Throne is a different city at night. The sun long gone from the sky but the stars still hidden by the densest collection of artificial lights to be found on any world. I’ve heard about, and seen a few streams of, districts further out where the sky is darker and the moon is more than just one more light. As well as skyscrapers in the first and second ring that reach high enough to escape even the far worse light pollution found closer in. The people lucky enough to live or visit their highest floors able to see the night’s sky directly. There’re even a few places where space doesn’t quite line up and, while you can see a sky clearly, it isn’t Throne’s anymore. Sometime, it’s not even earths.

  Of course, those places aren’t here.

  In place of a sky filled with sparkling pinpricks and scattered nebulae, the third circle offers an always available stream of lesser lights that are at least far closer to hand. The many bars, nightclubs, corner stores and more all lighting up their chosen streets long past when any sensible person has gone to bed. Although, as my burner shows 1am now receding behind us, even most of those will be looking to turn people out soon enough. Only the rowdiest, or most well-protected, of businesses would dare hold out much longer in a residential area like this.

  The citizens of Throne, even the more normal ones, aren’t above firebombing a place that keeps them awake at night. Not when most day jobs will work a person right up to the limit of exhaustion already.

  Thankfully, the metro is both well protected and long standing enough that people have gotten used to it always being in operation. Otherwise, it would have been far, far harder for me to get back here. My fast steps having quickly become a jog as they’d taken me away from the station’s exit and the terrified guard who’d wisely pretended not to see me. A good choice on his part as, given how I’m late already, I wouldn’t trust myself to hold back enough not to break something if he tried to stop me.

  My pace following the route my Map showed me down the same streets Claire and I had strolled along just a few hours prior. Those streets now empty of life besides a handful of late-night workers, insomniacs and those drunks already thrown out of their chosen drinking hole. And the homeless of course.

  Small groups of men, women and children tucked into what feels like every alcove and street corner I’ve rushed past since leaving the metro. The single carriage train itself had also housed a small family trying to ride it through the night and avoid the fate of those around me. Whatever begging spots, or more likely low-paying jobs, they’d disappeared to during the day not providing them with anywhere better to try and sleep once the sun went down and Throne started to show its true character.

  There are few charities in this city and, given how the average citizen views the homeless population as being either a nuisance or a threat, even fewer that offer rough sleepers a way off the street.

  I push the thought away in a mental imitation of the same motion that tears my eyes away from my phone’s digital clock. The number ticking upwards and ever further away from when I was supposed to already be at my destination urging me to exhaust myself before this job has even started. A grunt just short of a growl slipping out of me as I force myself to keep to the even pace that I’ve found most comfortable and which I feel I can maintain without issue.

  It doesn’t help that the weight of my new jacket is sitting uncomfortably on my shoulders and making me question if I should just wear a coat instead. My attention pulled away from the urge to tear it off and just start sprinting by a muffled shout from ahead of me. My eyes snapping over to where a small group of children are taking shelter behind a fort of suitcases and travel bags. The eyes of the youngest following me with curiosity as the older, and more jaded, amongst them whisper for the rest to look away before I take offence at their staring.

  However, at the pace my meta-enhanced body is letting me maintain, I’m already speeding past before they can do more than flinch. My steps speeding up further as I give in to the urge for more speed and stuff my burner into the pocket of my jeans. Striking a compromise with myself to at least resist checking the map again to see how close I am to my destination.

  Annoyingly, the parking complex the van is meant to be on could be seen directly across from the metro but, thanks to the way Osterholt’s designers first built this district with car-focused suburbia in mind, I’ve had to navigate through a great many streets before finally getting this close. The dark silhouette of the pitch-black structure sometimes hard to make out as I’ve twisted and turned along the route my map insists is the fastest.

  ‘I’d have been there ages ago if I could fly. I might’ve not even needed the metro!’

