On a winding dirt road through a pine-laden forest, there stood a small booth seated before a massive wrought-iron gate. Barely larger than a portable toilet, this booth was glass on the three front sides, plastic paneling on the fourth. It was inside this booth that a man sat at his desk, leg kicked over his knee, clawing at the leafs that made up a large tabloid.

Holding a flashlight in one hand, Jameson tried multiple times to turn the page; his chapped fingers slid off the corner, unable to grip the edge.

Jameson grunted, and he touched his finger to his tongue and tried again. Grip applied, he managed to get ahold of the glossy-coated strip. Gone was a technicolor image of Meteoroid on a dusty, alien planetary terrain, hiding behind her own cape, presumably nude. It was replaced by a two-page centerfold of Shinobi standing barefoot and mostly exposed in a running brook surrounded by blooming cherry blossoms. Her shōzuko and katana were respectively folded and sheathed on a nearby rock, while her fingers were behind her back, frozen by the photography as they sought to unclasp the straps that sealed in her midnight-colored bra.

Jameson chuckled. Then he turned around. He reached for the phone, situated on a cluttered desk at the back wall populated by schedules, tickets, building plans, and other useful files. He punched in seven numbers and waited.

Soon, someone picked up.

“Yo, what’s up Jameson?”

“Hey, Mack. Anything to report?”

“No, nothin’. Same as the past seven hours. You?”

“Ah, nah. Nothing, really.”

“So, is there any reason you felt the need to call me right before the end of our shift?”

Jameson scrounged for the tabloid. He’d forgotten where he set it down. “Only to hear your lovely voice, Mack. But, uh, n-no, nah, yeah, nah. Though, ah… I was wonderin’. I need your opinion on something.”

“Shoot.”

Jameson clutched one half of the magazine. The other half was open completely, this time on an image of Hyperveil, racing a Formula One car in a skimpy bikini. The car had only just crossed the start line while Hyperveil was already around the first bend.

“Yeah, I was just thinking. So, say, sake of argument, gun to ya’ head, right? Who has the best tits between Meteoroid, Shinobi, and ahh… Hyperveil?”

“You’re callin’ me, while we’re both at work, to ask me that?”

Jameson waited for the incoming response.

“Meteoroid clears.”

“What? Seriously?!”

“Bro, have you seen how big those knockers are?”

“I mean, yeah, no shit I have! But you cannot tell me that pair of knockers looks better than Shinobi’s do on her.”

“Is that your answer?”

“So what if it is?! Size isn’t everything, you know. Shinobi’s complement her figure at least!”

“You said nothing about figures, old man. You asked me about tits. And I told you my answer. About tits.”

“Yeah, sure, sure kid… Okay, so, now, Aqualass, Imperia, and Sylph? Same deal, gun to your head. Best ass, who ya got?”

“Look I… who’s Sylph?”

“Oh, my bad, I thought you knew. She just hopped on the scene. Some sort of wizard, I think? A bunch of magic mumbo jumbo, I don’t really understand it.”

“Like, ‘Sylph’, Sylph? Like Alexander Pope, Sylph?”

“Look, I can link you her Wikipedia page if ya want. But we ain’t here to talkabout 18th century English poetry. We’re here to…”

Jameson looked up from the magazine. A car was rolling down the lane, headed straight to the gate he was stationed at. It was a pristine, pure white Humvee, being driven by a young-seeming looking woman with snow-blonde hair, wearing round red sunglasses and an unseasonably-heavy trench coat. Jameson sighed and said, “Hold on, we’ve got a visitor,” before putting the phone on the desk, still on.

The vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the booth. She rolled down her window and leaned out.

“Angel Evans. I’m here to see Miss Firefly.”

Jameson touched the button on his desk and spoke into the microphone. His voice came out fuzzy on the other end. “Cra-ack - You ain’t on the schedule.”

“We’re good friends. She called me. It’s important.” Angel Evans – codename: Seraph – lowered her glasses and glared at Jameson.

