Even before he recruited me as his apprentice, Jason Hunt had help. The scope of his mission was always too vast for one man alone. He’d inherited a great deal of money when he was young, but it was never going to be enough to fund his operations as Hawkshaw forever. So he rescued an accountant for the mob who’d outlived his usefulness, saving him from an assassination attempt that had been meant to ensure he never testified. The meticulously-kept records made their way to the DA’s office, but the accountant himself was believed to have been killed. In reality, Jason had recruited him to covertly manage his finances, and ensure that there was always a steady supply of untraceable cash he could use to finance his double life.

There are about a half-dozen others who serve similar purposes. Jason always kept them on a strict information diet. Only a few knew his real name. Some think they’re just working for Jason Hunt, others have only ever known him as Hawkshaw. They all serve one purpose or another, helping keep us in business. For the most part, he contacted them through encrypted messages that they burned after reading. Tonight, I need to see one of them in person.

Most of the equipment in Hawkshaw’s kit is special. Not unique, but not the kind of thing the average person can just buy. Jason had various methods of acquiring new gear. Some of it he’d purchase through intermediaries or shell companies. Others, he would simply take, if he could do so in an ethical manner. When we’d take down smuggling operations, most of the goods would be turned over to the police, but if there was anything particularly useful, we’d take some for ourselves. I recently found out that some of his gear was provided by members of the clandestine organization he was a member of, the Council. But no matter the source, it was all just individual pieces of equipment. In order to operate effectively, Jason couldn’t be carrying around a duffel bag full of gadgets. He needed them incorporated into his suit, or modified so they were compact enough to fit in his utility belt. And for that task, he recruited Luke Chambers.

The average super-genius doesn’t end up working for a masked vigilante in a secret lab. Sure, being superhumanly smart or talented in a specific field isn’t as exciting as being able to fly, but at least it’s a lot easier to make money off of. That was what Chambers thought too- so he started selling gadgets out of his garage. He might have been the next Steve Jobs or Marcus Robards, if the Jackals hadn’t stepped in, and put Chambers to work building weapons for them. To make a long story short, Jason shut the operation down, and offered Chambers a choice. He could return to his normal life and be killed by the Jackals within a week, or Hawkshaw could make him disappear, and he could use his talents to do some good in the world. Put that way, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

Of course, even after Jason set him up with a fake name in a small town in Nebraska, working on incorporating new tech into Hawkshaw’s arsenal in the hidden lab underneath his house, he remained rather paranoid, convinced the Jackals- or any one of Jason’s other enemies -would eventually come for him. Which is why he’s pointing a gun at me right now.

“Put the gun down, Chambers. It’s just me.”

Even with the lights in the workshop off, that much is fairly obvious. But the technician doesn’t flinch. I recognize the weapon. It’s a prototype plasma cannon, originally intended as a multi-purpose tool that could replace Jason’s acetylene torch and sidearm in one. He rejected it for overheating too frequently, but clearly Chambers hung onto it after the fact. If he pulled the trigger, I’d be in trouble, but I can think of a dozen ways to disable him before that happens. With any luck, I won’t have to.

“You tripped the silent alarm on your way in. He never does that.”

I suppress a sigh. This is the first time I’ve been here since becoming Hawkshaw- the last time I visited was with Jason, when I called myself Harrier. I informed everyone who needed to know that Jason had been replaced, but apparently that isn’t enough to dispel Chambers’ suspicions.

“Figured I would announce myself on the way in. Seemed rude to just sneak up on you.”

That was more Jason’s M.O. than mine. When dealing with suspects, I’m prepared to be exactly as intimidating as he was, but Chambers is an ally, if not exactly a friend. Still, it’s clearly going to take some time before Jason’s allies get used to the way I operate, and stop expecting me to just be him.

“What’s the password?”

I’ll give him credit- Chambers is fairly calm. His voice is steady, his body language indicates some measure of confidence, and his finger isn’t on the trigger. Not likely to snap and start firing, which would be unfortunate for the both of us. Most paranoiacs are a lot twitchier. Then again, most paranoiacs don’t have as much reason to believe they’re being hunted as Chambers does.

“Almace.”

Jason had a bit of a thing for mythological swords, for some reason. He didn’t use them for every password, as that would have been terrible information security protocol, but they pop up every now and again with him.

Finally, Chambers lowers the gun, but beyond that, he doesn’t relax. I can’t blame him.

“If they got to him, that means they can get to me,” he says, the hard edge gone from his tone. I doubt he cared much for Jason as a person, but the news that he was gone had clearly hit hard. I can do my best to reassure him, but Jason backed up his promises with the fact that he’d saved the guy’s life once before. It’ll probably take years before he feels as comfortable with me as he did my predecessor. Assuming Jason doesn’t suddenly resurface, of course. There’s no reason to write him off quite yet.

“Maybe so. But not if I find whoever got to him first. And for that, I’m going to need your assistance.”

Insisting that he’s got no reason to be afraid won’t do much, but maybe I can channel that nervous energy into something productive. Chambers puts the gun down on his desk, and sinks into the chair, still facing me. I don’t move. As Harrier, I might have leaned against the wall, or found a place to sit, but Hawkshaw is a different kind of character, and if I want to give a good performance, even the smallest things matter. That means minimizing unnecessary movements. Every additional step I take does a little bit of damage to the image of Hawkshaw as a larger-than-life being. I’m not just a detective, I’m the detective.

