Normally, I’d have been a little apprehensive about trading blows with a burly Nordic man wielding a great-axe.

  Normally I haven’t been doing hardcore training for weeks with a sadistic drill sergeant.

  This is not a normal scenario.

  The massive axe blade smashes into the pavement, glowing blue runes encircle it as it cuts a deep gouge into the asphalt, throwing dust and small bits of rock high into the air. Its wielder roars in fury, the nearly seven foot tall shirtless villain sending spit flying along with the sound of his rage. Because I’m not where that axe blow was. Instead, I’ve already nimbly danced around to his other side, unleashing a rain of blows that make him stagger.

  With another cry that would make most grown men piss themselves, the axe once more cleaves the air in a massive arc, making a sound like a car going past. The space between us seems to crackle with energy as the strong yet unbelievably slow figure misses again. Not a month ago I would’ve been in deep trouble: he may be slow, but even now I can’t take a direct hit, and he’s way too durable for a normal person.

  Except after weeks of the Captains ‘assistance,’ I could dodge this slow bastard even if I was under the gravity of Jupiter. Heck, from what I remember from science class, Jupiter gravity isn’t even that high. Not as high as 30+ gees, anyway.

  I land a sharp kick to the back of the villain’s leg, forcing him down to one knee, then dance out of the way as he grabs for me with his free hand, a crack like a whip sounding as his fingers close in the space where I just was.

  Now I’m even more mobile than I was compared to him, and so I pummel him from the back as he tries to slowly stand. He finally makes it back to his feet, bruised and battered, but by the time he’s started swinging his axe in my direction once more, I’m already out of the way.

  Then the living viking finally does something smart, taking me by surprise as he hurls the axe—which is about as tall as I am—at me with one hand. I roll out of the way just in time as it whirls past me into a parked car, instantly shearing the thing damn near in half with a horrible screech. I’m back on my feet as I see him charging me, picking up some impressive speed that I know is dangerous.

  But much like a bull, he can’t turn.

  So he rushes past me, ramming the same exact car his axe did—car wreck now, to be more accurate. Realizing this actually puts him in a more advantageous position, I do the only rational thing in this situation: beat the villain while he’s down.

  With a running start, I launch a flying kick at the back of his head, taking him completely by surprise, pushing his face back down into the wreckage of the car. Using my own attack as a springboard, I leap back again, landing a few feet away, ready to strike once more. When he extracts himself from the awkward position, he turns to face me as a threat rather than pull out his axe—as I’d hoped.

  He charges again, and in response, I slide right under him. Before he can wheel back around again to face me, I grab the handle of his massive axe and, with a mighty heave, rip it free from the wrecked car.

  The villain roars, and charges one more time at full speed, angered by me stealing his weapon. Luckily for me, I have a plan.

  With the full momentum of both his charge and everything I can put into my arms, I slam the flat of the axe blade right into the villain’s face.

  The force of the collision rattles my entire body. From my hands, to my arms, to my torso, all the way down to my legs, everything hurts. Still, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the Captain can make me hurt on a bad day. I hold, and so too does the axe. The villain isn’t so fortunate.

  He falls to the floor, blood streaming from his nose and a gargled groan escaping his lips. I watch as the light fades from his body and he shrinks by a few inches—still tall, just normal tall—as his ability's effect recedes. It’s a clear victory, and almost immediately the police respond by swarming the scene, placing the unconscious villain under arrest.

  I can’t help but feel proud. Villain suppression isn’t nearly as rewarding as it used to be, but despite that nothing beats the feeling of a tough fight that proves how much I’ve grown. Nothing’s been easy lately, but I’m still getting stronger. That alone is worth praise.

  I can only wonder if next time we meet, I might actually be a proper match for Rowan.

  —

  Ah, the sweet, sweet release of…

  “Get the fuck back up, recruit! I ain’t done with you yet!” The familiarly infuriating voice of the Captain rips me back to reality, my eyes slowly opening again. Everything hurts. The Captain stands over me, grinning as she sees my eyes open.

  And I’m currently lying in a me-sized crater in the ground.

  “Ow,” I say, thoroughly summing up my current mental state.

  “You think this is painful, recruit? You think I can’t do worse?” The Captain barks, sounding mad but still smiling.

  “No, captain,” I reply, displaying a herculean effort as I sit up under nearly forty times the normal gravity. I also may or may not have a few broken ribs. And an arm or two.

  “Then I guess you’re ready to go again,” the Captain states.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I respond solemnly, rising slowly and arduously to my feet.

  “Good.”

  Then a fist comes flying at my face.

  I take the first blow on my chin, then manage to block the second. My arm complains as it absorbs the impact—definitely broken—but holds up by sheer virtue of my adrenaline and Superhuman both pulling their weight.

