Poor life choices. God, why did I try to spring for the fucking PRA track? I could have gone into the trades. Plumbers still make good money. Hell, even manual labor can still scrape together a living, at least until the medical bills come due.

I was standing at the corner of an alleyway between a doughnut shop and some sketchy-ass vape emporium. Classy. It wasn’t a great part of town, and had seen better days, as evidenced by the deteriorating state of the sidewalk and street. There were bars on the windows as well, not that it made much difference to prospective burglars.

Glancing down the alley, there was a rusty dumpster, with peeling green paint, as well as fairly extensive graffiti scrawled on the walls. Interestingly, while the rest of the walls seemed like a abstract patchwork, art and tags competing for space and painted over each other, they had left a six inch gap bare around a black square with a blue lily emblazoned on it, marking the authority of the Lotus gang.

I suppose after so much time under gang protection, to put it nicely, the pragmatic play is to just reserve a spot for denoting whoever is controlling the streets today. Not that I was overly worried about that. To my knowledge, this area had been under Candyman’s aegis for years now, and wasn’t contested territory.

I glanced down at the dufflebag I was holding, before shrugging and opting to sling it over my shoulder. Inside was the Badger as well as several clips of ammo, as well as a burner cell phone which Gabe had pressed into my hands. A first aid kit as well, and some anti-nausea pills. I hadn’t protested too much, it was only sensible, but I was slightly pissed that I hadn’t thought of it myself.

As I watched traffic, anxiously checking my phone, I noticed a green car pull to the side and stopped in front of me. Leaning over, I tried peering inside, only to feel like an idiot as I saw the windows were tinted. Scoffing slightly at my foolishness, I grabbed the door handle and opened the passenger side door.

“Don’t just stand there, we are on a tight schedule,” Mr. Barley snapped at me, slightly irate.

Shrugging, I stepped in and sat down, nestling my bag between my legs. As I closed the door, Barley was already peeling out into the street. He was doing exactly the speed limit. God, no wonder he’s on a tight schedule. I swear, some people just don’t get that everyone else will be going faster than them.

“What is the agenda for today?” I asked brusquely, as I unzipped my bag and started checking my gun.

“The bureaucratic side of our job. Some consider it boring. They would be wrong.” Barley said. The dry, unemotional tone of voice he was using seemed somewhat at odds with that statement, but who am I to judge. Different strokes for different folks I guess.

I looked up from my gun to watch the road, and immediately regretted it. A shrieking cacophony of motion and sound greeted me as my precognition rushed to enthusiastically remind me exactly what driving entails. I screwed my eyes shut, but that didn’t particularly help much. Even with my eyes closed, I could still see the cars, like afterimages burned in from an intense light. Mind you, afterimages don’t tend to move, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles I guess.

I bent over, frantically rummaging through my bag. Hands shaking, it took three attempts to get past the childproof cap to my pills. I managed to shake out two of the anti-nausea pills, hand trembling, before tossing them back and swallowing them dry. I should have brought water, to be honest. Could wash them down and get that after-taste out of my mouth.

“Right then,” I said, voice remarkably level as I waited for the pills to kick in. “How are we handling this?”

“We, aren’t handling anything. I will be doing the talking, and you will be watching. Sergio and Twitch will be meeting us at our first stop. Sergio is muscle, and Twitch is lookout for capes and cops.” Barley started, glancing over at me to gauge my reaction. I shrugged at that, unsure of what to say. Seemingly satisfied, he continued on.

“You get to stand next to me looking menacing. It’s good practice in a safe environment, since lord knows you need it. Negotiation is always a delicate balance of ensuring that the target is intimidated, and yet tractable. It is what our clients have come to expect, from our outfit. We offer a carrot and a stick, and we must continue offering that with rigid consistency. A first impression sets the tone of later interactions. Those interactions become expectations, which form into habits. Boring, mundane routine dulls the edge of terror better than any aspirations of courage or bravery. Acclimation and normalization lead to complacency. We have always shown up with visible symbols of our power, and they always pay their dues, because that is what they do.”

I frowned at that. It made sense from a certain point of view, but seemed almost less mercenary, and more corporate in terms of philosophy.

“What happens when things change? Some people fall on hard times, can’t make their dues. Others live in contested zones, or get offers from other gangs, you can’t tell me these people care about this complacency line you are pushing.”

“Those are our problem clients,” Barley said, lips thinning in barely concealed annoyance. “Those need to be reminded of the benefits they receive from our services. One, perhaps two that we meet today will be among that number.”

“So what do you expect to do with those? Like threaten them or something? Tell them I’m a precog and they better behave if they don’t want me to eat their children or something along those lines?”

“NO!” Barley exploded, in the most visible display of emotion I had seen yet. He took a second to breath before mastering himself, though his knuckles were still white on the steering wheel.

“No, we will not be doing that. To them, you are a hired gun. Not interesting, not important. You are not a precog, you don’t know any precogs, and you won’t allude to precognition in any way, shape or form, unless our lives depend on it. And I will hold you to that.” He said.

“Understood,” I said, raising my eyebrows a bit.

Barley seemed to hesitate, before continuing. “Some in the organization don’t see things the way I do. They would prefer to flout the rules, and push the boundaries laid out. They are fools, and no one who works under me will be going rogue. Any combatants I employ will be registered with the PRA well in advance. I refuse to have myself, or my subordinates end up on the red list.”

