Drake looked at the weapon held in the clutches of the Humanity First member. The muzzle was huge and dark. His eyes fixed on it as the terrorist raised the bulky weapon to his shoulder.

This is going to hurt, he thought. A lot.

With a hissing sound, a sheet of metal shot down from the top of the doorframe, the thick grey steel separating Drake from the attackers that were clustered on the lawn. It fell with such speed and force that it neatly clipped the tip from one of Vertigo’s sneakers, exposing her stocking-covered toes.

The girl was in no shape to be concerned about her footwear. Her costume was still smoldering, and she showed evidence of flash burns to her exposed skin. Drake carefully picked her up and turned around. Sala was moving back through the house, a wide-eyed Monster in tow behind her. Her right hand was down and gripping the butt of her pistol; though it was not drawn, it was apparent that she was more than ready to bring it into play if needed.

“We’re in lockdown,” she explained, jerking her chin at the door. As she did, there was another explosion from outside, and the metal sealing the door groaned as a huge dent appeared in its center. It glowed slightly, and thin shimmers of heat haze rose from the dent.

“A few more of those and we won’t be,” Sala added.

“Vertigo’s hurt.”

Sala nodded, and then turned her head back toward the rear of the house. “Carlotta! Wounded!” she yelled, her voice deafening in the confines even after the previous explosions.

A Latina woman in a comfortable pantsuit came into the room a moment later, carrying a bright orange bag. She wore Justice Department credentials on a breakaway cord around her neck. She seemed relaxed even in the heat of the moment.

“Drake, Carlotta. She’s Monster’s nurse now,” Sala introduced. The woman looked at Drake once, arched an eyebrow, and then shrugged.

“Put the girl on the couch,” Carlotta ordered, bypassing any formalities as she placed her bag on the table and opened it to reveal a bewildering array of medical equipment. Drake complied and Carlotta went to work on Vertigo.

Sala had torn away a section of paneling from the wall near the television, revealing a metal safe, fully five feet tall, inset into the wall. It occupied space between the wall studs, and had been so cunningly concealed that in all his time coming to the house Drake had never known of its existence. Sala punched in a ten-digit security code quicker than Drake could follow and jerked open the door of the safe. From inside it, she retrieved an automatic rifle and a vest that was festooned with pockets that were each stuffed full of loaded magazines. Slinging the vest on, she slapped at the closures and loaded the weapon with a practiced air. Drake noticed almost absently that the vest was rigid as though lightly armored.

“The community just shut down,” she reported as she reached into the safe again, slipping extra pistol magazines into her pockets. She pointed toward the door with one of them. “Defense protocol. Everybody went into the same lockdown mode we just did. The houses are built to withstand attacks.”

“Doctor Hochek was out there,” Drake said.

“Yeah. She’s with the Firsties,” Sala replied, closing the safe. The readout on the digital lock blurred for a moment as the lock mechanism scrambled the codes.

“She...what?”

“She’s with them,” insisted the bodyguard. “I thought she was Hart coming, but she hit me with some kind of mind control thing.”

“What do you mean?” Drake asked, wrapping a protective arm around Monster’s shoulders and pulling the youth in closer to his own scaled form. “She’s a booster?”

“Ten seconds, Drake. Ten damned seconds she had me and I couldn’t do anything. I can only imagine what she did to you with eight hours to work.”

“No,” he protested, eyes narrowing slightly. “She just showed me some movies and we talked. She’s helping me.”

“Hey, Monster! What’s that in the corner?” Sala asked, finger outstretched to point away from the older Drake. As Monster turned to see what she was indicating, her right fist blurred through the air and cracked sharply on the tip of Drake’s chin. The force of the cybernetically enhanced blow turned his head sideways for a second. His eyes flared as he looked at Sala.

“Why did you—“ he began.

“Because you’re a moron,” she said, racking the charging handle on her rifle to chamber a round. “That broad out there twisted your head. I was trying to twist it back.”

“You really shouldn’t call her -“ he began, cutting off in mid-sentence. His eyes drifted upward as he thought.

“Yeah. Now you’re getting it,” she said.

“There’s nothing there,” Monster interrupted.

“Sorry, pal. Guess I was wrong,” Sala said without hesitation, winking at him. “Are you doing okay?”

“Kinda scared,” he said, crossing his arms on his chest and using each hand to rub the upper section of the opposite arm. The frightened expression on his face was in direct counterpoint to the grinning visage of Loopy Larry that graced his Booster Squad Seven t-shirt.

