Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The City skyline’s a perpetually backed drain; toxic gray slurry stirred and shaken with whatever’s left of yesterday’s refuse, trapped in stainless steel with nowhere to go but to wait for the inevitable upchuck. And every now and then it finally quits holding its breath, and when that backwash hits, for just the briefest moment, all the glitz and glamor vanishes. 

It’s the screens that go first: neon lights and projections, as far as the eye can see, all drowning under the torrential downpour of our own waste. Water pollution trumps light pollution, even if the lights are brighter than all the stars in the sky combined. Skyscrapers blot out what little sun can be seen and the thrum of transit shakes the ground beneath our feet. It’s the beating heart of a massive financial beast, a dollhouse haphazardly stitched together brick by brick by outside worlds and corporate interests. Man’s greatest rebellion against nature, with the rest of us quashed beneath it. It’s so encompassing, so large, that you can almost forget that it’s artificial. It’s fake. 

That’s the magic trick they’ll sell you: law and order. If you shut your eyes and clap your hands together and believe, and I mean really believe, you can put a whole world together out of hopes and dreams. But it’s like an ant hill. You pour a little water over it and you’ll see how fast the act breaks. Law and order only goes so far—as soon as that first splash hits, all the little insects go scattering, and for a moment you get to see the real face behind the mask. 

That carefully crafted facade of professional bureaucracy falls away, and then you get to see how pure animal instinct takes over when there’s not a rulebook or an invisible hand telling you how to behave. The crowded streets empty out as the haves rush for private cars and overpriced rideshares, and the have-nots run for cover. That’s part two of the magic trick—blink, and suddenly the street’s deserted, and for a moment you can almost pretend you’re alone. 

Almost. Hyper-bright billboard ads still peer through the rain like they’re winking at you. Even past the end of the world, there’s nowhere you can go where the neon can’t follow.

It’s only taken fifteen years for this whole city to lose its lustre. The gold faded away, and in its place came neon. Wasn’t really a surprise to anybody. The Lost Years had been rough, and coming out of them, nobody had the money or enough childish idealism to afford the poetic symbolism anymore. 

In retrospect, gold had always been a stupid color to use. If they really wanted to pick a color that represented how we survived Gold Morning, they should have painted the whole damn city red.

I duck back under a canopy, draining the last cool dregs of a corner store coffee. The off-brand Zenzedi I downed a few hours back is doing a great job of keeping me steady and vertical, but it’s going to be a long night, and I need all the extra chemical assistance I can get. 

After all, I have a client. 

Or I will have one, at least. The city’s slow getting back to me on that. 

You’d think with the army of bureaucrats they’ve got running this place, we’d be better at handling paperwork, but that’s the reality of living in a paper city, I suppose. Like everything else, it’s fake. A big, scary mask they put on to convince people that the system is working fine, that the world’s slowly getting better, that the people in charge have all our best interests in mind. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Everything about this world is fake, which means I fit in perfectly.

Still, I hope they get back to me soon. A girl alone with her thoughts can be a dangerous thing.

I certainly am. 

My phone rings. 

City Automated System: Hello, Counselor Barnes. Your client request has been approved. All relevant documents are available for download at this link. Please arrive at Police Precinct 43 at least 15 minutes before your posted time. Do not reply to this message.

I frown, only because there’s no one around to see it. Police precinct forty-three is an expensive paid ride or long train ride across the city. 

Whatever. It can’t be helped. This case is way too important to let slip by. 

Besides, I like riding the train. It gives me plenty of time for people watching.

Precinct 43 is an unassuming concrete prefab structure neatly tucked away halfway between downtown and the city limits. It’s the perfect sweet spot for a miserable work experience: close enough to downtown that you’ll never get to relax and sit on your hands, but far enough away that nothing career-defining will ever come your way. 

Except tonight. Homicide in the first degree is quite the jackpot for a place like this.

There’s no graffiti on the outside, which is a good sign. It means the cameras around here are still working. 

Even at this late hour, the building’s still alive. LIke a casino, the guests never sleep, and the house is always watching. Also much like a casino, I catch a few drunks being hauled out of the way. Typical, for this time of night.

What’s less typical is how energized the rank-and-file seem to be. Night shifters tend to be less enthusiastic about their work, but I guess that’s the power of a high-profile arrest. There’s nothing quite like a murder to get the ants all in a tizzy.  

The woman at the desk looks beat, but only from the eyes up. She’s got a ten megawatt smile that I’m sure stays lit even when she’s unconscious. That’s the customer service special—she’s a hired temp, if I had to place my bet. They wouldn’t waste an actual officer on reception duty. There’s just not enough of them left to go around, these days. 

Thankfully, two in the morning’s the police state witching hour, so without any delay, I saunter up to the counter, making sure my mask is bright and immaculate. 

“Hiyaaaa~” I say, with a saccharine sweet smile drizzled across my face. 

The chipperness catches her off guard. It always does. No one expects pep this late into the night—at least, not from an outsider. Customer service tends to get thrown off their game when they’re on the receiving end of a pretty smile. 

And that’s good. An unconfident hand tends to show more than it means to. You see it all the time in card halls—the amateurs letting slip their tells, and everybody else around them swimming up like sharks smelling blood. 

Tonight, there’s no shortage of the stuff.

“Hello ma’am, can I help you?” she asks, the blank verbiage of a memorized script.

“I think I have a meeting with a client you guys just detained?”

I phrase it as a question, like I’m not even sure if I should be here. It’s the oldest trick in the book: play the fool, and let your opponent explain things to the poor, confused idiot. Nine times out of ten, they’re all too willing, and the receptionist here is no exception. Her own fake smile grows fifteen percent more real. Pour a little of your own blood in the water and the self-declared sharks come running, just like that.

The airhead gimmick would work better if I was blond, but it works well enough with just a pretty smile and a thousand yard stare. Besides, I prefer my red hair. I wouldn’t dare touch it.

The color suits me better.

She types away at her computer, trying to give off the illusion that she’s still paying attention to me. “Yes, I see you in the system. Councilor Barnes.”

“I’m glad to know I didn’t go to the wrong station again,” I say, adding a little giggle. A touch excessive, maybe, but a little excessiveness tends to sell the bluff better.  

“Yes, that would have been a disaster.” 

“It’s interesting though,” I place a finger to my lips and glance away in faux-distraction, “she was arrested so far away from here. I’m surprised she got booked at this particular station. No offense, of course. I’m sure you do lots of important work here.”

Her mouth forms a harsh line as the media training sets in But the gears in her mind are churning, grinding from exhaustion. She must have been working since midnight, at least. She sighs, as any sense of decorum vanishes, happy at the chance just to gossip. 

“Of course she’s here. Your client was picked up by the Parahuman Crimes Division.”

She’s saying it with gravitas, like she’d just laid down her hand to reveal a flush. Except, of course, I’d known the whole time. It was listed in the report I read on the train ride over. From the word go, the whole thing basically screamed Parahuman. Even had her alias listed next to her real name.

Though, a cape ending up in a police station is an oddity, so I understand her inclination to gossip.

These days there’s a separation between parahumans and the rest of us—they call it the power gap, and it cuts every industry straight down the middle. Anyone with powers works under a different, stricter set of rules, and the two sides rarely intermingle.

Police work’s no different. Ninety-nine percent of all parahuman-involved crimes fall under the Wardens’ jurisdiction, a division of Parahumans that work directly under the government. Any time a cape’s brought in for vigilantism, violent crime, or the kind of fight that levels whole buildings? The Wardens handle the case from top to bottom. Parahumans arrest, prosecute, and charge other parahumans. It’s cleaner that way. No more accusations of bias in the courts when the judge, jury, and executioner are all your peers. 

But there’s that pesky one percent: what happens when the cape in question is arrested for speeding tickets? Public drunkenness? Something that just doesn’t involve their powers? 

That’s where the Parahuman Crimes Division comes in. They’re a department fully run by the City police. Unpowered people working parahuman cases—a relic from a bygone era, back when people cared about silly things like accountability. These days it’s half joke and half powder keg, which makes it a very fun department for me to work with.

It exists now as a bureaucratic loophole that only really is allowed to stick around because of how rarely it’s ever needed. For most capes, it’s a non-factor. And for those slim percentage of slightly more civil parahumans, it’s the carrot to the Wardens’ stick. The saner bunch would rather be cuffed by a pair of uniformed officers than beaten down by government-sanctioned brutes.

“Well, at least this’ll be an interesting case,” I say with a giggle and a smile. “But still, why put them somewhere so remote?”

“This is the PCD. Precinct Four-Three. There’s not enough relevant cases for our department, since the Wardens usually take them all. So we’re… a relatively small group. Doesn’t make sense to station us anywhere but here.” 

“Oh no,” I feign surprise, raising a hand to cover my mouth, “Well if there’s so few of you, I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll be going in there alone. I’ve heard capes can be a little… unpredictable?" 

“No, no. The two detectives should still be around.”

“Where would they be? I’d like to talk just to be sure I’m going to be safe. You understand, I’m sure.”

She smiles thinly. “ Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to let them know you’re coming, ma’am.”

I flash her a blinding smile. “Perfect. Then I guess I should head in and see if I can’t get my client out of this little mess, huh?”

“Of course, Counselor Barnes. It will just take a minute to print your badge. If you’d please take a seat, I’ll have it out to you soon.”

Any camaraderie vanishes the second we fall back into the tired routine of her job. I could almost see her mind make the switch without a second to process it. I doubt she even notices. It’s robotic. A woman worn into the shape of her career.

I leave with a nod and sit down in a characteristically uncomfortable chair. There are rows of the damn things, steel folding chairs set in a grid all facing different directions like a bad art piece, all of them cold and empty. A TV blares a news program at me, volume dialed to an ambient fifteen decibels. But the normal waiting room fare is nowhere to be seen. In place of the usual mindless fodder, talk shows or sitcoms, I’m granted the police station special: politics. 

Vigilantism in Working Villages is lit up in bold letters on the news chyron. A talking head, face made up so heavily you’d be forgiven for mistaking them for a machine, starts speaking. 

“A new wave of vigilantism is sparking across several frontier villages. Several of the towns set up by our partners from alternate Earths have seen a slew of new  attacks by what is believed to be a group of unregistered, unregulated parahuman agents, with reports of attacks to security personnel and even some injuries due to parahuman related assistance. 

Shin Manufacturing and Mining, or SMM, has been one of the hardest hit recently, with their Appalachian mining facilities having suffered several strikes in recent weeks. It is estimated these attacks have slowed production at these critical facilities by at least five percent. SMM was quick to say they have done their best to ensure employees are getting back to work as quickly as possible, but the damage has been done, and we’ll likely start to feel the effects in the coming weeks as shipments slow down.

It all begs the question: why aren’t the Wardens doing anything about this?

Other corporations operating in the area, such as Elite Holdings and Cheit Heavy Industries have vowed to renew their security commitments. Elite Holdings has vowed to fund a new round of parahuman security teams after their personnel finish securing the remnants of Teacher’s facilities that they had begun tackling earlier this month.

But so far? There has been no comment from the City’s government on these attacks, or any indication at all that they plan to respond to them. 

Coming next, interdimensional portals— how safe are they?”

They swap to a commercial for a for-profit organ donation shop, and my attention’s gone. 

The company towns of other Earths have always had an issue with things like worker revolts when conditions get bad enough, but the fact that they’re dropping the V-word means they’ve finally got capes involved. The only question is whether this is outside interference or home grown resistance; it’s always hard to say. 

I’m not really surprised it’s happened, though. Lots of people don’t like the concessions the City gives to those companies. Sure, they helped build half the shit we have, but there’s no such thing as a free lunch. We’re still eating those debts nearly a decade later with no signs that we’re ever paying off our tab.

“Counselor Barnes, you’re ready to go. The detectives are waiting for you downstairs.”

I turn my smile back on. I swipe the keycard from the woman’s desk with a cheery, “thank you!” 

I’ve never visited this particular precinct before, but that’s the advantage of prefab designs: they’re one size fits all. You’ve seen one of them, you’ve seen them all. And the desk’s instructions were easy enough to follow. Downstairs.

Means they’re hanging around the holding cells.

I’ve barely set foot on those concrete steps, but already I can hear voices echoing from below. 

“—don’t know what they’re thinking, taking so long.”

“You know the city works; nothing’s done by half measures. They’ll come and get her when they're ready.”

