Chapter 4

The red Road Runner purred through the skeletal remains of the industrial north, its headlights cutting through a fog that tasted like copper and old grease. Jake Miller leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against the door frame. Beside him, Julian Blade sat in full samurai regalia, the streetlights glinting off his lacquered armor every time they passed a flickering bulb. "You know, Julian, there’s a certain poetic irony to this," Jake said, gesturing with a thumb toward the window. "We’re driving into the armpit of the world on May 10th, 2020. For everyone else, it’s just another Tuesday. For me? It’s a very specific Tuesday. A Tuesday with a history." Julian didn't turn his head. "The air is worsening. Can you smell the sulfur?" Jake took a deep breath and immediately regretted it, coughing into his fist. "That’s not sulfur. That’s the smell of existential dread and poorly regulated manufacturing. Is the sky always this shade of 'bruised lung' up here?" "Grants’ manufacturing plants," Julian explained, his voice muffled slightly by his helm. "They dump their runoff into the bay and their exhaust into the lungs of the poor. This harbor used to be the heartbeat of Olympus City’s trade. Now, it is a graveyard of rusted cranes and broken promises. Park here, Jake. We walk the rest of the way." Jake pulled the Road Runner into the shadow of a leaning warehouse, the engine giving a final, satisfied rumble before falling silent. They stepped out into the damp heat of the night. The silence of the harbor was heavy, broken only by the distant lap of oily water against rotting wood. They approached a pier where a lone minivan sat parked next to a mountain of corrugated steel crates. A small group stood in the amber glow of the van's hazard lights. Caleb Finch stood at the center, looking every bit the overworked middle-manager of a criminal enterprise. He checked a digital watch, his face pinched in a scowl that made his African-Italian features look even more tired than usual. Two grunts stood behind him, clutching submachine guns with the bored posture of men who hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. A third, whom Jake internally labeled 'Gruntie,' was busy kicking a loose pebble into the water. "You’re late," Caleb snapped as Jake and Julian stepped into the light. "The tide doesn't wait for dramatic entrances, Julian. And who the hell is the guy in the spandex?" Jake didn't miss a beat. He dropped into a low crouch, tucked his elbows in, and put on a thick, caricatured accent. "It’s-a me! A-Mario! I’m-a here to clean-a the pipes and save-a the princess!" He waited. Caleb Finch stared at him. The grunts stared at him. The only sound was the wind whistling through a hole in a nearby shipping container. "I don't get it," Caleb said flatly. "Is he a plumber? We don't have a leak, we have a shipment." Jake stood up, brushing the dirt off his Vigilante Suit. He looked at Julian with genuine sorrow. "Do you see this? This is what’s wrong with the youth of today. No culture. No appreciation for the classics. It’s a tragedy, Julian. A goddamn tragedy." "Maybe it's some of that video game stuff," Gruntie whispered to Caleb. "You know, with the jumping?" "Whatever it is, it’s annoying," Caleb said. Julian stepped forward, placing a hand on Jake’s shoulder. "Caleb, this is Jake Miller. He is the courier I spoke of. He is... unique." Jake squinted at Caleb, leaning in close. "Wait a second. I recognize that look of utter disdain. You’re Caleb Finch, aren't you? The guy with the legendary superpower? The man, the myth, the human lie detector?" "It’s called a bullshit filter," Caleb sighed, rubbing his temples. "And yes, it’s active. Don't try me." Jake grinned, his eyes gleaming behind his mask. "This is incredible! A real-life Truth-O-Meter. Okay, let’s test the equipment. Hey Caleb, what do I think about Mr. Sterling?" Caleb’s eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second, his power sifting through the layers of Jake’s chaotic psyche. He winced. "You think he’s a pompous windbag with the personality of a wet napkin. You actually find his 'brilliance' offensive to your intelligence." Jake’s grin didn't falter, but his voice became oddly monotone, forced out by the pressure of the filter. "Mr. Sterling is a very cool and capable Gene-Mod whom I respect immensely." "That’s a lie," Caleb said, looking peeved. "Stop doing that. It’s like listening to a chalkboard being scratched." "Okay, okay," Jake said, the forced words tasting like ash. "How about Owen Maxwell? Thoughts on the leader of the Circus?" Caleb groaned. "You... god, you’re a fanboy. You’d let him into your hotel room in a heartbeat. You have a literal shrine—" "Whoa! Hey now!" Jake interrupted, his face heating up. "Let’s keep this professional! Nobody needs the details of my interior decorating choices. That’s private information, Caleb. Very private." "Then stop asking," Caleb snapped. He turned to Julian, gesturing wildly at Jake. "Why is he here? He’s a liability. He’s bouncing around like he’s on a three-day bender and he’s already tried to lie to me three times." "He is reliable when it counts," Julian said calmly, his eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the pier. "His eccentricities are a small price to pay for his results." "The submarines will be here any