The classroom clock ticked around to 3:56, and the teacher stood up. "Alright, well," he began, then paused. His usual grin was instead replaced with a bit of a forlorn smile. "I suppose this is goodbye, isn't it?"

James didn't react, though some of the more talkative students groaned in protest. It was a shame, honestly, because Glen was a pretty good teacher, and likeable, too. Beside him, Liv breathed out heavily through her nose. James glanced at her, and his eyes flickered back to Glen, who was in the process of turning off the video of Twelfth Night. Honestly, James wasn't entirely sure if he'd liked Shakespeare until this semester whereupon Glen animatedly sucked him into the world of poetry and plays, and Stephen Fry played Malvolio.

"But have a good break, everyone. If you do have any questions on how to spend your break because you're all a little less hip than me, then you can send me an e-mail and I won't respond because I'll be on vacation." He smirked as the class giggled. "Alright, you lot. Get outta here. And stay safe!"

James stood up, and he shouldered his bag, examining nonexistent problems almost subconsciously as he allowed time for Liv to finish up. She grinned at him and James smiled back, and the two of them followed the crowd outside. English was one of the few classes James shared with Liv, and it was to be treasured - shame it had ended, though.

"So," Liv said. "School's out, huh?"

"It is."

"I feel like I've already asked you this, but what are you going to do in the holidays?"

James smiled. "You have. And it's still the same - I need to work."

In a manner of speaking. It certainly could be rewarding sometimes.

"Heh. Yeah, me too. Now that school's done they'll stick me in for, like, forty hours a week. Minimum."

"That's crazy," James said, as he'd said many times before and thought even more times than that. "They shouldn't be forcing you to do that."

Liv sighed. "Can't be helped, really. We're just really understaffed, you know? And it takes time to train a newbie, as well."

James shook his head. He didn't understand why Liv would choose to work there, for so long. The pay wasn't actually half bad, but it was still much better to be freelance, like James was. The rest of their walk was continued in silence, and one that James disliked; in no more than twenty-five seconds, he and Liv would go their separate ways and, without school next week, it might be a while until he could see Liv again.

"Alright, time to go." Liv turned to him, smiling. "You have to text me, okay? We need to meet up during the summer sometime. Do stuff together."

"I'd like that," James said honestly.

James allowed Liv to throw her arms around him (and he deeply inhaled the scent of her hair) and patted her back. She beamed up at him as she took a step back. She got her mum to pick her up, always, in their sleek black Mercedes sedan, and she jogged across the street, making sure she didn't get hit by any of the school buses, and hopped inside, throwing her backpack in the rear seats. James sighed through his nose, and then began to walk towards the parking lot.

"Oi, James."

James turned around and smiled a slight smile as he saw his mate, Rhys, approach. His lips were twisted into a smirk and his baby blues twinkled mischievously. "You can't get over her, can you?"

"Fuck off."

"Just ask her out already."

The two of them walked to the parking lots, where Rhys' piece of shit BMW was waiting for them. It was from… 1998, or something? It would've run just fine if the previous owner wasn't a stereotypical road-raging dickhead that so often seemed to purchase BMWs, and run the car ragged. James wasn't the fondest of the fucked-up shocks in the car, but it sure as hell beat catching the bus and walking ten minutes from the stop. Especially since Rhys lived just down the street.

"Does she know you like her? She must, right?"

"I don't know."

"You should tell her. Just in case."

"And if she doesn't like me back in that way? I'd rather not ruin our friendship because I flew too close to the sun."

"Stop being poetic and shit, this is just you not being able to get over your crush since, what, year six?" Rhys laughed as he backed out his car. He fumbled with the gearstick. "You realize she spends the most time with you than with all her female friends, right?"

James blinked. "Seriously?"

"Mhm. You'd have noticed if you weren't staring somewhere else all the time." He gestured around his torso. James turned red despite himself.

"Anyway. Plans for the near future?" James asked, looking out the window to conceal his blush. Rhys smirked as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oh, dunno. Probably end up working. I don't have much at home, so…"

James knew well enough what Rhys' home situation was like. It was why they were best friends, not keeping even the smallest secrets from each other. Both households were ragged, though different in their own ways. He stared out the window and watched trees and bushes and parked cars fly by his sight - seriously, Rhys needed to slow the fuck down. You'd think the huge dent on his front bumper would've taught him something, but Rhys did sometimes lack an instinct of self-preservation.

Again, similar to James himself, if he were honest.