Two voices; one’s younger, angrier, and full of bite. The other one’s older, weary.

“If they're gonna drag their feet like this, they might as well just leave the case to us. Not like we need that much time to close this up. This whole damn thing is—it’s open and shut.”

“Sure is.”

“Then why wait on—”

The voices stop at the sound of my clicking heels. Shame. I would have liked to listen, try and gain a bit of an edge before I entered, but there’s always some downsides you’ve gotta make in the name of presentation. So I step through that door and open with a cheery, “Hello, officers!” 

And here, I match the voices to the faces. One’s an older man, just nearing retirement age. Might be partly why he’s been shoved into this division in the first place—a message to quit, or they’ll quit for him. Just a hint of grey is showing in his short, black hair and the hint of stress lines run across his face. 

The other detective is a younger woman who looks fresh out of the academy. She’s got hair tied back in a ponytail and was glaring at me from the second I entered the room. Is it that she hates lawyers that much, or that she just can’t handle dealing with a cheery smile? Either way, she’s watching me closely. Trying to read me like I’m reading her.

It’s a cute little standoff between me and the detectives, but I don’t have time for the formalities.

“Councelor Barnes, here to see her client,” I say, thrusting my hand out to shake. 

“Sean Gilpatrick,” the taller man says with a ghost of a smile as he gives my hand the slightest grasp.

“Haya Armstrong,” she says as if the name itself was a challenge.

The death grip she gives me certainly is. 

She’s clearly a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve. And just like any heart presented up close, it wasn’t a pretty thing to look at. I smile all the wider. 

“Aw, thanks! Great to meet you both.”

The more pissed off she gets, the easier she’ll be to work with. Annoyance makes people malleable—rage, even more so. Heat has a way of melting anything and anybody, provided you apply it correctly.

“I wasn’t expecting such a warm reception,” I say, gesturing at the empty rows of cubicles. “I’m so lucky to have two officers here to meet me.”

“Sorry, Counselor," Gilpatrick says, rubbing at the back of his neck—a tell, though so common it’s really not worth commenting on. “It’s been a long night.” 

“And you really stepped in it,” Armstrong says, crossing her arms as she stares me down.

“Why?” I ask, my smile turning a bit coy. “Did something happen regarding my client?” 

“Did something hap—” she says, cutting herself off to swallow down her own annoyance. “Yeah, you could say that. She’s going to be shipped off to a Wardens holding facility before the end of the night.”

“Really? I hope not. The train ride here was long enough! To think I’d have to ride all the way back downtown… Well, at least the Wardens’ waiting room is nicer. Ooh, and I think they’ve got snacks, too!” I tilt my head. “Sucks that you’re gonna lose out on such a high profile case, though.”

I see her jaw clench, but so does her partner’s. 

“You—”

“Let’s calm down there, Haya,” Gilpatrick says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing’s happening yet. But she isn’t wrong. As soon as the paperwork’s finalized, there’s a pretty good chance the DA will sign off on it the second it’s in front of her.”

“And how long do you think that’ll take?”

“Hour or two, give or take?”

Well, that complicates things. I’m operating on a strict time table now—if I miss that deadline, the case will be handed off to some other lawyer. More specifically, it’ll be assigned to a parahuman lawyer. And the whole thing will slip right out of my hands.

“Well then, I’d better get started as soon as possible! I hope you don’t mind if I ask you officers some questions?”

“What are you talking about? Have you even been listening? She’s going to get transferred to the Wardens in less than six hours.” Haya snaps, brushing aside Gilpatrick’s hand like a dog slipping its leash.

“But it hasn’t happened yet,” I say with a wave of my hand. “And it might not happen at all, right?” 

“Don’t be stupid. The chances of the Wardens actually leaving this case alone are practically zero.”

“But not actually zero,” I say, wagging my finger. “Hey, I just want to get a scope of the situation. After all, we don’t want to waste the DA’s time, do we?”

I can practically feel her anger boiling over. It’s a game as old as time: push and see how close you can get to the line. You keep asking the dealer for another hit, and as long as you don’t bust, you’re still in the game. I wonder if I can make her do it without revealing I’m deliberately egging her on. But her partner takes a step forward to defuse the situation himself.

“Yeah,” Gilpatrick says, “Look, we’d be happy to answer some questions. But you’ll have to do it fast. Lot of work to do tonight, you know.”

“Thank you so much! Yeah, I’ve been confused on a lot of the details…?”

“Ask away, and I’ll clarify.”

Just like that, he’s bought in. Authority figures just love to step in and show their hand because they think you don’t understand the rules. It comes with the territory: you wear the boot long enough, and you start to think you’re something special. Textbook overconfidence. They’ve bought into their rep so hard they don’t even care that the supposedly weak cards in your hand are slowly building up to a flush.

They never expect you to turn it around on them.

“So, apparently my client was arrested for murder…” I begin, trailing off.

“She murdered her roommate. Allegedly. A Code 555.”

Armstrong smirks. “A Code 555 means—”

Means she used her powers to directly target an unpowered individual. Back in the day, it was a broad category, encompassing everything from chance muggings to armed robbery. But after the end of the world, it’d shifted a bit.

Nowadays, most often, a Code 555 means serial killer. 

Not that my client really fits that description—she’s only been chalked up for one murder, as far as I can tell. But it explains why she’d been kept under the supervision of the PCD for so long—basic clerical error. Slap a 555 on something and your case automatically falls under the jurisdiction of the unpowered cops. It's the only kind of case they've got left. 

“It’s all in the preliminary report,” Armstrong adds, “which you would know if you’d bothered to read it.”

“Okay. Buuuuut how did you know she actually did it? I mean, you're screaming for her to be locked up by the Wardens, but this is all just speculation, isn't it?”

“We know she's guilty because of the… evidence? We’ve got forensics placing her at the scene of the crime, the victim’s blood all over her clothes, a recording of her power active at the time of arrest, and oh, guess what? We saw her there, in person!” Armstrong shakes her head. “Not surprised she did it, though. Perp like her fits the profile. She’s been a seething little ball of rage since we picked her up.”

She’s one to talk. 

“Huh? You saw her? Meaning—”

“Yeah,” Gilpatrick says. “We made the arrest. Armstrong and I were out on patrol tonight, heard the dispatch, and we were the first ones on site.”

“Wow!” I say brightly. “That must’ve been terrifying. Arresting a murderous cape on your own…”

“You kidding?” Armstrong snaps. “You know that cops have been taking on capes for decades, right? Back in the day, it was the PRT that made 92% of arrests, not parahumans.”

“Did they? Oh, I must not have noticed. I was so young back then, you know. I probably wasn’t paying attention.”

“You probably were blind if you didn’t—”

“Haya?” Gilpatrick interjects. “Not the point?”

Armstrong breathes deep, trying to pin back that anger. I can see that she doesn’t really manage it, though. It’s still there in her eyes.

It’s almost cute how impotent that rage is.

“Anyway, while the PRT was out there keeping capes in check, your client was out there on the other side of the law. She’s got a rap sheet a mile long. Typical cape.”

“That’s not quite fair,” Gilpatrick says. “She did join the Wards later on in her career. Attended a few Endbringer battles. Fought in Gold Morning.”

I raise my eyebrows in fake surprise. “She’s a veteran?”

“Veteran? Ha—that’s one way to put it. Nobody came out of Gold Morning squeaky clean, especially not capes. And after the Lost Years? Well—she knew better than to try to challenge the law, that’s for sure.”

“What about the general amnesty?”

“General amnesty means we can’t arrest her for shit she did more than fifteen years ago. Doesn’t make her a goddamn hero, and it definitely doesn’t mean she gets to walk away from the bloodbath we found her in.” Armstrong narrows her eyes. “Psycho cape used her power to make her furniture come to life like a Saturday morning cartoon, and then beat her roommate to death in the middle of the living room. You look at the crime scene photos and you tell me if you think amnesty applies.”

“Okay,” I say easily. I pull out my phone and open the relevant case doc, as if I hadn’t looked over everything a dozen times during the commute. 

The crime scene photos are front and center. A body—censored for privacy with notes detailing the injuries—lies in the middle of a room on a white carpet, stained red. A heavy volume of blood coats and runs down the body of the lamp to her left, and about a quarter pint of spatter coats the surface of a table that seems to be propped up on two legs. The blood, of course, all matches the victim’s DNA. Several piles of cardboard boxes sit neatly stacked in the back. It looks like a typical crime scene, minus the oddly placed table. 

The CSI’s notes are tacked onto the bottom: the boxes contained clothes, miscellaneous kitchen gadgets, and a random assortment of knick knacks. They had been deemed inconsequential, and I didn’t see any reason to disagree. The door had been wiped clean on the outside, no fingerprints on the outer handle, though the inside still had plenty. It had also been left wide open. There is blood splatter on carpet, on lamp, and a minimal amount of a couch and table nearby.

And then there’s the autopsy report. Likely cause of death: severe physical trauma to the skull, where the bone had been caved in by a blunt object. The kind of force you’d need for that—well, it wasn’t pretty. In addition to the head wound, there’s lacerations all over the body, internal bleeding in a dozen different places, capstoned by a stab wound, straight to the heart, caused by what was likely a thin metal object. Estimated time of death: 9 PM.

I flash Armstrong a ditzy frown. “Gross.”

“That’s really all you have to say?”

“Well, yeah?  But I don’t really see what’s going on here. Like, how do you know this was caused by my client using her power?”

“A little thing called photographic evidence?”

“You’ve got a photo of her doing this?” I look down at my phone, then back at her. “I don’t see anything like that in the file.”

“Not—not a photo, exactly. Look, the woman’s power turns inanimate objects into minions, freakish creatures, basically, but they fade away if she doesn’t keep focus on them. When we arrived on scene, the table and lamp were still moving around. We drew a mock up of how things looked before her power wore off in document six.”

I flick over until I get to the sketch.

It’s…certainly inspired. The table is standing upright, transformed into a vaguely bipedal creature, with a facsimile of a face on its front. The lamp’s been changed much more. The shade’s pulled down to its middle almost like a shirt, the lightbulb is morphed into a pseudo-eye, the frame for the shade are turned into claws, its base is cracked into four different legs, and a spiked tail sprouts from its electrical plug.

”What the hell am I looking at?” I murmur. 

“You can thank Haya here for the drawings,” Gilpatrick says. “Her power lets her remember the scene pretty damn clearly. It’s even admissible in court. Though, uh, the artwork sometimes needs a little deciphering.”

Power? 

She’s a parahuman. Suddenly I’m recontextualizing our whole conversation. Was her aggression just a nascent part of her jackboot personality, or had her power picked up something…untoward from me? 

Not that there’s much I can do if it’s the latter. So in my kindest tone, I ask, “A parahuman working for the police department? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“It’s not against protocols,” she says, obstinately.

Despite her attitude, she isn’t wrong. There’s nothing illegal about what she’s doing. You can put yourself on the wrong side of the power gap if you really try, and there’s no legal recourse against it. But the reason there’s no laws against it is because as soon as you step across that line, the house is trying its hardest to get you back to your assigned table. 

The Wardens weren’t formed to house parahumans because the powers that be thought that they’d work better together—it was an attempt at damage control. Keep all your cards in a separate pile, segregate and control them from the rest of society, so when they lash out, you can throw away the whole pile without hurting anyone you actually care about. As soon as you trigger, you’re radioactive, and nobody on this side of the fence wants you too close for fear of getting burned. Armstrong should know that. So she’s either stupid, or very, very stubborn.

Hell, it’s even a bad decision for her financially. She’s practically throwing away a lofty career working the corporate beat. Any one of the Big Six would be tripping over themselves to recruit any new parahuman, let alone one with thinker powers. The Wardens might be the most powerful group if you’re judging purely based on their firepower, but in terms of sheer numbers, they’re dwarfed by even the smallest corporate team. Nearly every parahuman worth a damn’s already been bought and paid for by the private sector, if for nothing else but to keep them from winding up with one of their competitors. 

That’s business these days: cut-throat. After the veil of normalcy had set in, and the money started flowing again, plenty of gangs had gone white-collar, turning their illegitimate dealings into legitimate ones. Why fight with the state over petty holdings when you could sign a contract with the powers that be and just make it legalized?

