You sense movement behind a pillar in the Vigilant Citadel. Bold, to go straight to the heart of the operation, even with The Guardian occupied. You play along. “Show yourself, whoever you are!”
Smokescreen steps out from his hiding spot. “Well, well, well, Shield Maiden! What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this? And…” He looks around in mock surprise. “…All alone, Girl Blunder? Shield-Daddy stepped out for a bit? Nobody to rescue you from certain death this time?” He grins, pulling a capsule from his belt. “Ah yes, that’s right! He must be occupied with my Wispbots in… Greenfield? Neotropolis? Port Freeside? Or perhaps all three? You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is a bit… FOGGY!”
He cackles maniacally as throws down the capsule, and the room is engulfed in toxic fog. For the rest of the Crusaders, this might be a problem. But for you? Still, it’s a little early to give up the game. You pretend to struggle to hold your breath. Hell, you make a show of your choking and coughing as you pull out your rebreather. These villain types eat that shit up.
“You’ll never get away with this, Smokescreen!”
“Oh, but I think you’ll find I already have, Shield-Sister!” The conceited fool. He’s always been too vain, or too stupid, to realize that talking gives away his position in the fog. “That caped cad won’t be back for hours, and when he does return, he’ll find his poor ward reduced to gibbering insanity, if he’s lucky! I w- HHGK!” His eyes bug out as you grip his neck.
“God, I am so fucking sick of the way you talk.”
You throw him against the far wall. You can’t see the impact, but you hear a gruesome crack, and he screams out in anguish.
“What’s wrong, Smoke? No quippy comeback? No more aces up your sleeve?”
You see a lump as the fog begins to clear, scrambling away as best he can on one leg, desperately fishing for something in his jacket pocket. Several shots ring out and strike your forehead. He’s a good shot. But it’s as ineffective as the gas.
You chuckle. “Really? A gun? Didn’t think you were the sort for something so… mundane.”
“STAY BACK!” He’s panicked. He’s never been hurt like this before. Vic didn’t have it in him. But you do, and then some. He cowers in the corner. “What are you?”
“I’m not entirely certain myself, to tell you the truth. Maybe I got zapped by strange rays at the hospital, or some bug bit me in the crib. Maybe it’s just a weird one-in-a-million genetic quirk. My parents didn’t know what to make of it either, but they loved me all the same. But a kid like me? People began to notice. We’d have to flee every so often when they started whispering. After the first couple of times, I did my best to hide it. But all it took was one slip-up.”
You grip his collar and pull him in close. He flinches. “I hated it. It was awful. Uprooting every few years, having to make new friends, under a new name. And my folks, well, it was harder and harder on them to keep up the charade every time. I got cornered by a group of OSA goons one night. They didn’t anticipate just how powerful I was at that point. I ran away from the carnage, let everyone think I had died too. I hated to leave mom and dad, but with the government watching, I knew it’d be safer that way.”
He tries to stab you with a pocket knife. It pierces through the shield emblem on your suit, but blunts on your skin. You don’t even feel it. “I grew my hair out, started wearing different clothes. Resorted to stealing. Got caught by The Guardian, of all people. He had watched me scale a fire escape effortlessly, and slip through the shadows, out of sight of the cameras. I told him my parents were dead, had been for a while. He saw what he wanted to - a natural athlete with intuition and no family, the makings of a good sidekick. It’s a fulfilling gig, all things considered. I’m fed, clothed and sheltered, the state doesn’t pry into the lives of The Crusaders, and nobody bats an eye at the odd cracked rib or dislocated shoulder in this line of work when I forget the kid gloves. I don’t think even he knows - If he does, he hasn’t logged it anywhere like he does with the rest of us.”
Smokescreen tries fruitlessly to wriggle out of your grasp. You grab his skull with your free hand and force him to look at you. “He’s a good man. They all are. They maybe take the whole superhero persona schtick a bit too seriously, but the people latch on to symbols like that.”
You frown. “…But they’re too forgiving for their own good. Not me. And don’t get me wrong, I’m all for second chances, but this will be your, what, twenty-seventh? No, twenty-eighth, now. No matter how many times we do this dance, you still keep hurting people. Not anymore.”
He’s pale as a ghost now. “P-please, don’t kill me! I’m begging you! I’ll change, I’ll stop-”
You’ve heard it all before. You crush his windpipe. His eyes glaze over as he goes limp. You drag him outside and huck his body far into the Horizon. You’re sure days, maybe weeks from now, someone on an oil rig or trawler will find him floating - An apparent casualty of one of the rival villain gangs, or maybe of the family of one of his many victims. Or they won’t, and he’ll sink into the ocean as the world slowly forgets about him and his latest attack. Who’s to say?
You return inside, scrub the camera footage, and pull a trusty mop and bucket out of a closet. By the time the blood’s cleaned up, the fans have nearly cleared the smoke out. Good. You’d hate for a guy like Vic to get caught in this stuff in his own hideout.
As you’re putting away the mop, you see another shadow out of the corner of your eye. Here we go again. “Show yourself, whoever you are!”
The Blue Baron steps into the light dramatically with a net gun. Always these people with the theatrics. “There’s no escape, Shield Maiden!” You sigh and crack your knuckles. Two in the same day will be suspicious, and The Guardian is probably already on his way back. You might have to throw this one.
