"I'll go with you!" you blurt out before you waste any more time. Florence, lips parted, spares you a glance but offers no argument. You give in to temptation and allow your eyes to flick nervously in her direction only once, otherwise keeping them glued on Imron. He seems befuddled by your frantic intensity, but he's clearly busy and getting bogged down interrogation you seems to be the last thing on his mind. Instead he nods and motions the two of you to your stations.
"Good, very good, though it seems I'm taking you from some well-deserved rest, eh? Quite the walk, especially on a day like this." Imron looks at Florence. "If she isn't in the kitchen she may be checking the garden, so have a look around."
"Thanks." Florence seems to be in Business mode, shoulders squared and eyes front, marching off to meet the veritable firing squad she seems to think is waiting for her with Prim. They're sisters? What's going on between them that's got Florence in such a mood, then? But your chance to ask has come and gone, and instead you're being ushered right back out of a building you've barely set foot in for three years before you could even get past the reception area. You hold out your hand as you step back into the grey daylight - looks like it's drizzling now. You hope it doesn't turn into real rain, it's a long walk back.
Even so you'd probably take a long walk in the rain over the one facing you right now, but you've already made your bed and it's time to lie in it. And, dunno, hope the house doesn't burn down and/or collapse on top of you in the process. You hurry to catch up with Imron before he notices your hesitation, headed even further out toward the edge of the city. The streets are patchworks of iced-over cracks, some of the lights at the intersections don't even work any more, and a lot of the buildings you pass by are either abandoned or just barely clinging to life. It's a little like Freeside is being slowly squeezed in a great fist - incursions and anomalies and plain old poverty pressing in from the coast and outskirts, and real estate deals made by people who'll never have to think about the human consequences of their business decisions the thumb pressing in from the riverside. The future isn't something people here like to concern themselves with. The picture's never rosy no matter how you look at it.
All of this a long way to say that heading out here to pick up anything of value to the community centre is a nonzero amount of risk and the thought of being the only one out here with Imron if something bad happened would probably be a lot more alarming if you didn't have superpowers of your own now. But he doesn't know that yet, right? And he was still fine with you being his plus one. So maybe it's not that bad? Just a numbers thing, warding off anyone desperate or opportunistic enough to jump him for being alone. Still, you can't help being nervous. You scratch behind one ear, nails rasping through the hair and digging into the soft skin beneath until it starts to hurt.
"So tell me how you've been!" Imron says, breaking the silence first. "It's been a long time since we had a chance to talk. I'm glad you seem well - when I heard what happened to the warehouse and tried to call I assumed the worst."
You laugh nervously. 'Yeah Imron, why would you assume something terrible happened involving me getting impaled in the chest and my entire heart popped like a balloon haha', you think to yourself. But out loud you say "I'm alright, I just lost my phone in all the commotion," because you don't want to give him a heart attack first thing. This calls for finesse, which is so far outside your wheelhouse it's a distant speck on the horizon, but you need to at least make the attempt.
"Ahh. It puts my heart at ease to see you safe all the same." He smiles so warmly that the lie, even well-intentioned, makes you heart sting - not that you actually have one any more. "You look much better. Life has been treating you well."
You chuckle mirthlessly. "I worked the night shift Imron, looking good isn't really an option."
" 'Good' is a relative term my friend, I give credit only where it is due, and unless my eyes and memory deceive me it is well-earned."
You don't make eye contact, but you don't belabour the point either. Truth be told it's not that hard to be better than how you were when you first met, even if your 'bloodstream' is about 95% nanomachines now. Once upon a time you just ate your feelings, and over the years it made you puff up until you looked like as big a piece of shit as you felt. Then when you got to the harder stuff- well let's just say that the Promo Diet probably has a few things in common with the Meth Diet. By the time you ended up running into Imron you had the waistline of a stick and the constitution to match. Getting clean finally put some meat back on your bones, and while the warehouse job was torture most shifts it also kept your diet from making you swell up like a balloon again. Doesn't help how you feel about your body but hey, take a well-meaning compliment for what it is, right?
"Have your family been in touch at all?" he asks.
God dammit. You're winding up to broach the other subject and he blindsides you with that too. You look away at nothing in particular, working your jaw like you're chewing on a piece of gristle. He had to ask. It's been years and you're still clean, there was a chance and so he had to ask. It's not his fault what the answer is.
"I haven't heard from them," you reply evenly.
"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that."