“Still,” I say, “that’s so weird! You think you’d try to join the Wardens or something. Oh, should I be worried about you blowing me up? Or wiping my memory or something? Can capes still do that?”  

“Worried about—” she cuts herself off, too confused to actually be mad.

Gilpatrick steps up in her place to finish. “It’s nothing like that, little lady. She’s got eidetic memory and pinpoint precision, which lets her recreate crime scenes to the letter, from almost any angle. Sometimes up to a few minutes into the past. It’s all… very safe, Counselor. Nothing dangerous to your health.” 

I giggle. A few minutes, huh? Well, if that’s all she’s got, I guess Gilpatrick’s right—nothing to worry about. Now I get it. She’s a woman with a useful power, who’d stuck to a police force that didn’t want her out of sheer stubbornness. It was probably how she ended up in this dead end division in the first place—too many arguments with the higher-ups over her position had landed her right here in the reject pile. That sort of stubbornness only comes from someone who’s a real blue-blooded law and order type. 

And come to think of it—Armstrong’s a name that sounds oddly familiar. That, plus the PRT spiel a minute ago, spells it all out for me—she’s got some kind of a family connection that brought her into this life, a role model she’s been trying so hard to live up to.  But then she’d gone and triggered, and suddenly those dreams had slipped out of her reach. 

No wonder she was so mad. The retiree and the reject—what a pair these two make.

“You see what kind of trouble you’re in now?” Armstrong asks. “Might as well pack it up now and go home. Hand this case off to some other sucker with even worse luck than you.”

“Well, it’s not looking good, but I’ve more with less! Don’t you worry a bit—I’ll have this whole thing settled in no time!”

“No, you don’t seem to get it,” Armstrong said. “You’re not getting her out of this. We caught her red handed at the scene of the crime. Literally.”

Now that’s the kind of exaggeration they write papers about. “You caught her committing the murder?”

“Well—no, but we might as well have. Your client was standing over the victim’s corpse, completely covered in blood! Hell, it was dripping off of her hands when we got there! Her little minions were covered in it too, and all the blood matches the victim’s DNA, so obviously, they were the murder weapons. And if that’s not enough? We even have a written confession.” 

“Whoa, really? A confession? Like, you got her to sign something?” 

“Didn’t need to. Forensics scrubbed the texts off her phone, and whaddya know? The last thing she sent was a cut and dry threat to her roommate. So unless you think someone else stole your client’s phone and typed out a bunch of personal, verifiable details on her behalf? We’ve got her dead to rights.” 

“It’s not impossible! Isn’t there something in the legal code about beyond a shadow a doubt?”

“If this was the only thing we had on her, you’d be right. But that’s just icing on the cake, lady. We don’t need motive to convict, but it doesn’t hurt to have it.”

I skim through the case file until I land on the “confession.” A single text sent to the victim’s phone number at 6:43PM, placing it a couple hours before the time of death. 

im sick n tired of talking about money. it’s always money with you. you want this to end? fine, ill end it. Ill be back later. dont go anywhere, dont make me coming looking for u 

I scroll up a little more. Interestingly, there’s a lot more angry messages from the victim than the other way around: questions about rent payments, accusations of stealing from the fridge, and other other inconsequential bullshit that usually leads to husbands killing their wives. 

“Well that’s not so bad,” I say, slipping my phone into my purse. “There’s probably a perfectly normal explanation for that. I’m sure I can get this all straightened out before the DA shows up.”

“You’re joking, right? She threatened her roommate just a few hours before said roommate was murdered, over financial problems. And your client fits the profile to a T—an unemployed parahuman who just can’t find a job, with anger issues and a history of criminal activity. That’s who you’re defending. You realize that, right?”

“Oh, I know.” I flash a ditzy smile. “But I’m being paid to defend her, so I think I’ll do that!” 

Gilpatrick glances at Armstrong for a moment—some kind of nonverbal communication between partners, I guess—before turning back to me. “Listen, Councilor. I didn't wanna have to just say it. But your client… Do the kind thing. Don’t give her false hope. Don’t let it get in her head that there’s a way out. Tell her to go for whatever plea deal the Wardens will offer, because you know exactly what’s going to happen next. Because she’s done the one thing no cape is ever supposed to do—she crossed the power gap. This is parahuman on civilian violence, Counselor—the first Code 555 since the Lost Years ended.” 

He takes a breath. The next sentence comes out like a whisper—too dangerous to be uttered with volume. 

“You’ve probably heard that they’ve been talking about bringing back the death penalty.”

I have. “It’s still being debated in the courts.”

“Even so. This might be the thing that tips the scales. And if it doesn’t? She’s staring down the barrel of the Shin Work Release Program. You familiar?” 

“Sure. I’ve seen the facilities in person.” 

I’d only ever been inside wearing a shiny visitor’s badge on my chest, but even then? I’d take summary execution over a long-term stay in Shin. Death’s an easy out compared to losing your identity piece by piece. 

I’d know.

“Then you know what’s at stake. Because your client’s done something worse than just murder—soon as this hits the news, people are going to think the Wardens are slipping up. That the Lost Years are coming back. So they’re gonna want to make a show of her. Do yourself a favor—give this up, pass it off, collect your paycheck, and get some sleep. Don’t get yourself wrapped up in this mess. It’ll be better for everyone.”

For any other lawyer, he’d be right. The Wardens’ conviction rate hovers somewhere between ninety-seven to ninety-nine percent on any given month, and some of that was actually accomplished using real hard evidence. But the reality is that the powers that be like to put their thumb on the scales. They cheat. Because the Lost Years had shown the whole world loud and clear how much blood runs through the streets when Parahumans go unchecked, and so they’ve swung the pendulum back the other way, hard. The City’s not taking any chances now. 

And they wouldn’t appreciate some upstart unpowered lawyer sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Any other lawyer would be shaking in their designer loafers just thinking about facing down a PH-circuit judge.

But I’m not like other lawyers, because I’ve got a secret up my sleeve: the Wardens might cheat, but I cheat too. And I’m much, much better than they are.

“Thank you for the advice, officer. But if we’re done here, I’d like to speak with my client.” 

Interrogation rooms haven’t changed a bit since the end of the world, unsurprisingly. They’d perfected them long before I was ever born. Make them any more uncomfortable and you’d be staring down a dozen lawsuits before lunchtime. Not like they’d go anywhere, of course, but who has the time to deal with the paperwork? No, they’d figured it was sufficiently effective to leave a criminal sweating in a stifling concrete box, staring at the empty look on their own face. Nowhere to go but inward, nothing to see but the end of the line. Which is why expensive makeup, a neatly pressed suit, and a flash of color will win me a lot more with my client than any words could manage. 

I put on my best killer smile, and enter the room. 

I’m greeted by white; the walls, the ceiling, even the clothes my client is wearing. She’s drowning in an ill-fitting set of sweats, provided by the collective generosity of the almighty taxpayer. The detectives must’ve considered her clothes evidence, then. Her eyes are bloodshot. Looks like she hasn’t slept a wink. 

“Jeez,” I say, sauntering in. “The City’s really gotta hire a decorator or something. This place reeks!”

My client freezes up, at a loss at how to respond. “Huh?”

“Oh, not you. I know the rags you’re wearing are government-issue—not much you can do with those.” I grin. “You can call me Emma. Romp, I presume?” 

“Fuck off,” she responds.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, showing nothing but pearly whites. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Before she can respond, I lay my purse on the table and pull the chair out with a long screech. She doesn’t jump, though she does shudder. Must have been trained into her not to react. Beaten puppy knows not to bite. I play up an apologetic smile and slowly sit, setting a neon pink notebook and color-matched gel pen down onto the ice-cool steel.

“So, Romp…”

“Oh, cut the fucking crap. You know my fucking name, let’s not play this game.”

Of course I know her name. The Parahuman Incarceration Act’s been around for half a decade now. Nobody was willing to play with masks anymore after the Lost Years. The world had gone to shit, and just like that, the powers that be had decided enough was enough, and had drawn up a whole new rulebook on the spot. Those old ideas of cape life and anonymity? Slashed to pieces. It wasn’t like you were registered the moment you put on the cape—that would be draconian. But if you ever manage to find yourself on the wrong side of the law? The police would have your powers, fingerprints, face, name, ID, mother’s maiden name, first pet’s name, and everybody you’ve ever talked to shoved into one bloated file and copied to every law enforcement database from here to Earth Shin before you had the chance to cry uncle. 

It's why they hadn't provided her with a mask. These days, masks are reserved for those with the invisible kind of power. Most parahumans don't make the cut anymore.

Couldn’t have too many “dangerous individuals” running around free, could we?

I tilt my head to the side slightly, letting the sweet smile slip a fraction of an inch. My client doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to appreciate kindness. I’ll adjust accordingly.

“Lauren, then. I’m Emma Barnes, attorney at law.” 

I reach a hand across the table. She doesn’t grab it. She looks confused. Like the idea of a handshake is alien to her.

“Attorney? Already? Thought you were a cop.” 

“A cop? Ha, no way! Is my dress sense really that bad?” 

From the look on her face, I have the feeling she didn’t appreciate the joke. 

“What, you’re gonna try to get me to sign a plea deal? Is that it?”

“If I were just a lawyer, that would be my first move, yes. But I’m not just any lawyer, Lauren. I’m your lawyer. Which means I get paid to have your best interests in mind. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh,” she says. “I thought they wouldn't call one in until the morning.”

“Under normal circumstances, you’d be right,” I say. “Luckily for you, I was doing a little late night shopping, and the email came in right before I closed my laptop,” I say with a wave of my hand. “You did ask for a lawyer, didn’t you?”

“I—yeah. I did.”

“Great! Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you a few questions. Funny thing about accepting a case that only started existing an hour ago—makes it really hard to get the case docs in hand. So I’d like to get caught up. I think you’ll appreciate a little expediency?”

It’s an easy lie to tell—most people still think we’re pinned down by bureaucracy, and nobody in the industry is eager to change that. If the general public knew just how much of our work is automated these days?

Well, it’d hurt the Wardens’ image, that’s for sure. 

I want to get the story straight from her lips though, before I formalize my game plan. She doesn’t speak so much as glare at me, but the way she tilts her head makes me think she’s on board. 

“First off, how are you doing? Would you like something to drink? You hungry? I know a great gyro spot a couple blocks from here, if you're feeling peckish. They’re open late!”

Romp refuses to meet my eyes. “I’m fine. Can we just get this over with?” she asks, her voice growing quieter with every word. 

She fidgets in her seat, chains rattling. They’ve put her into anti-cape handcuffs. Usually those are reserved for tinkers or brutes, but it seems they’ve deemed her striker power enough of a risk. 

It's overkill, if you ask me. Can't even scratch your own ass without express permission from the cops in charge.

“Sorry about those,” I say, “I tried talking to the officers, but that’s the funny thing about cops—they don’t actually believe in wacky things like compassion. It’s a legal restraining method, and I couldn’t convince them those things weren’t needed. Regulations, you know?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just get on with it. What the hell happened to expediency?”

She’s cooling down a little, barely a fraction of a degree, but it’s something I can work with. Reading an angry person is easy, but getting an angry person to cooperate is a fool’s errand. I need her rational if I’m going to get her to work with me. And no one’s rational when there’s the death penalty hanging over their head. 

Still, it gives me an idea why the police had nailed her to the wall. If this is the treatment I’m getting, I can only imagine how cooperative she was with the boys in blue.

“Sure,” I say. “If you’re comfortable, I’d like to go over a few things. Just get a feel for what you saw, anything that may help our case, if you’re in the right headspace for it. Would that be alright?”

Romp still isn’t meeting my gaze. She’s wrapped up tighter than a steel coil, and she’s liable to snap. It’s the kind of thing that a cop would probably label as ‘probable cause’, but that’s the difference between an amateur and a pro. A tell just lets you know that your target’s under stress. Doesn’t tell you what’s causing it. 

Exploiting a tell’s just like reading tea leaves—it takes a trained expert to get anything actually useful, and most of the time it’s bullshit anyway.

It’s why you need cold hard facts to back it up.

Eventually she sighs and rubs her restrained hands together. “You don’t have to treat me like a civvie, you know. I’m not some little girl that needs to be coddled. I’m a cape. I’ve fought endbringers. Hell, this isn’t even my first time in a holding cell. All of this—this was nothing. It was just…it was just one woman. So dial back the condescension a little.” 

“Who said I was doing that?”

