As adrenaline faded from my system, and the myriad bruises and aches that I've earned made themselves known, I let myself act mostly on autopilot. I remember the next several minutes in bits and pieces, as though I was not entirely there:

...Mandy trying to act all bossy and in control, even as she clung to Mark...

...Dimka playing with his staff lantern, flickering through the entire rainbow of colors...

...Explaining awol rounds to the kids, worried about their teammates and friends...

...Bobby stopping by with the van, opening the doors...

...Airstrike stepping aside in tacit acknowledgement that his boss crossed the line...

I came to as a flash of pinkish-blue light flared up somewhere down the road. I knew that effect, learned to recognize its color by rote.

Farside.

“It's time to scramble,” I told the Nefarious Nine. “The heroes will be here within the next three minutes.”

“Of course,” Roughouse nodded from where he was hovering by Mandy in an attempt at comfort so awkward, it would have been painful to watch, had it not also been so blatantly sincere. “Giddy up, guys.”

“Weavers, did he seriously just say that?” Somebody muttered from behind me.

Fortunately, the cheery yellow van was large enough to accommodate all six of us in addition to our cargo. Bobby sat behind the wheel, with Ruthless quickly claiming shotgun, while Mandy and Mark huddled together on the right. Dimka sat in the back, by the container, and as we left the parking lot and moved toward the main road, I noticed that he was still playing with his lantern, seeming to favor the ultraviolet.

The abilities Doombringer gained in his shadow state depended on the spectrum of the light that created said shadow. Ultraviolet was the one Bobby jokingly dubbed 'ultraviolent' – the one with all the hooks and barbs, if I was not mistaken. It was something of a window into Dimka's mind, and I pulled myself together, paying attention.

It did not take long to realize what was troubling the teenager. Everybody else got their moment of glory, a chance to shine, a story they could tell their friends. Mandy created the phantom army, Bobby and Mark each fought off superior numbers, and even Ruthless, the newcomer, managed to take down an armed mercenary that was twice her size. Dimka was left behind as a bodyguard, then failed even at that. His burgeoning resentment was born from a mixture of ego and guilt, and that made it a volatile, dangerous thing.

I moved to the back of the van, sitting down beside him.

“You'll have quite a story to share when you meet up with Savage and Sinister,” I casually pulled down Doombringer's hood, allowing me to see the thin, angular face beneath a mop of unruly black hair. “They'll probably have a ton of questions.”

Dimka hurriedly pulled it back up with both hands, almost dropping his staff.

“Hey, man, don't mess with the hood,” he protested.

“I can't see your face in it,” I told him cheerfully. “Don't be rude.”

“That's the point,” Dimka argued. “It has prime intimidation value!”

“Who are you trying to intimidate here?” I raised an eyebrow. “Good work with merc boss, by the way.”

The teen's face twisted, as though he wasn't entirely sure whether I was sincere or patronizing.

“He could have seriously injured Million or Kindly One,” I continued blithely. “And did you hear that scream he made? He sounded like a little girl.”

That was a blatant lie, but it got Dimka to snort, so I counted it as a win.

Few things brought people together better than mocking a mutual foe.

“So, what's in the container?” He turned away, hiding his face, seeming almost embarrassed to have shown emotion.

“You know, I have absolutely no idea,” I shrugged.

“Then let's find out,” came a voice from the left.

I turned around, discovering that at some point Mandy and Mark ceased their quiet conversation and moved toward us.

“Worried that I'm going to double cross you?” I asked, feeling slightly offended.

“I feel like we have the right to know what we fought and bled for,” Mandy's eyes narrowed.

I sighed. She wanted somebody she could vent her fear on, and her teammates were going to take her side, out of guilt, if nothing else, for failing to protect the youngest member of their team. It was easier just to comply.

“Very well,” I sighed, gesturing toward the container. “Doombringer, if you will?”

Dimka shifted his grip on the staff and flicked through the hidden switches, making the lantern flash a shade of light blue. The sealed container groaned, as though placed under tremendous pressure, and, within seconds, shattered into separate pieces. The shadow receded, and Dimka regained his face.

“Ho-oly shit,” Ruthless whispered from the front of the van.

Underneath the steel and the wires lay a cardboard box with a familiar crescent moon logo.

I nodded, as a lot of things suddenly came together. It explained why the cargo was being transferred in the early hours of the morning, in an unmarked van with minimum guard. It explained why one of the Big Eight shelled out for para-cowled contractors instead of using their own security forces or calling in the heroes.

I felt the corners of my mouth twitch up.

It also meant that there would be no follow-up. No mercenaries would pursue the van through the streets, no security checkpoints would be told to keep an eye out for us in the coming days, even police would not get anything from the injured side. After all, R-Tech was strictly regulated, more strictly than almost anything else in the city, and smuggling it in risked a lot more than just an administrative fine. The corporation would prefer to bury the incident rather than chance an investigation into the contents of the car.

We got off as scot-free as it was possible for villains.