  I swing back at the Captain's blurring form but I’m barely the speed of your average couch potato under these conditions, much less top form. Meanwhile, she easily lightens herself up to the point where I doubt I could catch her even without increased gravity. The point was never to let me win, only make me stronger.

  My only solace is that it’s working.

  I take another two blows to my already aching ribs and manage to move just enough for the third to clip my shoulder. My counter is ignored, as the Captain had already moved out of the way before I’d even registered her location. I hold my arms in a defensive stance, desperately trying to cover as much of my body as possible, but she moves way too fast and almost never attacks head-on when my exposed sides present a far juicer target.

  After half a dozen more exchanges of blows that go exactly the same way, I finally get close enough to nearly hit her. It’s a shame, though, how much more horrible that is than if she’d just dodge.

  For a brief moment, I’m lighter, but it’s fleeting as I’m immediately judo-flipped into the floor with a callous level of force. The Captain was never really a striker—even if she is good at it—but her preferred style is actually grappling and throwing. Imagine trying to wrestle someone who can make themselves weigh as much as a semi-truck, or being thrown into the ground by someone who can make you weightless, then suddenly very not weightless. That’s the real Captain.

  So anyway, she flips me over and slams me into the ground, and, if I didn’t already, I definitely have some broken bones by now. The move is rather reminiscent of what Jonathan did that one time, except I actually think it’s worse. Much, much worse.

  Luckily, I’m much stronger than I was back then. Not to the level where I could take a hit like this, but strong enough that I don’t immediately pass out when I very suddenly get up close and personal with the floor.

  Still, the only thing worse than trying to stand in 40G is trying to stand in 40G after being hardcore slammed into the floor. Blessedly, the Captain seemingly thinks I’ve had enough, and the extra weight disappears just as I start to rise.

  “That’s it, recruit. Take a break,” she says, walking past me with her steel-toed combat boots clacking against the ground. That’s also new, by the way. She’s been slowly reinforcing her body with armor more and more every time I move up a weight.

  “Yes, captain,” I say, rising just enough to lop back down again on my butt, sitting cross-legged in the center of the dome-shaped training room. I ache all over, and, as the adrenaline begins to dissipate, I start to feel more than just aches in several places. It might even be called cruel how much she’s beating me up on a regular basis—potentially deadly even—if it weren’t for the fact I can already feel myself knitting back together.

  It’s not instantly—far from it, in fact—but I already regenerated faster than most before. I hadn’t really thought about using adaptability to increase healing speed, mostly because of the obviously painful training process that would be necessary, but it really does work wonders. My broken bones will already re-knit in a few days on their own, and Dr. Hennessy has confessed that she barely even needs to try in order to heal me these days. That’s not even considering how I can already train every day without breaks because of how fast my muscles heal.

  Undoubtedly, the Captain expected this result. She may be a bit of a sadist, but even she wouldn’t just torture me needlessly and call it ‘training.’ She’s more than proven to have a method for her madness.

  I just wish her method didn’t hurt so much.

  —

  Rain falls in waves as I weave through the streets, eyes scanning every house in the empty streets. Graffiti lines every inch of negative space, the buildings old and overgrown. I’m no longer in the nice part of town, my target preferring to stay far out of the light.

  I’m more than happy to oblige.

  The one I’m looking for—a new, yet unnamed villain—has been breaking into houses all across the city for a week now, hitting multiple a night. Their calling card is the heavily damaged locks they leave in their tracks, a sign of someone using an ability to aid their crimes. I’ve taken to patrolling the places they’re likely to strike late at night, hoping to get lucky.

  I have little hope for tonight, though. The villain’s power is expected to be fire-related, so the rain makes it poor conditions for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t even out tonight. That doesn’t mean I can slack off though. They’ve already proven to be slippery.

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  I do pass the occasional pedestrian, but while many are suspicious—being out in this rain is already strange—I catch nothing truly actionable. It’s even possible that word of my presence has already spread around here, and the local crime is being careful on purpose. I can only hope our little burglar hasn’t gotten the news just yet.

  I almost miss it as I turn the corner. A small, bright dot at the edge of my vision, too low to be a streetlight. It disappears almost as soon as I appear. Anyone else would assume it was their imagination, as looking where it was reveals nothing.

  I’m not so amateurish.

  I slow my pace and leisurely amble down the sidewalk, my eyes laser focused on the front door to a small pawn shop—closed, at this hour. In the rain and the dark, with the nearest streetlight just out of range, I could see even the more perceptive SAUs missing the black-covered figure hunched over the doorknob. I only caught him at first because he moved to cover the light, and I don’t make him out again until I’m closer.

  But I do still see him, and so I walk up real close, until it becomes obvious I’ve noticed.