Jameson nervously ground his teeth. Then he talked through the speaker, “Hold on a sec.”

Jameson picked up the phone again.

Mack was on the other end, listening to it all. “We got company?”

“I dunno, some fashion model lookin’ type, Angel Evans? Probably one of Firefly’s clients. Or one of their wives. Says she wants to see ‘er.”

“Well, I don’t see nobody on the schedule.”

“That’s what I said! Looks real shifty too. Says she’s a friend though.”

“Well, any little motherfucker can say they’re a friend of the boss. Doesn’t mean we let ‘em in.”

“Yeah, kid, I’m well aware. I’ll handle it.”

Jameson put the phone down again and spoke to Ms. Evans. “Look ma’am, you’ll have to come back with an appointment. We can’t let you in without that or Firefly’s say so.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Allow me to repeat myself. My name is Angel Evans. I am here to see Natasha Firefly.” Though a glass barrier separated the two, Jameson could tell that whether this woman was a friend or foe, she wasn’t going to be leaving by her own choice.

Jameson shifted uncomfortably in the booth, scratching at his beard. He gulped, making sure his job-issued firearm was within reach beneath the desk. “Look, Miss Evans, I’m sorry. Bottom of my heart, right hand to God. But if you don’t have an appointment –”

Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring!

Jameson’s personal phone.

He paused, reaching for the phone in his pocket and glancing at the caller ID. Unknown number.

“Could’ve sworn I silenced this…” thought Jameson as he answered lackadaisically. “Hey, who’s this?”

Angel smiled as he watched Jameson’s expression in the wake of answering the call deteriorate from mild annoyance to complete and utter despair and mortification. He said a few things, inaudible behind the glass, but somehow apparently always cut off by the voice on the other line. Jameson snuck in a few evil glares back at Angel, which Angel always replied to with a perfectly neutral expression.

Finally, Jameson was hung up upon. He lifted his finger demurely to the speaker button. “G-go on ahead, Miss Evans.”

Angel went on smiling as the gate opened. Without a word, she drove on through. Jameson muttered under his breath. “Freak show…”

Jameson jittered as he watched the car leave, squinting as he just barely heard odd, muffled thumps and bumps emanating from the trunk. He peered out into the night, wondering what those weird shadows in the rear-view window of the SUV were, when suddenly a voice burst out of the phone again.

“Oh, yo, Jameson, you there? Okay, I Googled Sylph, and hot damn, that’s a lot of cake.”

…

As Angel approached the garage aperture, it opened for her without any input from Angel. Taking the invitation, she maneuvered the vehicle through, slowing to a stop in the twelve-car cave upon one of the designated parking spots. She turned her head. “You okay back there?”

From the trunk, Trencher’s voice came back. It was quivering. “This is… unpleasant… vehicles… vehicles… Get me out of here…”

“We’re almost there, just stay put for a little longer,” Angel pleaded. Trencher grunted in response, nesting in her pillows and blankets Angel put for her.

Angel put the car in park. Then she took a bit of time to glance at the other automobiles that called this garage home. From Maserati’s to Lamborghinis, Pontiacs and a spare Nissan GT-R, the garage had no shortage of muscle cars, performance vehicles, cruisers, and pristine classics. It was impressive the first time, but upon subsequent visits it lost the effect on Angel.

With no provocation, a series of machines began to activate, humming and groaning beneath the slot. Angel rolled down her window and peaked out, making sure her car was within the lines. It was, and she sighed, relaxing once again as the floor began to give way. Soon, the visions of cars surrounding her began to rise at a relaxed pace, as the secret elevator shaft initiated, and all Angel could see was rapidly moving concrete.

“Showoff,” Angel muttered, drowning in darkness. Much like the repertoire of vehicles, this too got old after the first time.

***

Natasha blinked. The monitor blinked back, flashing a tiny bit as it briefly obscured the information displayed.

I need to get this thing replaced.

Natasha got up and walked a short distance away, footsteps reverberating through the wide-open cavern within which she was situated.