“What for? I already said, I won’t be finished with the gauntlet upgrades for another week.”

His manners leave a little to be desired. Probably has something to do with the fact that he spends most of his time alone down here. The odds of anyone tracking him down in a remote town in the middle of Nebraska are low, but that doesn’t stop him from treating every single resident like a potential threat.

“Something else.”

I raise one arm, and activate my hard-light shield. The room is bathed in a soft yellow glow as it comes online. Its appearance doesn’t surprise Chambers- he was the one who installed it. After a moment, I switch it off, and return us to darkness. Given how much time he spends down here, I wouldn’t be surprised if Chambers could navigate the place blindfolded. The workshop is organized quite neatly, with all of the engineer’s tools kept in their proper locations. My spare armor is on the workbench, awaiting further work on upgrades I requested a few weeks ago. Once they’re finished, I’ll switch suits, giving Chambers the one I’m currently wearing to upgrade as well. It wouldn’t do for Hawkshaw to be out of commission every time upgrades or repairs to the suit are necessary.

“Did he ever say anything about where he got the shield?”

Chambers shakes his head. “Nope. Showed up the usual way, along with some design specs and where he wanted it installed on the suit. I was curious, too.”

Standard protocol is to send new gear to Chambers in the mail- concealed within a larger, more innocuous package, of course. It’s much easier than making the hand-off in person every time, which also risks drawing attention to this location. When the item in question is particularly sensitive, like the miniature nuclear battery that powers the Hawkshaw suit, there are other methods. Interesting that the hard-light shield arrived the usual way, despite having been designed by a Council member.

“What about the digital cloak?”

Another bit of tech that I’m reasonably certain came from the Council. Specifically Sandra Lai, AKA Zero, the same mind behind the hard-light shield. It makes me invisible to cameras and other machines while I’m in the suit. The same tech made it impossible for me to run facial recognition on her at the Council’s headquarters. At first, I didn’t understand why the rest of them weren’t also using it, but the ones with public identities have no reason to, since their faces are recognizable even without the use of technology, and the others have no reason to wear it inside the Council’s secret base.

“Nope. You know how he was about infosec.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about- and that’s the problem. Since I don’t know where most of his gear comes from, I can’t be sure what’s from the Council and what isn’t. Which is precisely why I’m here.

“I do. But.”

Confusion registers on his face. My helmet switched to night vision automatically when it registered low-light conditions, so the darkness does nothing to disguise Chambers’ expression.

“But what?”

“But you looked into it, didn’t you?”

I am an investigator, after all. Half of detective work is collecting evidence and building an airtight case, but the other half is following your gut. Chambers is curious, especially when it comes to tech. It has to kill him to get all these toys in the mail and not know where they come from, or how to get more. He keeps some of his creations for himself, obviously- mostly things that Jason or I reject, like the plasma cannon, which is too large and energy-inefficient for our standard kit. But when it comes to other stuff, I’m willing to bet he hasn’t been able to resist the urge to do some detective work of his own, and try to find out where some of the gear comes from.

Chambers slumps into the chair slightly, looking guilty. Then he bucks up and grins. “Busted. But hey, at least I managed to fool the other guy.”

That’s exceedingly unlikely, but I won’t burst his bubble. If I had to guess, Jason let Chambers continue his little investigation specifically because he wanted me to use that information. It’s still a little frustrating how he manages to always be ten steps ahead.

“How much did you find out?” There isn’t much point in chastising him. The information is largely harmless in his hands, since he’s too concerned about being killed to ever act on any of it. And he could use the opportunity to show off.

“A lot. Some of it was easy- stuff I recognized, even if I don’t know how he got his hands on it. Other stuff was harder. He liked to fund research into stuff he needed covertly, so I tried to follow the money, like in that one movie. He made it pretty hard, but I knew exactly what to look for in terms of the finished products.”

If he spent less time doing that, and more on the projects he was assigned, Chambers would probably be a lot more efficient. But I keep that thought to myself for now, considering he’s making himself useful at the moment.

“Let me guess,” I ask. “For the shield and the digital cloak, you couldn’t find anything? Not even a few maybes?”

Chambers’ eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. You think there’s something up with those?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Pull up your list, and isolate the ones you couldn’t find anything on at all.”

With a nod, Chambers spins around and starts tapping away at his keyboard. I step closer quietly, in order to startle him when he turns back around.

It takes about half an hour for us to go down the list. I point out a few false positives, but the majority of items on Chambers’ list that he couldn’t identify are ones I don’t know the origin of either. And with a small handful of exceptions, they all seem like they could plausibly be products of one or more members of the Council.

Chambers tries to probe me for information about this line of questioning a few times, but I don’t give him anything. Frustrating as it could be at times, Jason’s information hygiene policy was smart. It’s kept our identities safe, as well as the various secrets of his operation. So safe that there are some that even I don’t know about.

The purpose of this exercise isn’t merely to identify which parts of my arsenal are from the Council and which aren’t. I’d already guessed most of them before coming here. But knowing which parts of my kit are potentially compromised isn’t the same as doing something about it. Alone, I’m not capable of dismantling each item and making sure there aren’t any tracking devices inside, but with Chambers’ help, and the aid of my enhanced learning, I’ll be able to know my new allies aren’t using their ‘gifts’ to listen in on me.

