Marked Target ~ Chapter Six ~ by: Danielle Krieger (c) 2011 Lawrence "Lex" McKinley lives about as average a life as one can with metahumans popping up everywhere. Well, as normal as someone who spends their free time as an MMA fighter really can. He's about to get the shock of his life--the punch he never saw coming. In this installment: The time is at hand. How will she handle the return of her captors? Lex falls into a bit of despair following the encounter with Julia. There is only one option on the table for making discoveries: moving to San Francisco. Lex falls in with some otherwise unlikely compatriots.

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DISCLAIMER :: This is a retroactive continuity. A “ret-con”, if you will. It follows other stories in Lilith Langtree’s “Comics RetCon Universe”. The story is mine, but some of the characters are not. This is a RetCon of X-23, from Marvel Comics’ X-men (with a special guest appearance from Dr. Hank McCoy). Laura Kinney, X-23, and Dr. Henry Philip “Hank” McCoy, Beast, are trademarks of Marvel Comics. All rights reserved. The pic, this time, has been brought to you, once again, by the amazingly talented Danni Shinya Luo (except she put the claws in the wrong place).

WARNING :: The following contains depictions of graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Author's Note :: I'd like to thank all the readers up to this point, first and foremost. You guys are my bread and butter. Thanks are also well-deserved for EnemyOfFun for beta-reading and allowing me to have guest stars to make the world feel more living and dynamic. Last, but certainly not least, I'd like to thank Lilith for allowing me to play in this lovely little sandbox and for putting up with my occasional neuroticism. Hope you all have as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

OH! Bonus points and a chance to beta read Chapter Seven to whomever can cite my obscure reference! xD

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Chapter Six:

The door seemed to fly open. Steven shrieked so loud that it seemed he would suffer a heart attack. Through the fog of tears rolling down my face, I stormed into the living room. One look at me and Steven forgot that I’d interrupted the good kiss scene in Brokeback Mountain. Ignoring him, the drawers containing my things flew open one after another. Clothes found themselves roughly stuffed into the duffel bag Rachel had given me what seemed like eons ago. Every so often, a sob would escape my lips, but I wasn’t paying that much attention.

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Steven inquired softly.

I forced another pair of jeans into the bag and grabbed a handful of panties before forcefully shoving them in, too. “She wouldn’t listen! She blew me off like I was nothing to her!”

“I find it hard to believe she’d ever be that cold-hearted.”

Immediately halting, I turned and he saw the immense pain in my expression. “So did I!” Another sob and a river started falling from my eyes. “You should have seen it, Steven. She looked right through me… like I wasn’t even there, but I was this little invader with boobs she couldn’t stand. A stab through the heart with a spoon wouldn’t hurt this bad!”

My legs gave out and I fell into his arms. Without hesitation, he wrapped them around me and I sobbed loudly into his chest. The emotional wound bled freely. The last time I could ever remember crying like that was when my dog had been run over by a car, spent three days with the vet, and then succumbed to his injuries. At my father’s protest and my mother’s behest, we buried him in the back yard. The crying didn’t stop for days. I was six years old, then.

The sobs slowed, but showed no signs of stopping. I pulled away from Steven and the bag continued to get packed. I still don’t know how I got everything to fit in that moment of disorganization, but it did.

“Where are you going to go?” Steven finally questioned me.

“I don’t know that. I just know that I can’t stay here, anymore. There are madmen chasing me and it will put the two of you in danger. I don’t think I could live with myself if something bad happened to you or Mike.” Another sob. “The only thing keeping me here was the hope of finding Julia. Well, I found her and she doesn’t want me.” The flow came on harder again. “My whole life is in shambles, Steven. My body isn’t really my own, there are abilities I know nothing about, I’ve lost the job that I loved, and, worst of all, the love of my life wants nothing to do with me. I have to find answers and a way to fix all this to put it all right again.”

“San Francisco?”

My only response was a nod. My eyes met his. “I love you guys. Mike, you, Rachel… would you tell them for me?” He nodded. “I have to do this for myself, Steven. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you guys again.”

