Erica Hayes - Scorched

In the screens' eerie glow, his shadow loomed on the wall, distorted, a stick insect with crazy hair. I dragged a hand across my chin, frustrated. He was right. At least he hadn't tried to kill me, or throw me in an asylum, at least not yet. And—be realistic—what other choice did I have?

I had no friends left. I couldn't trust my own family. Adonis's phone was probably tapped. And my power was erratic, at best. I was damaged. Until I recovered from Mengele's screw-your-mind tricks, I wasn't operating at full capacity.

Razorfire, on the other hand, was unharmed, and wreaking havoc unmolested. Apparently, I couldn't defeat him even at the height of my powers, let alone half crippled like this. Add to that his fanatical Gallery chums, augmented and normal, who'd cheerfully hunt me down in a heartbeat on his say-so…

Maybe—just maybe—I couldn’t do this alone.

"Okay." My mouth dried up like I'd just said I love you . Jeez, if Skunkboy went all welcome-to-the-team on me, I'd die of embarrassment.

But Glimmer just flashed that crooked smile at me over his shoulder. The pale stripe in his hair glistened silver in the screenlight. "Relax, tough girl. Doesn't mean we're dating, or anything."

Bless his cute little butt. I snorted, grateful. "Not in this universe, pal."

"Famous last words." He pointed at the image of Uncle Mike on the trolley car, and it sprang onto the virtual display, zooming into high resolution on a streetlamp's orange halo. "See? That faint oval shimmer under the streetlamp? That's Phantasm. A light-bender. He's hard to pin down. I only got that shot because of the three-angle shadows."

I peered closer, thankful to get down to work without any more friendly-ass fuss. Heh. So it was: Cousin Jeremiah. Wait till I tell the OCD little brat he's been made. He'll count toothpicks for a week.

Still, I fidgeted, memories dancing an elusive waltz. Uncle Mike saw me outside Equity's office. He could have set Mengele on me, though I had no idea why he'd want to. Hell, for all I knew, Phantasm-slash-Jeremiah was skulking about in Equity's office the whole time.

Thing was, I hadn't been paying attention. I'd been too damned angry at Equity to care.

I swiped the picture away too roughly, and the display skipped a few. Another pic flashed up, shadow piled upon shadow, a tall dark figure facing a towering wall of liquid fire.

"Blackstrike," Glimmer said, unnecessarily. I'd know my father anywhere, his spare frame, his black coat swirling, his long fingers fashioning those writhing plumes of darkness.

My throat hurt. I wanted to reach out, slide my fingers over the glass. Touch him, give him one of our rare, awkward hugs. Tell him I was sorry he'd died trying to save me.

Too late for that, old girl.

Maybe that was it. Uncle Mike and Dad had been inseparable. Maybe Mike was inconsolable, and blamed me…

"That's my last image of him," Glimmer continued. "Five days after that, he vanished. They say he's dead. I'm not so sure, but he covers his tracks too well. I don't have a real name to trace him with."

Clank ! My jaw dropped, along with the penny. "You really don't have a clue who I am, do you?"

His eyes narrowed, midnight slits. "I know you're not Blackstrike, if that's what you mean."

I laughed, dazed. Glimmer didn't know me. Had no idea, in fact. About me, or Dad, or FortuneCorp.

About any of it.

My mind splintered, glitter-sharp. All just coincidence. Maybe Glimmer really did just stumble over me in that alley. Maybe he really had built up all this intel by himself, from nothing. Fact was, I wasn't sensing a single ounce of guile in my glimmery new friend.

Either that, or Mr. Tall-skunk-and-handsome was a most excellent liar.

"Dude, you have so much to learn." I shook my head, incredulous, and flicked to the next image.

Glimmer spoke, but I didn't hear. I stared, frozen, my vision soaked in crimson death.

Razorfire always wore red.

My pulse pounded. Sick heat washed over me, and I covered my mouth.

Just a sneaky snapshot of him, rounding an office building's corner with his sleek head cocked to one side. Tall, angular, graceful like a shark. He had a fetish for this long close-fitting coat in the Mandarin style, high-collared and shiny red. His hawk-like mask was dark and glassy, some heat-reflective alloy, a rusty color like dried blood. He stared directly at the camera, like he didn't give a shit he was being watched, and though I couldn't see anything burning, his eyes gleamed orange, the triumphant reflection of fire.

Glimmer looked up. "What? You okay?"

I nodded frantically, fingers plastered over my lips. Blood thundered in my skull. I wanted to scream. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to smash the screen, clamber through the shards into that little glass world and squeeze the sick bastard's throat in my bleeding hands until he choked his last. "It's…" I spluttered, and forced my hands down. "Razorfire," I managed, strangled. "What have you got on him?"

"More than I want to." Glimmer reached for the screen, ready to access more, but glanced at my face and apparently thought better of it. Instead, he skidded his chair back. "But less than I need," he admitted. "He always slips my surveillance. It's like he knows he's being watched, and can disappear at will—"

"You got a name?" I interrupted. "A picture in the clear? Anything?"

A soft laugh. "You're kidding, right? Believe me, lady, that one's personal. If I knew who Razorfire was, I wouldn't be sitting here with my thumb up my—"

"What about the night Blackstrike died? Have you got CCTV?"

"Nope. I've got nothing. It's the damnedest thing. Everything from that night has been erased…" He narrowed black eyes at me again. "What do you know about that?"

"Blackstrike's dead," I repeated flatly. "Razorfire killed him. I was there. You can add that to your file."

Glimmer leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping his strong hands together. "Lady," he said slowly, "I think it's time you told me who you are."

My stomach twisted tight, laundry in a wringer. Damn it if I didn't want to trust him. But could I?

Did I have a choice? I was safe here, at least so far. I'd no one else to confide in. Nowhere else to go.

No one else who gave a shit.

"Long story," I offered at last, trying to keep it light.

"I've got all night—" An electric alarm screeched, and he spun his chair around to face the screens. "Uh-oh. It's on."

I leaned over him. "What was that?"

"I've got alerts set on CCTV and satellite surveillance. My algorithm matches known villains with suspicious activity, police comms traffic, emergency calls, that sort of thing. Not always accurate, but it lets me sleep." He pointed, and virtual video burst forth in black and white. "Look. Hostage situation. Looks like… the Bay Bridge."

I peered closer, and my pulse quickened. A thin figure in a shiny black catsuit leapt about like a big insect on the five westbound lanes of the upper deck. Her long black hair flew in the breeze. She was tossing cars left and right with what looked like a lasso made of thick glassy rope.

"Fuck." My fists clenched. "I know that skinny Gallery bitch."

"Arachne." Glimmer typed swiftly, his dark gaze darting from screen to screen. "Last week she cleared an attempted murder rap for crashing a trolley car. Looks like she's getting her own back." He jumped up, scooped his long leather coat from the desk and tossed it to me. "You up for some action?"

Nonplussed, I caught it. The worn leather warmed my fingers. "Uh. Sure."

He unearthed a pistol—matte black, semiautomatic—from the junk on his desk, and swiftly checked the magazine. Smart lad. I approved. Like I said, life isn't a comic book, and all the augments in the world won't save you from a bullet in the neck. Only an idiot takes anything less than a gun to a gunfight. "Good," he said, clearing the chamber with a snap! "Put that on and let's go."