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Amateur Heroics

- - -

Part 2:

New Kid On The Block

by Dissident Love

Copyright 2013

The next few days passed in a crazy blur for Jasmine.

Shi lived in a small apartment in what was politely described as 'the hood', by people who were fortunate enough not to actually live there. Motor City's population was well in excess of seven million, and the fair and equitable distribution of resources meant that, sometimes, Jasmine's block got the garbage picked up slightly more often than the water and gas were repaired.

Wanting to make a good impression on the Heroes, now that shi was apparently one of them, shi worked longer hours, piling on the overtime. Junk, the scourge of the drug-addled underworld within a rough twelve block radius of hir building, became significantly more than just a rumor. Shi was also expanding hir coverage to include violent crimes, break-ins and robberies; three times in three days shi interfered with holdups at the local Hasty Mart. When shi dragged hirself back to bed at sunup, hir knuckles were competing with hir back for who could complain the loudest.

When Wednesday night rolled around, hir alarm bleeping loudly, Jasmine was roused from pleasant dreams of pummelling meth dealers and stealing their wares. Shi glared blearily at the alarm clock, clenched a small fist to smash it but resisted the urge.

"Someday," shi promised hirself, as shi often did. "Someday, I'll be super rich, and I can buy a new alarm clock. Every day. Wake up smashing. That'll be awesome..."

Hir apartment had no numbers on the door. Squatters had taken over the building, and although it had been marked for demolition, work had not progressed beyond a sign being posted over the boarded-up front doors, three years before. The building hadn't had a functioning elevator since the 80's, and no stairs actually reached hir floor anymore, but that didn't bother hir much. In Jasmine's line of work, privacy was a luxury.

Shi threw off hir heap of blankets, padded naked across the bare plywood floors to hir bare-bones kitchenette and flicked the switch on hir kettle. The cupboards lacked doors, as did the refrigerator; every available surface piled with tins of instant coffee, jars of nacho cheese and endless crinkly bags of salty snacks. The orange sunset sluiced through hir boarded-up windows, giving hir ramshackle abode a warm, golden hue.

The teenaged jackalope was tall for hir age, nearly six feet tall with an extra eighteen inches of gnarled antlers, and despite hir purely junk-food diet looked dangerously underfed. Clearly rabbitkin except for the horns, hir chest ruff was more substantial than the breasts framing it, and the heavy hips of hir kind helped to balance out a curiously oversized maleness. A rangy mixture of grey, white and auburn, Jasmine frowned at hir reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror and sighed.

"Thanks, God," shi grumbled, twisting the shower knobs, ancient pipes rattling. Despite being condemned, hir building still had power and hot water, due in no small part to hir 'anonymous donations' to friendly plumbers and electricians. The squatters in the floors below were quietly aware that someone occupied the building's upper level, but they were astute enough not to press the issue or brag about it. Many of them were just as eager to not be noticed as Jasmine hirself.

Shi showered under the scalding spray while hir kettle boiled, scrubbing the previous night's grime and blood out of hir fur. Most of it wasn't hirs, thankfully, and there was a great deal less these days than from hir earliest months of part-time vigilantism. Self-control was a hard-won skill, particularly when the perps claimed they had been violently assaulted by a masked criminal and no longer had any incriminating evidence left on them, and were back on the streets the next night.

"I don't even_wear_ a mask," shi grumbled, shutting off the shower and stepping out of the aged claw-foot tub. The rotting subfloor greedily soaked up the water sluicing off of hir fur, but there was a chill in the air and shi grabbed one of hir least-dirty towels to finish drying off.

The kettle was hissing and steaming angrily. Still dripping, shi pulled a fresh tin of instant coffee off of the shelf, removed the lid and poured as much water in as shi could manage, turning the contents into a sludgy, burbling mud. Shi stirred it with hir favorite coffee spoon and slowly devoured the lumpy concoction that would have been thirty servings for anyone else. When shi was left morosely scraping the inside of the tin for the last few dribbles, shi consumed the tin itself in three bites.

Jasmine had not acquired the pseudonym of Junk without good reason.

Hir dwelling darkened as the sun slipped behind the run-down buildings across the street, and shi flicked on the single bare overhead bulb. Hanging up near the chained-shut door was hir costume, little more than army surplus finds held together with leather belts, bandoliers, buckles and straps, and slashed with diagonal streaks of blood-red spray paint. It was not the most creative outfit ever, but it was instantly recognizable and just off-putting enough to inspire a little fear.

Hanging next to the outfit were the purely cosmetic components: the heavily-padded bra, the groin-minimizing shorts, and hir old-school welding goggles. Shi knew that jackalopes were rare enough that narrowing down hir identity wouldn't be much work in this day and age, but it was amazing how a couple bulges could throw off suspicion.

Ten minutes later shi was standing on the roof of hir building, stretching out the kinks in hir legs and breathing the smoggy, hazy night air. A lit cigarette dangled from hir muzzle, several new empty beer cans had joined the hundreds that called the rooftop home, and shi was starting to feel like a real person again. Police sirens were hollering from two nearby neighborhoods already, and the sun hadn't even fully set yet.

"Gonna be a long night," shi yawned, tongueing the cigarette into hir mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "Maybe I can get an understudy."

Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the Superhero Highway, shi landed on the Scott Road Howard Johnson's just as the sun vanished below the horizon, the first time shi had been on time for anything in months. There was no sign of hir official contact, so shi pulled out another couple smokes, lit them, and puffed away, mulling over the future.

A real hero, shi thought, watching people wander in and out of the restaurant.Should I capitalize that? A real Hero. On the team. Soarceress shook my hand. Sweet Clyde got me a beer. Diamond groped my ass. Critical Bill tried to beat me up. I'm really on the team! I might get to meet Amalthea...

Amalthea. The most famous metafur in the world, often thought to be the first true super hero. How many kids had grown up with an Amalthea toy? How many herms, in particular? More famous than any pop star, more well-known than any movie, more respected than most politicians... though that wasn't that hard, shi chuckled. Amalthea. The hero's hero.