Ah. Right. Getting on the red list is kind of a problem. Really, it all stems from the PRA’s mission statement, which is to regulate the powers of the populace. What an absolutely bullshit proposition. How does one regulate a population of millions, each and every one of which having both powers and an agenda?

They can’t, to put it in simple terms. It’s kind of a triage scenario. The agency doesn’t bother with Jake Dunner, the insurance adjuster, because he is an utterly boring and mundane person. It doesn’t matter if he can shoot lightning from his eyes, when the fact of the matter is that the vast majority of the population prefers to just go about their life, working and saving for their shitty miserable retirement.

Instead, the PRA mandates registration of any and all individuals who engage in combat utilizing their powers. Hero, villain, vigilante, all of them go on the list. Here is the catch. How do you get a group of people who are comfortable breaking the law, to sign on to this?

You do so by neutering it. The PRA list is confidential. Yes, it requires the real identities of anyone who registers, but the flip side is that those identities are protected. No other law enforcement agency can get the secret identities of villains from the PRA, and if they do, the evidence is thorny, if not outright inadmissible in court.

The point of the list of course, is public safety. If Butterfingers, a notorious yet decidedly harmless thief decides to go ruin the local bank’s day, anyone who is around can identify him with a phone app, getting info on his powers and group affiliations, so they can better respond to the situation, and send alerts via the app that he is in the vicinity.

Meanwhile, the red list is where rogue capes end up. If a cape is engaging in powered combat, and isn’t registered, they get put on the red list. Heroic types tend to be good about registry, but vigilantes and villains tend to run afoul of that issue. If you are on the red list, you are not just committing a crime, but you are also deemed an outlaw. If someone maims or kills a red-listed cape, there is no punishment, no legal consequences.

After that little exchange, I decided to sit back and shut up. Barley didn’t seem interested in idle chatter, and I wasn’t feeling like provoking him, not when I had already misstepped once.

After another ten minutes, Barley eventually came to a stop outside some pawn shop. As he busied himself with parallel parking, I loaded my gun, and flicked off the safety, before stepping out of the car to stand on the cracked sidewalk.

I heard a car door opening to the side, and flicked my eyes over to spot a pair of goons stepping out of the van they had driven over. I relaxed marginally when I saw they were wearing the blue lily patch, but tried not to visibly react.

“Morning newblood. Ol’ Robin Barley got you out and about running his errands?” The taller of the two goons asked, a friendly grin on his face.

“Call me Sergio. This here is Twitch,” He said, gesturing to his weedy partner.

Sergio was fairly tall and well built, his muscles visibly toned up his arms, and under the black tank top he was wearing. Pale dude with blonde hair, though no accent. I suppose I was expecting something East European, but if anything there was a touch of southern twang in his voice.

Twitch on the other hand was a skinny dude, who looked like the sort who couldn’t put on muscle no matter how much they try. He was obviously mixed race, but I’ll be damned if I could place his ethnicity. Touch of asian features maybe, darker skin and black hair, but otherwise kind of a mystery.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Twitch said, eyes flicking away from me every so often.

“I’m Ryan. Mr. Barley asked that I come along on this mission.” I said, casting an eye towards Barley who was making his way up to us, black briefcase in hand.

“Ha, let me tell you kid, this ain’t a mission, it’s record-keeping and paperwork. I swear, Barley missed his calling as a tax accountant.” Twitch jumped in, somewhat sardonically.

“Right. So how are we doing this?” I asked. Sure, I had already asked Barley, but he was honestly kind of unhelpful.

Sergio shrugged. “You’ll be with Barley, doing what he says. Me, I’m here for fire support. If cops start showing up cause some other gang bribed them to do their job, I lay down suppressing fire, and we get out of dodge. Twitch here is our lookout. Perception mentalist, proper registered and everything. He hears a safety click off within ten miles, my man here twitches.”

“Appreciate it jackass,” Twitch said, rolling his eyes. “Listen kid, I have better senses than most. Sight hearing, smell, taste. Distance is a bitch though. After a mile or two, I can only detect really noticeable stuff. Sharp, loud noises, like gunshots, and the like. So don’t take what Sergio says as gospel. I can give some advanced notice, but we still gotta be on our toes.”

“Enough chatter from you lot,” Barley broke in, sounding somewhat annoyed. “Cardano, you’re with me. You two get set up as normal.”

With that, he walked off, clearly expecting me to follow him. Twitch gave a somewhat sympathetic grimace, while Sergio just kinda shrugged. Right then.

Walking swiftly to catch up, I fell in line, walking to the right and slightly behind Barley, who was fidgeting with his pocket watch, thumb anxiously rubbing the top, winding the mechanism a little each time.

A bell jingled, as he pushed his way into the darkened store, not bothering to hold the door as he strolled in.

The store was quiet, a man in the corner inspecting shot glasses, and a couple looking at some antique furniture. It was almost claustrophobic, shelves packed in tightly to use the space, where you could only move in single file. It was filled with junk and clutter, some antique materials, but mostly the kind of merchandise people pawn off because they are desperate, or it doesn’t belong to them. Likely both, if we are being honest.

