You know what you want to do. You know because it's playing in your mind's eye, crystal-clear and high framerate, every half-second of time pulled into such staggering detail it takes on a form of hyper-reality. It mingles with your memories of the corner store yesterday, that surge of adrenaline and rush of cathartic satisfaction that came from running toward a problem instead of away, and- well if not 'winning' then surviving. You remember how good it felt to lay that robot out and make it eat asphalt, and the singing of adrenaline that shoots up your spine and into the base of your brain is telling you just how good it would feel to do the exact same thing to Jack.
But
you don't.
You don't because you can't. Because your body is being wracked by fight-or-flight chemicals. Because thinking about what Jack is really capable of, what he did and said when you first tried to pull your life out of the tailspin it was in and threatened to stop buying what he was selling, what might happen to Imron because of your actions, is the sugar in your gas tank. Opposing forces equalised, your body settles on the third option nobody likes to talk about - freeze. You turn into a statue, every muscle locked up, and while your thoughts feel like a death-metal scream echoing in your skull you don't make a sound. The suit is your only saving grace. The helmet, saving you from the triumphant twinkle of recognition in Jack's eyes, gives you the barest scrap of functionality. Your breath is so loud, rasping in your throat, hollow and echoing in the helmet, breath condensing on the inside of the visor.
"What's wrong, cat got your tongue?" he asks.
Your heartbeat is so loud, pounding in your ears, faster and faster with every moment. Blood coursing through you so quick it's like you can feel it. Fake. It's all fake. The thought makes your stomach plummet, your skin crawl. Like you can feel the thick flow of nanomachines in your bloodstream chewing away at the walls of your veins and arteries, like you wish you could make MD turn it off so you wouldn't have to listen to that incessant pounding that's been nothing more than the soundtrack of fear and failure in your life. You can feel Imron's gaze on the back of your head, boring through the armour and into your soul. He must be watching too. Must be judging too. Whatever you do it reflects on him and you just need time to think-
"Oi, you deaf, mute or just stupid?" Jack raps on the side of your helmet with his knuckles, the glassy thunk-thunk-thunk ringing in your ear. He looks over your head at Imron. "I think your rentboy's broken."
Prometheum scarring in the neural tissue, that's what MD said. Almost enough to kill you. Funny to think about, almost enough for a nice dry chuckle. It always felt like having thick, knotted strands of scar tissue twisting and criss-crossing over the surface of your brain but now you know it's literally true. The scars are real, from what you did and what he enabled you to do. It feels like the thoughts are colliding with them, grisly fibrous growths of ice across asphalt, tires skidding out and losing control crossing them.
It feels like they're cracking. Breaking. Rupturing and bursting as fresh blood flows. It feels like a string snapping. It's not that it hurts, not yet.
You feel light-headed. Your body is frozen but your mind, locked in your skull and chained to neurochemistry, lets out a bloody-throated scream for you to move.
You barely feel the electromagnetic ripple across your spine barely hear the glassy tinkle of nanomaterial billowing from your shoulderblades. Two golden blades like elongated arrowheads, back edges trailing nanite particulate like dust, paper thin and so sharp the air sings and keens against their edges, lurch into view and stop dead mere inches from Jack's throat. He blinks, jerking back in surprise.
"Leave." Your voice doesn't sound like your voice. It's deep, harsh and husky as if you haven't used it in years. It hurts when it leaves your throat, hissing and crackling at the edges through your helmet filters. Your limbs and head feel like they're full of helium, ready to make you pitch over and float away. Your guts feel like they've frozen solid. Seconds stretch on into eternity as Jack refocuses on you, peering into the black glass and finding only his own reflection.
"Puppy does bark," he remarks. It sounds flippant but the casual tone doesn't reach his eyes at all. He's eyeing you up, a predator and a potential threat. "But does he bite...?"
Predators don't like fighting. If a kill seems like too much effort, they'd rather go home. But much as the description feels apt, Jack is no animal. People are capricious. They can decide to do almost anything, kind of cruel, on a momentary whim and confluence of coincidence. There's absolutely no guarantee that there's any way out of this where Jack doesn't hurt you and Imron. No guarantee that you won't have to-
Have to what? Kill him? Could you? Would you?