"Maybe I'll get to meet hir," shi murmured.

There was a faint pop to hir left, and a thud of boots on gravel. "Meet who?" Transit asked, walking the final few steps to the jackalope's side.

"Amalthea."

"Oooooo," the enormous burly hippo grinned. "Fangrrl, eh? You'll meet hir eventually, don't worry. Shi comes to the get-togethers every now and then, shi still comes out of retirement when there's an emergency and, well, sometimes you're just lucky and shi wants to meet the new blood. You got them doodads up there," he added, gesturing to Jasmine's antlers. "Shi'll probably ask you for fashion tips."

Jasmine's eyes widened, and shi couldn't hold back the laughter. Transit grinned, as he always did, until shi was done. "Sorry," shi giggled. "It's just... I don't think anyone's ever called them doodads before."

"Thingies? Dealies? Whatsits!" he declared, poking at one of them. "Oh, fine, I'll stop. Er. I think there was a script I was supposed to stick to, but I hate those things, so I'll just say... here ya go, and welcome aboard." He thrust a thick envelope out towards hir.

Shi took it from the very un-heroic-looking hippo, ripping the top off with hir teeth and swallowing. "I'm honored," shi said wryly.

Transit, real name Tim Kennedy, looked like he should be fronting a punk band somewhere. His mohawk was bright green today, spikes covered his ripped-up leather and denim outfit, his ears and brows and nose and lips were pierced, and aluminum baseball bats hung from loops on his belt. His teleporting power was incredibly practical and useful, but he would be the first to admit that he was not a front-line combatant. His bright orange shirt said in black block letters 'ALLERGIC TO BULLETS'.

The envelope contained two thick sheafs of paper, a plastic laminated card with the names of several doctors and lawyers, and a smartphone still with the factory screen cover taped down. "Whoa," shi said, picking up the phone. "Sweet. What-"

"It's programmed with all of our Freetext numbers. Just use it for texting. Soarceress paid for the data plan, so don't worry about that. Lose the laminated card and... well, just don't lose the laminated card," Transit said with practiced ease. "The first stack of papers is the government guidelines and registration forms, and the second stack of papers is our own rules, some helpful antidotes, and rough areas of responsibility."

"Anecdotes."

"What?"

"The word," Jasmine said softly, wishing shi had just kept hir trap shut. "The word is anecdotes."

The stocky hippo grinned. "Good. You speak up when something's not important, you'll do it when it IS something important. We got no room in this outfit for people not willing to make complete-ass fools out of themselves. That's why we dress like this."

Jasmine snorted and rolled hir eyes. "You guys are pretty casual," shi said, flipping through the papers. "Hey, where's your area of responsibility?"

"Don't got one. I'm sort of a freelancer. Officially I'm supposed to stick to the waterfront and downtown, but mostly I'm the city spotter and high-speed chaser."

"Spotter?" Jasmine asked. "What... oh, here it is. Spotter: the person designated to gather information on a situation and relay it to those most suited to dealing with the situation."

"I'm like Google, if Google was a superhero," Transit winked. "Ok, you hold onto all that stuff. We're going to head over to the East Side for a bit. Got something important to take care of."

"Crime?" Junk asked, instantly alert, shoving the envelope into hir jacket.

"Dinner." He grabbed hir wrist, and with a faint pop, the pair vanished.

---

The 42nd Street Police Plaza was a colossal, ultra-modern construction of steel and glass, and was often mistaken for a new art gallery or museum. It was built on the location of the city's original police headquarters, which had been thoroughly obliterated ten years before during the vengeful rampage of Cinderblock, one of Motor City's most well-known supervillains, or at least most remembered. As far as most people were concerned, the age of the supervillain had passed, and the age of the flashy cape-wearing superhero was drawing to a close.

The rooftop helipad was in constant use, and for the first time in his life Detective Inspector Rowan O'Reilly found himself riding in the elevator with the highest floor indicator lit. Clutched under one arm was the huge black duffelbag that had become the bane of his existence.

The elevator car was packed full, the hulking, broad-shouldered bear surrounded by the entirety of the force in on his little secret. He outranked the majority of them, technically, but Captain Bronwyn, Internal Affairs, had the final say on all matters pertaining to Rowan's life now, and no-one would cross him.

"Anyone got Rolaids?" he rumbled, nerves jangling from caffeine and terror.

A few pockets were checked, but no-one replied.

"Damn."

The doors dinged and slid apart, rooftop wind whistling through the elevator car. Rowan swallowed nervously, the sight of the black official Dauphin twin-engine filling his shoes with lead. Captain Bronwyn, an incredibly unassuming and almost roly-poly tabby, stepped onto the roof, glanced back and jerked his chin towards the chopper.

"Move."

Even over the sounds of the idling engines, everyone heard, understood and obeyed. Flesh flowed around Rowan with military precision, leaving him alone in the elevator. I can just ride back down. I just wanted to be a good cop. I track down murderers and rapists. That's what I'm good at. I didn't ask for this.

Bronwyn's eyes narrowed. "Did I stutter?"

"No, sir," Rowan said carefully, stepping onto the roof. The elevator car creaked and groaned as his massive bulk was removed, and the doors closed like a tomb.

"All aboard," the Captain said with deceptive friendliness. Rowan wasn't fooled for a second.

The helicopter was surprisingly quiet inside once the doors were shut, but it was very cramped. Rowan recognized two comm officers, two of Bronwyn's Internal Affairs officers, and two very crisp-looking wolves in black suits with the tiny, seven-pointed star of the Federal Metafur Agency. The pilot was similarly on loan from the Feds, and was very carefully not looking back.

The group was so uncomfortably tense that, for the first minute or two, Rowan forgot that he'd never been in a helicopter before, and he was terribly afraid of heights. The first turbulent lurch as they rounded a highrise drove his stomach into his throat, his powerful paws clenching the satchel so hard his knuckles popped.

