"Disturbance on Loam and 58th," Slipshod says, his voice coming in crystal clear through my helmet's radio. "Local info is pointing to the Ambassadors tearing up the street versus some new players, multiple parahumans on scene."
"Vista and Craftsman en route," I say, grinning as I abandon the crowd of schoolchildren looking for autographs and trot towards the bike where Caleb is already leaning forward, all six feet and one hundred and seventy pounds of him. "We'll be there in less than five, make sure to have ambulances nearby." My visor lights up, directions flickering as it takes into account the powers available, police blockades, and potential enemy interference to find the fastest path through the tangle of Boston. It took a while to get used to all the functionality Chris packed into the helmet, but the new guy's been a lot of help with that, stripping out some of the more esoteric stuff and reducing it to the bare essentials. He's still trying to find his place on the team, but so far Caleb hasn't done anything monumentally stupid.
"Uh, it's going to take at least ten, probably fifteen with traffic," Caleb says as I settle in behind him, his stoic welding mask and pristine bandolier of weapons contrasting with the note of nervousness in his voice. I laugh as I wrap my arms around his midsection and pull closer, heedless of the metal.
"How much you want to bet on that?" I ask, already twisting the space in front of us, first forward, then up. "Come on, think like a cape." He stares at the distortion in space for a moment, then makes a small noise.
"Right," he says, revving the engine and drawing squeals of delight from the class of second-graders behind us. "Powers." With that we're off, the cycle bumping slightly as it goes over the edge of the roof of a shop forty feet and four stories away, taking us from ground level up to the Boston skyline. I hear him quietly cuss under his breath as he adjusts to the shingled rooftops, wheels slipping as they search for purchase, then catching and sending us forward with a gut-dropping moment of acceleration. I grin savagely even as I keep twisting the space ahead of us, turning our wild ride into a bumpy-if-manageable cruise, taking us up, down, and across with a flick of my wrist, a tug of my fist, and an effort of will, jumping us from angled townhouses to flat-topped office buildings to everything in between.
Powers. They're like a muscle. Exercise them, and they'll get stronger.
"Battlefield in forty seconds," Caleb says, two minutes after we first started driving. "Othello and Serendipity versus a Trump of some sort and a Striker/Shaker. We're on damage control and information gathering until backup arrives."
"Sounds like a plan," I say, pulling together a sidewalk and a drainpipe, turning a fifty foot drop into a curb hop. Caleb takes us back onto the street, bringing the crossroads into view.
And what a fucking mess it is.
The street looks like someone's been shelling it with a mortar, great gouges torn out of the pavement. The missing material isn't hard to find. Clumps of asphalt are scattered about haphazardly, turning the tight-but-clean roads into a mess of free cover, broken lines of sight, and a trio of parahumans going at it.
"Fucking. Stay. Still!" one of them shouts, snarling behind a mask made of white metal mesh as he swings a sedan around, a criss-cross of white lines attaching it to his arms. Tall, muscular, and bared to the waist, he's a sharp contrast to Serendipity's evening suit and a yellow dress shirt, which remain spotless as he ducks under the car, the trajectory altering just enough to avoid clipping his head. Serendipity goes in for a punch, but a burst of white energy splits the two capes apart, sending Serendipity into an elegant cartwheel and White Cage into a drunken stumble, the car crashing into the ground with a shatter of glass and scream of metal.
"Isolate them, I'll look for civilians," Craftsman says, bringing the bike to a stop behind a particularly large chunk of torn-up street.
"On it," I say, already hopping off and warping the area into circles, making mazes of distance and nonsensical directions, creating chaos out of empty space. Another white projectile flies through the air, tearing itself to pieces in the twisted air and undoing the work I put into it. I trace the trajectory of the missile back to the thrower, a black woman with a full-face white mask who's otherwise completely naked, her skin studded with little twinkling points of light. She spins around, one arm suddenly brightening, and I catch the outline of another man behind her, vague and indistinct. "Shaker/Striker looks like he can lift anything and hang onto it without effort. Haven't seen his throwing arm. No idea what's up with the Trump, but she can interact with Othello." That probably means she's capital-D dangerous, throw out the handbook because the rules don't make sense anymore.