  Phone now in my jeans pocket, I can safely clench my fists without fear of breaking the fragile metal. The restless and soon-to-no-longer-be-impotent anger that Ceylon had left me with still pulsing strong beneath my itching skin. Filling me with the same tenseness that let me get three days of assignments completed in just a few hours but also stopped me from being able to get any rest on the train ride over here.

  Not that I could have anyway given I’d known by then I was set to be late no matter how fast I ran.

  If not for my meta-endurance and already athletic build letting me jog for the last twenty or so minutes without pause, I’d be lucky to arrive before 2am. As it is, my thoughts are busy alternating between curses for Ceylon dumping all this work on me tonight and trying to come up with reasons for being late that don’t make me sound like a petulant school girl. Although, in a way, perhaps I should be thanking the asshole. If not the burning desire to do something he’d left me with then I’m not sure I could’ve made myself slip out the bathroom window without Jason around to egg me on.

  I’m pulled from thoughts of my missing friend, and one time partner in crime, as I take the next, and hopefully last, turn from memory. Glancing back at the sound of pounding bass coming from an open-doored bar not far down the road on the T junction’s other side. Some instinct of wrongness pulling my brows together and having my attention linger on it a little longer until I notice the doors haven’t been left open, but torn off. The clear plastic wall along its front melted and sagging while the pavement revealed by the lights from within looks to have been scorched and cracked. Distantly, past the sounds of music and voices raised in rowdy celebration, I can hear someone screaming.

  I look away. Turning back around just in time to flinch to a stop in shock as a trio of green blurs streak towards and past me faster than I can react. The go-bikers not slowing as they take the corner at a pace no-one without wired reflexes and inertial skull-dampeners could survive. The electric bikes near silent before the turn where tires not meant for anything but speed suddenly have to fight for every inch of grip now that the straight is behind them.

  The neon burn of the lights covering their sleek vehicles leaves me blinking afterimages from my eyes despite my goggles anti-glare. Gritting my teeth in annoyance at how I’d frozen up at their sudden appearance and at my own lack of a faster option than my own two feet. Another reason why breaking Jason out of Fairhurst is so important.

  A louder scream cuts through the raucous laughter coming from the bar behind me, my jaw getting tighter as I speed back up and re-focus my attention on what I’m here for. The dark tower of near a dozen stories of hollow space and concrete rising silently behind the apartment buildings further down the street ahead of me. Its shape made out only thanks to the few lights still on in the buildings beside it and the warning lights flashing orange at its top. The cordon of poles running along each side of the massive building’s roof there to ward away anyone dumb enough to fly around so low at night. Mostly, it’s for supes.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The parking complex is located near the end of the long straight the go-bikers were just racing down. It’s position and rectangular shape making it a dead-end for a number of streets whose residents all purchased a space within alongside their tenancy. Of course, as the developers built new levels on top of the already packed in homes, the number of actual spaces was not increased to match. Thus, as I duck under the crossbar to get inside, the sight that greets me is one of cars packed tight enough together that no learner would ever dare to try practicing in here. Likely, all but the most skilled residents have to rely on their vehicles self-driving systems to carefully and slowly get them out each morning. Or they just say fuck it and make a few new dents.

  I head towards the closest car ramp without more than a glance at the automated ticket system by the entrance. The cameras there will pick me up without any issue but the system is unlikely to report anything until tomorrow so long as whatever basic AI they have doesn’t think I’m breaking the law. While businesses are required to report possible villain sightings, which often includes Indy heroes as well funnily enough, they get a twelve-hour period to do it in. One which just about everyone uses to its maximum given they don’t want a Supe fight happening on their property.

  Already accepting that I’m going to be late, I take a quick look around the ground floor as I continue towards the nearest ramp. Not expecting to find the van here, the pin had been specific about being on the second floor, but still on the lookout for anyone else who might be hanging around. Blinking rapidly to try and get some night vision back after stupidly staring at the light by the entrance. Forcing myself to ignore the quicker option of the stairway over on to one side. While I strongly doubt it is, if I am walking into an ambush then the cramped space of the stairs would make any escape impossible.

