Two years hence...
Dennis watches. He doesn't often have time to do that, these days, but he still enjoys looking out at the waters of Lake Michigan. He catches himself standing to attention, and sneers. You're a fucking caricature. Oh yeah, watchful guardian, standing on the high tower looking out.
He lets himself off easy, though. Since the declaration of the coastal DMZs after New York and Los Angeles, the Great Lakes are about as close as people get to open water anymore.
His comm crackles. "Respite: we need you back here, Pad 12, in twenty."
His voice scratches as he replies, he's been standing quietly for so long.
"Copy, Ops. Who's inbound?"
"Dragon, and company."
Lightly jogging through the streets, Dennis sighs as the crowds part for him. He spots a young man in the crowd with a clock face tattooed on his cheek, and flinches behind his mask. The salutes and whispers of "Respite" still bother him, six months on.
I'll never be that lucky again. Dinah says not to be afraid, but dammit, she wasn't there. One sneaky hookshot on the Behemoth from just inside the fucker's kill radius bought nine minutes respite, time enough for the last boats to get in line, for seven thousand refugees to get just that much further from the killzone. They had to cut him out of his armour, before he spent a month in detox, recovering from the burns. When he got out, he had a new name. Not that the civvy names and cape signs mean shit anymore.
At temporary headquarters (all quarters are temporary these days, all designed and assigned by personnel ranked Thinker 4 or higher), he slows. Padding past the soldiers on guard, Dennis accepts salutes and keeps going.
Dragon, and company, Dragon and company. The fuck. She's been out a long time. It was...yeah. It was the Fall of Delhi. Dennis walks, his gait smooth, his face cool. No point rehashing old problems. Defiant. If they're here, maybe Chicago's turn is coming. His heart beats faster.
At the pad, the arm suit waits, its engines clinking softly as they cool. Oh, sweet. It's an Uther descendant. I guess its really her.
He's the only cape present to greet them as they drop out of the machine's belly and march across the asphalt of the landing pad.
Three...where did Dragon find someone else?
He stands as they present. Dragon and Defiant, he recognises. Their armour is technically new, but retains the same reptilian features, same scaly faces.
"Dragon."
Her voice is pitch perfect, the same old trace Canadian accent.
"Respite. It's good to see you."
Dennis turns to Defiant, one mask to another, and nods. "Welcome back."
He turns to the last of them. Right as he takes the breath, Dragon speaks. "This is Dragonfly. She's proven herself in India and China, as well as closer to home."
Dennis stares. The Dragonfly armour breaks from Dragon's usual themes. Smooth, iridescent blues and greens, brighter colours over the black carapace like a slick on the surface of a pond. Her helmet, crowned by a pair of flexible 'ears', like antennae, with clusters of lenses, and mandibles to cover her mouth.
Dragonfly's head tilts. "Hello Clockblocker."
Voice. No. She's dead, she died in the Second Fall, she's dead.
"It's been a while."
That's her voice. She might have made it. She's with Dragon, Dragon could have, she could have...Say something, idiot! And make it good.
"Long time, no see."
He smiles behind his mask, as hers splits and peels back with a hiss.
"It's good to have you back, Taylor."