Jewelry was in abundance, glittering gold with gaudy gems embedded. Electronics also abounded, televisions and game consoles, a couple computers. A whole rack filled with cell phones, as well. Probably not a bad idea to come back here, get a handful of burner phones. And rounding things off was a small section behind display glass, filled with prosthetics and body augs. More than one had a dark brown stain on the titanium, suggesting the donation was rather less than consensual.

I heard footsteps from the backroom, as Barley strolled up to the counter and rang the bell.

“Yes, how can I help-” The broker started before halting as he saw Barley, eyes widening. “Ah, Mr. Barley. Such a pleasure to have you. What brings you here today?”

Any fool could have detected the nervousness and anxiety pouring off the man. Barley gave a thin smile, as he locked the man in place, staring him down with his watery pale eyes. He hoisted his briefcase and gently placed it on the glass counter. I took that as my cue to step forward, tapping my index finger against the barrel of the gun I was holding. The pawnbroker flicked his eyes over to me, his throat moving as he anxiously swallowed at the sight of my Badger.

“Mr. Wilson. It’s time for your annual dues. I trust you have no objections to renewing your commitments?” Barley asked.

Wilson stepped back a bit, and very slowly pulled a rag from his pocket, wiping away a bit of the sweat which was starting to glisten on his forehead.

“I have no objection,” Wilson started slowly, clearly not wanting to be in this situation. “Unfortunately, our business has tight margins. I can pay you for the first two months, but I will need to arrange for some assets to become a bit more liquid before paying the rest.”

“Hmm. Indeed. Get your books and ledger. My associate will be accompanying you to ensure your compliance.”

Right then. That was my cue I guess. I stepped behind the counter to follow the clearly terrified Mr. Wilson. We walked into the backroom, where he took a look at me.

“Right then sir, in order to get the ledger, I need to open our safe. I don’t intend on causing trouble.” He said, clearly trying to make sure we were on the same page. Which was nice of him, I appreciated it, with me being new and all. Not that he needed to know that.

“No cops, no capes, no weapons. If you need to open a safe to get your documents, then so be it. Get to it.” I replied back, trying to strike a balance between not freaking this guy out more than necessary, and not wanting to look like some pushover new guy.

Wilson cast a wary look at me, before lightly pressing on a wooden panel on the wall. It clicked, and swung open smoothly, revealing a safe. He took a moment to dial in the combination, ending with a bio-metric fingerprint scan. With an audible shunk noise, the bolt slid aside, allowing the door to swing open. Wilson grabbed a sheaf of papers, held together loosely by a metal clip. There was some other stuff lying in there, a small backpack, and some loose cash.

I do wonder about that. You’d think he would grab the cash to pay off Barley, but maybe I was missing something. Perhaps he needs to have a certain amount of cash set aside for paying people pawning valuables. None of my business anyway. By this time, I am confident that Barley is getting his money one way or another.

I followed Wilson back to the front, where he handed the papers to Barley, who snatched it out of his hands and laid it on the counter where he began flipping through the pages rapidly, seemingly only needing a moment to read and comprehend it, before flipping to the next.

A few tense minutes passed, with Wilson standing around looking nervous at what Barley was looking for. For my part, I was rather awkwardly standing in place, cradling my gun. A bit late now to put a shoulder strap on the gun, but its something to remember for next time, so at least there’s that.

At long last, Barley looked up from the pages, and began putting them in order again, tapping the edges against the glass to align the paper into a neat stack.

“You are loosing too much on your copper salvage. Prices have dropped in the last few months. Cut the finders fee by no less than 9%. I see some new monthly expenses which seem improperly accounted for. Can I assume that you have an employee that you are paying under the table?” He asked brusquely.

“Yes. Herman has been working since July,” Wilson replied nervously.

“Fine. Your margins are thinner than is prudent, but you are in the black as far as budget goes. You also didn’t correctly file your taxes this last year. When the times comes, send your paperwork to me. I will take a fee for organizing it, but you will still make a net gain once the deductions are accounted for. Do this, and we can arrange for your dues to be paid over time without penalty. You have two months to come up with more of the money. If you can’t do this, then I will be directly supervising your finances, and making the changes I see fit to get you in line. Am I understood?” Barley said, leveling a severe glare at Wilson.

“Yes, I understand. Transfer to the same account you gave me for depositing the dues?” Wilson asked.

“Correct. Nothing has changed with that,” Barley said. He paused a minute, studying Wilson’s face. His expression softened a bit. “We aren’t your enemies. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement, and you have been consistent enough on past payments to be granted a bit of latitude. I want to see your shop work efficiently and effectively.”

“I understand,” Wilson mumbled. “If I ever need financial advice, I will make an appointment.”

“See that you do,” Wilson said firmly. “I can always make time for our clients to make use of our other services.”

With that, Barley proceeded to open his briefcase, which seemed to hold an integrated computer, rather than any physical paperwork. It seemed like a fairly cheap piece of equipment, barely more than an inset keyboard, electronics, and then a cheap holographic screen, probably to skimp on the price of a more standard screen.

Barley pulled up the relevant bank accounts, and had Wilson transfer his money into the deposit account. From there, it would be routed to other, more secure accounts, probably to wash it.