“I understand.” He really didn’t, but he was being kind.

With a quick breath and another river of tears, I stormed toward the door of the apartment once more, slipping on my coat as I made my way out. He didn’t move to stop me.

Rain. It always seems to happen when you feel at your worst. Granted, this part of the country is a temperate rainforest, so it rains nine months out of the year. Regardless, I wish it weren’t raining, right now. It only served to add insult to my injuries. It was cold. As the rain beat down on me, it was even colder. It’s a strange sensation to have a warm river of tears mix with cold rain.

My feet patted the pavement in rhythmic fashion as I moved swiftly through the urban jungle. Tonight, I didn’t feel like taking a bus downtown. The walk was much needed, but I could have done without the rain. Would you believe that even if you live in Seattle you sometimes don’t expect it to rain? This was my problem. I didn’t expect the rain, so I didn’t prepare for it. My umbrella was probably still sitting by the door at Mike and Steven’s apartment. There was no way I was going back now and potentially placing them in grave danger.

Many questions without answers percolated in my mind as my body moved aimlessly through the city. It wasn’t an incredibly long walk, just a mile or so, to the Greyhound station. Crossing the bridge on Pike Street, I took a moment to glance down at the travelers on Interstate 5 for a moment. They were like little bees that went about their daily routine without so much as a care in the world. None of them had to worry about people following them to either imprison or kill them. Very few of them would probably ever know what it feels like to have their lives snatched up from under their feet like a cheap throw rug. There was a very scarce possibility that one or two of them had to potential to experience a change like I had. More tears streamed down my face as I realized just how lonely my existence now was.

My pace resumed until I passed under the sky bridge at the Washington State Convention Center. They held big conventions every year, like Emerald City Comic Con, Sakura-Con, and Penny Arcade Expo (PAX). Now, the place was as dark and much more silent than the streets around it. Spotting a bench, I made a brash decision. My rear end impacted the cement, the tears flowed, and the sobs began. My face simply fell into my hands. The wound was bleeding again.

“Are you all right, miss?” The cool, calm, deep male voice startled me.

Immediately, the wound stopped bleeding. My eyes darted up to meet the speaker. He was taller than even I was, once. He was fairly broad, too. His clothing was all black from his boots to his overcoat. Deceptively, his hair was dark but styled in an average fashion. Only half a smile graced his face. He almost appeared to be an off-duty police officer. Driven by impulse, my body rose to its feet. Then, the wind direction changed.

Old Spice.

“Who… who are you?” I began to backpedal and would have gotten further were it not for the concrete bench behind me.

The half smile became a smirk. “Why, your transport back, of course. Daddy misses you.”

I violently shook my head. “Not gonna happen!”

Turning quickly, I broke into full run away from him. They were not going to take me again. Reaching the end of the street, I turned to the right and found myself beneath the convention floor. Save for the small rivers of water flowing toward the storm drains, the ground was as dry as it possibly could be. The heart in my chest was beating frantically and the sound of my boots hitting the concrete echoed all around me. At the other end of this little tunnel, four men fanned out from either side and closed in the center, evenly spaced across the street. They looked just like the guards that I had taken on during my escape, full helmets and everything. This time, they appeared to be carrying some kind of assault rifle.

Skidding against the concrete, I spun around and began to run the opposite direction back toward Pike Street. This was really getting ridiculous. At the other end of the tunnel, the man I had encountered stepped into the street, followed by two more guards. They had closed off all my exits. For a moment, I just stopped and stood there, glancing from one group to the other. It seemed a little odd that there was no traffic on the streets nearby. No one would be coming to the rescue. I was on my own.

“Now, Princess, you have two options.” The man’s voice echoed through the quasi tunnel. “You can come peacefully and quietly. Therefore, no one gets hurt. Either that or we can do this the hard way. The choice is entirely up to you.”

What was with these guys and their false pretense of choice? Either way, they were going to try to take me back to that place. There comes a time in everyone’s life where they make a decision that shapes the rest of their lives. Yes, I know that sounds like a movie quote and somewhat cliché. That doesn’t make it any less true.

