Chapter Text
"—afternoon, the vigilante Firebrand interrupted an attempted bank robbery. The would-be thieves injured two hostages before Firebrand's appearance, one a teller and one a thirty-two-year-old restaurant owner. In the ensuing chaos, large swaths of the bank were badly damaged by fire. Preliminary investigation reports thirteen percent of the bank floors and walls will need to be entirely replaced before the bank can reopen for business."
Stepping out through the automatic doors into the sunlight, White's glasses shifted to sunglasses as he clicked Call on his phone. It barely got one ring out before the other person picked up.
"White."
White's lips quirked up and he started walking down the sidewalk. "Black. How's everything?"
"Fine. Usual. Why?" his brother reported in his usual way—sounding bored and yet mildly irritated at the world.
"Hm," White hummed, watching the electric cars pass by on the road. One of the street panels was out, leaving the turn lane blank in one spot instead of showing the full turn symbol. He should report that to city services. "I saw the news."
"Listen," Black cut in before White could really get started. "It's not my fault. Those assholes shot at me mid-burn. I had to dodge."
Rolling his eyes, though still with a small smile, White countered, "You know, someone with psychokinesis might've been able to stop a—"
"I'm not asking PK Vandal for help," Black interrupted.
Lifting his free hand, White caught a ball just before it could hit him in the back of the head, turned, and tossed it back at the kids playing in the park he was passing. They thanked him, everyone did a wai to each other, and then White kept walking.
For as long as Black had been running around as Firebrand—the only vigilante who had named themselves, since he'd introduced himself every time he appeared until the news got it straight—he had refused to work with any other vigilante preternaturals. Which made sense. The way people with powers were treated by society? It was an unwritten code that one did not reveal their preternatural status to anyone, even other preternaturals. One never knew who they could trust and who was on the side of the government scientists, wanting to turn fellow preternaturals into experiments.
Still, White couldn't help but think that if they could only work together, they could make real change. And with less collateral damage.
"You think we would all get along because we're all preternatural," Black said. "But that's not how it works. We can fight for the same cause, for the people of Kraithong, but that doesn't mean we'd get along as people."
A digital wanted poster on a crosswalk pillar showed a picture of a figure wearing a heavy brown bomber jacket, black hood and black face mask hiding most of their facial features except for a pair of sharp eyes. It was a composite image crafted from shots of PK Vandal captured on surveillance footage, since no preternatural vigilante was about to pose for a photoshoot. Below the image was any other identifying information: height and general body shape, power of psychokinesis, and that Vandal's assumed gender was male. The government was offering a hefty price for any information on them.
White reached up to hover his fingers just over PK Vandal's dark eyes.
"You see the news just like I do," Black continued in his ear. "Not to mention you're dad's little shadow. You really think, with everything you've seen, that any of us would rather work together than beat each other up?"
Black had a point. PK Vandal had been named that by the media because their power was psychokinesis and they had a habit of vandalizing property while stopping crimes. Titan, a preternatural with super strength, took off so fast that even composite images of them were blurry. And Conjurer? The news often referred to them as pure chaos, their laughter echoing in the ears of criminals and cops alike long after they disappeared. And that was just in Kraithong. Preternaturals in other colony cities would be even harder to connect with.
With a deep breath, White said, "Speaking of father." The silence over the line was deafening. "He's meeting with a diplomat from Uenuku in a few hours. I'm on my way to meet him."
Not that he would get to see the diplomat, nor the diplomat him. But Adul Pothiyakorn did not go into a meeting before conferring with his son. Or rather, with White's power.
"Want me to show up? Burn the place down?"
The earnest query made White laugh, even as the light changed and he started to cross the street. With a shake of his head, he said, "Thank you, but no." He huffed another laugh. "Besides, you're going to be too busy."
He could hear Black roll his eyes even over the phone. "If you say so, I will be."
…
…
The phone on the bedside table buzzed incessantly, until a hand flew out to fumble for the device and silence it. Yok, eyes still closed, let out an irritated huff.
"I was having a great dream," he complained to no one.
Then, with a sigh, he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Dreams of his art blending with the art of another would have to wait. He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom to clean up. When he finished, he dressed in a tank top with lyrics to an anti-suicide song written in curving script across the front, dark skinny jeans, and his best dress boots. Had to look nice for his meeting at the art gallery, after all. Yok then grabbed his satchel and threw it over his shoulder before heading for the desk in the corner.
The desk was covered in pens, pencils, charcoal, and brushes, as well as stacks of clean white paper in various sizes. All of it was organized, to some extent, but the overall effect was one of barely contained chaos. Onto the desk, Yok set a simple wooden box with two case latches. Flipping the latches, he opened the box to reveal a stack of 2x2 papers printed with the exact same design.
