Madame Science Chapter 2 (rough)

The Glendale mall isn’t busy, but the cool, stone floors and walls amplify the slightest bit of noise. I feel bombarded by sensory input—the heavy perfume drifting from the dark clothing shop to my left, the high-pitched chatter of people clustered around the coffee kiosk, and the strobing lights from a car display up ahead swelling around me. It’s Tuesday morning and I’d thought it’d be less overwhelming to come here without the weekend crowds. I was wrong. Somehow, despite being empty, the large, three-story mall still manages to feel suffocating and busy.

I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and take a discrete, fortifying breath. I want to leave, but I can’t. Not without my mission objective. Well, objectives, since I’ve got to get a candle now too. Judging by the smell, there’s a strong chance there’s a candle store on the level above me, so I make a mental note to stop by when my business at the specialty store is done.

I pick my way through the mall, carefully skirting the security camera’s line of sight and sidle up to my goal. Just a normal, well-adjusted civilian running some regular errands on a Tuesday morning. Nothing suspicious here.

“Lady,” the teenage girl manning the kiosk says, “you’ve got a problem.” Her eyes, partially hidden by thick, pink frames and a healthy amount of mascara, are extremely judgmental. 

Around our feet, tiny robotic dogs and cats and assorted fantasy creatures click across the slippery floor. A few of them chirp as they bump into the barrier keeping them from running havoc through the mall. They’re cheap novelty items that estranged relatives buy elementary school children when they realize they’ve forgotten to get a present on the way to their birthday party. The kiosk behind the girl is piled high with boxes proclaiming each robot special despite possessing the exact same internal skeleton as its brethren.

“No, I don’t,” I say very unconvincingly. I’ve never been able to lie to kids. Even at my peak villain days, I’d trip all over my tongue whenever they asked me a question. 

“Why are we not waiting for Mommy and Daddy?” 

“Uh, the bank is closing.”

“No, it’s not, it’s the middle of the day.”

“Fine, you got me, it’s because I’m seeing if I can melt it from space and your parents will evacuate faster without you.”

“W-what?”

And this kid is an even tougher opponent than the six-year-old I had to rescue from my villainous scheme.

She’s sitting in a director’s chair, arms folded as she unabashedly meets my eyes. With the height of the chair, she barely manages to be at eye-level, but still gives the impression of staring down at me anyway. The first few times I’d come, she’d been the perfect salesperson, showing me new models and making suggestions for colors and types depending on the recipient. The size of my order is inversely proportional to her respect for me, apparently.

“No problem here,” I say, trying to sound more convincing. Even I can hear how suspicious I sound. 

“Uh huh,” she says. Her name tag reads Gertrude today. She’s never had the same name twice.

I nod at her name tag. “Gertrude, huh? I liked Zuhl better.”

“My boss says I can’t use demon names,” she says. Some of the hostility leaks from her tense shoulders and she rolls her eyes. “Like anyone actually reads my name tag.”

I refrain from pointing out that I’ve looked at her name tag every time I’ve stopped by. I get the feeling she’s a little creeped out by how often that’s been. I probably should hit up another mall, but this is the only one I’ve found where this particular kiosk is out of sight of the numerous cameras that plague LA. 

A neon green dog barks at my foot and springs headfirst into the toe of my boot. It promptly topples to one side and continues to bark as it spasms on the floor. I fake a look of surprise and squat down to squint at it. Its fur is matted on one side, probably from falling over so often. The walking mechanics in these things leave much to be desired. “Oh, hey! I’ve never seen this one before.”

“Yes, you have,” Gertrude says. “You bought six of those exact ones over the past two months.”

I click my tongue, letting my blonde hair fall across my face for a moment so she can’t see my expression. This girl’s got a good memory. Too good. “Have I? I don’t recall.”

Gertrude sighs and finally hops off of her chair. She boots up her computer, tapping the mouse impatiently as the screen loads. “Just tell me how many you want this time. If you tell me what you’re actually buying them for, I’ll give you a discount.”

She’d offered me the same deal last time. I’d told her I was donating them to charity out of the goodness of my heart. If she’s asking again, she clearly didn’t believe me despite having given me the discount.

