-Firecracker-
Despite what was said on the news, neither the police nor PASIT nor its pet "heroes" kept the streets safe; they just maintained the status quo, ruthlessly stomping down on the insignificant and keeping the worst of the filth hidden under the rug where they don't belong. The disillusionment had long worn off. It's been over seven years since he joined the force to serve beneath its corporate overlords; more than enough time to grow jaded and numb to a great number of things. Once, Chris pushed through, hardening his heart and mind knowing he had something worth fighting for back at home. Now that that was gone he found himself a bit lost and confused.
On autopilot.
Recently, more often than he would like to admit, Chris found he didn't remember the act of driving to or from the office. One moment he'd be at some intersection or red light, the next he'd be turning the corner a single stop sign away from what either promised to be a blurry, migraine-addled night, or some twelve hours of sometimes mind-numbing, or sometimes life-threatening, work. At times it terrified him; the realisation that so much of his life was slipping away and there was little he could do to stop it.
Bidding farewell to Roadman, the corporal made his way to his apartment. The elevator ride, as usual, was long and boring. Tedious. He pushed the door to his domicile open, stepping wearily through the threshold. With a sigh, he pushed the door shut behind himself as he tugged his leather jacket off his shoulder before hanging it on a rack by the entrance. His shoulders slumped as he kicked off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door.
"Home sweet home," Chris muttered, pulling his firearm free of the holster by his waist; the weapon clattered noisily as it was unceremoniously dumped on the kitchen counter. He opened the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of beer; the cap came off with a pop, and he drank from it.
A buzzing noise rang out from Chris' pant pocket eliciting a sigh from him. He reached in, pulling his cell phone out to answer the call.
"Yes, boss?" Chris said, toggling the loudspeaker before placing the phone on the counter beside his pistol. Exhaling a burp, he leaned back, the edge of the kitchen sink digging into his waist.
"Chris, you've gotten home?" came Mr Anderson's voice.
"Yes, boss."
"Good. Just called to inform you that Penrose just pulled through for us regarding the Johnson's case. You should receive a mail in a few minutes. We've been able to confirm the identities of the suspects so I expect an official report ready by tomorrow morning."
"That quickly, sir?" Chris asked, baffled. There was usually a lot more time wasted cutting through red tape when it came to matters like this.
"Yes," came a sigh from across the call. "Whatever it was those fools stole has apparently whipped the Feds into a frenzy. Word is even the D.O.D. is sticking their thumb in this; no one wants mud on their jacket, hence the unusual lack of posturing and bureaucratic shenanigans. Also, about that silly stunt Martinez was trying to pull, you don't have to worry much about it. There was an attempt at forcing an investigative panel regarding the matter, but I'll have it sorted out."
"Oh… Understood, sir. Thank you, sir."
"No problem, Chris. Remember, I need the report ready by morning. Good night."
"Yes, sir."
*beep*
Chris stared at his phone for a long moment before exhaling a sigh. He shot a pensive glance at the bottle of alcohol in his hands before tossing it in the bin. Rummaging around the kitchen he dug up a few bags of beef jerky from the fridge and a box of caffeine patches from one cabinet drawer. Slapping a few on his neck, Chris tore open one of the jerky bags before stuffing his cheeks with strips of stringy, desiccated, lab-grown meat.
He was sitting by the counter, waiting as he chewed on his snack when his phone lit up with a chime. He glanced at the screen, only to see a chat notification from one "Firecracker" instead of the mail he had been expecting.
'Evelyn?'
His brows furrowed into a frown as he put the bag of beef jerky down and picked up the phone, tapping on the screen to open the message:
'Sup,' read the message. 'I am outside.'
Chris sighed, his hand rising to massage his temple in exasperation.
'What do you mean you are outside?' he typed back.
'Don't play dumb, Chris. Come open the door.'
For a long moment, he silently stared at his phone before heaving another sigh as he rose to let his sister in.