“I’ve heard enough of the therapy-speak from the court-mandated therapists for a goddamn lifetime. Can’t go ten minutes without a shrink whispering in my ear about holding space for survivor’s guilt or being at capacity for negative self talk or whatever. Let’s just skip that?” 

No, I suppose it isn’t her first time seeing death, is it? 

Fine. I’ll throw my whole hand away. It’s still early going yet; I’ve got plenty of time to change tack.

Though I can tell she’s bluffing about being unaffected by death—I can smell it on her. Death’s got a way of lingering, like mold. It builds. It clings to you. Maybe you wipe some of it off, maybe you can even make yourself look clean on the outside, but it doesn’t take too much to hollow a person out. There is no safe amount of exposure. The LD50 on death is zero. As soon as it touches you, it starts to eat away at you, no matter how “used to it” you become.

There’d have to be something wrong with you to not to be affected by that.

But it’s fine. I hate wearing kiddie gloves, too.

“Lauren,” I say, letting my smile fade, “I’m not trying to be patronizing. I’m trying to make sure we win this case.”

“Yeah? By treating me like a kid?”

“If that’s what it takes? Yeah. Because I was just on the other side of that glass, Lauren. I know what the detectives have been saying out there, and I know that if you don’t have every detail  straight, down to the nanometer, you’re done. Speaking as someone who’s financially vested in having your best interests in mind: you do not want to slip up now. You give those cops out there an inch, and they’ll take you all the way to summary judgement, you understand?”

Solidarity in troubling situations has a way of drawing people together. Right now Romp’s looking for stability, and I’m providing the only handhold she’s gonna get. Her eyes relax just a little, even if the rest of her doesn’t. “It’s that bad, huh? They really think I did it?”

“Sure do.”

“I thought it was all bluster from them, you know? City cops fucking with the first cape they could actually get their hands on.”

“I won’t say that didn’t play a role in it but…do you play poker, Lauren?”

“I mean, once or twice. Wouldn’t say I’m a gambler, though.”

“Think of all of this like a game of poker. Everyone’s dealt from the same deck, everyone plays by the same rules and runs the same odds. Fifty-two cards, and only so many ways you can put them together. So why is it that a couple of nobodies from the Parahuman Crimes Division are trying to stick you with the kind of charge that sets headlines?”

“Because they’re bluffing?”

“Mm. Good guess. That’s the standard read, and if this was any other case, you’d be walking away with the whole pot. But here? You’ve got to look at the tells.”

“What tells? You think I know how cops think?”

“Why not? You worked with the Wards back in the day, didn’t you? They made you read through the bureaucratic playbook, right? So what do you think it means when the PCD can’t even stall the Wardens from pulling a custody transfer on you for one night? What’s it tell you that they’re all-in on prosecuting this, even after a thinker’s pulled apart the whole scene for evidence?”

“...They think they’ve got something on me.”

I shake my head. “Closer, but still no cigar. The detectives might’ve put together a case that they think is pretty decent. And maybe they even buy into their own bluff. But ultimately, what they're holding doesn’t actually matter—because they’re playing for the House, and that gives the cops the strongest advantage there is. The powers that be have decided that you're guilty, Lauren, because it's the best outcome for them. They want what’s in the pot, and one way or another, they’re gonna get it.”

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Well—how do you win any game of poker? You bluff with everything you've got, and if that's not enough? You cheat.”

“Okay, but here’s a problem with your little theory,” she says, trying to slam her hands on the table but not quite managing it. “I’m not bluffing. I’m innocent.”  

“That’s good! Because that gives us some pretty strong cards. All we’ve gotta do is present our evidence in the right way, and I’ll have you out of here before the sun comes up,” I say with a smile.

Easier said than done. There are plenty of innocent people rotting in prison right now because their lawyers hadn’t tied the evidence together with a pretty enough bow.

“...So you’ve done stuff like this before, then?” she asks, settling back in her chair. 

“Homicide? Nah. I try to stay away from the stuff—it’s always so… messy.”

“...Wait, are you serious? You’ve joking, right?”

“Did I sound like I was joking?”

“Fuck.” She slumps back against her seat, steel creaking against concrete. “Of course I got myself the least experienced lawyer in town. Just my goddamn luck.”

Least experienced? She couldn’t be more off-base. 

The current legal system’s a hodgepodge of bylaws and regulations stapled together from several different worlds, least of which including Earth Bet. Powerful interests from every arena had tried to put their own mark on our lawbook, and each of them had managed it in some capacity. The whole damn thing’s an arcane mess by design, created so only the insiders know where the loopholes are. But lucky for her, I was there when it was created.

There's no one more inside than me.

“I’m not that bad,” I say, grinning. “The City’s been shortchanged for years, you know. You’re lucky you didn’t get a first-year paralegal to represent you. You’ve got someone who’s at least passed the bar!”

“Wow. I feel so fortunate. Maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket. If I'm allowed to buy those from prison, anyway.” 

“Listen, Lauren,” I say more soberly, “I’ve been around this circuit enough times to know exactly what to expect from these people. I know their playbook in and out—the things they don’t write down. The secrets that only get passed through word of mouth. And I know intimately who shows up in those circles. Like the woman they have ready to run you through the courts like a freight train. Sierra Kiley. Bigshot DA.” 

The facade cracks, just a bit, and with a wary glance she says, "Kiley... I know that name."

"You should. She's an old associate of someone you used to know. ‘Weaver’ ring any bells?"

She flinches, just for a nanosecond, but she’s under the microscope now. Anyone could see that tell from across the room—not relief, but slight panic, followed by an acute sense of discomfort. Now that’s interesting, if not surprising. Taylor had never really won herself any friends, had she?

"Wait, what? Seriously?"

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’m always serious. I mean, it’s an open secret in certain circles that she only got that seat because Tattletale helped put her name on the shortlist. The right pressure in the right places—well, I’m sure you understand how that works.” 

Not entirely an untrue statement, but I’m leaving a mountain's worth of details out. But I’m not about to get into the complicated minutia of city politics with a girl who looked like she last read the news when she clicked the wrong link on her home page. Never bluff with your full hand. Even a child could tell you that.

“And…that’s a good thing, right?” she asks. “If we have a connection—”

I tilt my head, close my eyes, and let out just the barest hint of a giggle. There’s that hope in her voice—barely audible, but so, so bright.

“Oh you think—that’s so sweet. No, Lauren. I wouldn’t expect her to go easy on a former friend of a former friend. In fact, she's a real law-and-order type, takes the job more seriously than her own life. She hates that Tattletale's her sponsor. Sure, it’s gotten her in the door, but now it’s a noose around her neck that she’ll never be able to get rid of. They’d love to hang her with it, but she’s just so gosh darn good at her job that the committee hearings never seem to make it past first muster.”

I lean in a little, as if I’m sharing a secret between the two of us. Romp leans away.

“If anything, she'll crack down on you hard just to prove a point. Not that she really needed the extra motivation. Because you’re a cape, Lauren. And you’ve been accused of murder in the first degree. Not a single person on that jury will be on your side. Not now, not after the Lost Years. If this goes to court, it's already over for you. There's no way in hell you're leaving that room a free woman."

“But you just said—if I’m innocent then she wouldn’t—I’m not signing a plea deal! ”

I cover my mouth with my hand in mock surprise. “Oh, no! I hope you wouldn’t ask for a plea deal, because there’s not going to be one. The City won't offer you anything, because Kiley's afraid it'll look bad for her. And even if you get on your knees and bow so deep you’re leaving dents in the floor? She’ll never budge. Again—if you step into that courtroom, you're done. The odds are so miniscule they're not even worth talking about. And the House will get its due, just like it always does."

"Then—then what the hell was the point of anything you said before? All that shit about bluffing? What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

I pick up my pen and scrawl something down. Just a hint of a note, like a little prayer to God. It’s almost cute the way she’s squirming through it all. “The only thing you need to do is sit back and relax, silly. I’m telling you all of this so that you can fully appreciate the bullet you’re going to dodge by having me here.”

I bare my teeth. 

“I’ll derail this whole train before it ever passes preliminary hearings. But to do that, I’m going to need to hear everything you know. Every gruesome little detail. And above all? I need you to be honest with me. I’m your lawyer, after all. And if I can’t get you out of this, there’s a lot worse waiting for you than just a few years in prison.”

“...What do you mean by that?”

“The death penalty’s on the board,” I say simply. “Did the good detectives out there mention that?”

“No, they—Wait, I thought that was still up for debate. Like in the Supreme Court or something.”

“It is! And your case has a chance to set a real nasty precedent. But if I’m being honest? If the courts swung that way, and they decide to put you in the chair? You’d be better off.” I stare her straight in the eyes. “Have you heard of the Shin Work Release Program?”

I can tell by her expression that she hasn’t. Because if she had, there’d be a lot more terror. It’s an open secret in the right circles, but I guess C-list capes aren’t included in those circles. I’m not overly surprised by that—no one wants to admit it even exists. Lot easier to sleep at night when you can pretend we didn't just substitute one humanitarian crisis for another. 

Well—no need to give the poor girl nightmares. Especially when she’ll never have to see it—not with me here.

“Let’s just leave it at there being a lot worse things than a quick death.”

The anger’s gone now. Fear pervades everything, so thick you can almost taste it in the air. Good. That means she’s focused. She’s got her game face on.

Then it’s time to get started for real.

“So,” I say, “in your own words, what happened tonight? Start from the beginning.”

Romp leans back in her chair, staring down at her hands, fiddling with gloves that won’t ever budge. Finally, she sighs.

“I was on patrol tonight.”

On patrol, meaning out in costume. There would’ve been witnesses that could corroborate that.

“Starting at what time?” 

“Uh—probably started around six o’clock. Maybe a quarter hour after? I didn’t exactly clock in. The sun was set by then.”

The estimate’s rough, but that’s fine. It’s still way ahead of the established timeline. The coroner's report states the TOD as somewhere between 8:30 and 9PM.

“You were on patrol,” I say. “For who?”

“...What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, what corporation were you contracted under?”

She frowns. “None of them. I’m an indie cape.”

And that stops me in my tracks, halfway through scrawling down a note. Nobody does independent cape work anymore. Anyone sane takes up a contract with a business group, and if you’ve got a combat power, they’ll assign you a schedule patrolling the company campus, or warehouse, or miscellaneous business interest. Capes have orgs. That’s foundational. Even that idiot detective in the other room at least is working for the police. 

No wonder the powers that be want Romp in the ground—she doesn’t have an org behind her. There’s no one to protect her, and more crucially, there’s minimal splashback when she gets a life sentence. Nobody will care what happens to her. 

Indie capes are a joke—a remnant of the old world, back when people used to put on stupid outfits and run around playing hero. That fantasy fell apart with Gold Morning. The Lost Decade buried it for good. 

If she’s still putting on the costume and fighting crime, she’s gotta be a fanatic. And it makes this a lot harder. Corporate capes have radios, company phones, GPS modules—they’ve got digital footprints. They leave behind evidence.

“Were you carrying your phone with you?” 

She looks uncomfortable now. I already know the answer before she speaks. 

“I mean…I carry one, yeah, but I usually remove the battery before I start my patrols. Only put it back in if I need to make a call.”

Damn it. That’s not the answer I wanted to hear. The moment drags on for an uncomfortably long time before she gives a weak explanation.

“I don’t like being tracked when I work.” 

Of course she didn’t. The indie cape wanted to stay indie, and now she’s paying the price for it.

“You didn’t make any calls tonight?”

“No. I just sent my roommate a text on the way out, and then I turned my phone off.”

Bad move. It’s the exact kind of thing that adds scrutiny to your case if you’re a cape. Nobody in the jury box will look kindly on a parahuman trying to maintain privacy.

“Where was your patrol? Do you remember the route?”

“Uh—It was out in District G. Went from Eighteenth to Sycamore.”

“Why there?”

“They don’t get a lot of support from the big groups. They don’t have enough money flowing through for corps to give a shit, and the Wardens won’t even answer calls from there. So I pick up the slack.”

Of course she did. District G’s a border town—it’s as far away from the city center as you can possibly get without leaving the City entirely. And of course, this means there aren’t any cameras to corroborate her story. This night’s just getting better and better.

“Did anything happen that night? Anything out of the ordinary? Did you speak with anyone? Did you make incidents? Any arrests?”

