October 13th, 2014

  Timber Hollow, United States

  The Old Blood wasn’t a gang. I called them that, but it just wasn’t true. It was an easy word to use, sure, but not the right one. Between them and a gang, it wasn’t even close.

  Not in their organization, their intelligence, or even how they operated. They didn’t peddle drugs or warm bodies, didn’t mug people who looked at them the wrong way. They acted more like a pseudo-government, a style that had them ruling Old Town with an iron fist wrapped in velvet.

  Instead of taxes, they racketeered, and the businesses they extorted from hung their banner from the windows with pride. Instead of cops, they had guys in bck and gold patrolling the streets. They didn’t need official capes, either–they had their own.

  Because they were the uncontested owners of Old Town, and they didn’t need to rule with blood–at least, not anymore. It wasn’t out of benevolence. It was born from overwhelming might. A might so absolute that the cops didn’t even show up anymore. No bribes required. There was no need to puff themselves up like a normal gang, to remind everyone of the rules, because, when you owned the streets to their level, your rules were w.

  Not that it was always like this. And I wasn’t saying they were perfect or even good. There was a time when the Old Blood was still carving their name into Old Town, and they built their empire on death and violence just like everybody else. They were still criminals. Their capes were still vilins. It was just that, unlike other crooks, when they crapped, they covered it in gold. And they covered it so well that the people in Old Town seemed perfectly content with their rule. But I knew they didn’t rule through love. I knew that under that velvet, they ruled with an iron fist soaked in old blood. A bit ironic, really.

  These days, I didn’t know what they did behind the scenes to keep their rule, but I knew the man who ran it all was still the same. You had to be, to be a vilin still kicking it after decades in Timber Hollow. And now, I was sitting in front of that man and asking for a job.

  The office was vish but not gaudy, with the only other person in the room being Lady Nyx who stood guard at the door. Outside that door was a hallway, filled with at least a dozen wispy, statue-still soldiers who would flood the room at an errant thought. Beyond the hallway, I had no idea. I had been brought here by serial teleportation with a blindfold on my head and my phone forcefully powered off.

  Now, I was in a plushy chair that I could practically melt into, but I didn’t feel the slightest bit comfortable. Because in front of me, sitting behind a stately desk, was a man who held my fate in his palm, and he was too busy doing paperwork to even look my way.

  When I first got my powers, I fantasized a lot about meeting the big names of the cape world. My daydreams were filled with monologues and me kicking their butts or them telling me how awesome I was–unrealistic stuff like that. None of them included this. Even in my more grounded imaginings, I never thought I’d be ignored so btantly. You just didn’t do that to capes. But Magistrate did.

  He looked just like the photos I saw of him on the internet, and yet an image on a screen couldn’t convey even a fraction of the presence I was feeling right now. It wasn’t the feeling of animalistic brutality that other vilins gave out, like they could snap at any time and kill you with ease. It was calmer than that, but no less frightening. It felt more like I was insignificant–not in a condescending way, more like a fact one just had to accept.

  This wasn’t just a guy in a costume pying dress-up. This was a real vilin, even if he didn't have a mustache to twirl. His attire was a blend of nobility and intimidation–a bck military-style coat trimmed with gold that showed off his broad physique. On his face was a white half-mask that covered him from the nose up to his hair, leaving his thick but well-groomed beard on dispy. He was sitting down now and leaning over his desk, but I could tell with a gnce that he was tall. Tall enough that if he stood up, he’d make me feel as short as I did with Hoplite.

  And that was another reason why I had to dig my heel into the ground to stop my leg from shaking, why I felt as insignificant as I did. The physique of most morphs told you a bit about their powers. If they were big ripped with muscle, they were probably a brute–the ones that could eat a bullet and spit it out. Other capes didn’t tend to look like that. It was just how powers worked. When you could fire sers from your hands or make someone punch themselves with a thought, what good were your fists?

  Magistrate’s power was of the tter category, the kind where one didn’t need to be strong to be powerful. His power was simple. He could create an indefinite amount of projections, just like the one who held a spear to my throat that night on the roof, just like the ones lining the hallway. He could be in a wheelchair with no arms and still kill an entire city block.

  But, being in front of him, actually seeing him in person, it felt like he didn’t need it. It felt like, even without his powers, he could leap over the desk and beat me to death with just his gloved hands.

  I hated it.

  “So,” a voice, deep and just as cultured as it was in the videos, abruptly spoke, making me nearly jump out of my seat. “Why are you here?”

  “I, uh,” I floundered at the simple question. “I wish to join your, uh, organization.” My fists clenched on my legs–I didn’t know why I was stuttering so much.

  Magistrate didn’t respond, and after a few moments of cloying silence, Lady Nyx’s words fshed in my mind. “If my hair’s a problem I can just cover it up or something, it’s really not an issue for me-”

  Magistrate held out a hand, stopping my rambling.

  “Your hair is not an issue,” he said, gncing at Lady Nyx behind me. I didn’t know if her hate of certain hair was a recurring issue, or if he somehow knew about our conversation from earlier. “I want to know why you are here.”

