Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I am stepping from rooftop to rooftop, in a familiar city from an unfamiliar time. With each leap, my mental map of the city expands, and it makes me feel almost painfully alive . Nothing compares- not the bone-deep satisfaction of a completed mission, not the “runner’s high” after pushing yourself to the limit, or the relief of knowing that your loved ones are safe.

I glance up at The Galaxy Dart, the tallest building on the West Coast from 2008 until 2556. According to my mask’s rangefinder, it is 3592m high, including the spire. A sight to behold. I’ve never seen the Galaxy Dart in its original glory; only ever the ruin topped by Throne, the primary seat of Fatebender.

I shake my head free. Go time. I shut my eyes for just a moment, pulling up the map in my head. I feel a ledge to crouch on seven meters up. I look once, twice, just to make sure that nothing awaits me at my destination. With a quick push, I fold space and step through, teleporting seven meters onto the ledge that was above my head a second previous. An almost-inaudible bwom follows in my wake.

I have never met anyone with superpowers like mine. There is an ancient, powerful sword called Wyldfyr which allows its wielder to tear portals in reality, and many inventors have made copies of its powers. I have held the weapon and many replicates. Universally clumsy . Wyldfyr and its imitators can only tear holes between places the wielder is, places they've been recently, or places which hold great emotional significance to the wielder. There are a great many witches who cast teleportation spells that then exile themselves from the minds of their caster, and some can even master the technique and keep the magic. I know of a man in my history books by the name of “Mirrormage” who could travel between mirrors, but only once he’d touched them, and it took fifteen seconds for him to traverse “the parabola”.

I do not “tear open a portal and hop through it” when I blink. When I step . I fold space itself, by pushing, prodding, adjusting the distance between points on the three-and-maybe-more axes I can intuit. I adjust, I push, I step. And it doesn’t take fifteen whole seconds for me to travel. My average blink time is down to between fifteen-to-twenty microseconds for distances of ten meters or less.

There are some, in history, that I think might understand how I see the world. Katana, the first superhero, may have been such a woman. She could blink short distances, and was a master swordswoman. Her longest-recorded leap was approximately five kilometers. Another was named, fittingly, Portal, but they were only active for three years until their death. Longest recorded leap was twenty-three kilometers.

It isn’t fun, going that far, but I did it once. Mission went sour, had to escape London before the attack drones swept down and picked me off. Vital intel had to get to HQ. London to Dover is more or less one hundred-nine kilometers, as the attack drone flies. I thought I would make it in maybe 8 jumps, with a 5 second break for a vitality booster between each stop. I pulled on space very hard, and it responded. I saw water all around me, and for a moment, I panicked. A lake? I didn’t realize there was a lake this large on the route. I should have known. I would have known.

Then it clicked. I reeled myself back, letting the English Channel free of the iron grasp of the most powerful teenager on the planet, and found Dover, safely behind me. One hundred kilometers? Pffffff. I bet I could do two. I stepped, and I arrived in Dover.

Turns out that pulling that hard whips up one hell of a headache. And I cannot do it all of the time, or even most of the time. But it turns out that I hadn’t even begun to push the limits of my powers. My furthest recorded blink is two-hundred seventy kilometers.

My most impressive one, though, spanned five hundred fifty years. When I push space, if I push harder, the points between will tell me how distant they are. Not in distance, but in time; three microseconds, eight, fifteen. A hundred, if it’s many kilometers. A sort of line connects every two points in existence, and it shrinks and grows as I tug and prod. My head begins to pound with the mere memory of folding points in time five and a half centuries apart.

The mere memory of what happened two hours ago.

So I shake my thoughts free and begin to focus instead on the mission. I, Inspector Aoibhe “Paradox” Graves, am on a second-floor ledge on the side of the Galaxy Dart, five hundred years before I was/am/will be born. Fifty-one floors up is the last known location of Xixuthrus, an assassin and bounty hunter. Xixuthrus is the most vulnerable target in a long family tree that spans centuries. At the bottom is the man who broke the world; the Fatebender. The tyrant who shattered human civilization and remade it in his image. Prevent the Fatebender’s birth. Xixuthrus must not escape.

The cumulative efforts of the world’s resistance had left the following assets at my disposal: my powers, to consider 3D space something of a suggestion; my uniform, a hyperinsulatory bodysuit designed by Yggdrasil, my mentor, to be as easy to travel through space with as possible; my baseball bat, an antique Louisville Slugger I acquired from a museum in 2568; my tome, a futuretech supercomputer that holds Fatebender’s centuries-long family tree and information about who I may encounter in each time period. Could I count the metal rod lodged in my ribcage on account of my sloppy entry into this time period as an asset? Yggdrasil would advise against that, I think.

Xixuthrus was in Emerald City for November of 2020 before his location became unknown. In December, he will resurface in Columbia City, Canada, for a robbery and multiple abductions in the midst of an attack by the Blood Eagles. X abducts a lot of people before he goes off the grid in March 2021, and when he finally returns in 2025, he’s upgraded his arsenal. With that in mind, the only way through is forward, and quickly.

In my case, up. His last-known is this office building, and the timelines should still be close enough that if I can end this quickly, it should be that easy. No Xixuthrus now, no Fatebender later. The roaring of the adrenaline in my ears screamed at me to move, but the metal rod trapped in my rib urged caution- It ached.

Local time is currently 23:17 on November 3, 2020. In one week, President Fatima Young will be re-elected to great fanfare from the increasingly large left-wing coalition. In 2023, she will be outed as the superheroine Rosebloom, and be forced to resign. I estimate that this will have no impact on the mission, but will be useful in assuaging any doubt that I am from when I say that I am.

Scaling buildings is not a challenge for me. Push and step upward. Handhold to handhold, ledge to ledge. I try to keep one of my hands close to my bat, which is slung across my back. My comfortable blink range, the range where I barely have to push, is around ten meters- more than enough to jump through floors two at a time. Ten, breath, twelve, breath, fourteen. One of my hands misses a hold, and I lose my balance and begin to fall. There’s an open window four floors up, and I step through onto the windowsill with a soft BWOM. The mission takes priority; I lack the time to fall to my death.

A man in the room turns to look at me. He wears a blue button-up shirt, and a blue hat with a golden badge on the front. Security , it reads. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be here,” he remarks, pulling out a communicator of some kind. He begins dialing, and I lose my patience. I am beside him, grabbing the communicator from his hand. A simple twist free and it’s mine. I am at the window, dropping it onto the pavement far below. I put a single vertical finger to my lips; even in 2570, it is the universal sign for quiet. My stomach gurgles quietly; not loud enough that the security guard hears, hopefully.

I slip out the window, and blink to another ledge. Here, I open the rations compartment of my belt. I have a small energy bar ration, which should satiate my hunger for now. The size of a thumb, with fifteen hundred calories. After a ten-second pause, I find a spot above me, and I continue stepping up the building.

I halt when I reach the fifty-third floor, scramble over to a window so that I may get a vantage point inside. Xixuthrus’s last-known location is an office on this floor. First window is clear, so I move to the second. It’s then that I spot them.

Two archers. Typical of this city; while it’s long been tradition to include archers on superhero teams, it’s Emerald City which historically churned them out. This would be, judging from appearances, the first and third Emerald City Archers. The first is wearing the classic ECA outfit; bright green, no hints of subtlety for miles around. The other is a smaller teen, wearing an electric blue outfit with a heavy similarity to the green archer’s, and he carries a bright blue arbalest that is definitively gadgetech of some variety; judging from appearances alone, it’s at least 2100 or newer.

The first ECA is doing some light detective work, it would appear, taking notes on the crime scene. Arbalest guy appears to be covering him while he does so, checking corners, ensuring that the floor is evacuated. The usual sidekick stuff, which one typically outgrows by the age of fourteen.

My Tome is low on battery, but I don’t need the Tome to tell me about the Emerald City Archer dynasty, especially the early members. The first ECA, Amos Beauregard, guided the ECPS during the period between Hildr’s death in 2011 and his own death in January 2022. His death began a new golden age for Emerald City, as Brynhildr the Valkyrie finally felt ready to take the mantle of the Society’s president.

The third ECA was less of a clown than the first and second. He’ll be really useful in a fight, 35 years from now. For now, though, the kid crouches down suddenly, then slowly swings his arbalest towards the window. The ECA leaps for cover. I realize what’s going on an instant before it happens, and my mouth opens involuntarily.

