Unheroic Life of a Certain Cape

187 Standing Orders

I killed the robbers before they could finish shouting their demands. The first one raised his gun with shaking hands and yelled, “Everybody down, now,” his voice cracking halfway through.

I stepped into him, pressed my boot down, and let my intangibility slip beneath his feet. “You picked the wrong store,” I told him calmly as he dropped straight through the floor, his scream cutting off in an instant.

The second one spun around, panic flooding his face. “Shit, shit, shit—what the fuck’s Eclipse doing here?!” he shouted as he tried to bolt for the door. “I don’t want to die!”

I caught him by the shoulder and leaned close enough for him to smell the coolant on my suit. “You’re not wrong,” I said, phasing him halfway into the tiles before letting gravity tear him apart beneath the surface.

The last one fired wildly, bullets cracking shelves and exploding glass.

“Stay back,” he screamed, finger glued to the trigger.

I sighed, irritation bleeding into my voice. “You’re making a mess,” I said as I grabbed his wrist and dragged him down with me. A moment later, I released my power. The store fell silent again, the hum of the freezers returning like nothing had happened.

Crime had been climbing steadily in Markend, and it showed in scenes like this. Armed desperation had replaced petty theft, and people were quicker to gamble on violence. The New Vanguard’s reputation had taken a serious hit, and without that sense of protection, fear filled the streets. When fear took hold, lawlessness followed, no matter how many heroes claimed they were still in control.

I stepped over the shattered glass and pushed open the door, the bell chiming cheerfully behind me. Outside, I pulled my helmet on and sealed it in place before heading toward the bike.

When I phased someone underground, it was never a gentle death. Their bodies tore themselves apart as stone, soil, and concrete invaded places they didn’t belong. Organs ruptured, blood burst inward, and the pressure finished the rest. It was quick, and more importantly, clean. No gore on the streets, no witnesses vomiting in shock. That was why I could kill so openly and still move freely. Clean violence left fewer ripples.

Before meeting Keegan and Ironflesh, I handled a few names George had sent earlier. The lawyer barely looked up from his sink when I appeared behind him. “Wait, we can talk about this,” he stammered. “You already did,” I replied, and the tiles swallowed him whole.

At the docks, a hired muscle reached for his knife and snarled, “You think I’m scared of—” He never finished the sentence. Later, a rich asshole laughed nervously when he saw me step out of the shadows. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded. “Yeah,” I answered. “You’re done.”

Doing errands like this was never beneath me. It was a line I crossed so often that pretending it mattered would have been dishonest. Someone had to do the dirty work, and I had long since accepted that role without illusions.

I texted George the list of names and a simple message: Handled. The phone rang almost immediately. “Nick,” George said, tension tight in his voice, “you need to slow down. People are noticing.”

“People always notice,” I replied. “That’s not new.”

“The SRC is increasing their presence in Markend,” he continued. “A lot more boots on the ground than usual.”

I paused. “Is that because of me?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “They were about to pull out after finding the called misleading evidence we set up, and then suddenly got orders to regroup here.”

I exhaled slowly. “Keep me updated,” I said.

“I will,” George replied. “Just… try not to leave a trail.”

“No promises,” I answered, ending the call as I mounted the bike and pulled into traffic.

I drove the bike through the empty stretch of road leading toward the abandoned warehouse district. Wind cut past my helmet as I leaned into the turns, cracked asphalt and rusted fences blurring together. This part of Markend had been written off years ago, left to rot after logistics moved closer to the city core. It was the kind of place people forgot, which made it perfect.

The warehouse itself squatted at the end of the lot like a dead animal, wide and low, its corrugated walls eaten by rust and graffiti layered over graffiti. Broken windows lined the upper walls, most of them boarded up from the inside. The main sliding door hung half open, chains dangling uselessly from its sides. Inside, faint light spilled through holes in the roof, dust floating lazily in the air. It smelled like oil, old metal, and neglect.