You walk in silence for a while. Imron may be almost twice your age but he's got boundless energy, and he doesn't make it simple to keep up. Traffic this far out drops from light to downright sparse, so the two of you don't bother rolling the dice on whether the crosswalks still work. MD doesn't offer any suggestions, probably deferring to you since you've known Imron longer than a day. Makes sense. Still doesn't make you feel any better. You take a deep, deep breath and quicken your pace a little to draw level with him.
"Look- can you do me a favour?"
"Mm? What is it?"
Last chance to back down. It feels mighty tempting, but the unseen eye of MD makes you hesitate. You can already imagine it hounding you to deal with the problem instead of stewing in it and the thought of getting this whole thing Over With in a shorter span of time is just the jolt you need to jerk over the starting line like a corpse with a few volts running through it. Kinda describes you pretty well these days anyway.
"When we get back can- from now on can you call me Alex?"
He slows, and comes to a stop. It feels like there's a stone in the pit of your stomach. Imron turns and looks at you, brows furrowed.
"I... apologise, I don't understand."
Why does everything have to be difficult?
"Just please call me Alex and- and when we get back can you tell Florence that you had me confused with someone else?" you forge on ahead, talking quicker and quicker in the hopes that if you just get to the end of your thought he'll suddenly understand everything. "I'm working with her now and I introduced myself as Alex so it'll just be really awkward if she thinks I'm using a fake name to trick her or something-"
"Please, slow down, you aren't making sense," Imron says, gesturing as if to placate you. "What is this about working with Florence? Has something happened? Is this about money? Are you-"
"I'm trans, Imron, please focus!" you snap.
And in the cavernous void of silence that follows it occurs to you that that's the first time you've ever identified as such. It doesn't sound accurate. It feels like an ill-fitted suit, sagging in areas and pinching in others. You've resisted it for a long time because it never felt right. 'Trans' is such a strong word that immediately evokes something nice and straightforward, switching from blue to pink or vice versa as it were. You don't want to be a girl. You don't feel like one either. You also don't know what dysphoria feels like but you hate being treated like a boy and you hate looking at yourself so mabe that's close enough? It's an understanding you slowly pieced together over the course of years and if the alternative was trying to explain that over the course of a single conversation, you guess you just defaulted to the snappier label. You stick your hands in your pockets nervously and watch Imron carefully for his reaction, see the light of comprehension dawning in his eyes.
"Oh," he says.
"Yeah," you say.
"Please forgive me," he says with a remorseful sigh, hand over his heart. "I had no idea-"
"It's fine," you mutter, averting your gaze so suddenly you can practically hear your neck crack. "Haven't seen each other in ages, no chance to tell you."
"I beg you, allow me to apologise, if not for my initial error then for having terribly slow wits only moments ago," he asks with a crooked smile. "I did not mean to make this harder for you than it undoubtedly already was."
"... thanks." The corner of your mouth turns up slightly. "I appreciate it."
"How should I refer to you from now on?"
"Uh..." You never thought you'd get this far. Not with anyone but certainly not with someone you actually know. You scratch the back of your head awkwardly. "They-them I guess? Like uh- 'that's them, their name is Alex'. If... that makes sense?"
"Mm." Imron cradles his chin, deep in thought. "I will think of something to explain myself to Florence, don't worry about that." He drops his hand. "And thank you for telling me. I cannot imagine it was easy."
Yeah, well, death and resurrection as a superhero really reordered your priorities. But that part's still pretty hard to talk about so you keep quiet. The walk resumes and you trail after Imron in silence, taking deep breaths to silence the pounding of your heart. It's not long after that when more silvery text appears out of the corner of your eye.
[My predictions that a positive outcome was possible were correct.]
"(Yeah yeah don't get a big head about it,)" you mouth silently.
[I do not have a head.]
"(Big avatar then, whatever.)"
It's not much longer to the storage unit. It's part of a long, squat, unlovely thing built to last - pre-Conjunction, and that's why it lasted this long. It directly abuts an old abandoned hardware store, long since run ragged and stripped of anything remotely useful, just a facade and sign-shadows and gaping empty windowframes. Rows of houses stretch on in every other direction, lawns overgrown and strewn with garbage. You didn't doubt Florence's story, but being out here just makes it all the more plausible. You've heard of people who have to deal with waking up to a grizzly bear pawing at the back door like a dog asking to come inside, and there's much worse things than bears in the woods now.