Rhys fucked up the gear change again and James winced; he himself didn't even drive a manual and even he could tell that wasn't how you were supposed to do it. The National Library whizzed past Rhys' side of the car, and he, instead of slowing, sped up as they rounded the ramp onto the bridge that took them over the man-made Lake Burley-Griffin. Piece of shit lake, honestly. They should've made it as pretty as that… what's it called, in Canada? Abraham Lake or whatever. Burley-Griffin was just… brown. And it didn't help with all the drunks throwing their rubbish into the lake every Friday or Saturday night, too.

It took another fifteen minutes going north since crossing the bridge (at least, if one traveled as fast as Rhys preferred to travel) to get back to their neighborhood. They began rolling off the main road, towards the newly constructed apartment blocks. Well, not new, but only about a decade old. Being a fairly large and empty country, Australia was a good place for Endbringer refugees to start anew. Although, maybe for that exact reason, not as good as people believed.

Graffiti. Gang tags. Police presence was fairly heavy in this region, even if it was nowhere near as bad as, say, Fyshwick and Queanbeyan, on the south side of the city. That place was the Red Baron's stronghold, and the Baron wasn't known for being subtle. Anyway - the region they lived in was much safer than all the way south, but that still didn't mean it was entirely safe. People walking out at night probably had capsicum spray in their pocket or maybe a knife. Not so many guns, though. This wasn't America, and it certainly wasn't the countryside either.

"Hey," James called, and Rhys glanced at him. James jabbed a finger at the window, shielding his eyes with his other hand. Rhys leaned in his direction and scowled.

"Not even fucking nighttime," Rhys muttered under his breath, and parked the car. They unbuckled their seatbelts, and Rhys pulled out a cricket bat from his backseat, and they left the car.

They approached the pair, the terrified woman on the ground, and the two men leering down at her. Rhys approached, and in such a time, James truly appreciated his friend; seventeen years old and already taller than most adults at six foot even, on the track and field team for hammer-throw. Of course, that wasn't to say James was a slouch, either - he got plenty of exercise in his freelance work, and even his fairly average 5'9" frame was heavy with muscle. Rhys got the attention of the two white men by slapping his bat in to his hand.

"Hey, boys," Rhys called out mockingly. Confident. "Having a little fun?"

The men eyed the bat warily. In the right hands, it usually meant broken arms and cracked skulls. Maybe both, but at least one was mildly buzzed. He turned the knife, which he'd been pointing at the woman, at Rhys and made stabbing gestures. "Fuck off, and you might not get shanked." Words were slightly slurred. Definitely drunk.

That didn't really make James feel all that sorry for what he was going to do, though.

Rhys shook his head and stepped forward, smacking the tip of the bat against the concrete. The men were obviously unnerved by Rhys' lack of fear. James didn't feel any fear either. He'd seen a lot of shit. He'd been desensitized to it, really, even moreso than Rhys. He stepped forward, tossing his neck from side to side and releasing loud crackling noises with each movement.

"I'm warning you. Fuck off," Rhys growled.

The sober one hesitated, and began to back away. His friend was not as smart. He charged at Rhys, aiming to gut him. Rhys waited, and swung the bat as hard as it could at the man's hand. It struck his wrist instead, but the effect was similar enough - he howled in pain and dropped the knife as his hand suddenly stopped working. Rhys wasn't sympathetic. He swung the bat again, cracking it over his shoulder, and the man stumbled and fell.

"Take your friend outta here," he said, spitting off to the side. The sober one nodded slowly, and approached his angrily cursing friend and dragged him off the scene. James turned to the woman, who was staring at them, uncertain what to even think of them.

"You hurt?" James asked as softly as he could. Olivia, he was not.

"N-no," she stuttered.

"Hey, it's alright. We're not going to hurt you," Rhys said with a charming smile, giving her plenty of space to recover. James smiled as well, nodded, and took a step back from her. She shakily got back onto her feet, smoothed out her black business skirt, and licked her lips.

"Thank you," she said. "Both of you. H-here. For your help."

James backed off slightly, hands in the air, as she tried to offer them maybe seventy bucks in cash. "Hey, we didn't help for your money. We helped for your safety, alright?"

The woman, probably Vietnamese, nodded slowly. "Okay," she whispered, more to herself than to either of them. "Okay. Then thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's alright. You want us to give you a lift home?"

"No, I'll be fine. I was just surprised this time, I suppose." She showed them a can of mace that she was carrying in her handbag. "I won't be next time. But thanks for offering."

