The Pixie Hacks the Mean Machine

The Pixie cowled her cape across her face to shield it from the sparks. That tank of a truck – The Mean Machine – missed her by inches, scraping instead across the edge of an old iron dumpster.

Through the shower of orange cinders she spied Keith Paxton, the youngest of the three Paxton brothers, jabbing his middle finger at the sky. He snarled as his tinted window buzzed up, and the armored vehicle screeched away.

“Faera!” the Pixie hissed to the microphone embedded in her mask, “where are they headed? I lost them.” Her fists clenched as she waited for direction.

“The Mean Machine is approaching Bridge Street West,” Faera said, as on-beat as always, “looks like they’re turning…Shit, they’re heading back downtown!”

The Pixie groaned but picked an alley and sprinted down the center, half cape streaming in her wake. Her heavy-soled boots made muted thuds that snapped at her heels as she chased the brigands into the heart of Murderville .

“Tell me where!” The Pixie rounded a shambling convenience store and darted down another alley that led to the main drag.

“If you can maintain speed and they don’t accelerate, you should be able to beat them to the lights at Kensington’s.”

Heart pounding, lungs heaving, the Pixie pushed herself faster. “Give me a color sample of the road and a countdown from five.”

The Pixie had vowed to bring the Paxton brothers to justice, no matter what it took. She had stopped caring whether that meant prison or elimination. A year had passed since she swore she’d protect the people of Murderville, and restore the city’s former beauty and its true name.

The Paxtons were one of the cruelest thorns pricking her battered side. She didn’t know where they’d sourced the Mean Machine, but she suspected the Giant might be involved. She’d only heard whispers about the crime boss… but who else could have brought such a costly, cutting-edge piece of technology to her city?

“Five,” Faera’s voice piped in her ear, “four…”

The Mean Machine’s roar approached as she swept off her hood and detached the nanozip. She tapped her belt and the hood’s deep purple hue shifted into something very similar to the cracked asphalt of the street.

“Three,”

The Pixie peeked around the corner and then pulled back, tapped her belt again, and tossed the hood underhand.

“Two, one.”

As the Mean Machine roared forward, the hood hardened into a makeshift helmet. She ordinarily used it to protect her head, but hoped it would be hard enough to…

CRR-AA-AACK!

The hood-helmet shattered and the armored truck lurched sideways, banking dangerously to one side. But it had six solid tires that ate caltrops for lunch. As the Mean Machine slammed flat the driver jerked the wheel and took his foot off the gas pedal, just long enough to get back on the road.

The Pixie plucked a tiny, magnet-headed tracker from her belt. She skipped sideways and threw backhand, sticking the miniscule device to the vehicle’s rear bumper.

“I tagged them.” The masked maiden said as she ducked back into the alley, “activate the tracker and bring back the drones. I’ll be home soon.”

She disappeared into the shadows of the tainted city’s soul, fixing the image of Keith Paxton’s sneer firmly in her mind. She knew she’d see it again soon, and he wouldn’t always have the Mean Machine to protect him.

“Shit,” Faera muttered through her earpiece, “the tracker came off when they went into the bay.”

“I hate that machine. Where the hell did the Paxtons get an amphibious armored vehicle?”

“Maybe James would know something.”

“James knows something about everything. Good idea. You should dig into why they’re stealing what they’re stealing.”

“You don’t think it’s… just for money?”

“They hit a few banks,” the Pixie said, “and a silversmith. But why not gold, or diamonds? Or… more banks? Do we even know what they took from the other places?”

Faera fell silent for a moment while she searched for information. “They stole some next-gen batteries and who knows what else from Voltexplore. But we don’t know what they took from the film studio, and I doubt we’ll ever know what they got from the defense contractors. You’re right, there’s got to be a reason.”

“Find it.” The Pixie paused in the mouth of an alleyway to catch her breath. “I’ll talk to James tonight.”

She waited until James had settled into the corporate wing of Voltexplore’s facility. The manufacturing building hulked like a rolling hill in the pale moonlight, but the offices were tucked behind it near a small green space with some trees and gardens.

The woman in the purple mask stalked through silent halls until she stepped into the conference room where he was working.

“James.”

He jumped.