"Time to get changed, Lawman," Bronwyn drawled, glancing at the Federal agents. He was clearly pleased to be bossing around government representatives, but he'd never been pleased with the name Rowan had been bestowed. "We launch in six minutes."

"'We'," Rowan grunted. "Yes, I guess 'we' are." He looked around, looked at the duffel bag, and added, "Get changed where?"

The comm officers were the closest to the sliding cockpit door and all but scrambled over eachother to get out of the cabin, giving the massive ursine enough room to shed his rather plain outfit and start pulling on the ultra-strong, ultra-black components of the costume. The agents stared uncomfortably out the windows, the IA officers made a show of checking their smartphones, and Bronwyn just smirked while Rowan stripped.

"Next time," Rowan groused, "I get changed first."

"Negative," said one of the agents automatically. "Too many unauthorized eyes could see you."

"How many unauthorized eyes saw me get into the elevator with you?"

"That's classified."

Oh, gods, save me, I'm in the hands of bureaucrats.

The sixth minute was fast approaching when Rowan pulled on the final gauntlet with a rubbery squeak. With every breath he took the tailored costume creaked and stretched, and although he felt as though he were being crushed from all sides, it was strangely comforting. His life had been one long miasma of uncertainty ever since being called into Bronwyn's office the month before, and when he was sent home with the costume... well, caffeine was all that kept him awake in the daytime and percocets were all that let him sleep at night.

But now, finally wearing the dreaded mound of kevlar and sintex, covered in high- powered firearms and ultra-compact electronic equipment, as well as more handcuffs than a bondage club, all those worries seemed a million miles away.

Wow, he thought. Maybe this is what all those so-called heroes feel like. Maybe this is why they wear the silly outfits. It was no longer Rowan O'Reilly, good cop and dedicated husband, feeling like a moron as well as a pawn of the Federal government. Rowan was safe at his desk, fielding phone calls and poring over evidence. The bear in the helicopter was Lawman, and nothing could hurt Lawman.

The helicopter banked hard, and Rowan scrambled for purchase, having removed his seatbelt in order to get dressed. He caught the faintest of smirks on the Captain's face, but he ignored it.

"Your mask, Lieutenant," said one of the interchangeable Feds, hanging Rowan the final piece of the ensemble.

He glared at the mask. "I assume this was designed by committee," he sighed, turning it over in his hands. From a certain perspective, it looked like a combination welding helmet, policeman's crowntop hat and science-fiction nightmare. It covered everything except his muzzle, locking together around his throat with a clasp that could restrain a cement truck.

"You said you could see out of it," the other Fed said reproachfully.

"Ah, yeah, I can see just fine, straight in front of me. I can't see to the sides, and I can't turn my damn neck, but how often do criminals try to sneak up on people, right?"

"Right."

Rowan glared. "Sarcasm is lost on you, isn't it?"

"Yes. We're above the target now. Facemask, Lieutenant."

He angrily shoved the getup over his head, pinning his ears painfully until it was all the way down. Already he could hear the police air-band chatter coming through the headset, and he was at least a little reassured that he was going to be in contact with backup the entire time. According to the debriefing, the entire mission should be over in four minutes.

Four minutes,_he thought, buckling the mask to the collar of his outfit. _I can handle four minutes. Four minutes, and I pay for our next vacation. A cruise. Somewhere warm. Maybe Freeport...

The helicopter had left the downtown core so smoothly that Rowan was surprised to see the waterfront district half a mile below. "Spotters on the ground? Eyes on the Beagle?" he asked, trying to stay all business.

"Affirmative. Current tails indicate seventeen Dice in the building, arms unknown."

"Sev.... fuck," Rowan said softly. "They wouldn't use grenades in their own building, at least."

The helicopter was lowering carefully, the pilots conferring with the Feds to reach the precise elevation. "O'Reilly," Captain Bronwyn said, the plump tabby leaning forwards onto his knees.

Oh, great. I swear, if you try and blame this shit on me, I'm tossing you out first to soften my landing.

"You're a good man, O'Reilly."

Rowan blinked, happy that his mask was hiding most of his expression. "Sir," he acknowledged, struggling to keep his voice level.

Brownwyn frowned, nodded, and tapped on the Fed's shoulder. "We're all set here."

The chopper door was slid back, high-altitude winds slashing at the cabin. Despite the seatbelts, everyone clung to the supplied handles. Everyone except Rowan, however, who was inching slowly towards the opening.

He peered over the edge, and nearly vomited. He could see the entirety of the city spread out below him. Using a few landmarks, he could spot his own apartment building in the late-evening distance. Was that his light that was on? Was Molly waiting for him? Was she keeping dinner warm? He'd told her he would be late, but she was too good to him. All these years, far too good for him.

"Go!" the Fed barked over the buffeting winds.

Rowan stared straight down, finding the old pre-war building whose location had been drilled into his mind: directly south of the La Farge cement plant stacks, central of three wings, two faded orange stairwells at either end. It was close enough to straight down that he wouldn't have to adjust his course, much.

Two preparatory experiences skydiving, and suddenly it was go time.

"GO!"

Lawman turned slightly, carefully extended his middle finger, and grinned. "Peace!" he bellowed before vanishing from sight.

---

Junk and Transit walked slowly down a low-rent but still heavily-populated part of the hood, each with an enormous hot dog in one hand and a soda in the other.

"So you can eat some normal food?" the hippo was asking conversationally, trying to balance the mounds of peppers and onions on his own.

Junk shrugged. "Some stuff. This is pretty artificial, so it works for me."

"No vegetables, hmm?"

Shi shook hir head quickly. "Nope. They make me sick."

"I am _so_jealous of you," the teleporter grinned. "They make me sick, too, but they're probably healthy so I gotta eat them."

Dinner had turned out to be a street-level hot dog vendor, one that Jasmine had seen before but never even considered patronising while on the job. "You just... walk around? In the public?"

"Of course. You don't?"

"Uhm... no." Shi finished off hir hot dog, devouring the greasy napkin along with it. "It seems sort of weird to be in the costume, and just sort of... hanging out, you know? Not exactly stealthy."