“As far as you people are concerned, there is no choice!” I yelled back. “What do you want from me? You’ve taken everything! You’ve taken my job, my home, my life! You’ve even taken the woman I love! If it weren’t for you, none of this would have happened in the first place! I could have gone on with my life, totally oblivious to this meta gene and been perfectly fine! No nuisance to anyone! What could you possibly have to offer to make up for any of that?!”

“The chance to be a part of history, my dear.” Came his cold response. “Never in the history of the world have we had the knowledge, the technology, or so many manifestations to study this phenomenon. You think you’re the only one or the first in all of written history? For all we know, Heracles could have been a living, breathing man in ancient Greece, so could Achilles, Ulysses, Perseus, and even Joan of Arc could have been one of you freaks!”

“So, you want to make me some kind of twisted lab rat? I do not consent.”

He belted out a laugh. I guess Bad Horse was about to receive this guy’s application. “Do you really think we need your consent? Lawrence McKinley disappeared and was found dead in the Cascades six weeks later. You should have seen the funeral. It was rather pretty and elaborate. Julia cried right alongside your mother.”

The tears started flowing again. “You bastard!”

He ignored the insult and continued. “You, though, have no family, no identification, and no history. You, my dear, effectively don’t exist. We could do anything we want.”

Dispair suddenly disappeared and was quickly replaced by nothing but rage. Sliding the strap of the duffel bag off my shoulders and removing my coat, I set both down on the sidewalk then moved to the street. Watery eyes and tear-stained face, there was a determination that had bubbled up to the surface.

“You want me?” My glare met his figure. SNIKT! The blades emerged from my fists in unison. “Come and get me!”

He made one simple hand gesture and the six men sprang into action. In anticipation, I lowered myself into a ready stance that Shifu had shown me. It kept the blades at the ready at all times. The thunder of their boots echoing off the walls was in perfect time with my already rapid heartbeat. One of them fired two warning shots that whizzed by my ear, but I didn’t flinch. This was going to end here and now, whether they liked it or not.

The first was upon me and actually raised his foot to try and impact with my chest, trying to knock me over. Rookie move. I turned my left arm slightly and swiped at his leg. The blades impacted and sliced right through. There was a little resistance when they hit bone, but not much. His calf was now sliced in thirds as a piece fell away along with his foot. The follow through was a punch to the chest. The claws sank deep and passed through his flesh like nothing. When my fist impacted, it finally sent him backwards and the blade emerged from his form once more. He fell to the ground, coughing up blood and more pooling on his chest from the wound. They wanted deadly force? They got it.

Dropping back into my ready stance, I watched as the others stopped to quickly examine their fallen comrade. Behind me, four gunshots rang out and echoed in the tunnel. It would have really hurt my ears if I wasn’t already feeling pain elsewhere. Four projectiles bit into my flesh: two into the backs of my knees, one through my thigh, and a final one in my back. The last had an odd trajectory from my spine, through my liver, and out the front of my stomach. Screaming, I fell to my knees. I’d never been shot before, so there was quite a bit of shock. If it were anyone else, that would have been the end of it. I should have been dead. Instead, I was still breathing and the strangest sensation crossed over me. The wounds had started healing themselves.

Breathing came with a great deal of pain, though. As the wounds healed, the pain subsided. The whole time, none of the guards advanced on me. I assumed it was because they were watching in awe at the miraculous sight before them. Now, the element of surprise was on my side. There was one more guard in front of me. As I raised my eyes to him, he seemed to jerk back, stunned that I could accomplish such a feat. Taking my chance, I leapt to my feet. In one simple move of the taolu, the backs of the left claws impacted his weapon and I punched at his torso. There was resistance, but it wasn’t getting cut. So, the backs of the blades were dull? I could use that. On the other hand, the right claws sunk into the guard’s chest. Again, when my fist impacted, he fell backwards and I could hear him coughing and gagging. Blood began to pool at the site where my two claws had impacted. There wasn’t time to focus on that.