"I see bodies by the battlefield!" Craftsman shouts, and my visor pings, directing my gaze to a car tilted on its side. "Three, two adults and one child, lots of blood." I can't make out anything inside the car from this angle. On the other hand, angles can be bent. I twist the air, head aching a little bit as I take a firmer grip than usual, and look inside. The parents are long gone, heads cracked open like watermelons, but the boy only has a cut on his head. He might live if we can pull him out of the warzone.
Another flash of white light streaks across the battlefield, undoing more of my warping around the perimeter. I grit my teeth and start replacing it, trying to keep ahead of the Trump.
"Parents are dead, kid's alive but unreachable if I also want to contain the capes," I say, trying to split my attention five ways and make room for a sixth. "I'm trying but I'm not sure I can make a safe path there in time." I start widening a path along the ground, turning an inch into a corridor, but it's slow going when I'm also trying to keep White Mask and Serendipity from destroying the surrounding city with a poorly-thrown car.
Then something red and gold blurs out of the sky and onto the street, followed by a sonic boom that rattles windows and raises a cloud of dust that obscures the battlefield. The sound of metal, powers, and chaos stops for a moment as everyone waits to get eyes on the new arrival.
Crimson light lances through the dust cloud, reaching out to slam into White Mask and send him flying on a corkscrew trajectory through the twisted space. A shield of light forms in front of the naked woman to block a second beam, and Serendipity manages to barely avoid getting hit himself, the laser curving around him as his energy redirection field keeps him safe. The laser keeps tracking him though, forcing the Brute to keep running or get tagged. More blasts converge on the Trump, more shields pop up to block each beam, pinning her in place until something gives and they all shut down at once, multiple lights going out under her skin as no fewer than five blasts connect with her. She spasms twice, then falls over, unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
I blink at the brief and violent barrage of light.
Then I smile.
"Kid Win on the scene, Vista refocusing on civilian rescue," I say, abandoning my focus on the perimeter to redouble my efforts on reaching the kid. Without having to split my attention five ways I get there inside of fifteen seconds and promptly start extracting the child from his harness. "Good to have you here."
The dust has settled enough that I can make out Chris standing tall amongst the chaos. Nowadays he wears a suit of crimson and gold power armor with tinkertech attachments and a dozen different guns floating around him, all of which are now slowly coming to bear on an Serendipity and an empty patch of space. A pair of truly massive jet engines slowly unfold into terrifying-looking cannons, one pointed at each Ambassador.
"Let's stop fighting one another and wait for the PRT agents to arrive," Chris says aloud, looking first to Serendipity, then to the empty space. He pulls a pistol that looks like it's all barrel from his belt and points it roughly in the right direction. "I'm not sure if I can hit you when you're not in this dimension, but I'm also pretty sure that if I can it won't be with anything not rated for Brutes. And I have a lot guns to try." A fellow in a simple black and white mask pops into place where Chris is aiming, looking remarkably calm for someone who just got captured.
A single slim tube detaches itself from Chris's armor to float up to me, where it shines blue for two seconds then moves to hover over the head of the child I'm holding. It promptly unfolds into a spider-like robot and starts working on the gash, a tiny laser vaporizing the excess blood even as a pair of thinner appendages suture the cut shut and a third sprays an aerosol of some sort over the wound.
"Situation under control," Chris says over the radio. "And my name is Valiance, not Kid Win."
"How's New York?" I ask, following up the question with a sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness. The PRT cafeteria tends to use boiling water in their machines, which burns the beans and makes the drink taste far more ashy than it should. On the other hand, it's free, and I like the bite. Plus, you can order a box and start chugging it immediately and no one will look at you funny.
"Busy," Chris replies, shaking his head as he stares into his chai. We picked up drinks and went to the Wards break room, which is mercifully empty. School day and all that. "Really busy. You know how Brockton Bay had a Nazi problem?" he asks, lifting his head to look me in the eye. His have picked up little brown flecks in the irises. I wonder if that's from a fight?
"Yeah," I say, raking my eyes over the rest of him. He's grown up. A lot. His shirt strains at the shoulder and at the sleeves, and he has some brown stubble on his chin that he keeps rubbing absentmindedly.
"Well, they moved to New York," he says, shaking his head, apparently unaware or uncaring of the once-over I just gave him. "And the thing is, they aren't even the biggest problem. You have some villainous Myrddin knock-offs with the firepower to make them something other than a joke, an eco-terrorist who runs a cult and makes the area around them a poisonous glade until they leave, the most professionally irritating branch of the Elite that's going to go through a power struggle as soon as its leader finally kicks the bucket, the Teeth coming by every few months to wreck house for as long as it takes for someone to come up with a counter to the latest Butcher..."