You don't know. Maybe you'll never find out. But you know what you can't do, and that's stand here and do nothing. Your hands curl into fists, clawed fingertips digging into your palms through the suit as it draws so taut over your knuckles it creaks. The gold blades shiver sympathetically, revolving slowly, light catching and reflecting off the razor-honed edges. His eyes dart to them in turn, just once. Then they linger on you, like they can see straight through your visor, like you can so easily picture the glass turning orange and melting into slag as he peels away your armour and lays you bare before him.
"Psh. Alright, kid." He slaps the side of your helmet in a gesture of faux-affection, and even spared his touch directly it still makes your skin crawl. Jack backs up and clucks his tongue. "You two have fun in here. We've all got places to be but I will be seeing you-" he pauses to don his sunglasses once more "-real soon, Imron."
You can't quite see it behind the mask but you can tell he's flashing an insincere smile, all teeth, no mirth. And then he's gone, ducking under the hanging shutter and strolling away into the cold, grey daylight. Leaving you alone with Imron in the crushing quiet that follows, naught but the rasp of your laboured breath to keep you company.
You leave it a while. You stay there, stock-still and silent, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading away. Making sure he's not hanging around to eavesdrop, making sure he won't change his mind and come back. You can feel Imron doing the same thing, the same stillness in the air around him as around you. It's a song and dance you know all too well. It feels like another eternity just for the feeling to fade, just for some small measure of life and sensation to start returning to you. Only now does the pain hit. It feels like an invisible yet white-hot icepick being driven through your frontal lobe, the tip lodged somewhere behind your right eye.
Nausea comes with it. Once you can move again you wheel around and stagger into the corner of the storage unit, fumbling and scrabbling at the base of your helmet. This time you don't have to wait for it to deconstruct. You pry it free with a high-pitched hiss of pressurised air escaping and gratefully suck down as much air as you can get, slumping half-boneless against the wall. Your mouth's filling with saliva, your gorge is rising, you hug your helmet against your stomach and fight with everything you have not to let it get any worse. You're trembling like a leaf. If you had a mind to ask MD for the relevant biometrics you imagine they'd be spiking all over the place. You scarcely have the strength to keep hold of your helmet, let alone turn and look at Imron.
Some hero you turned out to be.
"Thank you for-" Imron starts.
"(Don't.)" You can barely croak out words, but they sound deafening in the closeness and the quiet. "(Please just don't.)"
And he doesn't. It doesn't make you feel better, but it keeps you from feeling any worse. You hear plastic bags rustling quietly behind you as he gathers up the precious cargo he came for, sorting everything neatly and patiently triple-checking that nothing was lost in all the excitement. Adrenaline's still hitting you like a ton of bricks, hard and late, and there's no easy cure for that. Not without running home and finding something to distract yourself, writing off the whole day as a wash. You try to focus on your breathing, shut your eyes and empty your mind and focus on the sensation of air rushing in and out of your lungs.
Doesn't quite work the way it's meant to. Knowing your pulse is fake distracts you too much.
"I did not know that man would be a trigger for you." MD's voice is as calm and neutral as ever, but it's impossible not to read contrition in its choice of words. "I should not have prompted you."
You shake your head slightly. You don't want to talk to it out loud right now.
"I will consider our options for the future. For now, rest, and you will recover."
Easy for it to say. MD's just a computer. When a computer gets clogged up and unresponsive you can just turn it off and on again, or gather up all the junk data and throw it into the abyss. People don't get to do either.
Imron waits for you. He doesn't say anything. The weight of his patient silence builds and builds and builds until it feels like your shoulders are bowing under the strain. You finally turn around. The blades are still hovering there, right where you left them, as if suspended from the ceiling by wires. They dissolve into streams of nanites and return to your suit, the helmet under your arm following shortly after, as you shuffle back to your fallen backpack and crouch down.
"(sec, need to change.)"
You've thought about secret identities once or twice. They're strangely common in comics and the like considering how nobody worth knowing about in the industry actually has a civilian alter ego they can retreat to when the crimefighting is done. One part fabrication for the sake of formula, so heroes can keep going to school and jobs and get themselves in trouble there. One part a kind of idealised working class fantasy, all the results of serving the public interest without any of the riches and fame and pesky pride to get in the way. Just save the city from a giant meteor or a killer robot and then vanish into the night, back to bussing tables at a club or whatever. One life is usually just in service of the other, whether that be 'I wear the mask to protect my family and friends' or 'mild-mannered meteorologist Theodore Thunderbolt becomes the booming boistrous party animal he always wanted to be when he holds his cane aloft and speaks the magic words'.