“Fuck,” I say.

Eloquent as ever, Graves.

The nice, quiet night I was having ends. I step five meters to the right, letting out a quiet bwom. The window, now a safe distance to my left, shatters. Faintly, I can hear a teenage voice yell “Tango vanished!”

The mission . The mission comes first. How do I continue the mission from here? Think, Aoibhe, think. ECA likes to talk, Arbalest guy likes to shoot, but he likes to listen to his boss more. Perhaps if I don’t engage, and approach them peacefully, we can salvage this night. Even as I’m coming up with ideas, the ECA is playing to type, and reaching out to me.

"If you have something to say, burglar, I'd love to get some questions answered too. Maybe we can compare notes." The ECA's voice is tough, but it has a specific lilt to it that tips me off that he’s not the hard man he pretends to be.

Through gritted teeth, I manage to spit, "Something tells me you won't believe a word I have to say." Internally, I’m cringing at myself. I sound like an idiot, and this won’t help the mission.

"Try me. Why are you here?"

"Looking for the burglar. He and I have a score to settle." Not a lie. Speaking too long, though, and I am struck by a feeling worse than mere pain; the cold aluminum alloy pressing into my rib and lung at present is actually supposed to not be inside my body right now. It is supposed to be attached to the charging port for my Tome, the pocket supercomputer which contains all of the necessary details for my mission. Unfortunately, somewhere between 2300 and now, that portion of the charger’s plug elected to take up a new position between my rib and lung.

A brief silence. "You here for information about the breakout, then? No offense, but you sound like a teenage girl. Our mutual adversary is really more my league.”

That stings. Gotta push it out of my head, because I am far more capable than I appear. "Looks like X beat us to it. Seems this accountant, one 'James Doyle', was involved,” the Emerald City Archer continues. “What’s your name?"

"My name is Aoi...." Wait. No. Stop. Don't tell him your real name, you buffoon. "Paradox. My name is Paradox." Better. Geared up, Paradox is the name I should be giving to this man if I want him to take me seriously. Aoibhe is too common, too mundane. Not a soldier’s name, inasmuch as it is obviously a soldier’s name because it is mine .

The uptight teen speaks to the man. "There are no independent heroes in the city operating under the name Paradox, sir. Perhaps a villain in disguise?" Faintly, I can hear ECA say "I have this under control, Ri.” He pronounces it wry , like Yggdrasil’s humor, and says it like it is the kid’s name. Ryland? Ridathano? The Emerald City Archer interrupts my thoughts by continuing to speak. "Paradox, my coworker Bryn is setting up a teen squad. Perhaps you could accompany us back, tell us what you know, and we can talk about clemency for any villainous acts previous."

Villainous acts previous. The first Emerald City Archer thinks I’m a villain. If he only knew how wrong he is. I am Aoibhe fucking Graves, and I have given everything to save this planet. My best chance at Xixuthrus is rapidly slipping through my fingers. If I let this lead slip further, the hunt is over. Xixuthrus escapes and all the lives lost to get me in this position are for nothing.

The mission takes priority. It always does. How do I salvage a situation like this? Yggdrasil would want me to make a list. Opportunities: the first and third Emerald City Archers were reliable fighters, and generally very trusting; I’m already at the building that serves as the Paragon headquarters; I’m not captured; I’m at the crime scene. Good list, I think. The archers are unlikely to be distracted, but they’re likely to be persuaded ; I’m at least as likely as not to be successful in staying out of custody if I approach with caution and communicate.

"See if we can find Xixuthrus, then I will talk to you about your offer. " I push and step through, blinking across the building into view of the Emerald City Archer. A short enough distance that it’s essentially silent. I’m now closer to him, weapon stowed, but my left hand is still remaining close to the knife on my belt. Close, but not so close as to be within range for him to grab hold of me. He momentarily flinches, likely surprised to see me in a different location so suddenly.

“Mind if I do a-” Wince. “A quick sweep of the scene?” Speaking makes the rib flare in pain, and my voice breaks for just a moment as the wind rushes out of me. 

The archers shake their heads. Go ahead. I turn away, and behind me I can hear them whispering. “Did she-” “Be quiet, Ri.”

I look around. Xixuthrus is usually wearing his power armor with the flight attachment, so it’s unlikely that he left a trail. Did he take anything? Maybe, the office’s desk is messy, and there appears to be a small amount of blood on it. Trinkets, framed photographs, and reminders of family were swept to the side hastily. The computer was old, and had an external monitor, which was disconnected and against the floor on the opposite side of the room. The largest window is shattered. So Xixuthrus burst in through the window, terrified the victim, threw the computer monitor across the room, and then kidnapped the victim and split. “What time did the break-in occur?”

The arbalest kid speaks up, “The alarms never triggered, and we don’t have camera footage from in the office itself. Best we can say is sometime in the past two hours, since security camera footage puts Doyle heading into his office around 9 P.M.” The victim was in his office at 2100. Typically in the 21st century, a clerical worker such as the victim would be expected to be out of the office by then. But I also had a different reason to suspect something else was at play.

My mask has a small heads-up-display inside, and my Tome had flagged James Doyle as a name with a small article. I couldn’t read it now because the Tome was in low power mode, on account of an ongoing problem, but James Doyle was a person of interest. “What do you know about the victim?” I ask, careful to measure my tone.

The archers exchange a glance. The arbalest guy speaks up, “We have-” There is the slightest pause, and the first Emerald City Archer interrupts. “Doyle has been under surveillance. Trust me when I say that it will be handled.”

“Okay. What are your leads?” Even if they have nothing, I have information I could use to track Xixuthrus down; I know his name.

“Our leads? Paradox, Xixuthrus is an escape master . He didn’t leave any kind of trail to follow, here. He's gone.”

Nothing?

“Nothing?” I ask. Great work, Inspector Graves.

“If Mr. Doyle’s assets are moved, or his flash drive is accessed on a computer with an internet connection, we will have his location. Until then, the best course of action is to wait and prepare.”

When lost and alone, one should refer to one’s mission and assets for guidance. Yggdrasil’s advice, always with me. The mission: kill Xixuthrus. Assets: his name and two archers who want him in prison.

I clear my throat. “No matter, then. I have information that could render this irrelevant. Look up the address of Lucas Backstadt, his first and primary civilian ID.”

“No.” The Emerald City Archer thunders, suddenly deathly serious.

I anticipated this hesitation. In this time period, enough capes were secretive about their private identity that going after someone’s civilian identity was something of a social faux pas. Not so much a line being crossed, more like, as Ygg told me the 21st century idiom goes, “a vibe check being failed.”

“I understand, but I have done the research and uncovered his identity myself, and he needs to be dealt with quickly, before he goes underground. My investigation indicates that he’s likely to seek shelter with the Blood Eagles during their visit to Columbia City.” These are… half-truths, at best. Being from the future has its perks. I did uncover this information, but it was in a historical database with Yggdrasil leaning over my shoulder.

Ri The Arbalest Guy looks appeased by this, but the Emerald City Archer is not so easily swayed. “That’s not the only problem,” he states, his voice dark. “X doesn’t own any property in the city. His daughters do.” Daughters . Didn’t know that. The timeline tracks two sons only.

The ECA sighs heavily before continuing. “We- the ECPS- first uncovered X’s identity as Lucas Backstadt in 2011, when he cooperated fully during the mission to capture Eugene Heathrow. You know, after he…” the aging man trails off. Killed the sitting president of the Global Paragon Society, Hildr, putting you , the funny archer guy, in charge of preventing the breakdown of the aforementioned Global Paragon Society, a task in which you failed as nation after nation lost confidence in the ability of anyone but a Valkyrie to manage that strain. He doesn’t have to say it. I’m well acquainted with early cape history.

A moment later, he attempts to brighten up slightly, but fails, leaving himself as gloomy as previous. “He immediately transferred all of his property to his wife. Who died, couple years ago, leaving it to the kids. One of them is still a minor. We’re not going after them.”

I grit my teeth. “But isn’t it safe to assume that he’ll be operating out of one of his family’s properties in the city during his stay here?”

ECA scrunches his face tight. It looks painful. He loosens it slightly and says, “We have intel to the contrary.” He purses his lips, and looks as if he is about to say more, but says nothing.

