146 Cover Story?

Wamond was almost too calm in daylight. It was the kind of peace that felt artificial, since most enclosed cape communities were quite chaotic regardless of day and night.

“I wonder why…”

I’d been reading the local Cape reports on my dashboard while driving, glancing down at the screen between red lights. Most of the activity here happened at night: break-ins, mysterious property damage, and unregistered power activities. Nothing catastrophic, just enough chaos to keep the city’s nerves humming.

“You should focus on one thing,” Tigress said from the passenger seat. “Reading while driving? You’ll get us in trouble.”

“We’ll be fine,” I replied, eyes flicking between the road and the screen. “I’m great at multi-tasking.”

She folded her arms. “I am seeing many sides to you, Eclipse.”

“My name’s Nick,” I corrected, flashing my ID in front of her face. “Also, stop being a bitch.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer. The traffic light turned green, and I pressed down on the gas. The sedan slid smoothly into the intersection, the morning sunlight glinting off its hood.

I kept one eye on the road and the other on my phone. The city’s strongest cape, according to the news, was someone called Vector. A telekinetic flyer with flexible powers, strong enough to crush a truck, and gentle enough to levitate a feather. Another face in the endless crowd of self-proclaimed heroes and would-be gods.

“Turn here,” Tigress said, tapping the dashboard with her finger.

“I know,” I said without looking. “I’ve memorized the streets around the workplace. I’m not so unprepared I wouldn’t even do that.”

“If you’re so prepared, why are you doing this shit?”

I smirked faintly. “Because I’m under surveillance. They probably don’t know that I’m aware of their monitoring. Inside this car, they won’t bother me. I want to appear oblivious to them, but not without exceeding their expectations. If they’re going to judge me, I’d rather they underestimate me first.”

Tigress gave a low scoff. “Underestimate you? Fat chance.”

Her gaze turned toward the window, but I could feel her words sharpen. “Did you forget the number of murders under your belt? You might as well be a psycho cape.”

“That’s hurtful.” I kept my voice light, but my grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. “Also, are you not scared of me? Shit, I might just kill you now.”

I turned my head, giving her a slow, assessing look, eyes trailing deliberately from her neatly pressed white blouse down to the fitted black pencil skirt and the lanyard ID hanging around her neck. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face.

She didn’t flinch.

Finally, she said coolly, “You wouldn’t dare do anything to me. Not if you want your little plan, whatever it is, to stay intact.”

A faint smile crossed my lips. “You really think I wouldn’t?”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she said, her tone flat as steel. “Because men like you don’t ruin their own games. And because you’re smart enough to know that if you did, I’d make sure you regretted it.”

“Big words,” I teased her a bit as we reached our destination. “It wasn’t that long ago you were shaking in your boots when confronted with me.”

The Wamond Chronicle building wasn’t much to look at, a medium-sized structure wedged between a pharmacy and a coffee chain. The sign above the door gleamed in cheap silver paint, trying a little too hard to look respectable. I pulled up at the front entrance and parked just long enough for Tigress to get out.

She smoothed her pencil skirt, grabbed her purse, and stepped out of the car without a glance my way, without a “thanks,” not even a nod. Figures.

I circled around to the back lot. I killed the engine and dialed Guesswork.

He picked up after two rings, his voice cheerful as ever. “How may I help you? Also, I’m kind of busy at the moment…”

There was a muffled crash on his end, followed by a grunt.

“Do you need help?” I asked, half-serious.

“No, I’m fine,” he said between heavy breaths. “Just doing a bit of demonstration. The task force is pretty lax, so they let me take side quests in my spare time.”

“Side quests?” I echoed. “What are you doing?”

“Recruiting hench-people. Yep, that…”

I rubbed my temple. “Don’t attract too much attention.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m keeping it subtle. I just—oof—need to make my point clear to a few people.” Another thump. Someone yelped on his end.

I exhaled slowly, leaning back into my seat. “So what do you want?” he asked after a moment, his tone turning casual, as if he hadn’t just beaten someone mid-conversation.

I got straight to the point. “What’s the SRC’s attitude toward me? Specifically, the task force, after their observation of me last night.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t sound particularly amused. “They weren’t impressed, Nick. But they are underestimating you.”

“Good,” I said, smiling faintly. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

If this task force was really made up of high-rated capes, then their disdain made sense. It was almost refreshing. Back in Markend, people trembled at the sight of me. Fear followed me everywhere like a faithful hound. It was becoming tedious.

“Thanks,” I told Guesswork through the phone, leaning against the car door. “I’ll call you once a day from now on. Let’s go with transparency. Hmmm… it would be for the best if I could earn their trust.”

