“Hero, thank goodness you’re here! Your objective is to breach the building and handle all the bad guys! You’ve only got three minutes, so make every second count!”

  Whatever voice they used for the facility’s audio instructions, it was far too peppy for this. It needed to be more dour, appropriately serious. Most of the Moonshot who ran this course did so in full riot gear or the closest equivalent their powers allowed, just because it was genuinely painful to be on the receiving end.

  Normally, I didn’t care about the voice. But my temper had been simmering right below the boiling point for the last forty-eight hours, and I’d even snapped and yelled at Gorou when he left some blue cheese crumbs on the counter. I needed this badly, but God I wished I could just skip the instructions, it wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them before!

  “Good luck, hero! Your time starts… now!”

  Fucking. Finally.

  One moment, I was standing outside the corrugated-tin faux-building. The next, I reappeared inside in a flash of purple flame, right between the two turrets that they always positioned as door sentries. All I had to do was flick my tail, wreathed in flame, and they melted into so much bubbling slag and scorched plastic.

  Two down, twenty-two to go.

  My ears flicked towards a pair of speakers at my ten o’clock, which played the sound of boots approaching and orders barked in… shit, which language had they been using as the villains du jour, anyway? Back in my time, it was Mandarin, but this sounded eastern European. Ah, whatever. Violet flame bloomed to life in the palm of my hand, and even before the track finished bringing its faux-soldiers into view, I lobbed a fireball in its direction and kept moving. I didn’t even need to look that way to know that the robo-sentry ‘died’ the moment it hit the fire.

  Three down, nineteen left.

  I walked forward, another ball of foxfire in hand. Once I heard the telltale sound, I casually tossed it off to the right, whereupon it split into three, each of which eagerly incinerated another sentry. Sixteen. Ten years I’d been in DC, and the course hadn’t changed. The only difference was that I usually had to leave everything usable when I was done. This time, though, I had permission to just break them all. It was a fun little trade: the R&D monkeys got to see how well their latest toys stood up to extreme temperatures; I got to release pent-up frustration and process negative emotions in a destructive-yet-healthy way, all without the nauseating smell of carbonized human flesh. As for why I was sanctioned to destroy military property with no repercussions? Well… something, something, surplus in the quarterly budget, use it or lose it government funding, so on and so forth. I hadn’t bothered to read more than the first few paragraphs of Megan’s carefully curated CYA email.

  All I knew is that eight of the remaining sixteen would be in the next room, and I really wanted to put on a show. So I gathered a basketball-sized orb of pulsing foxfire in both hands, then shoulder-checked the flimsy plywood door to force it open—!

  —and bounced off.

  I blinked, letting the foxfire flicker out. That door was supposed to open into the next room, with one sentry positioned to put a new coat of paint on whoever thought peeking through was the optimal play. When had… oh. Ooooh. I took a closer look at the door in front of me.

  For the first time in a literal decade, the hinges were on this side. Holy hell. It was actually different.

  “Two minutes left! Hero, you have to hurry!”

  I couldn’t help the vicious grin that spread across my face. They wanted to change things up finally, huh? Well, then.

  Foxfire flashed in my hands, and I poured as much of it as I could keep compressed into a shimmering, roiling sphere. The swirling orb of violet flame shone so bright even I couldn’t keep looking at it, and once I almost lost my grip on it, I knew I was ready. The room in front of me was a good ten by fifteen feet, two sentries pointed at the door, a couple overturned tables and sofas being used as cover, another two off to the side. But that wasn’t necessarily true anymore, now was it? Maybe something inside was different. Not that it mattered, really.

  I flickered into flame again, and reappeared at the ceiling of the next room. The ball of compacted foxfire held stable in my hands, and as I felt gravity take hold, I lobbed it at the ground, bathing the room in flame. It burst out from the point of impact, washing over and incinerating everything in a gorgeous flare of purple. It faded out as I made a sure-footed landing atop a pile of slag and ash, which I hopped off of before it could start melting my sneakers, and scanned the room with both my eyes and ears.

  By my count, there had been ten baddies in here — six on the floor, four perched in positions just elevated enough to be above the eyeline. But that positioning, while effective in most cases, didn’t do much to stop a good firebombing, now did it?

  Speakers played the sound of boots coming from both possible directions at once. I confirmed with a quick swivel of my ears, but I couldn’t tell how many because it was fake, which meant I could either be facing two new hostiles, or all six of the remainder. Well, when in doubt?

  Fire danced around my fingers. I aimed each hand at a doorway, and just let go.

  Violent streams of violet flame poured from each hand, enveloping whatever had been about to burst forth from those doorways, and I counted the silhouettes I could barely make out through the inferno as they fell. One left, one right, two right, two left, three left… wait.

