Once you're clear, Rune initiates another phone conversation. Apparently she wants to leave work early. Ops seem to have other ideas.
"I brought out my good rock for this! I need to go wash it."
...
"Easy for you to say. You can't smell the wolf. Our everything needs washing."
("I don't mind going on", you say. "Of course you don't, you stink too," she replies)
"No seriously, if you haven't fought Mush yourself you have no idea how bad we smell right now. Is this the image you want the Empire to project?"
...
"Fine. But you're paying overtime for this."
...
"No! Half a goddamn shift of overtime!"
...
"Argh!"
She hangs up, and shoves the phone in a pocket with a violent motion.
"No luck?" you ask.
"None. You know what they say about anti-semites."
Uhh... "No?"
"You'll hear it soon enough if you keep hanging around the rank and file. 'The only thing more tight-fisted than a jew is an anti-semite.'"
"Sounds like Kaiser," you agree.
"Anyway, they want to keep us out here, in case the rest of the Merchants show up. I don't suppose you can do something about the wolf?"
"He has a name, you know. As do I."
"Sorry, New Girl." She holds up her hands when you glare at her. "Joking, joking! Uh, Low Key, right?" She pauses, scratches the back of her head. "They didn't tell me you named your projection."
"Fenrir."
"Right. Should'a guessed. Can we just hose him off a bit before we continue?"
You look at Fenrir, who shakes his head emphatically.
"You're welcome to try." You don't attempt to hide the mirth in your voice. Rune elects not to try.
---
Despite ops's concerns, your patrol ends without further excitement. Rune flies off to dunk her rock in the bay, you head for home. You tell Fenrir in no uncertain terms that you're not letting him in your bed until he takes a bath, but he just shakes his head again.
When he dematerializes he leaves a wolf-shaped cloud of garbage juice hanging in the air for an instant. You almost step back in time to avoid any of it splashing on your shoes as it hits the ground. Now he looks smug, the intangible bastard. You sigh, then smile. Your power keeps throwing you these curveballs. Self-cleaning wolf, sure, why not.
You pause in front of your door to put on your glasses (you're still wearing contacts, but you're not touching your eyes until you've washed your hands. Twice).
"Don't hug me, I stink," you announce to your dad as you enter.
He sniffs the air. "You really do," he agrees. "What happened?"
"There was an incident with an overeager dog and a bag of garbage." You grimace. "Several bags, actually." It's a risk, telling your dad the truth all the time, but you don't think anyone got any footage of the fight. He won't see anything on the news that will let him connect the dots.
"Ouch. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
He has you hand him the dirty clothes so he can wash them right away. A nice gesture you suppose, but unnecessary. You were going to wash them along with your costume anyway, after he had gone to sleep.
---
The next day, you do some sewing while tending the forge. Hookwolf expects you to show up in regular gym clothes on Tuesday, so you make yourself several sets of padded underwear to maintain a 'Low Key' figure even without your strategically padded costume. You're not proud of this, alright? But your vanity put you on this path, and you're just going to have to keep walking it.
You're interrupted by a text message to your Empire phone.
< Come to the usual place for payment
You stare at it blankly for a while until you remember: Right, you get bonuses for cape fights! Scaling with danger and performance. The danger involved in yesterday's fight is debatable - you did fall off a roof and break your butt, but to be fair that was mostly your own fault. But your performance was definitely A+, if you do say so yourself. One hit KO.
You did forget all about that - you're in this for the powers. But you're not going to pass up free money.
> I'll swing by later tonight
You don't specify 'after sunset', because that could theoretically link you to a not-yet-emerged Tinker who requires sunlight to work. You don't feel the same impulse towards honestly with your employer that you do with your dad.
---
The benefits of using mass-produced plastic crap in your cape outfit: Rather than head home to grab your kit (and figuring out something to tell your dad about where you're going that doesn't involve 'nazi friends', 'blood money' or 'bar'), you just buy another mask on your way. You have your new padded underwear right here, and if Hookwolf can get away with civvies and a mask all the time, you can do the same for one evening when you're not even on the clock.
There's a cheer as you enter the bar. You can't tell if anyone you know is present, because without glasses or contacts every face is a blur (and every hairstyle, identical). Well, you recognize Rune. The robe stands out a bit. She's at the bar, slouching over her drink. She's made it clear that she doesn't think much of spending time with the rank and file. Was she waiting for you?
Apparently so. "God, finally. Let's get this over with."
The bartender/contact person reaches under the bar and retrieves several bundles of bills.
"For exemplary work in service of the Empire," he says pompously. But he's smiling as he says it, self-aware. At least you think so. Again: Blurry faces.
You pick up a bundle, riffle through it (bring it close enough to make out the denomination). Some mental math says: Four thousand dollars.
"We split this?" you ask Rune.
"Technically, yeah. By rights it's all yours. You take it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. You took him down, I just drove you there." She pushes the cash towards you.
You're speechless for a moment (the peanut gallery, not so much: "Rune is being nice to someone?" "Who spiked my drink? Because I'm hallucinating!" "Well, she is a fellow cape. Not like us mortals"). Rune really does want to be your friend. Wants it enough to pass up two grand. Are... are you touched? You're touched.
Wordlessly you split off a few hundred and pass it back to her. She tries to wave it off.
"I said-"
"I know, I did all the work. But what kind of asshole doesn't tip the serving staff?"
At that, there's more cheers, and laughter, and then everyone wants to slap you on the back and buy you a drink. Non-alcoholic drinks only, the bartender assures/admonishes you. Right, underage drinking is for degenerates, no doubt.
Rune inclines her head, acknowledging a point scored, and accepts the money.
"I told them I wanted to be your regular patrol partner, if that's all right with you?" she says.