minute," Caleb said, checking his watch again. "We paid off Sentinel Services to look the other way for a twenty-minute window. If we miss it, we’re out a lot of credits and a lot of gear." Jake leaned against a crate, crossing his arms. "Paid off Sentinel Services? Bold. But what about The Elite? Aren't they supposed to be the shining beacons of justice in this dump? Won't they swoop down in their capes and glitter?" Caleb snorted. "The Elite? They’re over-marketed clowns. They only show up where there’s a camera crew or a chance to sign an endorsement deal. They don't come to the harbor at midnight unless there’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new pier." "It is more complex than that," Julian added, his voice dropping an octave. "We maintain a delicate balance with The Elite—a Cold War of sorts. We stay out of their sunlight, and they stay out of our shadows. However, they are not our concern tonight. The Nexus Syndicate has been hitting our northern routes. They are hungry, they are desperate, and they are violent." Jake reached into his belt and pulled out two heavy, metallic gloves. He slid his hands into them, the internal servos whining as they locked into place. "Let them come. I’ve been itching to field-test the upgrades. Behold, the Ironclad Gauntlets! Pisto-powered, hydraulically-rammed, and guaranteed to turn a ribcage into a xylophone." Caleb looked at Julian, then back at Jake’s gauntlets. "Is he always like this? Does he ever just... shut up and stand still?" "Madness is merely a different perspective on reality, Caleb," Jake said cheerfully, slamming his fists together. The impact created a sharp, metallic *crack* that echoed over the water. "And my perspective is currently set to 'Aggressive Percussive Maintenance'." Julian gave a rare, thin smile. "I find I have grown quite fond of him." Suddenly, the water near the pier began to churn. Great, oily bubbles rose to the surface, breaking with a wet hiss. Three spherical shapes broke the plane of the water, shedding brine like glistening skin. They were bathyspheres, but of a design Jake hadn't seen in this loop—sleek, reinforced, and humming with a very specific frequency. Jake froze. His heart skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs. He knew those welding seams. He knew the way the reinforced glass was set into the frame. "Chloe," he whispered. The grunts immediately began moving, lugging crates toward the edge of the pier as the bathyspheres' hatches hissed open. Jake grabbed Julian’s armored arm, his fingers digging into the gaps of the plates. "Julian. Those machines. Where did you get them? Who built them?" Julian looked at the pods, then back at Jake’s desperate face. "I do not know the specifics of the procurement, Jake. They are part of the logistical chain." "They aren't ours," Caleb added, waving a hand toward the loading grunts. "We just use 'em. They’re outsourced tech. Why do you care? Just help move the crates, the air is getting cold." "It’s her tech," Jake muttered, his eyes wide. "That’s Chloe Vance’s work. I’d know that proprietary alloy anywhere. Julian, please. I need to know who delivered these." "There is no time," Julian said, his body suddenly tensing. He shifted his stance, hand dropping to the hilt of his katana. "The air... it is not just cold. It is freezing." A jagged path of ice began to spread across the surface of the bay, racing toward the pier with unnatural speed. Atop the ice, a figure skated with fluid, terrifying grace. It was a walking nightmare—a skinless, skeletal form with eyes like frozen marbles. Specter. Above him, a second figure descended from the smog. Clad in a black hazmat suit and a bulky gas mask, the woman known as Vapor drifted down on plumes of compressed air. Her gauntlets hissed, venting green gas that turned the very air sour. The grunts dropped their crates and raised their submachine guns, their hands shaking. "I’ll handle the skeleton," Jake said, his voice losing its playful edge. He stepped in front of Julian, the Ironclad Gauntlets humming with stored kinetic energy. "Victor Vances is mine." "Jake, be cautious," Julian warned, drawing his blade. "They are Mind-Benders. They do not play by the rules of men." "Good," Jake said, his teeth bared in a grin. "Neither do I." Specter saw him. The skeleton’s frozen eyes locked onto Jake’s red suit, and a raspy, guttural scream tore from its throat. It veered off its path toward the bathyspheres, its ice-skates carving deep grooves into the frozen bay as it charged the pier. "YOU!" Specter shrieked, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "THE COURIER! I WILL TEAR THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!" Jake stood at the edge of the pier, his thumbs hooked into his belt. "Nice teeth, Specter! Or lack thereof. Do you use a specific brand of calcium supplement, or do you just lick the frost off old refrigerators?" Specter reached the pier and leaped, his skeletal hands manifesting jagged daggers of ice. *Time stop.* The world turned to grayscale. The splashing water froze into glass droplets; the roar of Vapor’s jets became a silent, static hum. Jake had ten seconds. He didn't move toward Specter. Instead, he reached into his thigh pouches and pulled out three throwing knives. He tossed them into the air, one by one, flicking them with precise, calculated force. He aimed for the ice daggers suspended in mid-air, and the final one he aimed directly for Specter’s left eye socket. He stepped two paces to the left and checked his watch. *Seven seconds.