  He whirls around as I approach, carefully keeping his body between me and the door as much as possible even as he turns. He also keeps his hands behind his back, not showing me them. He smiles in a scared way.

  “What can I do for you, miss hero?” he asks.

  “There’s been a few burglaries lately,” I respond, “Happen to know anything about that?”

  “Nope!” he lies, “But I’ll be sure to let you know if I see anything suspicious!”

  “In that case, I hope you won’t mind stepping away from the door for a second,” I reply.

  “Am I not allowed to lock the door to my own shop?” he asks. He might be sweating a little, but it’s hard to tell in the rain.

  “Well, in that case, you can just show me the key and I’ll be off,” I smile reassuringly, knowing full well it won’t help.

  He fidgets a little, uncomfortable.

  Then he lunges for me, hand outstretched, but it’s as if he moves in slow motion. I grab him by the wrist, stopping his movements dead in their tracks. His palm is red with heat, an ability clearly in action, and I can see the door handle now that he’s moved. It too glows red. He’d been trying to melt it open.

  “Something tells me that shop isn’t ‘yours,’” I say.

  The villain chuckles nervously, “Would you believe me if I said I locked myself out?”

  “No,” I reply, “Now you can either sit here and wait for the police, or we can fight.”

  As I release him, the villain wisely decides to cooperate, sitting down on the sidewalk outside the shop. I sigh, leaning back against the front wall of the structure as I resign myself to the wait.

  I feel almost disappointed. The fire-related ability reminds me of Rowan, and how long it’s been since I last saw her. I pull out my phone and confirm that there have not, in fact, been any new messages since I last checked. It’s now been nearly two months since I last saw her in person: two weeks of my exile, and five of near-total radio silence on her end.

  I can’t help but imagine getting to spar with her instead of hunting down some weakling whose only real skill is staying under the radar. Maybe I would’ve even gotten to beat her for real, not just with her holding back. Maybe I’ve even surpassed her by now.

  Whatever the case, I have a feeling today won’t be the day I’ve been waiting for.

  Not even close.

  —

  My entire body shakes as I hold myself up against the sheer weight pressing down on me. I’m in a plank position, propping myself up by my forearms and toes as the Captain forces me to endure first forty, then forty-one times my normal body weight.

  “Keep it going, recruit! No backing out!” she shouts at me by way of ‘encouragement.’

  “Yes, captain,” I say, fortunately still able to breathe. In fact, I find speaking rather easy. The Captain notices too, and I feel the pressure increase a little more.

  “Something on your mind today, recruit?” the Captain asks, in what initially appears to be an uncharacteristic display of concern, “Because you seem to be thinking about the pain less, and we can’t have that.” Ah, of course, I should’ve known.

  “I’m worried about a friend of mine, Captain,” I confess, unwilling to risk more work as punishment for lying, “She hasn’t been responding for a while, but I’ve been too busy to check up on her.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re getting ghosted,” the Captain replies, “Suck it up, recruit. It happens to everyone someday. Not everybody is going to like you—in fact, it’s a miracle anybody does.”

  I grit my teeth to avoid a snarky comeback, “Except this person is a villain, captain. She could actually be in danger—it wouldn’t be impossible."

  I swear I can actually feel the Captain frown as she stops pacing around me for a moment, “The pink-haired girl, right?”

  “Yes, captain,” I reply. I’ll admit, I’m a little curious how she knows that.

  “You’re better off staying away from that one, kid,” the Captain says, suddenly solemn, “No good can come from that, and you risk more than you know.”

  “With all due respect, captain, you don’t get to decide who I befriend,” I say, my annoyance rising.

  “True enough,” the Captain replies. My weight increases once more.

  I let my body adjust, then speak again, “There is another matter, captain.”

  “What might that be?” she questions.

  “When will I get my first reaper mission?”

  Suddenly the weight on me vanishes. My body reacts almost instantly, muscles relaxing in response to reduced load. I stand slowly, facing the Captain as she watches me.

  “Do you think you’re ready?” she asks.

  I hesitate, “Depends on the mission, I suppose. But there isn’t a damned I’ve met so far that I wouldn’t be able to handle as I am now.”

  The Captain laughs, “I should hope so! Not one of the damned you’ve met was anything special. It would just be embarrassing if you couldn’t beat any of them, especially seeing as you technically did for most of them already.”

  I smile awkwardly, not sure if I should take that as a joke or not.

  “Alright, recruit,” the Captain says, still grinning her wolfish grin, “I’ll see if there’s anything you can handle. Might take a bit, though.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” I reply, already letting the anticipation build inside me.

  “Now get back to work, recruit!” the Captain shouts, reapplying the weight.

  And the cycle starts once more.