Chris lets out a long breath, slowly shaking his head. "More than one parahuman per ten city blocks. More than two dozen villainous organizations with more than ten powered members. At least fifty, maybe as many as a hundred parahumans who can level buildings without slowing down. And the Protectorate is outnumbered badly," he finishes, leaning back in his chair, drink forgotten.
"You seem to be doing alright," I comment dryly, hiding my smile behind my cup. "You found the time to come here, after all."
"Mandatory leave," Chris replies, waving his hand dismissively at me. "One week of vacation every two months, and rumor has it that if you don't take it, Legend knocks you out and drops you off on a deserted tropical island until someone notices you're missing." I snort at that, nearly spraying coffee out my nose.
"You're joking," I say, ignoring the burning in my nostrils. Chris waggles his hand, still staring at the ceiling.
"Partially. He usually just walks up to you and starts asking questions about your friends and family until you feel too guilty to say no. If that doesn't work, he finds a piece of paperwork that has you asking for a transfer to Department 56. Eventually, he 'realizes' it was filed in error, but by then you're already gone," Chris says. I screw up my face and try to remember that one, then give up.
"Where is Department 56?" I ask. Chris sits back up, looking me in the eye.
"Honolulu," he says, deadpan. "Ask me how I know."
I blink, thinking. Then I feel a smile creep across my face. My shoulders start shaking. Chris sighs, resigned.
"Okay, just do whatever-"
I fall forward, nearly spilling my cup as I laugh, long and high and hard. I fall to my knees, chest aching as I run out of air, one hand still on the table.
"It's not that funny," Chris mutters, sending me into a wheezing fit as I try to get back in my chair. I shake my head.
"So, you got reassigned to Hawaii because you refused to take vacation?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, a few giggles still escaping me.
Chris nods. "I'm going to use it to do some tinkering, look at some of Armsmaster's old designs. See if I can't find a way to figure out what went wrong with the nanothorns."
I do some mental math, then wince. The anniversary was about a week ago. Add in a few days for the paperwork to mysteriously surface, and the result is pretty clear.
"You know, he took breaks," I say, carefully, cautiously. Chris smiles warmly and waves contentedly.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Prime of my life, enjoy myself, best worker is a happy worker, all that jazz," he says, once more staring at the table. "It just felt wrong to take the day off, y'know? That, and his tech is fascinating," Chris adds, shaking his head. "Like, people called him the second-best Tinker in the world, and they weren't wrong. No idea why he left his gear to me," he finishes, thumb rubbing the edge of his cup as his mind departs for somewhere else.
I scoot my chair over, quietly, carefully, until I'm right beside him
Then I punch him in the arm. Hard.
"Ouch!" Chris says, spilling some liquid over his fingers and hissing. "The hell was that for?"
"Chris, you just took out four very different capes in less than a minute," I say flatly. "You did it without destroying the surroundings and after dropping in out of supersonic flight." I shake my head, still looking at him. "Maybe you sucked once, but that's not now. If you knock yourself one more time I'm going to enter us both into an illegal fighting ring just to prove how broken you are."
Chris stares at me for a moment. Then he smiles and gives me a one-armed hug.
"Thanks," he says. His body is soft with a firmness underneath, warm despite the armor and suddenly really, really close. "I needed that."
"No problem," I say, breaking out of the hug with a shrug of one arm and putting on my friend smile. "Happy to be a good support.
Then an idea hits.
"Do you want me to go with you?" I ask. Chris tilts his head, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Umm-"
"To Honolulu," I clarify. "Like, you'll only be there for a week anyway, right?" I fill the air with words, trying to make my wish a reality through sheer force of will. "Boston's in a lull right now with everyone gearing up for the next Endbringer fight. I'm still technically a Ward, so I can basically go whenever I want." Not completely true, but I've got more experience than half the Protectorate here and logged more hours than three of them. They're not going to tell me I can't take a week off in paradise. "I'm not tinkering, but I figure hanging out with an old face shouldn't be too much of a downgrade." I give Chris a smirk, bouncing my leg under the table to release some nervousness.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully, a small scratching sound coming from it. "I was planning on flying there myself, actually. Give the Mark 1's a longer field test and visit Dennis," he says, and I wilt a little before steeling myself.