Speaking of which. Imron's the first to notice it, stopping dead and throwing out a hand to ward you away. He holds very still and you freeze with him, peering past his body with a sudden pit in your stomach as your body misses the memo about having superpowers now. There's a monster down the end of the row, slowly yet insistently tugging a dumpster around the corner for a better angle of attack. It's hard to get a good look at it - your first instinct might be to call it a bear, but while it's big and furry it sure as hell isn't shaped like one. It has a beak like a duck or a platypus, and offputtingly grabby and scaly claws akin to some kind of raccoon-lizard hybrid, and its three tails have a strangely sinuous quality to their motion that warns you to stay away. You scarcely dare to breathe, shooting Imron a glance.
"(Has this happened before?)" you whisper.
"(Yes,)" he replies, clearly just as eager to leave the monster undisturbed. Explanation is not forthcoming.
"(Well, what did you do those times? Call animal control?)"
"(I have tried that before. It appears that many city services will simply thank you for your call and never show up if you direct them to problem areas like this,)" Imron mutters grimly. "(If Florence were here then perhaps- no, the best thing to do is wait for it to leave on its own.)"
He's taking it deadly serious, but you? You're almost beaming. This is it. This is it! Right here, this is your gift-wrapped chance to show off your new look and new powers. The deadnaming and shit couldn't be further from your mind, you finally have something to flaunt and you're about to do it. Your heart is racing in your chest as you slip your bag off your shoulders and set it down purposefully, unzipping your jacket with a squeal of zipper pull on metal teeth and dropping it in the bag.
"Don't worry," you say, the hushed whisper forgotten as confidence surges. "I'll handle this."
"(You'll- what are you doing J- Alex-!)" Imron hisses, but you ignore it. This is your moment to shine, your time to prove yourself. You crack your knuckles and take a step forward, already planning out your moves-
"Alert, armour generation obstructed, please remove clothes," MD says mildly in your ear. At which point you remember that you planned to get changed at the hideout and walk around on patrol or whatever it is your first job would be in full costume. You completely failed to plan for this eventuality and now, big-brain that you are, your options are to back down like a fucking buffoon, obliterate your clothes and consign yourself to heading home in full costume or strip naked in front of Imron.
It's a choice you should probably think about more than not at all, but the full enormity of what you've landed yourself in hits you all at once and you pick one by spinal reflex more than anything else, so you're just as surprised as Imron is when you start yanking your shirt off.
"I- I just- hang on a second!" you plead. The realisation that if you take your shirt off Imron will see your impalement scar hits just early enough to save you but far too late to play it off. Your whole body lurches as if shocked by a live wire and you whip your spine around in a manner that you were pretty sure you stopped being capable of in mid-to-late highschool. Upside, you think this saves Imron the sight of your wounds and you the ordeal of having to answer questions about them. Downside, you're all flipped and hunched over, and it's very dark because your shirt's up over your face and you did it in such a hurry you've managed to get your arms stuck to. A bolt of intense panic shoots down your spine like a live-wire, only fed by Imron's extremely confused and slightly muffled "what are you doing...?"
"I j- wait-!" You wiggle frantically. You just have to get an undersuit layer to cover the mark and then once you get your shirt off you can put the helmet on and basically be home fr- no, fuck, you've still got your shoes on! You gave your suit those massive talons, you'll shred them to pieces if you don't get those off! You thrash about like a cat with its head trapped in a jar, thinking furiously at MD to please just give you the basic undersuit, and the prickling buzz of nanomachines flowing across your chest and back doesn't even compare to the embarrassed burn in your face. You've got about a tablespoon of natural blood left in your body and it's all in your cheeks. Eventually taking the shirt off proves easier than getting it on again so you do it, frantically stuffing it into the bag with your jacket and dropping to one knee to wrestle with your shoelaces. You're flustered enough that your fingers feel like they're being operated on an individual basis, fumbling and fouling each other up, but you're in too deep by now and if you stop to listen to Imron before you finish you're going to expire. You awkwardly hop from foot to foot as you get your shoes off, fighting to peel off your socks before they can touch the damp pavement, and when you can finally stuff everything in the bag and resolutely zip it shut you breathe a sigh of something almost like relief. Okay.
The buzzing feeling surges, waves of energy washing over you as MD gets to work turning the 'default' bodysuit into the armour of your design. And despite everything, despite the embarrassing display, it... still feels good. The way your posture shifts, the way the chilly air is sealed away, the way it fits to you like a glove, the way the helmet seals you in your own little world, the rippling waves of electromagnetic disturbance up your spine as your 'wings' settle in. You flex your fingers, claws now, and thanks to the heels you can just about look Imron in the eye now - in a manner of speaking.