“Eight,” I say with all the dignity I can muster. “Two dogs, two cats, and four of the unicorn ones, please. I’m still donating them to charity.” The unicorn ones are new, I think. I feel inspired by their iridescent horns.

She taps the side of her computer, lips pursing as the program fails and then relaunches itself. While it loads for a second time, she goes about collecting my order. “Uh huh. What charity?”

My brain stalls. She’s too good at catching me off guard. Could she be a government plant? Impossible, I think, eyeing the car keys on a lanyard around her neck. There’s a little Matrix figurine attached to it. She wouldn’t work for the government. “The, er, children’s hospital.”

She stacks the boxes on her little table, dark eyebrow twitching at my answer. She slides a glance at me from the corner of her eye and doesn’t seem to notice as the tower of boxes starts to sway precariously. “Uh huh. You know it’s super messed up to say you’re giving these to a children’s hospital and then not doing it, right?”

Walnuts, I curse. She’s right. Not only does this type of lie damage my morality score, but, worse, it’d make Scott disappointed if ever found out. I don’t even want to think about what Ms. Barry would say. I pull my wallet out of my small purse. “Did I say eight? I meant sixteen.”

Gertrude looks smug and starts ringing me up. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re pretty mean to me considering I keep this place in business,” I say. “You know people can buy these online for, like, twelve bucks?”

“Then buy them online,” she retorts.

I scowl at her, unable to come up with a retort. It’d be even creepier of me to admit that I can’t buy them online because that’d leave a paper trail. I fork out enough cash to cover the number flashing on the screen. It’s high, but still within budget. I’d just have to make sure these ones lasted me a while. “You got a bag?”

“For sixteen boxes?” She snorts. “You’re gonna need a cart.”

There aren’t any carts at the mall. I knew I should have gotten the candle before coming here. I waffle over just taking my boxes without buying the candle and arriving at my appointment with Ms. Barry candle-less.

Ms. Barry, as usual, wins.

“Can you watch these for me for a sec?” I ask her in my sweetest voice. “I’m going to be in big trouble if my boss doesn’t sniff a candle.”

Gertrude/Zuhl blinks. “What?”

“Thanks!” I turn on my heel and briskly make my way upstairs. Ms. Barry isn’t my boss, but it sure feels like it sometimes. Look at me, going out of my way to buy the things I told her I was going to buy so she quits suspecting me of nefarious things.

The candle shopping takes less time than buying the toys since I just grab the first five scents I see and the cashier doesn’t sass me like Gertrude does. I’m not sure what Snow Forest Retreat is supposed to smell like, but the cashier is thrilled I’m giving it a try. They even let me buy one of their large, oversized bags.

“Have a great day,” they tell me, handing my purchases over. Their smile soothes the sting of how much I just dropped on candles. Were they always this expensive? Did people actually buy these at those prices?

I head back downstairs and am unsurprised to see that Gertrude has had exactly zero customers since I’ve been gone. I wasn’t kidding when I said I keep that place in business.

“I am not paid to watch your stuff,” Gertrude tells me without any real anger. She squints at my candle bag. “So, what, does your boss have candle fetish or something?”

I snort and start piling the boxes into my bag. Frustratingly enough, only four fit at a time. “I don’t suppose you can help me out to my car?” If she helps, I bet we can manage in one trip.

Gertrude smiles sweetly. “I’m also not paid to leave this chair.”

Walnuts.

I end up making three trips from the kiosk to the parking lot while she laughs at me every time I come back for more. 

“See you next week,” she calls after me on my last trip. She’s sitting cross-legged in her chair and grinning. I tipped her despite her breathtaking lack of help and I’m sure she feels like she’s won. “Say hi to the kids for me!”

I retreat with as much dignity as possible, making sure to take the long way to my car to avoid as many cameras as I can. I can’t say I succeed. Somehow, sneaking around to purchase tiny, poorly-made robots doesn’t leave a lot of room for dignity.

The only reason I can afford to buy these things is from the funds I…acquired during my villainy days. I’d had to give up quite a bit in my immunity agreement, including a fair number of Swiss bank accounts I’d hoped the government wouldn’t find. It’s only through sheer luck they hadn’t been able to trace any unethical practices back to my US account or my beloved car.