  Where was the sixth—

  I barely heard the almost silent whine of well-lubricated servos. If it had been anyone else, they probably would’ve been caught by surprise, because even my reaction speed wasn’t enough to dodge the paintball flying at my back. Well, except for one small thing.

  The paintball boiled off as it passed through the roiling mass of flame that was left of my body as I briefly faded into incorporeality. When I let myself become tangible again, I was facing the robo-sentry. I laid one hand on the barrel of the paintball gun, and another on what served as its ‘head’.

  It erupted into flame, a brilliant violet column engulfing it. I let it burn for two seconds, three. Then I let it fade, and released my grip on the helmet and paintball gun, letting them sink into the pile of cooling slag beneath me.

  “Wow! You got them all!” The annoyingly peppy system voice said over the loudspeakers. “You finished with seventy-nine seconds left! Thank you for saving the day, he—”

  The voice cut out. I frowned; that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “Acknowledged, NMR# 6625448.”

  I fell apart into flame again, and reappeared out in front of the training structure. A loud buzzer rang, signaling that the metal doors to the NMR’s underground urban training ground were unlocked, and they swung open at a positively glacial pace.

  Behind them stood Barricade, clad in just regular motorcycle leathers and without his helmet. I drew a concerned hiss of breath as I saw him and considered the smoking, burned-out wreck I’d left in my wake. But either my concerns were unfounded or he was made of sterner stuff than I’d thought, because he took one glance at what should’ve been a trauma trigger and just… walked on in.

  Then he laid eyes on me, stopped cold, and averted his gaze.

  “S-sorry!”

  What — seriously?

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Oh for the love of — just look,” I said, rolling my eyes and flicking my tail in annoyance. Seriously, I was in a sports bra and yoga pants! Normal workout clothes! There was no chance this was a new sight for a twenty-something male who’d ever gone to the gym!

  “S-sorry, just, um.” Barricade gulped, then actually looked me in the eye. “Sorry, I’m just. Used to dealing with Substrate. She, uh…” He trailed off, clearly looking uncomfortable as he tried to find the best way to say it.

  “Body-shy?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Bad experiences with men, she said.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, ears perking up as I caught the telltale sign of juicy, juicy gossip… that I also had to pretend I wasn’t interested in or I’d never hear the end of it from anyone. “Bit surprised to see anyone here.”

  “You’re a non-NMR Moonshot using an NMR training facility, and you’re surprised to see someone who’s actually supposed to be here?” Barricade asked. There was an amused tone in his voice, which wasn’t something I expected to hear barely a week after I’d seen him sobbing his eyes out, and I cast an appraising eye at him.

  He was clean-shaven. The bags under his eyes were smaller, and his eyes themselves were clear, not bloodshot at all. He stood tall, shoulders back and chin up.

  It was a far cry from the broken, beaten-down young man I’d seen so recently.

  “That’s fair,” I allowed. “Let’s just say the NMR likes keeping tabs on me, and I’ve leveraged that into access privileges for when I want to cut loose a bit.”

  Barricade didn’t answer me immediately. He first turned to look at the smoldering training course I’d just walked out of. Then he looked around the rest of this parking-lot-sized underground training complex, and saw the four other training courses I’d scorched, plus the target dummies in the strength testing area.

  The reinforced metal target dummies meant for the strong type, and which I’d melted into new, puddle-shaped sculptures.

  “Yeah, um.” He swallowed. “I, uh, I can see why.”

  I gave an amused huff. I uncrossed my arms and laid one hand on my hip, keeping the other free for gesticulating.

  “None of them are ready for you,” I said. “But you’d have known that, since the reservation schedule was posted, so you’re here for me instead.”

  “... yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I, uh. I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Something?” I asked, lowering an ear in question.

  “Something… personal, I guess?” Barricade rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Sorry, I-I know I don’t really know you, but it’s not something I can ask anyone else, and—”

  “Sure,” I said, offering a slight smile so he’d feel a little less discomfited. “Ask away. I don’t mind.”

  There were only a few things he could ask, really. But given the circumstances, he was probably going to ask about—

  “How did you, um. How did you handle it?” Barricade asked. “Like I looked it up, but there wasn’t anything, so I asked the top JAG who was at the interview, and she told me what happened, but not what happened, you know?”

  “I do,” I said with a nod. “And, um… I’m just gonna be honest here? I didn’t handle it.”

  “But…” Barricade looked at me, expression somewhat lost. “But you’re… but, you seem fine?”

  “Well, you do a lot of soul-searching in fourteen years,” I began. “Honestly, you’re doing better than I was, and that’s probably because it’s been a while. When it happened to me, I just got put on a plane and shipped away from anyone who could raise a fuss. A year later and I would’ve been okay to come back, but I waited five. By the time I got back, nobody remembered Foxfire. And yeah, I stand out enough to pick out of any crowd, but having years of not being newsworthy helped.”

