"Um… okay."
"Best to get that out the way."
"Yeah, thanks."
She guided the floater down, dropping into the darkened innards of the city. "Now to what I really wanted to talk about."
He snorted a laugh. "Is this the part where you tell me all the reasons that doing this is a stupid idea? Or where you lecture me to not shame the mantle of Vigil?"
She gave him a cool glance. "Actually, this is the part where I warn you."
"Warn me? About what?"
"About the dangers of the life you've chosen if you go through with this."
"I know a little bit about danger, Qhawa."
The floater touched down in a narrow alleyway in the shadow of two towering buildings. Fog floated across the street in front of them, reducing the crowds of pedestrians into warped, ghostly shadows.
"I'm not talking about combat. I'm talking about the balance of power. The structure that exists behind what you see. The establishment you'll be taking on if you put a mask on and fight for the weak and downtrodden. You believe your actions to be heroic. Yet for every gallant act, there is an equally insidious one. You believe yourself ready to be Vigil, but you don't understand the repercussions of your decision. This is not a city that welcomes heroes. It is a city that kills them, either with a swift stroke or by thousands of tiny cuts."
Jett's mind drifted to a past age when blinding light flashed across the sky; a shockwave of unbridled energy painted the horizon unnatural colors while debris rained down like the ruins of a once glorious dream. He replied in a raspy undertone. "I know all about heroes dying."
She tilted her head, studying him. "And what did that accomplish? Did this person's death change anything?"
He remained silent for a moment before answering. "It changed everything."
He activated the door control and exited as the door slip upward with a whirring sound. Tapping his headgear, he took a last look at Qhawa as the metallic shielding slid into its masked form around his face. The floater's door closed, cutting off his view. Her voice buzzed over the datcom as the vehicle's propulsion jets lifted it skyward.
"Try to stay alive, Vigil."
He watched as the floater was swallowed by the murky fog and precipitation. "I will."
Turning the collar of his trench up, he walked to the corner of the alley and into another dilapidated subway entrance. He descended into the gloom.
"Check."
The playing cards were small as dominoes in Joe Blow's thick, gnarled fingers. He squinted at his hand, spewing cigar smoke from the corner of his mouth. His beady eyes scanned his opponents. Three other players were in the game, hunched over a table with a v-note counter in the middle. A swipe of the holoband placed the bets, adding to the digital pot. The funds would instantly download into the winner's account.
The compound lights were dim, the building largely vacant. Dusty crates and outdated equipment corralled the group as they engaged in their game.
Joe Blow towered above the others even when seated, his bulk taking up nearly half the table. The others were forced to sit closer than they would have chosen otherwise, which cause a lot of suspicious stares and card guarding.
"C'mon, gents." His baritone voice rumbled, making the tabletop quiver. "Ain't like I got all day."
Jake the Flake was slim and tall next to anyone else. He gnawed on a toothpick, exposing a gleaming golden tooth. "No need to rush. You going somewhere?"
"Yeah, outta my mind if you bozos don't pick up the pace."
Jake flinched as though Joe Blow feigned a punch. "Fine. Check."
Paul Onion chuckled, jowls shaking while looking his cards over. "Patience, big man." He glanced over at Mister Sister. "Check."
Mister Sister gave them an easy smile, running a manicured hand through her long, flowing mane of bleach-blond hair before turning her cards up. The rest of them did the same, groaning and grumbling when Mister Sister won another hand. The pot flashed as the funds were deposited.
Joe Blow grunted. "You've been pretty lucky today, Sister. Makes a man start to raise some questions."
Mister Sister raised an eyebrow. "Like 'why do I suck at poker?' That's what I'd be asking If I were you."
He coughed out a raspy laugh. "If you were me, you'd be one second away from throttling you. Don't push your luck."
She dismissed the threat with a casual shrug. "Speaking of which, I heard someone pushed you pretty hard a couple of days ago. Took your crew out and went toe-to-toe with you for a minute."
"A minute is about forty seconds too long. And my so-called crew were a bunch of lightweights. More like dead weight. Window dressing. I'm the only protection that counts, and you know it."
"Still, pretty bold for someone to come onto your turf and pick a fight. Any idea who might be behind the move?"
Paul Onion paused in the act of lifting a foot-long sandwich to his mouth. "Yeah, you got a clue who it might be? The Crimson Kings? What about those Warmongers? They're always sniffing around like they want a bigger piece of the pie."
"Don't know, don't care. I get paid to kick ass. That's what I do." Joe Blow exhaled a trio of perfect smoke rings. "You're the ones who deal with everything else. Unless you feel like taking it up with the head honcho."
"Not necessary." Mister Sister lifted a martini with elegant grace and sipped. "We're charting it up as an anomaly for now, but you will be a dear and let us know if it happens again, won't you?"
The lights winked out.
Joe Blow sat where he was as panicked cries erupted from the others. He grinned. Bunch of pansy babies. If an electric outage was enough to terrorize some of Diabolis' top lieutenants, the organization was a mess.
A familiar humming noise became audible. Joe Blow's grin widened.
"It's happening again."
Paul Onion was a bulky, shambling shadow in the dark. His voice was thick with barely-suppressed panic. "What's happening? Whaddya talking about?"
What followed took only a few seconds. Jake the Flake shrieked when something snatched him off his feet. Noises like raw meat pounded by a hammer followed before his body struck the ground completely unconscious.
Mister Sister dropped low, yanking a gleaming pistol from her side. Something whirred across the room, striking her in the temple. The gun fired an errant shot as she fell.
Paul Onion fared no better. Electric arcs flared across his body with a sizzling sound. He dropped to the floor, smoke wafting from his ruined clothes.
The lights flickered back on.
Joe Blow never moved. He still sat at the poker table, massive hands folded on the tabletop. His playing partners were strewn across the compound floor, out cold. A masked figure sat in one of the empty chairs, facing Joe as if waiting for a card to be dealt.
The man's face was completely covered by a gleaming, silvery helmet with a slash of red as the visor. Sleek, prototype military-standard body armor was barely visible under his heavy trench coat. The gauntlets covering his hands and forearms glimmered with pulsing blue lights.
Joe Blow blew a stream of cigar smoke in the man's direction. "Nice suit. Better than what you wore last time. You ready for round two, that it?"
The voice from the helmet was flat and mechanical. "Not if I can help it."
"Then you came to the wrong place, bud. I don't like you much. Wouldn't be a problem to smash your pretty helmet in again. Fact is, it would be a pleasure."
"I was hoping we could settle things without resorting to violence." The visor slit pulsed scarlet with every word.
Joe Blow scratched his chin. "Is that right? You're gonna set the terms to me? Who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?"
"I'm Vigil."
Joe Blow laughed. "The crime-fighter from way back when? Thought you was just an urban legend. That was like twenty years ago. You gotta be an old man under that suit. If you're even human, that is. Why don't you take that helmet off, show me what you're made of?"