Spinning around brought the other four into view. Leaping into action once more, thinking quickly would be to my benefit. Running at the closest one, I quickly dropped into a frontal stance, deflected his assault rifle from me, and then struck three bladed blows to his chest in rapid succession. The other three responded by opening fire. I have no idea how many bullets hit me, but I felt the sting of each one. Letting out a scream, I was on the ground again, writhing in agony. I could hear their footfalls as they closed in around me. My eyes had closed, trying to focus. There were several holes in me. Again, miraculously, they began healing themselves even as the bullets had torn through my flesh. Seeing that it hurt too much to move, I took the time to calculate my next move.

There was no denying it: I was crazy and in way over my head. Here I was, some little teenage girl trying to take on six guards armed with assault rifles. In hindsight, it wasn’t the best idea ever to hatch from my brain. Even still, it was this or let them kill me. Immediately or eventually, I knew that basic fact to be true. If they recaptured me, they would likely dispose of me once I had outlived my usefulness. Today, it was them or me.

Opening my eyes again, two were positioned near my shoulders and one was near my feet. For a moment, I just lay there and let them examine me. In my head, a countdown went from five to one. Upon reaching zero, I pulled my legs to my chest and flipped them under me. I was standing again in a squat. Tensing the muscles in my legs, I sprang upwards. Using my left leg to begin the spin, I prepared my right leg. When I’d spun to the required revolution, I extended my right leg and pointed my feet. The single blade burst through my boot and sliced into the two guards’ throats. It didn’t go clean through, but it was enough that they wouldn’t be breathing in a minute. The blade retracted from whence it came as my feet impacted the ground again.

When I landed, I got a buttstock to the face. Rolling with the hit, my body went into a back handspring. First, my left leg lifted and impacted with the muzzle of the weapon. Then, my right foot hit the grip handle and knocked the weapon from the guard’s hand. Back on my feet, I hopped forward and sunk all four claws into his chest. The punch was powerful enough to knock him back several feet. I came up again, breathing heavily. The claws went away.

My eyes landed on the mystery man who had been arrogantly smoking a cigar the whole time. Now, he was clapping. “Very good. The kitty learned how to fight.”

“Do you always send others to do your dirty work?” My voice echoed through the tunnel. “I told you that if you wanted me, you had to come and get me. I’m still waiting.”

He merely smirked at me and began to slowly remove his coat. Next, he cracked his neck and appeared to be limbering himself up. A prime example of male bravado, if ever I’d seen it. A smirk grew on my lips. ‘Let him have his pride, for now…’ I thought.

Have I ever mentioned that I hate staring contests? No? Well, must have slipped my mind…

There he stood, fifty feet away and flexing about every muscle he could. He certainly was full of himself. I simply stood there and gave him a raised eyebrow. For all the world, he appeared to be nothing more than an arrogant silverback gorilla that had begun beating his chest and throwing grass around to assert his dominance. It was pitiful and primitive, but it gave me no indication of any fighting style that I could work with. At the same time he belted out a war cry, he was in motion and headed straight toward me. All I did was shrug and broke out into a run. After several steps, I dropped into an adapted floor routine by executing a round off and then several successive back handsprings. If I timed it correctly, this could get fun.

As it turned out, I hadn’t timed it the way I wanted to. When we finally met, my feet hit his shoulders. If he hadn’t been leaning forward into his run, that would never have happened. I tried wrapping my feet around his neck but it was not to be. It was like hitting a brick wall because it halted my forward momentum entirely. I bounced off and my body collided with the asphalt. It wasn’t very graceful. That hurt.

Without hesitation, he was on me. His big hand grabbed a tuft of my hair and he lifted me to my feet, screaming the whole way. I felt his other fist jab me in the ribs twice as I struggled to get free. SNIKT! The claws on my left hand extended and I raked them against the flesh of his forearm. He grunted in pain, but let me go. Quickly, I hopped into a ready stance and then leapt into the air again. My left leg provided the force for the spin as my right leg bent until the precise moment I intended to release the kick. Inches from his chest, I extended the leg and it impacted with enough force to not only knock the wind out of him, but also caused him to stumble backward a few feet.