“Damn it, Pix.” James removed his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed the stress from his face with the heels of his palms, “you’re going to give me bad cholesterol if you keep scaring me.”

“That’s not how cholesterol works – nevermind.” She scowled to hide her smile as he chuckled. She tucked herself against the wall, sinking to the floor and sitting among the shadows. “I need your help.”

“Well then, the least you could do is sit at the table and look me in the eye.” He slid his spectacles back on and reclined in his chair.

“I’d rather stay out of sight. How much do you know about advanced vehicular security?”

“That’s a fun conversation starter. Did someone steal your purse?”

The Pixie’s alto chuckle wafted out of the darkness. “I’m thinking more like something that could withstand all the stuff we usually use to stop getaway cars.”

“Ahh, you’re finally building the Pixmobile. I think you deserve it.”

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and then James pushed his chair back from the table.

“This is about the Mean Machine, right?”

“You’re so clever, James.”

“Is the news true? It’s submersible?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” James opened a sleek little laptop and tapped a few keys. “None of the pictures I’ve seen in the news have shown much, but it’s likely repurposed from a military program. That level of tech isn’t something you can slap together at the local garage.”

“How do I stop it?”

“How much high explosive are you willing to use?”

“I was hoping to just zap it with a laser or stun ray.”

“Well…”

James stood up and stretched, uncoiling his lithe frame. He had a strong physique for a techie, and thick brown hair that fell just far enough to touch the tops of his heavy glasses.

“I’m all out of laser stun rays, but I do have an idea that might be worth something.”

“Oh?” She rose to one knee, just high enough for the dim light to paint her mask a lighter shade of purple. “How much is it worth?”

“One kiss from the Pixie.”

She let the silence hang between them, but James didn’t look uncomfortable. The bastard was biting his lip to stifle a grin.

“This is workplace harassment.”

The man snorted a laugh and then clapped a hand over his mouth.

The Pixie sighed. “Best I can do is two pecks, but I’ll pay half up front.”

She stood smoothly and stepped to his side, rising up on the balls of her feet to press both lips against his stubbly cheek.

“Now, what are you thinking?” she said softly, inches from his ear.

He smiled and took a deep breath, and then turned to meet her gaze. “First we need more info. I’ll give you a leech chip that should be able to detect some of their tech and send a data burst to my servers.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just get the chip close to the Mean Machine for thirty seconds. Inside the vehicle would be best.”

“Will the data come here?”

“It’ll go to my personal servers, but I can access it from here. Come see me again soon.”

“I will.”

She rose to the balls of her feet again, tilting her face as if for a kiss, but when he closed his eyes she turned and darted out the door.

Before the Pixie had moved more than a block away from Voltexplore, Faera spoke in her ear.

“The tracker didn’t fall off, it just went offline.”

“What? Why? Where is it?”

“It’s sitting still, but… it’s three blocks south of your current position.”

A frigid feeling slid down the Pixie’s spine. She turned and sprinted past a two-story home, vaulting over a high fence to steal through the back yard.

“Are you there?” Faera’s voice rose to a higher pitch.

“Yes. Sorry,” the Pixie breathed as she landed in the next house’s yard, “is it moving? Tell me where.”

“It’s two blocks south of you, parked about fifteen yards eastward on the street. No, it’s moving! Cut right, it’s turning the corner.”

The half-caped commando dug her boots into the grassy soil and raced out of the yard along a cracked asphalt driveway. The roar of the Mean Machine’s engines filled her ears as she reached the sidewalk.

The monstrous vehicle bore down on her like a raven descending on a sparrow.

It wasn’t alone.

A compact trailer half the length of the vehicle was hitched to the rear.

No time to ask why Faera hadn’t mentioned it. The Pixie raised her middle finger at the Mean Machine as it approached. The rear window buzzed down so Keith Paxton could return the gesture, and she did a playful twirl to disguise her throw, hoping Jame’s chip would hit its target.

The Mean Machine sped past and the cart detached, pulling to a stop under its own power. The door rolled upwards, and four masked thugs leaped out and advanced on her.

The Pixie breathed to the bottom of her diaphragm and leaned on the solid wooden mailbox perched in front of the house.