Speaking of my car, it’s absolutely covered in dust except for where I left a bunch of fingerprints while opening the doors. It’s a tiny two-door car that’s great for getaways, but not so great for transporting sixteen brightly colored boxes covered in cartoon depictions of the animals inside. I end up having to stack most of them in the cramped backseat, my trunk already full with my gym bag, briefcase, and emergency kit. The cartoons mock me with their big, neon eyes and I huff as I slide into the driver’s seat, scowling.

I’m getting a lot of judgement today. First the government guy telling me off for not being a patriot or something, then Ms. Barry for answering government guy, then Gertrude just now and, finally, from the very creatures I’d purchased.

I search the nearest children’s hospital on my phone. It’s nearly forty minutes out of my way through LA traffic and would barely leave me enough time to make it back home in time for Ms. Barry’s arrival.

“What if I don’t,” I say out loud, “and then say that I did?”

The robots in the backseat glare at me accusingly.

“Walnuts,” I say and start my car. Looks like I’m taking the scenic route through the city.

—————

Los Angeles is always under construction. There’s always a pothole being filled, or a gas line being dug exhumed or some sort of Super fight being patched up. It makes the traffic in downtown unpredictable because while potholes and construction can be predicted, hero fights can’t. So even though It’s well past rush hour, the freeway is packed. By the time I get to the hospital, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll make it to my meeting with Ms. Barry.

“Century Boulevard is closed from the airport to the 110,” the front desk person at the hospital tells me. She eyes the eight boxes on the counter dubiously. Usually people donate through approved charities and don’t drop the gifts off directly. Like most people in LA, she doesn’t ask. “Some sort of pyromaniac, I think. Light, Atlas and Phantasma took care of it, but not before the police had to close it down for fire safety.”

I keep my face carefully blank at the list of heroes. Another Super fight in the same day? It hasn’t even been five hours! It makes me worried for Scott because this isn’t the first time he’s pulled double-fight days. Was the LA Chapter really that understaffed? And if it was, why could they afford manpower for a three-person team up? As a speedster, Light rarely needs a partner and, as an A-class hero, he definitely doesn’t need a team. The fact that he’s got another A-class and an S-class hero with him is very interesting. And concerning. 

I only know Atlas by reputation. He’s a hero from San Francisco and, if rumors are to be believed, he used to run the Hero Chapter up there before Foresight, the Director of the Department of Heroes, caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. He’s a stoic, block-headed guy with the ability to make people forget the location of an object in space. Most people see him as a Hero’s Hero since it’s through his power that the San Francisco Chapter avoided the massive cyber security breach in 2008.

Phantasma, on the other hand, is considered the Hero’s Villain for no other reason than that her powers are scary as heck.  Half-woman, half-phantom, she can turn her entire body into an evil-looking, incorporeal smoke that’s nearly impossible to contain. Her red eyes give her night vision while her wailing voice is enough to shatter glass at the right frequency. She’s new on the scene but is already considered an S-rank hero by the DOH’s standards. Phantasma’s supposed to be in New York, working directly under Foresight.

Light, an A-rank hero in his own right, doesn’t need backup like Atlas and Phantasma, even for a pyromaniac. So why are they teamed up?

I thank the receptionist and make my way back to where my car is idling in the drop-off zone. Light is the textbook perfect definition of a Superhero. He follows every rule, regulation, and protocol set out by the DOH to the letter. He didn’t even ask me out until I agreed to sign the pardon and immunity agreement that changed my status from “villain” to “civilian.” If Atlas and Phantasma are assigned to his team, it’s probably because they either need their reputations cleaned or because they need to be re-trained.

Possibly both.

I slide back into the driver’s seat and click my tongue. With two battles in one day, plus a team up, Scott’s not going to be off of work until late. The DOH is almost as bad as the IRS when it comes to paperwork and Scott’s not a very fast writer. It’d be hours before he’s free.

Sure enough, when I check my phone, there’s a message waiting from me.

