Stretching her legs, as it turned out, didn’t help all that much, and she was really regretting the Chinese food as she finished the eleven blocks to her destination.  It was a bit too warm for the windbreaker, and with the heavy armor on underneath, she was a sweaty mess, cramping up from the Chinese that was being hell on her digestive system.  Her bruised, possibly broken ribs were in agony.  The heroine ducked into the alley, fumbling in her pockets for her mask and gloves.  

Similar to the night before, the door was knocked off its hinges, thrown inward.  She ripped off the windbreaker in one clean sweep, revealing the armor beneath.  It felt surprisingly good, just tearing it off like that.

The pants, less so.  The breakaway seams in the legs ripped down to her calves and then caught, and the stumbled, tripping over the fabric and face planting on the floor just inside the building.  “Yep, that seems about right,” she groaned.  She rolled over and finished ripping the pants off, casting them aside.  She didn’t have time to wallow in her pain though, and she pushed herself back to her feet, slapping her domino mask on and pulling her gloves on, finally ripping the beanie off and casting it aside.  Not the graceful, quick transformation she’d been hoping for, but it was done, and hopefully she wasn’t too late.

She raced through the warehouse, stopping short when she came upon a scene not too different from the one she’d left last night.

A handful of drug dealers lay strewn about the room, unconscious.  A small fire smoldered in the corner of the room, the smoke making the room hazy.  She coughed, squinting into the room as she looked around.

The armored figure of the Silver Centurion stepped out of the shadows, and she dropped her hand reflexively to her baton.  “You.”

“You expecting someone else?”

“No, I was just-” she panted, fighting the urge to cough, not wanting the pain coughing would surely put her in.

“You’re late,” the synthesized voice said.

“Gimme a sec.  Had to run.  Car’s bein’ dumb,” she panted, putting her hands on her knees and leaning over, no longer caring about making a good impression.  She was beat.

The armored vigilante waited, letting her catching her breath.  After about a minute, the voice asked, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, standing up straight.  “I got shot last night.  My armor, not quite as good as yours, I’m sure.”  She studied the armor before her.  Without it walking away from her immediately, she got a better look.  The metal was a smooth, polished grey, seemingly made specifically to be non reflective, probably strategically so.  Beneath the main metal plating, she could see black in the joints, something flexible and not metal protecting the inner workings.  Raised portions in the forearms presumably housed weaponry fired from the wrists.  The black faceplate was just as black and mysterious as the night before.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.

“That you got shot.”

She shrugged.  “Not the first time.”  She realized in that moment that it wouldn’t be her last, either.  This was who she was now.  Siren.  Super heroine.

“Still.  I could have handled it.”

“Yeah, I see that.  I was trying to get your attention.  Seems I have it.”

“You do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s different about tonight?  Why wait around.  You could have called the cops and gotten out of here.”

There was a pause.  The Silver Centurion’s head moved slightly back and forth, as if the occupant was looking around.  Siren’s eyes scanned the room, but it was just the two of them.  The two of them, and the seven guys on the floor.  “You seemed like you might be worth hearing out.”

“I promise you, I am.”

“You asked for five minutes last night.  You got that much.  What does Siren of the LC want with me?”

“I’ll tell you right now, the LC wants to shut you down.  Something about stolen military technology.  But I’m going to give your the benefit of the doubt.  I want to hear you out before I take that armor from you.”  She up taller, straightening her back and crossing her arms across her chest.  

For the first time, she could actually feel the suit’s pilot staring at her through the mask, studying her.  The head cocked ever so slightly to the side, and she imagined whoever was inside debating whether or not they’d be better off just blowing her away then and there.  If they didn’t take off the helmet, she had no way of actually taking the suit from them.  But she’d been honest, and she didn’t intend to.  Not if she didn’t have to.  She’d been told she couldn’t be a hero once.  She wasn’t about to do that to someone else.

Siren looked around at all the men on the floor.  “Shall we take this somewhere a little more private?”

Again, the Silver Centurion hesitated.

“If you can hear me, get up,” Siren said.  Nobody moved.  “I guess here’s private enough.”

“Neat trick.”

“It comes in handy, occasionally.”  She reached up and peeled off her domino mask.  It was an impulsive move, going off book in a plan that was already pretty impulsive.  It helped that her identity didn’t carry much weight.  No one gave a shit who she was, but still, taking it off, she felt naked.  “My name is Anna Carillon.  If you take that helmet off and we have a conversation like two human beings, I promise I won’t use my power to make you do anything.”

“You could be making that up.”

“I could.  But I’m not.  I’ve got time, but I’d rather not drag this out.  I had a rough night last night, and I’ve-” she looked around again at all the prone forms again.  “Actually, I know they’re out right now, but they could wake up at any time, or someone else could walk in.  Can we take this somewhere else?”

She heard a chuckle from the Silver Centurion before it was stifled.  “The roof access is over this way.”

“That’ll do.”  She fought the urge to put her mask back on as she followed the armor down the hall to a staircase.  She did not want to climb stairs right now, but she grit her teeth through the pain and exhaustion, following in awkward silence punctuated by the heavy metal footfalls of the armor as they climbed five flights of stairs and finally out onto the roof.

“Are you alright?”  Maybe she was imagining it, but she felt concern in the synthesized voice as she panted and held her side.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, straightening herself up.

“You’re tough, but you should get that checked out.”  The voice sounded different, and as she looked, she saw the armored hands reach around the neck and with a click, lifted off the helmet.

She watched, her breath catching in her chest.  The helmet slowly lifted, the suit’s occupant maximizing the dramatic reveal by tilting the helmet forward to block their face as they pulled it off, finally lowering it to reveal the man beneath.

He had short, dark hair, slicked back, and a thin beard.  Brown eyes met her green ones, and his thin lips pulled back in a smile.  “The name’s Wesley Brightfeld.”

He looked at her like he was expecting some sort of recognition, but she was getting nothing.

“I’m sorry, but should I know you?”

“Fifteen minutes of fame really goes to your head.  For awhile it seemed like everyone knew me.”

“I’m sorry.  I’ve been… busy.”

“Yeah, I read up on you after last night.  Seems you were.”

“So, what should I know you from?”

“I won the lottery.”

“Like, literally?”  People won the lottery all the time.  Maybe it was a local thing, but she couldn’t seem to remember ever knowing any lottery winner or thinking it a big deal.

“Literally.”

“Oh, congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thanks.  It was the largest jackpot ever.”

She raised an eyebrow.  She’d never paid much attention to the lottery.  She was poor, but if she was looking for money for nothing, she always had other means.

“Two point four billion dollars.”

“Jesus H. fuck.”