"A lot's happened in the past few days," you say, and your voice drops about an octave compared to the tense squeaking you were just doing. "So the least I can do is this-"
"Wait Alex, please!" Imron steps ahead and throws his arm across your chest. You stop short, almost staggering, and shoot a bewildered look down at his arm. You look up at him again, lips already parting to ask him why his first instinct is still to stop the (alleged) superhero from intervening. "You intend to kill it?"
"Y-yeah?" you reply haltingly. "Why, should- am I not supposed to?"
He breathes a sigh of relief and slowly lowers his arm. "I understand you are eager to help, but please think about this. Look at it-" he gestures to the bizarre beast still pawing through old garbage "-and tell me, what do you see? I see a scavenger, seeking anything remotely palatable, before it moves on in search of better prospects. When you killed it, did you intend to carry the corpse all the way across town? Store it, dispose of it yourself? Did you know how, or where?"
"I- I mean I guess-" you say uncertainly.
"Spilling its blood would draw greater threats, carrion-eaters or even true predators, inshallah. Alien or of our own kind. And so I beg you, please, just let it be."
"I- okay, you don't- you don't have to beg me," you mutter, and like that all the confidence drains out again. You feel like an idiot playing dress-up for nobody's benefit and you're glad the helmet lets you avoid Imron's eyes so easily. "I'll leave it alone, sorry."
"Do not apologise for wanting to help me," he says, his tone warmer now, carefully moves his arm away to pat your shoulder instead. "Be proud that you are willing to listen. Now, let us wait for our rude guest to move on."
"Priority: A solution to engaging full armour under duress while clothed is needed. Potential temporary solution - destroy clothes?" MD chimes in like it didn't even notice how thoroughly and comprehensively you just beefed it trying to make a first impression.
"(Not on your fucking life, I hate clothes shopping,)" you mutter.
"Understood. Reconsidering options."
You wander over to the nearest wall and lean against it with a sigh, the cold, rough concrete barely registering through the microns-thick suit. You mutter a command for the gold blades to dissolve back into nanites and rejoin your suit, since they'll just be awkward ornamentation if you're not doing any fighting today. Imron draws closer but not too close, enough to keep an eye on the interdimensional raccoon making a mess of things. You're making a face, not that he can see, and you can only imagine what kind of comments about your fashion sense he's keeping to himself.
"So when you said you've begun 'working with' Florence, this is what you meant, then?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, "I joined her group. Today's my first day, so I tagged along with her."
"And this is..." he gestures at the totality of you, then pauses and reconsiders his question. "Did you become aware of this only recently, and join as soon as you were able, or was it about losing your former place of employment?"
You shrug. "If you're asking if it's about money or the hero work then... I dunno, yeah, little of column A, little of column B? They make enough money to get by and if I can too then that's all I want. But if you're asking if this-" you gesture at yourself "-is recent or not, it is. It's the only reason I survived the other day and it's put... a lot of things into perspective, I guess. So when I happened to run into Katarina yesterday, that was it, I guess. This is what I'm doing with myself now."
Imron considers your words carefully. Then a smile creeps across that bushy beard he calls a face. "You are clearly far more passionate about it than your previous job," he says, his tone faintly yet unmistakeably teasing.
"Oh shut up," you grumble, folding your arms. His weathered face crinkles up just a little bit more, and you can't help but feel a little better.
"Come, it appears the guest is making ready to leave," Imron says. "We should move quickly while the way is clear."
The two of you head into the storage facility, the wet concrete path just wide enough to let vans move in and out, the steel shutters lining both sides of the path weathered yet still strong. The one Imron leads you to is completely unremarkable, not so much as an identifying number to be seen, but he squats down with a soft grunt to reach the lock and sure enough his key works. You stoop down to help him with the shutter, which soon enough turns into lifting it one-handed by yourself while terrified you're going to break the rails on accident or something. He steps into the shadows within and you follow, backpack slung over one shoulder, dropping the shutter about halfway behind you.