From Honey Boo: Caught up. Tomorrow night? Sorry :(

I text back a quick agreement, letting him know I’d move our reservation. I’m not happy, but I’m not upset either. It’s not a surprise that a hero has an unpredictable schedule and I knew going into this relationship that we’d have a few missed dates because of it. I just didn’t think there’d be this many.

The dashboard clock blinks at me when I finally start my car. I curse. I’m definitely running behind and lawyers do not like it when their clients are late. Especially when said lawyer is going out of her way to make a house call.

My apartment building towers over the single-family homes clustered around it. It used to be a motel, but the city reclaimed the land for housing sometime in the 80s. Green-painted brick makes it look moldy and I know the top floor experiences leaks when it rains. I’m on the third of four floors, so my apartment has avoided most of the problems in the old building. The worst thing I can say about it is that the elevator never works and, when I cook cabbage, my neighbor complains.

I grab my candles and two of my new toys out of the backseat, nearly forgetting to lock my car as I bolt for the stairwell. By the time I make it to the third floor, I’m breathing a little heavier than I’d like. I’m sure that my nose—by far my most distinctive feature by merit of being my largest—is glistening with perspiration. One thing I can say about being a villain is that it kept me in shape.

“Next time,” Ms. Barry says, blue eyes glittering under the cheap, fluorescent lighting, “we’ll meet at my office.”

I wince, juggling my armful of new toys and as I struggled to get my keys out of my pocket. Ms. Barry looks distinctly out of place in the shabby, peeling hallway of my apartment building. Her crisp, grey suit probably costs as much as my rent and her nails—a metallic, deadly blue—are likely the same price as my utilities. “My bad. I just had to stop by and drop off some toys for the children’s hospital. You know, like a good person.”

Ms. Barry is not impressed. “The fact you think that that should give you leeway means it doesn’t.” Her eyes fall on the boxes under my arm. “Did you forget to donate those? Or are those the gifts for Scott you were talking about on the phone?” 

I totally forgot to grab a gift. Walnuts. 

“Here, smell a candle,” I say, wiggling the bag hanging off the crook of my elbow. She’s giving me her best Disappointed Look, fully aware that I’m dodging the question, and refuses to pick up a candle. I evade her eyes by carefully picking out the right key on my key ring. I unlock the door, subtly knocking twice against the doorframe. Inside, the faint whirring and clicking of electronics stops completely. I shoulder my way in, using my foot to keep the door open long enough for her to follow me. “So what did the government guy want?”

“His name is Ronalds,” Ms. Barry says. She enters when I wave her in, eyebrows flying up at what she finds. “He was…very upset about…” she trails off, staring.

I can afford a better apartment, but I don’t need one. The one bedroom, one bathroom space is cramped with minimal furniture—a couch and coffee table in the living room, a bed and nightstand in the bedroom, and a series of beaten-up appliances dotting the galley-style kitchen. I tend towards warmer colors—browns and oranges and yellows—which gives the well-used place a rustic feel.

I’ve purposefully chosen wood bar stools at the kitchen counter and wooden legs on the couch to match the coffee table. I don’t like my living space to look like one of my old labs, all metal and blinking lights, and I know the government appreciates the lack of obvious tech when they swing by to do their monthly checks. Well, the usual lack of tech. I usually have time to put my pretties away before I get a visitor. Unfortunately, this time, I was late.

Big, sparkling neon eyes stare up at the two of us. Momento, the first, neon green dog I bought, is tipped onto his side, little legs locked straight out. The other four, all different animals and colors, are eerily pointed right at the door in a half circle, heads cocked at the exact same angle.

We’re going to have to work on that.

“Christine,” Ms. Barry says, stepping further into my apartment. Her heels clack against the hardwood floors. She looms over Momento, staring down at him like one might look at an empty whiskey bottle. She toes at him, her gleaming heels looking odd next to his coarse, cheap fur. “This is...is this a problem?”

“No,” I say. I wince at the defensive snap in my voice and cover it by darting around Ms. Barry to start gathering the robots up. They’re blocking her way to the sofa, her usual spot when she visits. I don’t have a kitchen table. “They’re basic tech, barely even A.I. 1.0, totally allowed within my probation agreement.”