That’s a bit pointless when the implant they put in my wrist can transmit my location, and probably record my conversations. But I know where the implant is, and if I need to, I can always dig it out. As for the possibility that I’m being recorded, I’ve taken measures to deal with it, utilizing a device intended to distort audio recordings while being imperceptible to the people being recorded. Neither Chambers nor I can actually hear it, but anyone who’s trying to listen in on us will hear nothing but static over our voices. They’ll also know I suspect I’m being recorded but the Council could hardly confront me over it without admitting that they were spying on me.

“Okay. That’s all of them,” Chambers says, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Are we done?”

“No. There’s one more thing I need from you.”

Once I’m finished with Chambers, I take the underground exit out of his lab. I could use the implant to return to HQ immediately, but becoming overly reliant on it feels like a mistake. I intend only to use it to travel back and forth from the Council facility. Instead, I ride the underground rail from Chambers’ lab to the hidden hangar located underneath an abandoned barn on a property Jason purchased anonymously several miles north. The location is isolated, so nobody sees when the VTOL takes off or lands, and the vehicle itself is equipped with a digital cloak to prevent it from being picked up by radar or satellite.

Always fond of references to fictional detectives- including one who had served as the inspiration for his masked alias -Jason had called the VTOL Hercule, after Agatha Christie’s most iconic character. Ironically enough, Christie herself grew tired of the character after decades of writing him, describing the man as a ‘detestable, bombastic, tiresome, ego-centric little creep.’ When I pointed that out to Jason, he just laughed.

It’s an undeniably impressive vehicle, despite the dubious origins of its namesake. Commissioned anonymously by Jason from an aeronautics manufacturer for a truly ridiculous amount of money, he later had engineering teams outfit it with various dubiously-legal aftermarket upgrades, ensuring that it would be equipped for any situation. It sees the most use out of any of his vehicles, though he did acquire a handful of others for more specialized purposes.

After I got the implant, the Council members handling my induction gave me a file containing some relevant materials. The blueprint of their facility I’d been promised, an overview of the resources at their disposal, and a copy of their ‘mission statement,’ written by their founder- ‘Gilgamesh.’ After that, I’d returned to headquarters, and gone looking for Jason’s final message to me.

When he’d said in my memory that I would know how to find it, he hadn’t been wrong. The trigger phrase used to unlock that memory had been Halteclere, an alternative spelling of the name of the sword of Oliver, a knight from the Matter of France, and close confidant to the story’s hero, Roland. Oliver was described as possessing ‘poise and wisdom’ in combat, and one of his more famous quotes is often translated as ‘Reasonableness is preferable to recklessness.’

Knowing all of that, it wasn’t hard to see some double meanings in the use of that particular name. Jason wouldn’t have told me the password outright, so I’d used the more conventional spelling instead- Hauteclere. That had been enough to unlock a cache of hidden files on the mission computer. And a biometric scan, of course.

It had been pretty much exactly what I was expecting- confirmation that he’d been a member of the Council, detailed files on every member of the group, notes on their resources and technology, a few unrelated files included because he knew I’d only be reading them after I took over as Hawkshaw, and a personal message addressed to me. What was missing were the contingency plans for taking them down. I had no doubt Jason had spent a great deal of time thinking about it, but they weren’t included with the rest. That suggested that he felt even our headquarters wasn’t secure. It was unlikely that he simply didn’t want the Council finding out he had files on them- they would be stupid not to have contingency plans of their own. But if they knew what his specific plans were, they could take measures to defend themselves. If I’m right, it means I’m going to have to find those contingencies, sooner rather than later.

When I try to model what my friends and allies would think about this situation, most of them are curious why I’d immediately begin making plans to take the Council down. Their methods are somewhat questionable, but even Jason had to admit in his message that they’ve done an enormous amount of good in the world. Putting aside the question of whether they should be eliminated, the consequences of doing so would be wide-reaching. They’ve made themselves a load-bearing pillar of society itself. If my hunch is right, and they played a part in Jason’s disappearance, what course of action does that compel me to take? Bringing the Council to justice for one death would cause orders of magnitude more, as there would no longer be a force acting behind the scenes to ease tensions between nations and quietly neutralize major threats.

Obviously, this isn’t my first ethical dilemma, but it’s the first time I’ve truly had to handle one on my own. I can’t risk telling anyone about this, not when it would put them in danger. I don’t think Jason would have incorporated any equipment into his arsenal if he suspected there were any hidden listening devices or trackers, but he wasn’t infallible. The longer his absence continues, the harder it becomes not to put him on a pedestal, and make it impossible for myself to live up to my idealized memory of him. I have to remember that he chose me to replace him for a reason.

As heavy as the Council problem weighs on my mind, I can’t devote all my energy to it. Being Hawkshaw is still a full-time job. My nights are spent working cases and patrolling Pax, but during the daylight hours, I have my responsibility to the team. Unlike other super-groups, the Front Line doesn’t just sit around waiting for crises to respond to. We take a more proactive stance- and we don’t recognize the authority of any government, which means we’ve made plenty of enemies. Luckily, helping save the world tends to do good things for your favorability ratings, so nobody’s managed to have us branded as terrorists yet. Though, the more I think about it, it starts to seem plausible that Jason used his influence as a member of the Council to quash any more serious efforts at making his team outlaws. Yet another irritatingly compelling reason to continue working with them, despite my reservations.