Ri the arbalest guy, for his part, looks out of his depth in this conversation.

I take a deep breath in, and the pain in my rib ignites to be far too much to ignore. My hand automatically goes to the rib, and my knees threaten to buckle underneath me. I struggle, and attempt to stay upright by throwing another hand out to brace against a nearby wall, but it’s just barely too far; I push instead the full distance and lean with my back against the wall. My eyes are wide beneath my mask, and I’m breathing heavily. I can stop myself from crying, but warding away the other obvious signs of pain are too difficult.

The Emerald City Archer breaks the silence. “Do you need medical attention, Paradox?”

He’s obviously not my enemy, so I can be honest. “I have a… a two-centimeter metal rod caught between my rib and lung. It would lii iiii kely-” pain, “need surgery to remove it. I also need it as intact as possible. The rod, not my rib.” Breaking my rib was likely necessary in order to salvage the charger. “But, after a short break, I’ll be ready to continue.” If you can’t impress them with skill, impress them with tenacity , Yggdrasil would say.

“Don’t be stupid, kid,” the ECA responds. I’m not being stupid, I just have my priorities straight. “We’re calling the op off for the night. You clearly need a break.” He pauses, looking at me in a way that’s unfamiliar to me. He looks almost like my father, for a moment, but his mouth is too narrow, nose is too wide, eyes too bright. He pulls out a communicator device of his own, taps on it several times, and continues, “You’ll be seeing one of our best, tonight, on my dime. Dr. Katarina Dillard. Lovely woman. Don’t comment on the obvious when she walks in and you’ll get along fine.”

“What about Xixuthrus?”

“Not your problem, Paradox,” he says without so much as glancing up from his communicator. I notice the muscles in my arms and legs are tense, and send the mental order to relax. It gets lost somewhere between my neck and shoulder, and I can recognize that I’ve instinctively taken a defensible position, if not an outright defensive stance.

Across the hallway, the elevator DING! s. “That’s for us. It should take us to the 172nd floor, our surgical ward.” He looks at me again and frowns. “You’re not liking this.”

No shit. “Respectfully, we should pursue him tonight. More lives than you can imagine are at stake.”

The elevator door begins to close, and the Emerald City Archer sticks a foot in the door. “Yes, but will you please come into the elevator so we can get you medical treatment? We can talk business later.” He rotates his head curiously, like a bird. “And some soup.”

Soup. Oh soup sounds heavenly. I haven’t had a hot meal in forty days, on account of living in an apocalypse.

Even without many other leads, I could still investigate the Backstadt addresses on my own time. Doing that too publicly, though, might lose me the support of these two. I should continue on for at least another hour before I come back here.

But soup...

I fold space so that I will lean against the elevator wall, and step through. I have both hands off my weapons, for the first time since I’d finished the climb.

Soup sounds really nice.

Chapter Text

A gentle rapping on the door announces her arrival, though I could feel the disturbances kicked up by a presence on the other side of the door from meters away.

The presence enters. She is adorned with a name tag around her neck like a collar. It bears the name Dr. Katarina Dillard across its length. She is also some variety of wild cat; tan and spotted, with long, almost delicate-looking legs, she waltzes into the room with unmatched grace. Ah. I take it this is the obvious.

She turns toward the door, but stops just beside, tapping a computer screen built into the wall. “Evening!” she remarks happily. “I’m Dr. Katarina Dillard, but you might know me as Serene Serval.” Her eyes glide over the screen. “Hmmmm. No apparent bone damage, but you’ve reported an intrusive metal rod between rib and lung. No entry or exit wounds, so not a bullet. Unusual! Do you happen to know how you were injured, miss…?” She trails off expectantly.

Serene Serval, the nom de guerre of Dr. Katarina Dillard, was born in Angola to a family of servals. Perfectly normal servals who did not receive her innate talents for medicine and supernatural healing, nor her ability to communicate with humans. She is widely regarded as one of the world’s most capable surgeons even independent of her metahuman-like ability to deaden pain receptors, encourage the body’s natural healing process, and seal wounds in skin. The perfect superhero doctor.

She’s also a cat. Named Katarina.

“G-graves. Inspector Graves, please. And… I can shunt my body mass through space. ‘Teleportation’,” I say, through air quotes, “though it’s slightly more complicated.” A wince escapes me as the aforementioned intrusive metal rod declares its presence in my chest. “Sometimes it’s imperfect. But I need the rod in order to repair some of my gear. It’s a hyperconductive metal that I won’t be able to find a replacement for. Do you think you can manage that?”

My surgeon smirks. “Of course I can manage that. I’m Serene Serval , Inspector Graves. Best in the world. You’re lucky I’m the one on rotation tonight.” She presses a claw to the screen on the wall, and the cabinets around the room simultaneously unlock and open. “Have you eaten during the past ten hours?”

“Yes, but very little. A half-ration bar. High-calorie but very little substance.”

“Mmmmmm, workable. We won’t be using local anesthesia because of the rod’s proximity to too many vital organs. Are you aware of the risks of engaging in the procedure having recently eaten?”

“Yes. I could vomit during the procedure, obstructing an airway and die.”

Her cat eyebrows find the ceiling. “I would have chosen a gentler way of describing it, but… aware… of… risks... “ she makes a note on the computer built into the wall. “Okay. After surgery, you’ll be confined to a bed for observation for two hours while my healing does its work, and the Emerald City Archer has insisted on paying a visit.”

She moves across the room, hopping up onto the countertop beneath the cabinets. She grabs two items with her mouth, then retreats back toward me. Dropping them on a table directly beside me, she smiles. “I’m about to put in the IV. Because of the obvious,” she states, glancing back at her cat body, “I do it slightly differently than most others. You still shouldn’t feel a thing and you won’t be at risk for any infection.” She unsheathes the third claw on her front right paw, revealing a scalpel-sharp claw.

The faint sting of the IV quickly fades before the weight of the painkiller, which is slowly seeping into my body. Dilaudid, probably, judging from how quickly my arm stopped sending any signals other than heavy . Now it’s down to my legs, too. It’s almost relaxing how each part of me seems to be getting heavier. The doctor puts a mask over my face and tells me to inhale. She’s so trustworthy, and I’m so fragile. I inhale, and sleep.

⁂

“And we are recording, so let’s begin. I am the Emerald City Archer, and today I will be interviewing Paradox. Paradox, please state your name for the record.”

I pause a moment before I answer. “I operate under the name Paradox, but my name is Inspector Aoibhe Graves of the UFTF.” I answer succinctly. “But in the interest of saving time, I would also like to disclose that my birthday is October 27, 2555.” When bored, train, Yggdrasil would advise; I push out with my mind, and Emerald City bends to my will. The ground floor and top floor of the Galaxy Dart each sit adjacent to this dingy “interview” room on the 250th floor. In an instant, I could, without twitching a muscle below the neck, be far, far away from this.

Across from me, the Emerald City Archer’s head stops mid-bob, and he slowly locks onto my eyes. “According to regulation,” he drawls theatrically, “I am not allowed to, for example, tell you to prove it or we kick you out of here.”

There is a lingering soreness throughout my body, especially through my ribs; I am only three hours post-surgery. But no powers headache at the moment. My powers were free. Free to fold cities in half for my amusement, a display of my ultimate authority over space, with an audience of none.

“You can’t get around regulations like that!” snaps a familiar teen voice from behind the one-way mirror observing my “private” interview with the Emerald City Archer. I knew the arbalest guy was there before he’d said anything; the density of the glass walls, the way they’d felt in my mind as I’d twisted them, made them crumple in my mind’s eye as I tore through this building, all indicated that there was a presence behind the door. I relinquished the earth from my grasp, and the Galaxy Dart righted itself, assuming its proper shape.

I’d managed to hold the image almost perfectly still for ten seconds. Not a personal best, but definitely better than I used to average.

“I can offer proof. This,” I say quietly, reaching to my belt, “is the Tome.” I place my Tome on the interview table. “It has a universal adapter port for any technology prior to the 23rd century. It’s low on power, but it should have enough to verify my identity.” Pressing a button, a cable ejects from the side, revealing a USB-A plugin.

The door opens, and the teen enters with a laptop computer. He plugs the Tome into the computer, and begins clicking. Then his jaw drops. “Woah. This is… Sir, there is ten exabytes of empty space on this device.”

