When the Superhero Association’s CAaMD (Civilian Affairs and Management Department) called Asher Smiths on his red lined number, he knew discretion was an expected priority. But, typically, this was due to the situation not hitting the press yet because they wanted to “respect the family’s (victim’s) privacy during these times”. Or because civil rights were casually being ignored in order to stop the wrong person’s face (identity) from being exposed to the wider public.

Or even, less dramatically but even more unpleasant, someone with a human partner was having a relationship tiff, and people with power discrepancies didn’t know how to properly hold an intense, serious conversation.

So when Asher was led to the holding cell and saw a man in what appeared to be cream overalls, tapping the tips of his thumbs together best he could despite them being chained to the table, eyes wildly roaming corner to corner, the first thing he said was, “Gene. You’re kidding, right?”

Gene was having a rough day, so maybe Asher could have used a softer tone. The super’s face melded rapidly between expressions before settling on a neutral, feminine presentation. They adjusted their glasses while focusing on the clipboard in front of them. “They’re calling him Lockout. Few of the boys upstairs coined it. LOTO as a moniker.”

“You’re nervous of him.” Asher could control the smile from reaching his face, but couldn’t quite keep his rising humor from leaking into his voice.

“Easy for you. I saw the photos of Sandpoint,” Gene snapped, and Asher thought he glimpsed fangs erupting from behind their lips. “We have no idea what this guy is capable of. Middle aged, no presentation of powers before in his life, works with government contracts—Do you know what this could mean?”

Asher drifted away from the two-way mirror and chuckled. “I’m beginning to get an idea. Hey, I’m swinging by the lounge again, you want a coffee?”

Gene stood there, mouth slack, before spluttering after him, motioning at the holding cell. “See? Even you don’t to go in, right?”

“Naw. I will. Just going to bring the offer of coffee with me, rather than play it like we’re workin’ on getting’ him a cup, you know? A courtesy thing,” Asher explained, bypassing another perplexed suitman as he rounded the corner.

They were about ten stories underground, but roaming the halls you would think it was just another precinct with the humming fluorescents and abused coffee cart. With the added bonus of every other head swiveling toward the ruckus Gene was raising by said coffee cart, Asher felt right at home back at the 24th floor of Kellman & Helmer law offices. “Courtesy? Two Supers are,” Gene lowered their voice to a dramatic whisper, “Two Supers are dead, Ash.”

Asher took a sip and grimaced through the bitter backwash. At least the coffee back at his office would have been more palatable. He tapped a little more powdered creamer into the mix along with an additional packet of sugar. For their man Lockout, he took up a few packets of both and set off back down to the holding cells. “Easy Gene. You’re free to stand outside and watch me do my thing, same as always.”

“I knew Helm should have called someone else, she mentioned you and I said, not Asher ma’am, because of this. You.” Gene was hot on his heels, and definitely was taking on what some fashion magazines would call ‘a healthy glow’ as their voice raised a whole pitch.

“No way, I came recommended by Helm?” Asher said in a mocking tone, feigning shock and surprise as he neared the cell’s door. “Gene, I said, I got it. Besides, he killed one Super, technically. Sandpoint’ll be back in what, a few weeks?”

“That is not the point,” Gene said, stilted. They had drawn up considerably short to the door.

Ash winked at them with a smirk, flashed his association-issued badge to the keypad, and leaned back as the door let him through with a faint ding.

What their man Lockout would have seen was a blank space on the wall and another man stepping backward through it. A rather easy, non-super illusion trick with mirrors and lighting to make it seem like a blank wall and not a doorway there, but startling for many nonetheless.

And Lockout was indeed startled, the chains rustling as the man jumped a little at Asher’s sudden appearance and a faint, cut-off howl from Gene.

Asher set about placing the coffee and fixings down on the table and made himself at home on the other end, humming faintly to himself. When he finally glanced over the overalled man, he noticed the name tag and nearly choked. The man frowned at him—actually he’d been frowning at Asher by way of greeting since he’d backed himself into the room—but Ash took another sip of coffee and began reviewing the documents Gene had forwarded him.

“Your name is Michael Banes?” Asher asked, nodding at the nametag and cross-referencing it with the man’s government ID and work records. Everything matched up. In fact, it was exactly as Gene had said: nothing was out of the ordinary in Mr. Banes’ files or history.

“Yes,” Mr. Banes replied, emotionless.

Asher gave Mr. Banes a more thorough inspection. Michael Banes was Caucasian, was 37, and looked as if he kept himself well-groomed despite his hard labor. At the moment, however, his hair was a little unkempt and there was a light bruise forming along his left jawline. The left collar of his work uniform was also torn and askew. He was stoic, but Ash had been sitting across enough suspects at this point to feel he had a good read of the man. And the man looked like he was holding it together, but just barely. Ash tsk’d and made note in his filings to look up who had “apprehended” the “suspect”.