A long, hooded, long-sleeved, gray cloak with pockets. A dark gray tank top underneath. Loose, comfortable pants—with stylish rips, of course. Boots. A gray eye mask. And all of it was covered in art, drawn in neat black lines. Pictures of knives, shields, fireworks, a rocket launcher, baseball bats and balls, and even animals like lions, tigers, elephants, boars, and rhinos, as well as mice, weasels, and a tiny, black-footed cat. The outfit was almost painful to look at, because the viewer's eye didn't know where to focus, but it served its purpose.
Yok took two copies of the image, folded them up, and slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans. Closing the wooden case, he stashed it under the desk once more, then opened an accordion file folder. From within its many sleeves, he pulled various scraps of paper with doodles on them, folded them, and slipped them into other pockets on his pants or in his satchel.
He took one last look around his bedroom before heading for the kitchen, where an older woman in glasses was making breakfast. Smiling warmly, Yok tapped her on the shoulder, then signed, "Good morning, Mom," when she looked at him.
Also smiling, she signed, "Good morning." Then, with a quizzical expression, "You have a meeting with the gallery today?"
Yok nodded and pointed at his nice boots, which made his mom laugh silently. She turned to the food she'd made and handed a plate to her son.
"Eat before you go."
He beamed at her, accepting the plate while also wrapping her in a one-armed hug. Once they separated, he said, "I love you."
"I love you too," she signed. "Eat. You'll be late."
"You too," Yok signed and said, then motioned to the remaining food.
She shook her head at his concern but moved to sit with him to eat.
…
…
Though traffic was slower than he would have liked, Yok did not use his solarcycle's smaller size to weave around the cars on the road. That was not the kind of attention he needed pointed his way. Instead, he went with the flow—an idea that would not fit in any other area of his life. His art definitely did not 'go with the flow.' In fact, he was known for doing the exact opposite.
Still, the slower speed meant he had plenty of time to see the news feeds that played on big screens outside corporate buildings, or the wanted posters that interrupted corporate ads outside of businesses. Firebrand, in his ostentatious red and black, fireproof suit—clearly someone with money to burn—had caused problems while stopping a robbery.
Yok shook his head. Some people had no sense of art in the craft of superheroing. The tiles in that bank had been designed by students from Yok's old school. Irreplaceable. No respect.
He rounded a corner and almost immediately hit the brakes, causing the car behind him to honk angrily. Giving a half bow in apology, Yok cruised to the side of the road and parked, allowing traffic to continue without him. But Yok couldn't.
Because there, on the wall of the Tawi Inc. power company's corporate headquarters, was a mural. A mural that hadn't been there the day before. A mural in the style of—Yok's eyes traced over the art and found, there in the corner, the signature—UNAR. A smile broke across Yok's face.
"Wow."
He shut off his bike, dismounted, and walked closer to the art. UNAR's usual style of simplistic characters with incredible depth of meaning. Bold lines. Vivid colors. And yet, the pain was palpable. The new mural showed smiling people accepting bright pills from smiling people dressed in nice suits and wearing sparkly jewels and watches and tech. The corporations controlling the common people with drugs of choice—medications, but also entertainment of various kinds, suggested by symbols on the side of the pills.
Yok reached a hand up but stopped before actually touching the art. Someone would be around within days to remove the mural. He wouldn't damage it in any way before then. Instead, he walked back to his bike, took out his phone, and snapped a picture of the mural.
Smiling at the picture on his phone, Yok said, "This person..." He held the phone against his chest and beamed at the actual mural, stars in his eyes. "I'm gonna find you."
…
…
Ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ri—
Sean threw his hand out towards the blare of his alarm clock. The OFF button clicked, killing the deafening sound. With a groan, he pushed himself up and rubbed his hands over his face. Even with an afternoon shift the next day, doing vigilante work the night before had left him feeling wiped. With the flick of a finger, the curtains cracked open, letting a bearable amount of midday sun light the room. Sean tsk'd, wincing at the brightness, but didn't close the blinds again.
Instead, he made his way to his wardrobe, shedding clothes as he went. With a wave, the discarded clothes gathered up and flung themselves to the hamper, even as Sean opened the wardrobe with his other hand to grab new clothes for the day.
Once dressed, with his teeth brushed and face washed, Sean headed for the door. He grabbed his wallet, his bike key, and his backpack from the kitchenette table—double checking that his mask, jacket, and hoodie were inside the bag before zipping it back up—and then pulled his shoes on. Within a few minutes, he was downstairs and on his solarcycle, heading to another day of work.
…
…
The doors to Tank 1969 Garage were wide open, admitting vehicles of all kinds to the business. Despite only having five employees, the garage did well as a business. The owner, Gumpa—a man a few years older than Sean—had the TV on in the waiting area when Sean arrived. It showed a news story about Firebrand damaging a bank yesterday.
