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ShankySpice“Would you like me to pull up to the steps, sir, or stop across the square?”
Vector sat back against the leather seat, gloved hand resting lightly on the strap of the bag beside him. The attaché case lay against his leg, its polished metal edges catching the faint gleam of sunlight slipping through the tinted windows. He tilted his head a fraction, considering. Across the square meant a quieter walk, less spectacle. But they’d asked them to arrive in costume, and anything less than directness could read as hesitation.
“The steps,” he answered at last, voice low and calm. “Let’s not waste time.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The Rolls slid forward, its movement so smooth it barely seemed to disturb the air. Outside, Paragon City was alive: pedestrians moving in streams along the pavement, the occasional drone whirring overhead, the distant murmur of morning traffic echoing between polished glass towers. Vector watched it all behind his aviators, but gave it no weight. Noise. Motion. Distractions.
His hero costume was inconspicuous enough that he could get away with wearing most of it as civilian attire. Everything but his poncho, mask, and weaponry were adorned, accented by his rayban aviators. The other components neatly tucked away with a leather bag and an attaché.
The chauffeur pulled the car to a precise halt, the hood gleaming beneath the shadow of Atlas’s great statue. A moment later, the rear door opened with mechanical smoothness, and Vector stepped out.
The air was mild, carrying the faint trace of cut grass from the Town Hall gardens. Vector adjusted his grip on the attaché, squared the line of his shoulders. His stride across the pavement was measured, each step unhurried, deliberate. Behind him, the Rolls whispered away, leaving no more than a ripple of curiosity among passersby.
He climbed the shallow steps, neither glancing at the suited officials drifting past nor the little cleaning drones puttering along their circuits. The statue loomed overhead, but Vector gave it no more attention than he had the traffic outside.
And then, as if it could never have been otherwise, he stepped into the lobby at precisely 09:00.
The space was bright, open, humming with the subdued energy of recruits who had beaten him inside. Colorful costumes, eager chatter, the barely-contained nerves of those who wanted to prove themselves. Vector set his bags down neatly by his side and took his place among them without fanfare. And no introduction.
Bernard’s familiar voice rolled across the lobby, welcoming them, inviting questions. Vector listened, still and unblinking behind the lenses of his aviators. When the pause came, he spoke.
“Two operational points,” he said, tone level, each word weighed and measured. “First, in civilian-dense environments, what is the standing protocol for escalation of force? At what threshold are we cleared to act without prior clearance? Second, communications. What systems are provided in terms of secure channels, tracking, or locators? Or are such provisions left to individual discretion?”
Vector sat back against the leather seat, gloved hand resting lightly on the strap of the bag beside him. The attaché case lay against his leg, its polished metal edges catching the faint gleam of sunlight slipping through the tinted windows. He tilted his head a fraction, considering. Across the square meant a quieter walk, less spectacle. But they’d asked them to arrive in costume, and anything less than directness could read as hesitation.
“The steps,” he answered at last, voice low and calm. “Let’s not waste time.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The Rolls slid forward, its movement so smooth it barely seemed to disturb the air. Outside, Paragon City was alive: pedestrians moving in streams along the pavement, the occasional drone whirring overhead, the distant murmur of morning traffic echoing between polished glass towers. Vector watched it all behind his aviators, but gave it no weight. Noise. Motion. Distractions.
His hero costume was inconspicuous enough that he could get away with wearing most of it as civilian attire. Everything but his poncho, mask, and weaponry were adorned, accented by his rayban aviators. The other components neatly tucked away with a leather bag and an attaché.
The chauffeur pulled the car to a precise halt, the hood gleaming beneath the shadow of Atlas’s great statue. A moment later, the rear door opened with mechanical smoothness, and Vector stepped out.
The air was mild, carrying the faint trace of cut grass from the Town Hall gardens. Vector adjusted his grip on the attaché, squared the line of his shoulders. His stride across the pavement was measured, each step unhurried, deliberate. Behind him, the Rolls whispered away, leaving no more than a ripple of curiosity among passersby.
He climbed the shallow steps, neither glancing at the suited officials drifting past nor the little cleaning drones puttering along their circuits. The statue loomed overhead, but Vector gave it no more attention than he had the traffic outside.
And then, as if it could never have been otherwise, he stepped into the lobby at precisely 09:00.
The space was bright, open, humming with the subdued energy of recruits who had beaten him inside. Colorful costumes, eager chatter, the barely-contained nerves of those who wanted to prove themselves. Vector set his bags down neatly by his side and took his place among them without fanfare. And no introduction.
Bernard’s familiar voice rolled across the lobby, welcoming them, inviting questions. Vector listened, still and unblinking behind the lenses of his aviators. When the pause came, he spoke.
“Two operational points,” he said, tone level, each word weighed and measured. “First, in civilian-dense environments, what is the standing protocol for escalation of force? At what threshold are we cleared to act without prior clearance? Second, communications. What systems are provided in terms of secure channels, tracking, or locators? Or are such provisions left to individual discretion?”
