Chapter 23 : Name In Headlines
The headline screamed across the front page of the Central City Picture News.
THE HARVEST: WHO IS THE META HUNTER?
I stared at the paper from my usual booth at Jitters, coffee growing cold in my hands. The article featured photographs of crime scenes—Tank's alley, Ghost's basement, the construction site where I'd left Nighteye. Five victims catalogued, their criminal histories detailed, their power losses documented.
Someone had connected the dots.
"The pattern is unmistakable," the article read. "Each victim was a known criminal with metahuman abilities. Each was found unconscious, physically unharmed, but reporting complete loss of powers. Police sources indicate the attacks share methodological similarities that suggest a single perpetrator—a meta-hunter operating with impunity in Central City."
They'd named me. The Harvest.
Poetic, I thought. Collecting powers like grain from a field.
Public opinion, according to the accompanying poll, was divided. Forty-three percent viewed the Harvest as a vigilante hero—cleaning up the meta-criminal population that conventional law enforcement couldn't touch. Thirty-seven percent saw a dangerous predator whose methods violated fundamental rights. Twenty percent hadn't formed an opinion.
I fit into none of those categories.
[EXTERNAL DESIGNATION DETECTED: "THE HARVEST"] [OPERATIONAL PROFILE: COMPROMISED] [RECOMMEND: METHOD VARIATION]
The system's clinical assessment matched my own concerns. Five victims meant five data points. Enough for pattern analysis, behavioral profiling, investigative focus.
I needed to adapt.
STAR Labs was buzzing when I arrived.
Cisco had converted the main display into an investigation board—photographs, timelines, power classifications arranged in the systematic format of serious analysis. Barry stood nearby, arms crossed, expression troubled.
"Five confirmed incidents," Cisco explained, gesturing at the display. "All criminals, all metas, all depowered. The method is consistent—physical restraint, extended contact, then... nothing. The powers just disappear."
"Is that even possible?" Caitlin asked from her medical station. "Taking someone's abilities?"
"Theoretically." Wells wheeled closer, studying the display with academic interest. "Meta-powers exist as an expression of altered genetics—if someone could interfere with that expression at the cellular level, they could potentially suppress or extract the abilities."
"Extract." Barry's voice was flat. "You mean steal."
"I mean acquire. The distinction may be semantic."
"It's not semantic to the victims."
"The victims were criminals," Wells pointed out mildly. "Drug dealers, enforcers, human traffickers. One might argue the Harvest is providing a public service."
"One might also argue that nobody should have their powers taken by force." Barry's jaw tightened. "These people didn't choose to become metas. The accelerator did that. And now someone's hunting them down and stripping away part of who they are."
"Even if that part was being used to hurt people?"
The question hung in the air. Barry didn't have an easy answer.
"What's your take, Harry?" Cisco turned to me. "Security perspective."
I'd been dreading this moment since I saw the headline. Participating in an investigation of myself, offering analysis that might direct or misdirect, walking the razor's edge between helpful insight and self-incrimination.
"The pattern suggests a vigilante with a personal code," I said carefully. "Targeting criminals specifically—not random metas, not innocent bystanders. That implies planning, research, moral justification. This isn't someone who enjoys violence for its own sake."
"You sound almost sympathetic."
"I'm being analytical." I met Cisco's gaze. "Understanding the methodology helps predict future behavior. If the Harvest only targets criminals, that's a different threat profile than if they start going after anyone with powers."
"So we just let them keep hunting?" Barry's frustration was evident. "Wait until they decide criminals aren't enough?"
"I'm not saying that. I'm saying there are worse threats." I gestured at the display. "Every one of these victims was actively hurting people. Tank ran protection rackets. The phaser was a professional thief. Nighteye helped a crew steal millions in electronics. Ironhide protected human traffickers."
"And that makes what happened to them okay?"
"It makes it... complicated." I chose my words with care. "Ends and means. Where do you draw the line?"
The conversation circled for another twenty minutes without resolution. Barry remained troubled, his hero's conscience unable to accept vigilante justice regardless of the targets. Caitlin offered medical perspectives—the violation of bodily autonomy, the psychological impact of power loss. Cisco analyzed technical possibilities, trying to understand how someone could extract meta-abilities.
Wells observed throughout. Said little. His eyes found mine more than once, lingering with an interest I couldn't quite decipher.
When the meeting finally dispersed, I found myself alone in the bathroom, staring at my reflection.
I'd just helped build my own psychological profile. Recommended leniency for myself. Defended the Harvest's morality to the people investigating the Harvest.
The absurdity was almost elegant.
I laughed quietly, the sound echoing off tile walls.
"Interesting perspective on the Harvest, Mr. Griffin."
Wells' voice caught me as I reached the cortex exit. He'd positioned his wheelchair at the junction of corridors—casual placement that blocked natural escape routes.
"Just analysis," I said. "Pattern recognition is part of what I do."
"Indeed." He studied me with the careful attention I'd learned to expect. "You seem to understand this vigilante quite well. Almost as if you appreciate their methods."
"I appreciate effectiveness. The Harvest is effective."
"That they are." Wells smiled—the thin, knowing expression that never quite reached his eyes. "I find myself curious about effectiveness. What drives a person to choose unconventional solutions. What makes them willing to cross lines others won't."
"Necessity, usually. Or belief that the cost is worth the outcome."
"And you? What lines would you cross?"
The question was a trap. An invitation to reveal something he could use. I recognized it because I would have asked the same thing.
"Depends on what's at stake." I held his gaze. "But I imagine everyone has a line they'd cross for the right reason."
"Everyone." He nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose they do."
The conversation ended without resolution—two masks acknowledging each other's existence, neither willing to show what lay beneath.
I drove home thinking about lines. The ones I'd already crossed. The ones I might cross yet.
Tomorrow, I'd need to change my methods.
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