Arrogance: Volume One of Ebb & Flow

We hop in my truck, heading toward the city of Crimton. For the first time in our friendship, Aubrey has nothing to say. She’s quiet and reserved; her phone isn’t even out. I turn on the radio to fill the silence; anxiety tends to fester if left alone. The last thing I need is for her to chicken out before we get there. Some generic-sounding house music is playing—ideal for zoning out on a long drive. The thirty minutes pass quickly, and I see the sign for Crimton as I turn off the highway. I lower the music and finally address my silent passenger.

“Alright, where are we headed? We can’t just drive around looking for crimes in my truck.”

“Head over to the docks.”

Crimton’s Docks used to be the biggest supplier of jobs a couple of decades ago. Dozens of shipping freighters went through several dozen massive warehouses daily to house all the goods. All that stopped when a fight between a group of Cowls and Capes tore through them, and the city shut it down. The loss of hundreds of jobs meant a lot of angry laid-off workers, who, over time, turned to crime—so many directionless people with nothing to do but band together in smaller groups that struggle for power. Prostitution, robbery, assault, drugs, and murder, Crimton has it all. The good news is anything we do here is unlikely to get the cops called. I am free to do whatever I deem necessary tonight. This place is a lawless zone full of people who will never be missed.

I park my truck behind an abandoned convenience store across from the opening to the docks. The convenience store has been stripped down to nothing but the walls. The windows and doors are gone, and everything is covered in copious graffiti. I turn the engine off and look at Aubrey. She’s in the process of putting her wasp helmet on. I hadn’t noticed before, but her outfit has a theme. She’s wearing yellow leggings, black boots, and a leather jacket, really leaning into the wasp motif. We wait silently; I check my phone and see we’ve been parked for thirty minutes.

“Aubrey, do you not have a plan?” I asked.

She doesn’t respond immediately, and when she does, it’s changed by the helmet. “No, I have a plan. And that plan is to wait until a crime is being committed, and I’ll rush over and stop it.”

She is a moron. How, after three weeks, do you not have a plan? Does she believe that idealism and hope will carry her through a fight? Any hopes of being able to hang back and watch are lost to the wind. If I let her go out there, there is a chance she will die. It’s unfortunate that there isn’t a webpage for local criminals. I would have liked more information about the movers and shakers. Crimton isn’t a large enough city to have a Heroes’ Union or a BNA office, so I’m going into this blind.

Is my need for excitement and emotions causing me to take an unnecessary risk? As someone who doesn’t have to worry about making emotional responses, I should be able to produce clinically precise decisions in every scenario. But now I find myself sitting in a vacant parking lot with a carefree idiot and no plan in sight. Neither of us has any tactical gear or protection. If this goes poorly, tonight could be Aubrey’s first and last night as a Cape. A slight tingle passes through me at the thought. Regardless of Aubrey’s naivete, I cannot back down now. All human beings are inherently selfish, and unlike other people, I have nothing to counteract my selfishness. If this city burns, I won’t bat an eye if it can give me what I want. Nothing and no one will get in my way of gathering more pieces.

My phone reads eight-thirty. I would’ve thought the Crimton docks would be a hive of criminal activities. Not that crime has business hours, but we haven’t seen another person. From what I know about this place, there should be at least a few addicts purchasing drugs. Something is different about tonight. I roll down my window, and the scent of garbage and wet cigarettes fills the air. I’ve never liked the smell of tobacco, and after the party, I’m not in any hurry to inhale smoke anytime soon. Aubrey hasn’t said a word since she answered me, and I’m not hurrying to break the silence.

Not until an hour has passed is there movement at the docks. A blacked-out SUV with beyond-regulation tinted windows pulls up alongside six people on motorcycles. They open the metal chain link gates and head further in. I lose sight of them after that. Another twenty minutes go by, and a second group of people shows up—two limousines with faded paint, a couple of scratches, and even missing a hubcap or two. The second group seems worse off. Just by virtue of who arrived first, I can parse a bit of the power dynamic. By showing up first, the SUV group can set their goons up strategically and check the meeting place first—a manner of trust and a sign of respect. The earlier arrivals are in charge.

“Finally. something happens.” Aubrey’s sudden proclamation shocked me out of my head. She quickly gets out of my truck and heads toward the docks.

