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They marched down the grimy stairs, stepping carefully to avoid being overbalanced by the heavy flamethrower tanks Armo and Dekka carried. They came to an electronic turnstile.
“Our first crime of the day,” Armo said, winking at the policewoman. He tried to hop over very nonchalantly but that was something not even he could manage with fifty pounds of steel and napalm on his back. He and Dekka both made it, eventually, but it was an extremely clumsy start to the proceedings. Simone, less burdened, easily hopped over. The policewoman sensibly swiped her MetroCard and walked in normally, adding to the comedy of the moment.
“It’s kind of like D-Day but with less dignity,” Dekka said as she tried to pull her wedged-in leg free of the turnstile with an assist from Armo.
The subway platform was old, with tile more yellow than white, and a blue tile sign reading 51st Street. And it was eerily empty. A homeless man slept curled up against one wall. A pigeon fluttered past, came to rest on a trash bin, and cocked a curious eye at them.
“So, here’s where it gets hairy,” the cop said. She pointed. “We have to walk the track that way for about ten blocks.”
“The third rail is off, right?” Simone asked.
“It is. They’ve killed all but emergency lighting, and the downside is that the tunnel will be even darker than usual. Just the same, maybe don’t lick the third rail.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Dekka said. “But we’ll go ahead on our own. We aren’t exactly professionals at this, and we may end up getting you hurt for no good reason.”
She demurred, but in the end the cop decided not to argue. Especially when Dekka, Armo, and Simone all began to morph. She did, however, supply them with two excellent flashlights. Simone took one and levitated away, scouting the tunnel ahead.
“You think she’s solid?” Armo asked Dekka, nodding his big shaggy head in Simone’s direction.
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Dekka shook her head, and her now-living dreads seemed to decide on their own to stare at Armo. “I don’t know. If it comes down to killing her father? I don’t know. Could you do it? I mean, not necessarily yourself, because she’s been clear on that. But could you stand by and watch someone else doing it?”
“Well, my dad’s a stuntman, not a supervillain, so it’s hard to say.”
They hopped down easily from the platform to the greasy, gravel-paved track. In their morphs they were much stronger, and the flamethrowers were much easier to manage.
“It’s really hard to stand on a train track and not think you’re about to get run down,” Dekka said, nervously looking in both directions. At that moment Simone came back, flying level, like Superman, her flashlight looking disturbingly like the headlight of an approaching train.
“It’s clear for the next six blocks. I didn’t want to go any closer in case my fa—” She stopped herself. “In case Vector has spies down in the tunnels.”
“Good thinking.” Had she switched from the familiar “father” to Vector as a signal to Dekka and Armo? If so, was she sincere? Or was she mentally distancing herself from her father, using the name Vector to draw a line?
You think she’s solid?
“There’s a little colony of mole people,” Simone reported. “Like half a dozen around where Forty-Sixth Street would be.”
“Mole people? Mutants?” Dekka asked, alarmed.
Simone laughed. “No, it’s a not-very-nice nickname for homeless people who live in the tunnels.”
“People are living down here? In a city as rich as this?” Dekka shook her head.
“A rich city with very expensive rents,” Simone said. She remained in morph but now walked between them, her wings still and silent.
Not for the first time, a part of Dekka’s mind marveled at just how weird her life was.
I’m walking down a subway tunnel with a bear creature and a flying blue girl on my way to kill a bug man.
Sure. Because that’s my life.
They had to stay in morph from here on in—despite the infuriating, distracting, will-sapping presence of the Watchers—in case Malik had to emit one of his blasts of pain.
“Expensive rents and a lot of rich assholes who don’t care,” Dekka said, then realized this might seem like a diss when addressing a girl whose father, while a vicious villain, was also very rich.
But Simone readily agreed. “Yes, rich assholes who don’t care. Like my father. Like Vector.” She nodded emphatically to herself on the word “Vector.” Like she was reminding herself not to forget it.
The tunnel was oppressive in the extreme, with long gaps between inadequate lights. It stank of waste oil and urine. The walls were black with layers of grime. A rat ran past and Armo yelped.