“So it’s your assertion that these serve no other purpose than recreational,” she states, brow furrowing. She sets her briefcase on the coffee table but doesn’t take a seat yet. She watches with narrowed eyes as I juggle the five toys plus the two new ones plus the candles. “You aren’t...modifying them?”

I snort and dump my armful of robots onto the kitchen counter. Momento topples off the top of the pile and it’s only through fast reflexes that I catch him before he hits the ground. I set him carefully next to the others and then stack my two new ones in front of him, blocking Ms. Barry’s view. Then, as an extra precaution, I take the five candles out of their bag and line them up too. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. “Ms. Barry, they’re basically the pet rocks of robotics. Level Three at best. There’s not much to modify.”

Technically, that’s true. There really isn’t a lot to work with within each tiny robot, especially since they’re not built to do more than shuffle around and chirp. That’s why I have to buy so many of them. I keep my expression as guiltless as I can while Ms. Barry studies me.

“Right,” the older woman finally says. She pets at her grey hair, still frowning, before visibly deciding that this isn’t worth her time. “I’d recommend keeping your collection to a minimum, Ms. Green. Limited technology or not.”

“These are the last two,” I lie, gesturing to the boxes. She doesn’t need to know about the other six in my car. Nobody will see them anyway. It takes three to modify one in my experience. “It’s the whole set.” I pull out one of the stools under the counter and sit in front of the boxes so she can’t see I’ve bought Momento’s body again. There’s just something utterly charming about the neon green fur. “But enough about me, I wanna see what the government guy was talking about. I thought I hit my case quota for the month?”

Ms. Barry shakes her head and finally sits, moving to open her briefcase. There’s a fingerprint scanner where the lock should be and, after that, a retinal scanner. Talk about overkill. She says, “You have, but Mr. Ronalds is willing to credit this one to next month. I convinced him to treat it as overtime.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t think that I could get overtime. I’m not being paid, right?”

“You aren’t,” Ms. Barry says, pursing her lips. She’d fought hard to at least get me a stipend to live off of, but hadn’t been able to get them to budge. “Maybe they’ll regret that now that ‘overtime’ means that for every hour you work, it counts as two hours.”

I whistle. Not to toot my own horn, but my time is valuable. I can hardly believe he’d be willing to just sign it away like that. “And he still wants me on the case?”

“He had no choice,” Ms. Barry says. She finally gets her briefcase open and pulls out a thick Manila folder. All of the cases they send for review are on paper, probably to guard against the information being hacked. Ms. Barry is expected to only open the briefcase while in my presence and, even then, she’s not supposed to look at the documents. “But he can’t force a civilian, even one in your situation, to take on more projects than their contract demands without just compensation.”

“There’s a silver lining,” I grumble. My designation as a civilian instead of a super-powered individual rarely does me any favors. Legally, any invention of “excessive significance” created by a civilian can be taken away from them without a court order. It’s to prevent really dangerous tech from making its way into the world without regulation, but the law’s been warped. Anyone in my position knows it’s not regulation—it’s theft. Departments like the DOD and its ilk use it so they have exclusive rights to advanced tech.

It’s ironic that it’s that status that keeps the government from taking advantage of my time now. Heroes are required to help the government under the Super Commitment act unless the Department of Heroes steps in on their behalf. Civilians can’t be forced like a super-powered person can.

Ms. Barry is watching me like she knows what I’m thinking. As a lawyer on retainer to the DOH, she understands the duel restrictions I’m under. The government, as part of my agreement, claims three consulting slots a month from me and prohibits the amount and type of tech I have access to for the next three months. 

The DOH, in exchange for its backing, claims an additional three consultations and comes with the stipulation that I have to change my “civilian” designation to a “super-powered individual” before I can even think of applying to be a Hero.

“Maybe you’ll have time for a vacation next month,” Ms. Barry says. Her eyes are kind. “If you get this case squared away quickly, of course. We’ll bill them max hours no matter how much time it takes.”