"You're alright. James, let's go." James nodded to the woman one last time and followed Rhys back into the car. As he hopped in, Rhys was smiling a little. "It feels nice to know you've helped someone."

"Mm."

"Don't really feel it much anymore? Have you saved too many people in your nighttime job for one more person to really make a difference anymore?" Rhys teased. James rolled his eyes and made sure Rhys could see it.

"Nah. It's just… there are so many other ways to help, you know. You could donate to the Red Cross or something. Or ask how they're doing, not just as a greeting but actually asking, you know?" James crossed his arms. "But everyone's focused on the flashy violence. It makes me sick, sometimes, even when I'm on the job."

Rhys was silent for a moment as they pulled into their street. "Alright," he said finally, and turned to James, smirking. "Get the fuck out of my car."

James snorted and grabbed the strap of his backpack, and opened the door. "Cheers for the ride, Rhys. See you soon?"

"No problem, and yeah," Rhys said with a smile, not a smirk. He gave a two-fingered salute. "See ya, James."

"See you." Rhys' car drove off, and went around the bend, disappearing him from sight.

James walked into the apartment, punching in the relevant numbers and the door unlocked with a slight whirring noise. He walked up to the third floor, dragging his feet. He jingled his keys as he removed them from his pocket, connected to one of his belt loops with a carabiner clip. He stuck it in, jiggled, and threw the door open.

Home sweet home.

A narrow corridor dominated his sight. At the far end, it would spread wider into a living room-slash-dining room to the right, and a kitchen to the left. He stepped in, taking off his shoes and sticking them inside the shoe rack. To his immediate left was his bedroom, and his immediate right the master bedroom. He tossed his bag through the left entrance as he walked towards the kitchen. Next to his bedroom was the bathroom, and he entered that room briefly to wash his hands before resuming his journey to the kitchen.

He reached up and plucked out a half-filled packet of biscuits which he munched on as he booted up his computer. He was kinda rich now, and he'd only been at this job for… oh, what, five months? He began dicking around on the Internet, spending some time first on PHO and then YouTube. Another page had Facebook open. He could've just used his phone to talk to his friends via Facebook, but that would be completely wasting his mechanical keyboard. Experimentally, he used his index finger to slowly depress the 'J' key, which he'd picked at random. It clicked satisfyingly.Simply divine.

He continued to spend an hour browsing various websites on the Internet, until he realized something.

...damn.

I'm so fucking bored.

He scowled. His hands were itchy. He needed to hit the streets, beat up a few thugs. He needed the cash, he was running low because his job made money inconsistently - there were bad days and good days and the fact that he'd only recently finished his exams meant that he couldn't go out to work as often. Then he took a deep breath and recalled what Flying Fox had told him before.

Don't be a fucking asshole.

Don't be motivated by money. Don't be motivated by conflict and desire to fight. That was what separated an indie hero or, even a vigilante, from a superpowered thug. Be motivated instead to help the people in need. Be motivated instead to be a decent fucking person because when you were nice to people, they were nice to others, and that made the world better.

After all, only a few hours ago…

We didn't help for your money. We helped for your safety, alright?

Sometimes James couldn't help but wonder how Flying Fox had managed to operate so long without going mad. Sometimes James just needed to use his unique talents and prove his strength to himself. He wasn't like this before the incident. On the other hand, Flying Fox had managed to operate as a vigilante for, what, over six years? Not once putting himself before others. Not once working for profit or for gratification. Only ever doing this to get rid of superpowered assholes that threatened everyone else.

And then, of course, there was the other lesson to consider.

Don't be a fucking idiot.

Don't be predictable. He hadn't hit the streets the past few nights, it would compromise his identity if he went out on the night that school ended. James was tall enough, muscular enough to be an adult in his concealing outfit; he needed to keep it that way. Try to randomly rotate between patrol routes, only going out of your way to counter a specific, known threat. Protect your territory, guard the people within, push the gangs back as much as one was able - but never be as repetitive and monotonous as a farmer inspecting his field each morning.

But… fuck! His alter ego hadn't been spotted for a week or so now, the gangs were getting ballsy. He needed to get back out there and put those assholes' swelling nuts in a vice and pop them spectacularly. He needed to show up again, he needed to make them remember. Although… if they had managed to forget what he was capable of in only a week, he needed to be harsher with them.

Don't be a fucking monster.