Before she could reply, another explosion rocked the front of the house, and the metal doorplate creaked ominously in response. Monster yelped in surprise. A second later, the sounds of answering gunfire echoed and two more blasts sounded, though these were not directed at the house.

“There’s a response team out there,” Sala said, following up with a muttered curse. “Everybody get back to the back of the house now.”

“No,” Drake answered as the bodyguard shuffled Monster toward the rear. “I need to get out there.”

“My house, my rules,” Sala stated flatly. “Help Carlotta. Carry Vertigo for her.”

“I can’t,” Drake countered. “Director Hart will be out there any minute now. She’ll get caught up in the fight.”

“Didn’t know you cared that much.”

“She’s my boss.”

“She’s also been alerted to this incident. When the town went into lockdown, the alarms at Metahuman Response would have gone off.”

“That’s good,” Drake said. “Still, I need to get out there. The Agents will need help.”

Sala sighed. “I’ll let you out the side door if that’s what you want.”

“That’ll work.”

“Watch your ass out there. That crazy doc still has her claws in your head.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

Moments later, the side door of the safehouse was closing behind Drake. Another ten-digit security code had unlocked it and allowed the massive metal panel to retract upward into the house frame. Drake slipped out onto the grass beside the house. From all through the community, the sounds of gunfire and screams could be heard. Occasional explosions like those that had battered the front of the safehouse also rattled the air. Drake loosened his pistols in their holsters and set out at a slow jog toward the front of the house. His claws tore divots from the grass; flicked aside a tennis ball stained by weeks of weather.

The words Sala had said echoed in his head as he worked his way toward the front. Had Doctor Hochek really done something to control him? He knew that he had been more polite to people than in the past, but at the time, he simply figured it to be a by-product of the training course. Had she, in fact, put some kind of suggestion or intent in his mind?

Edging closer to the corner of the house, Drake stepped past the frame and pivoted to face the attackers. Two of them had turned away from the safehouse and engaged a responding team of Federal Agents. The massive weapons the Humanity First crew bore were thunderous roars of sound in comparison to the rapid cracking of pistols and submachineguns carried by the Agents. The Feds were hunkered down behind the smoking hulk of what had once been a Ford Crown Victoria before the massive guns of Humanity first had reduced it to scrap. The third terrorist was still watching the front door of the safehouse while trying to help Doctor Hochek back to her feet.

Drake sighed and stalked toward the lone shooter. Occupied as he was with assisting the telepath, the man did not notice the approach of the reptilian booster until it was too late. A massive green fist sailed past his face and impacted just under the right ear of the brunette woman, knocking her unconscious.

“Better safe than sorry,” Drake muttered, recognizing that Sala might very well have been correct in her declarations about the woman. To have her recover and reinforce the controls she had already established while he was trying to defend the community could be hazardous.

The doctor slumped to the ground as the goon from Humanity First began to turn to meet the threat. Drake was faster, and gripped the barrel of the heavy weapon, edging it skyward and slamming the frame into the face of the shooter with a sickening crack.

Maintaining his grip on the weapon even as the black-clad man fell to the ground in a heap, Drake continued his march, taking another three long strides to put himself near the pair that was firing on the Feds. He swung the captured weapon like a bat, taking out first one and then the other of the crew before they could respond. The Agents ran from behind their ruined car to restrain the unconscious terrorists.

“What’s going on?” Drake asked.

“The Firsties came in force,” one Agent explained as he wrapped a set of zip-ties around the wrists of a downed shooter. Drake noted tiny shrapnel cuts on the Agent’s face and hands. “Hit the whole place all at once. There’s groups of ‘em all over.”

“How did they find us?”

“That’s what we’d like to know, too,” the Agent replied. He removed the magazine of his pistol; switched it for a fresh one and worked the slide vigorously. “Head east and you’ll run into more of them.”

“East it is,” Drake said with a nod. “When you have those guys secured, duct-tape the woman’s mouth and blindfold her. She’s a telepath. Stay here with them. Director Hart will be showing up any minute.”

“Got it,” the Agent replied. He called to his partner, alerting him to the specific danger posed by Doctor Hochek. When he turned back, Drake had already departed, powerful legs carrying him eastward at a brisk pace. The heavy shoulder arm he had taken from Humanity First was still clutched in his talons.