“This is no way to treat a lady,” she laughed, checking hands and hips for weapons, and seeing none.

“Come with us,” the leader said, stopping a step and a half away and beckoning, “you can teach us proper manners.” He leaned as if to shake her hand, and then stepped forward and launched a round kick at her midsection.

He looked tall and strong - bigger and more powerful than the Pixie in every physical sense. The kick was well executed, aimed to slam his shin against her ribs with enough force to break them.

The Pixie spiked a pouch of carefully isolated chemicals and dove in the opposite direction. A cloud of smoke laced with colloidal silver erupted as protective lenses filled the mask in front of her eyes. One gloved hand snared the base of the mailbox’s post, and she tumbled around it in a semicircle.

CRACK!

The lead thug’s kick beheaded the mailbox, leaving jagged timber jutting upward. The Pixie rose from her roll as the gangsters coughed and clutched their eyes. She drove her knee into the lead man’s solar plexus and seized his head, and then fell back and skewered his neck on the broken post.

Watching the dying man’s blood stain the sidewalk through watering eyes made the other three hesitate for half a moment. The Pixie found her feet, and unleashed the wrath she’d been reserving for the Paxtons.

The thugs weren’t a terrible team. One of them clutched her shoulder hard enough to bruise before she shook him off. Another landed a flailing hook that hazed her vision and bloodied her lip.

It made no difference. They couldn’t match her speed and sharp strategy. Her hardened gloves and boots dusted their chins, temples, abdomens, and throats. Soon she stood alone, scanning for witnesses and finding none, broken teeth and blood beneath her boots.

“Are you okay?” Faera sounded almost frantic.

“Yes. Had to crack a few skulls. The Paxtons brought company.”

“Shit! I don’t know how I missed that. But good news… James said he got the data.”

“Perfect.” The Pixie slipped into the shadows, leaving a grisly morning shock for the slumbering neighborhood.

Her heart plummeted into the icy whirlpool of her guts as she re-entered Voltexplore’s halls. A metallic odor haunted the air, and her wandering eyes spotted a change. Three drops of crimson blood, still wet on the tiled floor.

The Pixie sprinted to the conference room where she’d left James. More blood decorated the tabletop, deep red lightening as it dried. She pressed her back against the wall and sank into the shadows, remembering him standing there. She exhaled and held, and then inhaled.

“Faera.”

“Ma’am?”

“James is gone.”

“Oh my goodness… get out, Pix!”

She felt strangely calm as she sat still, but when she raced out to the safety of night her mind and heart flew faster than her feet. She reeled the wayward thoughts to heel one by one, until she had her breath and her pulse back under control.

“Fae, who else do we have that could help with the tech?”

“No one local. I’ll see who’s available in our extended network.”

“Good. Send me James’ address. He seems like the type of guy that keeps physical cloud servers in his closet. The data will be there.”

“Be careful.”

The Pixie heard Faera’s words waver, sensing the same stress she felt in her compatriot’s voice. She steadied her own nerves and reassured the younger woman.

“We’re always careful.”

She took her time following a series of side streets and alleys to James’ penthouse apartment. It was one of the nicer buildings in a middling part of town, occupying half of the top floor. A recently painted flight of fire escape stairs made accessing the roof easy work, and she picked the lock on the maintenance door just as night’s darkness eased in pre-dawn ambience.

The door to James’ apartment was shut, but unlocked with no visible tool marks. Either he trusted his neighbors far too much, or his captors had already visited with the key.

Aside from an above-average number of smart home devices, James’ apartment could have belonged to any successful just-shy-of-middle-age man. The rooms were tidy but comfy, the decor sparse and impersonal, and the fridge empty aside from a few takeout containers.

“Pix?” Faera said as the heroine padded into the master bedroom, “there's good news and bad news.”

“In that order please,” the Pixie made her way to the closet nestled behind the double bed.

“The Dryad says she can scan the data for us, you just need to transfer it to our server.”

“And the bad news?” The Pixie asked as her glove closed around the closet's doorknob.

“The local news just reported James as missing. The cops named you as the prime suspect.”

“What? How?” The Pixie pulled the closet open and spotted a rack of servers humming quietly behind a rack of covered suits.

