2103:11:22:01:08:59

  Another figure, still obscured by the spots in my vision, snorted. “Funny way of showing it,” a voice different from the one before – soft instead of harsh, calm instead of outraged – said. “Tearing apart two of my bikes, hurting my friends – and you do this out of concern?”

  My eyes finally adjusted to the bike’s harsh headlights.

  Motor Spirit’s appearance lived up to about half his name. The maker was armed and armored in red and black steel, a suit of power armor that blended something knightly with the look of, of course, a motorcycle. Attached to his legs were wheels that looked like they could move further down and attach to his feet, turning them into skates. For pauldrons, he had six chrome exhausts running straight up from his back before turning sideways, spreading out like a bike enthusiast’s version of angelic wings. His helmet was a similar blend: part motorcycle helmet with blacked-out visor and part armet, except more angular on its sides to give it a vaguely aerodynamic feel.

  Next to him, Chroming Hand more than lived up to his namesake. Instead of the black-and-red color scheme, he wore a suit of armor that gleamed chrome. The outfit was simpler than his fellow villain, with only a cuirass and a buffe to cover most of his face. His hair, skin and the rest of his clothes – jeans and a regular long-sleeved shirt as far as I could tell – also had a spray-chrome look to it, making him appear… kinda cheap.

  “Whatever intel you received,” Crowsong continued, unbothered by the accusation, “it’s wrong. You’re not attacking some sort of front of Jannacht. You’re attacking one of their main bases here. One filled with masked.”

  “Yeah?” Chroming Hand returned. “And that’s supposed to, what, deter us somehow? Sounds like we hit the jackpot instead, didn’t we boys?” The henchies cheered at their mascot’s encouragement, but it sounded subdued. Unsure.

  I slowly started moving toward Crowsong.

  Chroming Hand turned to his henchmen. “I said: Didn’t. We-”

  “Chrome.” He was cut off by Motor Spirit. “Please, shut the fuck up for a second,” he said calmly, if tiredly. The caster villain grumbled, but obeyed and stopped talking.

  Again, I stealthily moved a bit closer.

  “And that’s all you’re here to do, is it? Just your friendly neighborhood vigilante warning us about- Jester, please stop that,” Motor Spirit spoke, voice disapproving.

  I stopped, feeling my face heat up at the shame of getting caught – and worse, listening to him. His voice was so effective in his chiding, so used doing it that the man must be a father.

  “As I was saying,” Motor Spirit continued. “You say you’re just here to warn us? Really? No hidden motives, no nothing?”

  “To prevent you from attacking that base, but basically? Yes. The attack won’t end well.”

  “Hm,” he hm-ed. “How will it, then?”

  Crowsong was silent for a moment, eventually breaking it with a, “Sorry?”

  “You stay this attack will end badly, but how-” A deafening boom coming from below interrupted Motor Spirit, a feeling of weightless overwhelming me not even a second later.

  Contrary to what I was led to believe, a bridge doesn’t crumble slowly like it does in the movies. When its supports get blown out, it just drops.

  Before my mind could fully process that the ground had disappeared out from under me, water came rushing in, transforming my emerging cry of panic into a gasping mouthful of liquid. Vision turned to darkness as I reflexively closed my eyes to shield them from the frothing water, only for it to turn bright white as I was flash-banged by the flickering headlights of Motor Spirit’s bikes overcharging their luminosity before short-circuiting.

  Then, as if thing couldn’t get any worse, falling rubble slid over one another, gravity guiding them to the lowest point – the exact same point I was at. Slabs the size of my torso slammed into me with all the speed of a brick being dropped into the water – meaning, not superfast, but fast enough to still hurt a lot and drive the air from my lungs.

  The instinctive urge to breathe back in and effectively kill myself was only barely staved off through conscious effort.

  I struggled against the rubble pinning me in from all sides, from head to toe and shoulder to shoulder, but it didn’t budge. The only thing my thrashing did was allow the rubble to strengthen their hold on me.

  I was stuck, out of air and desperate to breathe in regardless of the fact I was surrounded by water. But through my panic, arriving like a bolt of lightning – or considering the water, a eureka moment – I came to a realization. A horrifying, deeply hateful realization.

  I had to turn into a fish.

  I hated it. I hated the very thought of it. My first time turning into a carp had felt like drowning. And now that I was actually drowning, I had to reexperience the feeling in order to save myself from that very same thing.