Drake thought about following the contours of the homes, sticking to the shadows and concealment offered by the houses themselves as he made his way to the next targets, but discarded the idea as being counter-productive to his quest. He let the sounds of gunfire and screaming be his guide and took three long, running steps before launching himself into the air. Spreading his wings wide, he pumped them to gain altitude and examined the area from his new height.

There were groups of Federal Agents as well as community occupants engaged in ferocious battles with uniformed shock troops from Humanity First. Muzzle flashes and blazing explosions seemed to be the norm. Occasional energy blasts marked the presence of other geneboosters. At first, Drake welcomed the thought that he was not the only booster taking the fight to the streets, but then remembered that Humanity First had arrived with Deanna Hochek, who was also a metahuman.

Kinda weird, them folks bringing boosters along, he thought as he angled toward a knot of HF gunmen who had apparently gained access to one of the homes. Three of them were dragging people out of it at gunpoint while another was forcing the occupants to kneel in the driveway. Pulling his wings in tightly against his body, Drake shot downward like a green rocket, snapping his wings out at the last second and turning his body over in a mid-air backflip. The sudden deceleration felt like he was pulling his wings completely off, but he was able to meet the apparent executioner feet-first, planting his size seventeens into the man’s face and upper chest. The terrorist was catapulted backward, head over heels, to sprawl senseless in the yard of the next home.

“Get him!” shouted another of the gunmen, releasing his grip on the civilian he was ‘escorting’. He swiveled his weapon up to cover Drake, squeezing the trigger. As he did so, the citizen on the pavement rose suddenly and drove the barrel of the weapon up. It discharged into the sky with a crash of sound.

“Thanks, pal. Stay down,” Drake said, throwing the weapon he had taken earlier in a sharp overhand spin. It whistled as it flew, striking the shooter in the chest and knocking him flat. Drake ducked under the shot from the man’s partner, feeling the air move above his diving form as the round passed over him. His scales scraped across the pavement, shedding sparks as he slid forward. He ended up near the man he had just knocked to the ground, and took advantage of his proximity to drive a heavy fist into the man’s face before rising and charging the next shooter. Watching the HF crews in action had told him that there was a delay between shots with the powerful weapons they carried, and Drake used that to his advantage to make his next attack. He slashed downward with one hand, raking the portable cannon from the man’s grasp, and then head-butted him in the face. The man’s nose split under the assault, and he fell back a step, hands clutching protectively at his face. Drake grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him a foot off the ground, bringing him in close as Drake gnashed his teeth in the most frightening display he could manage.

“What are you people doing?” he demanded.

“Let go of me, gene-filth!” the man yelled, pulling backward in an attempt to make space between his face and the shining teeth.

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Drake said in a sad tone. He shook his head and then opened his mouth wide, slowly and carefully exhaling. The vapors were enough to make the man’s eyes water. “Your friend Doctor Hochek tells me that people should be nice.”

“She’s no friend of mine,” the man countered, wriggling in a desperate attempt to escape. “That freak bitch can burn with the rest of you!”

“There you go again,” Drake said. He shook the man bodily with enough force to make the man’s head rock back and forth accompanied by crackling noises. “Calling folks names.”

Groaning at the rough manipulation of his neck, the man mumbled a few unintelligible syllables. Drake eased up his pressure.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said you can kiss my ass, you scaly—“

His neck popped some more as the shaking resumed.

“I just got a couple of questions, slick,” Drake said. “Answer them and I’ll go away. I need to see about knocking out a few more of your friends, anyway.”

“Save your breath, ‘cause I won’t talk,” the man vowed. Drake nodded once, then jerked his arms toward his body, carrying the man with them, and head-butted him once again. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell limp.

“They never just cooperate,” Drake muttered, lowering the man to the ground.

“Thanks, Drake,’ said the citizen who had been taken from his home. A common sight from visiting his brother, the reptilian booster was no stranger within the community. “I’ve got some wire in the house. I’ll tie them up for the cops.”

“Take the guns, too,” Drake said.

“What about you?”

“I’ve got my own,” Drake told him, slipping one of his pistols from its holster. His enormous emerald mitt wrapped around the butt of the weapon and he flicked off the ambidextrous safety with a practiced ease. The civilian laughed as he saw the giant pistol.

“That’s almost as big as this one,” he said, hefting one of the cannon taken from the HF crew.

