The black metal box was making that weird sound again, over and over and driving Carter nuts. He hummed and he glared, chewed his knuckles and tapped his finger against it, wondering how to make it shut up. Proud as ever, he’s standing in front of it in his underwear and a t-shirt, scratching his ribs and staring through the tiny glass screen that was keeping his bowl of milk hostage. Should I just punch it? No. His aunt would kill him. Literally. That lady was scary as all hell when she got angry, and the black metal box also looks expensive. He’s got…what do they call their money in this city? Dollars? He’s got five of those, and he’s pretty sure the box costs more than just five. He blinks, then gasps a little, because maybe the box was ten of those green pieces of paper, and that’s even worse! How could anyone even have that many? Stolen, he figures. Or maybe everyone lies about how many they have.

  Carter groans and hangs his head, his hand on the metal box’s glass. “Farewell, warm milk,” he whispers. Warm milk. From cows. Not the strange, bitter kind that gets milked and stored in crates. This one came out of a glass bottle. And his aunt even had this thing called cereal. He ate two entire boxes last night, then spent several hours groaning on the couch with his stomach in knots. He’d never eaten anything so sweet before. He’d had a piece of candy once for his birthday, but that was years ago, and he’d spat it straight out of his mouth right away.

  The door down the hallway opens. He hears his aunt coming before she sees her, wearing…scrubs, that’s what she called them. She’s a Healer. A doctor. Right, that’s what they call them here. She’s got no powers, but somehow fixes people, which is pretty crazy to him, too. He’s got no idea how the hell she even does that. Maybe she’s got magic tools, or maybe she’s got magic hands, because she sighs and walks past him, opens the metal box, and winces as she grabs the bowl of milk. She slides on a pair of fluffy gloves, takes the bowl out, and sets it down.

  “OK,” she says, pulling the gloves off and looking at him. She points at the metal box. “Again, that’s a microwave. It heats up food.” She points at the milk, and for some reason, it’s frothing and spitting inside of the bowl, almost like it’s angry at him. “And that is way too hot. Thirty seconds is usually good enough to warm it.”

  He scratches the back of his head. “Right,” he says. “So…why do I have to warm it again?”

  She shrugs. “That’s up to you. Cold. Warm. Entirely your choice.”

  Carter frowns and folds his arms, still staring at the milk. “And what do I do with it now?”

  “Let it cool down a little,” she says, gently squeezing his arm and going to yet another strange machine. She turns it on somehow—sorcery, his aunt is some kind of magician or Technomancer—and turns to face him. She looks him up and down, then checks the tiny clock on her wrist. Why anyone would need a clock that small, he has no idea. “Shit,” she says, and that’s a word he knows for once. “There’s gonna be traffic. Are your bags packed?”

  Carter says, “I’ve got two bags, ready and waiting.” He picks up the bowl of milk, mildly warm against his palms, and puts it to his lips. He drinks it. All of it. Gulping it down until it trickles out of his mouth and soaks into his vest. When he’s done, he gasps for air, runs his hand across his chin, and says, “Shit! That’s way better than what we’ve got back home. I don’t even feel like puking it out!” Carter goes to the large silver machine standing in the corner, the one hiding the bottles of milk. “Hey, you mind if I go with some of this stuff? I can live on it for weeks.”

  “No, honey,” she says gently. Carter hangs his head. She pats his back. “I know, I know, but milk is kinda expensive for someone who gets paid as little as I do. Besides, the more you keep drinking it like that, the more you’re gonna end up hating it soon. Things are better in restraint.” She uses a soft piece of paper to wipe his mouth, then shakes her head and cups his face in her hands. He swallows, tries not to look into her eyes. She shakes her head again and says, “You’ve got your mama’s eyes. Her lips. And her nose. God, it’s like Mark didn’t try at all.”

  Carter smiles and finally looks at her. “I think they worked together, so I think dad kinda tried, too.”

  His aunt laughs. “Get out of this vest and put on the clothes I got you. You’re gonna be late.”

  “Is it…good, this place?” he asks. She’s already at the bubbling machine, taking it out of its slot and pouring a dark, foul-smelling liquid into a mug. “I know Uncle Fredrick did a lot to get me in, but what if I—”

  “Carter,” she says softly, glancing over her shoulder. “If there’s one thing you can’t do, it’s think that you don’t deserve to be anywhere you already are. Pantheon U isn’t special. The kids in it aren’t special. But that’s what everyone tells them, so that’s what everyone believes.” She turns around and pours sugar into the dark liquid. The smell fills his throat. “You go there and be who you are, because in my opinion? That’s more than good enough.”