It’s pretty common knowledge that unlike real casinos, virtual casinos are mostly used by bots, aside from a sucker or two who actually thinks the game is fair. Thousands of bots trading and gambling in fractions of a second, with thousands of games running in parallel. If you know how to play the game behind the game, you can dump your money which subdivides into millions of prize pools of a fraction of a cent each. The bots play their games, and depending on how you make the arrangements, you pull back out of the prize pool with maybe 5% lost to the bots, but the money is good enough to use for basic stuff. It could be washed more, but the value of that really depends on how it’s being used.

A couple more minutes passed, while Barley and Wilson hammered out the details of the payment plan, for lack of a better word. Barley was clearly enjoying it, Wilson was clearly not. The latter is probably more used to being in the better position when haggling, given his vocation.

At long last, they seemed to come to an agreement, and Barley packed up his computer and began strolling out. As I followed him out, I noticed him tap a message to Sergio and Twitch outside. They moved out of the positions they had taken up, and jumped in the van, while I went with Barley to his car.

As we drove away from the site, I started fiddling with my gun, and put on the strap so it wouldn’t be so obnoxious to hold at the ready all the time.

“Right then. Time for feedback. I will let you go first, and then give you my thoughts. What did you think of that encounter?” Barley asked dryly as he took a right turn at a bakery.

“It seemed rehearsed? Sort of at any rate. Sergio and Twitch seemed comfortable with their jobs, and didn’t have any trouble. You seemed relatively at ease. The only thing that really comes to mind is Wilson didn’t have the cash to pay you upfront. Bit of an oversight, unless I am missing something. As for me, I feel like I did alright. I didn’t really do much, other than escorting him, but that’s what you told me to do.” I said, starting to ramble a bit as I got carried away in my thoughts.

“Oversight indeed. Wilson is usually quite punctual with us. Aside from our protection services, he has also needed to borrow money in the past, and still operates as a fence for some of our lower level operations. He pays his dues, bills, and gets us the money that is required. So why the issue here?” Barley asked, a bit of an inquisitive note in the voice. It took a moment before I realized he wasn’t being rhetorical.

“Large expense perhaps? He was making noises about having to bring on that Herman guy, but that is a steady expense that can be worked around. Something unexpected? Maybe his car got fucked, or had to do an emergency plumbing job?” I posed, starting to wonder myself about the inconsistency.

“I expect you are correct,” Barley said, mildly pleased at my train of logic. “I came to a similar conclusion. Some of the paperwork he gave me was his personal finances. Which is kind of him, because usually I have to browbeat our customers into showing them to us, so we can be sure they aren’t trying to hide income.

Regardless, two months ago, his health insurance rates jumped significantly. I suspect either an accident, or a health scare which required some medical intervention. That could easily explain the inconsistency.”

Oof. I grimaced sympathetically. I hadn’t run into the nastier parts of the healthcare system, but I had heard horror stories. Sure, torn muscle and broken bones are easy enough to fix with manifestations, but get into the esoteric stuff, and cost balloons exponentially. Organ problems, genetic disease, cancer, etc.

“So how did I do then?” I asked, tearing my mind away from that depressing topic.

“Well enough. I am not expecting anything too much out of you thus far. You are smart and capable, with a manifestation that, while not powerful on it’s face, has a vast utility. I am not testing for any of that. I wanted to know if you could sit still and follow orders, even while bored out of your skull. You did that. Congratulations.” Barley said somewhat dryly.

I perked up a bit at that. “Thanks,” I said, a bit of a warm feeling going through me. Sure, its a bit pathetic to respond to half-hearted praise from a man who I am currently doubting has enough emotional capacity to do much more than hand someone a tissue when they have a meltdown. I am introspective enough to grasp that. But it’s not like I am getting that elsewhere, so sue me.

“Indeed. Time for the next couple appointments,” He said, smirking. Barley leveled a somewhat smug look at me, clearly in response to my facial expression. “Oh, did you think that was all we are doing today? On the contrary, I am a very busy man. I have my appointments for the entire day, mapped out and accounted for.”

“Right,” I said, trying to hide my annoyance. “Where to next?”

“We have a man downtown we need to visit. James Forel, runs a newspaper stand. Also, Catherine White works a block over, she’s a fence who used to run with Greenway a while back. No longer affiliated with any gang, but she pays a fee to operate on our turf.”

“Oh?” I asked inquisitively, a single eyebrow arched. “Life of an ecoterrorist not work out then?”

“She filed taxes with two young dependents several years ago,” Barley noted, as he scratched his nose. “One presumes that the new family situation had something to do with her career choices.”

“Had kids, wanted to get away from the wack-jobs,” I summarized, nodding. “Pretty common story, though I have to say I am surprised she didn’t try to go legit.”

“I hesitate to speculate, but I rather suspect that her professional skills were lacking, and she decided to leverage a network of friends and buyers that she already had in place. Of course, upon finding this out, I sent the family a courtesy gift, as well as friendly reminder as to the date of her next payment.”

“Cold,” I remarked. I can’t say I was particularly surprised though. “Did you at least get a nice gift?”

“I sent each of the children a book of Sudoku puzzles, suitable for ages 12-15. They will grow into it, I am sure, and it should foster a good attitude towards logical problem solving and pattern recognition.”

I snorted at that, but didn’t bother to comment.