“Yeah, but mine doubles as a back-scratcher,” Drake said with a chuckle.

“Watch out if you get up on Oak Street,” the man said as Drake stepped into the adjoining yard. “Last I heard, the XYZ Kids were recuperating up there. They get in on this fight and you’ll know it.”

“Yeah? Might be nice to hook up with them, then.”

“They don’t play well with others.”

“Neither do I,” Drake said, offering a half-bow and turning away once more, barely avoiding having his feet shred the carefully planted azaleas in the yard. The cell phone vibrating in his pants pocket was of no help in that matter, either. He fumbled around in the pocket until he retrieved it. The text on the screen left no doubt as to the identity of the caller: The Bitch From HQ scrolled across the screen of the phone.

“Francis Drake,” he answered sweetly, continuing his forward march once he had greeted the caller. “How can I help you?”

“Drake, it’s Hart. What is the situation there?”

“Oh, no big deal, really,” he said. His left hand swept up and the pistol he carried erupted with a roar. A hundred yards distant, the odd weapon carried by one of the invaders vanished in a flash of red and blue flames. “Humanity First found the safehouses, they shot Vertigo, and they’re tearing up the whole neighborhood. How are things for you?”

“What are you shooting at?”

“Nothing important. Just the Firsties.” His huge pistol barked again. His approach was carrying him ever closer to several of the black-clad terrorists and he was picking his shots carefully. Each one so far had targeted their weapons, which seemed to explode in a satisfying manner when shot. Their destruction also put the user of the weapon out of commission, most often with more than a little associated trauma.

“We have multiple units inbound, ETA variable depending on transport methods. Can you even hear me over those things?” she demanded as he fired another round.

“Sort of,” he said, ducking behind an ornamental planter to avoid an incoming shot. Concrete shattered and blew into the sky as the explosive round hit. “Better than I can over those. Can I call you back? I’m kind of busy out here and it’s a pain to fight and talk on a cell phone at the same time.”

The response was a dull click from the other end as Hart abruptly disconnected.

“That was kinda rude,” Drake noted. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and picked up a bowling ball-sized piece of concrete that had been broken off the planter. Without exposing himself to their fire, he heaved the concrete over the remains of the planter toward the shooters. A warning shout and a wild shot that passed well overhead let him know his effort had not been in vain.

“They give you pistol and you throw rocks?” called a voice from behind him, the words distorted somewhat by a thick Russian accent. Drake glanced over his shoulder to see a tall, broad man in a canvas trench coat that looked as though it had seen better days - perhaps fifty years previous - as the man emerged from cover behind a house. Boris Mikhailovich, like Drake, had relatives in the community.

“Bullets cost money. I’m just saving the taxpayers a little,” Drake said.

“And now you cower behind garden fixture?”

“They’re shooting explosive rounds, Boris. You might think about it, too.”

“Ha,” scoffed the new arrival. “I fear no bullets.”

As if challenging his declaration, another of the HF cannon rounds detonated against the frame of the house that had shielded Boris moments before. Fragments of wood and brick flew through the air. The air between Boris and the explosion shimmered briefly, and the detritus from the explosion bounced away from a barrier that seemed little more than an optical illusion.

“You see? Bullets hold no threat for me.”

“You know you don’t have to show off. It ain’t the first time I’ve seen you work,” Drake said, standing from his crouched position. “We’ve got about four seconds left ‘til that thing can fire again. Let’s go.”

Together, they charged forward, Drake switching his pistol to his right hand as Boris stretched his hand out toward the terrorists that were in view. Ahead of the pair, objects not secured in some way took flight and became a hail of missiles that slammed into the shooters with devastating force. Rocks, shredded earth, empty shell casings and even a tricycle lifted from the ground in response to Boris’ will. The area surrounding the attackers became a maelstrom of debris that ripped and bludgeoned them mercilessly.

Drake slowed his run. “You took the fun out of that one,” he said with a shrug.

“You are in unusually good mood,” Boris noted.

“Kinda weird, ain’t it? I think Sala might be right. I got brainwashed or something.”

“You do not make cruel jokes about accent like last time.”

Drake drew his second weapon and fired down a side street, the round impacting on the hood of a green Dodge Ram pickup. The bullet exploded and took the vehicle with it. The concussion knocked down the squad of Firsties that had taken up positions of cover beside the bulky truck.