Visiting Chambers was my first stop of the day. Next, I’m headed for Front Line home base- Skywatch Station, nestled within the Rocky Mountains. The Peacekeepers have their tower in Los Angeles, the Royals have a castle in Scotland, and we have a hollow mountain in the midwest. Less exciting, but a great deal more secure, and located right under the nose of the American government. Except for the fact that the American government is effectively run by a member of the Council, who had a tracking device inside Jason for years. Meaning that if I ever get on their bad side, all Network has to do is ‘discover’ where the Front Line’s base has been this whole time, and authorize a strike. That’s a cheerful thought.

As terrifying as Network’s vast influence is, he’s not the Council member I’m most concerned about. Nor is it Geas, now that I’m reasonably confident that my psychic countermeasures actually work on him. Or even Grendel, as dangerous an opponent as he would be. I’m worried about their boss. Gilgamesh, he calls himself. Just reading the mission statement he wrote was enough to make me understand why Professor Superior called him the most dangerous member of an already dangerous group.

I have been called many things in my time. The name my first mother gave me, I have long since forgotten. In the last thousand lifetimes, the name I have chosen is Gilgamesh. For longer than I can remember, I have been caught in a cycle of death and rebirth. Each new life begins under different circumstances, on the exact same date. And when that life ends, be it a natural death or a premature one, I begin another. I have conquered nations and liberated them, saved countless lives and taken countless more. For thousands of lifetimes, I have lived, bearing witness to innumerable alternative histories. Even without my intervention, events play out differently in each life. But over the course of my last hundred lives, I began to detect a pattern. I have seen the world end many times before, but under similar circumstances, such that I have been able to prevent some scenarios from happening in the first place. But in my most recent lives, each timeline has ended earlier and earlier, under such radically different conditions that my efforts to prevent the apocalypse have been in vain, again and again. In this life, I chose to try a different course of action. Drawing on my knowledge of utopian timelines, and worlds where humanity was able to avert doomsday scenarios, I assembled a coalition of brilliant minds and fearsome warriors, in order to pool our resources and break the cycle of civilizational collapse once and for all.

This, above all else, is the Council’s purpose. Never lose sight of that.

I’ve faced immortals before. They make for challenging opponents, as anyone with hundreds of years of combat experience would. But with the pace at which modern technology develops, it’s often possible to surprise them with a trick or tool they simply aren’t expecting. Gilgamesh isn’t an ordinary immortal- he’s something far more dangerous. He’s lived through the same era from different perspectives, thousands of times. If that’s true, it means there’s virtually nothing he hasn’t seen. He’ll be impossible to surprise, and even harder to beat head-on.

Jason was skeptical about Gilgamesh’s claims as well, but he gives his own perspective in the notes he left. While there’s no real way to conclusively prove that what he says is true, there’s a mountain of circumstantial evidence to suggest that it is. He has a collection of weapons and artifacts so vast that only someone who’s spent lifetimes searching for them could have ever amassed. Information that nobody, not even a telepath like Geas, should have been able to access. And an encyclopedic knowledge of potential world-ending threats. However, based on his description of the time-loop, events don’t play out identically in each lifetime, and the end-times scenarios he experienced on repeat before this timeline were all ones he’d never seen before, and wasn’t able to prevent. Which explains why he felt the need to create the Council. That means that all of the good that the Council has done is essentially a byproduct of his mission to prevent the end of the world.

I have little doubt that most people would think me unhinged for assessing every person I meet as a potential threat, but it’s all part of being a detective. Everyone I meet is a potential suspect, and when dealing with a suspect, you can’t simply concern yourself with determining their guilt or innocence- you have to worry about how you’ll take them down if they are guilty. And with Gilgamesh, I’m at a loss.

The VTOL informs me that we’re on the approach for Skywatch Station, sparing me from thoughts of how to fight a man who’s probably killed me a dozen times before. I was never as reliant as Jason on compartmentalization, but that’s what I’m going to have to do. I won’t be able to operate effectively if I’m distracted by thinking about the Council, so I take all my stress and concern and bury it. I might have those emotions, but Hawkshaw can’t afford to. Not when there’s work to be done.

To an uninitiated observer, it would appear that my vehicle is on a collision course with the side of a mountain. In reality, that part of the mountain was removed and replaced with reinforced metal doors, beyond which is the hangar of Skywatch Station. A holographic projection hides this fact from the outside world. The hangar doors slide open, and the Hercule descends quietly. It’s not completely silent, but this particular aircraft isn’t specialized for stealth. It’s a multirole transport vehicle, with a greater carrying capacity at the expense of speed. The mounted weapons make it useful for engaging enemies on land, but subpar in dogfights.

As the VTOL lands, the hangar doors slide shut with a dull thud. I take the exit ramp at the back of the vehicle, grabbing my bag on the way out. Despite everything on my mind, I managed to remember that I’d offered to restock the fridge here. None of us live here full-time, but considering there aren’t exactly any places to get take-out in the heart of the Rockies, it’s important to keep food handy. I keep a strict diet, since staying in shape is significantly more important for me than the rest of the team, but the others don’t usually complain about my choices.