"I can buy a plane ticket and pack a bag this afternoon," I say dismissively, brushing off the concern. Not like I spend my sweet, sweet minimum wage money anywhere else. "Worst case scenario, we kidnap Dennis and take him with us." The two of us talk at Endbringer fights, but I don't think I've called him in a while. Might be nice to catch up, and he's smart enough to pick up on the cue to back off and let me get some alone time with Chris.
Chris gives me a flat look. "You know what Alexandria does to people who try to pull shit like that?" he asks. "I do. It's not pretty."
I pshaw and flap my hand at him. "Just tinker up some anti-Alexandria tech,. Don't you know? Tinkers are the most powerful capes," I say confidently, nodding twice.
Chris sighs. "You've been reading PHO again, haven't you?" he asks.
I grin. "Did you know that 'came from Brockton' is a meme now? You use it to describe someone or something that's taken far more punishment than should be possible, then proceeds to wipe the floor with all of its competitors. Apparently half the internet is convinced that the honey badger is native to the Bay, what with all the crazy people like you running around."
Chris shakes his head ruefully, a toothy smile on his face. "So, first, I'm about average for a heavy hitter in New York," he clarifies, angling his body towards me as he leaves his drink on the table, the conversation back to a subject he feels comfortable with. "Second, the only reason I got the opportunity to build all this stuff was because I inherited a whole lot of money and tech from a Tinker far better than I am, plus a lot of extra funds from the sudden lack of demand following Leviathan. Ninety percent of the time, Tinkers are just slightly-worse versions of other capes, but with more versatility."
The conversation flows smoothly from there, and we lose ourselves in argument, good cheer, and simple happiness.
"Three years," Dennis says, holding up his glass of whiskey to the light. "Hard to believe it's been that long." The three of us are seated at the bar of a hotel with a name I can't pronounce in the financial district of LA, closed off by order of Clockblocker, Protectorate Strike Team Leader. A recent promotion, and one he's more than willing to abuse. "They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. So, why do I still feel the same sort of slightly-irritating depression around you two?"
"It's because you suck," I answer bluntly, the gin and tonic I'm not technically supposed to have pleasantly cool against my hand. He's been off-shift as of forty-some minutes ago, but he promised the hotel manager a glowing review if we got the place to ourselves until midnight or whenever we left, whichever came first. Chris dropped a little anti-surveillance tech, we took off our masks, and we've been drinking ever since.
"What Missy means to say is that you're so set in your ways that it would take an act of Scion to make your time-locked heart feel anything more than cold satisfaction," Chris interjects, a little red from his third glass of wine. I don't know where he picked it up, but apparently he's become a bit of a wine snob. I'm willing to forgive it so long as we don't get another rant about the 'nose' of the wine. Whatever that means.
Dennis snorts, a smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. "The first Brockton Bay Wards reunion I attend and this is the abuse I get? Now I know why I don't go to these."
Chris adopts a pensive expression, rubbing his chin. "Actually, where is everyone else? Rory and Roger are in New York with me, but what about Jessie? Robin? Hannah?"
"Sophia caught a flight to Europe, last I checked," I say, pursing my lips as I review my memory. "Pretty sure Robin took a sabbatical and just didn't come back, Hannah's in Houston, and Jessie is up in the Northwest somewhere. Seattle, Portland, that area." When I get a pair of astonished stares from the two boys I shrug. "Only so many things you can check on console duty before you're forced to make your own fun."
"Amen," Dennis says, nodding twice. After looking into his glass, he lifts it up, making eye contact with each of us. "To those absent."
I nod, lifting mine in sync with Chris. "Those absent," I say quietly.
"Those absent," Chris echoes soberly. We all take a long drink, savoring the bite, remembering.
As Endbringer fights and Endbringer losses go, the Protectorate ENE and the Wards branch did pretty well. If the city was still around, chances are we'd only need an extra two or three capes to bring us back up to strength. Compare that to the Empire, who lost more than a third of their roster in the aftermath, including all of their leaders. Compare that to Boston, which needed to be completely remanned from the ground up, with every cape besides the team leaders taking some time off. All two of them.