The teaching flashed into his mind. James thinned his lips. Flying Fox was a really badass cape, truly. He wasn't the only one who thought so, either. He didn't have a particularly strong ability - something that PHO called Personal Vector Control - he could control the direction he was going in, with some control over the velocity, as well. This only gave him a PRT threat rating of Mover 4, Shaker 1. He got his name from the way he used to hang upside-down from ceilings to confront criminals. But damn if he wasn't good. In his best days, Fox had managed to inch back both the Baron's and Sandstorm's gang even when the Canberra Heat hadn't been able to.

But his biggest philosophy was to never escalate. He really liked to demonstrate this using that Nietzsche quote which James remembered by heart, now.

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into thee.

That was what Fox had been adamant that James understand.

James sighed. He supposed he should wait another couple of weeks or so, until well after school would've ended… could maybe even wait for one of the private schools that finished later, to end. That way, he could point them in the wrong direction… but that would still reveal his age. Would it really matter, being outed as someone from a public college? One of literally thousands of people in this city?

He made himself dinner. For two. Half of it, he ate, and the other half, he covered in saran wrap and left on the counter. It was pasta, it wouldn't spoil for a couple of hours. He plugged his charger into his phone, and set an alarm for 23:45. About four hours from now. A decent nap for what would be coming next.

He tucked the phone underneath his pillow, and went to sleep. Or tried to. He wasn't a heavy sleeper, and he could drowsily recall the sound of his mother returning home. Eating. Opening his door just a crack and making sure he was sleeping safely, and the small smile that graced her wearied face. The sound of her hitting the sheets and going to sleep so fast she might as well have been hit with elephant tranquilizers.

The phone's vibration under his pillow woke him up.

James crept out of his bed, making as little noise as possible, and went to his wardrobe. Opened up the doors and fumbled for a familiar spot in the dark. Underneath the very bottom drawer, the underwear drawer, was his costume. Fox had helped him design and make it. Honestly, this was the third iteration of his costume because making it himself… well, they were pieces of shit, really. This one was much better.

He had modeled his costume after Fox's. It was pretty obvious to those who saw it - the color and shade were similar, and the only real difference was that James didn't wear a cowl and cloak like Fox did to enhance his bat imagery. He had just the bodysuit - modified motorcycle protective gear, really, which Fox purchased easily enough because he actually did get around on a bike in his private life - but James had chosen to overlay it with a layer of Cuben Fiber, supposedly tough and light, dyed a deep, cool red. Some sort of maroon-ish color, maybe a bit darker, but James honestly couldn't remember what the lady at the crafts store had called it.

He slid these on, then put on a pair of durable sneakers and a pair of fingerless gloves. When he was experimenting with his powers, he had ruined many pairs of gloves until he gave up and bought fingerless ones. Sucked during winter, but he couldn't complain. On top of all his, he threw on a baggy hoodie-jacket, pulled on a backpack - different to his school one - containing a motorcycle helmet painted in a similar color, and jumped out the window.

He immediately began to slide down. He allowed his power to flex; his fingers became sticky, and his descent slowed. His fingertips didn't hurt or anything even as they were rubbed hard against the rough concrete of the apartment building. Gloves, on the other hand, would've torn, burned up from the friction.

He landed quietly, bending his knees under him, and he began to walk. East, as usual. That was where things were most dangerous, because Killshot's gang had tried taking the region. It wasn't working out too well - Killshot was relatively new, seemed a bit amateurish with his power, and James was pretty damn skilled with his own, thanks to Fox's training. Even though Fox himself was gone, his legacy of vigilantism lived on through James.

James tugged off his bag after about an hour of walking. He removed the helmet, removed his jacket, and the helmet went on his head and the jacket in the bag. The bag was placed inside a bush, a bush that he frequented and nobody else approached because of how thorny it was. Thorns weren't really a problem for James and his power, unless he pressed them perpendicular to his skin, so they slid off his armor, and slid off the fabric of his backpack, and he turned his attention to the sounds.

Here was Slipstick.

It was a pretty goofy name. For a pretty goofy persona, if he were being honest. Then again, Fox had encouraged that. Don't become a monster. Be a goof. Everyone underestimates you, first of all, and thus they won't try very hard to beat you unless they were certifiably insane (he'd encountered a few of those). If you treated the whole thing like a game, then it was less likely for your opponent to get serious and try to kill you, either. They'd just beat you badly enough to go to the emergency room.