As I take the door out of the otherwise-empty hangar, I can’t help but notice how much smaller Skywatch Station is than the Council’s facility. That’s not without cause- for one, the Front Line is a third of the size of the Council, and none of us live here full-time. For another, we don’t have access to arbitrary amounts of money like they do. If Jason hadn’t discovered the existence of the facility that became Skywatch, we’d probably be operating out of a warehouse right now. The place used to be a decommissioned military facility that was built as part of some insane scheme to win a hypothetical second Civil War. Most of it was done off-books, but when it became obvious that the high social tensions of the eighties weren’t going to result in anything more serious than a few broken shop windows, funding was pulled, and the place was abandoned. Until the Front Line came along.

Even if it’s less labyrinthine than the Council’s base, Skywatch Station still serves our purposes well. It has a gymnasium, armory, medical facility, secure storage lockup, forensics lab, computer room, and common area, which features a small kitchen area. The station’s layout is simple- the hangar to the south, common room to the north, and all the other rooms located off the central hallway. I’m headed to the common area to drop off the groceries- and because that’s probably where the rest of the team is.

The common room pretty much resembles the living room of a small apartment. There’s a couch, a TV, a small bookshelf, and a kitchenette. When the team first moved in, the walls were a drab grey, but somebody decided a vaguely tan color would be more pleasant. Almost certainly not Jason. As expected, Adamant and Vindicator are sitting on the couch, observing the oversized wall monitor. It’s set into the wall, so when it’s not in use, it displays a looped recording of the horizon, a simulated window inside of our mountain base. Right now, though, it’s showing a drone feed high above a stretch of railroad tracks in an arid region. I shrug off my trenchcoat as I walk in, and toss it over the back of a chair.

“Kell, there you are,” Vindicator says, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “You’re usually the first one here.”

My helmet comes off next. The suit is designed to be as comfortable as possible for long-term use, but there’s no reason to disguise my face among allies. Jason wore the full suit almost all the time, but I prefer to look my friends in the eye when I talk to them. The helmet goes on the counter in the kitchenette, and I place the bag of groceries next to it.

“Taking care of some business. All quiet in my absence?”

Clay nods, and takes notice of the bag. He pushes himself up off the couch, and walks over to the counter. His suit is mostly form over function, since he can stop bullets without the aid of armor, but it’s somewhat padded, with insulation to help with extreme temperatures. It’s a white bodysuit, with gold highlights, and an x-shaped bandolier on the chest, packed full of various kinds of ammunition. Most are either titanium or rubber, for lethal or non-lethal use respectively, but he also has more exotic options for special occasions. He’s also got smaller ammo belts on his legs and arms. He wears a V-symbol inside of a circle in the middle of the chest belt. Over the years, the bodysuit itself also got more practical, with some degree of protection against the kinds of attacks that his telekinetic field can’t stop.

“Here, let me help with that.”

Clay reaches inside the bag and puts his hand on one of the heavier items, a jug of milk, and uses his power to lift it out. His power is telekinesis, but it’s limited to a small area around his body. Underwhelming, unless you’re aware of two facts. One, he can extend that field around any object he touches, allowing him to simulate superhuman strength by ‘lifting’ extremely heavy objects with ease. Two, he can launch objects inside of his field at arbitrarily high speeds, making him a human railgun. Hence the ammunition he carries when in costume.

“Thanks.”

Working together, we empty out the bag in about a minute, filling up the fridge and the barren cupboards. It’s comically mundane, but even metahumans need to eat; unlike more legitimate super-groups out there, we can’t just hire people to fill the pantry for us.

“Would it have killed you to pick up a six-pack?” The question is sarcastic, but I can hear Jason in my head, responding with some variation of ‘No, but it might get someone else killed. Using your power while drunk would be extremely dangerous.’

Instead, I give him a chuckle. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Bag emptied, I take a seat on the couch, a respectful distance away from Adamant, and nod at the monitor. “Anything good on?” Behind me, I hear Clay head off into another room.

“Silver Serpent drug transport is headed north today,” Haley replies. “We’re gonna hit ‘em here in a few hours.”

I nod, taking in the location. Trains are tricky, for obvious reasons. Especially one run by Silver Serpent. They call themselves serpents, but in my experience they’re closer to a hydra. Every time we cut off one head, two more grow back. Though we’re based in America, the Front Line doesn’t operate within the States often. The Peacekeepers, and other licensed teams like them, handle most domestic threats fine. But when it comes to a group like the Serpent, we’re better-suited for the task. Over the last ten years, they’ve become the biggest cartel in Latin America, thanks to a handful of metas at its head. And since half the bureaucrats are taking bribes just to stymie any attempt to authorize aid from American law enforcement, the Peacekeepers’ hands are tied.

Of course, the US government could lean on its less powerful neighbors to the south to authorize an intervention if it really wanted. They don’t for a very simple reason- that would mean the cash stops flowing. The CIA’s history of funding off-the-books operations through drug trafficking is long and well-documented, and the advent of superheroes and supercriminals didn’t do much to change that. The black budget for the Department of Metahuman Affairs has to come from somewhere, and it certainly isn’t going to come out of the checkbooks of the plutocrats who really run Washington. Instead, they have ‘arrangements’ with various organizations like Silver Serpent all over the world, to help launder drug money and funnel it into their secret projects, while cops and capes alike have to sit on their hands. That’s where we come in.

