I'd been paying attention to super-criminal activity for months, but now that it was time to actually do something, I hit a real problem: I had no idea where to find them. It's not like villains post their lairs online. I could wait for someone to make a move, sure but then I'd risk showing up to a scene full of heroes, and that wasn't an option.
So I needed to find them first. Somehow.
I searched online for anything that might help. It's not like you can just type "where to find supervillains" not that I didn't try that anyway. I considered contacting someone, but who? Renia crossed my mind. She'd probably get results, but getting deeper involved with her wasn't worth the price. Then, for what felt like the first time in a while, luck actually found me and from a completely unexpected place.
People who lived on the street or worked close to it kept a message board about safe areas to set up camp and, more importantly for me, places to avoid. They posted warnings when "freaks" moved in. It helped them stay clear of the more dangerous elements of the city and avoid getting swept up when superheroes inevitably came crashing through.
But for me, it told me exactly where to look.
I found a post only a couple of days old:
"Freaks moved into warehouses near 5th and David. Looks like the circus ones."
I could use that. A bit of research turned up who the "circus ones" were.
There was a small group of circus-themed villains, really just two core members. The Ringmaster, real name Harvey Newman, formerly a doctor of chemistry with the power to control animals. From what I was reading, it wasn't full control; more like he could nudge them, push their instincts in whatever direction he wanted.
And then there was the Strongman, real name Giuseppe Russo, who shockingly had super strength. Also super shortness. The guy was barely five feet tall.
They usually had a clown or two hanging around, but those seemed to be hired help rather than permanent acts in the "circus."
What really made this group dangerous and actually worthy of the title supervillains was that Newman had created a compound that turned people into animal hybrids. Just enough of a change that his power would work on them. I scrolled through pictures of past victims: people twisted into mutated gorillas, lions, bears—oh my. One poor soul had been turned into a monkey but hadn't survived the transformation. It looked like a horrible way to die, and the sight made my blood boil.
I read old news articles. Heroes had saved as many people as they could each time, often the very reason the gang escaped. The victims were then "treated" and supposedly returned to their lives. But another article claimed that nothing could truly be done, and many now lived in animal sanctuaries. If they were too violent, they had to be put down.
That was my problem. I understood trying to save victims. But if you keep letting the guy who's doing it get away, there will just be more victims. Then whose fault is that? Roughly ninety people had been changed since he began his villain career. Ninety.
No more.
I started exploring the area, walking, driving, and watching. It didn't take long to narrow things down a couple of days at most. The message board did most of the work. There was only one group of warehouses in the area the post mentioned. I just had to figure out which of the three they were using.
The third.
I couldn't get a clear look inside. I'd come, maybe unwisely, right up to the warehouse windows. Ground-level windows were scarce, normal for warehouses, but not helpful. I was trying to peer through a cracked panel when I saw two clowns carrying boxes out of a truck and through the loading dock. I couldn't tell what they were moving. One used a dolly, the other just hefted the smaller boxes by hand. It would have looked perfectly normal… if it weren't for the big, stupid noses.
But that gave me the information I needed. I knew where they were, and I knew there were at least four of them which was about their usual size anyway. If I hit them soon enough, they wouldn't have time to turn anyone. And without the hybrids backing them up, they should be manageable. Even for an unskilled vigilante with zero real experience.
I decided I'd go tomorrow night. No need to rush. One more night wouldn't hurt. It would give me one last chance to tighten any bolts—on the suit, or in me.
The next morning I was puttering around, getting things and myself ready. I checked the suit inside and out a few times. I checked my arm. I made sure to eat. I had a coffee, which seemed unnecessary because I was already shaking with anxious energy.
I did the daily chores one needed to do, like cleaning, you know, what most people do when they're anxious and have no real outlet. Sweeping, wiping counters, tossing garbage around, anything to keep busy while my mind ran a million miles ahead.
When I was throwing a garbage bag into the dumpster shared by my unit and the one next to me, someone called out.
"Hey! You—hold up!"