“...Well, I—look,. this wasn’t exactly planned, okay? Had an argument with Vanessa, and it was just so loud, and I—I left. Needed to cool my head.”

“Vanessa was your roommate?”

In other words, the murder victim.

“...Yeah. So I just started walking. And I had my mask on me—always carry it, just in case—and I figured I might as well just run a patrol. But other than running off a few loiterers…no, not much happened. There usually isn’t much to see, anyway.”

Hm. Something seems… off. Call it a sixth sense—the kind of premonition you’d get when you hear a dog barking three houses over. Not exactly the kind of thing that immediately stands out—unless you’ve got the context to piece one clue to another. Like if, say, you’re standing in a bad neighborhood with a history of violent crime.

And there’s no worse neighborhood than Precinct 43.

My client’s hiding something. 

“You’re saying District G’s safer than they say on the news?”

“Ha. No. There’s always something happening around there, but that doesn’t mean I’m there to see it. Cause most people are smart enough to clear off on nights when a cape’s in town. ”

Makes sense—most people would assume any cape they ran into had a whole team backing them. A cape’s more than just a person with powers—these days, they’re a company rep. You fuck with one of them, and all of a sudden you’ve got the whole united force of Elite Holdings breathing down your neck. 

“If I actually wanted to catch those guys, I’d have to show up undercover,” she says. “Out of costume.”

“So why don’t you?”

She shrugs. Her cuffs clink with the motion. “Not really worth my time. They’re mostly petty thieves, anyway. They’re desperate people, you know. They’re not, like, monsters.”

“That’s pretty high-minded of you.”

“Is it?”

“If you asked the Wardens, they’d probably say so.”

She scoffs. “Fuck the Wardens. I just see it how it is. Cause unlike them, I’ve actually been on the streets. I know what it’s like. Nobody needs a cape caving their skull in on the worst day of their lives. I show up so the poor nobodies don’t have to deal with anyone escalating. I keep the peace. That’s all.” 

She really was a true believer.

“What time did you finish your patrol?” 

“Uh—I started going home around 9PM. Probably made it back around… I don’t know. 9:30PM?”

If she’d really gotten home at half past nine, that meant she had an alibi at the time of death. Or—she would have an alibi, if there’d been any proof that she was out.

But she had her phone off, and wasn’t caught on any cameras. And the few people she’d interacted with are just unnamed loiterers—it’d take more time than I have just to track them down, let alone interview them and get the evidence processed.

“And what happened then?”

“I…” she began slowly. “I headed home for dinner. Would’ve grabbed something on the way home, but, y’know, I can’t really eat in costume. Mask gets in the way.”

I made a show of writing down what she was saying, but my attention was firmly on her. I wanted to see every twitch of a muscle in her face. The way her muscles grew taut as she tried to close her hands, straining against her cuffs. I wanted to read her.

“I remember the door was open. And it was—nobody leaves the door open around here. Practically asking to get robbed, you know? One time I forgot, and Vanessa—I’ve never seen her so mad. And sure, we had our arguments, but that time, I knew she was absolutely right. So Vanessa would never leave the door open. The second I stepped through that doorway I knew something was wrong. It was way too quiet. Vanessa was always so loud, always blasting music or shouting through a headset or…it was just too quiet. And maybe I was already on edge because we’d had that argument. Then I walked in and saw the body…”

“Wait a second,” I say, as I pull my phone out of my purse and peruse the court documents.

I pulled up the forensics pics. Her home was one of those prefab block apartments built by the Shin Business Group early on during the Gimel Refugee Crisis—and she’s lucky it’s a Shin building. Back when the City was new, construction was done by either Shin BG or Elite Holdings—and sure, they were less than scrupulous groups, but desperation calls for unscrupulous bedfellows. People were willing to do whatever it took to get out of the tent cities, and the government was willing to make any number of concessions to make that happen. So the bidding war began, and each corp carved up half the city for themselves. Didn’t matter that the Elite’s construction was managed by capes, that the parahuman element made it all unmaintainable. A roof is a roof.

And the happy side effect is that now, Elite Holdings has a subscription based plan way more effective than rent. If you pay the monthly fee, their cape would come by once a year to make sure your building won’t collapse. If you miss a payment? Well—that’s on you. And ELH shares have never been higher. 

The Shin-built apartments, on the other hand, weren’t anything to be proud of, but at least they were structurally sound. 

I swipe through a few more pictures of concrete rooms modified to look a little more homely before I landed on pics of the body. 

The floor’s covered by a plain white carpet, clean except for one sharp trail of dry blood droplets stretching out towards the front door. Several boxes are stacked in the back, sealed with tape and labeled. The table lamp sits next to the body with a splatter of blood coating the middle of its body. The table the lamp had been sitting on rests close by, much cleaner than the supposed murder weapon, with only a few specks of blood visible in additional photos. The lamp’s got my client's fingerprints on it—a few partials on the lampshade.

The door, as she described, is open, with fingerprints matching both the victim and my client on the inside knob. I focus to check for anything incongruent with her testimony before motioning for her to continue.

“For a second,” she says,” I didn’t even realize what I was looking at. Which is—is stupid. I’ve seen dead bodies before. People I knew, people I was close to. But here, it just… didn’t click. Vanessa wasn’t a part of all that, wasn’t connected to anything dangerous. She was in a whole different world. It just didn’t make sense that she could be dead. She was lying there on the floor and…all I could think was that maybe she’d had some kinda medical emergency: a heart attack, a stroke, something like that. It was only by the time I was next to her, checking for a pulse, that I felt the blood…”

“Two of your creations were on the scene,” I say, flipping to the drawings.

“Yeah. I wasn’t really thinking about it, you know? It was just instinct. As soon as I felt something was wrong, I reached for the first two things that I could see, the coffee table and the lamp. I thought that maybe the killer might still be in there but…I was alone. So I just fell back on my first aid training—I tried to stem the bleeding. And I was still holding a goddamn rag against my roommate’s face when the police finally showed up.”

“These would be these, then.”

Romp looks over, squinting as I hold up my phone. “Who the fuck drew those, a five year old?”

“You know the detectives that took you in?”

“Yeah? They cuffed me and stuffed me in the backseat of their car sideways. Couldn’t even move my head, I was stuck staring at them the whole way over.”

“Oh, that’s good. Then you know the short one with a permanent scowl.”

Romp barks out a tired laugh. “Oh—yeah, that checks out. Fuck, I can almost see what she was going for with that. Yeah, that was my power.” 

So my client’s confirmed she was at the scene of the crime, and her power was active. I try to refocus our conversation. “Did you and Vanessa argue often?” 

Her eyes widen, and in them there’s something like shock. Or maybe panic. It’s hard to tell one from the other—but one of them gets you taken advantage of, and the other sticks you with a life sentence. 

“I didn’t do it,” Romp says. “I mean—we fought sometimes, yeah. Of course we argued, but I would never actually hurt her. You gotta believe me, I’m not—”

“Lauren,” I interrupt before she can waste any more of our time. “Stop. This is unnecessary, and more importantly? It’s embarrassing.”

“What—” She breathes. “Fuck you! What am I supposed to do, just let you think I murdered her—?”

“I don’t think you’re guilty, Lauren.” I shake my head. “Listen to me. I’m not the police. I’m not a journalist. I’m your lawyer, and that comes with a little thing called attorney-client confidentiality. You could tell me straight up that you’re responsible for Gold Morning, and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it. I’m here to help you, no questions asked. But even if I wasn’t? I believe you. I know you’re innocent. You don’t have to convince me. But if I’m going to do my job, I need to know everything. Even if you think it makes you sound guilty, understand?” 

Romp sighs, and I can see the tension fading from her eyes. Seems I’m starting to break her down. 

Finally.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, we argued a lot. Mostly about money. I was a month late on rent…well, maybe more than a month late. Wasn’t the first time it happened, either. But they were just arguments, you know? I always got the money eventually.” 

I’m not surprised. Indie capes and cash flow problems go hand in hand. Because every corporation that works with capes has strict moonlighting policies, all of them legally binding and all of them carrying serious consequences. Means she can’t work for any of the big six and still get away with playing frontier sheriff. Any indie cape still around after the Lost Years only manages to survive off the scraps of their communities, which means she either makes rent through local fundraising—unlikely, given Romp’s sparkling personality—or she has to be working a job totally disconnected from that part of her life. Part time, with few enough hours that she’s actually got the time to patrol the streets looking for crime. 

And there just aren’t that many of those jobs these days. She’s probably been unemployed more than she’s been working.

“Do you know any reason anyone would want to hurt your roommate?”

“No. I mean, we weren’t super close. I didn’t know a whole lot about her personal life.”

“Hm. And is there any reason someone might want to hurt you?”

“...I’m a cape. Plenty of people want to hurt me.”

“Not just any cape. A vigilante.” I let the last few syllables dissolve on my tongue like an expensive prescription.

“That’s only a dirty word when the corporate class says it,” Romp argues.

“So big business isn’t a fan of you.”

“No. I mean, of course they aren’t. All the big groups—the Elite, Shin, Cheit, the Wardens—all of them hate anyone who’s still got a goddamn spine.”

“That’s true,” I say. “But is there any reason they’d want you harmed, specifically? Is there anything you’ve done that might’ve gotten you in their spotlights?”

She hesitates, barely for a fraction of a moment, and then shakes her head. “No.”

My eyes light on hers.

It’s too late. I can see it—behind the righteous bluster, behind the fear and ambient terror that comes with the criminal justice system, I can see the mask slip. There’s the primordial decision tree grinding its gears: fight, flight, or faun. 

Artifice recognizes artifice. These days, that’s bedrock. Everything’s connected, everything’s online. A machine can’t turn on without declaring itself to every other machine across whole worlds, and a liar can’t speak without broadcasting her tell to anyone who’s got a receiver.

My lips start to move before the conscious thought even strikes them:

“What did you do, Lauren?”

Romp falters. The mask slips entirely, and underneath there’s nothing but fear. Nobody likes being exposed like this.

But I need to know.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says.

“Of course. Like I said—attorney-client confidentiality. My lips are legally sealed.”

“I, uh, did talk to someone else tonight. I met up with another cape, Golem—just to talk! We just talked. It wasn’t work related.”

Ah. Of course.

Corporate capes aren’t supposed to interact with their competitors, especially outside of work functions—their legal teams are way too twitchy when it comes to insider trading and headhunting these days. Government orgs work the same way: a Warden can be friends with another Warden, but never with Shin BG muscle, and vice versa.

And if one were to be seen hanging out with an indie vigilante, outside of the context of recruiting? That’s grounds for an immediate audit. Your history had better be squeaky clean, because if it’s not?

Better start looking for a lawyer.

“Golem’s a Warden, isn’t he?”

“...Yeah. We’re old friends. Used to be on the same Wards team together, back in the day.”

And the unspoken context, of course, is that he’d have good reason to dole out favors under the table. Ex-teammates giving concessions to each other are a common thing in Parahuman law—the single most prosecuted type of PH case, in fact. And Romp must have a good reason for not wanting Golem under the microscope.

“How’d you find him? Did you turn your phone back on?”

“No. I didn’t need to. He usually hangs out at a bar in the area, so… I went.” 

“And what did you talk about?” 

“What the hell else? Money,” she grumbles out. “Always money. Rent.”

Rent, huh? Everything seems to swirl back to the same conclusion. Everything, from top to bottom. I can’t really blame the detectives for this—it’s a lot easier to see when you’re not blinded by the thought of society crumbling to bits.

Someone did kill Romp’s roommate. But it wasn’t a cape.

“One last thing,” I say. “They seem to think they have a confession from you that you did this.” 

“A—what?” I pull the confession note up on my phone and any possible argument stops dead in its tracks as she leans in to read it. 

For a moment, she’s confused. I can see it in her eyes—this isn’t acting. It’s all genuine, pure human instinct. “What? That’s not what that is at all!” 

I look over the message again. It is ambiguous, but this is something I can argue. All the pieces seem to fall into place in front of me. The hand dealt out wasn’t strong, but it wasn’t bad either. 

I can work with this. 

“I’m going to bring the detectives back in. I think we have enough to get you cleared of all charges.”

The room’s stuffed, packed in like rush hour traffic. It’s not meant for more than two people at a time, and it shows. The two detectives barely fit in the space by the door, and I’m perched over the table like a gargoyle.