Sean rolled his eyes even as he moved behind the counter to clock in. Gumpa, sitting at the computer behind the counter and inputting something, noticed the action.
"Not impressed?" he asked with an amused smile.
Sean frowned. "He's too flashy," he said, sliding his bag into the hidden cupboard for employee possessions. "And he always damages shit."
Not to mention, he often got to crimes faster than Sean could. What sort of ride did he have? What insider intel? And whenever Sean showed up to help, Firebrand instead attacked him like he was a criminal! He'd nearly gotten Sean arrested more than once.
Gumpa shrugged noncommittally, turning back to the computer. "I think he has the right idea, but the wrong approach. Just like the others."
Sean sighed. Gumpa always saw the best in each of the vigilantes. While that meant he also supported PK Vandal, it meant Sean couldn't shit talk Firebrand, Conjurer, or Titan without getting a lecture about good intentions and preternatural support.
"They each just need a little…direction," Gumpa hedged, finishing up whatever he was doing on the computer and turning to face Sean head on. The look he leveled on Sean spoke volumes. 'They need direction, just like you did.'
Averting his eyes as his cheeks flushed, Sean caught sight of one of their regular customers just before he opened the door. "Again?" Sean blurted out, one fist on his hip. "Weren't you just in here last week?"
The young man in the doorway had bleached white hair on top of brown roots, a wide nose, sad eyes, and a shamed expression. "What can I say? I miss you guys too much," he joked meekly.
Rolling his eyes with a fond smile, Gumpa stood to round the counter toward him. "It's nice to see you, Gram. What's broken this time?"
Gram squinted an eye shut, almost as if in pain. "The handlebars got…a bit…crushed."
He led Gumpa over to his bike in the lot, Sean close behind. The handlebars were not a bit crushed. They were absolutely, irredeemably mangled.
"How the fuck do you manage this shit all the time?" Sean asked, no heat behind his words.
He was, honestly, fascinated. Gram always came across as mild mannered, but his bike was in a constant state of disrepair. As if someone were using it for target practice or testing the crushing power of a machine.
Gram shrugged and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "One of the machines at the construction site got hold of it," he said. "My boss reamed me for parking in the wrong spot."
"Again," Gumpa added with an entertained grin.
A matching grin lit Gram's face. "Again."
…
…
"PK!"
Street panels went flying, blinking error messages all the way until they collided with the whirlwind across the plaza. Except they went straight through it, as if it weren't real. The debris flying around proved it was real though.
He looked to the side, spotting PK Vandal crouched on the road a dozen feet away, his hood ripped off his head and tears in his leather jacket. Beside him was Titan, pressing on a sluggishly bleeding shoulder wound.
A burst of fire engulfed the whirlwind, incinerating the debris within.
"Get him out of here!"
"No!" he shouted, putting a hand to his head. "Not yet!"
The whirlwind grew bigger despite the fire. Even when Firebrand stopped his attack, the fire twister grew and grew, its heat almost unbearable even from a distance. But he knew this. He knew this.
"Conjurer!"
A veritable menagerie of animals burst forth from the folds of the hooded figure on the other side of the flaming twister. A tiny cat bolted around the fire and into the shadows of a pile of wreckage. With a roar from an unseen lion, the flaming whirlwind vanished, but was quickly replaced by the image of a giant, terrible bat. It screeched and they all covered their ears in pain.
"Do you think you can stop me?" a voice asked, its gender and age distorted enough to be unrecognizable.
"Now! Get him out!"
A hand on his shoulder and he looked up at a new masked face.
"Veil," he gasped.
"What's next?" Veil asked, as calm as possible but with a strained undercurrent.
He looked around, at PK Vandal and Titan's roughed up, tired countenances, at the animals attacking the bat and disappearing when struck, at the bursts of flame striking the back of the bat and making it screech.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice thick with tears. "I don't know."
White's eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling above him. With a sigh, he lifted an arm to lay across his forehead. That dream again. How many times had he had it by now? Always a bit different. Always shifting.
When he'd first dreamt of the whirlwind, he'd been alone except for his brother. He'd had to watch Black beaten back and been unable to help. But over time, the others had appeared as well. The other preternaturals. White wished he could say it was just a dream and move on, but he knew better.
It was a vision.
Something was going to happen. Something that put their entire city at risk, perhaps the whole colony. And it would involve all of the biggest vigilantes currently at work in the city, as well as at least one White didn't know. He'd had the dream enough to know that he and Black could not beat this enemy alone. They needed the help of the others.
So White was going to find the others. Whether they wanted to be found or not.
…
…
tbc