I hadn't talked to anyone in a while, so my first instinct was not to respond. Then, with a jolt of surprise, I realized the woman was actually trying to get my attention. I froze, caught between ignoring her and figuring out what the heck to do next.
I waved awkwardly. "Hey?" I said as she trotted closer. Had I spoken to her before?
"Hey, man—thanks for waiting." The woman came to a stop in front of me. She was small, blonde, wearing a jumpsuit tied around her waist. She wiped her hands on her pant legs before offering her hand. "Sorry for being abrupt. I don't think we've met yet. I'm Jack."
I stared at the hand for a second before belatedly taking it. "Aiden." Then, a moment later, "Tech."
She smiled. "Your last name is Tech?"
I shrugged. "Your first name is Jack?"
She gave a short chuckle. "My full name is Jacqueline," she said. "Jacqueline Miller. But Jack's easier."
"Fair enough. What can I do for you?" I wasn't great at small talk, and the last few years hadn't improved that skill. I also felt a bit dumb standing there holding a bag of garbage.
"You do metalwork or something, right?"
I glanced toward my unit before turning back. I had to remember the official cover I used when moving in. "Kind of. I do custom tools and die casting."
"Sounds fancy," Jack said, then got to the point. "I was wondering if you could help me out with something." She quickly added, "I'll pay, of course."
"Maybe. Depends on what you need. My order log is backed up for months, so nothing big." I didn't want unrelated work bogging me down, and I braced myself for a huge order.
"I only need one specific part. One of my guys broke a part we had to wait eight weeks for the same damn day we got it." She spat on the ground. "I can't or rather, don't want to wait another two months for a replacement." She shook her head. "Having to call a client to extend the wait time again for something like this is just… well, damn unprofessional!"
I nodded sympathetically. That would be unpleasant. "What's the part for?" I wasn't actually sure what she did.
"We're restoring a 1968 Firebird 400, and the original aluminum intake manifold is impossible to find. We had to order a newly cast one."
"Just one part?" That shouldn't be too hard. "Are you sure it wouldn't be easier to fix the old one?" I asked, hoping for an out.
"You can't undo what he did to it," she said flatly.
"Okay… can I have it, or blueprints?" I asked, since she clearly didn't want to explain further.
"Blueprints? We don't usually have those, but I bet I can find them." She nodded. "Should I just run them over to you?"
A sudden burst of panic shot through me at the thought of anyone walking into my workshop. "Ah… no. Just email them to me, and I'll tell you if I can do it and how long I'll need."
I gave her my official work email, and she promised to send them when she found what I needed.
"You don't seem the type to be fixing cars," I said as she pocketed her phone. She gave me a sharp look that shut down the rest of my comment.
Then she smiled. "I get that a lot," she laughed lightly. "It's my dad's business. I grew up working on old cars, so when he got sick and couldn't work, it was easy for me to take over." She eyed me. "Despite how I look."
I held my hands up, still awkwardly holding the bag. "I meant no offense."
"I've heard it enough to not care even if you did," she shrugged. I finally tossed the bag into the dumpster and took a breath.
Well, with my foot firmly in my mouth I decided this was a good place to end the conversation "I'll call you probably tomorrow with a time estimate. I've got a few orders on the go right now I should really be paying attention to."
"Thank you. I'm in unit 8," she said, pointing across from mine. "Let me know soon so I can start sourcing if you can't." With another wave, she walked back to her unit.
I stood there for a minute, watching her go. That had been pretty much my first real not "work" conversation in a long while.
I walked back into my unit and looked around the shop. If anyone walked in here, they'd immediately know I wasn't who I claimed to be. I needed to reorganize so at least a passing glance wouldn't give me away. I had accumulated a lot of heavy machinery that wouldn't be easy to relocate.
Although… I looked at my suit. I had a very powerful tool that could help with that. I envisioned a separated wall I could use to hide the more incriminating parts of my workshop. Maybe I could label it as storage rooms, raw resources, and ready-to-ship? But that would have to wait until after the mission.
I glanced at my watch. Maybe some sleep would be a good idea.