chapter 6.1

If Oriana had to choose one word to sum up her opinion of Big Tech, it would be 'amused'.

If a little underwhelmed.

On Wednesday, reports reached her ears over the police radio that a man had been seen breaking into a chain jewelry store, but evaded arrest by means of rocket belt--so, in warrant terms, by vehicle, she supposed? She wasn't worried about the profit loss to a major corporation. After having a hearty chuckle at her desk and finishing her coffee, she headed to the printer room to take care of some faxes Tom had asked her to send to a client. What an antiquated setup. Who used a fax machine anymore?

On Friday, security footage was released to the news of presumably the same man, blasting his way out of the headquarters of a medical billing agency, decked out in a whole tuxedo and robot gear with a metallic helmet completing the look, practically gloating to the camera: "You've been struck by Big Tech, the most dangerous criminal menace to ever plague this city!"

Wow. Villain mistake number one: talking to the camera. Was this fool drunk, or just plain stupid?

She turned off her living room TV, nipped into the kitchen for a glass of wine, sauntered to the bedroom, curled up on the mattress, and queued up a video called 'Huge Yoga Ball Belly Inflation.' Now that she'd had her dose of comedy for the night, it was time to get off.

On Saturday, she was called into work to put out some fire Melissa had caused the previous day with her careless coding, and her morning commute's radio playlist was interrupted by news that a sizable portion of the city's medical debt had been erased. The billing agency was beside itself...good news for everyone who had been paying in installments for the fact that they were alive, though.

Maybe Big Tech was actually kind of a nice guy.

She wasn't catching feelings. Absolutely not.

Sunday Funday rolled around. Oriana had exchanged numbers earlier in the month with Brittney from work, and just before lunchtime the sales professional nervously called Oriana up asking for more DeAndre advice: they'd had a first date, but Britt wasn't sure where they stood or how to read the signals. So, Oriana agreed to meet her for mimosas. Too many mimosas. Sure, putting aside the stress of leading a dangerous double life so you could have an inane conversation about boys was possible without getting inebriated enough to forget your own name, but where was the fun in that? Come Monday morning, she couldn't remember what she'd said to her, but she felt like ass. Too bad, even, to put her biomanipulation to work and rehydrate herself hands-free. She called in sick to work, and Dan conceded that she had earned it for coming in on Saturday. By the time she awoke in the mid-afternoon on her couch, she had three news alerts on her phone. Big Tech cleared out a vault at another local bank, once again letting himself be caught on camera declaring his nefarious intent. Hours later, millions in funds had been transferred to the Blackwater City food bank. Coincidence? Maybe. But if not? You know what? Good for him.

She found the whole thing almost as comforting as a warm bowl of soup would have been, if she'd had the energy to get up and make it. Who was this masked stranger? Would he have taken pity on her in her hungover state and made her soup?

Ugh. Shut up, Oriana.

Then it was Tuesday.

Fuck Tuesday.

She was sitting in rush hour traffic--and how was it already rush hour? She was on her way back to the office at 3 PM after a late lunch, with takeout for the whole team in the passenger's seat. She had thought rush hour would be at the end of the workday, but more and more she was finding the roads backed up earlier. Was this a phenomenon unique to Blackwater, or was this just everywhere?

I-39 was so congested, she was practically parked. She cranked up the AC and the volume. At least the radio was being good to her. Letting herself succumb to the lull of highway standstill, she began to half-sing, half-mutter along: "It's raining men...hallelujah, it's raining--"

CRASH!

She was barely jarred by the sudden flurry of sound and the shaking of her vehicle. She handled bigger shocks on the battlefield day to day. Her car alarm did go off, though. That was unpleasant. But as soon as she got used to the noise, she regained her focus and assessed the situation before her.

A grown ass man wearing a tuxedo and a metal helmet had just fallen out of the sky and onto the hood of her car.

He rolled over with a groan audible through her windshield, and they had a moment of eye-to-robot-eye contact.

He was a slip of a thing, she would guess a buck forty soaking wet, but having a whole person fall on your car, no matter how lithe of frame, was bound to do some damage.

Despite his face being concealed, once the pain subsided, he appeared by his movements to be startled. He reloaded something at his belt and flew off again in a panic.

Her hood was dented, and she was worried about her engine block.

She took out her phone and looked up the number for Proactive. After dealing with automated responses for a few minutes, she finally reached a human being.

"Yes, hello, this is Oriana Taylor-Moore, policy holder number 2859-B-9. I need to file a claim."

One tow truck and one taxi ride later, she walked into the all-department meeting at work late. "Sorry, Tom. Car troubles. Anyway, I brought pizza, since y'all said you was tired of donuts last time."

If there was still one empty chair remaining after she sat down, she didn't notice.

***

Oriana was used to being a public figure, so it was with a natural ease that she sat on talk-show host Fredo Flores' seafoam-green vinyl couch in full Bombshell regalia under stage lights before a live studio audience--at least, at first.

Fredo had asked her--well, asked Bombshell--to appear on his show after the news broke of her support of candidate Jasmine Freeman. For the last three quarters of an hour, he had been interviewing her about her experiences as a superhero and the tension between vigilantes, herself in particular, and the police force. During their time, she had recounted her exploits saving people, the thick stack of warrants she'd accrued in the process (though nobody nowadays was foolhardy enough to arrest her), and the fateful day when she got her name.

She was now backstage during a brief commercial break, sitting in a makeup artist's chair, shaking.

