1.1

"Vector, report." Miss Militia's softly accented voice came through his earbud. He looked ahead of the convoy, not seeing any threats on the road.

"Nothing to report," he replied, the communicator automatically picking up his words. The earbud and his goggles were property of the Protectorate, tinkertech cobbled up by Armsmaster for Vector to use only during the convoy missions. The independent hero wondered if they were offered to make him more effective during their joint endeavors or as an enticement to join the government hero team full-time.

As the line of trucks on the road below passed Hillside Mall, Vector, or Mesa as he still mostly thought of himself, banked in a slow circle to get a view in all directions. His careful balancing of the tractor and pressor fields that propelled and guided him in the air felt like a combination of inhaling and exhaling, controlled at a semi-conscious level. It made flight almost instinctive. The feeling was the best thing he had found about waking in this madhouse of a world. The near apocalyptic landscape of Brockton Bay had little to recommend itself to a man from a saner universe.

His brooding was interrupted several minutes later, when he spotted unusual movement in an alley three blocks ahead of the lead truck. "I'm seeing movement down there. Something big in an alley on the left side." As the goggles zoomed in, Mesa could see the form of a giant armored valkyrie with a shield and spear, like something out of a myth. "I think it's Menja."

"Ambush left," Miss Militia said over the all-convoy signal. "Stop and dismount. Defend the convoy." Mesa looked at the nearby streets and saw the Chosen had selected a good spot. The side streets were too small or too crowded for big trucks to use. The street they were on was the only one that could accommodate them for several blocks. They would have to either pass the ambush point or try to turn around in order to continue. Miss Militia had decided to make the bad guys come to them.

The outworlder quickly reviewed what he knew of Fenrir's Chosen. Most of his knowledge came from a combination of his body's prior memories, which had to be consciously searched. It almost felt like digging in Wikipedia. He had added to that archive by studying the PRT files he could access since he awoke in this world and realized he was still basically a cop.

The Chosen were a splinter group of the defunct Empire Eighty-Eight, a neo-nazi gang that once controlled much of downtown Brockton Bay. They had seven known parahuman members and dozens, possibly hundreds of normal gang members. The two most dangerous were Menja and Hookwolf. The first could grow to thirty or more feet in height, with commensurate strength, and a reality-warping field that made some attacks on her shrink in the same proportion. The second, the leader, fought as a two-ton mass of whirling metal hooks and blades - a criminal Cuisinart on the size and shape of a rhino.

Those would be his main targets.

The trucks stopped and the two heroes riding shotgun - Miss Militia and Assault - jumped out, as did the PRT troopers in the third truck. They braced to repel the oncoming gangbangers. Menja led the way up the flooded street, with Hookwolf, Stormtiger, Cricket, and a couple of dozen normal thugs pouring out of the buildings behind her.

Miss Militia hefted a grenade launcher and blasted Menja three times in quick succession. The giantess stumbled back, raised her shield to block a fourth shot. With a feeling reminiscent of simultaneously sneezing and sniffing, I shot a tractor beam from my left hand and a pressor beam from my right, hitting the two edges of the wall-sized shield. Even though the effect was reduced by her field, it still wrenched the shield from her arm and sent it spinning away. This opened her to more attacks from the Protectorate lead.

As Vector looked for his next target, he noticed some movement on one of the nearby roofs. A quick glance with the night vision goggles identified it as the semi-fluid form of Shadow Stalker, one of the Protectorate's junior team. She was drawing a bead on Cricket. Assault was battering Hookwolf with a metal riot shield. Each blow seemed to stop the slasher beast in his tracks. It was obvious the hero was significantly faster than the villain, but Mesa could not tell if the shield blows were doing any action damage. He decided to see if he could tip the scale in Assault's favor.

Using both hands he sent a powerful blast that cycled between tractor and pressor several times a second. It slammed into the middle of the metal monstrosity and started vibrating him until he sounded like a box of knives rolling down a flight of stairs. When Vector released the blast Hookwolf lay stunned, though not out. Assault popped three containment foam grenades and tossed them into the center of the bladed shape. Vector gave another short vibrating blast that mixed the chemicals more thoroughly into the metal mass, hoping it would hold better if it was evenly distributed.

While Vector was concentrating on the Chosen's leader, Stormtiger flew towards him, sending claws of concentrated air to slice into him. Vector's force field disrupted the air-blades' razor edges, but they still buffeted him, causing him to tumble towards the street.

"You picked the wrong side, surfer dude," Stormtiger yelled. "You should have stayed at the beach."

"These supplies are for Surfside. I can't let you take it." Vector responded as he righted himself several dozen feet above the pavement. He flew higher and sent a pressor beam at the flying martial artist, hoping to slam him into the ground. The nazi dodged.

They traded aerial attacks for a minute or two before Stormtiger jerked at the wrong moment, his hand slapping at this face. Vector caught him with a spinner beam that disoriented him almost instantly. Several seconds later the flying villain crashed into the ground and proceeded to spend the next minute vomiting.