“Yeah? Sorry about that. The jokes, I mean, not the whole not making them now thing.”

“Is okay. I know I do not speak good English. But you do not speak good Russian, yes?”

Drake grinned; his teeth lit a dull red by the reflected firelight caused by the burning Dodge. “Da, tovarisch,” he said, mangling the pronunciation only a little. “My Russian sucks, and you just heard the limit of it.”

Boris laughed, a deep booming sound that seemed to echo from down the street. Too late, Drake recognized that it was no echo.

The shot hit Boris high on the right shoulder, exploding with a crash and sending the large man catapulting head over heels through the yard behind Drake. The concussion made Drake’s ears ring and he staggered back a pace before spinning on his heel to confront the threat. The shooter was leveling his gun again, despite the lag time between rounds.

A gout of flame belched from Drake’s mouth as he swept his head from left to right. The yard ahead of him turned to smoldering ash in seconds, sending up a huge pall of smoke. Breaking away from the fight, Drake fell back and ran to the side of his friend, crouching on the ground beside him. The right sleeve and most of the collar of the trench coat had been destroyed by the blast, as had the clothing beneath it. Bloody skin showed through the gap in the apparel.

Knowing that the smokescreen would only prevent precise targeting, he gripped Boris beneath the arms and lifted, fleeing to the cover of the house from which the big man had initially emerged. As he had expected, the next round landed near where they had just been, detonating with a roar and sending up huge clouds of earth.

“This is getting out of hand,” he grumbled, ripping free the remainder of Boris’ shirt. He tore a trip from it, wadded the rest into a ball, and pressed the ball of fabric against the wound left by the explosive. Wrapping the strip around it, he tied it off with a grunt of effort. Wiping his bloody hands across the grass, he pulled his cell phone back out. Colleen Hart’s secretary answered.

“Tell Hart we need everything she can get out here,” Drake ordered once he had identified himself. “These guys are packing heavy guns and trying to blow the whole area to hell. And ambulances. We’re gonna need lots of ambulances. Put the local hospitals on standby and have the Marshals covering them.”

“Okay,” the woman replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “We already have Agents and boosters en route. Is there anyone in particular you need there?”

“In par... No. Anyone! Call Apollo. Call Wyvern. Lady, I don’t care if you call Fred Flintstone, but get some hammers out here, and get ‘em here quick!”

A nearby explosion left him unable to hear her response. He dropped the cell back into his pocket and crept from behind the wall, assessing the damage as well as his own proximity to the threats. The town was beginning to take on the ghastly air of a war zone. Smoke filled the air in thick clouds of black and grey. The scents of burning materials and chemicals hung heavy, making Drake’s nose tingle. All around was the earth-shattering banging of the Humanity First cannon. Crackling gunfire in grouped single shots and the characteristic ripping sound of fully automatic weapons echoed in a sharper counterpoint to those deep-throated bangs. Screams and shouted challenges fought for auditory supremacy with distant sirens and ever-present car alarms.

Drake switched out his pistol magazines to bring the weapons back to full efficiency, tucking the partially used ones into a hip pocket before replacing the weapons in their holsters. Taking a breath, he leaped up, caught the edge of the roof in his hands, and pulled himself up onto the top of the house. Claws scratching at the exposed shingles, he started a run, and then took once more to the sky, wings beating madly as he pushed himself up and over the town. The results were the same no matter where he looked. Fire, smoke, and gunmen in black uniforms. Muzzle flashes visible along walls and frames of houses indicated that the citizens within the community had armed themselves and were returning fire.

Direct confrontation on his own part, he realized, was a lost cause given the circumstances. He would easily be outflanked and subject to the punishing shots of the HF attackers. Even Boris and his telekinetic shields had been no match for the shot he had not seen coming. Eventually someone would get in a lucky hit on Drake as well, and then it would all be over. Using his pistols on them directly was something he dreaded. The rounds he carried were designed to defeat the protective features common in geneboosters, and if used against a baseline human would be devastating. Still, he knew that he could not simply let them continue on their path of rampant destruction. It was his duty to intervene. Beyond that, he felt a need to make the attackers regret choosing this particular target.