Which means, of course, I have the tallest seat in the house. You can’t open your eyes without laying them on me.

“My client is completely innocent,” I declare. “It’s probably in your best interests to drop the charges now, before the DA gets here and realizes you wasted her time.”

Armstrong looks like she already wants to strangle me. Gilpatrick doesn’t look too much happier about my pronouncement. They’re upset because I’m challenging the charges, and therefore the authority of the PCD.

“It’s far too late to pull this shit,” Armstrong says. “I already called her an hour ago, and the DA’s on her way as we speak. 

“Then you’ll just have to call her and let her know you were wrong,” I say, with a bright, cheery smile.

She looks on the verge of snapping, growling at me, but manages to hold the animal back. Working for the State has its drawbacks—as much as she benefits from having the House behind her, she’s chained by it, too. There’s decorum to worry about. One wrong move and a lawyer can call for a mistrial before the day’s over.

She steps forward cooly, sparing a single glare at my client. 

In the olden days of Earth Bet, criminal defense was where all the rockstar prima donnas gravitated—the kind of fast and loose work that usually involves poking holes in the prosecution’s case until it finally sinks. It’s flashy, sets headlines, and all you have to do is put your opponent on your toes.

But these days? You can shoot all the holes you want and still lose. Nobody will explicitly say it, but ‘innocent until proven guilty’ doesn’t apply to people with powers. For parahumans, it’s all about making sure the cost-benefit analysis comes out in your favor. It’s about proving you’re a small enough fish that the fishermen put you back into the water.

The burden of evidence has shifted slightly with the changing tides. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible for me to win. Despite the current climate, I don’t actually need hard evidence that my client’s innocent—I just need to show my client’s harmless enough to win a not guilty verdict. And to do that, I just need to come up with an alternative timeline of events. 

All I have to do is put myself in the mindset of a killer.

Armstrong scoffs. “Open your eyes, lady! We have a time-stamped confession, caught her literally red handed at the scene of the crime, and we have proof her constructs were used as the murder weapon.” Armstrong’s counting every point off on her fingers. “You can rearrange the facts all you want, but they all still point to the same damn thing. She’s getting shipped off to the Wardens the second the DA arrives.”

Gauntlet thrown.

“Let’s start with the confession, then,” I say, my smile growing wider. 

The persona falls over me again in an instant. Romp may not feel either way about the act, but the police will. Driving the heel in hurts so much more when it’s a pink Versace. 

“You seem so convinced that this one text is a confession of murder. But it’s not even a threat.”

“What are you talking about? What the hell else could it be?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” I say. “She’s telling her roommate that she’s moving out.” 

Armstrong furrows her eyebrows. “Nice spin, but the body of evidence says otherwise.” 

“Is that right?” I pull up the crime scene photos and present them to Armstrong. She frowns.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?”

“Look at the room. The whole place is filled with packed boxes. Didn’t you find that odd when you first entered the scene? And look at the description: clothes, utensils, random crap. Doesn’t that strike you as odd to have sitting around the living room?”

“So their apartment was a mess. That seems a lot less important than the puddle of blood she was kneeling in.”

“I’m not surprised you thought it was irrelevant. Everyone else at the scene seemed to think so. I guess your CSIs were just so focused on the body, they didn’t think to ask why. But what you’re looking at is her defense.” 

“What?” Armstrong asks.

“The room was filled with boxes because she was getting ready to move out. She was broke and late on rent, and her own texts make that obvious. You know how capes are—especially the independants. They’re terminally unemployed, always drowning in debt.. Always moving from one district to the next looking for their next life buoy. So my client, down on her luck, way past her rent deadline, decides she’s gonna move out, and sends a text to her roommate to set up the conversation.” 

Armstrong rolls her eyes. “You’re jumping to conclusions.” 

“How so?”

“Sure, those are moving boxes at the crime scene. And I buy that Romp’s—”

“Call me Lauren,” Romp interjects. “I’m not in costume.”

My eyes land on hers in a moment of silent communication. She’d promised to keep her mouth shut unless spoken to, and to let me handle this. If I have to ask the detectives to leave the room—well. None of us will be happy about that. 

Romp looks apologetic, at least. Hopefully there won’t be any more unnecessary interruptions from the peanut gallery.

“Lauren, whatever,” Armstrong says, exasperated. “I buy that she’s broke, and that she was moving out. But that doesn’t mean the message isn’t a threat.”

“Well,” I say, glancing at my client. “Was it a threat, Lauren?”

“No, of course not! I just wanted to have a talk with her, that’s all!” 

“Uh huh,” Armstrong says. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you were about to be kicked out, had no place to go, and after another long, fruitless patrol, you found yourself at rock bottom, and you snapped. You felt you had nothing to lose. It’s a tale as old as time.”  

“That does sound pretty plausible,” I say, scratching my chin. “I think I’ve seen that kinda thing on TV before.”

Romp’s face twists into an adorable shape of panic. “Wait, what?”

“Well—” I say, grinning wide, “it would be plausible if she didn’t already have another place lined up, and if there wasn’t a witness that would corroborate that.”

Armstrong’s eyes narrow. “That’s where you’re screwed, Counselor. Because there weren’t any witnesses.”

“No silly, there weren’t any witnesses to the murder. But Romp met with another cape tonight—a Warden—to discuss moving in with him. I’m sure he’d be happy to verify that.”

“A Warden? Are you just making shit up now? Or is this some wishful thinking on your part? Because we’ve gone through your client’s phone, and there’s nothing in there proving she had any communication with any member of the Wardens at any point in the last twelve months.”

“No, you’re right,” I say. “There isn’t any evidence. And there wouldn’t be.”

“I—what? What the hell are you even saying?”

“I’m saying that if someone as cautious as my client were to contact an old friend from the Wardens—a connection that would be disastrous for both their careers if it was made public—that person would not want to leave any evidence behind that they’d spoken. Basic common sense, honestly. Did you know that modern phones allow you to delete texts, Detective? It’s a pretty nifty feature, honestly.”

“Okay, sure. So she supposedly sent a bunch of exonerating texts to a Warden and then deleted them. That’s what you’re saying. You’re trying to argue that there’s invisible evidence that we should just take at face value. Is this a fucking joke? Is this how you normally handle your cases, lady?”

I pout. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Are you—No, of course I don’t believe in the fucking fairy tale you’ve just made up for yourself!”

“Well, if you don’t wanna take my word for it, Detective, all you gotta do is make a phone call to Golem. I’m sure he’d be able to vouch for my client.”

“Right!” Romp adds. “Golem would be happy to verify that. I was planning on moving out tonight or tomorrow but…”

“Then we’re just passing the buck down the hall! We’re supposed to just believe this other cape wouldn’t have any incentive to lie to protect an old friend?”

“Well…” I shrug. “Not reaaaally? If she’s moving in with him, there’s paperwork involved, you know? Her name would be on the lease, there’d be apartment applications with her signature on them. I mean… you know that, right, Detective?”

And for that brief moment, the Detective falters. She’s missed a step.

Point one goes to me.

“Fine,” Armstrong grunts. “We’re getting off track here. I’m willing to accept that the note may arguably be just a pissed off message about her moving out, but that doesn’t change the facts. Sure, she may have planned on moving out that night, but the text proves that she was angry about it. It’s obvious the two don’t get along. And maybe during the time between her arriving at home and her leaving the apartment, an argument broke out. The altercation turns physical, and your Parahuman here couldn’t stop herself from taking it too far.”

“Hm. But isn’t that just a theory, too? You don’t have any proof they started physically fighting over what was mentioned in the text, do you? I think it’s, like, corroborating evidence, at best. Unless I missed something…?” I scratch my chin.

“Corroborating evidence is still evidence!”

“Mm, but it’s kinda weak as far as motive goes, don’t you think? Lots of people get kicked out of their houses, but we don’t all turn into murderers over it. All you’ve really got is that my client was upset, and upset doesn’t equal murderous. It just kind of implies it, and you can’t convict with just an implication, you know!”

“Look, forget the confession. We don’t need it. We already have a mountain of evidence proving she committed the murder, regardless of the reason.”

I smile, close my eyes and tilt my head in faux friendliness. “Evidence of her doing the deed, huh? I’m glad you brought that up, because I have some issues with that too~!”

Armstrong sneers. “Like what?” 

“Well—like the fact that she couldn’t have killed the victim with her powers.” 

Armstrong’s face turns stony. She’s staring me down like I’ve just put on a clown costume. “We know she had to have killed her using her powers. The impact points on the victim’s body match the shape of the lamp, and the DNA from the victim was all over the stem of that same lamp. We have evidence that your client used her power on that same lamp, and to top it all off? There were no other weapons in the room she could have used to commit the murder.”

“I think you’re missing something important~!,” I say, waving a finger. “Take a look at your picture of my client’s constructs again.”

“What? Why?”

“Come onnnnn. Please? I promise there’s a point to this! Maybe you’ll see the point I’m making if you look at it again.”

“Ugh. Fine! What the hell am I looking for?”

“What?” I ask in mock surprise. “You don’t see it? A brilliant detective like you?”

“Quit screwing around and tell me what I’m supposed to be seeing.”

Oh, fine. My time’s running out, so I’ll take pity on her.

“This picture was…taken as you and your partner arrived on the scene, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And the lamp was used as the murder weapon, right?”

“Yeah, it was. So what?”

“Well, if the lamp was used to bludgeon the victim to death… Why can’t you see any blood on it in this picture?”

The detective frowns. Her eyes narrow. “Because the lampshade is covering the spot where all the blood is.”

“So tell me again how it’s possible that my client could’ve bludgeoned the victim using her construct? How'd her construct whack her roommate over the head when there's a perfectly intact lampshade in the way?”

“That—” The detective tears her eyes away from the photo. “It doesn’t prove anything! Maybe the lampshade was pulled down to hide the evidence!”

“So you’re saying my client placed it there, after murdering her roommate, instead of just…disposing of the evidence entirely? She could’ve just walked the lamp outside and far, far away from the crime scene. Or she could’ve wiped it down.”

“She didn't have enough time,” Armstrong insists. “We showed up just a few minutes after the time of death.”

“It's true,” Gilpatrick adds. It's all timestamped on our body cams.

“Hmm, maybe! But how on earth would her construct have hit her with that part of the stem with all those scary little arms in the way? Doesn't that seem a little impractical? Plus, like, it was standing up on its little feetsies! You think it jumped on her or something? Multiple times back to back? Sorry, I'm just having a little trouble picturing how it would actually hit her…”

Gilpatrick clears his throat. “I can explain that one, counselor. The suspect killed the victim wielding the lamp as a weapon, and then used her power on it afterwards.”

Not a bad theory. It'd be a point for the detectives… if I wasn't keeping a better hand in my back pocket. 

“That's not possible,” I say. “Because my client’s fingerprints were not found on the lamp stem. She couldn't have held it in her hands.”

“She’s a cape, she could have been wearing gloves.”

“She’s a striker,” I correct her, “which means she needs her hands exposed to use her power. You would have known if you checked, she doesn’t have gloves as part of her costume.”

“She could've wiped her prints off,” insists Armstrong.

It's almost funny how desperate she is.

“She had the time to wipe her prints but not wipe the blood off of it or hide the weapon entirely?”

“How long do you think it takes to wipe some cloth over a piece of metal?”

“She's right,” Gilpatrick adds, crossing his arms. “There were a lot of things in that room. Most of it got written off as unimportant, but any number of them could have been used to wipe down the lamp, and it's entirely possible that she just ran out of time before she could finish.”

I tilt my head, thinking Is he right? Is it possible? 

“Fine,” I concede. “You could be right. I mean, it sounds ridiculous, but I guess it’s sorta technically possible. …Gosh, sorry, I’ve just been a little distracted. Something’s just been bothering me for the last half hour. Sometimes when a thought gets in my head, it just doesn’t wanna get out, you know?” I chuckle, shaking my head with a ditzy smile.

I wait an agonizing amount of time before Gilpatrick realizes that wasn’t a rhetorical question. “What’s bothering you?”

“I was just wondering… who left the door open?” 

Armstrong frowns. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well…when my client arrived at home, the front door was already open. When the police arrived, the door was still open. That’s how it appears in the case files. And that’s how it was described in both my client’s testimony and your testimonies.” 

“So what?”

“Well…who opened the door?”” 