We ended up going to deal with James and then Catherine. James was a large, rather blustery fellow, who didn’t seem overly intimidated by Barley, though he still paid up without any issues. Apparently, Candyman’s crew was providing a secondary service by chasing away other newspaper stands.

Meanwhile Catherine, or Cathy as she liked to be called, was decidedly warmer to us. She didn’t have her kids with her, presumably having paid for childcare, but was happy to chat with Barley, asking about the status of the various gangs and groups in and around the city. She was a surprisingly good talker, and did a decent job wheedling information out of the clearly exasperated Barley, who was looking quite put-upon.

“Come on Robin, you know you like discussing the power dynamics of the city, stop being coy,” Cathy said, lightly trailing her red nails over Barley’s shoulder, cheerfully ignoring the desperately uncomfortable look on his face.

“Ms. White, I enjoy numbers. I’m not a gossip who likes hanging around bars trading snippets of information like baseball cards,” Barley said stiffly, perhaps more so than I had seen out of him thus far.

Robin let out a high pitched peal of laughter, and bonelessly draped herself over Barley’s form. They were sitting next to one another on a frankly hideous purple couch, looking at Barley’s laptop together while I stood somewhat nonplussed in the corner.

We were in the back room of an antique store, which unlike the front, which radiated a sense of class and mystique, could only be described as a hoarders den. There were towers made out of packages of stolen kitchen appliances, a bowl full of unopened CPUs, several suitcases filled with gold jewelry and stolen ID cards. It was a mess, and frankly, the only reason I was still standing up was that there was just nowhere else to sit, save for the couch which was ground zero for some of the most awkward flirting I had seen outside of sitcoms.

“Robin, please. We both know that group dynamics are easily simulated given a set of starting parameters and coherent rules. I refuse to believe you aren’t running basic simulations on the territory gains and losses over time, and while you may not have the time to quantify the social capital of the gangs, you had to have run estimates on the probable weekly budget of each faction. Candyman would have demanded it even if you didn’t have the inclination already.”

“Ms. White, you know I can’t share proprietary information to unaffiliated actors.” Barley sighed. He seemed to be weakening though, ever so slightly.

“Robin please? I just want to know how my old pals in Greenway are doing. It’s for the nostalgia factor, purely self-indulgent.” Cathy pleaded as she looked up at Barley’s face with a pouting expression, from her slightly awkward position of her head lying on his lap. Barley for his part, appeared to be trying to avoid eye contact, staring woodenly at a case of cybernetics as though it would spring to life and save him from Cathy.

“Greenway advanced 17% in uncontested territory over the past year,” Barley said with a dramatic sigh as he gave in. “They are still contesting areas of the city with the Institute, as well as Aegis. Candyman isn’t overly happy with them either, their pharmaceutical dabbling is cutting into his profit margins. They appear to be in the black for revenue, which is slightly surprising, but perhaps they’ve begun to monetize their talents a bit more effectively.”

“Ah Robin, you truly are the best,” Cathy said, almost smugly, as she collected herself off of him.

“Indeed. Incidentally, how did your dependents receive their gifts?” Barley asked.

“My children are four and five respectively Robin. I rather think Sudoku is a bit advanced for them.” Cathy responded dryly.

“I enjoyed it at their age,” Barley protested. “It’s a great way to train the mind.”

“Agree to disagree.”

All of a sudden, Robin stood up, jolting a bit.

“Twitch detected movement, half a dozen guns north-north-west moving in our direction. ETA six minutes. Likely cops, possibly a rival gang. Ms. White, prepare to have company. Mr. Cardano and I will be taking our leave.” Barley said, suddenly in his element, having snapped back to the coldly competent gangster that I had first met.

He tapped his finger against his temple, drawing attention to a translucent patch and wire which appeared to be his earpiece.

“Twitch, take the van and meet us at the rendezvous point. Sergio, take my car and be ready for a hot pickup. Cardano, with me.”

My blood suddenly pumping, I flicked the safety off the Badger, even while Barley popped open a hidden compartment in his briefcase and retrieved a handgun, before pushing into the front of the shop with me in tow.

“Cardano, I’m only saying this once, so don’t expect me to repeat it. We are going to do our best to avoid a shootout, but if one happens, you need to pull your weight. I’ll do the paperwork afterwards, but if your life is on the line, you shoot and you kill. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” I replied, even as we pushed out of the antique shop to find Sergio sitting in the driver seat of Barley’s car.

We rushed over and hopped in the car, Barley jumping into the passenger’s seat and slamming the door while I slid into the backseat. Sergio floored it, throwing me too the side as I hadn’t yet had time to brace myself.

“Motherfucker!” I swore under my breath as Sergio decided that the laws of the street were guidelines which could be ignored as he pleased, cranking a good twenty over the speed limit and swerving to dodge cars and bicyclists alike.

“Fuck it, Barley throw me my bag!” I yelled up front. Barley hesitated a moment, still keeping his head on a swivel to see if we were being followed, before ducking down and grabbing my duffelbag and tossing it back to me.

I bit my lip, hoping the pain would distract from my roiling stomach as I snagged my anti-nausea meds and popped two of them. The pain was helping, but the coppery taste of blood was rather counter-productive.

“We got a tail! Unmarked silver hatchback gaining on us. Cardano, pull your shit together, we need you ready! Sergio, try to lose them in Glimmerton Park.”

