As in many Asian-Australasian Union member countries, the Metahuman Division (colloquially known as Met Div) of the NZ Police was formed in 1959 in response to increasing public concern around metahumans. Met Div is tasked with controlling metahuman activities and responding to superpowered threats, although their methods for doing so are controversial. The division operates outside traditional police structure and combines both investigative and response elements to form an almost entirely self-contained organisation. In recent years, many branches of Met Div have been downsized due to decreased resistance from the metahuman community. Today, one of Met Div’s major roles is ensuring that all metahumans are registered and fitted with kill-switches if above a certain power level.
—Metahumans in New Zealand: Past to Present, Herbert Gutman
***
Morgan was finishing the briefing on the evening’s upcoming raid when the right side of his vision went dark.
He paused in mid-sentence, facing the men and women who would be fighting alongside him tonight, and tried to get his heart rate under control. The air was stuffy in the requisitioned warehouse. He blinked, hoping the black splotch would go away. It didn’t.
“My lord?” Obsidian said in a low voice. She stood beside him; as his second-in-command, she would be in charge of securing the building’s perimeter and dealing with any external threats. Her sharp, stony face betrayed nothing, but her eyes dimmed.
It had come on so suddenly. He didn’t even have a headache at the moment, and the pills were controlling his seizures. How was he supposed to fight with this blind spot in his vision? Damn it all! His gloved hands curled into fists. He could feel sweat dripping from his forehead and rolling around the corners of his domino mask.
Perception is all that matters.
“This is not going to be like Siberia,” he said to the group, channelling his anger into his voice. “Our target is easier, yes, but do not let your guard down. We are in a city that is hostile to us. Any counterattacks will be rapid. Those of you holding the perimeter will need to be prepared. You cannot fail.”
He stared at them, trying to ignore the black spot, but his mind was already calculating scenarios in which it would be a fatal weakness. Why now, of all times?
“Make your preparations,” he said. “We leave in an hour.”
The metas bowed as one and wandered away, chatting and joking with one another. Only Obsidian remained at his side. He turned his back on her and faced the maps and building blueprints he’d marked with routes and extraction points. The spot was like a black ghost, haunting him. Every time he tried to look at it directly, it shifted away. It was infuriating.
Obsidian shifted her weight and the floor rumbled. “My lord—”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Very well.” She paused. “Avin approaches, my lord.”
Avin? Oh, the harpy. He turned to find the naked bird-woman making her way towards him. Her wings were folded around her shoulders, but they were still tall enough to brush the top of the doorway. The feathers weren’t enough to cover her flat breasts. She walked unnaturally, like she was unused to it, and her twisted arms gave her a somewhat demonic appearance.
She stopped before him, and gave a small bow of her bald head. That was enough for him; his people didn’t need to treat him like a god. The “lord” business was all Obsidian’s doing. It was only important that they believed what he believed. Or that they knew little enough of the darker parts of his plan that they didn’t actively oppose him.
Wordlessly, the woman passed him a pair of enlarged colour photographs, each about the size of a leaf of legal paper. He forced himself to ignore the black spot and focussed on the pictures instead. “This is the woman?”
“Yes.”
The pictures seemed to have been taken a few seconds apart. They both showed a short Asian woman—he couldn’t narrow down her race any further by sight—dressed in an unfashionable jacket and blouse and wearing a pair of large sunglasses. She wasn’t pretty, really, but she was a long way from hideous. In the first picture she was stepping off a boat onto the marina walkway, and in the second she was lighting a cigarette and staring directly at the camera.
“Do you recognise her?” he asked.
“I didn’t at first,” Avin said. Her voice was sharp, almost painful to listen to. “But the way she fought reminded me of someone I worked with once. A Warden called Gloomgirl.”
“A Warden?” He stroked his chin. Interesting. He didn’t realise there were any Wardens still around. He vaguely remembered the hero’s alias, but he couldn’t recall anything else about her. He studied the photos closer. “Do you know her real name?”
Avin shook her head. “She was always careful, more careful than the others.”
“What was your impression of her?”
“She was a frigid bitch. Always had to do things her own way. I’m not surprised she was there alone.”
“And how did she act this morning, before she saw you?”
Avin shrugged. “Calm. Careful. She took her time, scoped out the place. I didn’t see where she came from, but she must’ve had a car somewhere. She was on the boat for one hour and twenty-two minutes. What she did there, I have no idea.”
