I duck beneath the pink, flame-wreathed leg as it slams into the streetlight just behind where my head was a second ago, exerting enough force to collapse the metal beam around it with a screeching crunch. Rowan’s kick may seem deadly, and it certainly would’ve been if it landed, but, knowing what to look for, I can see how she intentionally put herself at a disadvantage. In the few moments it takes her to pull her foot out of the collapsed hunk of metal that was the streetlight, I tackle her around the waist, slamming her into the wall of a nearby building with an amount of force I pray isn’t enough to actually hurt her.

  Rowan grunts with exertion, pulsing her flames and grabbing my shoulders to wrench me off of her. I let her, and make a point of stumbling back, appearing thrown off balance. I’m not sure how convincing my performance is to the various spectators that inevitably stayed to watch the fight, but I have a feeling Rowan can account for my mistakes. She’s clearly better at this than I am.

  “Curse you, hero!” Rowan overdramatically shouts, pointing her finger at me as we stand apart on the sidewalk, “You’ll never defeat me!” I think she’s overdoing it a bit, but the scattered murmuring from the crowd betrays no hint that they're catching on. I don’t think I ever fully realized how eager people were to believe the lies they’d been told all their lives.

  “I did before and I will again, villain!” I respond in turn, trying my best to relay that hero confidence which used to come so easily to me. In truth, I've only seen Rowan fight for real once, when we teamed up to defeat that damned. I honestly think she’s quite a bit stronger than I am, and this fight would be a lot more one-sided if she wasn’t holding back for appearances sake.

  Rowan lets out a frustrated scream and charges me, flames propelling her forward so that when she finally reaches me, her shoulder slams into my gut with enough force to send me flying back. I crash through the glass windows of a department store on the other side of the street, winded but surprisingly unharmed.

  As I stand, she follows me into the store, raining down a flurry of blows as I back up further in. To my confusion though, after a few more moments, Rowan stops. For a few heartbeats, I just stand there with my arms still raised in a defensive stance, while she sighs and relaxes. Then, seeing my expression, she flashes a smile.

  “They evacuated the store already and we’re far enough in now that nobody can see us from the street. Time for a break!” Rowan finishes her thought cheerfully, slumping down against the wall between a pair of mannequins.

  “Oh,” I respond, not knowing quite how to react, “How long should we stay?” I relax my stance as well as I speak, feeling awkward.

  “No more than a minute or two,” Rowan asserts, “Wouldn’t want people getting suspicious.” She pats the floor beside her and looks at me expectantly. I cautiously sit down next to her, looking around just in case someone is still here. Like she said though, there’s nobody. I’d been so distracted by the fight I hadn’t even noticed.

  “So, uh, I was wondering…” I begin, looking at Rowan to gauge her reaction. She seems nonchalant and curious, so I continue, “You used normal flames back at the club, when acting as a civilian, but they’ve been pink every other time I’ve seen them. How does that work?”

  “I can change the color at will,” Rowan explains, “It’s my ability, Prismatic Blaze.”

  “Two words?” I ask, expressing surprise, “That’s rare. And for them to be so disparate too, you’ve got a one-of-a-kind ability.”

  “This coming from the one whose superhuman ability is literally Superhuman,” Rowan teases, causing my face to heat a little, “Though to be honest, it’s nothing special. Multicolored flames can be flashy, but the only real use I get out of it is in disguising my identity. I use red and orange normally because people just assume I’m not the same person as a villain flame user with an easily distinguishable gimmick.”

  “Why use pink?” I ask, “I get it works with the pun, but I have a hard time believing there weren’t better options.”

  “Just another trick to make people underestimate me,” Rowan explains, gesturing dismissively, "People have a hard time taking anyone seriously when they’re dressed all in pink. It’s hard to overstate how essential that is: most heroes aren’t even close to my level, so if they saw me for what I was, they might genuinely have an excuse to get rid of me.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” I tease, eliciting a smile, “But seriously, you aren’t wrong. I’m pretty sure after having fought with you a second time that you could easily beat me if you tried. You’re pretty good at this, all things considered. It’s like you thought of everything.”

