My gaze flicks over to my phone, lying on the counter and buzzing with a familiar number. The phone itself was issued to me to ensure encryption and no risk of our phone lines being tapped or anything, it has some serious defense.

That's not my normal phone. My normal one is five years old and has a fuzzy case.

I grab the Monarch-issued phone and answer it, putting the device up to my ear and staring at myself in my fridge reflection. Gloves, sleeves, pants, multiple layers of it all. It's a good thing I get cold easily, or having to wear so many clothes constantly would get suffocating.

"Delta?" I answer.

"Sunny, my love!" She greets, and I can't help the small smile on my face. Honestly, god knows how this girl is still alive. She's the most affectionate person I know. We've had many close calls. "I'm gonna need you at HQ, we're in the Main Operative. We might be a little cooked."

I'm unsure what that means. I know what HQ is: headquarters. Main Operative is the title for our primary building of operations, though we have multiple other smaller ones scattered throughout the city. All for various reasons and various branches of the Monarch company: Intelligence, Infiltration, Cleanup, and several others. It's a large company, owned by Delta's family for generations.

Monarch used to operate in the shadows. Used to even do business deals with the old hero organizations. Before the reform, Monarch was behind quite a bit institutionally. Maybe that's why she and I have always been close. We come from similar family backgrounds, even if from opposite sides.

Or maybe it's just because she broke me out of prison.

"Why are we cooked?" I ask, unwilling to admit that I don't know what the word means in this context. Even if Delta is always happy to explain slang and pop culture and everything I missed to me, sometimes she just goes too in depth and I don't end up retaining any of it.

"Government's pissed about last night," she notifies me, which I was already aware of due to the news. The memory of the kids looking at the TV in fear comes back to me, but I'm luckily able to ignore the slight tank in my mood by distracting myself with the conversation. "I think Saleh is starting to realize what she's up against. They already went after a couple people from Communications. We might have to start dealing with some legitimate heroes. Maybe even the golden trio."

I hum, happy that she can't see my face and therefore notice how confused I am. I don't know much about heroes, but I've still heard of the ones she's referring to. The golden trio, an unofficial name for the top three heroes of the city. I don't know who they are, even if I've seen their faces many times in passing. I don't pay much attention to that stuff. I stick with focusing on my job, and we've never been high profile enough to put up with them.

There's one who I can recall, though. A male hero, number one. He's everywhere. I've seen his name before, too. Like a vaguely recognizable brand.

Hm. I should go out more. No, probably not.

I don't care to put much more thought into her passing concern. "I don't think so. We deal with the police more than heroes."

"We did, Sunny." She corrects. "Seriously. Get down here."

The woman hangs up.

It's darker now. The red glow of my eyes is more apparent—it vaguely lights up the room.

I sigh, gaze wandering to my utility bag.

It's in the closet, but the door is cracked so a small amount of light leaks in. It illuminates the dark cloth of the bag, and I make my way over. Time to head to work.

The drive to HQ is a blur, faint music leaking out of the speakers of my silver, decade-old sedan that I named Vanessa upon receiving. I don't live far away from the Main Operative—MO. I reach the unassuming lot in no time, a wide urban area that is gated off from the public. There are a few buildings inside the fenced-in area, some trees, an abandoned semi trailer.

I make my way to the dead center.

A faint mechanical sound reaches my ears, the telltale noise of my identity being scanned. Then, moments later, an invisible tube is circling its way around me. The strangest elevator I've ever seen, but I'm used to it. Just like that, visually, I disappear from the lot.

Seconds later, I've entered the invisible building above it.

The invisible elevator finally stills, the tube retracting around me with a soft mechanical hiss. The second it vanishes completely, sound hits me first.

Conversation. Footsteps. Music somewhere in the distance. Phones ringing. Laughter. A printer jamming and someone loudly swearing at it.

The Main Operative spans several floors vertically, though the central chamber stretches high enough to make the building feel hollowed out from the inside. Balconies circle the perimeter level by level, overlooking the massive open center of the headquarters like an indoor city. Neon lights line the architecture in shifting shades of orange, pink, and white, illuminating sleek, expensive-looking black metal and glass.

Not government expensive, either. Not polished and sterile like hero agencies used to be. Like the DVA. Monarch's wealth is older than that. Louder. Flashier. Less subtle.

Massive digital screens line the walls displaying everything from city maps to social media feeds to active police scanners. One screen is literally playing cat videos in the corner while two operatives argue over surveillance footage nearby. The place is packed.

People move constantly throughout the headquarters, some dressed in full gear and armor while others walk around in hoodies, skirts, business attire, pajamas, or combinations of all four. Fair, since some of them genuinely live here. I used to. One woman passes me holding six coffees in one hand and some sort of ray gun in the other. Another guy skateboards through the lobby while carrying stacks of paperwork. I think he's the one I saw crash last week.

Nothing is normal. The deeper into the headquarters you go, the stranger it becomes. One side of the chamber houses a full tech division behind glass walls, rows of glowing monitors reflecting across exhausted faces.

Another area looks almost like a lounge, full of couches, game consoles, and people sleeping in impossible positions. Above that hangs a suspended garden spilling vines down several stories, glowing softly beneath artificial sunlight.

Delta insisted the plants improved morale. I implemented them.

Honestly, she's probably right.

The Main Operative isn't built like a prison or military compound. It's built like an indoor city people actually live in. There are kitchens, recreation rooms, training areas, medical wings, editing studios, intelligence rooms, holding cells, indoor courtyards, and enough hidden doors that I'm still discovering new hallways years later.

Despite the chaos, there's an underlying structure to it all. A rhythm. Monarch operatives move around each other with practiced familiarity, conversations overlapping effortlessly.
I finally reach the executive branch, a wide hallway opening up into an even wider control room.

A giant holographic butterfly drifts lazily through the center of the chamber, projected from somewhere near the ceiling. Beneath it hangs Monarch's emblem: stylized wings wrapped around an M.

The place would be spooky if it wasn't the only home I knew once I left prison. I didn't stay here long, though. Delta wanted to make my dreams come true, and my dreams were flowers and fish.

The woman herself stands in the dead center of the room with one hand on her hip. Her fluffy hair is divided into butterfly wings like normal, dressed in the skirt-clad skintight armored suit that is her work attire. Large platform boots add about five inches to her height, and she's twirling something around her finger that's invisible. Maybe a necklace of sorts?

Whatever, she will probably reveal it momentarily. She loves her dramatics. I'm the last one to arrive, but nobody really looks at me. That's how it normally is: I blend into the background, people forget I'm there until I'm needed.

That said, I take a seat and wait to be needed.