Interesting. Morgan had posted Avin and two other metas there on rotating shifts on the off chance the boy’s uncle showed up. Instead, he had this mystery woman.
“Did she use any powers?” he asked.
“No. If it’s who I think it is, she’s a shadow-shifter. But either way, she’s well-equipped. The gun she pulled on me wasn’t stock, and she had a mask on by the time she came after me. I would probably have had to kill her if I stayed to fight.”
A friend of Frank Julius’s? Unlikely. Maybe she was just working with him. But in what capacity? Mercenary? Or hero? The question intrigued him. He’d expected that if anyone came after him this quickly, it would be Frank Julius himself.
He touched a gloved finger to his cheek. “You did well. I know you didn’t want to kill anyone. I don’t either. Moral quandaries aside, her body would have been a complication we could do without.” He passed the pictures back to her. “I want you to work with the research team. See what you can find out about her. A name would be a good start.”
“Why?”
“You seem to know more about her than anyone here. And she intrigues me. I like to know all the variables.”
The muscles of her wings rippled, and she jerked a nod. Without another word or gesture, she turned and left.
So someone was following the breadcrumbs. It wouldn’t be a problem. Things were in motion now that couldn’t be stopped. But perhaps the metas here weren’t as downtrodden as they first appeared. The ones his people had picked out to aid them had been like tightly wound springs, just waiting for someone to lift the weight from their shoulders so they could jump into the fray.
That reminded him of something. “This Avin,” he said to Obsidian. “She doesn’t know everything, does she?”
“No, my lord.”
He nodded. “Have her watched while she tracks down the Asian woman. Just as a precaution.”
Obsidian bowed and left Morgan to his thoughts. He turned back to the maps, imprinting them on his memory. Always, the black spot stayed in his vision. It wasn’t that terrible a disability, he supposed. And he probably wouldn’t have to deal with it for long. If his plan didn’t kill him, the tumour would.
So be it.
~~~
At 9:37 p.m., a white van screeched to a halt in the centre of Neo-Auckland. Morgan jumped from the passenger side. All around him, metas unloaded from the four vans that arrived seconds later. They were all dressed in their respective costumes; a dizzying array of clashing styles and colours. None bore firearms. He’d chosen them for their skill with their powers alone.
Other cars came skidding along the road, blaring their horns. A few passers-by gasped, eyes wide. The area was heavily trafficked even at this hour. An unfortunate fact. With luck, none of his people would need to kill anyone. But luck was a fickle whore, and he never relied on it.
By the time night had fallen, he’d adapted his fighting style to cope with the vision impairment. As long as he kept his eyes moving and kept up his guard to the right, he didn’t anticipate any serious issues. Even so, he’d transferred control of the prisoner over to Haze and Screecher.
It was strange. He still had the same fluttering in his stomach every time he had to fight.
“Let it begin,” he said, and the metas moved into action. The ones who had been involved in Siberia were calmer this time around. Many of them had been in supercombat in the past, so they were familiar with matters of violence. Now they were getting back into the groove. He just prayed that confidence didn’t become cockiness.
Tinderbox clapped his hands, and the street around the vans burst into flames. The heat scorched Morgan’s face, but he didn’t flinch. Civilians screamed. The street was filled with movement as people fled, shielding their faces. The flame chased them, licking at their heels, until it reached the opposite side of the street and exploded through a jewellery store window. Somewhere, a fire alarm screeched.
Obsidian and her team were already fanning around the building ahead of them. A pair of fliers took to the skies as watchmen. When the Police Metahuman Division responded, the fliers would know.
The TVNZ studio was almost quaint. It had the same tacky design as the rest of the Neo-Auckland towers, but it was diminutive compared to the commercial office buildings that surrounded it. The size was unimportant. By morning, the world would know his name.
They would remember what they had forgotten. And they would tremble.
“Bring the prisoner!” he boomed over the roar of Tinderbox’s fire. Haze gave a half-hearted salute and disappeared into the centre van along with Screecher. Navigatron had outfitted all the vans with simple armour and engine modifications in case a swift exit was needed. The centre van also had a folding ramp that extended on a hydraulic mechanism. A moment later, Haze and Screecher emerged, dragging a wide cage on wheels. The bars crackled with the purple sheen of a Unity Corporation shielding system. William Hayne, the great Iron Justice, sat folded up inside, howling.