  “I’ve got lots of practice,” Rowan replies, her mood suddenly turning dark. She looks down at the ground and seems to shrink in on herself a little. Sensing a clearly sore subject, I hurry to think of a way to change it.

  “We should, uh, probably get moving!” I exclaim suddenly, leaping to my feet, “We’ve got a cover to maintain, after all.” I stick out my hand, offering to help Rowan up. She accepts it, letting me pull her to her feet. As I do, we get awfully close, our faces only inches apart. I stand there for a moment before Rowan grins at me and I stumble back, flustered.

  “S-so, how should we do this?” I stammer out, trying to keep my cool. I need to be more professional than this.

  “How about this: we go upstairs and you throw me out a window,” Rowan suggests, ignoring my discomfort. She motions to a nearby stairwell to demonstrate.

  “If that works for you,” I agree, making a beeline for said stairs. Rowan follows close behind, and the two of us make it to the upper level in seconds. I give her time to reset, then we square up, her back to the street. I swing first, and we enter a deadly dance of narrowly missed blows, most of which won’t be seen from the street below but the light of Rowan’s flames might be so we aren’t taking chances. After a moment, Rowan nods at me, and I take the cue to tackle her once more, lifting her up with ease and charging toward the windows.

  I let go a moment before impact, allowing Rowan to smash through the glass without too much force while also letting me catch myself before I tumble down with her. I see her fall down to the streets below, landing softly but making a show of getting back onto her feet.

  “Get down here and fight me, hero!” Rowan overenergetically shouts at me from the street below. She shifts into a fighting stance as if to demonstrate to the crowd, many of whom seem to be snapping back to attention, as if they’d been bored for a while but something interesting just happened. I supposed that much is probably true.

  “I’d be happy to,” I reply, channeling more of that hero confidence. Admittedly, looking down on her like this does make it easier to manage. Something about standing dramatically atop a building does wonders for my ability to act cocky.

  I jump down, opting for a standing landing. I barely even have to bend my knees - at this height, the impact for me is the equivalent of a normal person falling maybe two feet at most. Say what you want about my ability, but if nothing else I sure am durable.

  Rowan swings her blazing fist at me a second later, but she’s stopped trying. It’s slow and she’s already given me time to regain my balance after jumping down, making the blow one laughably easy to dodge. She follows up with another, then another, both of which I dodge just as easily, then growls in false frustration, the whole exchange making me seem far more skilled than I actually am. I respond with a palm strike directly to her face, intentionally not strong enough to break her nose, but she goes reeling back anyways.

  “Go hero! You can do it! Show her who’s boss!” Enthusiastic cheers echo from the crowd. It feels wrong, knowing they’re cheering for me to beat up a girl who isn’t actually all that bad of a person. However, knowing it’s for her sake as much as mine, I do my best to continue the act, mastering my expression to appear unfazed.

  Rowan screams at me once more, charging directly at me in a feigned rage. She’s deliberately slower, so I simply stick out both my arms and put one foot back, stopping her dead in her tracks by pushing back on her shoulders. From the look in her eyes, I’m not even sure her surprise is really fake.

  I follow up immediately with a knee to her chin, dramatically lifting her up into the air and back, where she hits the asphalt belly up and doesn’t get back up again, only groaning dramatically after a few seconds. I hear as much as see the police moving in from either side, quickly scoping her up and handcuffing her. The fight - inasmuch as you can call it that - is over, but the victory feels hollow. I didn’t win, and unlike before, I know that now.

  I turn away from the scene, trusting Rowan to handle the rest herself. The police and several onlookers congratulate me, but I shrug them off. I’m in no mood. I handle all the necessary processes for the arrest, and leave the situation to resolve itself. I’m technically off patrol still, so as I leave, I turn in the direction of the Bowl

  I run the rest of the way back.