  “I heard Guardian’s daughter is in it, too.”

  She stops stirring the black liquid.

  The sounds outside the apartment window are constant, everlasting—nothing like the Wastelands. People, so many people, walking, talking, shouting and yelling and swearing. Kids running. Cars—cars, actual cars and not just burnt out shells—roar and beep and vomit smoke from their exhausts. It feels…alive. Like an organism.

  If the silence lasted any longer, he could almost listen to its heartbeat pulsing through the air.

  His aunt put the spoon down. “And what do you think about her being there?”

  Carter shrugs. “Dunno. I guess it’ll be pretty cool to see what she’s all about.”

  She nods slowly and picks up her mug. “Good,” she mutters, then sips. “That’s good.”

  “Why?” he asks. “Do you think I’m gonna be afraid of her?”

  “No, I just know your father, and I know my sister.” She turns around and smiles at him, her lace of shiny stones sparkling around her throat. “I also know you’ll fight her soon enough. Just…restraint. It’s all about pulling your punches.” She puts the mug down and gets closer. “People like us, Carter, they look at us differently. In a place like Pantheon U, they’re going to think of you differently, judge you to different standards. Work harder. Work smarter.” She thumps his chest with her fist. “And don’t get wrapped up in any trouble.” She points a finger into his face. “You’re my sister’s child, and my sister isn’t the most level-headed person on the planet. And if you look like her, then I’m more than sure you act like her, too. She doesn’t listen to people above her, or what everyone’s got to say, but that’s because she always thinks she has nothing to lose. You do. So, for now, smile, make friends, but work hard, mister. OK? And don’t let those folks ever let you think you’re not worthy of being as great as you can be.”

  He frowns. “Why would they not want me to be the best? They pump out superheroes. Literal heroes.”

  His aunt only smiles and gently cups his cheek. “Like I said, different standards, different weight, different swagger and different style and just…different. You’ll see it for yourself, but don’t let it go to your head. Now, get dressed. We’re leaving in five minutes before your uncle starts berating me. Oh, that man gets on my goddamned nerves sometimes, and the last thing I need on a Monday morning is a lecture from him. And brush your hair, too.”

  “Can I have some more—”

  “No more milk, Carter,” she says, walking away. “Clock’s ticking, superhero.”

  Traffic. What a weirdly wonderful thing. The only kind of traffic he knows is the human kind, the kind that jams entire buildings as people scrape and claw for food that’s being handed out. Just enough to say it was given, not enough to fill out the kids’ cheeks that are so hollow you can hang clothes off their jaws. Carter shakes his head and stares outside of his aunt’s car, a tiny hunched thing she keeps cursing at and dialing up the radio to drown out the groans and squeaks it’s making. Go. Stop. Horn. Swear word. It’s a looping, crazy cycle. And he loves it. There’s just so…many of them. So many people. So many cars. So many buildings that reach into the sky like whoever’s up there wants to grab hold of the sun. It’s hubris. It’s ego. It’s so unbelievable that they’ve got markets that sell everything. Food. Clothes. Tech. All of it. And some people just keep walking past these massive markets like they don’t care how awesome it is that literal stacks of food are just sitting there, waiting to get eaten and torn apart!

  “Fucking…” His aunt rolls down her window and leans out of the car. A chorus of horns and swear words immediately fills his ears. Carter flinches. He’s heard loud sounds, plenty, just not this many, just not this frequently annoying. His aunt pats his leg and rolls the window up again. “Sorry,” she mutters, then curses to herself. “Trust Liberty City to grind to a halt every single freaking morning. All these superhumans, and not one of them is smart enough to figure out how to fix traffic?” She slams on the horn. Carter cringes again. His aunt winces and sighs. “Sorry. Sorry. Habit.” She smiles weakly. “Unfortunately, you’re just going to have to get used to all the noise.”

  “Why’s everyone so angry?” he asks, watching a guy on the…sidewalk? Sidewalk. He rolls the word around his mouth and decides that he likes it. Someone on the sidewalk is shouting at someone else, fingers pointed, spit flying. He watches, mouth open, almost amazed because they’re dressed up with big red hair, big red noses, and funny-looking colorful clothes. “Look at those guys! Are they born like that? Are they superheroes?”