“They said they have CCTV footage of you entering the building, and then the camera feed cuts, and then he was reported missing.”

“But that doesn't make sense,” the Pixie said beneath her breath as she stepped over a box of sports cards and posters, “James always turned the recordings off before I arrived.”

The masked maiden pulled a wireless data-equipped USB stick from a subtle hip pocket, and plugged it into the main server.

“Maybe someone overrode him,” Faera suggested, “I'm uploading his data to the Dryad now.”

“You might be right,” the Pixie said, and then spun around as a floorboard squeaked..

James stood in the doorway, alive and well. He didn’t even have a broken nose.

“I had a feeling you'd be worried about me, Pix.”

His charming smile and tone seemed greasy for the first time, like a healthy pond covered by a floating oil spill.

“What the hell did you do, James?”

“It doesn’t actually matter,” he said, and then paused for a moment to gaze over his glasses at her. He raised an eyebrow. “Whether you worried about me, I mean. My plan is very neat. But it really touches my heart to know you care.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I turned off the cameras like you asked. But not when you showed up - afterwards, when some of The Giant’s finest cleaners dropped in. Those guys are trained to scrub crime scenes, but they’re artists when it comes to staging them. They actually drew some of my blood and sprayed it from this weird–”

“You bastard.” The Pixie darted forwards, ready to tear him apart, but the slender man stepped back past the bedroom’s threshold and put up his fists.

“Careful, Pix! I might be a geek, but I’m a geek who’s been learning to fight for over a decade. You really shouldn’t make my day. Besides, don’t you want to ask why I did it?”

A low growl emanated from the back of the purple-masked maiden’s throat.

“I don’t care why.”

“Oh come on, it’s a good story. I mean, not really. I didn’t want to be stuck in this shithole until retirement, so I figured–”

The Pixie lunged, ducking away from his high guard to grab at his legs. The traitor shifted his stance and dusted her skull with a short stomp kick.

Harsh colors exploded around the corners of her vision, and The Pixie stumbled backwards. James pressed toward her, but she slammed the bedroom door in his face and up wedged it with her heel as she looked to the window.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

He hammered on the door, cackling like the beast he’d become. “Come on Pix, don’t be like that. We’ve got the building surrounded. Open up and give me a kiss, and I’ll ask The Giant’s men to give you a head start.”

The Pixie jerked the door open and smashed him with two slick, straight punches. The ceramic beads embedded in her left glove crushed his nose, and blood fountained from his face as she faded toward the bed.

A smirk painted her lips as she lifted a paperweight from an end table and pitched it through the glass panes. He looked nicer with a crooked snout.

“That’s not the kind of kiss I meant.” His voice was muffled as he clutched his nose and staggered toward her, free hand outstretched. “Let me show you properly.”

She batted his palm aside and sent another punch straight down the pipe, but he anticipated it and ducked while grabbing with his bloody hand.

The Pixie leaped backwards, sailing out the window feet first. James snatched only air, but both of her hands snared the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. She dragged him halfway out the window before he braced against the frame to stop himself, and planted her feet against the outer wall.

“We’ll meet again,” she whispered, and then released him and launched off the brick. She flipped backwards across the alleyway and tumbled onto the opposite rooftop. By the time James gathered his breath to call The Giant’s henchmen, the heroine had fled with the wind.

The Pixie skulked beneath one of a trio of downtown bridges that spanned Styck’s River. The longest and narrowest of the three, it had only one lane each way and a lone strip of sidewalk beneath a rusted railing. It didn’t get much foot traffic, so the grassy area behind its support struts made a good spot to sit and brood.

“Pix, are you there?”

“Go ahead, Fae.”

“The Dryad made quick work of our list of stolen equipment and the companies it came from.”

The Pixie stirred from her seat against the strut.

“What did she say?”

“It seems the most logical explanation is that they’re building a seismic weapon.”

“As in, earthquakes?”

“Capable of toppling most parts of town, or taking down any of the bridges.”

The Pixie stood up and hissed like a startled cat. The bridge had become a potential danger instead of a comforting presence. She sank to one knee and heaved a deep breath, and then stood and darted away.

“Any other insights from our friend?”