Morgan’s earpiece hissed to life. “Secure, my lord,” a voice said.
“Thank you, Obsidian,” he said. He turned to the others and raised his voice. “With me!”
His team whooped and broke into a run. He kept pace with them, eyes fixed on the building’s double glass doors.
Sand Fury fired a high-powered blast of sand from the glowing centre of his chest. The doors crumpled inwards against the onslaught. For a moment, the shattered glass sparkled under the light of the entranceway, and then a cloud of dust obscured everything.
Morgan was second through the broken doorway. The building’s layout was imprinted on his memory, so he had no need to slow. He brought up his shield and blade. He didn’t expect resistance, but he was nothing if not cautious. Besides, if someone was watching, he wanted them to understand what he could do.
A single security guard was in the lobby, struggling to extricate himself from a pile of sand. The eyes of a pretty blond receptionist peeked over the sleek metallic desk. The dilated pupils fixed on him, then she ducked down out of sight and offered a pitiful moan.
Morgan swept his blade of light down in an arc that stopped an inch from the security guard’s throat. The man swallowed and immediately stopped moving. Sand enveloped his legs and lower torso.
“Are you armed?” Morgan asked him.
He shook his head rapidly.
“I believe you,” Morgan said. He swung a light-covered fist. It connected with the side of the man’s head, and a cry left his mouth before he slumped, unconscious.
Without being asked, Sand Fury closed his eyes and arched his back. The centre in his chest glowed again, and he sucked the sand back towards himself. The grains bounced against Morgan’s light shield in a miniature sandstorm, and then as quickly as it had been filled, the lobby was free of sand.
Haze and Screecher pushed in the cage with the shouting Hayne, followed by the two other metas in his team. Hayne’s words were unintelligible. Every few seconds, the huge man would pound his fists against the glowing sides of the cage, to no avail. He’d long since given up trying to form the metal skin that gave him his superhero alias. Every time he did, the shields on the cage would deliver a strong electric shock to him. Crude, but effective. Morgan had modified the Unity Corporation technology himself. Everyone needed a hobby.
He could hear shouts and stamping feet from the floors above. The building was filled with a restless energy. No doubt they’d already discovered that the fire exits were barred by Obsidian and her crew. Did any of them understand what was happening?
He jabbed the lift call button, and the doors slid open with the ring of a bell. They loaded Hayne’s cage in first and crammed in around it. Morgan pressed the button for the eighth floor.
“You goddamn son of a bitch!” Hayne shouted. “I’ll make this place your grave, you hear me?
Morgan ignored him.
“You made a tactical error, coming here,” Hayne continued. “This building’s a death trap.”
Morgan straightened his white suit and watched the numbers on the elevator dial count up. “We know our exits.”
“Ha! Exits! We stomped little fucks like you into the ground three times a week back in my day. They’re gonna come for you, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t get no cushy prison cell.”
Morgan spun and slammed his fist against the bars. Blood pounded in his head, and his lips peeled back in a snarl. “No one’s going to come. No one. You and your precious heroes let the world walk all over you. Now there’s no one. No one but me.”
Hayne must have seen something in his eyes, because he backed away in his cage. Turning away, Morgan forced himself to breathe. What was that? The rage had come from nowhere. The red mist still lingered at the corners of his consciousness. Since the day of the protest at Cambridge, he always held himself in check. Cold logic kept him alive. I can’t get emotional. Not now.
A bell dinged, and the elevator doors slid open. The studio lights were on, aimed at the news desk on the far side of the room. Crew members screamed and hammered on the fire exit doors. It did them no good. One of the newsreaders—a middle-aged woman in a red jacket—was the only person that hadn’t fled her post. She spoke rapidly into the unmanned cameras.
“They have reached the studio. There appears to be four, no, five of them. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just joining us, our building has been attacked by what appears to be a team of supercriminals. We can only pray that this broadcast is still transmitting, and that the police are on their way. God save us all.”
Morgan let his blade and shield fade, and drew light around himself to make his body glow. He strode from the elevator, taking his time, and looked into the eyes of everyone with the courage to meet his gaze.
Perception is all that matters.
“My name is Quanta,” he said. Silence fell in the room, and all eyes turned to him. He let an easy smile cross his face. “I have a message for the people of Earth.”
~~~
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