“I ain’t good at this thinking crap,” he muttered. He circled a bit then banked to his right, dropping his altitude and coming in from above to a group of Firsties crouching behind a panel truck as they fired on a home. One was firing from in front of the cab, another from the rear. A third kept them covered from any assault on their backs. A fourth was talking into a handheld radio. No one thought to look up, and Drake meant to make them pay for that error. He landed feet first on the back of the one providing a rear guard, smashing the woman into the pavement beneath his considerable bulk. Almost without thinking, he lashed out with a backfist, knocking the radio from the hands of the operator and crushing the man’s jaw in the process. One step took him to the cab, where he grabbed the shooter there and then spun, throwing the man into the attacker at the rear of the truck. Both of them sprawled onto the ground. Drake charged and was on them before they could rise. Powerful fists put them out of the fight for good.

The radio operator, bleeding profusely from his mouth, was struggling to bring his own gun to bear on this new threat. Drake never gave him the chance, turning and planting a hard right uppercut into the man’s stomach. As the man doubled over, he met a size seventeen foot with his already-damaged chin. He dropped without a sound and lay still.

“Don’t go suing me for excessive force,” Drake told the unconscious man, shaking a finger down at him. He turned and scanned the area for additional threats before bending to recover the scattered weapons. A squawking from the fumbled radio reminded him of its presence, and he fairly leaped to it, scooping the device into his massive paw.

“...your status,” a voice was saying. Drake listened to the radio as he took the weapons from the ground. He carried them in a crouching jog toward the house at which they had been fired. Huge divots had been blown from the brick of the home. Drake piled the guns on the front porch, hiding them behind a potted plant, and pounded on the door.

“Federal Agent!” he shouted. “The men out front are disarmed and unconscious. Stay inside and stay safe!”

He did not wait for a response. The radio was still active and he directed some of his attention to it as he leaped again into the sky to seek his next targets. Overlapping transmissions came across the device, confusing at times but filled with information Drake found useful.

“...through to Fifth with no resistance.”

“...taking fire from residence. Request Medical to 1638 Flag.”

“Firefight! Jesus Christ, it’s Firefight! She got Five-three! He’s on fire! Somebody help!”

Drake grinned. He knew the kind of damage Firefight could dish out. She was a walking nightmare for insurance companies. Her base of operations of late had been Los Angeles, and Drake could only wonder what had brought her to the town. Like Boris or himself, she might well have relatives here, or like the XYZ Kids, she might be recuperating from a previous incident. Either way, she was making her presence known and that brought a smile to his face.

“Omega Five, Omega One. Help is coming.” declared a cold, calm voice. “Maintain your position.”

“That’s the asshole I want,” Drake said, recognizing the tones of a leader. He could not help himself, lifting the radio to his mouth and keying it.

“Hey, Omega One, you still on?” he asked.

“Unit calling Omega One, identify.”

Drake snorted. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen,” he said into the radio. “Question for you, though: Does Omega know you stole his name for your little party? Sounds like trademark infringement to me. I see a lawsuit in your future. I mean, you know, maybe you could apologize or something...”

“She’s killing us!” yelled the voice of Omega Five.

“Hey, kid, we’re trying to talk here,” Drake said, using his own radio to overpower the frantic call for assistance. “Interrupting us is rude, you know.”

“She’s - “ the transmission abruptly terminated with a click.

“Yo, Firefight, if you didn’t cook the radio, pick it up!” Drake shouted into his radio. After a moment of silence, a throaty contralto responded.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Drake! I stole a radio, too. How you been, girl?”

“You Hell-spawned freaks,” Omega One intoned.”You will all die here.”

“Come and find me,” Firefight replied. “I’ve got a jumbo-sized hotfoot waiting for you.”

Drake keyed up again. “Um, Omega dude? What made y’all decide to attack here? Run out of books to burn or what?”

“The time of reckoning is at hand. Your deaths will be only the start. All teams, all teams. One hundred thousand for the head of Drake. Two hundred for Firefight.”

The radio crackled madly as one team after another called in to express their eagerness for the offered bounty. As they calmed down, Drake spoke again.

“Y’all pay attention, now, and think a minute. Is that two hundred or two hundred grand for Firefight? I mean, you gotta be specific. Sounds to me like I’m worth a hundred kay but you only get two hundred bucks for her. Y’all might wanna check your decoder rings or something before you go trying to nail her ahead of me.”

“None of these numb-nuts are gonna nail me at all,” Firefight said. “They aren’t gonna shoot me, either.”

“Ouch! Good catch on the whole ‘nail her’ double-entendre thing,” Drake said. “Even I missed that one. You know, that could constitute sexual harassment.”