Despite all the influence the Council has, they clearly can’t put an end to those operations- or perhaps they simply don’t care to. After all, if they effectively run the government from the shadows, that means the government’s interests are their interests too. Some of the CIA’s cut of Silver Serpent’s profits goes towards buying the next bleeding-edge tank from Marcus Robards and Anvil Inc. A big, incestuous ouroboros. But being a member of the Council didn’t ever keep Jason from going after groups like Silver Serpent, and it’s not going to stop me either.

“Sounds good. How much resistance are we looking at?”

Adamant nods approvingly. I’ve held Jason’s seat on the team for two months now, and she’s mostly stopped treating me like a rookie, but every so often she’ll let a small gesture like that slip. I don’t really mind- she certainly has enough experience to justify it. And I’m well-aware of my own limitations.

“We’ve hit them twice already this month, so I’d expect increased security. A handful of baselines on guard duty, ten to fifteen combat enhanciles, and maybe a meta, if we’re unlucky.”

I mull it over in my head for a moment, mostly thinking about what I want to bring along with me. Unfortunately, Watson won’t be of much use- it can move pretty fast, but not fast enough to keep up with a speeding train. Then again, that assumes we’re going to be on the train while it moves, which isn’t necessarily a given.

“Sounds manageable. How do you want to play it?”

Folding her arms, Haley frowns slightly, still looking up at the screen. The Front Line doesn’t have a leader- instead, one of us calls the shots on any given mission, depending on the context. In this case, Adamant will be taking point, since she has the most experience with Silver Serpent.

“Haven't made up my mind yet. The spot I picked would be ideal if we wanted to derail, but I’m not sure going loud would be the best play. There’s a chance it would attract unwanted attention, and drive Serpent further underground. But if we try to take them down onboard, things could get messy. Lots of close-quarters fighting, and the route would take us near a small town if we took too long.”

Clearly annoyed by the dilemma, Haley starts tapping one finger against her arm. The soft clink of metal-on-metal fills what would otherwise be a silent room. Adamant’s skin is made from a metamaterial called adamantine, which is virtually indestructible. Scientists have managed to synthesize it in small amounts under laboratory conditions, at significant expense, but Haley’s whole body is made from the stuff. Not only does it make her fantastically durable, it also grants her enhanced strength, speed, and stamina, as well as resistance to psychic attacks. She’s also an experienced metahuman combatant, and I’ve worked with her long enough to know that she isn’t really looking for my advice.

“You’ll make the right call.”

Hopefully the comment doesn’t come off as insincere- it was meant genuinely. Adamant acknowledges it nonverbally, her attention never wavering from the screen. Despite appearances, she can be fun to be around, but only ‘after hours,’ when we aren’t actively planning or executing an operation. The cape/civilian divide is even more stark for her than it is for Clay and I, as her metal form has a distinct impact on her mental faculties. She gains extreme clarity and focus, as well as supercomputer-like cognition, at the expense of her sense of humor. While transformed, she tends to be extremely serious, and take things more literally than they’re meant to be.

“Want a drink? I picked up a bunch of that cherry-vanilla soda you like.”

I tasted the stuff once on her recommendation and found it disgustingly sweet, even by the standards of soda. According to Haley, it has to be that sweet for her to be able to taste it while in metal form. She also doesn’t gain any weight while transformed, so she can eat as much junk as she likes- though she doesn’t get any nutrition while metal either.

“Sure.”

Getting up off the couch, I grab a can from the fridge and toss it her way. Haley catches it one-handed without looking. The mechanical precision is another perk of her power, near-instant reaction times a result of her hyperconductive nervous system. She processes information faster, and there’s virtually no lag time between thinking and doing for her, granting her an inhuman level of coordination and grace. Despite all that, people still habitually underestimate her, thinking that she’s just a run-of-the-mill brick.

While Adamant pops the tab on her drink, I head out of the common room, leaving her to work out a plan of attack. For a bigger mission, we’d sit down and hammer out a plan together, but an operation like this is fairly routine. The Front Line exists to serve a fairly specific purpose, handling things that the sanctioned super-teams either can’t or won’t. Even with larger groups keeping a lid on conventional super-crime, we manage to keep ourselves busy, thanks in part to our habit of directly challenging national governments. For obvious geopolitical reasons, the NATO-affiliated teams can’t go in and shut down state-sponsored concentration camps in foreign nations without risking an international conflict, and they certainly aren’t going to do anything about domestic state-sponsored concentration camps. We don’t wave any flag, and we’ve got enough firepower to operate with relative impunity, which means we can tackle the problems other heroes can’t.

Our stateless status has its downsides, too. For one thing, we don’t get any federal funding, which makes running our operation more difficult than you might expect. Jason’s operation was expensive enough by itself, without the added costs of maintaining Skywatch Station, or outfitting two other heroes. That’s why the Front Line takes donations. In the first world, where we get plenty of bad press any time we embarrass the governments of those nations, people like us less- but there’s a steady flow of cash from the global south, who benefit more than the already-affluent from our actions. There isn’t a single one-percenter who’s willing to give us even a cent, but we wouldn’t take it regardless. Massive checks aren’t what keep us going, it’s small donations from tens of thousands of people who can see for themselves that we’re fighting for them.

There’s a whole complex system Jason helped set up that makes the donations impossible to trace back to us, but the details are painfully boring. As things stand, we can’t match the Peacekeepers or Royals in terms of resources, to say nothing of the state-sanctioned teams from China or India, but we make up for it in raw power. Most of that comes from Adamant and Vindicator, but Jason always pulled his weight, and I do as well. Tactile telekinesis and unbreakable skin are impressive, but they don’t do much to help manage logistics. Nor are they particularly suited for stealth. That’s where Hawkshaw shines.