"Are you sure you don't want to take off your goggles, dear? I have something for those puffy eyes."

"Please, just leave me alone a hot second."

The makeup girl retreated. For a moment, Oriana was left to sit with her breakdown.

Then, a hand clasped onto her shoulder. She looked up to see a young...someone, clad in shiny dark armor and dramatic black grease around the eyes, with smooth skin dusted with powder as if to conceal rosy undertones and blue-black hair spiked up high in a faux-hawk that drooped stylishly to one side. "You did really good out there," said the stranger. "Anyone can talk, but it takes courage to cry on the air. I've always admired you, Bombshell. It's an honor to have you warm up the hot seat before I go on. I'm Ember, by the way." With a snap of a finger, the stranger's hand turned into a bright, blazing tongue of flame. Another flourish later, fire became ash that slowly broke and gave way to pale, unburned skin. "Or Valor Madison, if you prefer."

Wait...Oriana remembered the name Ember. Originally from Texas, they were a new contractor with the Division, currently on a tour across national news networks to talk about being a hero while nonbinary. Every once in a while, the Division rolled out their 'first openly queer superhero', as if a pride sticker made it okay for them to expense their gays first on the battlefield. Scarlet Flame had gotten off easy in that regard, and so many others. She was Black, but could play at soft-spoken. She was sexy, but slim enough to objectify. And though she was an absolute turbo-lesbian, she could be convinced to keep it under wraps, lest she alienate the men in her thirsty fanbase.

Whatever got ratings and sold merch.

Ember, on the other hand…

With their angular face, androgynous haircut, and biceps bulging with muscle despite an otherwise petite frame, they were the Division's perfect material for representation.

"I thought y'all contractors wasn't supposed to compromise your real names," said Oriana.

"Oh, it's not my name. Not on paper, anyway." Ember--Valor?--laughed. "Can I buy you a drink after this?"

"You even old enough?" Ever since Bombshell had begun her vigilante career as a student, the Division had been starting their heroes younger and younger. If she had to guess, Valor was nineteen at the oldest.

"Again: I don't exist on paper."

Commercial ended, and the cameraman announced, "Rolling again in five, four, three…"

Bombshell ran back onset and sat on the couch. Fredo adjusted his tie. The cameraman held up two fingers. One finger. Then, after a short pause:

"Ladies and gentleman, in-betweens and neithers, welcome back to Fredo Flores in the Morning! We're live with Bombshell, who's been telling us a little about intersectionality in the American hero scene. Bombshell, how are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, Fredo," she responded. "You know, don't laugh, but talking about all this stuff has made me feel like I've had a weight lifted off of me."

The studio audience gave a collective chuckle.

"For those of you just now joining us at home," said Fredo from behind his wooden desk, "before the break, Bombshell had shared her most personal dark moment, which inspires her today in her support of Councilor Freeman. Bombshell, thanks for your bravery in bringing all this to light. Now, to wrap things up, I wanted to ask you about more current topics as they might pertain to your presence on the crimefighting scene: what do you think of Big Tech?"

Shit. She hadn't anticipated this question. It wasn't on the list of questions Fredo had emailed her to prepare to answer. Maybe he had wanted her unscripted response? Or maybe he'd decided to throw in the question on the fly. Big Tech had hit Milken again yesterday, though was it really hitting a lick if you didn't steal any money?

"Who?" she asked, feigning oblivion for now.

"You know, Blackwater City's newest self-proclaimed supervillain. Flies around in the tuxedo with the robot parts, has already committed several counts of robbery in his short run?"

Oriana scowled, then emoted a sudden moment of realization. "Oh, yeah! Tuxedo guy! He a whole thing now, I guess."

"What do you plan to do about him?"

"Do about him? Why would I get in his way? It's not like he hurting anyone, not I've heard of, anyway. I'm not following the story real close. But if he had hurt someone I think I'd been known. All they'd have to do is Tweet me or call my phone."

"But he steals from companies--"

"So what? Biff Jenkins doesn't need another billion dollars, he's set. Jay Jewelers done made enough money on diamonds produced by slave labor. I'm not worried about the companies. This guy...well, I don't know if I'd even call his ass a villain."

The audience gasped.

"He calls himself a villain," Fredo pointed out.

"Maybe for extra protection? If you're a legit supervillain, the cops usually leave you alone, let folks like us deal with you. But in my book, he just some guy, until proven guilty," said Oriana. "Maybe this cat has a family to take care of. Little sister with cancer or something. Hell, maybe more thieves should walk around wearin' suits of robot armor. Protect 'emselves from getting shot without no trial. Least until we as a city address that problem too."

"So it's safe to say you aren't intimidated by the appearance of this potential new threat?"

"Please. Have you met me?"

"Well, you heard her! Folks of Blackwater, that's all the time I have with Bombshell. Now, please welcome our next guest, you know them, you love them, the enigmatic Ember!"

To the applause of the crowd, Oriana passed Valor on their respective ways to and from the couch. Once the contractor sat down, Fredo began, "Ember, I want you to start. What do you have to say about the intersection of your job and your identity?"

"Thanks so much, Fredo!" Valor announced to the camera, all smiles. "I actually wanted to talk about how, just as there's no right or wrong way to be a hero, there's no right or wrong way to be a person. I think that's applicable to gender, sexuality, methods, powers, and sexual preference. In fact, Bombshell, who was just in here, is someone who I really admire for her refusal to conform…"