***
"Hey! Do you even have any food in this place?" Evelyn's voice rang out from the kitchen, a hint of amused annoyance in her tone.
"There's some chicken, beef and eggs in the fridge," Chris groused in response.
"Just that?" came Evelyn's dumbfounded response.
"...I think there is some canned sauce and a leftover box of raw pasta in the topmost right cabinet."
A few moments later, Evelyn's head poked out of the doorway as she glared at Chris sitting cross-legged, bent over a laptop at the foot of his bed.
"We had an agreement, Chris," the younger woman said, her tone chiding. "You promised you could take care of yourself without any help."
"I know," came the corporal's tired reply.
"You know, but still decided to live off takeout alone? How is that taking care of yourself?"
"I haven't been living off takeout. I haven't even had takeout for like two weeks now."
"Then, how do you explain this?"
Chris looked up from the report he was frantically typing to see a shredded, greasy paper bag dangling from his sister's fingertips. The words "Deli Paradise" stood out as a bold red cursive font on the brown, oil-stained strip of kraft paper.
"...If I told you a cat dragged that in would you believe me?"
"You don't own a cat, Chris."
Chris sighed as he turned back to his work. "I know, Evelyn. I know."
"Isabella Montague. Dynamo. Meta designation: Dragonlady," Chris mused as he stared at the picture of a purple-haired firebreather who, according to the report, was the leader of the paranormal group responsible for yesterday's incident. "Age: twenty-four. European descent. First-generation parahuman. Hmm..." Chris' attention panned to the others on his screen. "Maximilian Richter. Psionic. MD: Flux. Age: eighteen. European descent. Second-gen Para. Hiroshi Tanaka. Bruiser. MD: Brick. Age: unknown. Asian. Generation: Unknown. Malik Johnson. Bruiser. MD: Tincan Man. Age: Unknown. Afro-American... Generation: Unknown."
After an extended period of typing and revision, Chris concluded his report before sending it to Mr. Anderson. Moments later, his phone chimed and Chris picked it up to see a message from his boss.
'Acknowledged,' it read.
Sighing, Chris shut his laptop before stuffing it back in a bag which he then hid in a safe behind his bed.
"Where's the remote?" came Evelyn's voice behind him. Chris turned around to see her walking towards him with two steaming plates of spaghetti. Receiving one, the corporal grunted his thanks, before jabbing his thumb at the bedside drawer behind her where the object was lying in plain sight.
"You ought to get your eyes checked," he commented as he dug in. "You are blind as a bat."
"Oh, shut it. Eat."
Despite not really feeling up to it, Chris began to scarf down the meal, ignoring how bland and unappetizing it felt on his palate. There was nothing wrong with Evelyn's cooking—Chris was sure the food tasted great. After all, she has always been a great cook—it was just that, recently, his preferred dietary options have been rather limited hence his distaste for anything not strictly… carnivoran". Ignorant of her brother's plight, Evelyn plopped down on the tiled floor beside him and began cycling through the TV channels on the hologram.
*click*
"Breaking news from downtown Illinois, where a major traffic accident—"
*click*
"We're reporting live from District 14, as tensions between protesters of the No More Superiorities Movement and the police reach an all-time—"
*click*
"In today's gossip, the latest drama involving heroine, Celestia, and her mundane lover, Tom has—"
*click*
"Today, we're cooking up a delicious five-star meal with real, naturally-grown—"
*click*
"'Deeply Concerned—Fed issues serious five hundred and seventy billion credit crypto warning as a price 'Death Cross' looms for—"
*click*
"Earlier today, Bridgewater's north-eastern border nearly suffered a catastrophic breach in one of its outer walls. Thankfully, the superhero, Tectonic, was in the region and managed to plug the gaps before the megafauna swarm—"
*click*
"Expect mild acid rain and thick smog throughout tomorrow with temperatures falling to around twenty degrees—"
*click*
Like a sonic explosion, the music channel Evelyn landed on blared to life with a loud, pulsating rhythm. Chris winced as his head throbbed with the harsh bass. Metal! he thought to himself in disgust as he waited for her to change the channel. When she didn't he turned to face her with a grimace. "Uhm. Evelyn," he pleaded. "Can we maybe have some soothing dinner music instead of whatever this is?"
