HEROES NEVER DIE

Chapter Three

1.

Adira's palms scrape against the ground as she fumbles to get up. But she slips again, her chin landing on asphalt. That's gonna leave a bruise. Great, another offering from the great Salvert city, she thinks, feeling the burn against her skin.

"Ow," she groans, turning to look at the Scavenger gloves. They're worn off, to the point that all the bumps and ridges that are supposed to help in getting a better grip are now smooth—hell, they're now more of a liability. She should've bought her own gear, fucking hell, everyone knew that spare uniforms weren't always in the best condition. She sighs.

Then she turns to see what she had tripped on.

It's a dead body.

A dead body.

Alarm bells start ringing in Adira's head, her breath quickens and she scrambles up. It's a dead body, partially hidden under the rubble she had been standing on earlier. That's why the scanners hadn't picked it up—she was directly on top of it.

Adira wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to run away.

And she comes close, too.

But she stops. Rule #1 of the Scavengers: Remember your training. Never panic.

What's the first step when you discover a body? Adira asks herself slowly. Protocol, yes. Protocol. She thinks of the old woman in the training hall. She thinks of her single, gray eye.

You are the closest thing to superhuman.

Adira takes a deep breath. First, you remove all obstructing materials from the body. She goes through the notes in her head. She does not know if she is actually saying them out loud, but if she is, then who would listen?

She gently shuffles to the side, holding her breath and begins to drag away all the stones and rubble that cover it. Then she gently drags the body out, laying it on the center of the street where nothing would fall on it.

It's not Silas's grandma—she sighs in relief at that—but it's...

Second, you check if they're alive.

It's someone in a mask. A young man, from the looks of his skin—his face barely hidden under a black domino mask. His badly dyed hair is a shade of ugly red. And he's wearing a torn costume—definitely not Titanoflax, she thinks, looking at the cheap legging-like fabric— red and black with a giant M on his chest.

Trembling, Adira put a finger under his nose, and felt the soft air against her knuckle. Her knees trembled.

He's breathing.

Fuck.

2.

There's many official rules in Salvert City—most of them are virtually non-existent because fuck rules when it comes to supers; but everyone follows the unofficial ones.

And the most important one of those unofficial rules is: Don't fuck with those with costumes.

Salvert had its gangs—but most of the time these were people in the more precarious sectors banding together for temporary protection and resources. These never lasted long, obliterated in some gang war or the other. They didn't have the same kind of familial bond tying them together like the Salvert mafia did, or the contractual nature of the hitmen and vigilante-for-hire associations that found their home in Salvert.

They were dangerous, yes, but everyone knew that the ones you had to look for were the ones in the costumes. And the masks. The ones with a signature.

Either they were henchmen—followers of some maniac who promised them greatness—or even worse, they were that maniac who promised greatness.

People with costumes were committed.

And they didn't play.

Well, they did play around—but it wasn't very fun for those on the receiving end.

So yes, steer clear of those with costumes. You will get into shit you'll find very hard to get out of.

Adira, as a journalist, knew exactly the kind of shit she was getting into when she started removing the costumed man's mask, her phone in her hand, camera on. She knew it. This was a villain—she'd turned him over and run the directory in her brain for someone like him. Macaw. A flight based villain whose main offensive lied in that high pitched screech of his. Some guy she'd once dated had an encounter with a sound based villain, and apparently it took three whole years of treatment for him to get some semblance of hearing back.

With one hand, she fumbled with the mask, pressing the spot between the brows that would disarm the mask, repeatedly.

Oh, is this fingerprint locked? She thought dazedly, grabbing the man's limp hand so that she could press his finger against the spot. Then it snapped to her.

It's a traditional mask.

Who even uses that anymore—Then it struck her. People without a license.

People who are minors.

Is this a minor? Adira's stomach sank down to a pit.

Her fingers deftly undid the mask, and suddenly it was clear. The badly dyed hair—something a teen would pull off using box dye in a bathroom at home. The cheap, school-play quality costume. This kid couldn't be more than sixteen.

Fuck, it's a kid.

He was a schoolkid. A child.

Adira groans internally. God, this made her job so much more difficult.