3

I feel warmth on my chest, and the world shivers around me, faster than before. For a moment I sway on my feet, feeling giddy, although whether that's from the strain of using the gem or from the adrenaline I'm running on is up for debate.

As the universe slows, I shift my stance and settle into my new shape and strength. Because boy-howdy, do I feel strong. I mean, I'm no Wrecking Ball, but I'm starting to get the feeling that maybe I've been underselling myself all these years.

The Wheel assholes think I've got some sort of awesome prophetic power, ripe for the exploiting. But I don't. Now that I can switch on purpose, I'm realizing that my super power isn't just about switching my sex. It means I now have either super speed or super strength. I know, I know—big duh. But think of it like this: imagine that you've had an extra pair of arms that look perfectly useable, but you can't because they've been numb and limp for as long as you can remember. Sometimes they twitch and tingle, but for the most part, dead weight, right? And so you stop thinking much about them beyond how bad they look in that otherwise sexy shirt, or how they get in the way when you go in for a hug.

Then, one day, they suddenly come to life. You go from two good arms and two lumps that get in the way, to four arms that you can do exactly what you want with. Give a loved one an extra big bear hug? Hell, yes. Carry all the groceries? No fucking problem. Save a kid from falling into the canal while trying to wrangle two others? You got it. Need to catch that fish about to wiggle free of your two-handed net? Bam, nabbed.

For the longest time, after trying and failing to control it, I was convinced my switching was about as useful as an extra pair of dead arms. All I wanted was to have normal body, live a normal life, maybe get a nice, normal job someplace off-planet.

But now I've got twice as many arms that work. I've got myself a taste of something different, and I think I might like it.

At least that's what I’m thinking up until the roof access door slams open.

I wish I could say I danced circles around the Assholes in Black. I wish I could say I threw hands with the enemy and came out on top. But reality is a bitch. What I actually do is make a small noise of terror as the door flies open. I don't even wait and see who it is. I dive off the rooftop, and in the nick of time, too. I swear I feel the breeze of a bullet as it passes by. My landing is graceless, despite my best efforts to tuck and tumble like Mechanika taught me, and it hurts. I may be super-strong, but a fall from the roof is still a fall from the roof.

Someone above me yells, "Idiot! Don't kill the target!"

Wait, how do they even know I'm the target? I stagger up from where I've sprawled on the boardwalk, trying to catch my breath and wishing I'd aimed for the canal water. I take comfort in the sudden panicked shouting and zappy noises above that tell me the A. I. B. will be too busy fighting Mechanika’s mysterious security system to follow me down. Then someone grabs me by the arm. Seeing the familiar dark uniform, I react on pure instinct, yanking free and using the momentum to fling a lucky punch. It connects with someone's face with an unpleasant crunch. They go down.

I don't get much time to digest my first act of violence. I hear more shouts--hell, I can see the jerks as they turn towards me. I suck in a breath—the now familiar spinning lurch as I switch—and take off running.

In this body, I become a speedster. I'm nowhere near fast enough to stop time or anything flashy like that, but I can still go pretty damn fast. According to Mechnika's readings, I'm easily faster than a magtrain if I go all out—which is very different from my E-class rating back in high school.

(I have to tell you, I hurt so bad after Mechanika's curiosity-fueled run test that I vowed never to run like that again, at least not without proper protection and conditioning. I don't know why no one ever talks about the chafing. One word: ow.)

So yeah, I'm not the strongest super, but I guess I'm strong enough. And I'm not the fastest super, but I'm fast enough. I easily leave the A. I. B. behind with a somewhat hysterical laugh, really dizzy now. I manage to keep my balance as I sprint around the old warehouse next to the doughnut shop, and nearly get blasted when I startle Mechanika, finishing off some A. I. B. of her own. Her work is strictly nonlethal, thankfully, and even more thankfully, her reflexes are top notch. The sizzling blue beam from her palm misses me by a a couple millimeters. She’s on me while I'm still blinking the light from my eyes, yanking me down behind a large trash compactor.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

I wrinkle my nose. "I don't know if you've noticed the uniformed gunners swarming the place, but I certainly—"

She cuts me off. "You need to go, now."