"Eh, I guess. I don't have much of a problem with that," the hippo chuckled. "I just pop around wherever I need to go. But yeah, I mean, come on! These are your people. You gotta let them know that you're there, that you're on their side. You're like one of those motivational posters of the kitty hanging from a branch."

"I'm a kitty?" the jackalope asked dubiously.

"A purely metaphorical kitty!"

"Oh. Good."

"It's probably good not to hang out in one place for too long, though. See, if you get regular haunts, then you get the possibility of drive-by shootings, especially in your area. I had that happen once. Five bystanders were hit." Transit spoke so casually about it that Junk was momentarily taken aback.

"Holy shit. Were... are..."

"They all survived. I popped them to the hospital as soon as I was finished with the perps."

"Jeez," shi frowned. "I don't want... I mean, I expect to be a target, that sort of goes paw in paw with becoming a scary masked vigilante, but I really don't want the people around me to be targets. That's why I take so many precautions when I go home, either going in through the storm sewer or through the roof."

"From the sounds of it, you're doing fine. Bill said we don't need to worry about you becoming a weak link. Says you're really well-prepared for a beginner."

"I'm getting kind of sick of hearing about how much he knows about me," shi growled, finishing off hir drink and starting to chew the cup. "Anything else he said?"

He said you pad your bra and you're a whole lotta herm, and you've got more Class A Felony drugs on you than a Breaking Bad character. "Nope," he replied. "He's good at keeping secrets."

"He better be."

"Well, he said-" Transit was cut off by a buzzing from his coat pocket. "Hold on, getting a text. Uhm... hmmm, ok, Federal wide-band. Stay away from... Bruce and Denman, until 9pm. Urgent. Priority. Interference will be prosecuted, blah blah blah. Sweet! Wanna go watch?"

Jasmine stared. "The Feds say to stay away... and you wanna go watch?"

"Well, 'away' has many interpretations, and we're not going to INTERFERE. We're just going to watch. They can't stop us from watching. Who knows? You might get to meet some of the local wranglers, watch the cops in action. They don't usually tell us to stay clear unless there's a risk of civilian casualties, so we'll probably just work street-level to keep people inside. Come on, it'll be fun."

"I don't-"

He grabbed hir sleeve and the pair popped out of existence, leaving his soda cup to drop unceremoniously to the sidewalk.

---

"-ASK ME NEXT TIME YOU DO THAT!"

Transit moved hastily away from the angry jackalope, not entirely sure just what shi could do. Hir powers, by hir own admission, were very ill-defined, and he lacked any sort of super-toughness, healing factor, or anything else he considered cool. "Sorry! I thought it was easier!"

"Real men get CONSENT!" shi snorted. "Just... gyrgh, I just ate, too. That's rough on the stomach."

"It's the negation of inertia, it sort of causes your circulatory system to back up temporarily, and your sinuses get out of whack, and-"

"Yes, thank you, I picked up on all of that right when I felt like I was going to barf out my ears." Shi shook hir head, taking several deep breaths. "Ok, I'm walking home after this."

Transit nodded, palms raised. "No problem, no problem. Permission. Check."

Shi pulled a metal flask out of one of hir many pockets and took a deep swig. "Fyah. Ok. All better now. Jeez. Ok. Next question. Where are we?"

"Loaded Dice headquarters."

Once again, it took a few seconds for that to sink in. Hir jaw dropped in slow-motion, and shi spun around, trying to determine their location from the surrounding buildings. "That's the La Farge plant. Holy hell... how do you know this is their headquarters? This is right near Bruce & Denman, isn't it? Didn't they tell us to stay away from here? What's that sound?"

Before Transit could reply the roof exploded between them. The teleporter vanished instantly, reflexively throwing himself to safety, but Junk was showered with gravel and chunks of ancient planking. Shi threw hir hands protectively across hir face, making a mental note to kick Transit in the groin when shi saw him next.

Even more surprising than the sudden eruption of wood and stone, though, was the half-seen image of the hulking figure's shocked expression.

That was a PERSON?!

Further sounds of destruction came from within the building, and before long gunfire joined the symphony. Working with practiced ease shi tossed hir flask aside, reached into an internal pocket and pulled out a carefully-wrapped packet no larger than hir thumb. Shi popped the entire thing into hir mouth, shredding the plastic wrap and crunching on the hard crystals within.

What would have been ten times the lethal dose of synthetic thionyl methamphetamine was, for Junk, just the start of a bloody good time.

---

WHY ARE THERE PEOPLE ON THE ROOF

The impact was the worst thing Rowan had ever experienced, at least within the last fourteen years. His plummeting approach to the building seemed to pass with dreamlike slowness, the wind steaming over his helmet a long drawn-out explosion of noise. The comm officer counted out his altitude in his earpiece, and in the final instant between two hundred feet and one hundred he thought his heart must surely stop from sheer terror.

He had only the briefest impression of two figures on the roof, something that the police spotters had NOT mentioned, but in a flash they were out of sight and out of mind. Travelling at near terminal velocity, his initial impact took only a fraction of a second. The next five levels of the building parted like so much wet cardboard, four hundred pounds of rag-doll bear taking a long time to shed its momentum.

"LAWMAN HAS STOPPED ON THE THIRD FLOOR. SPOTTERS SHOW THREE APPROACHING FROM SOUTH-EAST! SOUTH-EAST!"

The voice blaring in his ear was high, tinny and supremely unhelpful. Lawman tried to get to his feet, but his arms and legs weren't responding. His body, every fibre of his being, was in screaming pain. He couldn't draw breath. Plaster dust covered the lenses of his mask. Debris continued to rain down on him.

"LAWMAN IS NOT MOVING. BIOMETRICS INCONCLUSIVE."

"I'm... not... dead..." he gasped, pushing himself up and shedding detritus like a breaching whale. "Just... hurts..."

"LAWMAN IS INJURED! LAWMAN IS INJURED!"