  “I want to join your organization,” I answered, confused. “That's all.”

  “I have repeated myself once, already,” Magistrate stated, his tone stern and colored with annoyance. “Do not make me do it a second time.”

  “...did Lady Nyx tell you about my situation?” I asked after a few moments. Magistrate stared bnkly at me, not confirming or denying my question. Guess he was making me repeat myself. “Hoplite threatened me, tried to make me go undercover for the Hardliners. I, uh, obviously didn’t want to do that. So I lied, told him I would. He let me go, now I’m here.”

  “I see.” Magistrate nodded, seeming to accept my words.

  “How old are you?”

  “I, uh…”

  “There’s no need to answer. It was rhetorical.” He leaned back and steepled his hands together. “You’re young, I can tell. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen at the oldest.” His guess was scarily accurate. “I’d wager you’ve never even broken a serious w–you just don’t have the look. So why are you here, turning to a life of crime at the first opportunity? The Youthguard would take you in a heartbeat.”

  The Youthguard was the underage branch of the Morhpguard, the only government-sanctioned (and run) group of morphogens to act as heroes. For a lot of kids, they were who they wanted to be when they grew up, more renowned than any normal celebrity in the world. The Morphguard had their own action figures, shows, merchandise, even movies made about them. The only problem was Hoplite was one of them.

  “I already told you,” I said, brows furrowed under my mask, “Hoplite threatened me. I can’t join the Youthguard.”

  “Can’t you?” He asked, head tilted slightly. “Perhaps you don’t know, but Hoplite has been on the fringe with his overseers for quite some time. They’ve been looking for a reason to kick him out for years. Your case is a prime one.”

  I…didn’t know that. It would expin why he got moved to Timber Hollow, though.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. Is he trying to get me to leave?

  “Simple. Those who join out of fear have no reason to stay when that fear is gone. Had you learned of this ter, that fear would be gone when I actually trusted you.” He paused, chuckling lightly with a small smile. “But, more importantly, I told you because it doesn’t really matter. You’d have joined the Youthgaurd the day you got your powers had you wanted to. All it would have taken is a phone call and your name on a dotted line. And yet, you didn’t, which means you never were.”

  “I…” I didn’t have an answer. Not a made-up one, at least. It wasn’t a question I expected to hear, and one I never really answered. Not to myself, and not to anyone else. Not fully, at least, because joining, actually joining the Youthguard, just wasn’t something that I ever really considered.

  I should have, logically speaking. It was the objectively best route I could’ve gone with my powers. It was the only way I could be a cape with my Mom and have her accept it, even if she didn’t like it. They paid you, too–a clean sary I wouldn’t have to struggle to expin. They protected your identity, too, far more than any normal cape would get. It was the best option. The most benefits. The most resources. The most safe.

  “...the Youthguard doesn’t do anything,” I said, unable to keep the contempt out of my voice as I stared a hole into the floor. “They’re just for show–props that look good and sign autographs to distract you from how less than useless they are. You know the st time a Youthguard was caught doing their job in Timber Hollow? Because I do. Eight months ago Sky Hi stopped an arms deal near downtown. She got a cp on the back, right? Wrong.” I chuckled without humor, the sound more bitter than I thought it would be. “There wasn’t even another cape–just goons. But Sky Hi’s not completely immune to lead, so it was ‘risky and irresponsible.’ I don’t want that.” My fists clenched at the thought. “I’m a cape now. A morphogen. I could kill someone with a flick if I wanted to. I don’t want to stay being some loser. I want to matter, to take matters into my own hands without some bureaucrat telling me I’m not authorized to do it.”

  Silence pervaded the office, and it was only then I realized how much I had ranted. I had said too much, let things authentic slip out. I lost control, all over something as stupid as a question.

  “Sorry, I-”

  A cp. Then another. Another one, faster, and then some more.

  I looked up, seeing Magistrate bringing his gloved hands together in a slow but not mocking appuse.

  “Bravo,” he said, smiling widely. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect such passion. You didn’t strike me as the type.” He stood up, smoothing down the nonexistent wrinkles of his coat as he did. “But such passion is expected for any who wish to join my organization.” He put his arm out, palm facing upward and reaching across the desk. “Stand up and take my hand, and I will grant you the opportunity you seek. A chance to prove yourself not just worthy of joining me, but worthy of the lofty ideals you have given yourself.”

  On legs that refused to stop shaking, I stood up, going from the waist level of Magistrate to his chest.

  “You are a child no longer. You lost that comfort when you chose to use the powers given to you. You’re a man now, and under me, I will help you show the world what you can do.”

  More than ever, I was gd I chose a full-face mask. I didn’t know what my expression looked like under it, but I was sure it wasn’t the disgusted, unfazed look it should be.

  “I…”

  Tentatively, and after a few aborted attempts, I raised my arm.

  “Alright.”

  It felt like my hand was wrapped in stone, but more than that, at that moment, I realized it might have been the first time I’d shaken another's hand.