  “No,” she sighs, inching the car forward. “They’re called clowns. They’re thieves in reality.”

  Carter’s hand lands on the door handle. “Should I—”

  She puts her own hand on his shoulder. “No, honey. Not in the way you know. They’re more like…” She thinks for a moment. “Scummy thieves. Not murder-and-stab kind of thieves, you know? They do tricks for cash.”

  “Tricks?” he mutters. “Who’d want to get a blowjob from a guy dressed up like that?”

  She blinks. “What? Boy, who—” She pinches her nose. “I ought to smack my sister for even letting you know what that means. Not those kinds of tricks. Party tricks. You know, like…somersaults and juggling things.”

  “Huh,” he murmurs, then looks at her. “We’ve also got ‘em. They’re called jump-monkeys.”

  His aunt stares at the road, then pats his leg again. “That’s nice to know, Carter.”

  He nods to himself and looks out of the window. I think I’ll get a jump-monkey for her as a thank you.

  Carter wonders if they also wear collars and leather face masks here, too.

  The car shakes. Softly. Then again. Then so hard it violently throws the car on its side in one sudden jolt. Glass smashes. Metal bends and breaks. The car rolls, skids, then slams into something so hard he bites his tongue and tastes blood. He groans, the seatbelt locking him upside down in the seat. He blinks. Spits the blood. His ears ring. Cars are wailing. So are people. What the hell? Carter yanks the belt off his body. He hits the car’s crumpled ceiling. Grass crunches under his skin and tries to dig into the side of his— He blinks, stares at his aunt. She’s limp, arms hanging loosely, a nasty, bloody cut along her forehead. He stares. Blinks. His heart starts slow, picks up, then punches against his chest so hard that it’s all he can hear. No. He crawls closer. No. Seatbelt. He tries for the button. Can’t find it. No. Grabs hold of it and rips it out. Not here. She falls into his arms. He cradles her head against his chest. Then flies forward, kicking through the smashed windscreen and out onto the street. He puts her on the ground. Presses his fingers against her throat. Shuts his eyes. And waits. And waits. And prays and whimpers and shuts his eyes, presses his forehead against her chest, and…hears it. Finally, a pulse. Soft. Slow. Weak. But there.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The world catches up to his ears in an instant. First comes the shrieking wails for help.

  Then comes the splintering explosion of shattering asphalt.

  Finally, a shadow that darkens the sky, then comes crashing down just a few dozen feet away. Windows explode. Glass tears through the air, through skin and flesh and people lying face-down on the pavement, some with broken backs, twisted arms, heads smashed open by cars that landed on them—and bodies, so many bodies in cars, some burning, some twisted so badly the arms flailing for help fall limp seconds later. Carters swallows. Tastes smoke and more blood. And then the thing moves, the thing so large it dwarfs buses tipped over, it throws a long, nasty shadow across the entire street. It’s a machine. Armor. Technomancer. Bulky. Gunmetal-gray. Scarred by use and painted with blocky white letters across its singular solid steel chest plate: Agent Anarchy. Carter stares, still cradling his aunt’s body, watching its head turn, hearing gears groaning, belts pulling, hydraulics hissing as it takes one step forward, cracking the pavement even more. A kid is screaming. Screaming and wailing and running away, dragging behind him a torso without any legs—half of a woman, her guts trailing after him, head half-smashed in.

  The suit of armor stares at the boy, then raises its fist. Some kind of gun attached to it, a belt full of bullets hitched to its hip. The gun whirs, whistles, gets faster and faster as it spins. Superheroes. Where… Where are they?

  Things like this only happen in the Wasteland. Where there aren’t any superheroes.

  All these large screens, all those superheroes grinning at the ground, but where the fuck were they?

  “Carter?” He freezes, looks down. His aunt smiles, blood shining on her teeth. “Are you OK?”

  Her fingers, slick with blood, find his cheek, smearing red across his jaw.

  He holds her hand and nods. “Yeah, I’m— Where—” He swallows. Shuts his eyes.

  They’re not coming.

  “Go,” she says weakly, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. “I’m built tough. I’ll be fine.”

  Carter nods, opens his eyes, and slowly stands up.

  The trigger depresses. The machine gun bucks.