You just... really wanted it to be the latter for you. You wanted so much to flip that switch and Become A Superhero once you were in the suit and helmet, once you were wearing your armour. But that's not really how it works. Slap all the power and protection on someone you want, they are who they are and they always will be. Maybe just a little more of an asshole if it being easier to avoid consequences gets to them. And yet even realising this, even with the refrain rebounding inside your skull again and again, you can't help but feel strangely small and vulnerable as you trudge back to the community centre with Imron. It's like the wind cuts colder through your skin, like it stings just a bit more in your lungs, like the air is just that much damper. You don't say a word the whole way back and neither of your companions breaks the silence.
You take the back way into the shelter when you return, probably for some kind of safety reason. Imron leads you through the dimly lit back corridors of the building and into the makeshift sickbay that you spent more than your fair share of time in back in the day. The meds get locked up somewhere safe just in case, and then the two of you take the rest of your haul into a kitchen that used to be a glorified break room that served a scant handful of people. Prim is already there, scrubbing away at a haphazard pile of plates, cutlery and kitchenware in the sink - you don't see any immediate striking resemblance to Florence, just the same woman with a buzzcut and dark eyes that you saw on and off around the shelter the whole time you frequented it, as unaffected by blistering summer heat or deathly winter chill. She was always the type that didn't let a problem show if she had one, which is what makes the flicker of frustration on her face before Imron announces himself all the more strange. Something to do with her secret family drama with Florence no doubt, but you couldn't be less in the mood to try and untangle it, so you don't try. You just take the food and stow it away in the fridge and freezer, both commercial-grade yet banged-up and clearly secondhand.
Imron says something to Prim in a low voice, and you aren't really listening but you assume it's about your name and pronouns because the former is the first thing you hear when he raises his voice again. He explains the incident with Jack only briefly, leaving out your sad attempt at superheroing - she doesn't seem to need much catching-up, considering how her scrubbing hand drops into the sink at the mention of his name. He asks after Florence next, and gestures for you to follow him - superhero business, then. Does Prim know-? Ah, what does it matter.
Out in the main room, it's not as packed as you've seen it get but it's not as empty as you'd like it to be either. An attack can displace people by the score in mere moments, but it takes so much longer for them to trickle back out to their old lives - if they even can. Every available scrap of space is crammed utterly full, whether it be with tables and chairs or sleeping bags and bedrolls, recovered belongings or bottles of water. Off on the far end there's a corner of the building reserved for entertaining younger kids, a slice of the once-library perfectly preserved. There's soft pillows and blankets, books and slightly shabby boardgames, and a TV about a decade or two out of date that Florence is in the middle of tinkering with. As you approach, a few more brisk motions of encouragement turn the screen from a black void to a splash of colours to... well, a splash of colours again, but in the shape of a children's cartoon this time. The Desi girl sitting on a large and slightly water damaged beanbag chair jumps with delight, and says "Thank you Missus Jones" in that singsong way children always say words to that effect in. Florence spots the two of you approaching, crossing the threshold back to cold reality to meet you.
"Something happen?" she asks, her eyes flicking from you to Imron and back again.
"Jack was waiting for us at the storage unit. His methods are becoming more overt." Imron glances at you. "For the past few weeks he has been making increasingly coercive attempts to 'contribute' to the shelter. Whether a project to feed his ego or a play to advance his standing I cannot say, but for now there is little we can do but endure and hope he moves on to other prospects sooner rather than later."
He doesn't go into detail about the why. Maybe he's trying to spare you, but you know damn well why. Takes being a mark to know just how easy it is to take advantage of people who are already teetering on the edge, vulnerable to just one or two well-timed pushes. To Jack the shelter must look like a smorgasboard, money on the table just waiting to be grabbed. You know for a fact you're not the only user that's passed through these walls either, and they say plenty about the power of brand recognition. Just thinking about it makes Jack's face flash in your mind's eye, makes your desire to put your fist through his face and the sickening anxiety of his presence clash and collide in the pit of your stomach. The most you can hope for is that you didn't directly make things worse.
