Falling Apart (And Rolling With It)

Chapter Five

Livingstein was perfect for bulldozing enemies, which The Devastator came to realize through his careful analysis of the city.

Back in his mobile headquarters at the edge of the city, the tourist map was splayed out on the table that went to his waist, painted glow-in-the-dark blue for added effect. Knives in different sizes pinned the map down, securing it in place. Shaggy, brown hair hung low as he bent over the table, looking closely at the map.

He was out of his damaged metal suit, but he was still The Devastator. Nothing would replace the name he worked hard to earn. So what, his go-to outfit was a pair of stained shorts and a T-shirt? And the fact that he always skipped leg day, arm day, any day working out a body part. In the sparkling-clean RV trailer, looks had no power, except for when some asshole peeked into a window and saw a guy deteriorating from high school jock to coke dealer.

A knife toppled over from its place. Annoyed, The Devastator picked the knife up and slammed it down on the table again. The corner of the map tore off, and the knife made a huge crack on the table. He left the knife where it was and used tape instead.

From what he gathered on the map, he encountered the two supers on Buckingham Street. For now, The Devastator couldn't determine the significance of the street. Just to show he had a lead, he marked the street with a Sharpie. He devised a plan to go back to the city however many times he needed to find the supers and track them down.

But he had a better idea after his energy drink break.

Turning on a burner phone, The Devastator tapped a number into the keypad and called it. The call didn't go through, so he tried again. And again. What was taking Reporter so long? Clearly, he was getting a call from someone more important than whatever the hell he was doing at the moment.

The Devastator's fingers squeezed the phone, careful not to crush the device when the call finally picked up. Instantly, he cringed at the distant sound of crying in the background.

"I'm not available, stop calling me," the man said on the other end. His usually deep voice was strained.

"Reporter, it's me," he announced. "You know, The Devastator."

To his surprise, Reporter didn't change his tune. "I have a daughter who needs a nap, and your calls keep waking her up," he said, cranky. "If whatever you need from me is so important, then call back in twenty minutes."

Before The Devastator could gripe about the long wait, Reporter ended the conversation. He stared at his phone in disbelief. If Reporter didn't have some leverage against him, he would have made the man regret speaking so harshly against someone who didn't deserve it.

Twenty minutes dragged on. The timer on the stove buzzed. The villain quickly shut it off and pressed call again. When it picked up, he was pleased to hear blissful silence in the background.

"Now, I'm free," Reporter enunciated. "What is it you want?"

"I need a report on two people."

Sighing heavily, he asked, "Really? Your oh-so-important call was just... getting two reports?"

With a cold smile, The Devastator added, "They're both supers. Active but unaccounted for."

He had Reporter, and they both knew it. Finding info on supers was still Reporter's job, though his last report was written a few years ago. Since then, no new supers had been found. Well, until now.

The villain continued, "I don't have their names yet, but I have enough information that you won't have trouble finding them."

Eventually, he heard Reporter shifting about. The Devastator presumed he was sitting in his office, keyboard at the ready.