I took a deep breath, and looked out the back window, bracing my gun on the backseat pointed outwards. The silvery futures and trajectories were still there, but between the meds and the adrenaline pumping through my veins, it was more or less manageable.

More to the point, the hatchback was there, maybe a hundred feet back. Mindful of Barley’s instructions, I held my fire. Only once they escalated, would I retaliate.

“Who the fuck are these guys anyways?” I yelled up to the front of the car, keeping my eyes on the hatchback.

“No clue,” Sergio said gruffly, swearing slightly at the flash of a red light camera as he blasted through the intersection, clearly making his way towards the bad part of town, marked by the glittering silver spires rising eerily from the skyline.

“They sure as fuck ain’t cops. Say what you will about the pigs, at least they have the courtesy of flashing their lights and sirens, and at least usually drive the cop cars. Nah, its a gang, can’t say which yet. If they’re carrying out a hit, they usually don’t tag their cars. That way they can avoid blow back if they fail, avoid coppers getting more evidence, hell they can blame another gang in a pinch. If they escalate and we take them out, we will know once the dust settles. If they take us out, we will be dead, and they will claim the credit for clout. It’s kind of like politics for people who aren’t geriatrics.”

“Any reason they aren’t escalating?” I asked in response.

“Probably trying to corner us, or have us lead them to one of our safe houses. Most gangs would probably meet up with other assets, and scare them off, get them outnumbered. Candyman can’t really do that. He’s got a wide territory and high cash flow, but his operation is decidedly streamlined. Makes it quite efficient, but when he needs manpower, he usually hires mercs, which gets tricky on a short time-frame.”

“How the fuck is he still in business?” I asked incredulously.

“His revenue is really good. The Lotuses work because Candyman cuts in some of the neighboring gangs, or at least gives them a good discount. It’s also hard to deny that he is the best in the business in this city. No matter the delusions of Greenway, hell even the Institute for that matter, Lotus drugs are just better, and it’s not even close. The other gangs envy his cash intake, but are not capable of matching his throughput or quality. Nobody wants to see Lotus go up in flames when that means a massive shortage for the city.”

“Fair enough,” I responded. The hatchback was still following us but was keeping some distance. Maybe they didn’t know that we had spotted them, but given Sergio’s circuitous route, I found that hard to believe.

“Sergio, take the right here.” Barley commanded, looking tense.

“Really boss? That puts us close to the bazaar. If we start a gunfight there, we will be stepping on toes.” Sergio warned, even as he got into the right lane.

“I am sure. We won’t be starting anything, and hopefully they will refrain until we are past and into Glimmerton proper.”

As we turned in, the quality of the houses began to degrade significantly. Rotted wood, derelict townhouses the works. But as we continued, the quality went back up a little. The wooden houses were starting to be replaced by silvery towers which seemed to be grown organically from the ground into towering spires. The amenities rather ruined the effect though, as porches, bridges and catwalks of dubious quality were nailed onto the silvery towers, made out of the shitty decaying wood of the previous houses. And between the towers were veritable spider webs of power and net cables, as well as the odd water and sewage pipe connecting the towers.

Glimmerton, to be frank, was one of the shiniest shantytowns in the world.

“Hey Sergio, I don’t think I’ve ever heard. Aren’t these towers supposed to be made of solid aluminum? Why hasn’t the city torn them out to sell the lots? Hell, why haven’t the crackheads been tearing out the aluminum to sell it for scrap?” I asked, eyeing the mirror finish of the towers as we wove our way through the increasingly windy streets.

“The guy who made them is the head of the construction company down here. Well, more of a gang but they’re registered as a LLC. Anyway, guys power is to make aluminum. His stuff though, while it’s chemically aluminum, has much higher strength and durability than regular stuff. Rumor has it that he can manipulate the physical properties of it. That, or he’s hired someone who can. I am pretty sure you can still melt the stuff here, even use chemical reactions, but I’ve seen construction trucks get absolutely fucked up by the bollards he put on the north end entrance. This shit is not easy to break whatsoever.”

“You’d think he would be making bank off that sort of thing,” I said idly considering the sheer economic value of such an ability. The light weight and low melting point of aluminum combined with what sounded like properties far exceeding the strength of steel could make for amazing weaponry and armor.

“He is, trust me.” Barley interjected dryly. “Sergio, we need to take the next left.”

But as our car began to turn where Barley had indicated, the hatchback began accelerating as if to ram us. I could see it clear as day, as the trajectories burned themselves into my brain, glowing bright silver as I saw the projection of the car hitting us in the rear.

Throwing me to the side.

Inflicting contusions on my face, and breaking my neck as my body would be thrown against the window.

My breath ragged at the sudden vision of my own imminent death, I squeezed the trigger.

The back window turned white at the first bullet, cracks spider-webbing through the glass, which then were blown out in a crystal shower as the subsequent rounds blasted outwards. Even as I watched, seemingly in slow motion from the adrenaline, the front tire exploded on the hatchback, the black rubber spraying across the street like a popped balloon.