“For those of us that don’t speak computer?” The Emerald City Archer was well-known in his time for hating technology and running everything analog, if possible.

“Our console has a five-hundred terabyte limit before Starlight has to break into the external hard drives. This computer has twice that, then one thousand times that, then one thousand times that , then ten more of those. Empty. So either she’s a better computer architect than Starlight, knows one, or is telling the truth.”

“It’s option three,” I interrupt. “I don’t know anything about computers. I’m a soldier, not a scientist, and this was given to me for my mission.”

“Your mission?” the ECA questions. He’s writing notes in a paper notebook in some kind of code; the letters he uses appear to be a random string of consonants, but the determination on his face indicates intent. The notebook is bound in a metal spiral, twisted around the right side of the page as he writes with his left. A lefty.

“Yes, my mission.” I press another button on the Tome, which emits a holographic projection of the man responsible for the apocalypse.

“The Fatebender. Real name Thomas Moroes. The most violent, most powerful, most dangerous metahuman to have ever existed. His family tree was manipulated in secret to produce a man with unprecedented precognitive abilities.” I pause here, to choke down a voice crack. “Do you remember the 80s villain Psychebreaker?”

The ECA’s face darkens. “Yeah.”

“The deadliest single criminal in history, up until that point, and he would remain so for years to come. Every death is a tragedy, and twelve thousand is nightmarish.” My voice breaks, but I know that I must continue. I feel tears coming; even ten years removed from the tragedy, the early years of the war were too bloody to forget.

“Fatebender put that to shame… in a week.” I tilt my mask upward to wipe my eyes.

The eyes of the two archers widen. The teen with the arbalest has taken off his mask, though he still has his arbalest lung across his belt. “...oh.” He says, softly.

“The European Union folded in a month. The US lasted two. Since then, humanity has been hanging by a thread. Seven years ago, my mentor Yggdrasil founded the Paragon Remnants as the final line of resistance against the Fatebender’s government. It is through their efforts that I find myself here.” I’m barely holding myself together. My hands are shaking, and Emerald City is twisting around me. I won’t step away, though, I can’t.

“Xixuthrus Heros, real name Lucas Backstadt, is an ancestor of the Fatebender. We may be unable to kill the Fatebender directly, but by attacking his ancestry, Yggdrasil theorized that we may be able to dilute his abilities to a level on which we could engage. As such…” I touch another button, and the frame advances to show a profile of Xixuthrus. “I have been authorized by the head of the Paragon Remnants and the resistance government of what was once China to capture or execute Xixuthrus Heros.”

I scroll down to reveal a death warrant for the assassin and bounty hunter.

The archers remain silent for long enough that the silence acquires surface tension; being the first to speak here marks a clear violation of the non-speaking agreement to which the three of us have unmistakably agreed. I can hear the elder archer swallow. I know he intends to be the one to break this silence, and I glare at him in an attempt to get him to reconsider.

“So,” he says, then waits at least fifteen seconds before speaking, choosing his next words carefully. “As the president of the Emerald City chapter of the Paragon Society, I have final say over all warrants carried out in my jurisdiction, and I need to. Consider. What we’ve just discussed, before you will be allowed to pursue the first death warrant issued in thirty years.” He looks relieved, though I can’t see why.

“Respectfully, sir, I have all of the approval I need. Yggdrasil signed this, and her signature is worth-”

“I’m overruling that. We don’t do death warrants here. Not in my city, on my watch.” There was a finality to the Emerald City Archer’s tone. He can’t stop me, just like he can’t really keep me here, but he can definitely pursue me for murder charges if I were to execute this warrant. I grit my teeth.

“Fine.”

There is a silence, and the middle aged man reaches into a case beside the table. “Aoibhe, there’s another thing we need from you. You’ve already spoken candidly about your past.” He tilts his head to the side, and appears quizzical. “About your history, rather. We think you would be an excellent candidate for the… Ri, what’s it called, that teen thing that Bryn’s sister is on?”

“CHYP, sir? The Cascadia Hero Youth Program?”

“CHYP! That’s it. We think you’d fit in well, and if what you say is true, you’re currently homeless. We can fix that, get you a place to sleep, set you up with a patrol schedule, and keep you apprised of any Xixuthrus-ish activity.”

That is a really good offer. I kind of have to accept it. “Thank you, sir.”

The Emerald City Archer unbuckles the case at his feet, and removes a sheet of paper.

Independent Hero Registry
Emancipated Minor

“I’m good at multitasking, you can continue questions while I fill this out.” I remove a pencil from my utility belt’s fourth pocket and begin scribbling.

“That’s it, really. How do you feel after surgery?”

I rub my left rib. “Sore? But I expected to be out for at least a week after that. Dr. Dillard does fine healing work.”

“She most assuredly does. Ri, head back to the computer and stop the recording, we’re about ready to wrap up here.”

⁂

According to the Emerald City Paragon Society, my new home was a 3-story warehouse in SoDo, within walking distance of no fewer than four marijuana dispensaries, two Terra Firma coffee shops, and one automobile bridge on which no cars ever seemed to move faster than four kilometers per hour. The instructions I’ve been given with regards to “speed limits” did not seem to indicate that this would be a legal restriction; I resolve to ask a local about it.

I knock twice, pause, knock twice more, pause again, and thrice this time. The knocking pattern was in the fifty-six page opsec manual given to me by an adult hero called Starlight. She seemed very thorough, like Ygg, which is good. To put it tactfully, she was also a relentless gossip who couldn’t go two sentences without saying something condescending about someone outside the room. How she found the courage in her heart to write a fifty-six page opsec manual with a mouth like hers is beyond me.

“I’m coming!” shouts a voice from inside, teenage and female.

The door opens, and in front of me stands the face of one of the most revered heroes of all time, but aged down to a teenager. The woman who freed Minneapolis from the Storm Siren. Scourge of the Frost Giants, protector of the weak, chosen by victory herself, Sigrun.

Sigrun, the Valkyrie. Here.

“You’re Aoibhe, right?” the valkyrie asks me. She pronounces my name correctly, and her daily act of heroism is complete. “We were told you would be coming by today. I’m-”

“Sigrun. You’re Sigrun. I’m Aoibhe.” I say, hoping the words are forming correctly.

She seems in good spirits, as she nods gracefully. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

You don’t even know the half of it. “My apologies if I seem a bit starstruck. I never thought I would be able to meet any of you in person.”

She nods again, smiling a little wider this time. “Yet here we stand.” A comfortable silence grows between us, but she wordlessly beckons me inside, and I am caught in her wake and dragged inside.

Or so I think until I realize that I have neither moved my legs nor stepped anywhere. My legs feel firmly rooted to the ground by nerves, so I step instead, directly beside Sigrun. The jolt of having to find slightly different footing gives my legs what they needed to function again, and I step with my legs as well, to continue walking inside. I only trip a little bit.

Smooth moves, Graves.

A large L-shaped couch. A television, a small but functional kitchen with a large walk-in pantry. In the distance, I could see gym equipment. Footsteps disturb the map, and I get a slightly clearer image of the floor plan. Some very small private quarters, a gym, and the large main room. Someone’s on the couch, stepping off. Another teenage girl, with blue hair, wearing a t-shirt (a 20th-21st century garment grossly inferior to the oversuit) and dark denim pants. According to my Tome, most of the clothes in this century were largely composed of cotton. Are largely composed of cotton, I suppose.

I am brought out of my thoughts by the blue-haired girl’s voice. “Shoot, gotta put on the mask.” She is in front of me, now, but she’s turned around and is pouring a container of water on her face. It freezes, then begins to move as the girl turns around.

“I’m Niflheim,” the girl says, her face refracted at odd angles because of the ice mask she’d just formed out of her water container. She extends a hand.

I take it. “Paradox.” I pause. “Or, Graves. Or Aoibhe. But Paradox in the field.”

“Great. Want some food? I could heat up some soup for you.” Soup. The soup at the ECPS barracks had been “woefully inadequate” by the arbalest teen’s standards.

It was the best meal I have had in years.

“Yes. Thank you.” Words, Graves, use them.