Compare that to the total group who fought, which had a fifty percent fatality rate. Compare that to the Protectorate as a whole, who lost nearly a third of their total capes, then lost even more to the tide of resignations and temporary leaves of absence. I can still remember the months after when I was given adult-shift hours, when I had to coach fresh triggers twice my age on how to do paperwork and how to fight, how people did their best to ignore my age because there really was no one else for the job.
Leviathan in Brockton Bay was a bad day.
Dennis claps, startling the two of us. "Enough sad shit. No more shop talk. Only social stuff. Missy, boyfriend?" he asks, looking me dead in the eye. I sigh, shaking my head sadly.
"Chevalier still isn't returning my calls," I say forlornly, only half sarcastic. "I'll get in touch when I find one willing to move past hand-holding." The real issue is finding a guy that's tall, muscular, in the cape scene already, and also in my age group. In two years I'll have half a dozen options, but everyone else is either already taken, not interested, or leery about dating a Ward. Even though half of them are barely two years older than I am.
I try not to be too bitter about it.
Dennis nods. "Good. I don't have a shovel speech prepared yet," he says. He turns to Chris. "What about you? Boyfriend?"
Chris tilts his head. "Dennis, I'm a guy," he says, slowly, carefully, compensating for his drink with caution.
"And Legend is a very attractive, very gay man," Dennis says evenly. "I'm comfortable enough with my masculinity to tell you that it's entirely reasonable to find yourself" — he motions ambiguously with one hand — "'reacting' to him."
Chris gently places his wine glass down on the table. "Dennis, I'm straight."
"That's not a no," I say in a sing-song voice, smiling mischievously. Chris gives me a pleading look, and I quickly look away from him, teeth clicking against my glass as I smile around a sip of my drink.
Chris drops his head into his hands. "Why are you guys my friends?" he asks rhetorically.
"Paperwork and location," Dennis answers, leaning across the table to pat him on the shoulder twice. "Now, until I hear evidence to the contrary, I'm going to start trying to set you up with Longshanks. Some people are a little off-put by his Changer form's hairy legs, but I think it might be just the ticket for-"
"A lot of one-night stands and not a lot of repeat performances," Chris says bitterly, draining the rest of his wine glass in one go. "Happy?"
Dennis lets the silence linger, leaving his glass untouched as he looks impassively at Chris. In turn, Chris starts rolling his glass between his fingers, glaring at it like it's personally responsible for his failed romances. I try very hard not to look at either of them.
Eventually I decide the tension is too much and break the silence.
"Their loss," I say, punching Chris in the shoulder, forcing a smile. "Guy like you could get any girl you wanted. Just walk into a bar and ask nicely. None of them could've been that great if you dumped them," I add, rolling my eyes. Who the hell fucks up a shot at a twenty-something guy who's more than fine to look at with a six figure job, superpowers, and a personality straight out of a shoujo manga?
Chris sags in his seat. "They were the ones to break it off. Every. Time."
I hold my glass for a second, then keep drinking, trying to keep the flush off my face. Maybe if I have another three of these I can wash the taste of boot leather out of my mouth.
When Dennis finally speaks, he does so slowly, carefully, as if he's trying to handle a crystal glass with a pair of screwdrivers.
"I didn't mean to hit a sore point," Dennis says. "And I don't think Missy was trying to, either. You're our friend. One we haven't seen in a while, but still a friend. I crossed a line. Missy made an assumption. That one's on us. Sorry?" he asks, leaning forward over the table, arms spread wide, fingers wiggling in my direction. After a second I realize he's asking me to help, so I stand up to and pull the space tight enough to allow for a proper group hug.
Chris sighs, but he stands up too. We huddle for a second, three people with powers being a little less alone.
Then the second's gone and things get weird.
"Anyway," Dennis says, breaking the hug and sitting back down, cueing Chris and I to sit as well. "You want to complain about it?"
"Ugh," he starts, shaking his head. "Where should I begin?"
Eventually, Dennis gets tired of drinking, Chris's armor tells him that it will lock itself still if his BAC gets any higher, and I accidentally warp a bottle of something very expensive in half during an attempt to make it pour itself.
"Okay, reunion over," Dennis says, hauling himself up. "I'm going to go back to the station and await the hangover." He walks towards the door, remarkably controlled, then pauses, turning back. "Missy."
"Yeah?" I say, nodding twice and looking at the lights. They've gotten a little shinier since I started drinking, and now I'm wondering how difficult it would be to warp light into fancy patterns. Probably really hard.