Checking the rest of the battle, Vector noticed most of the Chosen rank and file were rolling on the ground covered in insects. He realized it must be the work of Skitter, a villain that had a disproportionate impact in the Leviathan battle.

She had been in the hospital tent when he had first gained consciousness in this godforsaken place, the original occupant of his body having died on the operating table after getting wounded by the Endbringer. Mesa had opened his eyes to see a skinny woman in a bug themed costume arguing with a man in bloody armor, a larger woman in a cape, and a beautiful man floating in a nimbus of light. Mesa had no idea who they were or what they were saying. He blacked out before he could comprehend.

He looked around for the villain's unique costume. But did not see her. Instead, he saw Miss Militia narrowly dodging a spear thrust from her giant opponent. Menja was obviously wounded, but she was still fighting. The Protectorate lead was drawing her away from the trucks. Vector waited until she was in mid-step then shot his two beams at the giantess, the tractor pulling her front foot back as the was just touching the ground and the pressor pushing back forward sharply. The two opposite forces hitting her when she was not balanced caused her to tumble forward. She threw her hands out instinctively to catch herself, dropping her spear.

Miss Militia covered Menja in foam as she lay on the ground. Assault had taken advantage of Stormtiger's momentary disability to do the same with him.

"Load up and move out!" the Protectorate lead commanded over the comms.

"But what about them?" Assault asked. "We've got Hookwolf!"

"We can't leave the convoy sitting here vulnerable while we wait for PRT to come with the prisoner transports," she explained. "Call it in, but we have to get moving."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied unhappily.

The trucks made it to the docks without any other incidents. Once at a pier, workers used a crane to take the containers full of needed supplies off the trucks and move them to a small barge that a tug then pulled to into the Bay.

"I'll keep a watch on it from here," I told Miss Militia.

"You should be enough," the flag-masked woman answered. "There aren't many seagoing threats at the moment. Purity is the only known airborne one not accounted for, and she has not been attacking supply transports."

"Thanks for …," Mesa paused. It seemed wrong to thank her for the opportunity to do his job or to help her do hers. "Good working with you," he said instead.

"You too," she nodded.

From the air Mesa watched as the tug dragged the barge to the makeshift cargo dock attached alongside to the pleasure pier in the center of Surfside's boardwalk.

Surfside was a small independent suburb of Brockton Bay situated on Pentucket Island. Islanders that worked in the city commuted via the Pentucket Island Bridge which connected to Shantytown. The John H. Sununu Bridge led from the south part of the Island to a spur off I-95 south of the Bay. That bridge was mostly used by tourist from Boston or New York coming to visit. Not only did was the island home to the tourist town of Surfside, but also to the Mt. Frost State Nature Preserve on the landward side of the island and to a very popular state beach known for its particularly good waves because of unusual underwater rock formations on the seaward side.

Mesa had discovered that Vector worked as the town's independent hero, hired by the mayor, Michael Seavers, mostly as a tourist attraction. David Gladly, the former occupant of the body had taken the job in large part because he liked to surf more than he liked to be a hero. With this job he could do both. T-shirts showing Vector surfing, with a pair of colorfully flowered board shorts over his costume were a best seller in the gift shops of Surfside.

Mesa had not yet tried his luck on the board, never having surfed in his old life.

Since Mesa returned to Surfside from his recovery in Manchester, tourism was non-existent because both bridges were damaged by Leviathan's giant waves. The town had weathered the attack surprisingly well. While the beaches and boardwalks were damaged by the waves the island never suffered the direct attention of the Endbringer. The fact that most of the buildings and home sat on the side of the mountain overlooking the beaches means only the low-lying properties were damaged, and most of them were built with hurricanes and high water in mind so they withstood the waves better than most of the Bay.

The problem was the supplies. And the makeshift dock helped on that account.

"Vector," Seavers said. He was a short man with well-groomed grey hair. He tended to dress casually, even when something more formal might be appropriate. He was waiting next to the trucks at the landward end of the dock. "I hope there wasn't any trouble."

"Some, but the Protectorate was able to take care of it." Mesa reported.

"And you had nothing to do with it?" Seavers prodded.

"Maybe a little." The outworlder looked over the supplies as they were loaded into the trucks. He tried to estimate how long the food and fuel would last the residents of the island. Pentucket Island was pretty big, around twenty-five square miles in area, but only had a population of around seven thousand. Or it did before the attack. Some people made it to the Endbringer shelters in the city, but not all of them made it out. Others fled south and most of those survived. Some just took to the top of the mountain and rode the attack out like it was a storm. Estimates said there were just under five thousand on the island now.

"How long will this last?" Mesa finally asked.

"If we're careful, maybe two weeks," the mayor replied, shaking his head. "We need to get the bridge open, preferably the Sununu so our suppliers can avoid Brockton Bay if possible. But FEMA says that's a low priority. They would prefer if we all just evacuated to the camps."