  “Did they kick you out of the NMR?” Barricade asked. “I mean, last I heard is, you weren’t a hero when you came back.”

  “Would you still want to be a hero if you didn’t have to?” I asked rhetorically.

  “I, I mean it pays really well, I guess?” He hedged, clearly looking uncomfortable.

  “Trust me, I make more than that as a lawyer,” I told him. “Look. You asked how I handled things, and the truth is? I didn’t, not really. I just… ran away from it all until ‘away’ became the same direction as ‘forward’. I don’t think that’s going to work for you, but I also figure that you’ve already found something that seems to do the trick. You’re just looking for some confirmation that it’ll work, aren’t you?”

  The sound Barricade made was something between a huff and a sigh. There was relief in it, along with something else I couldn’t quite place.

  “It really helped,” he said. “Talking about it. To someone who’s actually listening. I mean, I had to talk to about a dozen different officers and investigators and lawyers and COs after it happened, but it didn’t feel like any of them were talking to me, you know? It, just, I don’t know.”

  “Felt like they were looking for an excuse to stop listening?” I ventured.

  “Yeah! Yeah, exactly that. Then after you, uh, interviewed me, I guess?” His tone was questioning, so I just replied with a nod. “Well after that, I looked at what other stuff I could get. And I just started seeing a therapist. Twice a week for now, and she’s helping me feel more… ready, I guess? Cause I’m gonna have to talk about it again, right?”

  “You are,” I confirmed. “We’re filing suit soon, and they’re going to either try to turn around and sue you, or otherwise pull you into things. And they’re going to treat you like it was all your fault.”

  “But it wasn’t,” he said. It wasn’t whining, or even defensive. His tone was very matter of fact. “I’m starting to get that now. Talking it through. Thinking it over. Things were fucked before I ever got there, weren’t they?”

  “They were, yeah.” I still didn’t have all the details, but Barricade’s account painted a pretty vivid picture, even incomplete as it was. “And sometimes that happens, whether as a superhero or in whatever else you do after. Sometimes you get started, only to realize there already isn’t shit for you to do. The hardest part is just getting to a point where you can tell the difference between an uphill climb and a lost cause.”

  “And can you?” Barricade asked. “Tell the difference, I mean.”

  “Well… it kind of depends,” I hedged. As much as I’d love to offer a pearl of wisdom, there was no clear answer here. “And it doesn’t help that even if something looks like a lost cause at first, it could very well be salvageable, but you’re not the right person for the job. And that feeling? When you know you need to pass the baton because somebody else can do what you can’t? It really sucks! But sometimes you just need a different set of eyes on a problem, and you won’t know if that’s the case without—“

  “Acknowledged,” the system’s voice came over the speakers, and I cut myself off in surprise. “NMR# 18861028.”

  That was an eight digit number. That meant whoever was about to enter was one of the other eleven A1’s — and I would have recognized Roaring Thunder’s.

  “Who…?” Barricade’s question trailed off as he followed my gaze towards the door. It opened up, glacially slow as ever.

  And when I saw who was behind it, I forced my expression to go dead, held my ears and tail perfectly still.

  She was clad in what I liked to call Superhero Standard: bodysuit, sturdy knee-high boots, police-issue belt full of useful goodies, all done up in pleasant blues and grays. Emblazoned on her chest was a torch, with a crescent moon and five-point star above the flame. Crowning off the look was a mantle the color of oxidized copper, extra fabric draped about her neck and shoulders to form a sort of collar before leading into the cape behind it.

  It all made for a lovely contrast to her Mediterranean skin and long braid of black hair. It was a warm, friendly, inviting image, topped off by the fact that she showed her face without reservation.

  The last time I’d seen that face, it had been twisted and lined with anger, barely visible for a moment before the surprise and pain of getting yanked by my tail.

  “Is that Lady Liberty?” Barricade asked, awe in his voice.

  The woman of the hour looked at the two of us and hesitated. Then she lifted off the floor, hovering just above the ground, as she approached at a sedate pace.

  “What’s she doing here? She’s — she’s not here for me, is she?”

  Even if she weren’t, I didn’t plan on staying long enough to find out. As Lady Liberty got within a few feet of us, I let my corporeal form fall apart, and reappeared at the door in a flash of fire. I pressed and held the button to exit, and once I heard the buzzer, I opened the door.

  “Foxfire, please wait a—!”

  Regardless of whatever else Lady Liberty was going to say, the sound of the door slamming shut drowned it out. I wasted no time blinking into the locker room to retrieve my stuff before heading to the parking lot one flash of fire at a time, making sure to remain in full view of the cameras.

  Maybe the country’s favorite hero was there to talk to me. Maybe she was just there for Barricade, and saw an opportunity when she noticed me. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know, either. I’d learned the hard way to never meet your heroes.

  They’re never more than another pain in the tail.

  in ponds on websites.