Some would think that the rain deters crime.

It doesn't.

In fact, the rain just increases crime rates. The darkness provided covers any visual dealings that might attract attention, and if there's thunder, then it covers any audio. So, if one were to ask whether I should be out here, I would probably say no.

Actually, I'm not supposed to be out here without supervision, although Aria's probably still in my mask.

I—I just feel the need to clear my head. Maybe do some good hero work out in the field, so to speak. Heroes are hammers, police are the scalpels, but we both have the power to arrest in the end. Nobody would mind if I cleaned up some trash.

Like this mugger in the back alley.

I look into the sky, feeling the negligible impacts of raindrops on my mask. I stand invisible to the two figures nearby, one looking like a grizzled meth-head, missing teeth and all, and the other a drunken businessman. The meth-head looks to stand casually, gun hidden in his tarnished leather coat, but I can perceive his ticks, his jitters, as he watches the businessman fumble with his wallet.

With a tick of my mind, the safety on the gun is flicked on. Then with a bigger tug, I pull the gun away, suspending it in midair. Before either of them can process what's happening, I charge, my fist colliding with meth-head's right ribs.

*KABOOM!*

The crack of the ribs is covered by the flash and instant thunder. I can still feel the loose, floating ribs. Meth-head goes down like a mob informant meets the East River. He clutches his chest, softly crying in pain.

"Aria," I say while checking my mic toggle, "can you please call a paramedic?"

"Of course," she says, somewhat like how a mother says yes even though it might be the stupidest thing their child had ever said. I toggle my mask and turn towards the businessman stumbling along the wall, heading for the main sidewalk.

I silently stalk towards him, tightly gripping his should once I'm only a foot away. "Excuse me," I say in the sweetest voice I can muster, "I need to take a statement."

He nods, but he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

————————————————————————————————————

Mmkay. That's done and over with. A nice talk with the paramedics was all that was needed to explain the situation. Something something held at gunpoint.

That was a nice test of my Telekinesis, but I still need to practice my magic. Damn it!

Something…alerts me. My ears… Or maybe just some sixth sense, but I turn and look down the sidewalk. A person approaches, but I can't make out their face in this downpour. I can just barely make out their clothes; they're dressed like a detective from the 1950's.

Suit, coat, fedora. Yeah… Well, they're definitely too thin to be some basement dweller.

Their hat is pointed down, masking their face, but I would think that would soak the back of their collar? Unless they just don't care or are an idiot.

"Agh," he says, familiarity crawling up my spine. "This thing never fits right!"

I cross my arms, raise a single eyebrow, and give a judgmental stare at Dr. Archimedes. He pointedly ignores me in favor of fixing his fedora, something he has trouble with as his left hand is occupied holding a tablet.

Tucking the tablet under his armpit, he finally readjusts his hat, grabbing the tablet back, and stares me in the eyes.

I meet him, refusing to be the one to start this conversation. He showed up, he's going to talk. Staring back, he starts wiping the screen. It's a futile effort. The storm masks any improvements he makes.

Continuing on, I match his gaze, arms starting to fidget as I fight the rising urge inside me. The urge to blink!

Thomas shows no change in emotion to my obvious discomfort. We're nearing two minutes now, and my eyes are starting to water up.

I blink. "Damn it!" I shout.

"Yes!" Thomas pumps his fist, closes his eyes, and almost does the whip in his mini victory dance. "Alright, I bet you're wondering why I'm here—"

"Yes!" I calmly shout, blinking the rain and shame out of my eyes.

"…yes. Anyway, I'm following up on what you said back at your…house. You know, the, uh, thing about you not having a class." He sniffs and wipes his nose. "This—" he waves the tablet a little "—was a different project Aria and I were working on. See if we could link tech to the System, or people's systems to each other—doesn't matter. What it can do though is read the console output from an individual."

I understand nothing. "So what? You want to read my status?"

He tilts his head back and forth a little bit. "Ehh, kinda. I mean, if I read every status message you had since you were born I could probably piece it together, but I'm after the messages the System doesn't show people: the error logs."

"What does that mean, or rather, have to do with anything?"

"If I'm wrong, nothing, and I must make a new hypothesis on why you don't have classes. Or at least, maybe shine some light on an avenue. You see, my first thought was your evolution from a fully sapient race into something half-monster. Usually, it's the other way around, and the System just didn't know how to handle it. But, you've had this for, presumably, your entire life."

"Okay, doc. Whatever'll make me better, and get us out of this rain." I'm honestly too tired to question…or care…anymore.

"Wonderful. Just tap on the screen here." He holds out the tablet and I do as instructed. Immediately, the screen fills up with hacker-like text that flies up faster than I can perceive.

Thomas, meanwhile, stares intently at the screen. I wonder if he's using that perception/cognition skill he used on me. He looks up. "Sorry, was setting up the Bluetooth feed to my head." Or not…

"Well, first of all, your System tracks a lot of useless data. Like, a lot of useless data. It's holding so many variables that track stuff like how many blood cells you have…and sends it…somewhere. Still trying to figure out where. Variables like these are normally used for skills or status, so I think it's where your HP is determined, but don't quote me on that."

Sighing, he looks up. "Listen, the one of the hardest things in programming is deciphering someone else's code. Something harder is doing so from the console log, so I'll get back to you in a few days, maybe a week. Okay?"

I shrug. "Sure."