  At least I don’t have to navigate another maze to get to the ramp. The demands of those who’ve paid for a higher spot meaning a path is kept clear from each slope to at least one of the exits that feed off into the streets around me. The furthest of the lights attached to their ticket machines almost too far to make out given the sheer size of the structure around me. The thick pillars holding up the next floor creating blind-spots that have me gripping tight to the ice-axe in my Pocket as I continue over to the ramp at a pace just short of a sprint.

  The increased weight of my new jacket feels strange on my shoulders as the wiring woven through the dark blue pleather adds a weight I’m not used to from my own, more retro, hand-me-down. Under the glare of the sun, the little lines of silver and their tiny, half-hidden, plates had gleamed and caught the light in a way that would have drawn me to Diana’s stall even if I wasn’t looking for someone who could do good stitching.

  Now though, as I hurry up the ramp while straining my neck to try and peek over the edge, I’m kicking myself for failing to buy even a single bit of clothing that’s not either brightly coloured or shiny. At least a good few of the cars around me are just as bad and so might help disguise me if a light does shine this way. Chrome being a consistent fashion choice since Throne’s founding and still on display even in the mix of sensible smart cars and mopeds tightly filling the space around me.

  I continue past the first floor and to the second without any difficulty besides regrets over not just risking the stairs and saving myself a few minutes. The elevated platform I’m leaving behind differing only from the ground level by the lifts on all sides that can lower those unwilling to jostle with their lesser’s for a direct exit. The third however, is where things change. The cramped cars and glorified mopeds of the first two floors almost entirely absent as I rise up the ramp and immediately spot the van I’m looking for. It’s high sides clearly visible over the mix of family cars and squat trucks that fill the spaces around it.

  The dull grey vehicle not sitting in a space itself but idling with engine running just besides a lift that could take it rapidly to the ground floor. Its position chosen well if the driver is worried about making a fast escape as, besides the lift, it sits equally close to three ramps that can all provide access to different parts of the maze filling the lower levels.

  My worries over being attacked bleed away as I take this in, no-one planning an ambush would choose a spot with so many easy to access escape routes, only to be replaced with a new, and unfortunately familiar, fear. Two men are crouched beside the van. Their almost identical forms covered in dark green scrubs with yellow armour plating slid into clear plastic pockets on the chest and arms. A set of matching balaclavas hiding their faces but still giving me a clear view of the hard look in their eyes as they each brandish a shock maul like they know how to use it.

  “Code?”

  “Orange Cord Sixty.” The two glance at each other for a tense moment before at last relaxing from their readied stance and flicking off the limited power supply of the mauls. The taller of them stepping forward to grind out a still flickering cigarette under his boot while the other cracks his neck loudly before addressing me.

  “You ready to meet Mail Order? We’re running out of time before he has to go under again.” Neither make any mention of my being almost half an hour late. The shorter one already headed towards the van’s rear while the other waits only a moment longer to make sure that I’m following before doing the same. The pair working in silent synchronicity as one undoes the locks on the door while the other taps at a screen wrapped around his wrist.

  “I’m sorry I’m a little late, I-” Neither of them pays any notice of me as I try to get their attention. Both standing aside as they open the double doors and let the sight within cut me off and wipe away my mounting annoyance with a wave of shock. My voice and thoughts stuttering to a halt as my eyes struggle to understand just what I’m looking at.

  “Jacket. You’re late. Prep her, we go as soon as she’s ready.” The robotic voice, strung together from an ancient sounding library of clearly synthetic words, knocks me back to reality just in time for me to barely avoid throwing up. My shock replaced with a horror that has my throat tightening to cut off air while my feet take an involuntary step back and I raise a hand to cover my mouth. Further movement stopped by the lidless eyes of the man in front of me flicking away from the med-techs to pin me in place. The movement doing what the voice could not and convincing me that the flayed and mutilated figure before me really is, somehow, still alive.