  And every single eighty-caliber round slams into his arms, his chest, his face and his thighs, tearing through his new clothes, his new jacket and his new shoes. The kid behind him cowers, screams, throws himself onto the ground. Carter grits his teeth. Tastes blood. Casings clatter onto asphalt. Bullets turn to dimes that ring as they hit the ground. Then, suddenly, comes the silence. The smoke of punctured rubble. Of gunpowder stinking in the air. Carter lowers his arms, pants for air, and glances over his shoulder. The kid wet himself, but he’s…fine. As fine as a kid can be cradling onto half of his mother’s body. The kid stares at him. He stares at the kid. He nods at him, and the kid doesn’t nod back—he doesn’t expect him to, not really. Besides, he’s half-naked now, too.

  His aunt doesn’t have a lot of that green paper, not enough to buy him new clothes.

  He figures it doesn’t matter.

  Carter rolls his shoulders and spits a bullet out of his mouth, one that had gotten between his teeth. It slams into the pavement and smolders. The armor stands taller, a red dot blinking near its gas-mask face plate. Failed inner systems, he thinks to himself. The thing is old, rusted at its joints, rusting further around the rivets keeping the plates in place. An eagle decal has been scraped off its shoulder plates with something sharp, like a knife or a rock.

  “A Gravesuit all the way out here?” he mutters. Smoke rises from smoldering cars. He hears sirens wailing in the distance. “How the hell did one get into Liberty City, anyway? Past Guardian?” Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

  He’s never been trained to ask questions when it comes to people like this. One job: finish it.

  The Gravesuit doesn’t move. Its face plate is dented, fist-sized, with one of its scarlet lenses splintered. Breathing? No. Humming coming from inside of the suit, must be its core. They just let this thing walk around? He can almost smell the radiation bleeding out from the cracks in its iron chassis, melting rubber, turning asphalt into oil. Carter thought coming here would mean he wouldn’t have to smell its stink anymore, but that’s just his luck.

  This is gonna hurt, he thinks, clenching his fists. For both of us.

  He launches off the ground, tearing a hole through the feet of space between them, fist swung back, teeth gritted—heat washes over his face the moment he’s close, blistering his knuckles as he plants them into the same dent already in its face plate. It doesn’t move. Neither does he. A shock of pain rockets up his arm, down his spine.

  The array in its eyes focuses. Its head moves just enough to stare at him.

  He sees his own eyes in its dimly glowing lenses.

  Carter grabs the other side of its dense iron helmet, grits his teeth, and forces it into the concrete so hard that stone shatters. He bends the iron with his fingers, crouches, and launches into the sky. Get the radiation out of the city. Get this thing away from people. The wind screams in his ears, pulls tears out of his eyes—then he stops.

  He lets go of the Gravesuit, pulls his fist back, and digs his fist into its stomach-plating.

  The iron bends, doesn’t break. The thing aims its gun at him and fires.

  The explosion knocks him back. The armor falls through the sky like a stone. He curses, shakes his head, then thrusts his fists into the armor and slams it directly into a construction sight. Rubble explodes into the sky like a geyser, filling his throat and stinging his eyes, but he’s too focused on wailing down on its face plate, tearing open his fists, splattering his blood on its steel and the ground and flinging it into the air. It dents. Doesn’t break. Then it grabs one of his fists, twists his arm, and agony tears through his body. Carter bites down a scream. The armor throws him into the ground beside it, forces its way onto its feet, and holds him down as it puts its smoking gun barrel to the back of his head. He moves. Tries to. The armor wrenches his arm backward. His shoulder locks.

  He hears the gun begin to whir. Feels heat clawing into the back of his skull.

  Carter tries again. It slams its fist into his head, smashing his face into the ground, forcing gravel into his throat. He grunts, groans, tries to stay awake. The thing crushes his head under its fist once, twice, and then again.

  The gun jams against his head, stinging his flesh.

  And feels her presence a millisecond before she appears.

  You can’t forget your first time seeing her, your first time feeling the wind shift around her.

  The sky darkens, just like it had years and years ago. The wind stills, just like that horrible, horrible day. And when he looks up, sweat on his face clinging to the dust drifting through the yard, he sees her, cape billowing and arms folded, eyes dark pits as she stares down at him. Carter freezes. So does his heart. You haven’t changed.

  The Guardian still looks the same, just without blood soaking into her golden cape this time.