"I ain't goin to no camps, Mayor." They were interrupted by Jack Regis, one of Surfside's elder statesmen. He owned the largest giftshop on the boardwalk, as well as several other, smaller shops around town. He was a large man with a larger belly. He wore a wrinkled flannel shirt and overlarge blue jeans. Despite his rough exterior he was one of the wealthier residents of the island and was active in local and Bay area politics. "Even with the bridges out, we're much better off here. Have you heard what's going on in those places? Gangs running them like their own little kingdoms. Women and children aren't safe. No food or water. I'm staying here."

"I wasn't planning on pushing anyone out, Jack. I was just telling Vector here that we need to see what we can do to get a bridge working, even if only one lane. That or a ferry. But you know that isn't happening."

"Ferry? Shit. You sound like Hebert." Regis shook his head then turned to Mesa. "You can't do jack about the bridges. But you can keep those gangs off the island, you got it?"

"I do," the hired hero answered. According to Gladly's memories the Empire and the ABB had both made attempts to gain a foothold in Surfside before the attack. The Empire had been more subtle, looking at buy property or opening a shop. The Surfside Chamber of Commerce, of which Seavers was the president, had made sure that did not happen. The ABB had been more overt, coming over the bridge at night and trying to sell drugs in the local clubs. The Surfside PD, all five of them, with Vector's backing had sent them packing, not being willing to risk parahuman involvement by jailing them. Not that the local jail was much more than a glorified drunk tank for sodden tourists.

Since the attack there had been a few boats with looters looking for some easy scores in the big houses. Mesa kept up a nightly patrol, flying silent circles around the island in the night looking for such miscreants. He had found a few, towing them back to the mainland and sinking their boats once they were close enough to swim. A few could not swim so he had to pull them out of the water and drop them on the shore.

Not exactly legal, but laws were quickly becoming a thing of the past in Brockton Bay.

Looking at the clock on the back building Mesa realized it was almost time for his first nightly patrol. "Unless you need me here for the unloading, I want to fly a patrol. If the gangs heard that we got our shipment they may try something tonight."

"Clyde's here," Seavers said, pointing to the local police chief who was sitting in his SUV watching the unloading, his partner, Oliveira, at his side. "You go ahead and take a look see."

It was a quiet night.

Mesa got back to his house just after one. It was a small bungalow with two bedrooms and an attic that Gladly had turned into his heroing office. It was set well back from the road and had no visible neighbors. Trees from the state lands backed up to his yard and he could land safely without too much concern he might be spotted. Once inside, Mesa took off his uniform – black combat pants and boots, a tight long sleeved dark orange shirt with a black yoke over his upper chest and shoulders, black gloves, and a gray diamond shaped icon made of two arrow heads in the center of his chest. His half-face mask was also black. The suit was made of a tinkertech fiber that was lighter and stronger than kevlar. Gladly had invested a fair bit of his signing bonus getting the suit professionally made in New York.

After he undressed the outworlder went downstairs and flopped into his chair. It was wood with black leather seat and back, well worn and placed so he could look out over the ocean. There was a half-full bottle of scotch and a pair of tumblers on the side table. Mesa looked at it as he did every night and once again chose not to drink.

As he watched the water, he slipped into the familiar circle of unanswered questions. What was a Texas cop doing in a comic book New England? How did he go from thirty-eight years old to twenty-five? Hispanic to white? Divorced to single? Dead to alive? Why did he have Gladly's memories and powers? What had happened to Detective Sergeant Bernardo "Trip" Mesa III of the Austin PD? Had he died back in Texas? Was David Gladly inhabiting his body?

He stood and walked to the table where he always left Gladly's phone when he was out as Vector. There were three texts from his brother's girlfriend Karma Pace.

His brother. That was another kick. Trip Mesa had a big family, including three brothers two sisters, parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and much more. David Gladly only had his twin brother Eric, and he had been killed by Leviathan. If the information from the hospital tent and the combat reports from Dragon were accurate, it is quite possible that the twin brothers had died at the same time.

Karma was arranging the funeral. She had not asked, just took it upon herself.

"It's better if I do it," she said in her annoying 'I know something you don't' manner.

Eric's body, like most of the tens of thousands that had died, was interred in a mass grave dug to avoid disease from the mountain of corpses sitting in the May sun. Karma was insisting on a spiritual remembrance. She wanted to have it on Saturday and the closest place she could find available for the ceremony was, somehow, in Surfside. Mesa thought that made some sense. The boys had grown up here. David had just never left, or more accurately had come back after college in Boston.

Eric had gone the Trinity in Hartford then found a teaching position at Winslow. Surprisingly he had loved that job. He felt he was really getting through to the tough students. And he took a lot of satisfaction from his close relationships with them.

"But not in a bad way," he always added when he said that.

Mesa shook his head, clearing it of the memories. Thinking about Eric and David was like watching someone else's home movies. They were not exactly strangers anymore. But they were not and never would be family.

He went to the bathroom, downed a glass of water, and brushed his teeth.

Once in bed, he shut off the lamp and wished himself to sleep. Maybe he would wake up in Texas where he belonged.