  And so, before either panic or desperation could force my hand, I transformed into a carp.

  My senses shifted and the world stopped making sense. My eyesight improved, but with rubble throwing up all kinds of debris and making the water froth, that didn’t mean anything. The world was still a dark mess, made even worse by the fact that the shift from a more detailed up-front style of vision to a wider, mostly monocular low-definition type of seeing. It was a feeling I’d experienced many times now due to many animals having it, but for some reason, the experience didn’t translate between forms.

  Worse than that, however, was how carp-me heard and smelled things. The rubble had thrown upwards mud of the riverbed, filling my carp form’s nostrils with overstimulating scents to the point of nausea. The movements of the water, the shift in pressure and the cascading waves everywhere shook whatever passed for a fish’s sense of balance, sense of position – a dizzying feeling that send my head spinning.

  But worst of all was the gills. There wasn’t any difficulty operating them – much like I could operate any part of my mimicries instinctually – but the feeling of breathing through them was extremely poorly translated. It felt exactly like my lungs, exactly like breathing as normal.

  Meaning that whenever I took a deep breath, passing water through my gills and back out again, I could feel phantom lungs filling with real water. A drowning that didn’t burn my lungs, but felt like it should nevertheless. A feeling that induced animalistic panic, even if it was natural to the animal I’d turned into.

  As these feelings overwhelmed me, the physics of the world continued their unrelenting march. My body suddenly shrinking who knows how many times in size sent the previously lodged pieces of rubble tumbling all over again.

  Even in my state of near-panic, even with my fishy sense of hearing still needing time to get accustomed to, I felt the rubble shift and drop to fill in the hole my carp body was hiding in.

  If I stayed here, I would be crushed.

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  Ignoring the disorientation as best I could, I dodged the pieces of fallen bridge as best I could. The slabs now seemed like boulders during an avalanche, and there were so many bits of debris besides that my best wasn’t good enough to dodge them all. Pebbles now comparatively the size of my fists struck my scaly body with… not much force at all. I was underwater, after all, and my carp-form was nimble and slick.

  I quickly stopped trying to dodge the pebbles and focused on the larger pieces, the pieces that could actually pin and hold me down or crush me outright. Thankfully, their size worked against them. They were large enough that even as they fell down, they obstructed each other, creating holes through which I could escape.

  Before I knew it, before I could even get used to my senses and the uncomfortable feeling of water filling phantom lungs, I was out. Guided by instinct, I aimed up and swam towards the surface, breaching it a few seconds later.

  As soon as I did, I shifted back into base form, taking in deep heaving gasps. I coughed and spluttered as the water churned around me, but the feeling of air in my empty lungs was pure bliss. Every breath made me feel renewed, and I wished I could’ve stayed floating for a moment to enjoy it.

  But unfortunately, I had a job to do.

  I shifted a much more comfortable aquatic animal: the humble otter. It was a compromise aquatic option after the whole fish thing failed (though I guess the duck counted too). Unlike the hateful carp, I had mastered this form to the fullest, and while it could not breath underwater, it could hold its breath long enough.

  I took precisely one second to get my bearing before closing my extra eyelids and diving down again, starting the hunt for Crowsong.

  At least, that was the plan, but as soon as I dove down, I realized… I couldn’t. In my immediate vicinity, four other people were in various states of pinned-down-and-drowning.

  Two were the henchies that had wheelied over Crowsong’s barbed whip-sword, lying face down and were barely able to move underneath their bikes. Another was a henchie with their leg stuck underneath pieces of rubble, desperately tugging at it to get out. The last was Chroming Hand, who was pinned underneath his motorcycle, which was in turn pinned under a large pieces of the bridge. He, too, was struggling to get out from under it, worsened by his armor weighing him down.

  I could not in good conscience abandon them. I had to trust my mentor somehow managed to avoid the worst, or could otherwise hold out long enough for either me or someone else could get her.

  I immediately swam towards the all but unmoving henchies. They were close together and, while their bikes held them down, they were placed loosely on top of them. Under other circumstances they might’ve been able to free themselves, but with the bikes pressing down on their backs they just didn’t have the leverage to work unlike the others.

  I shifted to base form and wedged myself underneath one of the motorcycles, pushed against the riverbed with my feet and lifted the motorcycle off of him. He slid out from underneath and went towards the surface as quickly as he could.