I try for a smile. It’s a little weak. “Of course.” Between the constant legal battle to change my status and the status of others like me, the consultations, and Scott, I don’t have a lot of time for a break. One less consultation next month isn’t likely to make a dent and she knows it. But this is what I agreed to and I have to see it through. Or become a villain again. I really don’t want Ms. Barry to know about that idea. I clear my throat and hold out a hand. “Let’s see it then.” I accept the folder from her, standing partially to reach across the small living room to where she’s extended it. I settle back onto my stool, swiveling so that I can spread the file open on the counter. I have to move a few of the candles aside to make room. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. You know where everything is.”

Ms. Barry smoothes the wrinkles out of her blazer as she stands. “Coffee?” The first two months of her visits, she’d sat stiffly as I went over the scope of the consult, hardly moving as I tried to come up with a time estimate she could report back to Agent Blondie. By the time she started calling me Christine, she was taking over my kitchen to make snacks.

“Sure,” I say, flicking the folder open. The first page reads Urgent Incident Report. Oh boy. “There’s a new roast in the freezer.”

“Lovely.” Ms. Barry edges past the bottleneck created by the counter and the trash can and into the kitchen. She sets to work prepping the machine and I let the sound of her bustling around wash over me as I turn my attention to the pages in front of me.

I hate doing incident analyses for the government. It’s easier looking over the schematics for some new vehicle or building they’re looking to purchase. It always seems relatively harmless when the subject for analysis is non-sentient. The DOD is probably going to move ahead with the acquisition with or without my input, so I don’t feel bad dissing an engineering flaw or error.

Incident analyses, while more interesting than static consults, always leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth. There’s nothing I can do to solve them since they’ve already happened. All I can do is figure out what went wrong and where. Then, when I do hand in my consult, I never find out whether or not they’ve taken my advice. I never find out if everything turns out okay.

This incident analysis, I can tell right away, isn’t going to be any different. From the pictures, it looks like some sort of chemical spill out in the middle of a field. There’s an interview from the field’s owner, detailing the circumstances of the damage’s discovery (a “hot” smell in the middle of the night and the lowing of a cow caught in the ensuing pit) and a report from the agent on the ground. 

There aren’t any casualties listed in the overview. The tension drops from my shoulders. The last incident report they gave me was purposefully vague, trying to hide the fact that the plane they were having my analyze was full of people when it went down. At least, this time, it isn’t going to be too little, too late.

Then I flip to a magnified picture of the damage and my mouth drops open.

There’s no way this is damage from an acid spill. It’s not an explosion or even a meteor strike either. I don’t know what it is, but whatever melted or carved this crater into the field didn’t behave in any predictable way I’ve ever seen. The edge of the crater is smooth and not in the same way stone melted form impact would be. The hole doesn’t taper like it would from an acid, instead expanding until the closeup shots show that the bottom of the damage is nearly fifty feet in diameter while the top is closer to thirty. The bottom is also perfectly concave to the point that it nearly looks metal. But, upon closer examination, it’s loose rock, packed together and smoothed so finely that it looks like one continuous sheet.

My best guess is that this is the work of a stone mason or artisan, working diligently for months to create the exact mechanics of what’s happening in the picture. Only, of course, that that’s not possible either because this appeared overnight.

“Huh,” I say at last. I’d initially skipped past the agent report because they’re usually a little dry for my tastes, but I’ll have to take my time and read this one. As much as I don’t like the DOD, their agents are usually pretty observant. Maybe this one noticed something I’m not getting from these pictures. I squint at the way the topsoil near the damage looks like it’s been liquefied and then frozen. There are fractal patterns that make me think of ice right next to the melted edge of the crater. “Weird.”

“Well that doesn’t sound very reassuring,” Ms. Barry says, dropping a mug of coffee on the counter in front of me. She’s stolen my best mug, the one with the ergonomic handle, for herself. She sits on the stool next to me, crossing one leg over the other. “What’s weird?”

I don’t take my eyes off the pictures. The more I look at them, at the way the earth is melted and twisted and compressed, the more confused I am. “This...I’m going to need some time on this one. It’s not anything I’ve seen before.”

“Time is fine. Ronalds usually waits a few days before he starts bothering me for a progress report,” Ms. Barry says. When I look up, she’s frowning. Usually, I can get the analyses down within a few hours and she knows it. She taps the counter with her nails. “What’s weird?”