Slip approached the noises, and hesitated. There he was, Killshot, in the flesh. Slip had already crossed paths with him two or three times, and each time had ended in a stalemate, because Killshot was one of those people that had an inferiority complex or something and always had something to prove. He was… annoying, but hardly unbeatable with Slip's power. In fact, he'd go so far to say that Killshot had a pretty bad matchup against him.

"Heya, boys." Slipstick stepped out from the shadows, emulating his friend, Rhys, and his mentor, Fox. Confident, not a hint of fear, a little goofy and overdone. "Planning a surprise party for someone?"

Killshot was kind of difficult to take seriously, what with all his super-serious demon mask and his super-serious greaser outfit. Slip could tell the kid - because he definitely sounded young - was scowling at him. He briefly wondered if he or Killshot were older. Probably Killshot, because no gang would take a child leader seriously, cape or not.

"Fuck off, Slipstick."

"Nah. Don't feel like it." Slipstick sat down cross-legged and gestured lazily at them. "You guys are the villains, while I am the dubiously heroic vigilante, so I think you're up to something sinister. And sinister things really don't need happening."

As he spoke, he watched the gang warily. It was rare that they carried firearms, because of the Port Arthur amendments, but it wasn't impossible to get. Still, none seemed to carry any firearms at this time. If they did, it was probably a small-caliber handgun, easily concealed, smuggled, or even hand-built. A lot of them, though, undoubtedly had knives or pipe wrenches and other nasty objects.

Killshot sighed, exasperated. "Can any of you fucking murder him already?"

The thugs rushed Slip. Slip focused on his ass, and lowered the friction acting on his pants to zero. Then he increased the friction acting on his fingertips to one thousand. Then he placed his hand on the concrete ground and pushed.

He rocketed off to the side, casually standing up as he skidded along the road at thirty kilometers an hour. He allowed the friction on the bottom of his shoes to gradually increase back up to fifty and stopped, the soles of his sneakers squeaking. "You really don't have to try and humiliate yourself every single time you encounter me," Slip said loudly. He glanced around; a few phones were pointed in his direction, discreetly, from windows several floors above ground level. Risky - Killshot wasn't kind to people filming him getting beaten up. "Unless that's something you're into? Which is totally fine, naturally, I don't judge."

The thugs weren't exactly Olympic sprinters. Slip tapped his foot on the ground, checking his indestructible G-Shock wristwatch. They came within eight meters of him, and suddenly all their shoes stopped while the rest of them moved forward and, in unison, they faceplanted. Slip tried to ignore the stifled giggles coming from the windows.

"Geez, Kill, you need better minions."

Hey, what the fuck was he doing with that-

Slip's eyes widened behind his helmet visor. Friction on his toes at six hundred. Air resistance at zero. Fingertips at one thousand, and he took off sideways, faster than the fastest unpowered humans on Earth. Slipstick managed to dodge the small hatchback flying at him faster than it could actually drive. The vehicle crashed into the support pillars of an apartment block with a tremendous crash and folded itself around the concrete support, even as the more decorative concreet pieces flaked off.

Jesus…

Screams sounded in the night as Slip tried to orient himself again. Fuck, this couldn't be happening! Had he finally pushed Killshot too far? Guilt gnawed at his mind as he sprinted past one of Killshot's henchmen, which was now nothing more than a bloody smear on the ground. He dived as Killshot released a half-dozen heavy steel hex nuts, flying as fast as the car had been going. Still, he was a bit slow for that one - the first arrival managed to graze his upper right arm. He winced; even though everything apart from his fingertips and soles were at zero, the angle of deflection hadn't been too great. Still, having a nice, tender bruise was orders of magnitude than having the entire arm out of commission for several months.

But Killshot was an amateur. Slipstick was more experienced, especially thanks to Fox's training. It was easy enough for him to predict Killshot's frankly fairly one-dimensional maneuvers. He also needed to finish this fight quickly, if he didn't want Killshot to hurt, and possibly kill, more people. With the rampage he was going on, Killshot wasn't above collateral damage.

What had driven him to this insanity?

Slipstick dodged, jumping to the side, trying to make his target as small as possible, raising his hands to the size - and the car mirror of the sedan grazed across his chest, mostly harmlessly. His heart pounded violently in his chest as the sedan crashed into a different apartment, the weight of the car causing substantially more damage. That… that had been close. Frictionless or not, a direct hit would have killed him.

"Fuck…" he breathed, getting himself back into the action.