As I pass by the door to the gymnasium, I hear a steady series of thuds, as rubber rounds are launched at reinforced targets at high velocities. Clay is practicing his shooting. It’s more of a pre-battle ritual for him than anything, since his power gives him augmented aim and a superior sense of timing, both so he doesn’t miss, and to help him avoid crashing into a brick wall at two hundred miles an hour. He’s probably the most empathetic of the three of us- every time he hits the wrong target, or does more damage than intended, he redoubles his efforts immediately after, determined never to make the same mistake twice. Plenty of powerful metas are the exact opposite, acting with complete confidence despite lacking a proper grasp on their own power. I decide not to interrupt him.

Right now, my destination is the medical facility. It’s more advanced than the one at my headquarters, since we sustain more severe and exotic injuries on missions with the team than individually. I’m not exactly injured, but there’s a foreign object in my body, and even if Jason’s message assured me that his implant wasn’t dangerous, that doesn’t necessarily mean the same is true for mine.

The med-bay is fully equipped for anything we might ever need to treat. Antitoxins for every conceivable venom or poison, terrestrial or otherwise, that we might encounter. A fully automated operating theater for complex surgeries. An isolation chamber for any infectious diseases or memes we might encounter, and a device capable of synthesizing a counteragent, vaccine, or antimeme within eight hours. What I’m here for is the diagnostic machine, capable of identifying any infections, internal damage, or other oddities after a quick x-ray, blood test, and DNA analysis. All the records are immediately and irrevocably destroyed after the test is complete, to prevent anyone from using the samples or the data gleaned from them against us.

My armor is hardened against radiation, so I skip the protective frock and simply step in front of the x-ray machine, giving it a few moments to get a full scan. A few drops of blood and hair follicles go in their respective trays, and I set the machine to work. It’s relatively quick, but the process will still take a few hours. While I wait, I head to the armory, intending to tune my gear up before the mission. Being able to do maintenance myself is one major advantage I have over Jason, since his ability to copy skills didn’t extend to engineering or mechanics. He taught himself the basics over the years, but thanks to my accelerated learning ability, I was able to surpass him in that area far sooner.

The armory is rather impressive as well. A half-dozen racks occupy most of the lower wall space, with at least a hundred and fifty guns of different makes in total. The heavier weapons are mounted higher up, though still within reach. There’s an ammunition fabricator, which makes regular bullets, as well as more exotic variants, including the ones Vindicator uses. I remove my armor, and place it in the workstation. It’s like a gyroscopic car lifter, designed to allow easy access to every part of the suit. Chambers has one in his workshop as well. It locks the limbs into place, and then raises the whole thing up off the ground, with a small lever allowing me to rotate it whichever way I want.

When he was just starting out, Jason wore standard body armor, combat boots, a ballistic mask, and a kevlar-lined trenchcoat. By the time I started working with him, his standard kit had undergone some serious upgrades, and the suit I inherited a few months ago is the most advanced version yet. Rather than individual pieces of clothing, it’s one machine- and machine is exactly the right word. Closer to an exoskeleton than ordinary body armor, it’s about three quarters of an inch thick in most places, only slightly thinner around the joints. The armor itself is made out of a ridiculously lightweight titanium composite, making it superior to conventional body armor while barely restricting my range of motion. More than that, it’s got an onboard computer that constantly monitors the wearer’s vitals, as well as regulating the servos that compensate for weight in the joints, giving the wearer additional striking power and speed. Impact-resistant plating under the surface diffuses the force of any projectile that impacts the armor, making specialized piercing rounds necessary to do any real damage. And there are dozens of built-in weapons systems, like the gauntlet taser, hard-light shield, and sonic emitters. All of it is powered by a miniature nuclear battery, meaning it could see uninterrupted use for years without requiring a recharge, so long as the person inside didn’t need to eat or sleep.

The suit is black, with no particular symbols or identifying features. Even the lenses on the helmet are tinted black, ensuring that my eyes aren’t visible at any range. It protects my entire head, attaching seamlessly to the rest of the suit. While individual pieces of the armor, like the helmet and gauntlets, can be removed at will, it doesn’t come apart completely when I want to change- instead, the back folds open, and I simply step out. Underneath, I wear a form-fitting jumpsuit that interfaces with the armor’s interior, and keeps me comfortable under most climate conditions, barring the most extreme. Remote connections are unreliable, so instead of accessing the more detailed database located at headquarters, the onboard computer contains a compressed version, with only the most pertinent information, linked to the helmet’s HUD. I can pull up any file from that database when necessary, and it uses facial recognition to identify persons or objects of interest automatically.

As of my most recent diagnostic, there aren’t any major issues with the suit’s functionality, so I focus on making minor adjustments- recalibrating the joints and servos to make sure they don’t unexpectedly lock up at an inopportune moment. They haven't before, but only because I make sure to regularly do this kind of maintenance. However, I have an ulterior motive for this as well. The most significant item on Chambers’ list of gear he hadn’t been able to identify was the armor itself. It’s more than a generation ahead of anything on the market today, with a single notable exception- the Machina armor. It’s nowhere near as advanced- for one thing, Robards’ suit can fly and fire lasers. But in terms of the basic functionality, they’re suspiciously similar. And when I think back on the timeline, the new suit first showed up around the same time Jason joined the Council. I can’t be completely certain, but my gut tells me that I’m right- this armor was designed by Machina himself.

