needed to stay out of the field. I bit down on giggles. Maybe Chakra could tie him to her bed.
Great. My post-combat shakes have been replaced with inappropriate attacks of humor.
Popping a cigarette, Fisher looked at it and sighed.
“Rough day.”
“More for some,” I said, getting ahold of myself. The news anchor was reporting fatalities: two DSA agents—Platoons—and three supervillains. Hecate of course, but Villain-X had also died of cascading organ failure. Seven had accidentally killed Swarm, when he froze his disassociated parts. I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him how he felt about that.
“Fair enough,” Fisher agreed. “Internal Affairs has arrested Phelps and Garfield. Garfield was in the Organized Crime Division when Kitsune’s family was killed. He’s been in the Outfit’s pocket for years, and Phelps was his delivery boy to the Mob. Mr. Ross identified him.”
“Did you bring in Kitsune?”
He actually winked at me. “How? Shapeshifters are a pain in the ass.”
“But—” I closed my mouth. Fisher watched me play with my cape, and twitched a smile.
“I’m going to have a talk with a local Buddhist priest, just in case he can pass on a message. Suggest a mutual acquaintance of ours should do some traveling while we take care of Garfield and the Outfit people we’ve been able to sweep up. The Outfit will still be hunting him—especially since, with Mr. Ross’s help and all the bread crumbs we have to follow now, we’ll probably roll up half the Outfit’s senior management. How’s Watchman?”
I smiled sadly. “Atlas-types are tough and heal fast—Atlas said we make up for it by trying to get killed. They released him an hour ago; he and Variforce and Rush are back out helping with cleanup.”
The TV switched to an aerial view of our desperate fight with Tin Man, Villain-X, and the rest. The DSA had thoughtfully released footage from their helicopter cam, and we got to watch Seven walk through autofire like a kid in the rain, shooting back with his little seven-round Sig-Sauers.
“Dude!” Riptide slapped Seven on the back. Seven spun his fedora, showing two holes in the rim, and smiled at a passing nurse. Oh yeah, he’s fine. The “full” DSA video was already hitting the net; it barely showed a hint of Extreme Solutions, making me wonder who had an interest in making us look as good as possible. Quin had called to tell us not to talk to reporters until after the police had released a statement.
Fisher started to say something, but turned when we heard the clumping behind us. I forced myself not to move when Dad, still Iron Jack, came around the corner. I could feel each step through the floor, and he stopped beside us.
“Astra, Detective, Riptide, Seven,” he rumbled. Seven and Riptide answered back uncertainly; Fisher just looked amused. Dad reached into his belt and carefully pulled out a cellphone, handed it to me.
“Your mother wants to talk to you.”
Chapter Thirty Nine
“There are some days when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”
Salvador Dali
* * *
With hardly a breeze and a nearly cloudless sky, the sun rose up like thunder and threw a column of golden light across Lake Michigan’s gentle waves. The view from the end of Navy Pier was breathtaking.
The South Side Guardians caught up with Tin Man three days after the Big Fight; wearing a heavy mechaman exoskeleton, he put up a spectacular fight that made the news. By that time only Blackstone had still been on medical leave, and both Rush and I had gone back to our patrols and emergency-response duties. The press conference for Watchman’s official introduction went very well; Blackstone had been right—the media decided that, by taking back the colors, I’d accepted Atlas’ mantle. My fan-base completely geeked out over the armor and my new accessory. Malleus: finally I looked dangerous. Who knew that swinging a war-hammer weighing more than I did was the secret to being taken seriously?
It’s amazing how fast a good fight can rehabilitate a reputation; every media-manufactured scandal was, well, not forgotten, but ignored. Quin was having a hard time keeping up with all my booking requests; she decided on one a week, but the first week, especially the weekend, was mine.
“Hey! Looking for godzillas?” Annabeth poked me and laughed when I jumped.
“No...” I rolled my eyes and turned around.
“Then c’mon!” She laughed, pulling me back toward the white event pavilions dotting the end of the pier.
The Foundation’s annual Spring Art Festival started at noon and ran