She reached a minibar. Pulling out a bottle of whisky and an appropriate glass, she poured it and added a few drops of water. As she returned to the supercomputer, her steps were quick, yet never so much as created a ripple at the rim of the cup.

Natasha sat down again, just as the machinery of the elevator rumbled to a halt in an adjacent room. Natasha grunted, and she put the glass down, rotating her chair just as Angel came marching inside the complex looking very unamused. Trencher followed her, bare of most of her cyborg enhancements, save the battery pack grafted to her spine, glowing faintly. She approached skittering on all fours, barefoot, with disturbing skill. “Ground! Ground!” Trencher hugged the earth lovingly, sliding across it as she crouch-walked behind Angel.

“What is wrong with you?” Nightfly said, calmly, patiently, measuredly. “Truly, what is it? Why do you think it’s okay to barge into my place of residence unannounced? Do you know I had to chew out a perfectly good security guard for doing their job just because I knew you’d force your way in if I didn’t let you in myself?”

Nightfly lifted the glass to her lips only for Seraph to slap the cup out of her hands. It shattered, the alcohol draining into the porous stone floor. Nightfly’s eye twitched, but otherwise she didn’t respond.

“Forty-eight hours? We botch the biggest heist of our lives, and you don’t even so much as send me a messenger pigeon for forty-eight hours?” Chilly rage drifted off Seraph’s words as she spoke. Her trench coat seemed to warble and twitch.

“You are aware of what it means to ‘lie low’ and ‘wait it out’ for a bit, aren’t you?” Nightfly stood up, returning to the bar to pour another glass of whisky. “We failed, and the heat is on. We try again another day. You know this. Besides, I’m sure you’ve caused ten times that amount of collateral damage in your day.”

Seraph watched, immobile, clenching her fists. “That’s not what I mean.”

Nightfly paused in raising her glass to her lips. Then, slowly, she brought it the slight rest of the way and took a sip. “What do you mean, then?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Seraph slumped down in the chair, burrowing into it. Her jacket fell off, and her wings sprouted out. Visibly, Seraph felt a sense of relief as she was able to brandish her mutant enhancements uninhibited. “We’re short.”

“Ah, short, short!” Trencher cheered. “I was beginning to miss the little upstart. Is she nearby?” Trencher sniffed the air to and fro.

Seraph glared at Nightfly. “Sadly, she is not. And it seems us two are the only ones who even care that the kid is gone.”

“I’m doing everything I can to –”

“And what is everything, huh? What, is this really everything you can do?!” Seraph gestured to the supercomputer screen. An image of police files displaying one of Shortfuse’s earlier mugshots was one of the few sources of light in the cavern. “We live in the real world. Cather… Caldera needs help now. She can’t wait around in prison while you’re –”

“Caldera’s not in prison.” Nightfly took another sip.

This caused Seraph to sit up. “She isn’t?”

“I’ve checked the police records. I’ve made phone calls. I visited the place yesterday. Trust me, she is not in prison. By all accounts, our associate has been missing for almost a week.”

“But… that’s…” Seraph put a hand to her chin. “She didn’t take the tunnel. Where could she be?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Sighing, Nightfly poured the rest of her glass down the drain. “Do you know who that is on the computer?”

Seraph looked at the picture of Shortfuse again. “Who doesn’t? Aster City’s most wanted? If not for Imperia, because of her we’d be living in the stone age right about now. I just wish someone would catch the bitch just so I don’t have to look over my shoulder every time I turn on my television.”

“Right.” Nightfly walked over and gripped the back of the chair, rolling a slightly startled Seraph out of the way before hunching over the keyboard and punching in a few keys. The screen changed, and was replaced by a woman with short, brown hair, holding up prison identification numbers. Her eyes looked dead. Above her, a caption labeled “Penelope ‘Penny’ Gardner” was added with digital editing.

“Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in a while.” Seraph crossed her arms. “I think she still owes me $20. What about her?”

Nightfly turned to Seraph, leaning back on the computer desk. “Do you know who Mustafa Nasser is?”