  —

  “Sorry I missed you. Been a bit busy lately & will probably stay busy for a while. Nemesis stuff on hold for now.”

  “Roger that. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Hey, it’s been a while. Need anything?”

  “Rowan? Are you okay?”

  “Can you at least tell me if you’re alive?”

  “Yeah”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “...okay”

  The last message she sent was a week ago.

  I stare at the screen as I lie in bed, trying to enjoy the first day off I’ve had in weeks. Instead, I only find myself with more time to worry. I can tell this isn’t normal behavior, but with no way of knowing what’s going on, I can’t even decide if I should be worried or if I am the problem, and all I’m doing is making it worse.

  I really hope that’s not it.

  But hope alone isn’t particularly useful. On the more tangible side of things, I know very little. Rowan said she’s ‘busy,’ but didn’t specify. It’s been five, almost six weeks since then, and she has only responded to my texts once. This also means she’s been inactive as a villain, which is mildly worrying, since that’s basically her job. I heard quitting work is usually a bad sign, at least I think so. Maybe it just means she needs a break?

  Whatever the case, I really don’t know what I can do about it. If she’s avoiding me, I have no way of confronting her. No polite way at least. I could still always just show up at her house, but I can’t imagine that going over too well. If online methods aren’t working, and in-person methods are too ill-advised, what does that leave? Letters? Obviously that’s stupid, nobody reads physical mail anymore.

  Another highly unethical avenue of attack would be to use the BCCSI’s information network to check if she’s alright. Namely, the Birdkeeper, in this case. The problem—aside from the immoral nature of that method—is that, while I may recommend such a path to someone like Dr. Hennessy, I have neither the status nor the goodwill with the Bowl’s resident spymaster for that to work. Nor would anyone I know with such authority help me, as the Captain and Jonathan have both made their opinions clear, and I haven’t seen Multishot in forever.

  I moan in my indecisiveness, and roll over on the bed. This is definitely one of those morally uncomfortable situations that I hate quite a bit. A little bit like assisting in government-sanctioned murder to save innocent lives, if you will. Such things never seem to have a good answer, much less a ‘right’ one.

  I toss and turn a few more times in my bed before finally I snap up to a sitting position. No more deliberating, it’s time to take the simple, almost primitive approach and just go down to ask her what’s up. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I can’t just stew in my indecisiveness all day, I’ll miss what might be my last chance for a while.

  I put on a coat and get ready to leave, rushing to the door as if I’m on a time limit of some sort. I get to my door, grab the handle, turn it, and pull.

  And see a familiar face just beyond.

  It’s not Rowan, unfortunately, but someone I’d rather hoped I’d never have to see again: Operative Gale Force. He stands outside my apartment with a scowl, fist raised as if he was about to knock.

  “The fuck do you want?” I ask with venom, the words slipping out unconsciously the moment I see his face.

  “To get this over with,” he shoots back without missing a beat, “We’ve been assigned a mission. A reaper’s mission.”

  I hesitate, “When you say ‘we…’”

  “I mean the two of us are working together,” he replies, “Better get dressed, Frontrunner, ‘cause I’m not waiting.”

  Fuck.

  —

  In an old birch forest just outside the ruins of what used to be Moscow, something drags itself along a dirt path in the night. It shambles like its body is mostly broken, and its eyes glow, two pinpricks of purple in the dark. It growls, a low sound in its throat, and turns to the side.

  Just then, a hand reaches out from behind a tree, grasping the thing’s neck and snapping it in one swift motion. The king of the east steps out from his hiding spot, the thing in his grasp still squirming, unimpeded by his brutal attack.

  “Hello, old friend,” he says with a smile, squeezing the thing until it cracks. Suddenly, it stops squirming. Its neck snaps as its head turns to the king, and it mimics his smile.

  “It has been too long,” the dead thing behind those purple eyes says in a raspy voice, “What brings you to my neck of the woods, so to speak?” It shudders with a cold, dry sound akin to a laugh, much like crumpling a piece of paper.

  “A little birdy told me a very specific girl passed through your land,” the king replies, “I want to know where she went.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing of it,” the corpse admits, “Might you try the nearest town? It’s admittedly doubtful any human, super or otherwise, could escape my notice long without blending in a little.”

  The horror shares a look with his human kin. Then the king bursts out laughing.

  “You are too right, old one,” he says, “I bet you wish I’d thought of that before asking you first, o’ lord of the accursed dead.”

  “Every host is replaceable but one, Móguǐ, from the east,” the lord replies.

  The king named dragon smiles wider, “I was actually thinking of going by a different name, for a little while. ‘When in Rome’ and all that, right?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “‘Drake,’” the king says, “Call me ‘Drake Lee.’”

  And as the sun begins to rise, the two great evils share a smile in the blossoming light.