I thought about calling out, shouting for her to wait and be safe. But that isn’t what I need; I need this to get out of control. Only then will the chaos I crave appear. And at the moment when everything goes to hell, where a single mistake could cost me my life, that is when the excitement should return. So instead of doing what I should, I’ll wait, let Aubrey go, and make a mess of the place. No matter what happens, I cannot lose; even Aubrey’s death wouldn’t be a setback. If a God exists, then indeed, I am their favorite son. If God is the one giving out powers, then does that make me a demigod? The ability to make someone special and even take it away is proof of it.

Watching a woman dressed up like a scary bumblebee attempt to sneak across an open parking lot is the opposite of stealthy, but nobody is posted at the gate. My friend sneaks into the docks undetected, and I lose sight of her. I turn the engine on and roll my window up. I begin to relax and think about the recklessness of her plan. The steering wheel feels cool against my forehead, and I can zone out momentarily. Information is an area I thoroughly lack; I’ve spent the last eighteen years utterly ignoring Capes and Cowls. Now, I have to play catch up to avoid being caught off-guard. I let out a breath and raise my head off the wheel, just in time to see arcs of purple electricity shooting into the sky, joined by a cacophony of gunshots.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting by myself for things to have gotten so bad. It doesn’t matter; time to go. I grab the collapsed helmet and press the button, letting it enclose my head. What the hell happened? I lock the doors on my truck and walk over to an overturned garbage can. The atrocious smell from before is entirely filtered by the helmet, saving me from possibly emptying my stomach. I carefully place my keys and wallet in a sandwich bag before hiding the bag beneath the trash pile. One last check to make sure I don’t have any skin showing. Back straight as I walk across the street, I project confidence for any possible lookouts. Any hidden goons will see someone in all black steadily walking toward the mayhem, even as the gunfire and sounds only grow.

The gates are open, but I don’t see any of the vehicles from earlier. It won’t be hard to find where everyone is; I just need to follow the sounds of chaos. I’m not creeping or trying to sneak, just carefully approaching what I would only describe as an active warzone. Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at a crossroads of four different warehouses, where I finally get my first real taste of a Neuvohuman battle. In front of me, the black SUV is on fire and upside down, and three of the six motorcyclists lie dead on the street. What the fuck did you do, Aubrey? I’m hidden from the line of sight by the burning wreckage. Amidst the blood and water on the ground are loose hundred-dollar bills. One of the limousines has its trunk popped open, and I can see plastic-wrapped white bricks. Aubrey’s intervention must have made this drug deal go awry.

Regular guys with guns hide behind cover and fire at each other, creating a hail of bullets. On one side is a group of Asian gangbangers, specifically Korean, based on what little I can hear over the gunfire. They’re firing at some mafiosos, complete with cheap suits and stupid hats. In the center is a Korean man in his mid-twenties. Bare-chested, save for an oversized fur coat, showing off chiseled abs and a coiling dragon tattoo that seems to start from his back and wrap around his body up to his neck. With tight black jeans held up by a Gucci belt, he looks like an honest, upstanding civilian. But his most eye-catching aspect is the purple electricity arcing off his body; I’ve found where all the lightning comes from. I can’t tell from my position if his spiked hair is due to his power or some kind of product. His opponent is far more interesting, though, a ten-foot-tall woman made of some sort of volcanic rock. The creature has a sports bra and shorts made of cooled obsidian. Bulging muscles, she’s built like an Olympic bodybuilder, with thin lines crisscrossing her body, faintly glowing like lava. Her hair and eyebrows are made of literal fire, and her eye sockets and mouth glow with molten light.

Based on size and visage alone, you would think the man can’t do anything. But each time the obsidian woman throws a punch, he’s already moving and firing electricity back. His attacks aren’t leaving a mark or even hurting her. Every attack he makes just serves to annoy her. Neither seems to be slowing down, and their fight has a chokehold on me. How long have they been fighting? The woman’s speed is unbelievable, given her stature, and she sprints at the man. He rolls to the left, but her right leg is already swinging at him. Electricity follows him as he weaves away from her like a drunken boxer. He’s being forced to only use ranged attacks because of how durable the woman’s skin is. Unfortunately, all he’s doing is avoiding getting hit, and he isn’t actually harming her. There is something hypnotic about their fight, as if it’s a choreographed dance and not a life-or-death struggle. I am getting the same sense of excitement here that I felt at the party. I need more. I will make this even worse. Like a maestro controlling an orchestra, all will dance to my tune.