“Yeah, uh…” Seraph snapped her fingers a few times. “Some… writer... guy…”

“Mustafa Nasser is…” Trencher licked her finger and held it to the air. “An investigative journalist… and Pulitzer Prize winner, currently employed with the Aster Gazette.”

“Very good,” Nightfly said. She reached into the desk drawer and grabbed a wrapped fortune-cookie, tossing it to Trencher who lunged it out of the air with her mouth, devouring the cellophane snack in one gulp. “I’m glad someone knows their civics.”

Seraph looked away sheepishly. “W-well alright! What’s the point of any of this?”

“Nasser’s specialty is contemporary superheroics and crime. My sources in the Gazette told me that Nasser visited Adrian Penitentiary to interview Polymaiden. And –”

“And let me guess,” Seraph interrupted. “She wasn’t talkin’?”

“It’s… hard to explain. It’s like…” Nightfly stopped to think, tapping the desk. Trencher sidled up next to her, rubbing her cheek against Nightfly’s felt black pant leg. “Are you familiar with Voodoo dolls?”

“If I say yes, will you get to the point faster?”

Nightfly rolled her eyes. “It was like she was possessed. Allegedly. She couldn’t even speak. Not for long anyway. Kept getting these fits. Violent.” Nightfly stroked Trencher’s hair. When it came back, her hand was covered in a fine layer of sediment. “Nothing usable came out of the interview, so they scrapped the thing. But it did get me wondering…”

Nightfly turned back to the computer, inputting a series of keystrokes until another face came up.

“Imperia?” Seraph wondered. “What about her?”

“Simple. Shortfuse. Polymaiden. Our associate. Imperia was the last person who fought them all.”

Seraph raised an eyebrow. “You’re not insinuating that Imperia did something to them, did you? Like, I understand you’re smart and all. You’ve made deductions I could only dream of. But this? I mean, it’s Imperia. This is a huge accusation for someone like her.”

“Her power profile is perfect for it,” Nightfly went on. “The ability to shrink anyone and anything to a manageable size. You’ve seen her TV demonstrations, haven’t you? And these wouldn’t be the only villains who disappeared either right after or several weeks after battling Imperia. The prevailing theory: the queen of Aster City isn’t as pure as we think she is. Human trafficking is a profitable business over the border.”

Seraph looked at her knees. Her wings flapped lightly, peppering the air with a handful of loose feathers. “This is a reach. A huge one. No hero that sugary would risk their career – their lives… doing something like that. Besides, we’re criminals. Since when do we worry about human traffickers?”

Trencher made a mock gasp. Standing up, she dramatically leaned back, aghast. “Seraph, you wound us! Criminals we may be… but. We have standards!”

Nightfly was less jovial. “It’s just a pet theory. All of it is. But at this point, it’s either this, or Trencher’s tunnel collapsed prematurely and crushed Caldera to pieces. Hey Trencher, do you think your tunnel collapsed?”

“Not a chance in Hell,” was the reply. “I calculated it for our weight only. No more, no less. The fact we are alive is proof enough the morsel should’ve had a chance to escape.”

Nightfly turned back to Seraph, and she shrugged. “You heard the girl.”

Seraph was silent. She had no love or hate toward Imperia one way or another. While Seraph has run in many of the same circles as a few of Imperia’s foes, the two had never met face to face. Hopefully, they never would. Imperia’s nice to the cameras, but she’s made no secret about being quite brutal to those she faces in battle.

Ultimately, Seraph said, “Fine, genius. So what’s the plan? How are we supposed to find her?”

The implicit question was one of peering deeper into Imperia’s personal life. For as famous a hero as she was, Imperia was quite avid on keeping her identity under wraps. Nobody had even seen her without her mask. None of the top celebrities and billionaires that called Aster City home matched her profile. And in a city of millions, it was hard to narrow down one blondie in a haystack this massive.

Nightfly smirked. “We don’t. But we don’t have to, when we can make her come to us… or someone else.”