city by now.”

“I was,” he replies, his Canadian accent still noticeable even after so many years south of the border, “but something came up.”

He pulls a memory stick out of one of his belt pouches – one of the larger-than-normal encrypted disks we use for high-value-information – and passes it over to me. I boot up my computer, and pull up a video file that looks like it’s been lifted straight from a convenience store CCTV system.

“This isn’t the sort of juicy gift you usually bring me. Spirits would be better, or maybe chocolates.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he chuckles, “you haven’t even watched it yet.”

I shake my head, but play the video. At first glance, it looks exactly like most convenience stores do after the rush of pre-drinkers has dies down. It looks the same at second glance, and the seconds tick on with no sign of anything unusual. My eyes briefly dart back to Jaeger and I’m about to ask what’s going on when I spot a flash of something in the corner of my eye. Instantly my attention goes straight back to the screen as Jaeger gently chuckles in the background.

I skip backwards twenty seconds, and fix my eyes on the screen. I watch as a man in a crisp white shirt – with a very prominent red wine stain – picks a sandwich of the shelves, before moving on to the next aisle. Then, the very moment the aisle is empty, a jet-black hand literally slips out of the shadows underneath the shelves, stealing a sandwich before disappearing back into the shadows. The angle changes, and the timestamp advances a minute or so, and I watch, fascinated, as a beak-like face forms itself in the aisle, hurriedly devouring the sandwich before disappearing back under the shelves.

I lean back in my chair as the video goes on, showing different angles of the same creature entering and exiting the store. Jaeger is grinning from ear to ear at the look on my face.

“That’s not something you see every day.”

“No, it’s not.” His expression turns serious, the way it always does when things move to business. “The PRT are aware of him, and they’ve told their patrols to keep an eye out, but he’s not operating in their territory.”

“Where is he, or she, operating?” I ask, only a little reproachful.

“West of here, based on the stores that have been hit. Triad territory.”

“I see.”

I really do. There’s a lot of unspoken weight in those two words.

“So you see my problem.” He spreads his arms wide, leaning back a little without ever losing his serious expression. “I’m needed in Richland, but I can’t just let this go.”

“Which is where I come in,” I interject.

“Exactly. I’d appreciate if you could track them down and give them the sales pitch. I’ll give you one of my teams, to make it go down easier.”

I lean back, thinking about it for a moment. My eye drifts to the hip flask in my desk drawer, but I ignore it. I don’t need a ‘thinking aid’ right now. I look back at the monitor, still playing footage of a jet-black arm pilfering food.

“Fine, but I’m doing it my way. I want to try the soft sell, and, when that works, I want our new cape to work for me.”

“We may not have that much time.” He leans forwards, fixing me with a piercing stare. “We can’t risk the Triad getting their hands on him.”

“You’ll be in Richland for at least a week, right?”

“Probably a little longer than a week,” he scowls. “It all depends on how cooperative the locals are.”

“So give me until you get back to try it my way? You’ve got your guys in the PRT, but I have guys in the Triad. If they get close to her, I’ll move in for the hard sell, but I don’t want to risk alienating a potential recruit. You’ve heard of these monstrous capes, right? She’s probably an amnesiac. She’s certainly homeless, given that she’s stealing food rather than cash. We can offer security, and a way off the streets.”

He sits there for a moment, contemplating his decision. We’re both at the same level in the hierarchy, but this clearly falls within his area of responsibility, so it’s his decision in the end. I may not like it, but I’ll go along with it if he disagrees. I trust Jaeger’s reasoning, even if he can be a bit uptight at times.

“Fine,” he concedes, and I try to keep a smug grin off my face. “Until I get back. Then I’ll try it my way.”

We shake hands, and Jaeger stands up to leave. He adjusts his holsters, getting them comfortable against his thighs, before retrieving his long-barrelled rifle from where he’d leant it against the wall. Once he’s slung the mean-looking weapon over his shoulder, he turns back to me.

“By the way, what’s with all this ‘she’ business? He doesn’t look particularly feminine.”

“Just a hunch.” I smile mischievously. “Want to put your money where your mouth is?”

I place a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and give Jaeger my best shit-eating grin – something I’ve been practicing since I was nine. He swears under his breath, before adding his own hundred to my own. With that, he strides out of the door and leaves me alone in my office, with the video of the strange cape still looping on repeat.

Days pass, and I spend more and more of my time trying to figure out the strange cape. Jaeger lends me one of his PRT moles, through an intermediary of course, and through them I get a report of our cape getting involved in a fight against the Hive. The PRT briefly considered the possibility that she’s aligned with the hive, but quickly dismissed it. Either way, they start to increase their efforts at recruiting her. The Triad learns about her as well, through a shopkeeper who pays them protection, and suddenly it seems like the whole city is looking for her.

With that newfound attention, the information starts to flood in. The description of how the cape moved after being found by Telekine gives me my most important insight; rather than moving into her Stranger form, she ran away down the street. That’s what leads me to the conclusion that she can only use her Stranger state in areas of low light.

Two days later her pattern changes again. She starts stealing cash, first limiting herself to loose change before moving onto larger and larger amounts. At first, I think she’s been picked up by the Triad, but my contacts deny it and she’s still stealing food. It’s confusing, but it makes it a little easier for me. After all, the most cash in the area passes through my little kingdom of brothels and strip clubs. So I have Jaarsveld tell everyone to be a look out, and install dozens more cameras around the perimeter of the district.

It pays off a couple of nights later, when our mystery cape is seen throwing herself out of Desire’s second floor office. She can’t move fast, not with a case full of loose cash in her hands, so I leap into one of our cars and drive as fast as I can to cut her off, guided by Jaars in the CCTV room. I bring the car to a stop a block ahead of her last-seen location, and start to stalk through the alleyways, until I spot her crawling down a dingy alleyway, clutching her prize to her chest.

Somehow, she looks even darker in person. I’ve seen her on the cameras, of course, but it’s another thing entirely to see her obviously inhuman body in person. Her four main limbs are clearly powerful – with taut muscle visible in every movement – but it’s a lean strength, suited to running rather than fighting. The two limbs tucked underneath her head, in contrast, are almost shockingly human in appearance, if the same midnight black as the rest of her. Her six eyes, piercing and yellow, are darting around the alleyway fearfully.

I take a deep breath, and step out in front of her.