* He adjusted the pressure valve on his right gauntlet, then waited for the world to resume. *Time start.* The knives blurred into motion. The first two struck the ice daggers, shattering them into a thousand glittering shards. The third knife buried itself deep into Specter’s eye socket with a sickening *thunk*. The skeleton hit the wooden planks of the pier, clutching his face and letting out a howl of pure, unadulterated agony. "I'll kill you!" Specter hissed, black ichor leaking from around the knife handle. "I'll freeze your blood in your veins!" Vapor landed softly on the concrete behind him, her boots clanging. She looked at her thrashing partner, then up at Jake. "Specter, focus. We are here for the shipment, not your personal vendettas." Her voice was muffled and annoyed behind the glass of her mask. "He... he is the one!" Specter snarled, pointing a shaking, bony finger at Jake. "The Imperial Guard’s lapdog! He mocked me!" Vapor turned her masked gaze toward Jake. "You’re a long way from the city center, little hero. This is Scrapheap Town. We don't like tourists, especially ones who work for the Guard." "First of all," Jake said, pointing at her. "You’re Vapor now. I’ve decided. It fits the whole 'stinky gas' aesthetic you’ve got going on. And you," he pointed at the skeleton, "are Specter. Because you’re spooky, but also kind of transparent. It’s a branding thing. You'll thank me later." "Vapor?" she repeated, the green gas around her gauntlets swirling faster. "You think this is a game?" "I think you need a mint," Jake said. "Seriously, that green stuff? It’s rusting my car’s paint job just by being in the same zip code." Vapor didn't reply with words. She raised her arms, and a massive blast of compressed air roared from her gauntlets. Jake dived to the side, the force of the blast obliterating the wooden walkway where he had been standing seconds before. Splinters flew like shrapnel. *Time stop.* The world went grey again. Jake took a deep breath, feeling the familiar strain in the back of his mind. He had five seconds of cooldown left from the last jump, which meant he only had five seconds of active time before he was vulnerable. He sprinted toward Specter. The skeleton was still mid-scream, the air blast from Vapor hadn't even dissipated yet. Jake wound up his right arm, the Ironclad Gauntlet’s piston hissing as it reached maximum pressure. "Going down!" Jake shouted into the silence. He buried his fist into Specter’s chest. The hydraulic ram fired with a muffled *thud* in the timeless void. *Time start.* The sound returned in a violent explosion. Specter was launched backward, his skeletal frame skipping across the pier like a stone before he vanished over the edge and into the churning, icy water of the bay. Jake looked down at his right hand. The Ironclad Gauntlet was covered in a thick layer of frost, the hydraulic piston jammed halfway through its cycle. "Oh, come on! Quality control, people!" Vapor screamed in rage, unleashing a continuous stream of air that chased Jake as he scrambled away. He dove behind a stack of crates, the metal groaning and denting under the atmospheric pressure she was putting out. "Is that the best you’ve got?" Jake yelled, peeking over the top. "I’ve had leaf blowers with more attitude than you! You’re just a glorified hair dryer in a hazmat suit!" Vapor leaped, her jets propelling her onto the corrugated roof of a nearby warehouse. She looked down at him, her mask reflecting the dim harbor lights. "I’m going to crush the air out of your lungs," she promised. "We should really break the ice first," Jake said, flashing a grin. "Or did Specter already do that when he went for his swim?" "Your jokes are pitiful," Vapor said, her gauntlets glowing with a dull, sickly light. "Almost as pitiful as your life." A wet, bony hand gripped the edge of the pier. Specter hauled himself back up, his frame drenched and shivering, black liquid dripping from his empty eye socket. He looked less like a skeleton and more like a drowned cat made of hate. "I am... immortal!" Specter snarled, his voice a jagged edge. "You cannot... kill... death!" Jake stood his ground, his one working gauntlet humming, the other a frozen hunk of useless metal. He looked at the two of them—the gas-masked flyer and the vengeful skeleton—and he started to laugh. It wasn't the laugh of a hero. It was the laugh of a man who had seen the end of the world and found it lacked a punchline. "Immortal, huh? That’s funny," Jake said, his voice dropping into a defiant, cold tone. "I’ve died more times than you’ve had hot meals, bone-head. You think you’re scary? You think she’s a threat? I’ve got a thermonuclear bomb in lockup and a girl to find who builds bathyspheres better than you build a personality." He slammed his working fist into his palm, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "I’m not even going to take you guys seriously. It would be an insult to my schedule." Jake shifted his weight, his eyes darting between Vapor's overhead position and Specter's staggering approach, his mind already calculating the next ten seconds of existence. ════════════════════════════════════════