"Not injured," he growled, getting to his feet and stretching mightily, feeling his back popping and creaking back into place. "Just hurt."

"LAWMAN IS HURT! LAWMAN IS HURT!"

"Oh, shut up." He fleshed his fingers and toes, confirming that his words were actually true. The pain faded, leaving behind a vague throb, but there was no sign of injury. Not even a stubbed toe or a bruised nose. "I'm good. Where-"

He saw the muzzle flashes moments before fully automatic gunfire slammed into his body, spinning him around and knocking him back down. One outer lens cracked, and his neck screamed with agony when every round that struck his face snapped his head roughly to the side.

"OW OW OW OW FUCK!" he bellowed, unable to stop himself.

"LAWMAN IS UNDER FIRE! THREE PERPS, SOUTH-EAST!"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK SOUTH-EAST IS!" he roared back.

Lawman rolled away from the gunfire. He was in a large, low-ceilinged room, and during his brief moment of pre-shootout awareness he saw a great deal of furniture to one side, tables and shelves organized rows of wooden crates. He slammed face-first into one such crate, adjusted his course and wriggled on all fours behind them.

"Lawman," he wheezed softly, still getting used to having the Feds in his ears at all time, "taking cover, and preparing to pacify the situation."

Sawdust rained down on him as the gunfire followed, but angry cries in the distance silenced the shooters. Lawman drew the custom-sized .38 longbarrels from his thigh holsters, shifting onto his knees, one ear cocked.

"What the hell was that?!" came a terrified cry from the far side of the room.

"Fuck if I know! Hero?"

"What hero comes through the roof?"

"It had a badge and shit! I saw the badge! It's a cop!"

"Yeah, right, Tony, a COP came flying out of the sky and smashed through the ceiling. The hell is wrong with you?"

"Where did it go?"

"Circle around, watch your gunfire, we got a lot of product in here. Tony, go tell Lucky we got a situation, and lock this place down."

Product, eh? Interesting... Lawman took a moment to scan his surroundings, and sure enough there was the telltale row of ovens along the far wall. "You guys getting this?" he husked.

"CAMERAS FUNCTIONAL, AUDIO FUNCTIONAL."

"For the love of... would you stop yelling? I can hear you!"

"SORRY!"

He strained, but couldn't hear anything else. No footsteps, no talking, not even a creaking floorboard. Ok, we REALLY need to work on communication protocols, it's no damn good if I can't hear what the perps are up to! Tensing himself, reassured once more that his skin was not just buildingproof but bulletproof, he rose from behind the short row of crates, guns akimbo, and shouted, "FREEZE!"

The empty room obliged him by continuing to not move.

"LAWMAN, SPOTTERS HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH PERPS!"

He ground his teeth, but kept silent. It wouldn't do good to have an official police document filled with shouted obscenities. Moving carefully, scanning side to side, covering the entrances and exists as best he could, he walked back towards the hole he had created in the roof. Dust and flecks of wood continued to drift down, but the building didn't seem to be in any danger of collapsing.

"Moving down," he said calmly. "Contacts lost. Anticipating resistance. Mo-"

"Hey," came a firm but feminine voice from behind.

Lawman spun with surprising speed for his immense bulk, both guns instantly trained on the strange person's chest. He expected to see one of the Loaded Dice, generally recognizable by their black and white leather jackets, but the speaker turned out to be a tall, skinny rabbitgrrl, sporting a garly crown of antlers. Shi didn't match any of the local metas, sanctioned or otherwise, which left only one option.Outside talent.

"Put your hands over your head," he barked with authority, "and get down on your knees!"

"Oh, honey," the jackalope said sweetly, smiling with malicious intent. "We just met!"

Lawman prepared to make his second statement of intent, but moving with such alacrity hir arms didn't so much blur as vanish shi reached out, grabbed his wrists and spun like a bullfighter, lifting him easily off of the ground and slamming him onto his back as though he weighed no more than a pillow.

"UNKNOWN ASSAILANT! UNKNOWN ASSAILANT! LAWMAN IS DOWN!"

I am ripping that radio out as soon as I get back to the precinct, he seethed, twisting around and leaping back to his feet. A blow like that should have shattered every bone in his body, but Rowan was no longer as normal as he wished. He scanned the room frantically, but the assailant was gone.

"What the fuck was that?" he gasped, forcing his lungs to work once more.

"THIS!"

He didn't even have time to turn around. The kick caught him full in the back with the force of a cannonball, throwing him the length of the drug lab and driving him clear through the thin walls into the next room. He clung desperately to his guns and used his momentum to roll, digging his shoulder into the ground and coming up strong.

"FREEZE!" he roared, wiping more dust from his lenses. He shuffled backwards, putting his rump against the wall. "YOU ARE UNDER ARREST! ANY FURTHER ACT OF AGGRESSION WILL BE CONSIDERED RESISTING ARREST, AND I WILL BE COMPELLED TO USE LETHAL FORCE!"

For several seconds, the only reply was the rest of the wall he'd just passed through collapsing, and then a very meek, soft voice drifted through the darkness.

"Uhm... in that case... sorry?"

---

Half an hour later, Junk found hirself in the back of an FMA van, sitting between Transit and Lawman, furiously filling out paperwork while the meth worked its way out of hir system. Hir coat had been confiscated, along with the contents of hir pants, leaving hir in a white tank-top. At this point is was merely a formality, but hir ankles were also handcuffed to a titanium rod that ran the length of the van.

Transit was sitting with his head in his hands, mumbling to himself. "I'm gonna get dinged for this, I know it," he moaned. "They're gonna revoke my license for a month. At least. I'm sorry, Mister Lawman, uh, officer, sir, I was just trying to show hir around, show hir how we do things, shi wasn't supposed to follow you..."

Lawman, filling nearly half the van by himself, raised a paw the size of a phonebook, silencing the young hippo. "It's not up to me," he rumbled. "You were alerted, and the phone records confirmed you received the text. You willfully broke police cordon, infiltrated a crime scene, and interfered with the apprehension of known, wanted criminals."