  I went and did the same to the other henchie, but his leg seemed to be broken. Thankfully, he floated to the surface automatically and from the movement of his arms, he could likely hold himself afloat with his head above the water, if not necessarily swim to the riverbank.

  Next, I otter-ed up again and went for the henchie that got his leg stuck, but he was gone. A quick look up and I saw him swimming to shore, having already freed himself.

  Meaning all that was left was the villain himself.

  I approached Chroming Hand and saw that his struggle had turned to outright panic. Barely any bubbles were leaving his mouth or nose anymore. He was nearing his last breath.

  I quickly examined his position and found a large pocket of space underneath where a large slab and his motorbike met. A space large enough to hold me in my human form, even if it was a tight fit.

  I swam towards and inside it, positioned myself properly and then shifted. With my legs firmly on the solid ground, I placed my back against both obstructions and lifted with all my strength.

  It was heavy. Far heavier than the other pieces had been, heavier than anything else I’d ever lifted, and it wouldn’t move even with the water reducing the weight.

  My lungs were starting to burn again, my human form not as efficient with my air as otter-me. I needed to surface, but what would that mean for Chroming Hand? How long could people survive without oxygen?

  I turned back into an otter, my need for air temporarily disappearing. I repositioned, turning so that rather than lift both at once, I could hopefully make the slab of stone slip and slide off rather than lift the full weight of it and the bike.

  I shifted back to base form and felt my lungs immediately aching again, but I ignored it. I put my all into the lift, all of my efforts going into putting this one piece of shit rubble-

  It slid off, freeing up the bike.

  I otter-ed, turned, then human-ed again so I faced the motorcycle. Chroming Hand had stopped struggling, the stream of bubbles completely gone. It was an eerie sight, him just… floating there, unmoving.

  I quickly lifted the motorcycle and grabbed Chroming Hand by the cuirass, dragging him out from underneath. As soon as I got him loose, I pushed off from the riverbed and swam up toward the surface.

  It wasn’t very far. The moat was at most three meters deep.

  I breached the surface with a heavy gasp, my lungs sucking in air so quickly it bordered on hyperventilation. The air was sweet and relief washed over me, but once more I couldn’t lose myself in it.

  I leveraged my own weight to force Chroming Hand above the waterline. Placing my body underneath him, I swam to shore as quickly as I could.

  The henchies – both those I rescued as well as those that rescued themselves – were already there waiting on the grass beside the river, exhausted but staring as I dragged Chroming Hand to shore.

  Motor Spirit was there as well, seemingly uninjured. When he and another henchman spotted me, they reached out from atop the riverbank – since it was dug, there was no slope to walk up on. They dragged me and Chroming Hand out of the water.

  I took heavy breaths as I looked and stared at everyone.

  “Thank-” Motor Spirit began.

  “Crowsong?”

  He shook his head. “Not-”

  I immediately shifted into a crow and shot up to the sky, heading toward the spot I figured Crowsong would’ve fallen at. My heart pounding in my chest as worst case scenarios played on repeat in my head. She couldn’t be- I refused to believe she was-

  Then, from the corner of my eye and not at all where I’d been looking at, I spotted her. She was at the same shore I’d just been on, except on the other side of what remained of the a bridge, busy resuscitating a henchie she’d dragged along to shore with her.

  I swooped down and shifted.

  “Crow-” I began, relief palpable.

  “The others?” she barked.

  “I saved Chrome and-” I quickly rewound my memcordings and counted the ones on the other side of the shore. Motor Spirit, Chroming Hand, the two henchies I’d rescued, the henchie with his leg stuck that had freed himself, another one I hadn’t seen before but had saved herself, and then this one…

  “One’s missing,” I said.

  “Can you-”

  I was up and away before she could finish, shifting mid-jump and diving into the water in otter form.

  I searched among the rubble as quickly and thoroughly as I could, but it wasn’t easy. Although the water was starting to settle, there was still a lot of dirt floating around from the fall of the bridge, reducing visibility heavily.

  I searched the floor by sight, touch and whisker, but found nothing.

  In human-like frustration, I blew out through my nose. In otter-like instinct, I snorted the resulting bubble back in… And smelled blood.

  I buoyed in water for a split second, momentarily surprised at the scent before bolting towards the source. I sniffed once more and shifted direction accordingly, only to wind up at a particular mound of rubble.

  A piece of metal stuck out of it. The remains of a motorbike buried underneath.