Niflheim grabs a can of soup from the cabinet, and pours it into a metal bowl. Then, she furrows her brow for a moment, and the metal tinges slightly red. If I was wearing my mask, it could gauge the approximate temperature of the pan for me. Alas. “I’m faster than a stove. I can do ice and fire.” Niflheim says without smiling.

“Oh, the time traveller’s arrived!” shouts yet another voice I do not recognize.

“Time traveller? Woah…” Niflheim perks up. “Wait. Was there paperwork I didn’t read?”

“Yes, there was paperwork you didn’t read!” calls a second, singsongier voice.

Walking over from the gym is a boy in a skintight black bodysuit (I approve), topped with a red cape (atrocious, just because we are called capes does not mean you are allowed to wear one), and red boots (not my color, but the style is good). He also has eyes: one on his mask, and six floating around his head. They blink at me threateningly, except the one on his face. Which I can instantly discern does not ever close.

Standing next to him is yet another teenage girl with enormous, ethereal butterfly wings, a costume bluer than anything I have ever seen, and bright red lipstick with a blue-green butterfly mask. She was also using her powers to bolster her costume, just like the eyeball boy.

Sigrun doubles down on her earlier heroic deed, and introduces me. “Paradox, this is Seer,” indicating the young morphsuited man, “and Miss Mariposa,” indicating the butterfly.

“Hey,” chirps the singsongy Miss Mariposa, “it’s nice to meet you. I’ve actually got to attend to some duties in civilian life, so I was actually just headed out.”

“Me too,” echoes Seer. His voice is a chilly, echoing tenor. “I have morning shift at work tomorrow, but it’s a short shift and I’ll be out in time for our patrol at 2, Sigrun.”

Sigrun nods in affirmation. “Good. Seer you then.” Everyone groans as Sigrun affects a mischievous smile. “Come on, Graves, I’ll show you to your new room.”

The room in question is scarcely larger than a closet; it has a bed, a small desk with a chair, and walls. The walls are a blank off-white, and roughly textured.

“The rest of us don’t really use our rooms,” Sigrun continues, “except for Miss M, who goes into her room every time she has to fix her makeup or send a text message because she’s all concerned about her secret identity. ” The way Sigrun’s tongue clicks when she says secret identity indicates her disdain for the idea; the Valkyrie clan had lived openly since the 1930s, eschewing a secret identity in favor of being public figures.

Perhaps having a team again will be nice. It could go better than the last time.

⁂

In the cramped hallways of the Fatebender’s Rio de Janeiro outpost, heavy footsteps echoed off of the walls. Icepick pressed a pad of gauze to a wound on his chest. “Aoibhe,” he said, coughing on the words. “Get Spectacle and Shadestorm and get out. I’m not going to make it, but you three can. Leave.”

“I’m not leaving!” I said to him. I stepped to the ends of the hallways, checking the corners, then stepped back to his side. I attempted to pick him up, but my arms did not listen. I tried to step away, but wherever that I pushed, only Icepick’s face mask, covered in blood, stood for me to see. I refrain from biting down to go anywhere, fearful of where I might find myself. “Go!!!!!!!” he shouted, gurgling, as an armed soldier rounded the corner.

I turned and ran. My legs were heavy, my steps slow, lethargic. In my ears, I could hear Spectacle’s and Shadestorm’s shrieks of pain; come get me, please help me, aoibhe please we need you, i’m going to die here and i don’t want to die please god no. From their screams, it was too late to save them either. Icepick was wrong. I would be the sole survivor, again.

My legs wouldn’t cooperate with me, wouldn’t get me the speed I would need to escape. So even though I couldn’t see where I was going, I pushed and stepped, and can feel myself begin to fall.

THUD.

I wake up on the floor of my brand new room in the Cascadia Hero Youth Program headquarters. The side of my body which is on the floor is sore from hip to shoulder. I rub my face, groggily, and step back to the bed without standing.

I have a nasty habit of using my power while having nightmares. Luckily my control is weaker when I sleep, and I tend to only step off of my bed. Also luckily I’m no longer using a bunk bed; when I shared a bunk with Icepick and Spectacle, they had seniority so I had the top bunk of the three, which resulted in me falling on my ass in my sleep more than once.

I miss them.

I check my Tome. 0914, 2020.11.5. Thursday . My arrival yesterday had gone more smoothly than I expected. I step downstairs.

Sigrun is in the gym, hitting a bag with a wooden staff, but she doesn’t look pleased to be there. Aside from her, the place is empty.

“Hey,” Sigrun shouts from across the warehouse. “Two things, newbie. First, we’re getting an assignment later today. Some fascists,” she smacks the bag with the pole particularly hard, “are going to be transporting a load of drugs across the city. Should be good press if we’re the ones to take it down. And Starlight and Jones are all about good press.” THWACK. THWACK. Two quick ones. The bag spins stoically next to her, seemingly unaware that it’s being beat on by a valkyrie.

“Two: new friend arrives tomorrow. Paperwork should go out around the noon shift change, and he’ll be arriving tonight.” She pauses, stands with her staff at the side. “I listened in on the interview he did with my sister, and I know he’s Russian and likes hockey. Otherwise he seems to talk even less than you.”

There’s a long pause, as Sigrun resumes hitting her bag. I glance around the gym. A salmon ladder, which I will not be using; free weights, no thank you; a treadmill, I prefer to do my cardio outside; multiple weight machines; again, no. I lick my lips, and turn back to Sigrun. “Can I get fixed up with a patrol schedule? I’m not used to standing around.”

She looks sideways at me. “You’ve been awake for two minutes and you already want to patrol.” She stares me down with all the intensity one would expect of a Valkyrie, a vanquisher of the Third Reich, a defender of truth, justice, and the ancient ways. She is no less confident now than she would be ever in her days, but her eyes hold a vulnerability, a hurt, that she has not yet learned to cover. A gaping wound in her family, yet unhealed.

I make no noise in response, worried that any noise would cause me to fall to my knees, supplicating myself before the Second Sister of the Furies.

Sigrun grins and says, “Sounds like a superhero to me. If you’re at the Dart at 10, they’ll pair you up with someone who doesn’t yet have a buddy. Maybe you’ll make a new friend!”

This leaves me with only one thought.

Is Sigrun the Valkyrie teasing me?

Chapter Text

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! The burner phone given to me by the ECPS vibrates on the tiny end table next to my bunk. It is plugged into the wall using an ancient charger that carries 30 volts, maybe. It takes nearly an hour to charge a communicator to full battery in 2020. And the phone itself is also archaic. For starters, this isn’t a satellite phone; it relies on a network of “cell towers” which provide for decent-at-best coverage.

Have I been awake? I’m not quite sure. My eyes have been closed, and I can’t recall sleeping, but I suppose I could have been. After two more buzzes from the phone, I force myself to stop stalling and answer the call. I slide my thumb across the screen.

“Paradox speaking.” I haven’t spoken in hours, and my voice is stiffer than I intend. What else is new.

It's the guy with the arbalest, the third Emerald City Archer. "Hey Paradox, Orion here!” Orion. “Nice to hear from you. ECA and I got a lead on your guy. Security camera footage caught him outside the Corridor Memorial Mall. We're headed to check it out. You in?" He has a boyish excitement to him, despite knowing that he’s agreed to face death tonight.

"Absolutely. Should I meet you there?"

"We'll be picking you up. You prefer a sidecar or are you okay riding bi- I mean, double?" Was he- never mind.

"I'd prefer a sidecar, I think. I'll see you soon."

"See you in three." He hangs up the phone.

Earlier today, Sigrun had taken me to a large, brightly lit warehouse with a bright red bullseye on the front, and we had acquired decorations for my new living space. We had purchased a lamp and a cork board, on which I pinned notes and a photograph of me posing with Yggdrasil. These would go well with my most precious possession; a stuffed anglerfish who guards my desk from prying fingers.

I call her the Admiral. I have possessed her since I was seven. With a bit of gadgetech attention, she fit within the emergency sleeping kit in the back portion of my belt, along with the pillow, airpad, and emergency blanket.

Local time is 0112 2020.11.8. Sunday morning, not Saturday evening, I realize, correcting the time of my outing with Sigrun to yesterday rather than this morning.