“Assuming the weapon’s meant to be used locally, they may need to assemble it at the power plant in order to make it effective.”

“The Dryad’s a smarty pants.”

“I gave her your very polite best, Pix.”

“How’s the traffic between me and the bay bridge?”

There was only one bridge within city limits that stretched across the bay. It was the only way to get to the power plant on the far shore, unless she stole a boat.

“Scarce and slow-moving. Pretty normal for a Sunday evening.”

“Call me a cab for the corner of Church and Main, please.”

“Should I tell them to look for the chick in purple pajamas?”

“I’ll find a disguise.”

She dashed along the stone wall that lined the river’s edge, half cape snapping in her wake. She scampered down a narrow clearing between the river wall and a thicket of thin trees and broad bushes. The path wound up a short, steep hill and then bordered the back porches of a row of small houses.

The Pixie paused inside the thicket’s edge and peered out of its depths. A lone man sat in a rocking chair on the rear stoop of the second house. He looked about sixty years old, tall with a straight back and bushy gray brows reaching for the low brim of a sunhat.

No way to approach with stealth, and no time to waste. The Pixie stepped out of the brush and paced calmly but quickly towards him.

The oldtimer spotted her immediately and barely reacted, as if women in purple costumes walked up to his back porch every day. He nodded and tipped his hat as she drew near, and cleared his throat.

“Evenin’.”

“Good evening to you, sir.”

A light pause sashayed between them.

“People tell stories about you.”

“Good stories, I hope.”

“Mostly,” for the first time he broke her gaze and examined her uniform. “T'be honest, I'm surprised how many of them are true.”

She laughed. “You can't beat reality. Except, that's just what I need to do. Could I borrow your coat and hat? I promise to return them.”

He shrugged out of his brown waistcoat and stacked his hat on top of it and held them out.

“Seems t’me you wouldn't ask without good reason. You take good care now, Miss Pixie.”

“Ta.”

She stole into an alcove between buildings and donned the coat with the collar turned up, pocketing her mask and giving the hat a rakish tilt.

Faera whispered in her ear. “Your carriage is ready, milady.”

The cab ride lasted a lifetime, and then the yellow sedan delivered her to an intersection nearby the bay bridge. It couldn’t go further because a snarled, honking traffic jam occupied the entire block.

“Fae, the block surrounding the bridge is bumper to bumper. What’s going on?” The heroine flitted into an enclosed bus stop and donned her purple mask, leaving the coat and hat neatly folded on the bench. She exited and hopped atop a fire hydrant, gazing over the traffic towards the bridge.

“Someone blocked access,” Fae reported, “but I can’t find a reliable source on… wait, someone mentioned an armored vehicle. It must be–”

WHAM!

A concussive wave rippled through the ground. The Pixie lost her feet and her shoulder slammed the pavement. She rolled into the lee of a large SUV, realizing reality as the road cracked and popped.

“Fae, I just felt the tail end of a quake sent from the power plant. I think I sprained my shoulder.”

“I see you. The dronedoc is almost there.”

Choking concrete and shrieking steel lashed the air like Florentine floggers. The bridge sagged, pillars shuddering. Vehicles trapped near the top slid, and then a tall truck tipped over and piece by piece, the bridge fell into the bay.

The Pixie watched over the SUV’s high hood, swallowing the tears she wouldn’t dare spill until after she finished off the Paxtons. And…

James.

He was standing just across the road from the bridge, waving his arms as if conducting the symphony of the destruction. The Mean Machine was parked beside him, but no sign of the trio of treacherous brothers.

“Pix, what are you doing?”

“Running.”

Her hard-heeled boots beat the street in strict staccato. James spotted her at ten paces and took up an exaggerated kung fu stance, his laugh cutting the mayhem.

“I’m twenty seconds out with the dronedoc, Pix. Slow down, don’t do anything–”

The Pixie left her feet in a headlong dive at her enemy’s midsection. James tried to time her with a kick like he had in his apartment, but she threaded her arc just high enough to clear his knee and wrapped her arms around his waist.

She pitched sideways and twisted like a crocodile, heaving him down to the gutter’s rough asphalt.