  —

  I exit the changing room at the Bowl with a sigh, pulling out my phone to pass the time as I meander my way through the halls. Today was a bit of a slog already, and I’m not looking forward to this next part. Jonathan has called me up to his office again - another ‘check-in’ to make sure I’m not revealing any state secrets. No idea how he could tell even if I did, but I still haven’t taken that chance. I’m scrolling through an article in the news about recent shortages of certain synth items when a new message catches my eye.

  “Just broke out of jail ;).” Rowan writes, informing me that she’s safe. I smile softly to myself as I send her a thumbs-up emoji in return before switching off my phone. Rowan is honestly the best thing to come out of this crazy week, and I’m glad I gave her a chance. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little put off by her being a villain, at first, but the girl has shown me nothing but kindness since we fought that damned - aside from our agreed-upon fight. Plus, it’s nice to talk to at least someone who is aware of everything going on behind the scenes but is still on my side. Not much of that going around.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Speaking of which, I had been considering how to learn even more than I already had. I started something with ‘Operative Gale Force’ back there, but unless I can find him again it won’t amount to all that much. Jonathan’s a dead end, for obvious reasons, but I might be able to ask Rowan where I can go next. If I allow myself to trust her beyond the friendliness we have now, which might be a big ask at this stage.

  I’m still considering my next move when, all of a sudden, I hear someone run up behind me. I turn around to find Allacia smiling at me expectantly. I wave at her and she waves back.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Felicity and I were gonna do a girls night tonight, but two’s a little sparse. You in?” Allacia explains cheerfully. Felicity Cameron, aka Frequency, is another hero our age - Allacia knows practically all of them. Her in particular I’m acquainted with, and we’re generally cordial, so it’s not an entirely out-there suggestion.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “We were just gonna swing by the club, get a few drinks, relax, etc. I just thought you might want to take a break, since you’ve been pretty stressed lately,” Allacia informs me. I consider it for a moment, but there isn’t much to think about. I may have a lot on my mind, but I can’t ignore my social life, and besides, she’s right, I have been stressed. Maybe this is just what I need to reset.

  “Sure,” I tell her, “Why not?”

  “Great!” Allacia replies, “We can meet at my place at eight. I’ll see you then!” With that, she bounds off, waving as she goes. Her excitement’s infectious, and between that and Rowan confirming she’s fine, I feel a little better as I slink into the executive offices hallway and rap my knuckles upon Jonathan’s door. To my surprise, it opens on its own, something Jonathan has never done before even if his ability could probably manage it with ease.

  My confusion is further compounded by the fact Jonathan does not seem to be alone. Inside his room, sitting on top of the corner of his desk, is a tall woman with dark purple hair. She’s dressed casually, wearing black basketball shorts and a t-shirt featuring a picture of a rhinoceros and the caption ‘battle unicorn’. The whole image contrasts so much with Jonathan’s prim and proper mannerisms that I’m unsure how to process it until Jonathan speaks.

  “Ms. Gardner, please do come in,” He says, watching me carefully as I enter and seat myself in the room. I spare a glance at the strange woman and she grins back at me.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” I prompt, feeling rather awkward.

  “Not at all,” Jonathan replies, so candidly I almost don’t realize for a second how insulting that sounds, “Which is precisely why this will be the last time, if all goes well. I asked you here to inform you that my associate, Ms. Violet Hawley, will be claiming the previous role I had been taking with you. In short, she will be handling your check-ins from now on.”

  He pauses for a moment, letting the words sink in. As for myself, I can’t help but immediately think of this as an opportunity. Jonathan’s too uptight to ever let me in on more reaper info, but this woman already seems drastically different. Maybe if I handle this well, I can actually get somewhere.