Full of something reckless and eager, I shake my head with vehemence. "Fuck that! I'm not going to leave you two to get shot to pieces for my sake. Besides—and maybe this is crazy—but I think Carrion Crow was trying to tell us something."

Mechanika glares at me through her visor, matching the expression of the big cat on her helm. I have to say, the cyan-blue, glowy effect over her piercing eyes is pretty intimidating.

"What the fuck are you trying to be a hero for?" she snaps. "You're not a real vigilante, Pax. You might be enjoying your power trip, but your newbie ass is not bullet proof."

"First of all, they're not trying to kill me," I snap right back, clinging to my newfound bravery, "they're trying to kill you. Second of all, I think they already know who I am. I heard one of them call me the target."

I guess I manage to score a point or two, because her eyes go wide, and her mouth pauses mid-invective.

What I like about Mechanika is that she is a pragmatic sort of person. She wastes about a nanosecond wondering how they found me so fast, before she returns to our more immediate problems with a muttered, "Shit."

She jerks her head across the canal. "Okay, fine. You go see what Mister Murder wants, carefully, and I'll follow in a minute. I dunno how they're tracking you, but we need to find out. At least some of the asswipes still think Pops has you in tow. We'll take advantage of that. Take this."

She presses a heavy ovoid object into my hand, which I'm shocked to recognize is a personal portal. These things are so expensive, I've never even touched one before now. I open my mouth to protest, but she talks right over me.

"Don't be a fuckin' hero. Use it if you have to."

Then, with one last glare, she zips off in a streak of blue and gold, to deliver some more nonlethal yet highly painful diversionary justice. Shouts and gunfire follow her trajectory, leaving me free to sneak away.

I heave a shaky breath. What am I thinking, going face to face with a well-known, dangerous killer? I clip the porter onto my belt. On the other side, I've still got the cloaking spell. I tap its center to activate it, and a familiar, watery filter slides around me. I have to remember that it doesn't make me invisible, not by a long shot, but in the plentiful shadows it should be enough to keep me from being noticed, as long as I don't do anything stupid, or noisy.

It takes only moments to dash over the canal via the high, curving footbridge. Even in a rundown area like this, the footbridges are beautiful spun-sugar bits of architecture that really are one of the defining sights of Emerald, as plentiful as street lights or park benches in other ecumenopolises. A few more seconds pass as I reach the warehouse, then up to the roof via the fire escape. My footsteps vibrate on the steps with more noise than I'd like, but the sounds of guns and fighting seem to cover what sounds I'm making. At the top, I nearly run into a Wheelie haunting the shadows by the access door. I freeze, clinging to the railing, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. In fact, he chooses that moment to check a device in his pocket, some sort of antique pager or something. I breathe out in relief and scoot away from him while he's distracted.

There are so many of the assholes up here, I wonder briefly if maybe I've read Carrion Crow's theatrical gesturing wrong. Maybe he's in league with the other side after all. Then I see him actually mooning one of the bad guys. Said bad guy makes a noise of disgust and smacks the magic bubble, none too gently. The device rocks and the mercenary falls over, trousers caught around his knees.

Okay, so he's probably not with them, going by the way they're circling the containment bubble like nervous dogs, weapons at the ready. I guess that's good. Your enemy is my enemy, right?

But do I really want to ally myself with someone who apparently thinks that mooning armed terrorists is funny? I must be nuts.

Moving in cautious sprints through the shadows, I lurk doubtfully on the rooftop, wishing the A. I. B. would get lured out by the awesome spectacle of violence playing out on the street and in the air, but no dice. They're too well-trained—or maybe they're not keen on getting their faces burnt off by mage fire, or their spines rearranged by an avenging knight in gold. I mean, good call, guys. I wouldn't try taking them on either.