The car swerved and crashed into the aluminum building on the corner, driver having lost control. And now, I could see them clearly. Three mooks each wearing a balaclava. And the one in the drivers seat was vibrating, a line of blood running into his eyes from the black cloth, presumably a cut from where the airbag deployed. Even as he vibrated, his hand flicked to his head, faster than I could perceive, and wiped the blood from his eyes.

Fuck. Double flippity fuck. A speedster.

“Sergio, I need a flashgun!” I screamed up front, a note of pure and genuine fear entering my voice.

Barley looked about ready to protest, and yell at me for disobeying orders, but the the tone of voice silenced him, even while Sergio threw a thin gun to me, with a bulge on the end for the parabola. I caught it effortlessly, and threw myself out of the car.

“Everyone out! Speedster.” I yelled in explanation, to the response of muttered oaths terrible enough to make a sailor blush.

It wasn’t looking good. In childhood games, a lot of kids liked to compare powers. A sort of who would win game. Is my power better than yours? Can my parents beat up your parents? Silly yes, juvenile probably, but it still exposes a core truth about how powers work. Some are just better than others.

Not that I played that game much, the ostracisation starts early. But even I knew, that the popular perception was that strength, telekinesis, reality warping even were the ‘coolest’ powers, and therefore the best.

In reality though? The humble speedster is among the most dangerous opponents. Most people assume they are supremely talented dealers. Which is occasionally true. But they fit far better into the duelist archetype. Action economy is after all one of the strongest abilities for direct combat, and only other speedsters consistently match up well.

I only had one shot at this, only one chance. If I fucked up, we were all so fucking dead it isn’t even funny. I was holding an F6 Flashgun. They were a bit of tinker tech invented in the 60s, a sort of cross between a conventional firearm and a laser gun. Firearms shoot discrete bullets. Laserguns project continuous beams. A flashgun splits the difference, and dumps of a fuckload of energy in a single burst at the speed of light. Hence, flashgun.

Of course, their big problem is the penetration fucking sucks. Like it is genuinely a joke. As long as the armor you are wearing has enough thermal capacity, or is a thermal insulator, flashguns tend to just vaporize the surface of whatever they hit, and then tickle whatever is behind it.

The key though, is that they work at light speed. No speedster is capable of hitting that limit. Unless they are fucking around with time manipulation, the speed of light is the same relative to all actors. If I can get the perfect timing, the perfect shot, we might actually walk away from this.

Of course, that is easier said than done. I would have to time it such that I shoot him, even while he can move fast enough to constantly readjust his position while my nerves are starting to fire to adjust my aim. Not that I knew how fast he is, but I tend to assume the worst.

All of that, means trickery. It looks like he is the ramp up type of speedster, meaning he has to adjust his speed up as he triggers his manifestation. It’s the only way he could have been driving the car and not been able to react to me blowing the tires out.

I stowed the flashgun up my sleeve, thankfully grateful that it was baggy enough to hold it without making a weird shape. I held onto my Badger as well.

At this point, I was banking on arrogance, a surprisingly common trait for speedsters. Hard not to feel contemptuous, when we are all moving in slow motion, or even stuck in place from their perspective. We were trapped, no way to run away without being chased down, with none of us on the PRA database. Easy targets to play with. As long as he kept thinking that, he would be slow and cruel, and wouldn’t just walk up behind us and pop us in the back of the head while we couldn’t react.

I mentally apologized to Barley for making him do paperwork, assuming we survived, and then I mentally apologized to my body, for what I was about to put it through.

“Who the fuck are you!” I yelled at the still smoking hatchback as I intentionally swaggered over. Have to sell an image, let this guy get his kicks by taking me down a peg.

“You wanna fucking mess with me? What the fuck kinda gang are you running with?” I yelled at the car, making rude gestures with one hand and gripping my gun with the other. I made sure to keep my finger off the trigger, for what I assumed would happen next.

“You don’t need to know that kid. Poor life choices huh, running errands with Robin Barley. Poor life choices indeed. Any last requests?” The driver asked, as he slowly exited the car, glaring at me.

“Suck my di-” I started before I found myself flying to the ground, my hand hurting like I had punched concrete as the Badger clattered over the road next to what passed for a sidewalk in these parts.

I caught myself before my face smashed into the asphalt, forearms scraping the ground as it tore my palms to bits. I hissed quietly and jumped to my feet, shaking out my hands as I tried to ignore the bits of grit and pebble embedded in them. At least my finger hadn’t been on the trigger when this jackass slapped the gun out of my hands. Would have snapped it in two, which would make this that much harder.

“Fucking show yourself!” I yelled, glancing around. My powers were going into a frenzy, trying to calculate at a speed far above their normal capabilities. Not that they couldn’t do it, after all, speed is kind of academic when its calculating stuff which hasn’t happened yet. Rather, the quantity of decisions that this guy could make was high enough that I was struggling to interpret the myriad of motion paths he was generating.

Still, it wasn’t a total loss. I was sort of able to track him by the motion of the gravel on the ground. Painful to land on yes, but bits spraying up as he moved around made it crucial to figuring out where he was going. I could even sort of see him occasionally. He was not quite at the speed of sound, either because he couldn’t manage it, or more likely because the sonic boom would attract a lot of attention.

My speculating was put on pause as I once again found myself thrown to the side, my shoulder impacting the sidewalk. I started to get up, but was forced to let out a hoarse cry of pain as he darted in again and stomped on the leg, snapping my shin in half.

