“What kind of villain just trashes the place and then leaves?” the snappily dressed banker complains, gesturing wildly to the room, “He didn’t even take anything!”

  “The chaotic kind,” I reply, calmly observing the damage.

  Chaotic is the only way to describe it. I’ve seen the aftermath of bank robberies many times before, and stopped several in the middle of occurring, but what I see now is not that. Instead of an open vault, maybe a few marks where bullets were fired aimlessly into the floor or ceiling, I see spikes. Dozens of spikes, some big, some small, almost all seemingly places at random. Some come out of the floor or walls, one even sprouts from a low hanging section of the ceiling. All of them are sharp.

  I walk up to one and place my hand on it, feeling the smooth surface on my skin. It’s obsidian-black, but doesn’t seem to be a construct. At least, if it is, it has yet to fade. Applying a little more pressure, I easily crack the surface of the spike, and like a window shot with a bullet, the entire thing instantly shatters. As I watch, the broken shards slowly dissolve, leaving almost nothing behind. I guess I have to revise that ‘not a construct’ assessment after all.

  “Clean up will be easy, at least,” I say to the owner of the bank, who seems to be in the middle of anxiously pulling out some of his already receding hairline, “Aside from some scrapes on the walls, this place is mostly intact. A synth-metal jackhammer and an hour’s work should be enough to clear the remaining spikes—paid for by the city, of course.” I add the final bit as I watch the man’s expression turn stark at the prospect of funding said cleanup.

  “It better be,” the banker scoffs, “It was supposed to be your job to stop him before something like this could happen! I don’t pay taxes for nothing, I’ll have you know!”

  I wince inwardly, “Of course, sir.” Technically, I had nothing to do with this—I just responded to a call while on patrol during my breaktime. However, I also recognize that this villain has undoubtedly been captured before, yet escaped because the BCCSI couldn’t be bothered to keep them contained. I have to wonder how the man would react if he knew. Probably not well, if I had to guess.

  “Well, girl?” he says harshly, “Make it snappy! I want this miscreant brought to justice within the hour!”

  “It’s not that simple, sir,” I reply; he glares at me, “but I’ll do my best.” I hastily add.

  He harrumphs, but doesn’t reply, and I take the opportunity to make my leave. Dealing with disgruntled citizens is part of a hero’s job, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to punch him just a little. Of course, with my recent growth, I might misjudge and just straight up kill him, so it’s probably best that I leave now.

  It’s been two months since I got the offer from Operative Vermillion to join the Hero Exhibition. In all that time, I have had a single reaper job or even seen a reaper other than the Captain or Jayce. Jonathan left the city over three weeks ago, and Vermillion has been conspicuously absent since she spoke with me. It’s strangely quiet, and I’m not sure if I like it.

  I, of course, have been keeping up with my training. At this point, I’ve stopped working with Elias—largely because I’ve swiftly begun to outpace his growth, and even that special attack of his is no longer enough to trigger my danger sense. So it’s mostly been me and the Captain, who’s been experimenting with an old 120 mm WWII gun that she requisitioned from an old military storage site. I may or may not have lost most of a hand the first time she fired it, but I’m steadily making progress.

  I really have no idea how well I stack up to the old me. The majority of my training has been focused on durability and dodging, so I may not have grown all that much in the strength department. Even if I have, the poor selection of villains I’ve been stuck dealing with has given me almost no fights difficult enough to test myself. It’s no wonder I progressed so slowly before—if this was all I ever dealt with, I never needed to.

  Suddenly, making my way down the street, I stop dead in my tracks. I really had no idea how to find spikes guy—my working name for this villain—but I seem to have either gotten incredibly lucky or stumbled upon a trap. Sitting in the center of the road in front of me—much to the annoyance of the local traffic—is a massive spike stretching from the street to the fourth-story rooftop of a nearby apartment complex.

  “I’m starting to think they’re less chaotic and more batshit crazy,” I mutter under my breath as I zip over to the spike and study it carefully. I can’t just leave it here, so instead I try punching it, hoping it will break easily like the others before.

  Luckily it does, spiderwebbing with cracks from a single punch and falling apart entirely after a second one. The shards cascade to the ground with a series of clear, high notes, some even breaking apart further upon impact. I watch them just long enough to confirm that they too will dissolve back into nothing if given enough time, then study my surroundings to determine my next move.