“I don’t think that’ll be easy,” Guesswork replied. I heard the sound of rustling papers or maybe bones on his end. “But I can say this much: the task leader’s interested in you. The rest? Not so much. They can’t believe you took down Light alone, or that you infiltrated another world just for revenge. To them, that’s an embellished report. You’ll need to prove yourself before they take you seriously. My advice? Lie low. Wait. The task leader will reach out within a week.”

“Correction, I didn’t take down Light alone,” I sighed. “Annoying.”

“I know, I know, I was there, remember?” he said lightly. “Patience, Nick. Maybe try not to kill anything up this time.”

“Can’t make promises.”

He hung up, probably satisfied with that answer.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and stepped out of the car. The morning air smelled faintly of sea salt, since Wamond’s coast wasn’t far. The hum of traffic mixed with the chatter of pedestrians reminded me that this city was alive in ways Markend never was.

Markend had been a cesspool. This place had it better.

The Wamond Chronicle building loomed ahead, not tall but dense. I adjusted my tie, feeling the stiffness of the suit. At the entrance, Tigress was waiting. Arms crossed. Office attire crisp, hair neatly tied back, face unreadable.

“Did you… wait for me?” I asked, letting a smirk tug at my lips. “Now I’m touched.”

“What is this?” she shot back immediately. “Is this going to be your ‘in-character’ persona while working here?” She sighed. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

We entered through the glass doors. The lobby smelled faintly of burnt coffee and printer ink, an oddly comforting combination. People passed us by without recognition, just another morning for them.

“With you on the block, I’m no longer the new kid in the office,” she said, walking briskly toward the elevator. “So, how much do you know?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, matching her pace.

She gave me a sidelong glance, then pressed the elevator button. “No one briefed you about your cover? About how you’re supposed to behave?”

“Oh, that,” I replied casually. “I know I’m working as a journalist. Maybe make coffee for everyone, or man the photocopy machine.”

Tigress grimaced as the elevator doors slid open. “God help us all.”

“Why? Is there a problem?” I asked plainly. “There’s nothing hard about making coffee, is it?”

Tigress sighed. “I forgot you dropped out of high school.”

“There’s no need to look down on me so harshly,” I said, tilting my chin back. “It’s not that bad.”

The elevator doors slowly sighed shut. A man barreled down the corridor and lunged for the closing doors. Tigress reached out and caught his shoulder before he could wedge himself in.

“W-what?” he stammered, blinking at us. “Is there a problem, Ms. Morose?”

“The elevator’s at full capacity,” she said without a flicker of guilt.

He stared at me, at her, then broke into an awkward, embarrassed smile. “Good luck, new guy! The same goes for you, Ms. Morose!” He gave a nervous thumbs-up and sprinted back up the hall.

When the doors slid shut, I let out a slow breath. “Won’t they misunderstand our relationship?” I said. “It only needs a small ember for rumors to go up in flames.”

“Why did you think I did that?” Tigress asked, eyes on the mirrored wall.

“I don’t know.” I kept my voice even. Part of me enjoyed the tension, and another part of me suspected an ulterior motive. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Listen,” she said with gravitas. “There are only a few capes working here at the Chronicle. Most of them don’t know each other’s civilian identities, except for closed circles such as teammates, ex-teammates, and people with a history. The SRC is draconian about the secret-identity clause. If they find out a cape’s civilian ID, you get fines. If a civilian finds out? That’s worse, because of the public exposure that would follow, legal trouble, and a mess you don’t walk out of clean.”

Her lips thinned. “Since the SRC put us together in the same office knowingly, the two of us knowing each other should be fine.” She shrugged. “At least procedurally fine.”

“Is it fine that we’re talking this so openly?” I asked.

“It’s fine. The elevator is a blind spot.”

She tapped the lanyard around her neck. “Here’s how this works. Every ‘cover’ granted to an SRC affiliate comes with a binder. It’s all the guidelines from acceptable behavior, escalation procedures, contact lists, and emergency protocols. Since you’re clueless, you probably weren’t provided one. Blame it on your handler.”

My jaw tightened. “I'd like to think Guesswork had a reason—”

She cut me off with a dry snort. “Guesswork? He probably thought you’d enjoy improvising.” Her eyes glittered with annoyance. “If he withheld it on purpose, then punch him for me.”

The thought of Guesswork playing games with my cover cardboarded as a particular kind of insult. “What the fuck is a binder?” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her. “Why didn’t I receive one?”