My opponent flickered, and was still again, staring at me from the other side of the street, while both his mooks and Barley and Sergio watched wordlessly, unwilling or unable to interfere with the drawn out execution. I did notice Barley was holding his phone in his other hand. Here’s to hoping that if this doesn’t pay off, at least these jokers get what’s coming to them when the cavalry arrives.

“Any last words, boy,” the speedster sneered at me, clearly holding me in utter contempt. At least he was underestimating me, I thought to myself, rather less than optimistic.

“Yeah, how about you take off your mask, so we can see how fucking ugly you are, you piece of shit. I’m the sexiest man alive, and my jawline has ten times the strength that you do, you noodle-armed bitch.” I said, quietly cringing at how much this was going to hurt.

Even as the guy shook his head disapprovingly, I yanked my arms up as fast as possible, by force of will, as if I were protecting my face from this dude shattering my jaw before shooting me. But in reality, the flashgun was dangling in my left sleeve, and my right hand was able to pull the trigger through the fabric.

I opened my mind up, threw all the weight of my willpower into seeing the exact timing, the exact moment I needed. I could feel my heartbeat pulsing, as I saw the bright glowing line which denoted a certain death to myself. I didn’t need that. I needed the timing.

The speedster began to step forward, and accelerated immensely, now hurtling towards me faster than I could perceive.

0.57 seconds, with a 0.09 second time window. 71% confidence in this future. Impossible for anyone, besides speedsters and those with enhanced reflexes, to react to. But I had cheated. I had started reacting before the visual stimulus had occurred, trying to time the exact second. I screwed my eyes shut. Either way, I didn’t want to see what was about to happen.

A bright light flashed in front of me, glowing red as it filtered through my eyelids. I snapped them open, as I saw the smoke from the speedsters eyes boiling and vaporizing. All the exposed skin was cracked and charred, and the balaclava had caught fire. Even more unfortunate for him, it looked like the fiber was synthetic, as the burning threads had clearly melted and adhered to his face.

He screamed, and his face seemed to explode into a spray of blood as he blindly clawed the burning plastic away from his face, tearing strips of skin and muscle away with it at hyper-speed.

Several gunshots rang out, Barley and Sergio having caught the other mooks slacking as they had clearly been confident in this guy handling the situation

I could only stare transfixed at the man screaming in agony, as he slowly writhed in agony.

Another gunshot rang out, and an explosion of gore erupted from his head as he jerked to the side, and then slumped to the ground, dead.

In my fugue state, I was startled by the sound of footsteps approaching. Mr. Barley crouched besides me, holding his pistol in his right hand, wisps of smoke curling out of the end of the barrel. He waited a moment before speaking.

“He was already dead. A flashgun at that range is not survivable. He would have passed within the day, perhaps a week with immediate medical attention. Even in that unlikely case, he would have been maimed for life. I put him out of his misery. Something I would dearly wish for myself if I were ever in his position. I am simply paying it forward.” Barley said, staring at the corpse. He coughed slightly, and set his gun on the ground, before retrieving a white handkerchief from his pocket.

The incongruity of the white fabric made me let out a hysterical giggle, which I swallowed immediately. Something about the juxtaposition of a small white bit of fabric, contrasted with the immense spray of blood covering a full half of the street, as if a horror film bought way too much fake blood, and then detonated all the squibs at once.

I gratefully accepted the handkerchief, my hand trembling, and dabbed around my eyes, gasping a little as I pulled it back to find it completely soaked in blood.

“What killed him? I mean, what would have killed him?” I asked, suddenly very cognizant of a slimy wet feeling covering my entire face. I began wiping my lips, afraid of the metallic taste of blood. His blood.

“I’ve seen flashguns used before. At this range, with what he was wearing? The fabric offered some protection, but it still generated a sort of gradient wound. The exposed skin suffers fourth degree burns, the covered skin suffers third degree burns. The light penetrates and burns the muscles and can reach the bone. Especially in the face, the bone stopped the light propagation, but was itself damaged. And of course, soft tissues like the eyes vaporized. If that had been it, the blood flow would have been a problem, and he may have survived, only to die to the inevitable infection.”

I gulped as I looked at the face again. It was exposed muscle, but darkened, yellowish and brown, oozing melted fat. The cheeks were destroyed, exposing the jaw and teeth, making for a ghoulish appearance, like a skull covered in viscera.

“Of course, that wasn’t just it,” Barley continued, sighing a bit. “The fool killed himself, and was about to bleed out. The surface nerves on his face had burned out, so he couldn’t feel the pain, save for in the muscles which weren’t as severely burned. He likely thought that the melted plastic was causing his pain, and tried to rip it off, not understanding that he was ripping off his face, and couldn’t feel it. That tore open his veins, and at that point he was done for. He had accelerated himself, and his power was forcing his heart to beat at likely some five times the speed of a normal heart. His blood pressure was like a pressure washer, that’s how he covered the whole street.”

I stared at the body, the face slowly occupying my whole vision. I was swimming in molasses, my brain laboring to produce a single coherent thought. I thought I heard a shout, but couldn’t make it out, as my vision darkened around the corners. The world upended as I collapsed, sinking into a dark morass of of the void.

My last coherent thought, was that it smelled like someone was frying pork.