"Hero Insurance"

In the superhero justice system, collateral damage to civilians is considered especially heinous. In Acadia, Washington, the dedicated detectives that find innocents and investigate these vicious crimes are members of an elite squad known as insurance investigators. This is my story.

         Dun. Dun. So much for these fancy electronic locks Ben had installed; just scattered errors I couldn’t parse. I let my ID hang on my lanyard to fumble for my keys. I made a drunken thrust at the lock once I found them. The door clicked open, and Buster followed me inside. I steadied myself against the door as I bent to snap off his vest; his body relaxed, his tail wagged, and Buster made to trot into the house.

       “No, Buster. Stay tidy.” I reinforced the command with a quiet touch of my mind. He whined, but he remained within the mudroom—where piles of dust and streaks of dirt were the law of the land. Grit and splinters dulled my hi-viz vest to plain grey; my boxer would have passed for a gargoyle. We brushed off in the twilight leaking through the back door. Once we were as presentable as we were going to get, we moved further inside. I dropped my bag by the doorway into the living room, and then slapped the light switch. “Uh?” I flicked it a few more useless times. Power bill? Hah, no; powers bill: that was all covered for me. For us. I edged around Buster toward the windows. The light was fading fast. My eyes ached, and a sudden pain pierced my temples when I sharpened my vision into the infrared. “Damn it.”

        Buster and I both wore an aura of red and orange, but the other heat sources—the TV, the router, the things that ate power even when they were off—had all gone dark. I leaned over to look into the kitchen. The fridge usually blinded me on this spectrum; it was colorless. I stepped over Buster again to head into the kitchen. I pulled the fridge open. Spoiled milk and bad cold cuts made me wretch, and I had to bump the door shut again.

          A whine came from behind me. “Sorry, buddy. Let’s just—” I popped open the cabinets. Bare shelves. My usual stores of beans, rice, and dog food were... when had I last gone shopping? I twisted to look back at my bag by the door. Protein bars would do the job, but then I wouldn’t have them when I needed them, and that could be more serious.

         We could go out. More and more places were making an exception for Buster, especially grocery stores, and especially in his vest. His filthy vest. We were both so gross. The pain in my head increased with every movement. Order in, maybe. The closest pizza place had a few minor speedsters on their payroll; your meal in seven minutes or your money back. My eyes landed on a dish on the dining table. “Oh, good.” I slid Buster out of my way and made a beeline for the table. I lifted the lid, and then let it fall aside with a porcelain clink. “Oh.” Half an end piece of banana bread abandoned maybe five days ago. Buster nudged me in the back of the legs. I turned and knelt to hug him. I linked my hand in his collar.

      Air displaced with a faint pop as we shrank. Another stab of pain. From a height of two inches, the table was incalculably far overhead. I felt Buster coil his muscles; I did likewise. We sprang upward together to land on the ridged wood. At this size, the ridged table was a furrowed field. Buster’s claws clicked on the porcelain as we stepped on the plate. I used my free hand to tear him off a chunk of old banana bread. We both fell to eating.

        We ate until the hunger pangs receded. I dug out my phone with a crumb covered hand and flipped it open. We were in good with a local pizza place; if I asked nicely, they’d bring out some beef for Buster. My thumb touched the first number—

          We need a hero to save us, and we’re not gonna stand here and wait. I blinked down at my phone before I hit “answer.” “Hello, Sarah Keaton.”

           “Ms. Keaton?” The caller paused to swallow a sob. My stomach plummeted.

          “Barbara? Are you okay? What’s happened?” Another sob cut off in an intake of breath.

          “Ms. Keaton, you sound—are you working? Are you fighting?”

           “No,” I said. “No, it’s nothing. What’s wrong?” Barbara took a moment to answer.

           “Have you seen? The news?” I glanced at my dead TV, but she continued first: “It’s the Kingsmen uptown. They were breaking into some place—some research place.” That sounded right for them. I started to speak, and then Barb added, “And—the heroes who responded: Dan and Megara.” I almost dropped my phone. I felt Buster’s growl through my hand against his fur.

          “Steely Dan and Megara? S-Class heroes against the Kingsmen?”

          “Y-yes, and the fighting—it’s gone out of the industrial park and into the city,” Barbara said. Of course it had. “My son and my granddaughters live uptown." Of course they did. "I haven’t been able to reach them, and we can’t get any other teams out there.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mr. Silverlake told me not to call you, but—oh, please, Sarah. Please.”

           “Ben said that?” I glanced at my bag by the doorway, still stained a faint orange from my body heat. “We’re headed that way now. We’ll find them, Barbara.”

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