"But we totally arrested them anyways!" Junk said giddily, flipping a page and continuing to scribble. "That was SO AWESOME, and thank you SO MUCH for letting me help you out with that after I, you know, kicked your ass and everything, and I'm really sorry for throwing you through that wall, but come on you KNOW you needed my help, that guy in the basement was in a solid steel panic room, you'd NEVER have gotten in there!"

Lawman winced, but nodded. "That has been taken into account," he said slowly. "Which is why I think they will be lenient, but you both clearly need to attend more FMA orientation meetings. Your new friend here is a wild card."

"Are they going to give my stash back? I really need all that stuff, that's where I get my powers from, and there's, like, a SHITLOAD of money worth in those pouches, but they're mine, I mean not MINE, I mean I took them off of the scumbags that were trying to sell them in my neighborhood, but they're all mine, especially the radioactive one which they totally shouldn't open-"

Transit and Lawman sighed, listening to the hyperactive vigilante rant. It was true, Junk's first night as an official crimefighter started off by breaking half a dozen laws and being arrested hirself, but outside the van the police were still processing the better than two dozen criminals that had been apprehended, including Lucky Seven, leader of the Loaded Dice, and Lawman had been forced to grudgingly admit that Junk's help had been crucial, if unexpected.

"Is this going to wear off soon?" the huge bear asked, leaning over the hunched jackalope.

"I don't know," Transit grimaced. "I'm sorta new to this side of hir, too."

"DONE!" Junk announced, slamming the sheaf of papers onto the floor of the van. Shi gripped the cuffs around hir ankles and tugged, shearing the chain and leaving hir with two ankle bracelets. "Can we go now?"

It was Lawman's turn to drop his head into his paws, and the huge, black-clad hero heaved a sigh. "Fine," he grunted. "You two, go home. Leave the streets for the night. We'll be in touch."

"Where's my coat? I really need that coat back, well not so much the coat, the coat only cost me fifteen bucks, but there's a lot of stuff IN the coat that I'd REALLY like back, and-" Not wanting to endure another verbal barrage, Lawman rapped hard on the van doors and the Feds outside opened it up.

The street was a circus of police cars, ambulances and news vans. Every network in town had been tipped off by 'anonymous callers' and had shown up just minutes before the gigantic bear had kicked down the front doors from within the decrepit building, emerging with an unconscious Lucky Dice member over each shoulder. From that point on, the scene had been controlled chaos, with carefully-coiffed Feds fielding the reporters' questions, introducing their new payrolled superhero Lawman. They even adapted to the situation well enough to praise the actions of newly-appointed free meta-agent, Junk, who happened to be in the area.

Jaw operating non-stop, Junk worked hir way through the crowd, hunting for someone who looked like they were in charge. Transit followed hir as best he could, shouldering his way politely through the throng of law enforcement and public media.

"Anyone seen my coat? Anyone? Hey, have you seen my coat? You can't miss it, it's got like a three ounce twisty-pack of coke in the left breast pocket, and it's got some red paint marks on the outside. Awww, man, I lost one of my flasks, I guess that's ok, I don't even like gin but it was on sale so I had to give it a shot. It doesn't taste like berries AT ALL, I dunno what the fuck they make it from, oh hey, there's my coat, HEY TRANSIT THAT GUY HAS MY COAT COULD YOU HELP ME TALK TO HIM?!

Hir coat, as it turned out, was laying on the ground near another FMA van, surrounded by yellow police tape and situated next to a ticking Geiger counter. The CSI agent, a short and stocky old goat in a hazmat suit, was frantically reassuring the Feds present that the radiation levels were extremely low and not actually a threat to anyone. With the single-minded focus that paradoxically came with an overdose of stimulants, Junk walked right through the yellow tape and swept hir coat into hir arms, hugging it like an old friend.

"Officers, it's_fine_," the goat was saying placatingly, tapping his clipboard. "Look, the dose is extremely low, you could probably keep this coat in your closet and it would be fine, you don't have to avert your eyes, that doesn't do anything and HEY PUT THAT DOWN!"

The agent started to walk swiftly towards Junk, but Transit appeared with a faint pop, his arm already descending around the goat's slender shoulders. With his free hand, he was texting furiously. "Evening, sir, Transit, Local 314. If the coat is safe, may I suggest you don't try to take it away from hir, all right? Shi's very attached to it."

"That was _hir_coat? You wouldn't believe what we found in it!"

"Oh, I would, and I think you might want to seriously consider giving most of it back."

---

Much later, after the media frenzy had died down, after Lawman had given a perfunctory number of very short, very well-rehearsed interviews, Rowan found himself bundled into the back of an FMA van and removing the costume piece by piece.

"Several contact points failed," one of the nameless, interchangeable agents was saying, sorting through the pile of kevlar and steel. "Helmet lenses sustained damage from direct gunfire. You might want to consider not looking directly at incoming gunfire, increase the angle of deflection."

"I will keep that in mind," the indestructible bear grunted, trying to work the boots off of his feet.

"Some hardcracking equipment might be necessary for the next iteration," the agent continued. "Thermite for locks, oxy torch perhaps. Concussion grenades would also be handy for point of insertion."

"Point of insertion? That your fancy name for crashing face-first through a building? How long did it take to come up with that term?" The mustelid agent, whom Rowan guessed to be in his early twenties, looked hurt. The experienced detective just sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, not your fault. Just had kind of a long night."

And he knew he was going to have many more long nights.

For more than a decade, he had worked hard to protect his little secret. He had been just as surprised to find out that, at some point during his adult life, he had become... one of 'them', one of the Metas. As a junior lieutenant, he had been involved in a bust that had gone thoroughly awry, trapping his squad in a bloody crossfire. Two officers died, four were injured, and Rowan himself had been lucky to escape with his life.