  “Oh, come on Jonathan, no need to be so formal,” The woman - Ms. Hawley - teases, “I look forward to getting to know you, Charlie.” She sticks out her hand for me to shake, and I accept, but under the surface I have a million questions. I guess I’ll have to start simple.

  “That’s me. I assume you’re a reaper, then?” I ask. I know two reapers: Jonathan and Gale Force. Given Jonathan didn’t introduce her with a codename, that could mean that those higher up don’t use them? It’s either that or she’s not a SAU at all, but I doubt an ordinary government agent would ever be so… visibly eccentric.

  “Nope!” She replies, “I’m a hero!”

  Well, that wasn’t what I expected. I hadn’t considered that, largely because the heroes of the highest caliber are a known quantity. If she both has access to classified info like reapers and acts so casually around Jonathan, she must at least be an upper-level SAU or someone with a lot of political power, but if she’s a hero that means I probably would have heard of her. She’s a female hero, and exceptionally strong, which could only mean…

  “Are you the Nimbus Witch?” I ask. Given the information I know it’s the only option. Except, I can immediately see the surprise on her face. Neither her nor Jonathan speaks for a second before, inexplicably, she starts to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh, rocking back and pounding her fist on the desk in her mirth.

  “Where’d you find this girl, Jonathan? She’s fucking hilarious!” She gasps out between breaths. I feel my face start to heat in embarrassment. I was so sure, where did I go wrong?

  “Bleeding in the middle of the road,” Jonathan replies harshly yet honestly. He seems not only unfazed, but thoroughly bored with the conversation.

  “Figures,” Ms. Hawley responds, finally settling down, “For your information, kid, no, I’m not the Nimbus Witch. Do I look eighty to you?”

  “N-no, ma’am,” I reply, any confidence I still had transformed into pure embarrassment. I guess that explains why she was so amused, I was way off base. Nobody’s seen the nigh-mythical individual said to be responsible for the cloudwall in years; I had no idea what characteristics to look for.

  “Then why was that your conclusion?” Ms. Hawley asks me, sobering up and watching me with a gleam in her eyes that unsettles me a little.

  “I just assumed, because you’re a hero and so clearly high up the ladder. There aren’t that many possibilities,” I explain, reluctantly. I’m hyperaware of how Jonathan seems to be getting more and more annoyed as we talk, but something about this strange woman is holding him back for now.

  “What, you though there was only one strong female hero?” Her voice is more teasing than anything, bereft of any malice, “Jeez, kid, give us ladies some more credit! I’ll have you know, including me, there’s more women in the upper class of SAUs than there are men, at least here in the USC. That includes reapers, a few damned, and of course the city champions.”

  By which she means the greatest heroes of each city. Most people don’t know this, but there are official internal rankings. The city champions aren’t necessarily the most well known heroes, but they’re always impressive. In fact, the one here in Newest York just happens to be my personal favorite…

  “Oh fuck, you’re Nightingale!” I exclaim, then slap my hand over my mouth in embarrassment. Heroes in the USC aren’t really like celebrities, more like famous war veterans, but to someone like me who always dreamed of joining their ranks I definitely idolize more than my fair share of them. Of them, Nightingale is objectively my favorite. She’s not just a strong hero with a good reputation, she also happens to be the most powerful openly LGBTQ+ hero in the USC. People have always debated if Jonathan is asexual, but it’s public knowledge that Nightingale is bi. As a gay, female hero myself, this woman is an inspiration.

  Which is why this whole situation is just awful. Not only have I thoroughly embarrassed myself, which would be mortifying at the best of times, but she’s aware of the reaper conspiracy? That means yet another famous hero, one I personally idolize, has been tacitly endorsing murder this entire time. That revelation alone is game-changing.

  “Yes, yes, you’re a hero, she’s a hero, we’re all heroes. Now, if you don’t mind, the purpose of this meeting was to ensure I didn't have to deal with you anymore and I’d like for that to be sooner rather than later, please,” Jonathan says with exasperation, shooting a look at Nightingale that just oozes impatience. Funnily enough though, it almost comes off as friendly, if nothing else than because - from what I’ve seen - he usually isn’t that emotional unless provoked.

