Jett shook his head. "And you expect me to consider taking on a partner? If anything, that's a prime example of why I shouldn't."
Arthur smiled bitterly. "Then you weren't listening. Vigil had help disarming those explosives. If Viper hadn't been there, it would have been a double tragedy. It was only her presence that prevented the Warrens from being blown sky-high."
"Well, I don't think I'll be taking any applications for a sidekick anytime soon. For right now, Vigil works alone."
"You sure about that?"
Arthur directed his chair back over to the command center, pulling up surveillance feed on the main console. The footage showed an agile young woman in combat armor taking down a group of bangers. After she finished, she used a floating orbot to tag the wall with a name in bright yellow letters.
Spitfire.
Jett's eyes narrowed. "Who's that — one of those Vigilant people?"
"I think you know who it is."
Jett froze the feed, studying the still of the girl as she walked away. Her face was covered by a hood and goggles, but the smirk on her lips was familiar. Too familiar.
"Yeah, I think I know who it is: a major pain in my ass."
"Don't act like you didn't know it was going to happen. She hasn't been training with Qhawa for nothing."
"I didn't think it would happen so soon. Figured I'd worry about it later."
"Things rarely happen when you expect, Jett. The streets are dangerous out there. And it's going to get worse. Much worse."
Jett nodded, jaw clenched. "I know."
"Might want to check up on your girl. Just saying."
"I will. Where are we on the Vigilant movement, anyway? I don't like it. People are getting killed trying to imitate me. I never expected that to happen."
"It's the way of things, Jett. When you become a symbol, you have to expect it to affect people."
"I'm not trying to be a symbol. I'm just trying to help this city."
"Then keep trying. The Vigilant will either flash and burn or turn into something we might be able to use. Either way, you can't focus on that right now. There's too much on your plate already. And we have moves to make."
"Fine. But can you try to find out who this Sentry person is, at least? If we find her, maybe I can convince her to tune down the rhetoric."
"Already on it, Jett. I'll let you know if I uncover something."
"Okay. I'll see you soon."
"Where are you going?"
Jett grinned, jerking a thumb toward the Stingray. "Are you kidding me? I'm taking her out for a spin."
Tim LeBlanc sat in a church pew, crammed in because the place was packed. Divinity churches weren't usually so crowded, but the Warrens was the worst neighborhood in Neo York. Poverty and spirituality usually went hand-in-hand. When your life was one desperate day after another, you tended to believe in the miraculous. Anything to give you a spark of hope, something to provide the strength to keep enduring despite the despair around you.
"You know what people don't talk about anymore? Sin. Even the mention of the word gets an eye-roll or quick change of subject. Y'all know what I'm talking about."
The church had seen better days. Most of the windows were boarded over, the pews scuffed, the paint faded and peeling. Roughly half of the chandelier lights worked; the others flickered or were just burnt out. Electric misting fans whirled in the corners, blowing hot air and vapor over the parishioners. Most had tiny hover-fans in front of their sweat-beaded faces as well, the small devices humming quietly. It didn't do much good. LeBlanc had long since removed his tie and opened his shirt down by three buttons to try to ventilate his body's heat. Sweat still stained the armpits of his shirt, and he felt beads crawl down the hairs of his legs like liquid insects.
"And why do you think that is? Because the existence of sin is an unpopular belief. It clashes with the concept of choice. With freedom. Imagine if we — gasp — actually were accountable to a higher power? To judgment?"
LeBlanc nodded along with the others, some who vocally added their agreement. Divinity was the only religion sanctioned by the United Havens, an amalgam of Judeo-Christian beliefs deemed acceptable by the authorities. Something for the people to hold onto while editing any content or view considered controversial. Most ministers and pastors stuck to a bland, all-encompassing preaching style — stimulating but insubstantial, like junk food.
Minister Donte didn't bother.
The tall, broad-shouldered man delivered his sermon in a booming baritone, spitting his fiery words as if they were slam-poetry stanzas. His gestures were animated, bordering on parody were it not for the conviction in his words.
"Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, old friends and new. Retribution is coming to this city. You saw the actions of one man spark a fire that the false angels of Haven Core couldn't extinguish. I saw something different: a herald. A harbinger of the true judgment that is coming. Repent of your sins and stain the blood of the Lamb on your doorposts because the Avenger is coming. An angel of Death will purge this city clean of wickedness and shine a light on the deeds done in darkness. Amen to the Most Holy."
The churchgoers stood up, applauding and raising their voices. LeBlanc stood as well, joining their applause. He nodded to himself.
It's everywhere. Look at what you started, Vigil. You've changed things. This city will never be the same. For better or worse, you gave these people something they didn't have before.
They're going to kill you for it.
The Warrens.
The massive complex of over six hundred interconnected buildings took up several city blocks in the Brickland District. Despite it being the notoriously worst place to live in the city, it was still the most densely inhabited, claiming a population of over seventy-thousand in an area of barely over fifteen acres. The district grew vertically to match the increasing numbers, with hastily-constructed hi-rise buildings claiming every inch of space. The residents nicknamed the neighborhood Night City because glimpses of the sun were rare unless you were on the rooftops. And no one went to the rooftops because the syndicates claimed that space.
Until recently.
Vigil left the Stingray cloaked and strode across the rooftops, head swiveling as he checked for activity. He didn't find any, other than a few stragglers who scrambled away at the first glimpse of him. He wasn't surprised. He'd spent months after the riots teaching the Grim Reaper Posse that the rooftops no longer belonged to them. It looked like they finally got the message, at least for the moment.
The rooftops steamed from the heat even at nighttime, creating a haze that shrouded the shapes of water tanks, com antennas, AC units, venting pipes, elevator shafts, rooftop stairwell entrances, and mounds of garbage. The sounds of the city drifted up: yelling, drunken laughter, humming wires, rumbling vehicles and generators, the throbbing sounds of intermingled music. All of it combined into a fusion of sound, the pulsing heartbeat of the city.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the maze of cramped, narrow streets and alleyways that reeked from open gutters, meat markets and restaurants, garbage bins, and hot cables. Condensation beaded on pipes and dripped down, creating a nonstop shower that fell on residents walking below. Some used umbrellas to shield it off; most didn't care. They were already soaked with sweat from the micro-climate of oppressive humidity.
Pyramid-shaped devices hovered around Vigil in interlocking circles. The EMCs distributed digital chaff that interfered with any cameras in the area. Depending on the model, the feed either froze or was reduced to static until he passed. He was a ghost in the system, free to move without being tracked.
Stepping off the ledge, he dropped into the darkness of the city.