At least, that was what he had told everyone. Back at the station house, after debriefing, long after the locker rooms had cleared out, the young bear had held up his bulletproof vest to the lights, staring in shock at the singed, pinkie-sized holes. Knowing the official law- enforcement opinion regarding Metas, he stuffed the vest into his duffel, brought it home, and spent many long nights carefully destroying it with a pair of bolt cutters.

A few experiments later, and he started to understand the scope of his abilities. He could plunge his hand into boiling water for several minutes at a time and emerge unscathed. He could stab himself in the eye with a steak knife, and only bend the knife. Working on one of the SWAT vans one evening, he stuck his fingers into the engine's whirring van and only succeeded in destroying a perfectly good diesel engine.

He couldn't be injured, but his nerves still worked fine; all of that stuff hurt.

Sitting in the back of the FMA van, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and waiting for his regular clothes to be returned to him, he rubbed the old wound on his left thigh, a small patch near the front and a much larger patch near the back where no fur grew. White scar tissue formed uneven lumps, and on rainy days it ached enough to give him a slight limp. I wasn't invincible that night, he thought for the millionth time. So what the hell happened?

Somehow, his secret had gotten out, and one morning Captain Bronwyn was at his desk, looking even more tense than usual. Some sort of Internal Affairs investigation had turned up some discrepancies in Rowan's work record, in his materials requisitions, in his strange habit of not returning body armor after events. His bank accounts never turned up any illicit behaviour, but somehow they'd gotten warrants to search his computer, and his browser history had pointed them in some very enlightening questions.

"And now I'm the first Federally-mandated superhero," he grumbled.

"What was that, sir?" said the agent.

"Nothing, boy. Nothing at all." It wasn't much of a choice. Either become Lawman, follow the orders, and become the pointman that the Feds had been desperately searching for since Amalthea burst onto the scene, or lose his job, probably lose his wife, and a case could be made that he was endangering other officers' lives with his secret. An unsympathetic judge could find jail time somewhere in that mess.

In the end, it was no choice at all.

---

Soarceress stood over the much younger heroes, hands on hir hips, frowning with frustration. "And that was when you attacked, not only a Meta, but apparently also a Federal agent," shi said for the third time.

Tim, aka Transit, and Jasmine, aka Junk, sat on the opulent couch and felt for all the world that they were being dressed down by a teacher for rubbing glue in someone's hair. "Ye-e-es," Jasmine said eventually, wincing at the volume of hir own voice. Egads, my head is killing me..."Can I have a drink now?"

"No." Soarceress was not in hir full crime fighting gear, but even in a silk bathrobe shi could have stepped out of a glamor magazine. Once Transit had relayed the salient events of the evening, Soarceress had insisted they come directly to hir place for the second debriefing of the night. The penthouse apartment was so over-the-top luxurious that a little stab of resentment forced its way through Jasmine's withdrawal. "And throughout all of this, Transit was..."

"Across the street, Soar," Tim said in a small voice. "There was... a lot of gunfire."

"And Junk, the newest member of the team, inexperienced and in your care, just wandered into an active firefight, while you watched."

"I... shi... they... I mean... yes?"

"And _neither_of you got injured?"

The two younger heroes reflexively patted themselves down, and nodded. "I can dodge pretty good when I'm, uhm, powered up," the jackalope explained.

"Bullets," Soarceress said, trying to mask hir impression. "You can dodge bullets."

"Sometimes. It depends what I take. Sometimes they bounce off, so I don't dodge them."

"Sometimes," Soarceress repeated. "Well, that's something. Ok. Transit, you're sure that shi filled out ALL the forms?"

"I watched hir do it! Well, shi was writing really fast and I didn't proofread or anything, but shi definitely wrote something down, and the Feds let hir go. WITH hir stash, which was kind of cool."

The towering doe-herm paced back and forth, jewels jangling in hir rounded, velvety antlers. "That's about as much approval as shi's going to get, I think. From here on out, you're both going to need to be more careful. A LOT more careful. They've got their own heavy hitter now, and from what you describe he's more than just bulletproof. He fell better than a third of a mile, and you say he was on his feet right away."

"He was swearing a lot..." Jasmine said helpfully.

"That's just sensible." Soarceress heaved a sigh, bathrobe stretching around hir glamorous and often-photographed figure. "Ok. I'm too tired to be properly pissed off right now, and I know Bill will handle most of the yelling for me, so I'm just going to tell you, BOTH of you, to go home, and go to sleep. Jasmine, you look like you're about to pass out."

"Long week," the amateur hero mumbled. "Trying to... to my best."

Soarceress knelt and placed hir hand on Jasmine's shoulder. "Your best," shi said gently, "is yet to come. You're a hard worker, kid, and you're going to go far, but you need to do something crucial that's going to mean the difference between life and death, for a LOT of people, and not just yoy."

"What?"

"Think," the doe grinned. "Before every mission, before every patrol, before every punch... think. You can beat up all the crooks and thugs in the world, and the world will still suck, and you need to think about why. You need to think about not just WHERE to apply all of your force and energy, but HOW, and WHY. And that will come with time."

Jasmine sniffed and nodded. "Thanks."

"Thank you," Soar said sincerely. "Thanks to your little clusterfuck tonight, we got more info on the new guy than we'd have gotten from a year of crappy vetted television interviews, AND you took down half of the Loaded Dice boss crew. That's earned a good night's sleep."

Jasmine and Tim walked hand-in-hand out onto the balcony, fifty-five storeys above street level and larger than the jackalope's apartment, and popped out of sight. Soarceress leaned against the doorframe and rolled hir eyes, chuckling to hirself.

"The new grrl got a bit of a hazing tonight, hmm?" came Amalthea's voice, drifting out of the darkness above the doe's head. One of the enormous, shadowy gargoyles ringing the building's spire shifted its weight, multicolored fur and scales hard to see among the forest of moulded concrete. "Seemed none the worse for wear."

"Hir body, maybe," Soar said. "Hir mind... shi's new. Shi's really new. The spirit is willing, shi's a quick thinker and shi's as straight as an arrow considering the whole drug thing, but this is a lot of responsibility for someone so young."