  I shifted and started to burrow, throwing the finer pieces of rubble away by the handful and the moving larger pieces individually. More and more of the motorcycle got uncovered, but no hint of the henchie buried underneath.

  I felt the urge to breathe rise again, but I forced myself to dig for a while longer. Just to see if I was in the right place. Just to see if the person-

  I picked up a slab and unveiled a hand.

  I dug quicker, lungs burning as I searched for a face. Plumes of blood rose as I lifted more and more and more pieces.

  And then, I found it. A head, twisted to his side. A helm, broken and leaking red. A stick of broken metal, piercing it.

  The man was clearly dead.

  The need for air urged me to surface, and this time, I obeyed. I shifted into an otter and swam up, quickly heading back towards Crowsong.

  I heaved myself up and over the edge of the artificial river, drawing heavy breaths as the need for oxygen reemerged after the shift. I laid myself down on the grass and on my back, looking at the sky.

  “Did you find…?” I turned my head toward Crowsong. She was sitting in the grass.

  “He was dead.”

  I looked at the henchie Crowsong had dragged ashore. She wasn’t moving.

  “Is she…?” I nodded toward the henchie.

  “Dead as well,” she said, releasing a heavy sigh after. “What a fucking shitshow. Fucking Motorgang. Fucking Jannacht. Fucking augurs. Fucking Nth-Sight.” She grew increasingly more agitated, hands shaking as they curled into fists.

  I sat up. “Nth-Sight?”

  “He sends us here, asked us to stop them, and didn’t tell us anything about a fucking bomb?” she said, voice and body shaking in anger. “He better have some good fucking answers ready, or I’ll make sure he can never speak again.”

  I felt a chill run down my spine. “You wouldn’t-”

  “We could’ve died, Jester,” she interrupted. “People did die – yours well and gone for good and mine probably as well. The Jannacht saw us coming from a mile away or- or predicted what we would do. What Nth-Sight would make us do. Either he has the greatest damn excuse, is incompetent, or he’s thrown in his lot with the Jannacht outright with this being his way to clear their competition. Using us as his disposable pawns.”

  She turned to stare at me then, her eyes burning with anger out of the holes of her beaked mask. “And if he did that, you’re damn sure I’ll be killing him before the week is out.”

  I swallowed. “And what if it’s my fault?” I asked.

  Crowsong startled, releasing her pent-up tension. “What?”

  “He said he couldn’t see me, right?” I barely kept my voice from shaking. “That I interfered with his abilities. What if my presence-”

  “Jester,” she said, voice serious yet laced with compassion. “This is not your fault.”

  “But-”

  “No. Nth-Sight said it himself – he cannot see your actions, but can see the result. And this was clearly a result,” she said, gesturing towards the collapsed bridge. “So no, this wasn’t your fault. Hell, half of them are probably alive thanks to your-”

  Both our eyes widened.

  We stood up simultaneously, me shifting into a cat and jumping up and over the bridge and Crowsong clawing her way up not far behind. I dashed to the other side, jumped over and landed in the grass at the shore I’d been before.

  But Motorgang was gone.

  At the same time I shifted, Crowsong jumped down onto the grass next to me.

  She echoed my sentiment. “Shit. Can you fly up and see if you can spot them?”

  I nodded and looked up, ready to shift only to find something hovering above us, silent and silver – a helicopter.

  Before I could say a word, a figure landed in front of us. Crowsong and I jumped backwards, only to for another masked to appear in a flash – a literal one – beside first, bringing with them a squad of armed and armored Guardian-affiliated officers.

  The first, Pangolin Imperiale of the Guardians, was dressed like… well, an anthropomorphized pangolin, complete with scales and long snout. Though dressed wasn’t the right word since the woman was a shifter like me. The only part of her that wasn’t her body was a small, sprayed-on golden aegis.

  The second was Jauntiste of the West Coast Wardens, a teleporting alter. He was dressed in a skintight white bodysuit with a red tiger blazoned across his chest from right shoulder to hip, acting almost like a sash. Attached to his back was elaborate white cape with a thick neck and shoulder. His helmet was a simple, purple-colored glass-like visor, leaving both the mouth and black hair visible.

  “Evening girls,” Jauntiste said, then pointedly looked at the bridge behind us. “Who’d like to go first?”

  Crowsong and I sighed. Of course, only now that everything was over did the cavalry arrive.