Time for plan B, if I had one. I take stock of the things on my utility belt, looking for inspiration. Mini flares; emergency rations (dubious little tablets that look barely worth a mouthful, but the Red Lion swears by them); some wire; a handy little multitool; the cloaker of course; first-aid kit—

I'm so engrossed, I don't notice the guy with the pager thing from earlier creeping up on me until it's too late. Next thing I know, I'm sprawled next to Carrion Crow's prison, head spinning. There's a throbbing in my skull that tells me I became, for a brief, star-bursting  moment, very well-aquainted with the butt of someone's rifle.

Now that I'm out in the open, the cloaker is completely useless, merely blurring my features and making me sound funny. The guy who took me out wastes no time in securing my hands behind my back. He reeks of ash and unwashed pits, and worse: copious amounts of cheap cologne used in what I assume was an attempt to drown out his unfortunate personal smell. I gag and try to kick him, but he dances nimbly out of the way and throws me a contemptuous grin.

"Got 'im, sir. Think he's the real one," the guy says into his earpiece. He pauses, murmurs, "Understood," and nods to a subordinate.

"Tell the men to clean up those supers. No holding back. We got what we came for, and we're moving in five."

I struggle against my bonds, feeling panic mount. I fight it down to check my profile. Not only is it for Switch, small time vigilante, but under triple block security, and as far as I can tell, untampered with. So how the fuck did they know so quickly? How did Stink-Ass pounce on me so fast? I was so sure no one saw me—

The subordinate salutes and barks out the orders into their earpiece as the rest of the goons form up at the edges of the roof. I don't know why Nasty-Breath didn't just tell the order himself on his own earpiece. A tapping noise rouses me from my disgust.

"Hey, you're Pax Warkin, aren't you?" Carrion Crow asks in a stage whisper, weirdly muffled by the containment bubble.

Great, even the infamous mercenary knows who I am. I squint balefully despite my fear, though I'm not sure the expression is conveyed through both my mask and the cloaking veil. My head throbs.

"No," I say.

"What kinda name is that, anyway? Pax. I gotta admit, it's nice 'n' snappy to say—Pax—but it sounds kinda crunchy granola. Doesn't it mean peace or something? And War-kin, really? Peace and war? War and peace? What were your parents thinking?"

Despite the black cowl and blood-red bird mask hiding his features, I get the impression that Carrion Crow is grinning at me. My stomach does a flip-flopping motion when I notice several fresh bullet holes riddling his body, glinting wetly in the containment bubble's light. He seems all right (I guess the feeds weren't exaggerating his regenerative abilities), but there's definitely blood still flecking the bubble walls. Gah. Whatever that reckless something I had earlier was, it fizzles right out. I am definitely not cut out for this vigilante business. Then the merc winks at me, and I swear he flexes a bit.

"You checkin' me out? Not that I'm not flattered or anything, but now is really not the time for romance."

I frown. I appreciate the confusing reprieve from my bone-biting fear, but what the hell is with this guy? I know Carrion Crow has a reputation for being... weird, but he's nothing like how I imagined he'd be.

"I wasn't checking you out, man. You've got bullet holes all over you."

He waves that away, as if he shoots himself on the daily, no big deal. "The name's Carrion Crow, at your service." He pauses. "Wow, that's actually literally true. I'm here to rescue you."

"Uh." I do a nice, slow blink as my overworked neurons attempt to compute this statement. They fail. "What?"

"Rescue?" He says it slowy. "From your kidnappers? Not these army rejects, they'd never succeed in a million years. All that firepower? They're compensating, believe you me."

I wait for more, because I seriously don't know what's going on anymore. But he starts talking about all the people he's known who've used big weapons to make up for tiny... personalities, shall we say, so I interrupt him. "Wait—just—you're supposed to be rescuing me?"

I am astounded. Utterly mystified and bamboozled. Who cares enough about me to pay Carrion Crow prices?

"Uh, yeah." He seems to notice my bafflement. "From—okay, do you have like a processing disability or something? I'm supposed to save you from the clutches of the wizard and his magic robo-chick."