  My ‘finely-tuned’ hero instincts tell me there is absolutely no way in hell that this thing is here by accident. Even the most chaotically insane of villains wouldn’t burn so much stamina on what amounts to an annoyance—and given the size of this spike compared to the other ones, you can bet it was draining to create. The best conclusion I can come up with was that they used it to climb up onto the rooftops. I decide to follow, as even if I’m wrong, a better view may help me get a more complete picture.

  I prepare to make a running leap, hoping to immediately scale at least half of the distance to the top in one jump, then climb the rest. Taking a few quick strides, however, I suddenly find myself flying into the air the moment I push off the ground. I easily clear the four stories—nearly twice over. With a shout of alarm, my instincts barely pull me into a roll before I impact the rooftop fast enough to break it—if not me.

  “Note to self:” I mutter as I stand, “I can jump a lot higher than I’m used to.”

  “You look a bit old to be new,” a curious voice says to itself, causing me to whip around to find the speaker. Standing one floor above me on the roof of the building right next to mine—notably next to another conspicuous spike that could’ve been used to get over—is a strangely dressed man. He looks straight out of the 19th century: long coattails, tall black hat, gold-embossed cane—the works. He stares at me with a strange expression, one almost of a subdued sort of curiosity.

  “Who are you?” I question, already suspecting that I know exactly who he is.

  “Could you be unused to your powers?” He continues, ignoring me entirely, “Perhaps you’re not new to your abilities, but rather heroing as a whole. Yes, that must be it. The lack of costume betrays a lack of professionalism, and while you are a little old to be starting out, I’ve seen worse before.”

  “I’ve been in some intense training lately,” I reply, getting sick of being overlooked, “Not used to my own strength—so I’d advise you surrender now.”

  The man tuts, “No, that won’t do. Heroes aren’t supposed to be so violent. Clearly, I must teach you a lesson before I can allow you back onto the streets.”

  “That’s my line,” I growl, but the man is already turning. I hurriedly leap up to the other roof, ignoring the spike as I summit just in time to watch him leap over to the next rooftop, a spike popping out of the ground that he climbs over skillfully to give himself the extra height he needs for the jump. I swiftly move to follow.

  He’s surprisingly quick, and I’m built more for speed over a flat surface rather than the uneven rooftops of this part of the city. It takes another three rooftops as I struggle along before he comes upon a gap he cannot possibly leap: a street separates him from the next nearest roof. I slow, expecting him to stop as well, but I’m woefully mistaken.

  The next spike starts as little more than a nub, but expands at a rapid pace, flinging the man across the gap as he skillfully rides its momentum with what must be some form of reinforced shoe—there’s no way his foot wouldn’t have been torn in half otherwise. Gaping, I watch as he lands harmlessly on the other side. He turns back and winks before starting off again.

  “Oh, fuck that,” I mutter under my breath. There’s no way I’m going to let him get away with that.

  I back up a little bit to get a running start, then charge towards the massive spike. I continue to put one foot in front of the other as I scale what has to be a near sixty degree angle to summit the spike, stepping off of it with the most massive leap I can manage just before I would fall back down to the road. I hear the thing shatter behind me as I throw myself another nine stories into the air. From below, I see the villain leap to another rooftop, oblivious to what I’m about to do.

  Forgoing any chance of minimizing property damage, I angle myself so that I’ll land on the rooftop just ahead of where the villain is now as fast as I can manage. I’m in the air for another few seconds, enough time for him to lay foot on the rooftop I’m aiming for, but he’s still too slow.

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  I land—or, more accurately, crash—onto the rooftop, skidding to a halt as I tear up several inches of concrete to slow down. I whip around just in time to see the villain, who I’ve landed in front of, recover from his surprise and turn to leave. Unwilling to let him, I strike like a snake, grabbing his wrist before he can even blink.

  “Gotcha!” I cry. Then, in not even a heartbeat, I feel something sharp prick the skin of my throat. I feel the area around it grow warm as a rivulet of hot blood trickles out.

  “An ill-advised maneuver, miss,” the villain says calmly, “I may not know what I’ve done to earn the ire of the death-bringers, but I assure you I shall not go quietly into the night.”