I don’t know where to even start. “I’ve never seen anything that can do this before.” I flip to the bottom of the crater, cataloguing the measurements listed on it. “This thing is massive.”

“Is this something Hero HQ needs to be aware of?”

I inhale my first sip of scorching coffee and spend the next minute desperately coughing to clear my lungs.

It’s an inappropriate question and she knows it. The reason I’ve got two sets of contracts is because, at the end of the day, the Department of Heroes is not part of the Department of Defense. They’re both subject to America’s law, but one does not (should not) reign supreme over the other. If the DOD has a case that involves a superpowered individual, they’re obligated to turn it over to the DOH and if the DOH has a case that turns out not to be related to a superpowered individual then they’re supposed to knock it over to the DOD.

Ms. Barry is my lawyer when she passes on these cases. She’s technically allowed to know about what each case entails, but she’s not allowed to pass that information onto the other side without permission. In most cases, they prefer it if she doesn’t know. Asking me if the LA Chapter should be involved in a DOD case isn’t her looking out for me. It’s her looking out for the Chapter. If the DOD ever found out she asked me that, they’d have her disbarred. 

The worst part? I’m pretty sure it is something the DOH should be aware of. This is way too much damage to have appeared in less than 12 hours and the peculiarities makes me think that it wasn’t made by a civilian. This much destructive power could be devastating in a populated area and it’s not hard to imagine that happening in this day and age. But if I make that call to have her inform the Department of Heroes, I’m breaking my parole agreement big time. That’s Big Trouble.

“What, uh, what makes you think that?” I ask, trying to pretend like I didn’t just cough coffee up onto my shirt.

Ms. Barry’s shoulders slump. “Sorry, sorry, never mind. I know you can’t tell me. It’s just…” She shakes her head. “Have you noticed the number of high class villains lately? Just this morning there was a new B-class apprehended by Light.”

I nearly choke on my coffee again. “That punk was B-class?! He completely stole his tech and used a gun!”

“You were there?!” Ms. Barry slams her cup back onto the counter. “Christine, we talked about this. You can’t be within 500 yards of a Super fight—”

“I totally stayed in my car,” I hasten to assure her. Getting involved in a Super fight before getting my license also counted as Big Trouble. “But, come on, there’s no way that guy was B-class. He couldn’t even fly!”

Ms. Barry stares at me. “What?”

I set down my cup to gesture wildly. “Guy goes out of his way to make a full tech suit like some sort of comic book character and he can’t even fly? Not to mention the whole thing was too heavy for him to operate without power, its biggest defense capability was sheet metal, and its best weapon was a gun. How the hell does the LA Chapter grade him a B after that absolutely embarrassing performance?”

“Mind powers strong enough to control six separate pieces of equipment aren’t anything to scoff at,” Ms. Barry says. She shakes her head at me. “Look at Omit. He’s from your hometown, I believe. He can only erase one item within eyesight, hardly a notable power when compared to Atlas. And yet, because mind powers are so rare, he started a C-class hero. With a little experience, he went up to B-class.

“Chicagoans are different,” I say. I fought Omit once. It was not a fun fight. He’d made me forget that there was a whole wall in front of me and I’d run into it like some sort of cartoon character. “Chicago changes you. Gear glued gears to his head. Are you saying gluing plastic gears to his head makes him an efficient hero?”

“I’m saying it makes him aptly named,” Ms. Barry retorts. “You know mind powers are always graded higher than others.”

My jaw drops and it takes me a minute to find my tongue. “He had a thigh gun, Barry. You are not going to convince me that his thigh gun was a big enough threat to merit a B.”

Ms. Barry scoops up on of my candles, holding it up with obviously faked interest. “Snow Forest Retreat?”

I groan in frustration. She always changes the subject when it looks like I’m going to win. She’s a slippery one, I’ll give her that. It’s probably what makes her such a good lawyer. “Yeah. Be careful though. I hear smelling like ice means the LA Chapter calls it a C-class.”

Ms. Barry throws me a sharp glare, but she can’t fool me. I can see the way her lip is twitching.

Maybe that’s how I’ll get my super-powered individual designation. Beware my awesome powers! I can make lawyers laugh.

If only it were that easy.