He waves his hand upward, just as a massive fireworks display of a lion charges through the Wheelies on the roof, knocking several off and giving nice crispy edges to the rest. I yelp in reflex and curl up, but the flames, while frickin' hot, are not enough to actually burn me. Still, it hurts, and I can smell singed hair.

"Those aren't my kidnappers!" I scream over the general ruckus. "They're the ones who rescued me in the first place! And they're probably working on rescuing me. Again. Once they realize I'm here."

With that, I thump my head against the roofing. I am an idiot. I should have done what Mechanika wanted and gone to Mama Mia's. Instead, I tried to be a hero and got myself trussed up like a holiday turkey in under five minutes, with no way to tell my friends what’s become of me. A real asset to the team, that’s me. It’s like high school basketball all over again.

"Oh, no you don't," says Carrion Crow. "I'm supposed to be doing the rescuing this time around. It's—it's my life mission! That sounds pretty good. Life mission! Kickin' ass and saving the princess."

I start to say, "I'm not a princess, contrary to my physical presentation," just to have something to focus on other than my abject failure, but there's no point. Carrion Crow is clearly no longer listening. Still talking to himself, he rattles around in his bubble, jolting it a little. The magic's probably going to run out soon, but I'm not sure that I'll be around to see it. There are a lot of well-armed fighters, and only two mages. Then again, I remind myself, those two mages are elite long-time vigilantes, who've gone up against the Wheel before, plenty of times. They eat Wheelies like these for breakfast, and go back for seconds. Right?

By the sounds of pain and the zipping cyan glow, Mechanika has advanced to halfway up the building. I can see the Red Lion floating above like a huge red-and-gold target, flinging fireballs and flaming lions at his enemies while bullets shower him. He is unflinching, awe-inspiring. He's doing great, he could do this all day—

My heart plummets as the mage wobbles a bit. There’s something wet and red darkening his bright blue sleeve, and I realize he’s hurt. I feel sick. The man who makes the best waffles known to humanity is bleeding in the air, and he's still fighting. Illusion-me is no longer looking so animated, clinging woodenly to his back like a cardboard cutout. His magical shield has been worn down to the merest soap bubble under the barrage of gunfire—and how is the military not being called in on these shenanigans? It's like a fuckin' warzone, where's our backup? Where's ECHO?

I start to feel angry. Am I really just going to lay here like meat on a platter, while my friends fight and bleed? Is this the thanks they get for putting everything on the line for worthless, idiot me?

At that moment, Mechanika roars up the side of the building, several people on jetpacks following close behind. Her golden armor draws more fire from the rest of the Wheel on the rooftop, and I remember again what the guy told his subordinates: Clean up those supers. No holding back. How much more can my friends take before they exhaust themselves? Their psycho-magic abilities are incredible, but not limitless.

A desperate idea begins to form in my brain. Mechanika and the Red Lion have always opted for life over death. Maybe, I think to myself, maybe something deadlier is called for. I happen to have one of the deadliest things in human form trapped in a bubble next to me. I glance at Carrion Crow, hardly believing that I'm actually thinking about freeing an incredibly dangerous criminal. Among many other points against this plan, he could be lying about being hired to rescue me. But then I look up at the Red Lion, swooping gamely through the night air as the enemy shoots with impunity. My only other option is to activate the porter and run away, leaving my friends to die, and there is no way in hell I'm doing that. Their lives are each worth ten of mine, at least.

If I can just get free, while the Wheelies watching over us are distracted by the mages...

Ignoring my worsening vertigo and queasy stomach, I switch into male form and pull against my restraints as hard as I can, until sweat beads my skin and I feel like my bones are going to break. I think—I hope—they give a little. I jerk my arms, grunting with pain when the loops bite into my skin, but dammit they don't break! Whatever they're made of, they're stronger than me. Doing my best to steady my breath, I switch again, my head buzzing, into female form. Carrion Crow makes some unintelligible noises, but I ignore him in favor of trying to wriggle my now-slimmer wrists out of the barely loosened bands. After a few different tries in rapid succession, during which I try not to panic, I manage a combo twist and scrape, panting with effort. The tough material finally slides over my knuckles, taking a nice large sample of my skin with it.