I killed the engine and rolled the bike inside, the sound bouncing around the open space. Voices echoed faintly deeper within. When I stepped farther in, I found Keegan and Ironflesh seated at a heavy crate that served as a table, a chessboard laid neatly between them. Ironflesh was hunched forward, fingers like iron blocks hovering over the pieces, while Keegan lounged back, grinning like he was at a bar instead of a gang headquarters. Around them, the rest of Ironflesh’s capes lingered in small clusters, some leaning against crates, others sitting on pallets, all of them keeping their distance and minding their own business.

Before I could speak, someone blurred into my path. A slim figure in a goblin mask pointed a finger at my chest. “Hey, asshole,” he snapped, voice sharp and confident. “You’re lost. Turn around before you get hurt.”

I reached up and removed my helmet. The goblin mask tilted slightly as his posture stiffened. “I—uh—” he stuttered, words tangling together. “E-Eclipse, I didn’t—”

Keegan pushed his chair back and stood, laughing openly. “Relax, Goblin,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Boss, you sure scared the shit out of his mind.” He moved to stand behind me, laughing as he added. “It looks like the game has to end for now, Ironflesh… Boss is here…”

Ironflesh rose from his seat and cleared his throat. “Forgive him,” he said, eyes flicking toward Goblin. “He spoke out of turn.” His gaze returned to me, steady but cautious. “Welcome.”

I took a moment to look around properly. Marker was smaller than I expected, but compact in a way that felt deliberate. Six capes total, including Ironflesh. Goblin was the teleporter Keegan had tangled with at the ceramic factory. Near one wall was a woman in a welding visor and a bright jumper covered in cartoonish patterns, wires and metal parts hanging from her belt. Closer to the center stood what looked like an elderly woman in a cardigan, except she was built like a monument, muscles straining against fabric, towering over everyone else. Off to the side were the twins, one man and one woman, their spandex marked clearly with sun and moon symbols, standing shoulder to shoulder like mirrors.

Ironflesh turned to them and spoke firmly. “You will introduce yourselves to our new boss. Eclipse.”

Goblin swallowed and spoke first. “Goblin,” he said quickly. “Teleporter.”

The woman in the welding visor lifted it just enough to reveal a grin. “Magicmaker,” she said cheerfully. “Conjuration and research. I build things. They don’t last, but they work.”

The massive woman crossed her arms, looking down at me. “FeMuscle,” she said. “Feminist.” She nodded once, as if that explained everything.

The twins stepped forward together. “Sunny,” said the man, heat rippling faintly around him.

“Moonie,” said the woman beside him, frost creeping along the concrete at her feet.

I looked at each of them in turn, committing faces, powers, and posture to memory. “It’s nice to meet you all,” I said calmly as I used my psychic abilities to read them. “I hope we’ll get along.”

Empathy came first, a low hum of emotion that washed over me like heat trapped in metal. Fear was the loudest note in the room, thick and sour. Telepathy followed, sharper and more invasive, thoughts brushing against mine whether they meant to or not. Goblin’s mind jumped the hardest, images of the ceramic factory flashing in panic, paired with a simple wish to be anywhere else. Magicmaker was curious but wary, already measuring how fast her inventions could turn on me if things went bad. FeMuscle’s thoughts were disciplined and blunt, loyalty anchored to Ironflesh above all else. The twins were quieter, Sunny simmering with resentment he kept buried under duty, Moonie calculating odds and exits with cold focus.

Most of them saw me the same way. Monster of Markend. The man who tore apart their old family and left bodies and ruins behind. Underneath the fear, I felt something uglier in a few of them, thin and sharp thoughts about betrayal if the chance ever came. They imagined knives in the dark or selling my location for safety. None of it worried me. With Ironflesh here, those thoughts would never grow into action, and they knew it too.

Ironflesh cleared his throat, breaking the tension I hadn’t outwardly shown. “The takeover was successful,” he reported, voice steady and formal. “The Enders are finished. Assets secured, resistance eliminated. What remains has either fled or folded.”

“You did good work,” I said, calm and even. “Clean takeover, minimal noise. That tells me you understand priorities.”

Ironflesh inclined his head, relief and pride mixing behind his composed expression. The others shifted slightly, watching him, watching me, measuring what approval looked like when it came from someone like me. After a brief pause, Ironflesh spoke again, careful with his words.

“What’s next?” he asked. “Orders. Direction.”