“It is two hundred thousand,” interjected Omega One, his voice sounding a bit strained.

“Oh, so now I’m only worth half as much? I bet I’ve taken out twice as many of your people since this started!” Drake replied in mock anger. “I should be the one worth twice as much.”

“I’m twice as dangerous,” Firefight threw in.

“What? You ain’t even got a tail, girl!”

“Yeah, but I look better in a bikini.”

“You’re killing me,” Drake said. “So, Omega Zero? You gonna double my reward or am I gonna start singing on the radio?”

“Dear God, double it!” Firefight called. “Triple, even!” she added, her laughter clearly audible.

“I’m hurt,” Drake said, angling toward a pair of black-clad shooters trying to pry open a barricaded window. “Y’all ain’t heard nothing ‘til you hear me do Stand By Your Man.”

“Five G’s out of my own pocket to hear Harper Valley P.T.A.,” Firefight said. Their dialogue stopped as Omega One spoke.

“I will have you, mutant. I will have your skin flayed from your back while you still live, and I will make a rug of it so that anyone who wishes can walk upon you from this day forward. I will kill your friends and family. Your line is at end. God meant for Man to inherit the Earth, not the twisted offspring of genetic poison. We are the last vanguard of Humanity itself, and we will not shirk our duties. We will wipe the stain of the genebooster from the Earth and stand once more, triumphant before God. It is only by destroying the genetic taint in our midst that we can make ourselves right in His eyes once more, and the so-called ‘metahumans’ are just that. You cannot stand against us. We are more than you. We have numbers and we have faith. Our sacrifices will guarantee us a place at the hand of the Lord.”

“Sorry, slick,” Drake said, leaning against the wall of the house. At his feet were sprawled the forms of the two terrorists. “I was busy stomping some more of your boys into pulp, sad as it is that I had to use violence. Missed what you said. Was it important?”

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice of Firefight came across the radio.

“How many can you spare, ace?” she asked, letting a touch of malice creep into her voice. “We can take them out quicker than you can bring them in.”

“And that’s just us,” Drake added. “I’ve put down a dozen myself. I’ve seen more than that go down at the hands of the people who live here, and there’s more boosters on the way. You wanna drag this out and some of your people ain’t ever going home again.”

“The deaths of our valiant fighters will only prove to the world that we are right. You are the true dangers here, not us. Your kind will be hunted in the streets. There is nowhere that will be safe for you. Only the pure will be allowed to walk freely, and the twisted will burn on the fires of humanity’s hate!”

“That’s pretty good,” Drake drawled, taking a moment to relax before continuing his quest for the terrorists. “You keep it up and maybe I’ll see the light; start goose-stepping my way into Washington.”

“Comparing us to the Nazis?” Omega One asked, sounding as if he had suddenly become bored. “That line of reasoning has been tried before.”

“Can’t understand why,” Drake snorted. “What with lines like ‘only the pure’ and ‘genetic taint’ coming outta your mouth and all. We’re people too, you know. We have feelings.”

“You are not people. You are less than animals. We will find you, and we will kill you all,” Omega One promised.

“See, now that just sounds desperate,” Firefight told him. “Seeing as how we’re going street to street and putting your folks in the hurt locker, seems like maybe you’re the one getting hunted here. I mean, I’m just saying.”

“You have not the wherewithal to hunt me, deviant.”

“Did you call me a deviant?” Drake asked. “See, that’s just not polite.”

“I think he meant that for me, Drake,” Firefight said with a laugh of her own. “You know I was in that Boosters of L.A. spread that Hef did in Playboy.”

“Musta missed that one.”

“I’ve got a few spare copies. I’ll autograph one for you.”

Drake was airborne again before the fiery woman had finished her offer. He banked hard as his wings hammered at the air, turning his body to the northeast. The fanaticism he had heard in the voice of the man calling himself Omega One had sent an uncomfortable chill down his back. The Department had cooperated with local law enforcement following the so-called ‘Patriot Incident’ in Atlanta, turning over their arrests for local prosecution. Those who had opened fire on innocent civilians had long since been tried. It was obvious that Omega One had not forgotten the beating his supporters had taken at the hands of the boosters who had been present. This attack could have been retaliation, or it could have been a separate event. Neither reason mattered to Drake. Only two thoughts about it ran through his head. First, they had managed to attack the houses where Monster was staying. That was enough to set his blood to boiling. Second, this could easily have been one of a number of similar incidents, whether currently ongoing or simply planned. If the bigwigs at Humanity First were watching this event to see how it played out, he swore, they would be sorely disappointed.