"Can I get a few words?" he asks. "Without Chris," he clarifies, looking at the man in question, who nods and lifts his hands in surrender.
"Heading to the barracks for some sleep and repair work," Chris says, floating towards the door, helmet deploying around his face. "Don't talk too much shit behind my back," he says in a slightly metallic tone.
"Only when you're around," Dennis jeers.
Once the doors close on Chris, Dennis turns to me, concern etched into his face. "You've gotten better at hiding interest. Not perfect though."
I wince. "That obvious?" Ugh, if Chris noticed...
Dennis shakes his head, reaching behind the bar and pulling out two bottles of water. "Nah. I'm just perceptive." He tosses one to me and I warp space to make it fall into my hand. I still almost don't catch it, but that's mostly because of my drunken butterfingers. "Anyway, you know what I picked up from our little talk about Chris's love life?"
"What?" I ask, twisting off the top of the bottle and taking a quick sip. Drinking makes you dehydrated. Well, drinking alcohol. Who knew?
"He'd make a terrible partner," Dennis says. I give him a look, and he shrugs. "I love him to death, but it's true. You check when the break-ups happen? Why he can't make it to a second lay? It's because he's busy tinkering, busy building, busy with work. Maybe it's different for Tinkers, but I can blow a lot of that shit off for a night with Eliza." His hand goes to his chest unconsciously, touching something beneath his armor. "If Chris can't, that means he doesn't care about them as much as he cares about his job. That's not a bad thing," he clarifies. "Lots of people like that. It's just something to know about if you want to date him."
"Who said anything about dating?" I ask playfully, but my heart's not in it, and I hide just how much his warning hurts with a sip of water.
"He did," Dennis says. "He wants a girl who he'd skip work for. Problem is, he likes work a lot." Dennis shakes his head as he picks up his helmet with one hand and holds it up, looking me pointedly in the eye. "See this? This is Clockblocker. He's like Dennis, but he's not. He stays at work while Dennis is home, and he's not allowed in the house unless there's an emergency. I don't let myself forget the difference. Chris?" Dennis says, slipping his helmet back on. "I don't think he sees the line between himself and Valiance."
I open my mouth to deny it, pause, then close it silently.
People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
"But if you think you can make it work, do it," Dennis says, aborting my pity party and giving me a thumbs up. "At least if it's him I don't have to give anyone a talk." His posture straightens, a bit of cheer entering his voice. "Anyway, my bed calls. See you later."
The door closes like a guillotine, leaving me alone.
For a while I just sit there, thinking. About Chris, about what few patterns of behavior I've been able to pick up, and about whether they're actually problems. He didn't call any of us outside of Endbringer fights, but neither did I. Can't really blame him for that, either, what with the rebuilding of the Protectorate and all. He didn't mention any non-work friends, but that might be a cape thing more than anything else. It's not like I know anyone outside of the office that well. Other than those two things really, he's actually quite the catch.
I growl, dropping my head into my hands. Or maybe I'm just so deep in denial that I don't want to admit that his problems are my problems and I have a thing for built men. All of the 'bad partner' flags Chris has stick to me as well, and negatives don't cancel out when you combine them. He's got commitment issues, I've got the same issues flipped around, and it's a recipe for disaster. This is all without the problems of dating in the company.
No one in the PRT or the Protectorate has ever said that you shouldn't sleep with your teammates. Well, no one's said it and gone anywhere other than to oversee a Quarantine Zone. It is, however, strongly recommended that you try everything short of prostitutes before you decide to start banging a person you might need to take a bullet for after a rough split. Bad breakups hurt the entire team, and whoever said 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' clearly hasn't been on the receiving end of a heartbroken pyrokinetic.
God, that was a rough week.
I shake my head. More fucking procrastinating. Woman the fuck up, me.
Do I like Chris? Maybe. Do I think I can handle the fallout if it goes bad? Probably.
There. That's what matters.
I push myself up to standing, powering through the sway in the world as I snag my helmet off the table and put it back on. Priorities first, go after them, figure out the details as I go along. Maybe it's not delicate. Maybe it's not a good idea. But I'm not going to tiptoe around the idea of it for another three fucking years.
I push through the double doors, mentally mapping out the fastest route to the nearest PRT building. It's late and I'll need some sleep if I want to catch a flight to Honolulu on short notice.