Back in my ready stance, a look of absolute rage crossed his face. He let out another war cry and came at me once more. He telegraphed badly. His right arm reeled back for a powerful right hook. SNIKT! The right claws extended. When he threw the punch, it was easy to swipe my left arm and deflect it. My right thrust forward into his stomach. The follow through with my left jabbed him square in the ribs. Finally, the right dislodged from his stomach and I reached up to his face. Each claw sunk into an eye socket. The force of the blow knocked his head backward. He fell to the ground in a lump. I flicked his eyeballs off my claws with the flick of my wrist.

SNIKT! Both sets of claws retracted in unison. The only sounds remaining were my labored breathing, the soft breeze blowing through the quasi tunnel, and the rain impacting with the pavement.

I had won my freedom, but at what cost?

A generic man with gray hair appeared on the television screen. “Breaking news tonight from Downtown Seattle. Just in to our news desk, we have some staggering reports. Here is Diane Fujikawa with more. Diane?”

The screen shifted to a generic Asian woman in a navy blue pantsuit carrying a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in another. “Well, John, within the span of the last half hour, KOMO 4 News received reports of a chilling scene. At this hour, police are not surrendering many details. However, we do know that a total of seven men were brutally killed with some kind of sharp object just under the convention floor of the Washington State Convention Center, right in the heart of Downtown Seattle. At this time the police have barricaded the surrounding area–on Pike Street from Seventh to Ninth Avenue and on Eighth Avenue from Pine to Union Street. They are not allowing anyone access until the coroner has surveyed the scene.

“What we do know is that sometime between eight and nine P-M, there was quite the battle going on here. Police are searching for clues as to whether it was some sort of gang violence. However, the victims seemed to be heavily armed. Six of them carried some sort of assault rifle and one other carried a semi-automatic handgun. As I’m told, there are shell casings and the remains of bullets that have yet to be identified. There is no word, yet, on who or what walked out of here, tonight.”

The screen shifted to become a split-screen of the two. The man spoke first. “Seems like Seattle Police have their work cut out for them. Were there any witnesses?”

The woman shook her head. “No eyewitnesses, John. Local residents reported several gunshots, presumably from the assault rifles, and a young woman's scream.”

The man cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “Any thing out of the ordinary in this case?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, a few facts that don’t stack up, here. First, six of the men were wearing full body armor, including full helmets. Whatever blade the attacker used seemed to pass right through the armor. Other than that, the police cannot identify the assault rifles. They are all of unknown manufacture.”

“That is very puzzling, indeed. Perhaps, there is just one question hanging on our viewers’ minds: is there a new metahuman working in Seattle? It certainly fits with what we’ve all been hearing out of Chicago.”

“Well, John, as you well know, there are no known metahumans currently operating in the Seattle area. None of the currently known metahuman heroes are known to kill their opponents. Neither the FBI nor the Department of Metahuman Affairs have made an appearance on the scene. It can be assumed that until they do the possibility of any metahuman involvement is still up in the air. Police may gain some insight from blood evidence at the scene, but with the rains it could be difficult to get much more than trace evidence.”

“Thanks, Diane.” The screen shifted to just showing the man, again. “We will keep you fully informed on this latest development as news comes in. In other news, tonight…”

The rain did me a favor by washing all the blood off of me. However, it couldn’t possibly mend the holes torn in my shirt, jeans, and hoodie from where the bullets had passed through. Upon arriving at the Greyhound station, I sought out the restroom. Thankfully, the upstairs women’s restroom was barren, save for myself. Having grown accustomed to using the ladies’ room with Rachel around, I didn’t pay it much thought. Stripping out of the rags, I was pleased to find no such holes in my underwear. How they missed those spots, I’ll never know. The rain had soaked into my boots after my foot blades had cut a hole in them. I threw away the socks along with the rest of the clothes, but kept the boots–darn things were expensive enough. Pulling warm, dry, less “sanctified” clothes out of the duffel bag, I hurried dressing and ran down to catch my bus.