“Argh, Pix that really hurt!” he rolled away and rose to his feet, in pain but sadly still breathing. “Why didn’t you just say that you wanted to roll around together? I’ll take you for a spin anyti–”

Her reinforced knuckles jabbed his ugly mouth and he stumbled backwards. Before she could advance, two pairs of strong hands seized her arms from behind.

The two elder Paxtons, both hulking men with bad hair and worse hygiene, turned her forcefully to face their younger, smaller brother.

“Well well well, what have we here?” Keith Paxton sneered.

“The Plight of the Pixie,” chuckled the Paxton on her right.

Fae’s voice rustled in her ear. “Dronedoc engaged.”

Thip-thip-thip-thip!

“What the–” grunted the Paxton on her left.

“Four hits,” Fae reported, “each bearing 200 milligrams of ketamine.”

The Pixie felt the Paxtons’ strong hands weaken and wrenched her lithe frame free. Fibrous-tufted darts delivered by the dronedoc’s airgun protruded from both of their necks.

“What are you doing?” Keith screamed.

One of the goons stumbled, the other scratched his head.

“I was just thinkin’ abou-,” the tallest Paxton muttered, and then they both folded gently to the ground.

Thip.

The Pixie grunted as a dart impacted the front of her sore shoulder.

“5 milligrams of lidocaine for you, Pix.”

“Nice shot, Fae.”

“Want some help with the other two?”

“No. You check for anyone severely injured until the paramedics get here, and get eyes on the power plant.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The Pixie advanced on Keith Paxton, who was inching towards the Mean Machine.

“Hey, aren’t you going to help me?” Keith shouted at James.

The evil geek was leaning against a small sedan’s bumper, smoking a cigarette.

“Nah. I’d rather get out of here while you slow her down.”

“You bastard, I”ll–”

The Pixie kicked Keith Paxton in the knee, then the groin, then the gut, then the chin, like dancing a one-legged cancan. Keith hit the pavement harder than his brothers, blood oozing from his mouth.

“Damn, he didn’t slow you down at all.”

“No. But he was right about you. You bastard.”

“Come on, Pix. I invited you to come along. Think about it: You and I, together in Argentina. You could homeschool our kids while I run our modest coffee-roasting business.”

“You could have been one of the good ones.” She said, voice faint as she approached him. “You could have been, if you just tried.”

He took a long draw on the half-burned cigarette and sighed. “There are no good ones, Pix. Not you, and certainly not me. I know I’ll never get that kiss now, but how about this: If you take off your mask and give me a smile, I’ll come quietly.”

“No. The Paxtons can go to prison. You don’t deserve to live on the taxpayer’s dime.” She stepped closer, fingers aching to close around his throat.

“Okay Pix, but just let me say this–” he flicked the cigarette’s hot ash toward her eyes and launched a haymaker at her head.

This time, the Pixie expected his treachery. She faded left and low, feeling his heavy fist graze the top of her mask. Her looping counter buried her knuckles in his solar plexus. He doubled over, but came back up twice as fast. A switchblade snick’d open in his hand.

The Pixie unsheathed her shuko claws and grasped his arm with the pointed prongs that extended from her palms. Both sets of spikes slammed into his wrist and forearm, and then her left claw lashed upward and gored the side of his neck.

“You sneaky Pixie,” James gasped. He stumbled back against the small sedan and slid to a seated position. Blood poured out of his pierced carotid artery, staining his shirt and adding to the mess on the road.

She sank down beside him, the same way she used to sit when she visited his office. In the shadows, out of sight, but somehow always there. She wrapped her arms around his head and held him a moment, and then pressed her lips against his, the kiss he’d requested at last.

“You’re a good sport,” he chuckled, voice fading, eyes glazing. “And a decent kisser, too.”

He died in her arms.

“Fae, are you there?”

“Always.”

“I need to get across the bay.”

“Check the Paxtons, they probably have a key FOB for the Mean Machine.”

She found the FOB in the first place she looked; Keith Paxton's left jacket pocket.

“I think I got it, but there’s only one button.”

“It might be biometric, try his thumb. Cutting it off shouldn’t be necessary.”

“I didn’t bring my cleaver anyway.”

She pressed the youngest Paxton’s thumb to the button and a muted thud emanated from the armored vehicle.