“Well, open it up!” Mandy demanded breathlessly, looking like a little kid before a Christmas present. There was not a trace of fear or anger left, just anticipation burning brightly behind vivid grey eyes.

“Your word is my command, milady,” I gently mocked, pulling out a swiss knife.

I spared a moment's amusement for the fact that the world's foremost expert in alien and advanced technologies still used cardboard and duct tape. Truly, they were forces unmatched by nanite constructs and exotic materials.

I carefully cut the box open, unfolding the top with exaggerated caution. Mandy was almost vibrating in place by the time I finally unveiled the neat rows of small, palm-sized devices, placed evenly in four levels of the box.

Dimka whistled.

“Quantum communicators,” I said out loud for Bobby's benefit. “At least four dozen of them.”

“How much are they worth?” Ruthless demanded.

“On the black market? I could easily get twenty grand for each. Considering their rarity and usefulness, I won't even have to cut down the costs for selling in bulk.”

“A million commondollars,” the girl breathed out.

And every bit worth the price. After all, as long as the other person holds a q-comm as well, you could contact them anywhere, from the moonbase and the Underworld to the city's holdings on alternate Earths. In an age where global communications broke down and even inner messaging came with increasing amounts of hassle, q-comms were an absolute necessity for anybody looking to expand beyond the boundaries of the city proper.

“Well, in practice it's a lot less than that,” Mandy noted.

She seemed to have calmed down, and was doing her best to pretend that the momentary loss of composure never happened.

“What do you mean?” The only other girl in the van twisted even further, attempting to face her younger teammate.

“Sceptic gets twenty percent for being the spotter, providing information on the cargo, the route and the timing,” I noted.

“And you get another twenty percent as the fence,” Doombringer frowned, though he immediately seemed contrite for the harsh tone.

“I do,” I agreed. “As well as a percentage for the aid granted in acquiring the goods. What say you, Roughhouse, does ten percent sound fair?”

“Fair,” Bobby agreed without hesitation. “More than fair, even, conside-GAH!”

The car swerved wildly, before stabilizing with an abruptness that made me suspect Roughhouse was using his powers on the van.

“You heard the boss,” Ruthless told me, pretending she did not just elbow the driver. “Your price is fair.”

Three hundred thousand commons, huh, I mused, as Mandy turned her wrath upon her female teammate, and the van descended into merry chaos.

Not bad for a monday morning's work.

Not bad at all.

***

I parted with the kids at a bus terminal near Special Region 17, where they agreed to meet up with their friends in case of separation. As I switched into the driver's seat, I stayed just long enough to see Sarah kiss Bobby before tearing into Ruthless, as Sam kept to the side and nervously fiddled with his glasses.

Teenagers. While I had some warm memories of those years, I really did not miss the constant melodrama.

I left the van at one of Sceptic's safehouses. I'd wait out a few days, just in case, avoiding any potential surveillance and contacting the right people before proceeding with the sale itself. If nothing else, I wanted to scope out the market and see if I could raise the prices even higher.

Acting on a whim, I left my equipment, mask and overcoat in the car, remaining clad only in shirt, vest and pants. My next destination was not too close, but it was warm enough and early enough that I did not begrudge a nice walk through the city. The rising sun colored the sky in a myriad of colors, the normal hues of orange and blue interspersed with decidedly less normal viridian and magenta shades where the light passed through the distant dimensional overlays. The sounds of a city rising up for another day were subtly supplemented by the singing of exotic birds of all kinds, which, like the rest of us, arrived in Dreadward in search of a better life. I could smell something mouth-wateringly delicious from a coffee shop somewhere on the adjacent street. I did not have a breakfast yet, and decided to indulge myself, cutting through the back alley. After all, it's not like I was short on money, and I certainly had something to celebrate.

“Purse and valuables,” said a thickly accented voice as two men emerged from the shadows in front of me. Someone grabbed me from behind, and a third pair of hands started roughly feeling me up in search of a wallet. “Don't be hard, and we'll let you go without, how you say it, harm.”

“Are you... mugging me?” I was not sure whether to be nonplussed or simply amused.

Apparently dissatisfied with my lack of fear, the mugger flicked out a knife.

“Don't be hard,” he repeated.

Food and entertainment?

Truly, this was my lucky day.

My fingers twitched {unleashing ribbons of royal purple flame, to match my missing overcoat. They rose from the fingertips, licking at my forearms, then up toward the elbows and shoulders,} forcing the muggers holding me to leap back with a yelp.

“Merde!”

“He's a hero!”

“A hero?” I could contain my offense no more than I could a raging sea. “Do I truly look like one of them? Heroes are defenders of the almighty status quo. They keep things static and stable, unable to even conceive of a world that could be better than the one we live in. They are the champions of passivity and advocates of stagnation.”

{Flames rolled over my shoulders and flared up, forming a burning crown around my head.}

“I'm no hero, friend. I am an envoy of chaos. I am an agent of change.”

{The blaze fell down my back, spreading out like a royal mantle.}

“I am a villain.”