There is more than plenty of time for one to get lost in their own mind over the course of a two-day bus trip from Seattle, Washington, to San Francisco, California. For the most part, I sank into the seat and kept mostly to myself. Trying to focus on the scenery wasn’t helping too much. There wasn’t an intelligent conversation to be had amongst the other travelers. I had escaped custody and kept my friends safe. I had escaped Seattle, so they wouldn’t be looking for me there. I had escaped the torment of my heart by leaving surroundings that might remind me of what Julia and I had once. What I couldn’t escape was the fact that I had killed seven men. Before that confrontation, the only killing I had done was the occasional spider when Julia freaked out about it. Never had I killed a human being, then I had ended seven lives. The burden was almost too much to bear.

Upon arriving in “Star City”, as the locals call it, the surroundings were incredibly foreign. Immediately, the only real way to tell directions was to look down Market Street. If I saw the Ferry Building, I was looking “East”. If I didn’t, I was looking “West”. For the first couple of weeks, that was the only way for me to tell directions. At the same time as trying to make heads or tails of directions, there was food and shelter to consider. I quickly learned, though, that staying at a hotel wasn’t going to be an option. It was much too expensive and my funds were very limited. So, money went to food and I had to find an unused nook somewhere to hide from the elements, police, and other homeless vultures that would rob me blind.

Most nights, my eyes would open and my body would jolt upright with a scream echoing in the distance. All I could see was blood. I perpetually had this sense that I needed to wash it off of my hands or my clothes. I kept seeing the faces of those seven men.

Thankfully, in my meandering, I managed to run across some “street kids”. They were kids about the age that I looked, but they were runaways or had been disowned by their parents–for one reason or another. They warmed up to me rather quickly, no matter how hard I tried to discourage such. However, they began to show me places to get shelter, food, free clothes, and a whole smattering of services I had never known to exist before. They were useful, so I tolerated their presence. One odd thing was that I would occasionally catch one girl staring at me. She appeared only sporadically, but I could always sense her eyes on me when she did–even though she was always wearing some kind of sunglasses.

Finally, after a little more than a month, the situation had come to a head. My patience had worn thin with the constant staring, so I did the unexpected. We were at something called a “teen feed” at a city park in the Mission District. She was sitting across the park in her sorry excuse for a black and white “Gothic Lolita” dress. Standing swiftly, I trudged right over to her with agitation written all over my face. She glanced up at me with a little apprehension.

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but the staring is getting really old.” I nearly growled. “Why are you staring at me? What do you want?”

She spoke softly as she poked at her mashed potatoes. “You’re not like the rest of them. You know it. I know it.”

Bewilderment crossed my face. “What are you talking about?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. Her face and body language seemed to telegraph that I should definitely know what she was saying. “There are others like you out here.” Her eyes met mine, again. “I should know. I’m one of them.”

I scoffed and groaned. “Will you quit with the cryptic shit, already?”

Her brow furrowed. “You know all too well that we can’t talk about this here.” Her head nudged toward a few buildings nearby. “Meet me in the alley over there in about half an hour. You’ll get your answers, okay? We can’t talk freely here.”

I walked away, shaking my head. “Whatever.”

Her eyes were still on me while I made my way back to my food. One of the guys told a joke that made a couple of people laugh, but my focus wasn’t on the conversation. My brain was still wrestling with what “Lolita Girl” was trying to say to me. Others like me? The leader of the group of guards in Seattle had called me a “meta”. There were reports of people popping up all over the place. So many, in fact, that “meta” had become a household name. I had yet to meet another one like me. Is that what she meant?

Determined to get to the bottom of this new development, I told the group I was with that I’d meet up with them later. I knew all their haunts, anyway. So, off they went to go smoke some weed in the Haight-Ashbury District. Cautiously, my feet carried me across the street from the park to the jumble of buildings and the alley sandwiched between them. With the sun high in the sky, visibility was very good. Passing some big fat guy inhaling a cheeseburger, I made my way through the alley, not knowing the precise location that weird Lolita Girl with the sunglasses wanted me to meet her. Suddenly, a scent hit my nose and I could hear another set of footsteps, besides my own. They were a ways down the alley, but they were coming closer.