Evelyn shot him a playful grin in response. "You're just getting old, Chris," she said. "This is what the kids listen to these days."
"We are not kids, Evelyn. And I know you hate it too. So, please, change it."
His sister rolled her eyes, before switching to another channel.
"Don't you have anything good?" she asked, tossing the remote aside before stuffing her face with a forkful of pasta.
"I don't watch TV, so I can't say for sure."
"Gosh! Never?—Chris shook his head—You haven't changed, have you? Still such a terrible bore."
Chris smiled as she pouted, her cheeks bulging comically with the amount of food she was trying to eat at once. "Hey, slow down there," he said with a chuckle.
"I forgot to eat lunch today."
"Well, that doesn't permit you to choke yourself to death in my apartment. You want to commit suicide by pasta? Please, wait till you get back to your apartment."
The two shared another laugh before falling slowly trailing off. The quietude dragged on as it slowly grew awkward. Then suddenly, Evelyn's fork dropped onto her plate with a dull clink as she placed her meal aside
"How... How are you doing Chris?" she asked. Hesitant.
"I am fine, kiddo. Don't worry your head over me."
"...Have you seen Amelia since? Or Chloé?"
"...No."
"You know… she stopped by my office today. She apologised, Chris. Profusely"
Chris didn't respond and continued to eat his meal.
"Don't you want to see her at all? She seems really worried, Chris; Chloé's been eating less lately apparently. Her father's absence has been felt. Amelia asked me for your address, so maybe you could spend some time with your daughter with her out of the picture … If that would help."
Chris remained silent.
"What do you think? You do know you can't continue like this. Right?"
"...I know," Chris finally said, his tone clipped.
"So?"
"I am filing for a divorce."
"...Oh. So … divorce? What about Chloé? You know—in case you forgot—your daughter?"
"Chloé is not my daughter."
"...What?" Evelyn said in disbelief.
"I don't think I can live a lie any longer, Evelyn. I need to move on with my life."
"Chris, this is a huge step. Are you sure? Maybe we can talk to Amelia about this, explore other options..."
With a steely gaze, Chris turned to face his sister. "I caught her red-handed. She cheated on me, and that child... it's not mine."
"...How did you find out, Chris? Have you done a test?"
"...No."
"Then how! Gosh, I thought you were smarter than this, bro! Just because she's a slut you suddenly assume—"
"The child is not mine!"
Chris found his heart racing. He ran his hands through his hair as he fought to calm his laboured breathing.
"...How do you know, Chris?" Evelyn asked again.
With a sigh, he grabbed the remote on the bed, turning the channel back to the heavy metal music and cranking the volume up to the maximum.
"Give me your phone, Evelyn."
"What?"
"Just give it to me."
Unsure of what he intended to do, Evelyn retrieved her cell from her pocket before dropping it in Chris' open palm.
"I know you don't have any implants... Do you have anything else on you that might have a microphone in it?"
"No… Uhm, yes actually," she said plucking her earpods from her other jean pocket before also handing it over. A second later she peeled of the smartwatch strapped to her wrist before also handing it over.
Chris took the devices, as well as all of his own, wrapping them in a thick blanket before stuffing the bundle in the laptop bag he hid behind his bed. The entire package was taken out and stuffed inside a storage cabinet in the kitchen.
"What was that about?" Evelyn asked as he plopped back down beside her.
"All electronics available to the public today are bugged and primed by the Corpos and their government lackeys to scan nearby conversations for certain keywords. I need a bit of privacy for what I am about to say."
"What—"
"I triggered, Evelyn," Chris interrupted, his whisper barely audible above the noise.
His sister's eyes widened comically in response as she read his lips.
"I triggered."