Siren was the cape who was looking me over. The costume he wore was in the usual Advance Guard style, all angles, geometric shapes and future-tech in style, with his particular aesthetic touching on the reds and blues of his namesake sirens, as well as the sea monster thing. It almost reminded me of Byron’s outfit, run through an ‘Advance Guard’ filter. He stepped back, leaning against the catwalk railing that I really wouldn’t have been leaning against, while I leaned against the wall by the door. Without bending over, he reached down to the personal first aid kit he’d hung on the railing, got a thing of disinfectant spray, and rubbed his hands down.

His eyes didn’t leave my upper body.

It was enough to unnerve, but I could push myself deeper into that mindset I’d had to maintain in the hospital, letting nurses take care of me. Privacy just didn’t happen when you needed someone else to look after your health.

Still, it had its limits.

“Problem?” I asked.

“I don’t like the swelling on your right side.”

“It hurt more, I got to thinking why. I skimmed the ground while flying low. More of a right-side impact.”

“Aggravated it.”

“Probably,” I said. “Anything else?”

“You look worn out.”

“I feel like I’m fighting okay. I’m not leading my team or calling any shots I don’t have to. The worst that happens when I go on autopilot is that other people get hurt.”

“You’re getting hurt.”

“That’s attrition and I wouldn’t be much healthier if I was one hundred percent sharp. I’ve been at the cape thing for long enough I have okay instincts.”

“What about other people getting hurt?”

“I… don’t have as many years of experience at holding back.”

“Ah. Ex-vigilante?”

Vigilantes were the cape-scene term for the heroes who eschewed the game in favor of putting enemies down for the long term, if not permanently. Break too many of the unwritten rules, break the actual laws, and life got harder.

“Nevermind,” he said, taking advantage of my pause before answering. “You’re sharing details like you want my permission to go back into the field, but you don’t need it. I have five years as a E.M.P., I can give you my best spot diagnosis, but it’s your call. There’s no boss here I could tattle to, and I wouldn’t.”

“If you did have to give me a diagnosis?”

“Turn back. If you trust your team to make calls while you’re not on your A-game, trust them to handle shit without their flying brick. I’m betting they handled things before you joined.”

Depending on how you interpret ‘handled’.

“Do any of us capes really ‘handle’ stuff?” I asked. Then, when he paused, I did much the same thing he’d done to me, and answered, “Nevermind. Heavy question.”