“You should really take a shower before you try to sneak up on someone.” I yelled to the unidentified presence.

Immediately afterward, there were footsteps behind me. Big ones. And, I could smell the cheeseburger. A smirk graced my face. In one motion, the duffel bag was off my shoulders and thrown to the side. Whoever these people were, they were trying to box me in. That didn’t feel comfortable. So, I spun around and flexed my fists. Both sets of blades emerged in unison with yet another snikt sound. The big guy stopped advancing and looked a little scared.

“You wanna dance, Tiny?!” I yelled at him.

“Whoa, chica! Chill out!” A male voice rang out behind me. “We ain’t here to hurt you.”

Glancing behind me, a black man seemed to appear out of thin air. He was wearing some wife-beater tank top, baggy brown cargo pants, work boots, and a big brown overcoat. All his clothes looked like they had seen better days. The big fat guy had about the same, but he wore a big flannel shirt with the typical lumberjack red plaid pattern and jeans. My attention bounced between the black guy and the fat guy. The fat guy hadn’t moved an inch, but the other guy was walking straight toward me like it was nothing but a casual Sunday stroll. Hidden behind a trash dumpster down the way, the weird girl with the sunglasses and Lolita dress emerged and followed behind the black guy.

“Who are you and what do you want?” I yelled again, not lowering my defenses.

The black man motioned to the girl behind him. “Well, you’ve already met Probe.” Then, he pointed behind me. “That big guy behind you is Scour. They call me Damper.” His eyes traveled up and down my body in a way that almost made my skin crawl. He was checking me out and I think I could almost smell the lust. “Is there a name to go with that fine ass of yours?”

“Damper! What would Bonita say?” Probe protested.

He spun around to glare at her. “She ain’t here and I’m only checking out the desert menu! It’s not like I’m gonna order anything!” He turned back to me. “Anyway, what’s your name, chica?”

My eyes narrowed in a glare. “Nunya. Nunya Damn Business.”

He chuckled. “Cute. You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that. You can cut the bullshit, though. Like I said, we ain’t here to hurt you.” He stopped about fifteen feet in front of me and folded his arms. “How long you been in Star City? Probe’s been tailin’ you for a month. You wander around like somebody shot your cat, you eat the shit they peddle as food, and you sleep where some asshole ain’t pissed, yet. You’re not like the rest of them, we both know that. We’re like you, chica, ‘cept we ain’t got them bitchin’ claws. You wanna place to crash where you ain’t gotta fight someone for it? We can give you that. You want real food? Scour just finished off some damn good burgers. You want a beer? Hell, we can do that, too. Us poor ass metas gotta look out for one another, you dig?”

“Yea, we’re not all Olivia Queen.” Probe quipped.

“Wait… she’s a meta?” My confused voice was almost shrill.

“Nope, don’t think so, but she sure is a rich bitch.” Scour chuckled behind me.

They made a good point. Olivia Queen was set to be the President and CEO of Queen Industries, following the tragic death of her grandfather and once she reached a certain age. She was now the world’s richest teenager. So, yes, she was really rolling in the dough. I didn’t really know all the details, though. If what they were saying was true, then all of us–including me–were the exact opposite of her: probably some of the poorest teenagers in the world.

“So, what do you say about joinin’ the crew? We’re Posse, by the way.” Damper propositioned.

“You want me in your group?” The question wasn’t really for them. Mostly, it was for me. I was still mulling over the proposition in my head.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Relinquishing my fighting stance, the claws went away. He seemed to wince. “Doesn’t that shit hurt?”

“Yes. It hurts like a bitch. Ya get used to it, after a while.” I shrugged. “So, I get my own room, there’s good food, and there’s beer? Do I have to sign anything?”

