From the Top (II)
Let's begin at the beginning. The "city" of Vunder is young, less "a thriving metropolis with accessible happenings" and more "an aggregation of suburbs around a bar- and office-filled downtown." Its population was the result of slowly accumulated resources rather than any industrial boom, meaning no city government had ever cared to fund such lower-class institutions as "public transportation" or "community spaces." The service workers and starving artists of the city were thus left high, dry, and—most critically for your story—lonely. So it was that friendships, roommates, partners, and community were found not through face-to-face encounters, but everyone's necessary nemesis: dating apps.
You met her during an average night of swiping and scrolling, charmed by the lazy candid of her asleep with someone else's puppy. A couple coffee dates revealed her as charming, witty, and a normal amount of cagey. When she invited you over for dinner, you also discovered she was a competent chef with excellent taste in alcohol – perhaps too excellent. You ended up crashing on her couch for the night, marking the start of what would become a weekend-long date that ended with a playfully-joking-unless remark about getting in some "kissing practice." By the end of the next month, you were comfortably calling each other "girlfriend."
The added vulnerability of dating shined a harsh light on your cautious white lies. She was surprisingly calm about you supplementing your contortionist income with freelance thievery – but then, she was stable muscle for her neighborhood's cape gang. There was pride in her voice as she spoke of her work with the Roses, living the ACAB life directly and fighting off the Capes Containment Department during jobs. Certainly, the Roses fought, intimidated, and stole their way to solvency, but they also ensured their territory on Vunder's south side stayed affordable, locally-owned, and peaceful. At least, as peaceful as things could get with the Skulls right next door.
You knew it was a possibility that your work would collide with hers. You didn't bring it up. After all, you made a habit of not knowing who pulled the strings on your jobs; psychic interrogation made any knowledge a threat to your comrades' safety. Unfortunately, your ignorance didn't stop her from finding you reaching into a Rose-protected safe. After delivering the goods to your Skull client, you stopped taking jobs south of downtown. You haven't talked to her since.
Your ill-fated job was neither the first nor the last straw between the two gangs, but it certainly didn't help. In the absence of gainful employment, affordable housing, and government support, the tension between the Skulls and Roses was building towards trouble. Punches were thrown on territory borders. Some bars picked sides, while others kicked gang members out altogether. The only arcade worth a damn in the city saw its coffers bleed as its neutral status wore thin. For months, it was all anyone could feel: something had to give.
Tonight, it finally did.
The snap began just as you reached the roof for the night's job. A Skull got caught crossing the street, two-to-one. His shapeshifting couldn't protect him from a technically-unpowered punch by a Rose ferrokinetic, just in time for the trio of Skulls out on a cigarette run to round the corner. They didn't take kindly to one of their own being outnumbered, chasing the Roses into a nearby watch house where five more waited. By the time you were planting your first device, the brawl was in full swing.
Gang criers cleared civvies off the streets as they led the fighting towards downtown; even in battle, everyone knew the real enemies were the ones who could afford lockdown shutters. Super strength had the most potential to damage vital infrastructure, so your ex was relegated to defending frailer Roses and dragging stray fighters out of anyone's home territory. Bound by unspoken agreement, she shrugged off eye beams and street rubble without throwing any punches back. Her restraint was frankly commendable – at least, until the CCD showed up.
(For the record, this was around when the janitor arrived.)
Leave it to the cops to make things worse. A CCD armored car tried to drive through the brawl, earthbound fighters be damned, and your ex was forced to drop an elbow through its engine block. Rather than turn tail, one daring rank-and-file officer decided to launch an ex-military roller bomb (which the CCD had "passivized") in her direction. In protecting herself, she knocked the explosive full of caustic quick-hardening foam nearly onto one of her Skull counterparts. The unintended threat shattered any restrictions on their involvement, and soon fists were flying faster than insurance premiums while government heroes started pouring into the scene.
So it was that your ex-girlfriend's night intersected with yours, propelled halfway across the city by Captain Justice and his high school green belt roundhouse kick.
"Shit, crashed cape on the scene!" Muscle's voice in your ear is barely audible over the lingering sounds of breaking furniture. Your professional instincts (and desire to survive the night) get you scrambling out the office door before you have the chance to consider helping your old flame.
"Where there's one there's more," Eagle warns, voice tight under the fresh crisis. "Bendy, back upstairs, noise doesn't matter anymore. Muscle, punch her a shortcut."
"Copy." You sprint down cubicle aisles, tracing long clear lines towards the stairwell. Above, the sound of a collapsing roof marks Muscle's entrance, while behind you another cacophony marks the cape fight's continuation. Plaster dust tickles your lungs as you bolt through the door, up the stairs, and through the hatch into the ballroom. In the far corner is freedom: Muscle, standing at the foot of a makeshift ramp out of this surprise battlefield.
Your flare of hope is swiftly snuffed when your ex bursts through the floorboards, followed shortly after by Captain Justice with a sloppy flying side kick. Your ex slides on the smooth floor as she takes it to the stomach, then pivots and flings him onward through one of the ballroom's massive windows.
Your eyes meet.
Recognition dawns on her face.
A foot connects with her cheek. State-backed heroes aren't what anyone would call "creative."
It's the crash of a structural column, pulverized by your ex's flying body, that reminds you escaping is an immediate priority. You trace a line along the ballroom's edges, skirting the fight while ceiling dust falls in your hair. As you round the corner, Muscle is hiding behind some rubble, trying to stay out of sight. A stolen glance reveals the woman you love(d?) hunched behind her guard, soaking punches as she backs away from your escape. Distantly, you mentally note you'll have to thank her for that later, assuming you ever see her again – or that there even is a later.
Your lungs are burning and you've developed a cramp, but at last you make it to the makeshift ramp. Muscle wastes no time wrapping an arm around your waist, carrying you from rooftop to rooftop along the planned escape route. You catch a glimpse of Captain Justice getting launched up and out of the office building as you descend. That's your girl.
Glitch and Eagle are waiting in the getaway van, a couple blocks away at ground level. The slow, legal pace of Eagle's driving feels at odds with your heart pounding from the narrow escape. "If we're lucky, no cameras will have caught us, and we'll just be some unlucky souls caught a bit close to where some capes ended up scuffling." You wonder if Eagle can read minds.
From the back seat, Glitch sighs. "Hey, Eagle, we're never taking a job from the Hekkaides ever again, right?"
… It seems there's more to explain. Once more, from the top.