You don't know why but you half expected to find a shady panel van parked in here, its contents shrink-wrapped and ready for removal, like some kinda dead drop of drugs. There are drugs here, just not the recreational kind. You spy the labels in the weak, ambient light spilling under the shutter as Imron retrieves a knot of plastic bags from his pocket and begins dropping them inside. Looks like painkillers and antibiotics and the like, and the assortment of frozen food on the shelves with them almost feel like camouflage as much as the shelter genuinely needs that too. No wonder Imron was worried enough about losing this he asked for extra protection. He splits the precious cargo up among the various bags while you chase your thoughts in circles wondering if you should put some clothes on again and if so how many. He presses two of them into your hands.
"I can carry all of them if you want-" you start.
"Please, I may be growing old but I do not need a young m- person to carry my groceries for me yet," he replies. He looks a little uncertain about the stumble, but you're smiling inside the helmet. It's... it's nice. You're glad you told him. Outwardly you give a stoic nod and get comfortable with your cargo, angling your body to keep your backpack from slipping off your shoulder as you crouch down to grab the shutter and slide it up again-
"Huh, what're you supposed to be?"
You lurch back, bag sliding off your shoulder and falling to the floor. You'd like to say it was a tactical move to free up one arm. It was just shock, plain and simple. You're faintly aware of Imron behind you off to the shoulder, but you don't dare spare a backwards glance. The man who ducks under the shutter and steps into the space you just left in the shadowed storage unit is a pretty thin guy, even taller than Imron with the kind of ropey, lean muscle that belies the strength he can really bring to bear. He's dressed up warm and anonymous; hooded jacket and ballcap, gloves and white medical mask and sunglasses, the latter of which he takes off and slips into his pocket to get a better look at you. He has short, reddish hair under that hood but the most striking part of him is the eyes, an intense flame-orange that just seem too bright for the gloom he's standing in.
His name is Jack and he's your old dealer. Sheer shock and your visor are probably the only reasons you aren't completely going to pieces. Instead you're stiff and still as a statue, staring mutely at a man you absolutely, unequivocally did not ever want to see again, a man you never wanted to know you weren't dead in an alleyway somewhere. He looks at you like a particularly eyecatching lawn ornament, or perhaps just inspecting his own reflection in the black glass of your visor.
"Jack," says Imron, in the exactingly cordial tone of a man who would firmly and without hesitation saw his own leg off to escape this conversation, "I am pleased to see yesterday's attack seems to have passed you over."
"Yeah yeah I'm sure you are." Bored of you now, Jack fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and squeezes one out - a good dealer never uses his own product, but there's some drugs the world decided are fine to wreck your body with. You're sure you'd be able to come up with a very witty diss related to that if your entire body wasn't locking up. Jack cups the tip in his hand, and though he didn't reach for a lighter you see the tip flare up and begin to burn. He takes a puff and exhales slowly, grey smoke rising to the ceiling in a haze. Thankfully the helmet masks the stink.
"So it's in the bags, right?" he asks, taking another puff.
"What do you mean?" Imron replies.
"Don't play dumb with me man, we both have places to be." He blows the smoke out in a concentrated stream between his lips, harsh and growing annoyed. "C'mon, which bag is it? Look, I'm just trying to make this easy for you. Just gimme that one and we can all walk away happy, easy as pie." His eyes flicker over to you. "What, did you hire the cosplayer for muscle? Try to intimidate me, make me back off your turf? That upsets me, Imron. Makes me feel unwelcome."
Yeah, you remember this routine. Whatever he wants he's pretty good at making it seem like he's doing you a favour by getting it, and the threat of his patience running dry is never far behind. You remember feeling like he was the last friend you had once. You remember plenty of other things too. Doesn't take a genius to work out he's after the meds, you're far from streetwise but you know that kind of thing sells like hotcakes on the black market. They seem kind of familiar too - maybe it's a power play too, trying to punish Imron for disrespecting him or something. You wouldn't know. You don't exactly have the opportunity to ask.
"Elevated stress levels detected."
The question is
"What do you intend to do, Alex?"
[ ] Get Jack to back off. There's no way he really thinks you're just some asshole in a suit that can't back up a threat. If you just push him then sooner or later he'll fold rather than start a fight he doesn't know he can win, he has to. And if not...
[ ] Punch him in the face. This fucker may not have single-handedly ruined your life but he was the top donor in the misery department and you want to break a bone for every day of normalcy his shit made you lose.
[ ] Try to contact Florence. Your phone is right there in your bag, and sure MD said it's not a cyberwarfare suite but come on it can do almost anything and it's just a burner phone. If you shoot her a text and stall for time some then surely she'll be able to send a couple monsters your way, maybe chase Jack off or at least distract him.