He lowered his nose and tucked his wings in tightly to his side, shooting straight toward the ground. Flaring at the last second, he landed in a stumbling run that carried him across what had once been a manicured lawn. A uniformed Firstie lay in the street before the house in a slowly widening pool of blood. Two Federal Agents were handcuffing a second.

“This is Oak, ain’t it?” Drake said, waving his badge.

“Oak and Eleventh, yeah,” called back one of the Agents, not bothering to look at the badge. Given the identity of the attackers, Drake figured the man had decided anyone that looked like Drake did was obviously not affiliated with the terrorists.

“Y’all seen the XYZ Kids anywhere? Heard they was up in this turf.”

The Agent jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down past Thirteenth. Red mailbox.”

“Thanks, pal. Y’all need anything?”

“A vacation in Tahiti would be nice!”

“I hear that,” Drake said, jogging on. He called over his shoulder. “They’re coordinating by radio. See if you can get one of them. Might give you a heads-up as to what they’re doing.”

“Nice. Thanks.”

Drake nodded and kept moving, leaving the pair behind. He could see occasional rifle muzzles extending from the front of homes, but so far, this area seemed to be less damaged than the edge of town where Monster’s house was. He had a sinking feeling that he knew why. At the intersection of Oak and Thirteenth, his suspicions were proven correct.

Seated in a folding lawn chair was a youth of about sixteen. He wore ragged denim cutoffs and top-of-the-line Adidas gym shoes. His torso was bare and his skin well tanned. Designer sunglasses perched on his nose, and he held a can of BoostJuice energy drink in his left hand. An MP3 player was strapped to his left arm, the ear buds hanging around his neck.

“Well, well. If it ain’t old Drake,” the boy said.

“Figured you were the reason they weren’t hitting these houses yet, slick.”

“Ain’t me so much as them?”

Cued by his words, two identical copies of the youth stepped from positions of concealment behind nearby trees. They raised their hands as one.

“What’s up?” they asked in unison.

“I need your help,” he said flatly.

“What kind of help?” asked one.

“The kind that makes me me again.”

“Okay, now I’m curious,” said the boy in the chair. He stood and joined with the other two. “What’s that mean?”

“I could pussyfoot around, but I don’t have the time. Fact is, I think a telepath got in my head.”

One of the trio giggled. “Gotta have a brain for that to work.”

“Yeah, but somehow she managed it. I’ve been all nicey-nice, and right about now...” He waved a hand toward the rest of the town.

“You’d rather be more like the old you?”

“That’s a fact.”

“So what’s in it for us?”

“Y’all like it here?”

“It’s all right. Why?”

“Your brother like it here?” Drake pressed, jerking his chin toward the red mailbox ahead of him. The three looked at him for a moment, their expressions hardening.

“I know there’s four of you, not just three. I ain’t stupid. I also got the word that you were...recuperating, I think is the word they used. Three of you out here, that means it’s Number Four that went squish. Fact is, y’all want a safe haven to come to, I’ll make it happen. Big Brother takes out a house in your name. Period. No rent, no problems.”

“This place could turn out to be rather unlivable after all this,” one of the trio said, pointing back toward the rest of the town in the same way Drake had only moments before.

“Then we’ll set you up wherever you feel comfortable.”

The three looked at one another for a minute, seeming to communicate silently between themselves. They then turned to Drake and replied in unison.

“Sold.”

Drake grinned. “Where do you want me?”

“Just sit down,” said one of them. Another dropped unceremoniously into a full lotus position on the ground. The first one pointed to his sibling.

“Lance is our brain man,” he said. “He’ll figure you out while me and Theo keep watch.”

“Thanks, guys.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lance murmured. “Still haven’t seen what’s in that big head of yours.”

Drake settled onto the curb not far from where Lance was. The tanned kid was murmuring something beneath his breath; his eyes rolled back to expose only the whites. Drake looked at him expectantly.

Stop staring, said a voice in his head. How far back do I need to go?

“About two days,” Drake said aloud. “I was in Portland for an appointment with a court-appointed counselor.”

Got it. This won’t be pleasant.

The phrase turned out to be a tremendous understatement.