“It sounds like it’s unlocked. Are you sure I don’t need the thumb?”

“You’ll find out once you’re inside.”

The Pixie slid into the driver’s seat, kevlar pants whispering on the soft leather. It was pushed way back to accommodate the tallest Paxton’s legs, giving her a clear view of the dashboard.

“What do you see?” Fae said.

“There’s a steering wheel with the top and bottom chopped off and three buttons in green, white, and blue.”

“Start with the green.”

“Are you sure?”

“Green means go.”

She tapped the button and the engine growled to life.

“Pedals?” Fae asked.

“Just two. I think I can figure them out.” The Pixie stepped on the accelerator and the Mean Machine prowled toward the bay.

“Now hit the white button.”

“What’s that do?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

The Pixie muttered into her microphone, but tapped the button. A short hiss echoed around the interior, and a fan clicked on somewhere inside the dash.

“That must have made it seaworthy. Smartypants.”

“Blue is for water.”

“Showoff.” The heroine tapped the third button as the vehicle's nose neared the still-churning water of the bay. Smooth mechanical whirrs surrounded her, and then the submersible slipped beneath the surface.

Underwater seemed strangely serene, and yet just as noisy as the frantic street. The Pixie gave the collapsed bridge a wide berth, steering out and around the disaster and arcing toward the shore.

“Are you still with me?”

“Always, Pix.”

“I wasn’t sure if the comms worked underwater.”

“They better, as long as they don’t actually get wet.”

“What do your drone eyes see at the power plant?”

“Not much so far, otherwise I would… Oh, there! A helicopter coming in from the west.”

“The Giant must be there!” Rage swelled within the Pixie’s chest, like tree roots growing through a concrete slab. She stomped on the accelerator and the Mean Machine’s engine roared, surging forward. “Where’s it landing?”

“Looks like it’s setting down just west of the compound. You’ll have to go almost all the way around to – what? No! Someone took out my drones, one after the other. Careful Pix, they’ve got a sharpshooter.”

“That’s fine,” the Pixie said as the Mean Machine lurched up the bank onto the dry land, reinforced tires taking over from the propeller. “They’re all mine.”

The Mean Machine skidded around the power plant’s enclosure toward its west border. Over the engine’s scream, the thwop-thwop-thwop of a hovering helicopter reached the Pixie’s ears.

The armored vehicle rounded another corner of reinforced chain link fence, and she saw him.

The helicopter touched down, rotors still chopping the air to pieces, and four large men stepped away from an outbuilding. They were all big, but only one of them could possibly be called the Giant.

He looked at least seven feet tall, like a superheavyweight wrestler. The kind of man who could have earned a living in a traveling menagerie a hundred years in the past. But he wore a tailored suit, and a broad-brimmed fedora tilted down over his face. A meaty palm held the hat in place as he raced toward the chopper with his lackeys.

The Pixie floored the accelerator. One of the men - not the Giant - broke away from the pack and planted his feet. Staccato impacts ricocheted off the windshield.

“Found the sharpshooter,” the Pixie said, and eased the Mean Machine’s nose to the right until she was charging the gunman. He kept firing until the last moment and tried to dive to the side, but the vehicle was too fast, too broad, and too mean.

Cruuunch!

The machine’s front bumper struck the shooter’s legs as he dove. The impact sent him spinning backwards to thud against the outbuilding, and lay still.

The Pixie had no time to bring the vehicle around. She braked hard and dove out of the Mean Machine, rolling to her feet.

The helicopter lifted off, raising a cloud of dust as its rotors carried it skyward.

The roots of rage inside her blossomed into thorny, lashing vines.

A primal shriek ripped from the Pixie’s lips as she ran, and leapt… and fell short. The helicopter whisked the Giant away, gone to wreck more havoc another day.

The Pixie’s shoulders slumped, and then she took a breath and straightened them. Her anger seeped back into the depths of her soul, back inside the roots to grow stronger.

“Pix? Are you okay?”

The heroine paced past the Mean Machine to where the gunman was stirring, blood seeping from his split scalp.

“They got away.” The Pixie said, voice heavy with loathing, “but one of them stayed behind to keep me company.”