  I blink in confusion, trying to process his sudden change in mood, “Do you…think I’m a reaper?” I ask.

  “Are you not?” It’s his turn to look confused.

  “I mean…yes?” I reply, “I’ve technically had two missions by now, so I guess I am, but I’m here on hero business, not as a reaper. They haven’t given me a new mission in months.”

  He locks eyes with me for a moment as he struggles to figure out whether or not I’m telling the truth. It seems he inevitably figures I am, as a few beats later he suddenly bursts out laughing.

  “Ah ha ha ha!” he chuckles, “You had me startled for a moment there! My sincerest apologies, miss, but it seems there is some sort of misunderstanding here!”

  I almost reflexively release him as I notice the spike that had been threatening my life dissipates on its own accord. The two of us each take one step away from each other, and he relaxes visibly the moment we have distance between us.

  “So, uh…I guess you know?” I prod hesitantly.

  “Mistook the wrong man for a hero a while back,” the villain replies, “Seems I did the opposite this time—and you can call me Mister Stalagmite, or just ‘Stalagmite,’ if you please.”

  “Frontrunner,” I reply, “Got mixed up with a damned I couldn’t handle. If you don’t mind me asking, what convinced you I was a reaper? You were so sure I was just an amateur hero a second ago.”

  “Many of the clues I had deduced before could mean either one,” the villain—Stalagmite—replies, “For a hero, a lack of costume is unprofessional, for a reaper, it is standard. Reapers undergo intense training to bolster their abilities in a short time frame. And, of course, reapers have a tendency to think just a bit more violently than most. However, what really sold me was your sudden turn. It was almost as if you’d been holding back, then suddenly decided I needed to die. Not emblematic of a hero, I must say.”

  I nod, following along. Food for thought, I guess—I really don’t like how he’s implying I’ve gotten violent since becoming a reaper. That’s something I’ll have to reevaluate on my own time.

  “If we’re trading questions,” Stalagmite interjects, “I would be remiss not to comment on your second sudden turn—you seem rather more personable than mere moments ago.”

  I shrug, “Now that I know you…also know, I figure you’re probably closer to Rowan than anything. Plus, you’ve stopped attacking me. I’ve got no reason to be worried.”

  He cocks his head curiously, “That is a name I do not know.”

  “Oh, right,” I reply, “Rowan is a friend of mine—a villain who knows about reapers too. It’s a long story—and partially classified, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “The best ones usually are,” Stalagmite replies, not clarifying if he’s referring to length or secrecy, “but I wouldn’t want to keep you. Do you mind if we fake a battle, then wrap this up? I’d rather be free from jail before dinner; my wife is making her famous chicken alfredo, and I’m loath to miss out.”

  “Wait,” I hold out a hand to stop him just as he starts to move, “One more question?”

  The man considers me for a second before nodding.

  “Why are you a villain?” I ask; he frowns, “I mean, if you know this whole thing isn't real, then why do what you do? Why even bother?”

  “Having doubts about your own position, are you?” Stalagmite asks, catching on. I nod.

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, miss,” he continues, “I don’t think my answer will be very helpful to you.”

  “Can I hear it anyways?” I press.

  After a moment, the villain nods, “I enjoy it.”

  I bristle a little, taking a step back. That’s his answer? I may have been too hasty. Just because this guy knows, doesn’t mean he isn’t evil.

  Except, after seeing my response, he sighs, “You misunderstand me. I am no sadist who hurts and kills for fun—I do not enjoy seeing innocent people suffer.”

  “Then why?” I prod cautiously.

  “The benefit is twofold,” Stalagmite responds, “First and foremost, there is the thrill of the game. I am not ashamed to admit how much I enjoyed running from you, miss—watching you struggle to keep up. Ordinarily, I would’ve made you continue for another few blocks, then acted tired and let you catch me. You’d get a little training, and I a little sport. No harm done.”

  I open my mouth to speak but he holds up a hand to shush me, “The other reason is because sometimes I can mess a little with people who are not so innocent. The bank I trashed today, for example. The man who runs it is-”

  “A dick,” I interrupt, starting to get a feeling for what he is trying to say.