"I'll talk to Jae-yoon, set up a roster so there's always somebody nearby, just in case," Florence says. "In the meantime I'll leave a few pets nearby, they'll come running if they sense something's up. Remember to call us if you even think you have to, okay?"
"I doubt he will take it far enough to require that," Imron replies with a slightly weary smile. "He is more nuisance than threat to my life. But thank you for your time and your concern, I treasure them both." He gestures to you. "And for your new co-worker! I could not ask for a better bodyguard than Alex."
The false praise rolls off your back, T-boned by the flash of confusion on Florence's face. Imron waggles his hand. "Eh, forgive me, I mistook them for another when you first arrived. I suppose even I am reaching that age when my memory begins to play tricks on me, haha."
Florence's brow creases, but she doesn't interrogate him any further. Instead she turns to look at you. "Any trouble besides him?" she asks. "You don't look too good."
Shit. "Sick or something, I think," you mutter, the lie coming so easily it's like a reflex. "Uh- gimme a second actually, think I need some air."
They don't keep you, and you don't linger long enough to give them extra chances to. You make your way out of the shelter as fast as you can reasonably move without looking like you're fleeing the scene of a crime, retrace your steps out the back way, prop the door open with a stone and sit just inside the garden fence. The grass is wet and it's still drizzling, but that's not really a priority right now.
"May I interact?" MD asks, its fast-familiar swirl of light materialising before your eyes.
"Hasn't stopped you before," you reply.
"You expressed a desire to be left alone. I must perform a check at regular intervals to determine if that desire has changed, emergencies excepted."
You open your mouth to say something else. You pause, and let your shoulders slump with a sigh like a deflating balloon. "We can talk. What about?"
"There have been minor, but notable changes in your neural activity," MD explains, avatar floating closer to you. "I have mentioned that your brain was still too damaged to safely handle more than a few additional functions - it appears your rate of healing and adaptation have exceeded my projections by a small factor. You manifested and directed two nanite constructs with minimal assistance from my subsystems."
"Heh. Guess that's something." You're faintly aware that you should be more excited to hear this, but you just can't get that feeling of... of being frozen out of your mind. Your headache still hasn't gone away.
"This being the case, I have determined it is likely safe to fully unlock one of my new subsystems for you. Would you prefer-"
"I'm really-" you catch yourself at the last second, the rising cadence of your voice about to snap suddenly fading back to a mutter. "I'm really not in the mood to talk about this right now, MD."
Silence. The orb of light coruscates and swirls thoughtfully.
"Would you like to draw it?"
You double-take. "What?"
"You responded well when provided the opportunity create art last night," MD replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and really you're the one being unreasonable for sounding so incredulous. "If you wish to draw your answer, you may."
It should sound patronising. Well- it does, kinda. But only a little bit. MD presents every word it says so dryly and matter-of-factly that it constantly catches you off-guard. Off-guard enough to actually consider the offer. It seems to sense your cautious willingness to play along, and before your eyes the carbon-black stylus materialises in your cupped hand. A fresh canvas of the digital, invisible-to-others variety follows shortly after, accompanied by a small text window of prompts. You sigh again. It's probably not healthy for a robot to be getting so good at pushing your buttons. But for now...
[ ] The EM Blade system. Controlling a series of floating golden blades as if by magic, not unlike Paragon's feathers. It's a hell of an aesthetic, intimidating and flashy and ethereal. Your mind is full of potential poses and compositions using those bright arrowheads to draw the eye.
[ ] Fire. Swirling and hungry and organic and all-consuming. Reminds you of Jack, almost too much, but maybe drawing it will dull that power somehow. Make it feel more like something you control. You can picture the arcs and jets and streams, the reflected glow in your visor and the suit.
[ ] Lightning. Jagged-edged and fast as thought, shining so brilliantly in the blink of an eye. Plus electricity is what pretty much all of society runs on 24/7, hah. And as far as flash and intimidation go, it's hard to go wrong with a thunderclap. A cyborg riding on a wave of lightning, lit up in brilliant flashes and wreathed in a million volts - yeah, you see it.
[ ] Ice. It's everywhere right now. Cold and colourless, deceptively dangerous and hardy. Spreading out in crystals and fractals, jagged edges not unlike those blades, not unlike the nanites when they form constructs even. You can so clearly picture the two entwined, icy blue-white and silver-black. Doesn't hurt that cold is great for putting out fires.