Tigress rolled her eyes as she continued. “This job isn’t making coffee for people or running the photocopier,” she said. “You’re a journalist here for a reason. You gather, verify, and produce. You dig into small stories, local complaints, go to hearings, and file copy. You keep a beat and you make contacts. You’re not a glorified intern.”

I let that sit for a moment. “What if I’m not exactly—” I hesitated. “What if my experience is… limited?”

She leaned closer, not unkind. “How limited?”

“My mom used to work in the field,” I said. The words were softer than I expected; there was a thread of truth in them I hadn’t wanted to own. Mom had gone through the grind from editing, chasing people who didn’t want to be caught, writing copy that hurt and healed in equal measures. I could imitate what she’d shown me, at least.

Tigress’s expression shifted into something almost approving. “That’s at least a start.”

The chief editor’s office was smaller than I expected. A thin haze of cigarette smoke hung over a cluttered desk, backlit by sunlight that filtered through blinds like prison bars. Papers, old press IDs, and an empty coffee mug branded with Wamond Chronicle filled the space. The man behind it looked like he’d been here longer than the building itself. His shirt was half-untucked, his tie loosened, his expression hovering somewhere between exhaustion and wry amusement.

“Nick Wells, right?” he asked without looking up from his screen. “Ugh… So, ever done journalism before?”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“This is so annoying,” His tone wasn’t hostile, just resigned. He gestured lazily toward the glass door. “Morose will show you the ropes. You’re on her wing for the week. Anything you break, she’ll fix. Anything you don’t understand, she’ll explain. Try not to make me regret partnering with the SRC.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

He smirked at that, eyes narrowing slightly as if gauging whether I was mocking him. “Good. Now go before I start giving you real assignments.”

Tigress was waiting outside, arms crossed, and with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “He likes you,” she said.

“Does he?”

“He didn’t throw a stapler at you. That’s basically affection.”

Or maybe the man was aware of my cape identity and didn’t want to get buried six feet under.

For the rest of the day, Amelia slipped into a different mode. She was surprisingly approachable, guiding me through the newsroom like a patient senior with a particularly difficult intern.

The Chronicle was alive in its own grimy way. Noisy, too, from phones ringing, coffee machines gurgling, chatter about deadlines, scandals, and data leaks.

“This is the bullpen,” Tigress said, gesturing to the maze of desks. “Everyone here thinks their article is the one that’ll change the world. In reality, most of them just write about traffic, corruption, and corporate cover-ups.”

“Sounds familiar,” I muttered.

She ignored that. “That’s Rhea, handles political scandals. Don’t get on her bad side, she’ll eat you alive. Over there’s Conrad, tech section, decent guy, terrible taste in music. And that one’s Ellis, editorial staff. If you hear him shouting, it’s usually justified.”

They greeted me with a mix of curiosity and professional indifference. I caught glimpses of raised brows and quiet nods with people trying to place me.

After an hour of orientation, Tigress led me to a smaller workstation tucked near the back. “You’ll start here,” she said, dropping a stack of forms on my desk. “Light-duty stuff. Community events, missing pets, and local PR releases. Keep it clean, keep it boring. We’ll see what you can do before letting you touch anything important.”

I skimmed through the assignments from parade schedules, school fundraisers, and some minor council hearings. Nothing that screamed danger or intrigue.

She showed me where the coffee machine was. It was old, stained, and perpetually out of filters. “You’ll learn to live off caffeine,” she warned. “It’s the lifeblood of this place.”

“Meh…”

We passed by a small snack area with vending machines that rattled ominously whenever someone made a purchase. Beyond it was the smoking corner, a balcony that overlooked Wamond’s congested skyline. She pointed toward it without stepping outside. “If you ever need to burn your lungs or your thoughts, that’s your sanctuary. Just don’t jump.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” I said.

“Good. HR hates paperwork.”

By the afternoon, I’d met half the staff. They all blurred together from faces, names, and a stream of polite introductions and forced smiles. Yet I noted who lingered too long, who looked at me like I was more than just a newcomer. People like Rhea, who had eyes like daggers dulled by fatigue, or Ellis, who laughed too loudly at Tigress’s sarcasm. I was being cataloged, just as surely as I was cataloging them.

Hmmm… I wondered how many among them were capes? They were probably wearing some accessory that evades power detection.

Between briefings and idle chatter, Tigress checked in on me every so often. She was efficient, composed, and for once, not cutting me down with sharp words. The way she carried herself in this civilian façade was oddly natural. She belonged here, as if she’d always been part of this world.

When dusk painted the windows amber, she stopped by my desk again. “Not bad for your first day. You didn’t piss anyone off, didn’t spill coffee, and didn’t break the copier. That’s a record around here.”

“I tried to blend in.”