weeks, and everyone was suited up for it. Flex had poured herself into her fake-snakeskin stretch suit that moved with her ability to contort her body to serious extremes. Marco “Onyx” Mendoza’s uniform, manufactured by Rita McNally as a gift, was a new synthetic blend that worked with his shape-shifter abilities. Instead of ending up stark naked after a transformation, he would return to human form still fully clothed. It fit him like a second skin, showing every ripple of muscle and potentialbulge. He worked hard to maintain his physical perfection, almost to an obsessive level.
Everyone had hobbies.
No matter what we found at Crystal Street, I knew the majority of the work would ultimately fall to me. I could absorb massive amounts of heat, and a chemical fire would produce it in spades. Probably more than I could safely handle, and Trance had been very clear about that—only take what my body could absorb. Don’t overdo it, don’t hurt myself.
It was amusing advice coming from a woman who returned from almost every job with at least one wound. She wore her scars with pride, though, and never complained. Unless one of us got hurt; then we never heard the end of it. Endless lectures about taking care, using caution, et cetera.
“Don’t go begging for a natural disaster,” Trance said. “We live in a seismically unstable city, and you’re tempting an eight-point earthquake. We’re due, you know. That little shaker we had two days ago was nothing.”
We knew. Thirty years had passed since the last earthquake over six points on the Richter scale. Mother Nature was either moving house, or saving up for a big show in the near future.
Around the next corner, the disaster site came into clear view. This part of town housed dozens of warehouses, storage centers, and abandoned buildings and created perfect squatter housing. Just off I-5, the Crystal Street strip lined the southern side of the Arroyo Seco section of the Los Angeles River, providing a natural barrier against spreading fire. TheSouthern Pacific Railroad cut a black line on the opposite riverbank.
We only had to keep the blaze from moving forward and sideways. A single warehouse about the size of a football field burned and smoked, flames leaping toward the sky. A brick building—a deserted factory, maybe—stood at the north, and a second warehouse of equal size bordered it on the south.
Police cars and a dozen uniforms kept the gaping crowd a safe distance from the blaze. Trance honked. They cleared a path. Heat struck me in the face the moment I opened the door and climbed out. Sharp odors of smoke and sulfur and gas curled the inside of my nose. My eyes tingled and teared up.
Captain Hooper strode toward us, his deep-wrinkled eyes red from the smoke. I felt a strange sense of nostalgia, remembering the first time I’d met my teammates face-to-face. Hooper had been managing a building collapse. I’d been there reporting on the story. So surreal now, to be part of the team offering assistance.
“Our hoses aren’t doing much except keeping the other buildings wet,” Hooper said, his voice a thunderhead over the roaring blaze. “Whatever they had stored in there, it’s burning like jet fuel. We’ve got a foam truck coming.”
“Are the neighboring buildings empty?” Trance asked.
Hooper coughed. “The other warehouse isn’t under contract to store anything right now. The factory there should be empty, but sometimes people set up house and don’t want to leave.”
“Risk burning to death rather than being arrested for squatting,” Cipher said.
“No doubt.” Trance turned to our assembled group. “Cipher and Onyx, sweep the factory and make sure no one is holed up inside. Tempest and Ember, you’re on the fire. Do what you can to settle it down.” She looked right at me and only me. “Flex and I are on crowd control with Captain Hooper. Coms on, everyone.”
Next to me, Onyx began to transform. His legs shortened, thinned
Everyone had hobbies.
No matter what we found at Crystal Street, I knew the majority of the work would ultimately fall to me. I could absorb massive amounts of heat, and a chemical fire would produce it in spades. Probably more than I could safely handle, and Trance had been very clear about that—only take what my body could absorb. Don’t overdo it, don’t hurt myself.
It was amusing advice coming from a woman who returned from almost every job with at least one wound. She wore her scars with pride, though, and never complained. Unless one of us got hurt; then we never heard the end of it. Endless lectures about taking care, using caution, et cetera.
“Don’t go begging for a natural disaster,” Trance said. “We live in a seismically unstable city, and you’re tempting an eight-point earthquake. We’re due, you know. That little shaker we had two days ago was nothing.”
We knew. Thirty years had passed since the last earthquake over six points on the Richter scale. Mother Nature was either moving house, or saving up for a big show in the near future.
Around the next corner, the disaster site came into clear view. This part of town housed dozens of warehouses, storage centers, and abandoned buildings and created perfect squatter housing. Just off I-5, the Crystal Street strip lined the southern side of the Arroyo Seco section of the Los Angeles River, providing a natural barrier against spreading fire. TheSouthern Pacific Railroad cut a black line on the opposite riverbank.
We only had to keep the blaze from moving forward and sideways. A single warehouse about the size of a football field burned and smoked, flames leaping toward the sky. A brick building—a deserted factory, maybe—stood at the north, and a second warehouse of equal size bordered it on the south.
Police cars and a dozen uniforms kept the gaping crowd a safe distance from the blaze. Trance honked. They cleared a path. Heat struck me in the face the moment I opened the door and climbed out. Sharp odors of smoke and sulfur and gas curled the inside of my nose. My eyes tingled and teared up.
Captain Hooper strode toward us, his deep-wrinkled eyes red from the smoke. I felt a strange sense of nostalgia, remembering the first time I’d met my teammates face-to-face. Hooper had been managing a building collapse. I’d been there reporting on the story. So surreal now, to be part of the team offering assistance.
“Our hoses aren’t doing much except keeping the other buildings wet,” Hooper said, his voice a thunderhead over the roaring blaze. “Whatever they had stored in there, it’s burning like jet fuel. We’ve got a foam truck coming.”
“Are the neighboring buildings empty?” Trance asked.
Hooper coughed. “The other warehouse isn’t under contract to store anything right now. The factory there should be empty, but sometimes people set up house and don’t want to leave.”
“Risk burning to death rather than being arrested for squatting,” Cipher said.
“No doubt.” Trance turned to our assembled group. “Cipher and Onyx, sweep the factory and make sure no one is holed up inside. Tempest and Ember, you’re on the fire. Do what you can to settle it down.” She looked right at me and only me. “Flex and I are on crowd control with Captain Hooper. Coms on, everyone.”
Next to me, Onyx began to transform. His legs shortened, thinned
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