  Stalagmite chuckles, “That too, I suppose. I was going to say a grifter—he’s been running some predatory loan practices of late. Nothing illegal, but enough to add extra hardship to those hardworking blue-collar fellows unlucky enough to catch his gaze. Now he will be spending the funds from these shady dealings on repairing the damage I caused—and a little extra, if I did my job well. Justice, I would call it.”

  I nod, then sigh, “Past me would disagree with you, but I guess I can see your point. You’re hardly a bad person—misguided, at worst. Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that you were right: I can’t take any real advice from that.”

  “It is a foul game we’re in, miss,” the villain agrees, “one we’re not meant to win. Still, I find myself loath to simply accept my lot. Maybe, if nothing else, you can take that particular sentiment to heart.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, “and you can go if you want. I see no reason to go through all the trouble of capturing you. I can just tell the banker I couldn't find you—I don’t really want to see him vindicated anyways.”

  The villain bows, “My thanks, miss. Until next time.”

  I wave him off as he bounds away across the rooftops, leaving me all by myself. With a sigh, I make my way to the edge of the roof and sit down, dangling my feet off the edge. A few stories below me the traffic of the day continues, the city as busy as ever. I belatedly wonder how many people saw me chasing Stalagmite, but honestly the concern is second in my mind.

  It’s been a while since I had much time to sit and reflect, but I’ve had a lot on my mind regardless. Doing nothing but hero work has me in a state where I could almost convince myself that everything that happened was just some dream or wild fantasy. Combine that with my simmering unease regarding my participation in the Hero Exhibition—something that would’ve been a dream come true not even half a year ago, but now rings hollow—and a significant part of me just wants to curl into a ball and ignore the world.

  Not that I’d ever stop fighting, or trying to do what’s right. And no one ever said that path would be easy. In fact, multiple people have said it would be so hard that I should just give up before even trying—Jonathan a notable figure among them.

  Just knowing that should almost be reason enough to continue. After all, I certainly don’t ever want to just do what he tells me. And yet, even then, for all I talk big about becoming the strongest hero and defending the country from any threat, motivation is a fickle thing.

  Maybe, in the end, what I really need is some reason to keep fighting that I can’t ignore.

  —

  A soft breeze wafts through the empty streets, carrying the smell of salt and the cries of the large gulls that call the north sea home. Every door and every window in the old village is shut and locked, and no lights glow even faintly besides the moon and stars. The people here know to keep vigilant against that which walks in the night—both the devil they know, and that which they blissfully don’t.

  From out in the shadows, a pair of figures walk, silhouetted by the faint half-moon’s light. One a tall, stocky man, the other a lithe, curvy woman. Both walk with the grace of SAUs—and fighters at that. Neither is afraid of what walks beside them in the night.

  Eventually, they summit a hill, and get a view of the shore below. Old, mossy crags overlook a rough and turbulent sketch of water for as far as the eye can see. The edge of the sea is so hostile that the residents of the village never bothered to build a pier, despite the advantage sea trade would bring. Only the birds call it home. The two are unbothered however, and even look upon the sight with relief.

  “Finally,” the man says, his voice accented in a way few of the village residents are old enough to recognize, “How did it take us so long to get here?”

  “We stopped over a dozen times to raze villages, darling,” the woman replies, “Far be it from me to keep you from your proclivities, but we’ve known where our path would take us since that old psychologist. If you wanted to accelerate the journey, we could’ve been here weeks ago.”

  The man gestures dismissively, “Bah! We barely spent an afternoon in each town. Even counting that, we made much better time back in Asia.”

  “Asia is your land, darling,” the woman consoles him, “This is the Deadlord’s country, and he made sure we knew of it. You know that. Not to mention, that isn’t even considering how little we knew of the land.”

  The man sighs, “I know, Xia Ling. It doesn’t make it any less irritating, however.”

  “I never said it should, darling,” the woman replies, “How about we raze this one too, will that make you feel better?”

  “Only one way to find out,” the man smiles once more, “And after that, we sail for Iceland, right?”

  “And beyond to the USC,” the woman agrees.

  “Splendid,” he says, his left hand beginning to glow with an ominous light.

  Far away in the night, the next village over learns once more to fear the dark as their neighbor goes up in smoke.