  The skin of his face, and most everywhere else, is replaced with a plastic wrapping that clings to his almost entirely naked flesh. The material doing nothing to obscure the shifting of the organs underneath the anti-bacterial shield. Whole chunks of meat torn away to reveal the pulsing of veins and the entirely untouched bones they cling to.

  A mix of tubes, pumps and wires connect him to what must be a small fortune of medical equipment built directly into the sides of the van. The various coloured liquids flowing rapidly down them likely keeping the Supe alive while also providing all the fuel needed for his body to heal. Although, from the way I can literally see right through him in places, I can’t imagine it’ll be done anytime soon.

  “Your hand, Ms.” The shorter of the techs is already rubbing a lightly stinging ointment into my hand and wrist before I can process his request. The other brushing past me to start carefully smoothing out a portion of the plastic wrapping stopping Mail Order from getting the mother of all infections. My reaction to the first one’s gentle grab delayed further by watching the Supes eyes dilate to the point of crowding out near all his pale blue while what little muscles still cling to him go rigid with an unimaginable pain.

  “What are yo- Why do I need this? I was told you’d be my transport but that the job has been altered somewhat. What’s different?” I resist the initial urge to pull my hand away, and then run off myself besides. Fighting to swallow down the taste of bile and keep my breathing steady and slow instead of the rapid gasps I know will lead quickly to full on hyperventilating. Not able to do more than glance away from the living corpse in front of me even as the harsh smell of the clear gel now soaking into my skin clues me in to it being some kind of powerful anti-septic.

  “We need to touch for me to teleport you to the package. The team who fucked up retrieval are still there as well. They are expecting you, and the Heroes watching the location are expecting them. Nothing else has changed. Get the item and get back here without being followed.”

  As he spoke the shorter med-tech has finished prepping my hand while the other has placed a kind of hollow tube over the smoothed-out portion of plastic tightly clinging to Mail Order’s collarbone. The next step obvious as they lead me towards him with the inextricable pace of medical professionals used to guiding those with little idea of what’s going on.

  My feet move forward by themselves at the man’s gentle but expectant push. Hand still hesitating before the tubes entrance where I can see a sort of two-way suction valve and airlock will ensure only sterile materials can reach the bare bone beneath. There had been a lot of things in what Mail Order just said that are having me hesitate now. Just the idea of touching him is making my stomach churn with a squeamishness I didn’t realise I still possessed. However, one thing stands out above all the rest.

  “There are Heroes involved? And other Villains? Rosch told me this was just a simple courier job. Grab the thing and take it somewhere. No chance of a fight unless I get seen picking it up. This isn’t-”

  “Girl. I’ll be asleep in less than a minute. I don’t know what you and Rosch have discussed and I don’t care. If you wanted to talk about it then you should have arrived on time. Take the job, or walk away.”

  I clench my teeth as the seconds tick by after Mail Orders done talking. The med-tech not occupied with steadying the tube squeezing in beside him to manually prepare the refill for a machine which I imagine is about to knock him out. The thought of how I could have ended up like this had Pinball managed to touch me, if I was lucky enough to survive long enough for MEA to scrape me off the pavement, sending a shiver down my spine.

  The sound of the ventilator’s rapid hiss-pump switching to a slower beat has my attention shift back to where Mail Order’s eyes are starting to slowly relax. The tension bleeding, sometimes literally, from his exposed flesh as the gentle pull of sleep starts to wipe away the agony he must feel in every moment of conscious existence.

  With no more time to think, I make my choice.

  not mean less story. Hopefully, once I've gotten ahead again, I can go to twice a week updates which together will still add up to more than I've been doing and with both being both easier and more enjoyable to read. I'll still try not to cut up fight scenes whenever possible however, so there might still be some beefy chapters yet to come.

  thanks for reading!