I slip my oversuit on over my sports bra and long underwear, and step downstairs. The downstairs telescreen is occupied with Illya’s russian hockey videos, and Illya himself sits on the couch in his protective suit. He is perhaps the strangest member of our squad; his form is semisolid, gelatinous, with a terrifying soup of bones suspended in a vaguely skeleton-like shape inside the protective suit. I hesitate to mention his eyes, which are firmly rooted in the skull that floats near the top of his spinal column, but not firmly rooted enough to prevent anyone from catching a glimpse of portions of his eyes which tend to give people pause. His English is excellent but for his thick accent, which causes him to pronounce uncommon words incorrectly in a way which is endearing rather than annoying.

Illya raises his hand in greeting. I nod before pulling my mask from my head and removing my bat and belt from the weapons rack. 0113, I should triple-check my kit.

I swing the bat over my back and strap it to my suit. Bat and suit, check. Mask on. Belt buckled. Left side: Solid rations, Tome, pencil, notebook, whetstone, knife on leg. Right side: miniaturized first aid kit, liquid rations, laser torch, flashlight. Back: airpad, pillow. The Admiral on my desk, empty pocket there.

I know instinctively how to fill the empty pocket occupied by the Admiral during my foray through time. "Pocket sand." It started as a meme in the 21st century, but it has proved so useful that capes up until the 2410s still incorporated the concept, though "sand" ended up a lot less useful than the trance powder developed in 2189 by Cole Regan of the Newfoundland Independent Republic. A bit of loose gravel from outside should serve much the same function.

The ECA and Orion arrive on motorcycles. "Ready to see some action, Paradox?" Orion wears a mask over the top half of his face, which leaves his grin on display. He is sixteen, almost a year older than me, but it is hard to believe it. He lacks any facial hair, and has no visible scars. Civilian at heart.

I climb into the sidecar. "I'm as ready as I can be." I force a smile. It’s the polite thing to do; civilians appreciate when you smile back. But it’s wrong, because unlike Orion, I am wearing a mask that covers my mouth.

The engine roars, and we’re going.

As the wind whipped by, I could see the cityscape curve out of view. Finally, the city unfolds itself before me, and I could latch on to places I knew. Could push and pull space, could see it in my head. Could bend all the world just so , taking a step forward through nothingness into wherever I wanted. Instead, I ask, "What's the news beyond what you said on the phone?"

"He's holding position for the time being. We'll be approaching cautiously, because we're pretty sure his daughter Hornet is still in town." Daughter Hornet? That’s not in the family tree.

“I’m unfamiliar. Quick run-down?”

The ECA chimes in over my earpiece. He is riding ahead on his motorcycle, head down, green costume almost shining despite the darkness around. "Hornet is a member of La Patrouille, the biggest supervillain gang in Montreal. She’s an inventor, like her dad, and she’s been at this a long time. Give her a wide berth if she arrives.

“And it’s still a no on the kill order, Paradox. Nonlethal only."

I take a deep breath. "Ygg signed the kill order, but fine. Nonlethal, for now." It should be good enough. Yggdrasil was- is- will be?- the leader of the Paragon Remnants through its greatest tragedies, its darkest hours, and survived . It’s an honor to be in their presence . This is one of the most important documents in the history of mankind, and it counts for nothing.

Silence over the comm for the rest of the ride. Orion finally speaks up, "We're here."

Here is a parking lot in front of a building with the giant label Macy's. The lot is almost fully empty now, and doesn't have any people visible.

Orion, after shutting down the bike and getting off, says, "He's on the other side of the mall. We think the best way to approach is from the rooftop. I have the security camera footage and a building layout in my mask. You ready?"

I tighten my mask around my face, ensuring that it’s fully secure. The last step is to draw my bat. It slides out of the rigging with a satisfying wood-on-fabric WHOOSH . "Ready. Plan of attack?"

"ECA thinks he can make a shot while staying outside his range. We're going to go on his signal. You can teleport, so that's a huge asset. We're going to want you to jump on him while he's reacting to ECA's shot. I'll be running fire support."

The Emerald City Archer has, meanwhile, disappeared. He chimes in over the comm, "Located a position in the tower opposite the mall. Be there in two minutes." I can hear the sound of his grappling hook in the background.

I nod. "Got it. I’m incapacitating him while you two are fire support, then."

"That's the idea. If ECA's shot takes, though, he'll be tranquilized. Here's some cuffs for the arrest if all goes to plan." He hands me a pair of handcuffs.

"Anything I should know about his kit, that I might not already?" I say, hanging the handcuffs on the right hip of my belt.

Xixuthrus Heros, AKA Lucas Backstadt, AKA X, AKA the target of the most important assassination attempt in history. His inventor career began in 1982, at the age of fourteen, when he developed a personal propulsion apparatus, colloquially known as a “jetpack.” In 1991, he developed his most famous invention, his rifle. A laser-guided pulse rifle, with the ability to dump truly destructive amounts of energy into a single, compact pulse, hence the name. He calls it Tomanivi, the name of the tallest mountain in his birthplace.

Xixuthrus is a gadgeteer, the type who develops his own equipment. His meta ability seems to allow him to create technology far beyond his culture’s current technological ability, which is relatively common as far as meta abilities go. Meta-developed technology is almost universally unsafe to operate for anyone except the designer, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, it is largely unreliable, and requires someone intimately familiar with the device in order to debug. Secondly, any gadgeteer worth their workshop will have their devices keyed to their body somehow; fingerprints, distance from body, tuned into their brain waves.

Orion opens his mouth to speak, and I snap my head toward him to hide my distraction. "He's probably wearing his armor under the civvies. We think the duffel bag he has is his rifle. Oh, and his backpack might be his jetpack.”

One more thing about inventors- while it’s not so easy to do at the time, it’s quite easy in hundreds of years of retrospection to assign an equivalent to when comparable non-gadgetech is developed. Xixuthrus's jetpack is one of the most advanced and reliable of its kind. A comparable flight suit wouldn't be developed for use by people other than the inventors until 2105, rating it 2105-equivalent. Simple system mostly developed for people like Ygg, capes who study capes and fixate on weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

Tomanivi is rated at 2412-equivalent. As Icepick would say, big gun.

"Copy all that. I'll start moving into position." I begin walking towards the building with the giant Macy’s across it. I push, bringing the building right next to me. I step and I’m there. I look up once more, and feel the roof, the fire escape, the chimney to the right- all beginning to set themselves. With a push and a step, I’m through.

It’s not a step, exactly. Not really. It often helps to visualize it as a step, but that’s not exactly how I blink. It’s like flexing a muscle, except the muscle is in your brain and is also the whole world, and also possibly the timestream if the time travel meant something.

I prefer rooftops because I can see so much more. Not just with my eyes, but the way my power plots out the specific point I need to fold over, where I push, where I pull. With my eyes, though, I can see him. He’s wearing a white shirt, but his sleeves are black and brown. The rangefinder in my mask says that he is 152 meters away, and slightly under two meters tall. It’s him, it’s really him.

I creep just a bit closer, and tense as I wait for Orion’s signal.

Lucas Backstadt, who begins a family line that ends the world, looks at his wrist. His watch-based computer can fire his rifle, activate a pulse through his armor, and ignite his jetpack. He’s very dangerous from this position. He looks away, and I exhale. I blink another fifty meters closer, staying on the rooftop of the mall, with a barely-audible bwom.

He stretches, raising an arm into the air and leaning to one side. Then, casually, he bends down to unzip his duffel bag.

“Go.” The voice of ECA is punctuated by a high-pitched whine. Before I can figure out what the noise is, the street in front of Xixuthrus explodes.

The smoke clears quickly, and there’s little damage to the pavement, and X is going for his rifle, and I push and I’m close. I am within striking distance of Xixuthrus Heros.

Go for the hands. Yggdrasil’s voice pounds in my head as I bring down my bat with a CRACK! His hands were in the duffel bag, just barely gripping the rifle, and he’s forced to drop it from the impact.

Orion jumps out of his hiding position in an alley, and points his arbalest at the scuffle. “FREEZE! Xixuthrus, you are under arrest!”

Xixuthrus, meanwhile, looks murderously angry, and could not be paid to care about Orion at this moment. He grabs a small box from his belt. It looks like a television remote with two prongs on it. He jams it into the side of my suit.

I’ve been shocked before and it tends to mess with my powers. My bodysuit is made of a hyperinsulatory material that absorbs electricity and scatters it throughout the bodysuit, giving me a solid resistance. I know the calculations exist somewhere, but the suit is slightly more resistant than rubber, while being infinitely more comfortable than wearing a rubber bodysuit while blinking around.