But there's no time nurse my bleeding knuckles. I crawl closer to the side of the cage, where magic bubble meets magic artifact. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I've seen Mechanika fiddle with devices plenty of times, tapping this rune and that. How hard can it be?

It's pretty tough, actually, when the guy who sapped you earlier notices what you're doing and literally pounces on your back like some goddamned ugly tiger. The breath whooshes out of me, along with every bit of self-defense I learned the past week. I'm down to instinct—hitting and clawing and kicking, riding the wave of my panic. If he had any hair to pull, you can bet your ass I'd be pulling it.

He grunts in pain and surprise as I wiggle faster than he probably expects—then my brain finally clicks back on and I switch. Using my now superior strength and increased reach, I buck the bastard off of me. He flips over my head in a satisfying fashion and falls into the cage. The cage, in turn, falls on its side. Carrion Crow says things that would humble even Mechanika on a bad day. The blue bubble develops cracks, but holds. Fuck.

I lunge for the side panel, jabbing the runes for all I'm worth while McNasty recovers. Glowing lights flicker on and off, which I guess must mean something, but there's no helpful tooltip to explain. I'm interrupted again by Eau de Puke and we fall to the ground, wrestling.

Just my luck that he seems to be a super as well, because I can't break out of his grip like I expect. He's clearly a lot stronger than your average bear. He's not as strong as me, as far as I can tell, but he's a hell of a lot better trained. His fist leaves an imprint on the side of my head and I taste copper stars. His other fist does the same on the opposite side, just to even me out. How considerate of him. He's learned from last time—I can't get enough leverage to buck him off. I curl, dizzy and half blind, to try and protect my tender bits. Things go a little dark around the edges, but I manage to remember some training and block several blows, even get a few of my own in. I feel a grim sort of satisfaction as a wayward strike of my fist knocks a spray of blood from his face, just like in the movies.

Satisfaction is short-lived. He grabs me by the front of my suit, just above the focus gem, and hauls me up like a gaffed fish. I try to knee him, and miss. But I quickly discover that I'm a lot taller than he is. He can't hold me up high enough, fast enough, to prevent me from stomping on his foot to great effect. His bones pulverize under my heel. Howling, he lets me go. I drop heavily to the ground, the world spinning like a demented merry-go-round. Is it because of the fists to the head, or the switching? For a long moment, all I can think about is brain damage, which makes me laugh for some reason. McNasty is still yelling, so I hit him in the head in hopes of knocking him out before he tells someone through his earpiece to bail him out. I have no idea how hard you have to hit someone to make sure they lose consciousness. It takes me two tries, because the first time I have a horrific vision of his head crumpling like Mechanika's chest plate, and hold back too much. I feel sick, and I'm not laughing anymore. But at least the guy is down.

"Boy, and I thought I was crazy," says a vaguely familiar voice, though it sounds weird, choked.

I crane my pulsing head to see Carrion Crow writhing in his bubble. He's gasping, choking, his entire body straining for air. I scramble to the side panel. The red lights are still flashing.

I guess those lights have something to do with air supply. Oops. As I start stabbing at runes again, I hope the rumors are true, that Carrion Crow is such a regenerative marvel that he literally can't die. Just as I think that, the cage snaps open and the glowing jump chess board refolds into a polyhedron of indeterminate number of sides. The mercenary lolls for a bit, simply inhaling.

"Fuck—that—shit," he says eventually. "Why—has it—always—gotta—be—fuckin'—breathplay—ohshit—"

I don't even register what he's saying until later, because in a moment of strange, gut-deep clarity, I know there's something large and heavy behind me, coming in for a rough landing. I am just fast enough to grab Carrion Crow and fling both him and myself behind a fan unit a split second before the roof shakes in a big golden explosion, right where we'd been sitting. My ears still ringing, I look over the fan unit. My heart plummets as I take in the golden shape half-wedged into the roofing.

It's Mechanika, and she's not moving.

***