“That’s what you’re talking about? Jesus, your client probably opened the door and forgot to close it. That’s nothing.”

I can’t help myself; I giggle. “But there weren’t any fingerprints on the outside knob. Only the inside knob. And remember, she wasn’t wearing gloves.” 

“Okay? So maybe she wiped those prints too.” 

“So she wiped down the murder weapon and the outside door for an apartment she lives in, but only on the outside and didn’t even bother to shut it after she was done? All while committing the premeditated murder of her roommate? Anyone could’ve just walked by, you know. A nosy neighbor, the landlord, a random cop…Personally, I would’ve shut the door. Especially if I was taking the time to wipe down the knob”

Armstrong’s losing her patience. “Just spit it out. What are you getting at?” 

I lean back over the table, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “My client didn’t leave the door open. So who do you think did?”

“You gotta be kidding me,” she says. “Maybe the roommate left it open.”

“But she wouldn’t have. It’s a part of town where nobody sane goes anywhere without locking the front door, and the victim made a point of always doing so. She was an incredibly cautious person. In fact, she’s actually yelled at her roommate a few times for accidentally leaving it open. You can check their texts if you want evidence of that.”

“Okay, so maybe Lauren left it open on her way out! She’s got a history of it, apparently!”

“And her roommate just didn’t notice for three whole hours?”

“Mistakes happen,” Armstrong says. “Sometimes lethal ones.”

“Well—my client’s original testimony states that she shut the door on her way out. Says so in the little handy documents with her signature on it.”

“So maybe she lied.”

“Why? What purpose would that serve?”

“What purpose do you have for bringing this shit up?”

The real answer’s simple: if I’m going to get Romp out of this, I need to set up an alternative timeline of events where someone else could’ve committed the crime.

“Well, let’s say this: someone else gets to the apartment first. Our real murderer. They kill the victim and leave after wiping their fingerprints off the handle and lamp, and on the way out, they leave the door open. A few minutes later, Lauren arrives home and finds the victim already on the floor, bleeding out. She touches the lamp and table, using her power on them, and then after it’s all said and done, you guys arrive. Presto, it looks like my client’s guilty.”

Armstrong smiles as something occurs to her. “You said there weren’t any fingerprints on the lamp, so how did she manage to use her power on it? After all, she needs to touch it.”

“Lauren,” I say, leaning over, like she’s just another part of our little circle. “Where did you touch the lamp to change it?”

Romp is glaring at Armstrong. “I touched the shade. It was the closest thing to me.”

I turn back to Armstrong. “And if I look at the case documents… Well, lookie here. It says exactly that. Partial fingerprints matching my client on the lampshade, but nowhere else on the surface of the lamp. You see, her power doesn’t need a grasp, just a tiny little…touch.”

I lift a finger and mime poking Armstrong. To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch. 

“Nothing that you’ve said proves she’s innocent,” she says. “All of this is just circumstantial evidence and guesswork. It’s complete nonsense. Just a bunch of shit you’re throwing at the wall hoping it’ll stick. You’re saying there’s a mystery killer who just happened to murder our victim for nebulous reasons while leaving zero traces of their existence who did everything just before our suspect arrived on the scene.”

“That does sound pretty crazy when you put it that way.” I smile again and raise a finger to my lips. “I’m just providing an alternate reading of events! Makes as much sense as your theory, I think.”

“Our theory actually exists in the realm of sanity? The idea of a secret third party doesn’t even make sense. There’s no evidence for it. If that’s the kind of case you normally push… well, I’m surprised you’ve still got a job.”

“...No evidence, Detective?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

She’s staring me down, trying to read me. But I know her by now. She’s a novice. She barely even knows the rules of the game, and she’s spent the majority of her career fighting against them. It’s why she’s on our side of the felt, and not the Wardens’. And even if that wasn’t the case, she’s spent so long working with the House behind her that she’s forgotten how to actually play.

No, she’s a weak player. And she’s about to take the bait.

“No, Counselor,” she says. “There’s not a single piece of evidence that proves your third party theory.”

Jackpot.

“Well, that’s curious,” I say. “Cause I was just wondering how it’s possible that my client committed a murder involving a stabbing weapon when all she had on hand were blunt weapons?”

Armstrong freezes. There’s genuine panic in her eyes, however small. She’s realizing she missed something important, left her defense open, and now she’s taken a fatal blow.

Point three goes to me. 

“Wait, what are you talking about? The victim was killed by a blunt weapon. Her face was bashed in, the coroner report says she died of acute intracranial trauma!”

“She was beaten in the head, that’s true. And that was a major factor in her death. But look a little closer, Detective. Because it shows very clearly that the victim was also stabbed in the heart. Would’ve been lethal, even without the blunt force trauma afterwards. And yet there’s not a matching weapon found anywhere on the scene… it’s a real shot to the heart for your theory that my client did it.” 

The room’s silent. I don’t think anyone appreciates my pun, which is a shame, because I think it’s very funny. 

“No, there’s—” Armstrong’s fighting against the current now. That’s the good detective in a nutshell: a terrible gambler who doesn’t know when to give up. “She could have stabbed her with a knife or any other kind of stabbing weapon and gotten rid of it afterwards.” 

She’s scrambling against the tide. And honestly? Desperation like this is just… sad. Going all in and realizing you were fooled by a bluff, then begging someone else for a chance to win back your starting cash. Sorry, Detective. I just don’t have the spirit of charity in me.

I sigh theatrically. “Well, of course there was another weapon, but how did she hide it? It’s not anywhere inside the apartment. How did she hide the weapon, then? Where did it go? Forensics checked her and found nothing. Do you think she left the building to get rid of the knife but not the lamp? And then she just came back to the scene of the crime and waited for the cops to show up?” 

“Her lamp,” Armstrong says quickly. “You said it yourself, her lamp was covered in sharp arms. It could’ve stabbed the roommate just fine.”

“Could it? Because that doesn’t line up with your timeline, Detective. You said my client beat her roommate with the lamp before turning it into the construct.”

“There’s no proof that the stabbing happened before the blunt trauma—she could’ve used the lamp as a club before turning it into a construct to stab her and finish her off.” 

“Oh? That’s an interesting theory. But it doesn’t fit. Because none of the victim’s DNA is on any of the sharp parts of the lamp. It’s all located in the middle.”

“She could’ve—”

“Wiped the blood away? From the arms, but not the stem of the lamp? Why the inconsistency?” 

Her anger is palpable. She realizes she’s already lost. The hand she was dealt is looking shakier as more cards are revealed. But she won’t fold. No. She’s already put too much in. It’s more than just money on the line now, it’s her reputation. And those are the biggest stakes of all.

“Detective?”

“I—there was no proof anyone else was at the scene of the crime. It couldn’t have been anyone else—”

“Except for one missing murder weapon,” I say, grinning all the while. “One pesky smoking gun, missing from the scene. Here, let me lay it all out for you. At about 6:30 PM, my client leaves the apartment, shutting the door behind her as she leaves. At 6:43 PM, she sends two texts: one of them to her roommate, and the other to her friend in the Wardens, before going on patrol and meeting up with him later in the night. 

“At about 9 o’clock, our real killer enters the apartment by picking the lock. They find the victim, stab her, and bludgeon her with the lamp. The murderer’s wanting to clean up their tracks, so they take the knife with them. But the lamp’s too big and unwieldy, so they do the next best thing: they wiped their fingerprints from the lamp, and make sure to wipe everything off the door handle that they’d touched, before fleeing the scene of the crime. Then my client arrives on the scene, sees a bloody, beaten body, and instinctively uses her power for potential self defense. Does that make sense to everyone?”

“That—there’s…”

The walls are closing in. Armstrong looks to her partner for backup, but he offers a shrug in return. “She’s got a point, Haya.” 

“She was covered in her blood,” she finally hisses out. 

“My client is an ex-Ward. Now I won’t say I know anything about what it was like to be a member of that organization, but I’d be willing to bet it came with a certain amount of medical training. And what would a Ward do seeing a stab wound but try staunch blood flow, attempt resuscitation, and ensure the victim was still breathing. 

“Yeah, it’s one of the first things you learn when you join,” Romp adds. “It’s textbook. I just…arrived too late to do anything.”

“She could have—she could have—” 

If she doesn’t want to fold, I can do it for her. 

“She could have what, Detective Armstrong? My client could have murdered a roommate that she was never going to see again, over her leaving an apartment the victim wanted her out of, all based on a text that you misinterpreted? She could have killed her with her powers that weren’t active at the time of her murder, or using a weapon that she couldn’t have hidden yet somehow went missing between her touching the body and your detectives arriving? She did all that, how? And for what reason? Could you explain that to me, Detective? Or maybe you’d like to explain it to the DA?”

There’s sweat trickling down the back of her neck. I don’t need to see it to know it’s there. That’s the look of someone who’s just lost it all at the table. She’s panicked. She should be. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it. I smile back, beaming.

“My client believes in restorative justice, Detective. She’s not the kind of person who would lash out because she was feeling angry. She spends her days and nights patrolling a dead-end district knowing that she’ll probably never see a single thanks in her life. She wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I say. “She couldn’t. She doesn’t have the temperament for it.” 

“I-I need to make a call,” she says, and hurries out of the room. 

And that’s the game.

Gilpatrick sighs, his hands in his pockets. “I have to admit, I didn’t see most of that coming. You’ve got a decent eye for detail, little lady.”

“Oh you know,” I say with a swish of my hand, “I like to think I know what I’m doing.”

“Looks like you do…Sorry for all that talk before. Haya’s new. She’s been looking for a chance to prove herself, you know. Her father left big boots to fill.”

And I can’t imagine she’s happy stuck at the bottom-of-the-bin PCD while she’s roaring to fill them.

“Eh,” I say, waving a hand. “Water under the bridge. I know you detectives were just doing your jobs. But I would like to get that discharge paperwork done soon. In the next few minutes, preferably. My client probably could use the rest. Unless you wanted to make some arguments…”

“No, no,” Gilpatrick says, hands in the air. “I’ll grab the documents. Just give me a minute.”

He exits, and I turn around to begin packing up my things. The room is silent in a way that feels unnatural,after the show I just put on. But even in that stillness, I almost don’t pick up the small voice that comes from the other side of the interrogation table.

“What do I do now?” Romp asks.

And that’s the question, isn’t it?

I sigh. “As soon as this is all wrapped up, they’ll process and release you. Your apartment will likely be closed off till tomorrow as they finish their investigation, but you can get your stuff then. I’d suggest you call up your friend. Get a ride home, have someone drive you. You’ll need it.” 

“No, that’s not what I mean. Fuck, we didn’t always see eye to eye. Honestly, I didn’t like her but…she didn’t fucking deserve this. Being murdered in her own apartment, because—I don’t even know why. I don’t think I’ll ever know why. And what, am I supposed to just walk away? Hope the cops solve everything for me?”

“Never hurts to hope.”

“Come on. Give it to me straight. I know the quality of police work that goes on in this town. They’ll never find the real killer, will they?”

“Probably not, no.”

“Then what? I… could look into this myself, maybe. Or—”

“Don’t. Not if you wanna stay out of prison. You start digging into a crime where you were the primary suspect, you’re gonna find yourself staring at another set of bars real quick, Lauren. Just go home. Move on. That’s all you can do right now.”

“She deserves more than just this,” Romp says. “More than just a cheap grave and an unsolved stamp on her case file. How the fuck am I supposed to just let this go, continue on like I didn’t fucking find her bleeding out in our living room?”

“You’ll continue on the way you’ve always continued on. You said it yourself: this isn’t the first person you’ve seen die. You’re a survivor. You fought in Gold Morning. You’ll get through this too.”

I reach across the table and lay a hand on hers and give it a quick pat before withdrawing.

“I know you can.”

Romp sighs and nods. “Thanks…Thank you for believing me, when no one else would.” 

She says it so quietly, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear it. But I do all the same. She doesn’t look at me, can’t work up the nerve, but I shoot her a beaming smile anyway. 

Of course I believed her.

I’d known in my heart all along that Romp didn’t do it. 

After all, I was the one who’d actually killed Vanessa.

It was a chance thing. I’d seen her on the train one night while heading back home from a case, and at her stop I followed her out. I think it was the hair that did it. She didn’t really fit all the criteria, not really, but her hair was such a perfect match that I couldn’t just let her go. 