Even through the bodysuit, I involuntarily jumped, flinched. That is a tremendous amount of electricity pounding through the suit. I can see it scattering down my arms, stopped by the suit just before it reaches my gloves. I may be startled, but I am spectacularly, gloriously alive. A small amount of the current jumps to my arm, and I can feel it seeping in, but not feel it more than the adrenaline coursing through my body. Not more than I feel the air on my skin, the quiet haze of combat, or the way space itself yields when I ask, bringing my escape location closer, but I hold from stepping.

Orion takes a shot. Fling, CRASH! The window behind Xixuthrus shatters, and as I bite back a sarcastic banter, Orion looses another bolt from the arbalest. It collides with the armor against X’s knee, causing him to tumble to the ground. His duffel bag opens underneath him, revealing his rifle. He quietly growls, “Hornet. Now would be nice.”

Faintly in the distance, a noise like a small rocket slowly grows in volume. Closer. Definitely getting closer, not louder. Fearing serious trouble, I step, and I’m halfway down the block. Over the communicator, the Emerald City Archer shouts. “Hits away!”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The area around Xixuthrus explodes once again. Except, once again, the explosions do not seem to do any damage to the pavement, and aren’t doing any lasting damage to his armor. Flashbangs, perhaps?

"Cleared to reenter,” the ECA’s fruity drawl sounds over the communicator.

Except now, there is a smoke and dust screen around him. I can see him, but I cannot see him, which tends to lead to me getting accidentally impaled on my own equipment. I quickly remember the gravel earlier, and toss it into the smokescreen.

There he is. The gravel pings off his armor, and he’s moving to take cover behind a mailbox on the street corner… no. Sprinting toward a figure flying fast in on a pair of rocket boots. Female, black bodysuit, insectile mask. Rapier strapped across her waist. The mask's rangefinder indicates she’s also under two meters tall, but slightly taller than Xixuthrus.

Behind you, Orion shouts, “I got this new tango!” He unleashes another bolt from his arbalest, and it flies toward the new girl with streaks of blue light. But she ducks quickly enough that it doesn't make contact, and instead continues and hits a second storefront, shattering the glass.

BRIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!! An alarm begins to sound, loudly, and for the briefest moment, everything seems to stop.

The quiet haze of combat has lifted. Instead, it's now pandemonium: the second part of combat. Where I thrive. Push, step, swing. THWACK. I blink in low this time, and attempt to invert his knee, the one that Orion hit previously.

"Clever." He watches me closely on the blink in, and anticipates my location, but I have a major advantage in timing. My bat is already in motion before I step to him, and once I hear the impact I step back out. CRACK! Definitely armor on those knees, but that's gonna hurt regardless. He tries to lunge to grab me, but I’m already across the street.

He lands from his lunge on top of his bag, and removes his rifle. Tomanivi. It whines slightly as Xixuthrus points it at me. Thinking quickly, I step away, and he immediately shifts it towards Orion. The front of the rifle lights up a bright green, and a thick laser beam emits from the tip, and settles onto Orion’s chest. The whining grows louder, and the beam gradually separates into individual bolts as the rifle’s charge exhausts.

Orion falls backward, knees bent under him. His body is badly burned, and his chest smokes slightly. I look away for fear my memories will betray me.

"NOOOOOOOO!" shouts the ECA over the comm. The ground explodes around Xixuthrus. The Emerald City Archer is providing fire support, but it’s different now. The explosions are louder, and they are destroying parts of the pavement instead of just being loud. He must have switched from the flash arrows to true explosives. I cannot say that I blame him. The previous barrages were short, smoky, but not damaging. Thunder ripples through the battlefield as craters are brought into existence. Xixuthrus is blown three feet to the left by one, and is groaning quietly. His armor, black and brown, seems to have absorbed the majority of the hit, but he’s on the ground, incapacitated.

I can see the future laid out in front of me. I can kill Xixuthrus, right now. I have lethal weaponry on me, and this kill order is authorized by a more legitimate authority than exists in 2020. Yggdrasil would be a god among these people. Though none would celebrate me in 2570, it would only be that because our destiny, no- because the Fatebender would not have been born at all.

But I do not have to.

If I take out my knife, I am off the team for sure. Likely not welcome in this city, either. Lost all of my contacts, will probably have everyone in the northwest on the lookout for a blinky girl with a baseball bat.

Knife is strapped to my left thigh. Handcuffs are hanging on the belt, bottom ring, right hip. I go for the handcuffs, hoping I won’t regret it. I am behind Xixuthrus, stepping before he knows what is happening. One around the left wrist, which is freely available. His right wrist is further away, so I yank the left one toward it, bracing before I grab the armor sleeve. My gloves spark a bit on contact with the armor; Yggdrasil had privately shared her suspicion that Xixuthrus’s armor would be electrified.

Unfortunately, electricity tends to do funky things to my powers. It’s why my suit is hyperinsulatory; I can mostly dodge bullets, but a well-placed electrical shock can be incapacitating. I’m sensitive to it, as well, so when I feel a charge leap to the uncovered skin between my sleeve and gloves, I consider it a blessing that I feel just a small buzzing in my joints.

“Paradox, ECA. Do you have him?” Squawks the middle-aged archer through the radio. His voice cracks with emotion.

“Got him.” I press on Xixuthrus’s back with my knee.

“Paradox, ECA. Where did Hornet go?”

“Who?” I ask, absentmindedly into the comm. I’m preoccupied with lining up a knockout shot with my bat.

“Paradox, ECA, need to know where she is right now!”

“One second!” I swing at Xixuthrus’s head, and make contact. I hear a loud CRACK!!!!! and I am grateful that my bat hasn’t splintered, but my emotions come to a sudden stop when the very air crackles with electricity. This is the second time I have been electrocuted tonight; the first was rather light, though, only a slight tingle. This time, my skeleton feels like it will step from my skin.

Distantly, Orion screams, like Icepick.

My limbs are spasming, and I feel myself stumbling into oblivion, into unconsciousness. I instinctively try to pull myself back to reality, scrambling, reaching for the thing that makes me feel the most alive. My powers. I grasp a familiar point in 3D space; the top of the Macy’s building, where we’d been watching.

I bite down on my powers, far too hard.

The flight instinct kicks over. I begin to run. I take step after step after step, in rapid succession. My head and tear ducts open simultaneously, spilling hot liquid on my face as the headache begins. A migraine doesn’t even begin to describe the powers headache. A private war between my skull and brain, perhaps.

I am everywhere at once. I am on the roof of the Macy’s building. I am in Orion’s sidecar. I am ten feet in the air, twenty. Behind the mailbox. Sitting next to Orion, lying on the ground, moaning in agony. In the bell tower, the Emerald City Archer takes a blow to the legs. I am atop a fire hydrant. In my room at headquarters, the Admiral sits undisturbed on my desk. The Galaxy Dart’s front entrance. The bullseye building, where a woman screams as I appear in the cart she pushes around. Back on the street next to Xixuthrus.

I try, in vain, to recover. I bring down the gate on space, desperately attempting to stop myself from stepping. I pick up my leg, move it one pace in front of me, and step fifty feet too far. ECA needs assistance, so I look toward the bell tower, and - shit!- I’m on a rooftop. I need to vomit, but there’s nothing to vomit. I stumble to the ground, to find some anchor, something I can hold on to, and I shut my eyes.

⁂

When I woke up that morning, I was distinctly nervous.

2570.09.04. Yggdrasil had been planning the raid for months, and called in nearly every favor available to her. Accompanying the usual squad of myself, Icepick, Spectacle, and Shadestorm were Phantom, a longtime assassin who claims to be “the best shot in the game”; Masquerade, an infiltration specialist who can transform her body at will; Joseph Fairchild, a gadgeteer focusing on explosives; and the demon Tagma’an, who had a vested interest in the continuation of the human race as her primary food source. No one was pleased to be working with them, but no asset could be left off the table when the end of the free world was at stake.

It was supposed to go like this: Phantom would provide fire support from a distance, picking off the guards that would mass at the entrances to the facility. Masquerade would disguise herself as a guard, and allow us entry during the chaos of a shift change. Once inside, Tagma’an would shut off the lights in the facility and rain down unholy fire upon the opposition, while Fairchild’s explosives would cover the noise by providing sufficient distraction in the form of bombs that would need diffusing in multiple locations.