"Sure!" Even at two patrols per week, figuring out her power is going to take ages. If you split your attention, forget about it. "Are you sure you can afford it, though?" (peanut gallery: "Ooooh!" "Shots fired!")
She snorts. "They told me all about your performance issues. Some of us can get it up more than twice a week, you know."
More laughs from the peanut gallery, and you bow your head in turn. Point to her.
"How'd you know where to hit him, anyway?" she asks. Oh, right. In your attempt to be at all useful in the fight, you may have given some things away. How to deflect this?
"...wolf senses," you settle on. A nice, vague answer that sounds like it explains things without actually committing you to any specific mechanics. Hell, it doesn't even specify whose senses, yours or Fenrir's.
Come to think of it, Fenrir hit Mush dead on, way more accurately that your instruction of 'center mass' should have allowed. Maybe he does have wolf senses. You'll have to ask him later.
"Shame it didn't matter in the end, huh?" Rune interrupts your thoughts.
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't hear? Squealer and Skidmark were also out and about, just running late. They hit the Wards and freed Mush before they could even return to base."
"Yeesh," you say. "At least NASA got to the moon eventually."
Rune giggles. "Oh, that's good. Do you mind if I use that one? I'm using that one."
She pulls out her cellphone and swipes at the screen a few times. You recognize the color scheme of the PHO forums when you lean over to see what she's doing, but she puts the phone away without typing anything. "I'm using it as soon as my ban wears off," she amends. "Anyway, I'm off. See you on Monday."
"Monday."
She leaves, but you think you'll stay for a bit. Accept some of those non-degenerate drinks. Being surrounded by people who like and respect you is... strange. And nice. Strange and nice.
Spoiler: PH-O-vision
---
Facts about nazis: Nazis are mammals. Nazis fight all the time (with each other, about minor points of doctrine). Nazis are hilarious.
You admit that you didn't expect that last part. But it makes sense: Offensive jokes are funny. There, that's all there is to it. And unsurprisingly, once someone stands up and proclaims that Hitler was a swell guy who did nothing wrong, political correctness no longer has any power over them. These people pop holocaust jokes like they're dad jokes. Which leaves someone with your more tender sensibilities helpless with guilt-tinged mirth. You'll never be able to look at a lampshade with a straight face again. Also, you're going to hell.
The less said about the resident shock jock, who goes for jokes considered offensive even by this crowd, the better. "Because it's not pedophilia if you kill the babies first!" he delivers the punchline. Yeah. In his case the jokes are less funny than the reactions of the audience, as hardened thugs cringe and groan and cry out in protest: "I'm eating here!" "Jesus, why?" "Please stop." You're personally so shocked your hand freezes in midair in a position that could unfortunately be mistaken for offering him a high five. That's your story, and you're sticking to it.
This asshole isn't returning your high five, though.
"Why you leave me hanging, bro?" you ask plaintively. "Do I look black to you?" A touch of lynching humor convinces him to reciprocate. Yep, you're definitely going to hell. On the plus side, your infiltration of the E88 is going great.
With everyone so cheerful and talkative, you easily collect a whole bunch of soul prices. More out of curiosity than any plans to use them. Which is a good thing, because pretty much all of them are useless. Many just repeat the fourteen words. Yes, you did look those up.
Mike wants to secure the survival of his people and a future for white children.
Sven wants to secure the survival of his people and a future for white children.
Others are basically that, but less abstract:
Otto wants to build a real country for his children to grow up in.
Jonas wants to deport all jews to Israel. Or possibly Madagascar.
Steve wants to find a good woman to settle down with and have some kids.
There's the odd wants a million dollars type soul prices here and there too (that you obviously can't help with either), but by and large they're just so un-Master-ably sincere, the bastards. Which makes sense, when you think about it. The reason you find smiling sociopaths at charity dinners is because being seen as charitable has social benefits. Being seen as a nazi has the opposite of benefits. Consequently, it doesn't attract people with ulterior motives. Except you, you suppose.
---
If Fenrir was actually as limited as the Empire believes, you'd be a lot more nervous changing your underwear in an alley in the middle of the night. Just saying. Really, the whole thing ran a bit later than you'd planned. A lot later. No, you're not drunk. The bartender remained adamant on that point. "Providing alcohol to a minor is a crime," he'd firmly remind anyone who tried to buy you a 'real drink'. "And crimes are for black people."
Sobriety notwithstanding, you're practically asleep on your feet by the time you get home. Only to find the lights still on, and your dad waiting for you.
"Where have you been, young lady?" His stern tone does a terrible job of hiding his worry.
"Party," you answer. Close enough, right?
"A party." He crosses his arms, tries to reinforce his stern look.
"Yeah, party." Your tired brain tries to figure out why he'd object to that. "No drinking. Adults present." You yawn. "Ran late. Sleepy."
"Uh huh. Let me smell your breath."
You walk over and blow in his face.
"Okay, you haven't been drinking," he admits. "You should still have told me. I would have come to pick you up. It's not safe-"
"Pshhhffft," you reply, waving your hand in his face. You were never in any danger. "Pepper spray." Magic wolf.
"That's-"
Before he can come up with any further silliness, you lean into him and reach up to place a finger over his lips. "Sleepy," you remind him. "G'night."
He sighs. "We'll talk about this tomorrow, Taylor."
"Mmhmm."
You stagger down to the basement, and then proceed to hide your shit. Never mind the three-thousand-and-change dollars. Yes, it was more at the start of the evening. You might have bought a round for everyone at the bar once or thrice. Five times, tops. Dad is still not going to believe you saved it up by mowing lawns. Him finding out that you're a part-time supervillain would be bad, but survivable.
If he found out that you went to a party in homemade padded underwear, your life would be over. Because you'd have died of embarrassment.
===