"Diamond's younger than hir," the chimera pointed out helpfully.

"Diamond was raised on superhero comics since the age of three, and she's already lived through more horror than most of us will ever know. That's why we've never tried to use her for anything other than combat... combat is simple. Being a hero, taking the responsibility... that sucks."

"Tell me how you_really_ feel," Amalthea chided playfully.

Soar raked hir hand through hir rich black tresses, always wondering how to read the ancient superheroine. Amalthea had been fighting crime since before Soarceress's parents were born, and had been wearing the mantle of responsibility for nearly all that time. Maybe not everyone can get through all that unscathed. "They'll both be fine, in time. We look out for eachother."

Amalthea's crimson, draconian tail twined slowly out of the darkness, the diamond-shaped tip patting the doe on the shoulder. "You're a good boss, boss."

Shi chuckled. "I'm no boss. I'm just the only person good at faking competence."

"We could put Bill in charge..."

"Don't even joke about that."

---

The oversized door opened, darkened, closed.

"Home," Rowan said tiredly. He hung his coat on the hook, holster next to it. The Lawman outfit was being retooled by the FMA and would be ready for the next mission on Saturday night, hopefully in time for the 11pm news.

The apartment was silent, which he sort of expected. It was pushing midnight. Debriefing had taken forever. The tapes were watched, re-watched and watched all over again, his commentary given half a dozen times to different members of different agencies. Ten minutes of carefully-applied violence, four hours of paperwork, with a great deal of it pertaining to his unexpected ally for the night, the oddly-named Junk.

He envied hir, he really did. Shi simply showed up out of nowhere, smashed hir way through a fortified criminal organization with malicious glee, filled out some registration forms and was allowed to go free. Shi had a territory, shi had some restrictions shi was all too happy to comply with, and unless he missed his guess shi was tweaking severely on something thoroughly illegal.

While he, on the other hand, was scheduled for sixteen hours of tactical training over the next two days in order to properly learn combat techniques to take advantage of his invulnerability. The colossal bear did not have any other super powers, as far as anyone could tell. His strength, while tremendous, was in line with what a bear of his size would possess, and lasers did not emit from any body parts. He couldn't fly, he couldn't jump particularly high, and he couldn't see through walls.

All he could do was feel pain without sustaining any actual damage.

"Maybe I should start drinking," he mused dejectedly. "My liver will probably be fine."

"What was that, honey?" came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.

"Nothing, Moll," he called, trying to sound light-hearted. "Sorry I'm late, there's... there's a lot of shi-... stuff happening at work."

"I watched the news," the tiny voice yawned. "You looked good in that suit."

The entire apartment shuddered as Rowan's head whipped up in shock and slammed into the ceiling. Plaster once again rained down around him, but he didn't even try to brush it off of himself. "What? No, that's... that's not... different precinct..."

Molly, little more than half his height and one eighth his weight, padded out of the bedroom, tugging her robe around her lithe body. "Honey," she said gently, eyes dancing with mirth. "Do you really think I'm such a dumb blonde that I'm not going to recognize my favorite husband's body, or voice, or inability to cut his swearing short? You're fixing that hole in the morning, by the way."

"I'm sorry," he croaked, dropping to one knee hard enough to dent the floor and reaching for her delicate, childlike paw. "I didn't want to get sucked into all this, I just wanted to be normal, I just wanted to be a good cop and go to work and come home to you and go on cruises and get old with you..."

She reached up and brushed some of the plaster dust off his nose. "Officer?" she asked cutely.

"Yes?" he replied automatically, blinking away the fog in his eyes.

The tiny shrew grabbed his ears and almost seemed to try yanking them off of his head, pulling him into a passionate kiss.

"I'm pissed you didn't tell me earlier," she husked, letting the robe fall away from her shoulders, her flaxen fur glowing in contrast to the black and almost non-existent negligee. "You are going to have a_lot_ of explaining to do in the morning, but right now, you look like you need to unwind."

His eyes traveled hungrily down her tiny, tight body. Thirteen years together, and she still kept her diminutive figure in swimsuit model condition. Thirteen years together, and even working two jobs she somehow managed to find enough time to ask him about his day, accepting his difficulties without judgement. Thirteen years together, and she was still admirably dedicated to ending each argument by trying to fuck him into submission.

"I don't deserve you," he said, choking back a tear.

"I know," she smirked, tugging him towards the bedroom. "Also, this opens up some... intriguing possibilities."

"Uhm... what do you-"

"Do you have the costume?"

---

The black limousine slid through the streets, wholly incongruous with the crumbling urban decay on all sides. Luxury Cadillacs were not unknown in these areas. The occasional Mercedes, a handful of Land Cruisers, even a Jaguar or two. No matter how poor an area could become, there would be those not afraid to flaunt their power, driving their influence home.

The limousine, though, was new. It was badly out of place. It was, in a manner that none of the skulking observers could quite put their fingers on, frightening.

This was not an area known for crime. It was poor, but it was relatively clean, and there were any number of respectable street-front businesses. The limo pulled up in front of an all-night laundromat, neon signs buzzing loudly and inaccurately proclaiming the cheapest washers in town.

The rearmost window purred down, revealing nothing of the black void within.

"Zin," came a crisp, polished voice from within, a voice used to having commands obeyed.

A slender, unassuming figure rose from one of the cheap plastic chairs set up outside the laundromat. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over the smokey grey ermine's ears, lean body hidden by a long bulky coat. "Ayuh," he drawled, walking over to the idling vehicle.

"You saw the news." It was not a question.

The ermine gestured towards the laundromat, half a dozen televisions airing replays of the evenings heroics. "Always."

"Good man. I don't like to be kept out of the loop. We're going to keep an eye on this."

Zin nodded. "You need me?"

"Not yet, my good man, not yet," the voice chuckled. "But soon. Very soon. It's time to gather the flock."

The ermine smiled, and the laundromat lights flickered behind him. Several of the neon letters high above whined, flared and snapped off with a crackle of ozone.

"Can't wait."