I answered by pulling my phone from my jacket and holding it out between us. “It’s time you met my associate,” I said. “Someone you’ll be answering to, alongside me.”

I held out my phone and tilted the screen toward them. A sharp crack split the air as electricity jumped from the device, not a projection but something far more physical. Blue-white arcs lashed outward, stitching light together, hardening it into structure. In less than a second, a humanoid figure stood beside me, formed entirely of hardlight constructs, edges humming, surface crawling with code and distortion. His features refused to settle, face blurred by glitches, color shifting like reality itself didn’t want to pin him down.

“I’m Blade,” the figure said, voice layered and synthetic, yet unmistakably George. “I’ll be your liaison from now on.”

I felt their reactions instantly through empathy. Confusion came first, then unease. Goblin recoiled half a step, thinking mutant-class cape. Magicmaker’s mind raced with classifications that didn’t quite fit. FeMuscle squinted, suspicious. Sunny and Moonie exchanged a glance, both unsettled by something that clearly wasn’t a hologram, yet wasn’t flesh either.

Magicmaker broke the silence. “What… exactly are you?” she asked, tone cautious but curious.

Blade didn’t bother softening his response. “That’s none of your business,” he said flatly. “Speculation won’t help you. What matters is this. From now on, you answer to me.”

Ironflesh’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward. “I swore my loyalty to Eclipse,” he said, voice firm. “Not to… whatever this is.”

“You know my history with Seamark,” I said evenly. “You know what I did there, and you know why I did it.” A few of his capes shifted, and I felt the faint stir of old loyalties and buried anger. “Some of your people wouldn’t welcome me breathing down their necks every day. That kind of bad blood doesn’t fade just because I say it should.”

I tapped the phone once with my thumb, the projection of Blade flickering but holding steady. “That’s why this works better,” I continued. “They answer to someone who doesn’t carry that history. Someone neutral. Someone I trust.” I glanced at George’s projection as I said the last part, making it clear that wasn’t an empty statement.

Blade inclined his distorted head slightly. “For the record,” he said, voice calm and almost pleasant, “I don’t have any ill intent toward Marker or Seamark. No grudges. No old scores. I’m here to make things run smoothly, and I’d genuinely like to work with you.” His tone was professional, measured, and I felt the tension ease just a fraction across the room.

I turned slightly and gestured toward Keegan, who was still standing at my back like an anchor. “Keegan will continue operating in Markend as before,” I said. “That doesn’t change. What does change is your chain of contact. From now on, your direct line is Blade. He reports to me, and I give final word. That keeps things clean and avoids misunderstandings.”

Blade took the cue and continued, his voice sharpening just a bit. “Your priority moving forward is simple. Maintain monopoly over Markend. No external groups, no wandering capes, no opportunists slipping into the cracks. This is a sensitive time, and expansion attracts predators.” Fınd the newest release on noᴠelfire.net

Ironflesh frowned, curiosity slipping past his discipline. “Expansion?” he asked. “What expansion?”

Blade answered without hesitation. “There’s no need for you to know that.”

I raised a hand, cutting him off before the words could settle wrong. “It’s fine,” I said. “They should understand what they’re part of.” I looked back at Ironflesh and his capes, meeting their eyes one by one. “We’ve been placing our own people into Markend’s administrative body, the same thing Crow had been trying for so long and failed to complete. This isn’t just street control anymore. It’s infrastructure.”

George seemed to catch my intention immediately as he added. “Our forces aren’t limited to Markend,” he said. “We’re building toward something regional. Bigger than one city. It would be in Marker’s best interest to be aligned with us early, rather than trying to catch up later.”

I felt it then, clear as a shift in the air. Fear replaced calculation. Ambition dulled the edge of resentment. Their thoughts settled, no longer circling betrayal, no longer testing escape routes. They weren’t loyal yet, but they were contained, and for now that was enough.

Ironflesh exhaled slowly and straightened his shoulders. “So,” he said, voice steady again, “what do you need us to do?”

I smiled, just a little, and let it show. “Nothing complicated,” I replied. “Stay battle-ready. Stay sharp. When I need you, you’ll know.”