  “Fine, we’ll get out of your hair,” Nightingale responds sarcastically, “Come one, kid, I’ll show you where we’ll be meeting.” She finishes, looking at me expectantly. I nod at her and rise, and she drops off the table and strides out of the room, leaving me to follow.

  Unsurprisingly, I’m led to a room down the hall, where a flick of Nightingale’s wrist opens the door. Her ability name hasn’t been made public, but as a fan I know it grants some form of gravikinesis, which explains her casually mimicking telekinesis. Her room is almost exactly the same as Jonathan’s, but looks almost unused. There are no papers on the desk, and the room has a small layer of dust that implies it isn’t taken care of. I guess she isn’t much one for desk work.

  “We’ll meet here every three days,” Nightingale turns and tells me as we enter, “Not that I really believe it’s necessary, but that’s protocol for you. There really isn’t much to it; I’ll receive a report on you from local intelligence prior to the meeting and we’ll discuss any problems, but if you stay out of trouble we’ll be in and out. Any questions?”

  I shake my head, looking down. I still feel rather sheepish; everything I’ve just been through in the last few minutes has completely rocked my world, and not in a good way. Nightingale seems to notice, and frowns at me, a look of consideration in her eyes.

  “Hey, don’t let Jonathan get you down,” She says, in a ‘cool teacher’-esque tone, “He can be pretty uptight. Trust me, you’ll be fine. It may not seem like it, but you’re practically royalty to most of the old guard of SAUs, given who your father was. That gives you a lot of leeway. And true, keeping secrets sucks, but knowing something usually only told to the higher-ups means that, later down the line, you’ll be first on the list for promotions. They go pretty far to avoid having to tell more people.” She says this all with a reassuring smile, but it falls on deaf ears. All-in-all, my concern isn’t as much with my safety as, well, the safety of everyone else. Everyone they’re killing.

  “You’re… okay with all this? With how they’re killing people? With how little being a hero actually matters?” I ask her. I try my best to sound cautious, but on the inside I’ve been dying to know.

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say being a hero doesn’t matter,” Nightingale responds, “We still do a lot of important work, especially as we begin to play more of a role in handling non-SAU criminals and rescue operations. But honestly, what I think doesn’t change the reality. Call it what you want, but SAUs just can’t be kept in a jail like normal folks. It isn’t feasible.”

  “And that justifies killing people?” I question her.

  “In some cases, yes,” Nightingale asserts, “We don’t exactly kill petty thieves, even if they are SAUs, but in order to keep people safe sometimes we have to do things that may not be as objectively heroic. We’re still doing good, it’s not like we claim the lives of any but the worst of the worst, people who would’ve earned the death penalty before the upheaval anyways. There’s just more of them than there used to be because abilities make it so much easier to do bad things. Like it or not, that’s how people work.”

  “I used to look up to you,” I confess, watching Nightingale’s brow raise at ‘used’, “but, if I’m being honest? I find that hard, now that I know you were aware of this for so long without doing anything about it. You say abilities make it easy to do bad things, and you’re right, but doesn’t that just make it all the more important that we do the right thing? And it’s not just you, there are so many others too, my mom especially. Do you know what it feels like? To suddenly realize the people you trusted had been doing something like this behind your back?”

  “No, kid. I don’t. And I'm truly sorry for that,” Nightingale replies, her voice laced with pity. It hurts my heart to hear, especially coming from her.

  “Words are nothing but wind, ma’am, even when they’re well meant” I respond.

  “That they are, Charlie. I just hope that one day you can see how our actions are the right ones as well,” Nightingale somberly agrees.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I mutter, “By your leave, ma’am.” I say louder. After a moment, she nods, and I turn towards the door.

  I leave the room without another word.