So I spent the next few weeks mapping out her schedule, documenting out every second of her day, every person that she saw, everything that she did. Who she talked to, who she argued with, when her roommate would come and go, what times she was absolutely, completely alone. The lockpicking theory was just a little lie for the cops. In reality, on the day of the murder, it was easy enough to get into her apartment building, because the door wasn’t locked. Romp had never actually learned to lock the door when she went out, especially not when she was leaving angry.

In a way, it kind of was her fault. 

But the funny thing is that throughout this whole affair, throughout all these weeks of work and dedication? I hadn’t ever learned her name. It had never really mattered.

She had always been just Taylor to me.

When I enter her apartment, everything is absolutely perfect: from the neatly packed boxes to the dishes in the sink to the look on her face. Oh, the look on her face is a work of art. I see confusion, followed by anger, followed by fear. No one ever knows how to react when they see a stranger in their living room. Each moment of panic is ever so slightly different, every snowflake its own shape—until the blood touches it, anyway. I step into the room and she’s like a deer in the headlights. Doesn’t even try to move until I’m already too close. Far too close. 

The knife slips into my hand like a key designed for a lock; the handle against my palm. I drive it in, and she barely has a chance to scream. She barely manages a high-pitched shriek that quickly turns into a gurgle. The blade slides neatly between ribs 4 and 5, entering her heart with only feeble resistance. Blood spurts off to my left and she crumples to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The white carpet turns red, a contrast that sets my heart singing, and finally, for a moment, I am perfectly calm.

But then she lets out a whimper. There’s tears forming in her eyes, and she’s opening her mouth again, sucking in air, preparing to scream.

Damn it. Damn it.

Taylor wouldn’t have done that. The real Taylor would have suffered in silence. The real Taylor would have looked me in the eye, staring down her own death with impotent rage, wordlessly judging with every ounce of hatred in her heart.  

This woman’s fucked it all up. Just like that. She’s ruined the whole goddamn moment. 

So I grab that ugly stupid lamp by the table and beat her face in with it. A spray of blood escapes with each hit, wetter and wetter the more I keep going. And with each swing, my rage subsides slightly. The wet squelches are a balm to my soul. In the end, I don’t stop until she’s unrecognizable, without a single trace of Taylor left in her features. 

And finally, I’m calm again. I clean up, as always, and then go home and shower. I change my clothes and throw the rest in an incinerator. I reapply my makeup and down a whole bottle of water. I finish another blister pack’s worth of Zenzedi.  The whole time, I’m checking my phone for updates. Several cases come in and are brushed aside. Petty vandalism and theft. The typical work to make ends meet. But tonight, it’s not what I’m looking for. 

Finally, I see a murder case appear on my phone. 

And to my concern, there’s a cape’s name attached to it.

I hadn’t come to the precinct tonight out of the kindness of my heart to help some C-lister independent avoid a lifetime in prison for a crime that I committed. I don’t give a shit about Romp or her career or her lifetime of guilt.  

No, the only reason I’d taken that case is because I could never allow that case to make it to trial.

A domestic dispute turns physical and a woman gets shot? It's a one sentence blurb on someone's feed, maybe makes the six o’clock news if you’re lucky. Forgotten quicker than it takes for someone to swipe down on their phone. A woman gets killed in a home invasion gone wrong? It's left taking up space on some government hard drive. A cold case that no one will ever bother to figure out. 

But a cape murders someone? That's a problem. That’s nuclear. 

That’s Wardens’ territory, and they’ve got a lot more leeway in how they investigate, and how much deeper they're allowed to dig. Pesky things like civil rights fall to the wayside. The whole thing would get handed off to their thinkers to scan, and there’s a very good chance they’d notice the knife that should’ve been on the scene. They’d parse out the why's, the hows, and more importantly the who's, and they’d do it with impunity, because the state is willing to bend whatever laws they need to in order to see a cape rot. 

It keeps the rest of them in line. It keeps the power gap from breaking. It keeps the Lost Years from coming back.

So I can never allow a single one of my crimes get in front of those prying eyes.

All of this had stemmed from one tiny mistake on my part: I hadn’t recognized her roommate. But can you blame me? Who would? Even if she’d gone out in costume, even if I’d seen a flash of parahuman power in that apartment, I might’ve still missed it. Because in the end, she was a nobody. She was unimportant. Romp was a ghost, still clinging on to the ideals of a dead world, dressing up in its skin for a little bit of comfort. 

Though I suppose we all find our comfort in our own ways, these days. 

It takes nearly another hour to finish up the paperwork and send Romp on her way, with a promise to call if there are any additional questions. But there won’t be. The cops don’t have a cape to hang anymore, so by the end of the night, they’ll shelve the case and never think about it again. Romp was right—they never will find the actual killer. They won’t even try.

I’m certain that no matter what, she would try to put this whole event behind her. Just another ghost of her past to haunt her nights. I’m sure with her accolades, she has plenty of those already.

It’s how most people dealt with death. Nowhere to go but forward, especially here after the end of the world. The City chews people up and spits them back out without even a second to break down the gristle. Didn’t take much besides a bad roll of the dice to find yourself shit out of luck. 

But who knows? Maybe all that talk about all she had been through wasn’t just posturing. She’d survived Taylor. If that wasn’t a mark in her favor, I don’t know what was. 

I stand next to an ancient coffee maker letting the machine fill up one last cup. I’m probably pushing it with how long I’ve been awake, but I’ve powered through plenty of all-nighters before. One more won’t kill me.

The two detectives have both headed out after the discharge paperwork had gone through and I didn’t expect to see them again. I’m sure Armstrong is getting chewed out now for the slip-up. I’m expecting to be alone for the rest of the night, and yet— 

There’s a click from the front door, and I look up.

Sierra Kiley steps into the room. The City’s premier District Attorney, she of a thousand successful convictions.

At some point I’d heard that she used to have her hair done up in dreadlocks, but that creep, Quinn Calle, who’d mentored her must have told her to shave it or find a new profession. She wears it in a bob now, red hair framing a stern face. 

I love the way it looks on her.

She saunters in wearing a professional, black skirt-suit combo, and her heels click with every step she takes into the lobby. I wave at her, my smile bright and cheery, even if inside I’m anything but. She gives the briefest nod as she angles her way towards me. 

“Counceler Barnes,” she says. “Good to see you tonight.” 

I giggle. “Don’t you mean morning?” 

She checks her watch and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve been up for the last forty-eight hours. Maybe longer. It starts to blur together.”

It shows. The bags under her eyes are gargantuan. It’s all the more apparent because she never wears any makeup, besides a tiny swipe of eyeliner. Her lips are practically ripped apart from chewing. And I’m sure she hasn’t noticed the stain on the bottom of her skirt. But despite all that, her eyes still look sharp. 

It’s like a camera’s watching me. High definition, low latency.

“Sorry to say you came for nothing,” I say. “We wrapped this case with the cape up before you arrived. Turns out it was actually—”

“Well, yeah, of course it wasn’t her. I read the file on the way over, and come on—the actual murder weapon was missing from the crime scene, there wasn’t blood on any of the mechanical features of her robots that would have indicated her powers were involved, and obviously the motive was flimsy as hell. It’s obvious the detectives here just threw something together to get her booked. Ugh. I’ll be talking to Miss Armstrong about it tomorrow. Sorry to waste your time by calling you out here.”

“...Right,” I say, my smile slipping a fraction. “Well, I get paid either way. It doesn’t matter to me.”

It’s a lie, of course. Sierra Kiley and I have faced off against each other seven times in the courtroom, and every single time, I lost. And it always bothers me, because it hasn’t even been close a single time. She’s a monster. She doesn’t sleep much, doesn’t eat well, barely manages to assemble an outfit each morning, but the moment she’s in front of a judge, it’s like a different person takes over.

The coffee maker dings, and I grab the styrofoam cup. Sierra follows me and starts up pouring her own cup. She’s looking me over, and I’m almost afraid to ask why. 

“You know, it’s funny, Counselor,” she says. “Would this be your fifth cape represented?” 

“Mmm, yeah, that sounds about right.”

“A word of advice? It might seem fun and glamorous, but capes always make things more complicated. They can be difficult. They get territorial, and they’re always looking for trouble. Trying to get closer to them can get you into a lot of trouble.”

Oh. She’s… trying to warn me off. How sweet of her. She really thinks I’m trying to get close to capes. That I’m trying to boost my career by crossing the power gap, or trying to find some kind of meaning in my life by working for the most dangerous class in the world. She doesn’t know how far off she is. No, I’ve got something much more fulfilling to spend my time on.

I blow at the steam rising off my fresh cup. Sierra’s face is reflected in the drink like a black mirror. I take a slow sip, letting the moment stretch out. There are so few people that really got close to Taylor, in the end. Most of them are untouchable. Villains, gangsters, and assorted henchmen far outside any space I can reach without putting myself at risk. And of course, the genuine article herself is gone. Nothing I can do about that.

But Sierra…Sierra is right here. She’s standing right in front of me with no witnesses around.

I press the thought back. No. Not right now. She’s too close, too well connected, too dangerous. And a police station’s like a movie set: there are cameras everywhere. If something happened, there’d be investigations, there’d be people looking into it. I’m too close, and I pride myself on using caution with everything I do.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the thought.

“I’ve always been very careful, Sierra. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

“Sure. I mean, I guess there’s plenty of danger no matter what side of the power gap you’re on,” she says with a sigh, grabbing her cup of coffee. “I handle both, you know. It’s not easy. I get enough cases coming to me just from the average unpowered criminal. And that’s not to talk about the new guy running around.”

“...New guy?” I ask.

“Pet project of mine. It’s…nothing yet, just a few cases I’ve been looking at where there’s… an odd pattern to them. A dozen or so murders across the City.”

“Murders aren’t uncommon in the City.”

“No, they’re not. And yet… I dunno. I guess I’m seeing something other people don’t. There’s a connection between them all, I swear. The victims are all unconnected, except for one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well—they’re all women, caucasian, early twenties, with curly black hair.”

My heart skips a beat. “That’s not exactly a rare set of features.”

“Eh, you’re right. Lots of people look like that. But it’s interesting, isn’t it? There’s nothing concrete connecting any of them, but the way they’ve been spaced out, the lack of any evidence, and the completely at odds methods through which they were committed—I don’t know. I think there’s something there.”

“You’re saying there’s a serial killer in the City?” I force a chuckle. “Should I be worried about going out at night?”

“Nah, you’d be fine.” She gestures at my hair. “You don’t exactly fit the description.”

“It could be nothing, you know. Those all could just be random killings.”

“Nothing’s ever really random, Councilor. Not like this. And random killings aren’t this clean. I’d expect too little evidence to pin someone, not no evidence to work with at all. But there’s no political will to actually look into it. Nobody believes my theory, even after everything I’ve done.If only I could actually get enough evidence compiled to have the Wardens give a shit… well, maybe we’d actually find this guy.”

She knows. I’d been so careful, so meticulous, but I should have known someone like Sierra Kiley would have managed to pick twelve needles out of a haystack. 

I reach forward to Sierra’s collar, fingers brushing against her throat… and adjust her tie. I slowly pull it taut against her neck, glancing down to inspect my work. Her lips hover just above my forehead and I hum in contemplation before standing up and smiling. I can see the pulse of her carotid and know just how little it would take to sever it. To have her blood splatter a Jackson Pollock across the carpet. To see the life fade from her eyes as the final moment comes.

To see the pieces of Taylor left inside her bleed out onto the floor. 

I take a step back and Sierra smiles at me. I’ve got a reputation at this point for being a little touchy. She hadn’t even flinched at my hands on her skin. 

“Well then I’ll just have to be extra careful out there, hmm?”

“Please do. I would hate to see a nice woman like you get hurt.”

I nod and pull my bag fully over one shoulder. “Good luck with your hunt, District Attorney. I’m gonna head home and get some sleep.”

Sierra smiles slightly. “Stay safe, Councilor Barnes.”

“I’ll be sure of it,” I respond as she descends into the bowels of this police station.

I finish my free police station coffee before exiting the building. The rain must have subsided sometime during the night, and the streets glimmer under the light of a million sweaty neon screens. From this angle, they almost look like stars, shining beneath me. The sweet smell of the early morning drizzle covers up the worst of the city's scents, the gristle and grime and blood.

I wear my brightest smile and head off into what little darkness there is left.