  Suddenly, breathtakingly quickly, she’s there beside him, ripping the thing’s hand off his arm and bending its machine gun barrel into a tight spiral. The thing launches a hydraulic-locked haymaker at her. She catches it in her other hand, and Carter, still on the ground, still aching, crawls away, looks at her, watches her barely strain as she forces its arms apart and away from her face. She turns her head and smiles at him. His blood goes so impossibly cold that he shudders. She grabs its chest plate, plants her feet, picks the thing up with one arm, and launches it so high into the sky it vanishes a handful of seconds later. Its trail of radiation vanishes with it. Carter, finally, breathes.

  He finds her hand waiting, a smile fixed onto her face. “Hey, there,” she says. “You’re one tough cookie.”

  Carter stares at her fingernails, painted sharp and gold, then at her face, bright and cheery.

  You don’t remember me, do you?

  No, how could she? He’s not covered in his best friend’s body parts.

  She grabs him anyway and lifts him onto his feet. She dusts him down, licks her thumb and fixes his eyebrows. She even uses his cape to wipe the grit off his face. “There we go,” she says, and pats his shoulder. “You fought pretty well, you know that?” She plants her fists on her hips. He wants to run. She’s tall. Looking down at him. Her eyes almost sparkle, but not the good kind, not the way the sun does—red sparks, hellish flares, that’s what burns in those blue eyes. Carter swallows, throat dry. He nods. “What’s wrong?” she asks, then jerks her thumb at the sky. “If you’re worried about where it’s gonna land, don’t stress about it. Probably somewhere in the Wasteland. I’ll go and get someone to check it out. Agent Anarchy is an 8.8, which is way above your pay grade. C’mon, let the grown ups handle guys like him.” She gently punches his gut. He winces. Not out of pain, but because he knows exactly what a body does, what it looks like, what sounds it makes when her fist tears through it. “You’re tough. Most kids would’ve passed out or run away. You fought him. That’s good. We need superheroes like you. How come you’re not in school right now?” He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. She frowns. “Are you in shock, kiddo?”

  Kiddo.

  Same name.

  A lot less hate, a lot less snarling.

  Her hands aren’t wrapped around his throat this time.

  “No,” he manages to whisper. Then he clears his throat. “I’m Carter.”

  Why did he say that? Why’d he tell her his name?

  No, she deserves to know. She deserves to remember.

  From the look in her eyes, she doesn’t.

  “Awesome,” she says, and pats his shoulder again. “I’m Guardian, but my real name’s Lucy. So, school?”

  “I…” He blinks, shakes his head. “My aunt needs help.”

  “Super Force has everyone who got hurt handled,” she says, nodding. “We’ll cover the bill.”

  Carter sighs with heavy relief. “What about the people who died?”

  Guardian just smiles. “They’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “School?” she asks again. “It’s that time of the year, you know.”

  “Uh…” He swallows. “I’m meant to go to Pantheon U.”

  Her eyebrows rise up her forehead. “Woah! My daughter goes there, too! Oh, Sam’s gonna love you. She likes kids who can handle their shit. Woops. Mind my language. Bad habits. I think they’re about to start class soon. You should probably rocket over there so you don’t get in trouble. I’ll talk to Vale if you get in trouble.”

  Carter stares at her, mind racing, heart racing, blood racing. Why don’t you remember me?

  Why are you smiling?

  Guardian, again, pats his shoulder. “Go on, everything’s gonna be fine. What’s your aunt’s name? I’ll make sure I can find her and tell you that I sent you on your way. She’ll probably be up and running to give you a call.”

  He’s not going to tell her anyone’s name. He can’t let the Guardian so much as know a thing about himself.

  God forbid she finds out his uncle works with her, too.

  “It’s fine,” he says, stepping back. “I should go. Thanks for…you… Thanks for—”

  “It’s fine,” she says, floating off the round—no, she was never standing on it in the first place. “That’s what superheroes do, no need to thank me, Carter.” A violent chill rakes down his spine. She turns around and smiles over her shoulder at him, then flashes a thumbs up. “Remember, Evil Never Wins. You were a badass. Keep it up.”

  She’s gone a second later.

  And all Carter can do is watch her vanish into the clouds, just like she’d done years ago.

  He doesn’t realize his fists are shaking until he forces his hands to relax and his fingernails to stop digging into his palms. He looks at the blood on his hands, under his fingernails. He clenches them and relaxes his jaw.

  “Soon,” he whispers. “Four years is nothing.”

  And then… And then he’ll…

  Carter can’t get his hands to stop shaking, listening to the wail of sirens in the distance.