I, as the most mobile, was in charge of delivering the bombs to locations where diffusal would prove difficult. Spectacle and Shadestorm would infiltrate the server room and signal me as to its location, which we were unable to discern via the floor plan. Icepick and I would rendezvous once finished, eliminate any outstanding guards, and escape the facility.

It happened like this: the bombs were set and awaiting Yggdrasil’s countdown to activation. Phantom was in place. Masquerade’s check-in was due in fifteen seconds, but it was Tagma’an’s telepathic demon voice that first hinted that something was wrong.

This building is warded. I cannot complete the contract, and as such, you are released, Yggdrasil.

“ Shit,” Ygg’s voice broke over the radio. “Need to reconsider. Prepare to fall back on my-”

“Door’s open!” Masquerade interrupted. “Wait, shit, that sounded important.”

“Yggdrasil, we can still do this,” I whispered. “Tagma’an was an insurance policy, but Fairchild’s bombs are sufficient to distract the guards. The squad is ready.” I would know. I was the leader of the squad, despite having the least seniority.

Silence reigned over the communicator for a moment, then Yggdrasil’s voice had regained its confidence. “Op is still on. Squad two, prepare for entry. Phantom, stand by for clearance.”

“Standing by,” Phantom’s eerie voice answered.

“Squad two, cleared for entry. Move in, go go!”

I stepped from atop the building to the entrance where Masquerade waited, and signalled my squad inside, Fairchild and Masquerade accompanying. “Radio silence inside the base,” I announced quietly. Gentle clicking around me confirms it’s been done.

“On my mark, split,” I continued. “Masq, do your thing. Group of guards up ahead and to the left, I’ll distract. When you hear shouting, that’s mark. Ready?” Nods.

I stepped away from my squad and to the group up ahead. “Hey, you-” one of them began to shout, but he took a baseball bat to the head before he could finish. The group of guards descended into chaos, and I sprinted (with my legs) away from my squad before stepping back to Icepick.

“Our job’s harder now,” I said to my best friend. “We’re tasked with eliminating the guards altogether, rather than playing cleanup for a demon. We’re also playing hardball.”

“Lethal weapons barred?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Today, nothing is.”

He blew air out of his mouth, then began sharpening his knife point to as sharp as his power allowed. Icepick insisted that he could sharpen blades down to a fine enough point to split an atom, but no one was eager to see that.

Another patrol group of guards rounded the corridor, and Icepick threw a grenade of knockout gas toward them before diving to the side. They quickly succumbed to unconsciousness, and Icepick ran over toward them, rebreather in mouth, to raid their clothing for identification.

I stepped onto the roof and patched myself through to Yggdrasil. “Paradox checking in. Status on Phantom?”

“Outside guards down. Changing positions.” Phantom answered before Yggdrasil could. Check-in complete, I stepped back to Icepick.

“Need those gas nades, Chu,” I told Icepick. “Going to be knocking out the groups and checking up on the girls.” That was Shadestorm and Spectacle, my other best friends. Sisters, the two of them, with powers that mostly matched.

Icepick handed me two of the grenades, and reminded me to “use sparingly, I only have eight.” I recall having rolled my eyes beneath my mask. I wish I hadn’t.

I took a deep breath inward, trying to assemble a map of the complex. Reinforcements would likely be coming from the below decks, so disabling the elevators jumped to the top of my priority list. I stepped about the complex, locating each bank of elevators. I hit the door with my bat to get a sense of what lies beyond, and blinked through the door. Cables cut, I moved on to locating Spectacle and Shadestorm.

Ten minutes had passed from our entry. The girls were in the terminal room, two floors below, according to our beacons. I stepped down to meet them.

Shadestorm was face down on the ground. Spectacle had a gun to her head held by a guard. The terminal was on, and it displayed a face.

His face.

“Oh how delightful! Miss Graves has elected to join us. Isn’t that wonderful, girls?” The Fatebender’s familiar Newfoundland accent was thick through the communicator. Shadestorm stayed silent and unmoving on the ground, but Spectacle grunted in dissent. “Now, girls, that’s no way to treat your elders. Perhaps you should take a nap. Lieutenant?” The guard struck Spectacle in the head with the butt of his handgun, and she crumpled to the ground.

“Miss Graves, when you inevitably return to her, please inform my dear sister that I’ve known about her raid for months! She needs a reminder that even she cannot strike any blow that matters. I control destiny itself, after all.” He smiled from the viewscreen, showing off his perfectly white teeth. 

“Kill them, Lieutenant.”

The guard lifted his gun to the girls on the floor. Shadestorm sprang to her feet, covering the room in darkness. I could no longer see Spectacle, but the guard’s face flared up in bright light, so she must have been conscious.

Four gunshots rang out in the dark, cramped room, and both the guard and Shadestorm screamed. Spectacle merely grunted in pain from her position on the floor. The darkness began to recede, and the first thing I saw clearly was Shadestorm’s destroyed face. It burned itself into my vision.

Spectacle and the guard were wrestling on the ground, but the guard had the upper hand in upper body strength. He was attempting to maneuver the gun in his hand to point at her. I drew my knife and stabbed the guard. He went down easily.

“Hey…. Aoibhe…” Spectacle panted out. She had suffered a gunshot wound when the lights were off, and was clutching it with a hand. “Long time… no see… flash drive… critical intel… leave.”

I grabbed her arm and attempted to help her to her feet, but she shrugged me off. “No… sorry Aoibhe… not gonna make it…. Fair and Masq didn’t make it either….” she gasped. “But we got the intel.”

“Don’t think that you can simply leave, Paradox,” boomed the voice of the Fatebender once again. “I understand you and your team had a plan to clear out my men. I’m pleased to tell you that your fire support has been captured, and guards have been rerouted to your friends’ locations. Unless sometime in the past month you’ve developed the ability to take your friends with you, I find it unlikely that there will be any other survivors.”

I grabbed hold of Spectacle, and bent space. With all my might, I attempted to take her with me to where Icepick waited upstairs.

I arrived next to Icepick, alone. Worse, he’s injured.

“Aoibhe… good. Things went sideways. They were ready. Not gonna make it. You have the intel?”

I held up the flash drive.

“Good…. Good. Mission success. Make sure… make sure the girls get out. And tell Katja I love her.” Katja, Spectacle. I couldn’t bear to tell him.

“I’m not leaving you!” I screamed, voice cracking. I couldn’t lose everyone today and I’d already lost the girls and I was not going to-

“GO!” He gurgled out, his eyes pleading with me from under his mask.

I went.

⁂

The first thing that I become aware of is the center of my mental map, as is usually the case when I wake. I am laying on the street where the engagement took place. I am twitchy, but my brain has ceased biting down on my powers in a way that prevents me from deciding where to go. I hear a siren nearby, announcing the presence of an emergency vehicle. From the noise around me, I deduce that it is likely an ambulance.

I open my eyes. Orion is on a stretcher, being loaded into the back of the ambulance. The Emerald City Archer waits nearby, hand on his goatee, expression worried. His hood is up, but his domino mask is off and slung around a finger. He’s been crying.

I attempt to stand, and make it onto a knee, then slowly rise to my feet. I’m sore, but none of my bones feel broken.

“You’re in one place again,” says the ECA.

I stifle a pained groan, instead asking, “How long was I out?”

There's silence before he answers. “Five minutes. Long enough for them to get away.”

“We need to approach him like more of a threat next time.”

“Next time? Paradox, there isn’t going to be a next time. Orion almost died tonight! He still could!” He’s tearing up, on the verge of full-blown crying once again. “I’m not letting kids go after him anymore. Not after this.”

“Respectfully, sir, I’m not a child. I’m a soldier and I can handle it.”

“THEN YOU’RE A SOLDIER WHO WON’T BE COMING NEXT TIME, BECAUSE YOU’RE A CHILD!” He bellows in my direction. Through tears.

I choose to ignore his pedantry. He may think himself my superior officer, but I’m his better for this job. “Sir, may I assist in any cleanup you deem necessary?”

“GO HOME, PARADOX!” He shouts once more. The ambulance pulls away, and we watch it leave in silence.