Damper laughed. “Nah, it ain’t like that. C’mon, chica. We’ll show you our place.”

Walking over and grabbing my duffel bag, I started to follow Damper’s lead. Scour started to follow and Probe stuck around somewhere behind us. Damper seemed to prattle on about how much I was going to like the place and how the others were going to like me. Apparently, there were three others: Bonita, Damper’s “other half”; Thumper, the muscle of the group; and Esteban, the one without a nickname. It was almost like I was hanging out with the costumed weirdoes, but without the dumb costumes. Seriously, who thought fighting crime in a red, white, and blue Jane-Fonda-esque exercise outfit was a good idea?

“You know what?” Damper asked after about a mile’s worth of walking. “I think I just found you a name. What’s your take on ‘Talon’?” He shrugged. “Y’know, ‘cause you got them bitchin’ claws and all that.”

I shrugged, unimpressed. “It works, I guess.”

I could smell the dust before we even reached the place. Posse was using some old warehouse or factory for their hideout. There was a faint smell of bearing grease in the air, but it was really old. The place looked like it was built in the 1940s or something like that. It was an old, rusting out, metal structure with sheet metal walls and about three-quarters of the roof was glass panels. After looking up at it, I noticed that several of them had been busted out. Given Posse’s finances, I don’t think they had the money to replace the broken panels. There was dust everywhere. It was overwhelming, at first.

Over by what looked to be the old foreman’s office, they had something that looked like a living room. They’d laid out a section of carpet with two couches and a chair facing a really old television. It was so old, it still had the “rabbit ears” antenna. They had it on a little stand with a VHS player ducked into a cubbyhole beneath the TV. There was a mini-fridge in the corner and I could hear a generator rumbling somewhere in the background.

Damper turned to me and walked backwards into the building, throwing up his hands. “Welcome to the Posse Hacienda.” He even smiled. Turning around, he pointed at the blonde girl sitting in the chair, holding an infant. “Right there is mi novia, Bonita, and my baby girl, Alina.” He pointed at a muscled Hispanic guy who stood from the couch. “That’s our muscle, Thumper.” Another Hispanic guy on the couch turned his head. “And, that, there, is Esteban.”

Thumper’s face contorted into a sly grin. “Who’s the caliente seá±orita?” He heavily emphasized the rolled “R”. I rolled my eyes.

“Watch yourself, Thumper. She ain’t no mujer normal. Comprende?” Scour informed him.

Thumper looked at him quizzically. “ ¿De qué está¡s hablando?”

Damper smacked him in the back of his head. “Dude! English! We have a guest!”

I raised an eyebrow at Thumper. “Je parle français. Et vous?” I had to take a step back and blink. Having not really spoken French since high school and never with my new female voice, it came as something of a shock. I sounded really good. Almost sexy, even. It was a little scary.

He just blinked. “I got no idea what you just said, but I think I’m in love.”

Bonita kicked the back of his calf, he yelped. “Put a leash on the testosterone monster, would you?” Being slightly jolted, the baby cried in protest. “See, now? You woke the baby!”

He spun in protest. “I did not, you did…”

Damper smacked him again. “Don’t you talk to my woman like that!”

Their back and forth banter was more than mildly amusing. They seemed to act more like a family than some freakish meta gang. A sigh escaped my lips. Bonita stood and moved away from the “living room”. Some sort of compulsion had me and I moved to intercept. One look at the baby and something stirred inside me.

“Oh, my gawd, she’s so cute and tiny.” I gushed. Did I just act like Julia had when she saw her best friend's baby? The two had been friends since high school and the girl had just given birth to the baby about a month before Julia and I visited. One thing I couldn’t deny was the fact that, for the first time in a month, I was actually wearing a genuine smile.

Upon hearing my gushing voice, the baby stopped crying and glanced over at me with that questioning look all babies get. Bonita smiled. “Well, the new girl certainly has a way with kids. Guess I know who’s gonna be the babysitter when momma needs a break.”

My face bore a mixture of bewilderment, shock, and abject horror. Everybody joined in on the rolling laughter.