Purgatorio & Vestibule

Chapter 1: Clean Laundry

A loud clash. Sparks rain down the brunette, codename Purgatorio, singeing the white kevlar of her suit. Without having to look, she can tell that her gauntlet would be beyond repair; very few materials could survive distress from a heated metal rod.

The dust settles. Her left arm holds strong against the metal that was very, very intent on breaking her goggles -- and head -- into two like a ripe watermelon. For a second it's as if someone had pressed "pause" on the world's remote, her assailant's flabbergasted face freezing at the unexpected resistance.

'So you might be wondering how I ended up here,' Purgatorio snorts, her audience silent in the privacy of her thoughts. In real time, her other hand thrusts itself into the man's chest. The metal rod clatters uselessly as Purgatorio shoves it away.

"If you bear no guilt," she says gently, "burn."

And suddenly, heat; a sudden burst of flame rises from Purgatorio's palm, even coming from the soles of her feet and surrounding the pair. The man screams; he flames lick up his neck, sweep down to his feet, and crawl into his eyes like mad ants. He can't breathe.

But it is over almost as quickly as it started. He still stands, mouth locked open in a silent scream, except -- except that he remains unhurt.

He dimly registers that his pants are wet. The pungent smell of piss drifts up his nose.

Before him, Purgatorio grins. The neck of his shirt yawns grotesquely when she yanks harshly at his clothes.

"A congratulations is in order, Mister," she sneers, "you get a chance at redemption."

He blinks twice, dazed and winded. Purgatorio grips at one of the scabbards on her back and drives the pommel into the back of his head. He thuds heavily to the ground like a rag doll filled with cement.

His chest lifts with a breath. Alive.

Purgatorio sighs, and walks over to the open edge of the unfinished building. There are a number of other bodies she has to step over, but eventually she claims a languid perch, the faux gold soles of her white boots swinging over the ledge.

Some fumbling through her utility belt produces a small, outdated phone.

"Hey," she says once the line picks up, "it's me. I've got your collars for you. Could you…? Ah, yeah. Sure. Thanks, I'm beat. Speak soon."

She turns back, at the slew of unconscious bodies. It's…a lot.

"Maybe I should just invest in chloroform," she muses, eyeing their multiple head injuries. She turns to an unconscious figure, "maybe there's a TikTok video about making 'em?"

But there's no time like the present, so she starts the menial task of cuffing them before the police arrive.

----

The funny part about cleaning up a Purgatorio crime scene is that, no matter how many times they've offered to use more secure, regulation-grade cuffs, she still insists on buying the fuzzy abominations from the far west side of the city.

"It helps lighten up the mood," she says every time North scolds her. "I guess the old 'all work and no play' blah blah should apply for cops too, yeah?"

Without waiting for a response, she would touch his arm, smile softly, and say "but of course they do."

And for all that North knows about supers, it's that they can be either of two things: up above in some sort of space station fighting some sort of weird multidimensional beast, or down here where they thrive in being cryptic and lording it over the normal folk.