Once I’m done with routine maintenance, I rotate the armor until the back is facing me, and open up the internals. I don’t usually have cause to adjust anything under the surface of the suit, and even with my technical expertise, I still don’t feel completely confident in tinkering with the more sensitive aspects of such a complex machine. But I learn fast, and if the most integral part of my arsenal is potentially compromised, I’m going to have to make some changes.

There aren’t exactly any WikiHow articles on modifying nuclear-powered exoskeletons, but I do have the technical specifications for the suit itself on the armor’s hard drive. I doubt they’re completely accurate- my whole cause for concern is the possibility that Machina left some nasty surprises inside the suit that he didn’t tell Jason or I about. But they’ll give my power a jumpstart when it comes to mastering this kind of mechanical engineering. I spend at least two hours working on the suit, slipping into a state of total focus, where my attention is completely concentrated upon the task in front of me. It’s not entirely unexpected, especially while I’m first diving into a new subject. Being able to learn faster doesn’t mean much if you aren’t capable of buckling down and studying. It’s not inconceivable that I could have lost track of time completely, and spent the rest of the time before leaving for the mission working on the suit, but for a noise from the other room. The chime informs me that the diagnostic machine is done analyzing the data I provided. That snaps me out of my fugue, and I take a moment to finish up what I was doing before closing the armor back up. I didn’t make any major changes this time, but after a little while longer spent studying the circuitry, I’ll be ready.

Leaving the armor on the workstation for now, I walk across the hall to the medical facility, and eyeball the readout on the diagnostic device’s screen. Aside from the implant itself, I’m clean. Nothing unusual in my bloodstream, my DNA sequencing is standard, and my internals are normal, at least by metahuman standards. The implant itself works as advertised- long-range communication, tracking, a translocator beacon, and a telepathic suppressor. No micro-explosives, and seemingly no mechanism by which it could be recording audio or video. Not that a live feed of the inside of my arm would do anybody much good. I’ll still have to be careful- after all, it was designed by one of the smartest men on the planet. But I don’t need to treat every single thing I say or hear as if it’s being broadcast back to the Council.

While I watch the data erase itself, Adamant’s voice comes over the PA system, clear and crisp.

“Draw arms. We’re wheels up in fifteen.”

Between the tunnel vision induced by my work on the armor and the relief I’d felt after confirming the implant wasn’t any more dangerous than I already understood it to be, I half forgot about the mission. Fortunately, I hadn’t left the suit half-deconstructed before leaving the armory. Quickly returning to the workstation and stepping back into the suit, I walk out of the armory and pass Haley on her way in, presumably to follow her own instructions and arm up. She gives me a curt nod as I head back to the common room to grab my mask and coat.

I grab the coat off the chair where I’d left it, and slip into it with a motion that I’ve had plenty of opportunities to practice in the past two months. It’s undergone some significant changes since Jason first put one on- this model is jet black, fireproof, stab-proof, resistant to low-caliber ammunition, and has a host of other minor features too numerous to list. Instead of buttons or a zipper, it fastens magnetically, and the quick double-tap of a concealed button on the left wrist deactivates the magnets, allowing me to reach down and grab anything I need from my utility belt. I leave it open most of the time, as it’s easier to move that way.

Picking my helmet up off the counter, I lower it onto my head, and press a small button on the back, locking it into position with the armor. Once it’s fully connected, the HUD comes online, with various readouts filling the four corners of my vision. Heart rate, blood pressure, et cetera. When I have a weapon linked, it’ll tell me how many rounds I have left in the magazine, and when the Watson drone is active, I can watch its feed through a small window in the corner of my HUD. I carry Watson inside one of the trenchcoat’s many interior pockets, since it was designed to be extremely compact for exactly that purpose.

With all that done, I turn around and head right back to the armory. For a regular patrol, I don’t need any additional equipment besides what’s included in the suit and utility belt. But when I’m with the team, a little more firepower is usually necessary. Even if I can’t expect to match Haley or Clay in terms of raw power, there’s no reason I shouldn’t at least try to stay competitive.

Vindicator is punching an order into the ammo fabricator when I enter. There are a few empty spaces on his various ammo belts, where he’s removed some rounds in anticipation of replacing them with ones more suited for this particular mission. Considering who we’re up against, he’s probably not making more rubber rounds.

“You ready?”

I meet Clay’s eyes as he looks my way. He’s put his mask on- a simple number that just covers his eyes. Classic superhero. Also doesn’t do much to protect his identity, but he’s so fast that the press never gets much of a chance to take pictures. Walking over to the racks, I inspect the selection for a moment before grabbing a gun and giving him my reply.

“Absolutely.”

While I’m linking the rifle’s targeting system to my helmet optics, Vindicator is positioning his projectiles on the various ammo belts using his power. They simply rotate around his body until they’re in the right position, and then insert themselves neatly into the open slot, no hands necessary. I take a few extra magazines and fit them into place on my belt and inside my coat. Whatever Silver Serpent has to offer, I doubt it’ll require armor-penetrating rounds, but I’d rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them.

“Good. Let’s get going.”