The Korean man makes a run toward the motorcycles, prompting the firewoman to rush after him. He jumps over them, and just as she goes to follow, he blasts them with a bolt, and they explode. The bikes blast apart, sending shrapnel everywhere, and more than one of the regular people gets hit. Thick black smoke billows out from the site of the explosion, and even through the smoke, I can see the glowing eyeholes of the volcano woman. Pulling my eyes from the elemental showdown, I observe the battlefield as a whole. I can’t see Aubrey anywhere, but I can sense she’s to my right. I should check on the would-be hero. I’m unsure if my power would tell me if she is dead.

Nobody has noticed me yet, so they won’t see me leaving either. Along my way toward her location, I see one of the mobsters sitting against a wall. Taking a closer look at him, he’s not dead. His chest is steadily rising with his breaths. His eyes are bloodshot, and his mouth is wide open. Whatever happened to him wasn’t from the two Neuvohumans I’ve seen; it wasn’t caused by fire or electricity. There is at least one more Cowl up ahead.

I find a pistol by his side, but I don’t know enough about firearms to fathom a guess what kind it is. I check the gun; it’s loaded and has eight bullets left. He hasn’t stirred from his position or made any movements since I arrived. Someone paralyzed him and did not bother to finish him off. It must have been Aubrey; no one else here would be trying to limit casualties. My first instinct is to get rid of any witnesses, but that’s what Eryk would do, and Eryk isn’t here. I crouch down to look into the man’s face. It’s frozen in place, though it’s hard to tell if he’s in pain. I grip his head and try to move it around. His facial muscles are locked up, and I can’t make them budge with any amount of force. It’s almost as if he was pumped full of Botox. What did you do to him?

This is the first time I’ve ever seen a gun up close, let alone held one. I don’t have confidence in any distance shooting. Having a weapon is better than not having a weapon, even if I’m inexperienced. From what little I’ve read about guns, I know that the recoil is always stronger than you expect. A test would help me be better prepared, and I just happen to have a target available.

“I don’t know if you can hear me in there, but I’ve never handled a gun. And where I’m headed, I’d like to know what the recoil feels like.” It’s hard to reconcile the words I hear in my helmet and the voice that comes from it. Aubrey made the overlapping voice changer to protect our anonymity, but it does come out as a genuinely menacing chorus.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. One shot through your leg just as a test.”

Human emotive language is incredibly fascinating. Even though the man is paralyzed, he can radiate sheer terror through his eyes alone. It is an informative lesson; I’m already taking mental notes of how he’s achieving this effect. I’ll practice it when I get home. I stand up and back away from the man, pointing the gun at him. It’s heavier than it looks, and I remember you’re supposed to hold it with both hands. I try to mimic what I’ve seen in various videos and aim. I pull the trigger, and the gun goes off instantly. Having never fired a weapon before, I thought it would be more impactful on me. It was over in the blink of an eye.

My shot went high and hit him in the stomach instead of the leg. However, I didn’t lose my grip, so that’s a plus. Deep red stains start forming on his shirt, and blood begins to run off him and pool. I double-check the ammo and continue on my way. I’m close enough to Aubrey to see the warehouse she’s inside. My vague sense of her is moving, so she isn’t dead. Yet, anyway. The closer I get, the quieter the sounds of the firefight become. The building is enormous, easily forty feet tall. I need to find a way inside that allows me to watch everything from the shadows. The front entrance is wide open, but that’s not exactly stealthy. I spot a ladder leading to some scaffolding on the left side of the building. I don’t see anybody else nearby, but I keep checking behind me, expecting someone. It wouldn’t do to get shot in the back due to carelessness.

The ladder is rusted but secure. I place my boot against it to test my weight, and it holds, so I begin climbing. The scaffolding is firmly attached to the outside walls; the only way in is through the large windows. Dusty and stained from years of abandonment, I can’t see through them. I don’t hear any sounds, but whether that’s good or bad is undetermined. The windows don’t have latches or handles; I’m going to have to break them to get inside. I can’t use my arms or legs and risk getting cut and leaving DNA behind. Fortunately for me, I have something resistant to most forms of damage. Let’s put your creation to the test Aubrey. I lean back and smash my helmet into the glass, and it shatters so easily I nearly fall through the opening. Let’s see how my friend is holding up.