As all cowardly villains do when their bullshit tactics don't work, Killshot began backing away, into the backseat of his truck. His driver began to move. Slip urged himself to run faster, constantly keeping on his toes. The localized friction meant that he didn't need to plant his feet on the ground as much as other people, letting him take more steps and fly further with each leap. If he could just get that fucking ute into range!

He got his chance when Killshot's truck slowed down to turn a corner. Slip reached out… and grasped the towbar. Even as the truck accelerated, Slipstick was able to keep his footing from months of practice even before he went out caping; he hung onto the towbar, and reduced the friction of his soles appropriately, looking rather like a rollerskater hanging onto the truck.

His range was eight meters. The truck fit entirely within his range. He began to slowly increase the friction of the gears, of the tires touching the road, of the air flowing over the truck… and marginally, the truck began to lag. Or, at least, the engine began to whine louder even as it failed to accelerate.

Gotcha, bitch.

Then a monstrous bang knocked Slipstick's head to the side; God he was thankful for the neck bracer hidden under the helmet and bodysuit. He was a little dazed, and in his moment of weakness, let go of the truck. As soon as it left his range, it picked up speed again, and roared off into the night. Slipstick stumbled, his friction returning to normal levels. He pressed his hand against his helmet, and found a big, jagged dent in his helmet. It thankfully hadn't penetrated. These were the times that he was truly reminded of how dangerous any Parahuman could be, weak power or not.

Another fucking hex nut. Killshot, ironically enough for someone of that name, had shit aim. Although that was probably the only reason Slipstick was alive. Killshot had probably been aiming for it to go straight through Slip's visor and into his brain.

Fucking hell. Even the weakest Parahuman villains in this city could kill him. Killshot needed to get fucked. As soon as possible.

"Slipstick?"

Slip raised his head to find a fidgeting civilian. A girl of about his age, holding a phone. Brunette with shoulder-length hair, kinda cute. "Yeah?" Slip croaked. Damn, he hadn't quite gotten his voice back yet, and his heart was only now starting to calm down.

"Are you - are you alright?" she asked, concerned.

Slipstick couldn't smile to her and have her see it, so he had to improvise; thankfully, Fox had already thought of this problem, having had it himself, and appropriately, gave Slip drama lessons as well. He puffed out his chest to comical proportions, hands on hips, and stuck out his arm straight. The girl flinched slightly, but then relaxed as Slip's thumb went up like a spring-loaded mechanism, to complete an, all in all, fairly goofy thumbs-up pose.

"I'm perfectly alright, citizen! Thankfully the armor helped," he said, returning to a more normal voice. "Your concern is appreciated, though. Thanks for checking on me."

She blushed slightly. "It's, uh, it's not a problem." Then she fidgeted some more. "Can I have your picture?" she blurted.

Slipstick laughed. Look, mum, he was famous! "Of course, citizen. Say cheese!" A bit wasted due to his helmet, but he gave a thumbs up while the girl beamed into her camera and they snapped a selfie together. "Now you stay safe, okay? I need to go back to the scene… villain's minions they might be, but I can't just let them die."

Slip ran off, but he did catch her mutter something under her breath, that sounded like 'sure you can.' He chose to ignore that.

Police had already arrived on the scene, as had Steadfast. One of the members of the Canberra Heat Parahuman Team. Slipstick got the impression that Steadfast didn't particularly like him. Ah, well, can't win everyone over, he supposed, but he still wished it was maybe Alloy or Blink or even socially awkward Phantasm. He needed to report to the police what had happened, make sure he didn't get sued for anything.

"Hello, officers. Hello, Steadfast," he said politely.

"Slipstick," Steadfast grunted. "What happened?"

"Found Killshot, loitering. I walked up to them, and they told me to fuck off, and I said no," Slipstick recited. "I thought he was going to slink away after a brief confrontation as usual, but once I'd disabled his thugs, he shot a freaking car at me. That hatchback, there. He was genuinely trying to kill me this time, and he wasn't worried about hurting others when he did it."

Steadfast glared at him through her reflective domino mask. "You must have finally goaded him into this. Congratulations, Slipstick."

"Now hold up, how the hell is it my fault-"

"Miss Steadfast, I have to agree that you're being harsh on Slipstick," one of the officers said. "It's not his fault that Killshot chose to be a villain."

Steadfast scowled at the officer, but said nothing. Slip sighed. This hadn't been a good night. He only had one thing left in his mind, though.

Killshot was willing and able to cause a lot of death and destruction. He needed to go.