"Congratulations, of course," Mr. Kramer said with considerable skepticism, shifting his gaze from Chris, who was looking away in embarrassment, to a furious Jessica. "But let's talk about the robbery, shall we?"
At that moment everything became perfectly clear. Of course he hadn't believed the hastily invented story. What idiot would? Especially looking at Christopher Wallace, who didn't know what to do with his hands — a guy who, in everyday life, wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone lie convincingly.
"Irish mob. Two men. Took all the cash from the register. And..." Chris hesitated slightly. "Disappeared."
"So what do we do?" Mr. Kramer murmured, mildly thoughtful. "There is security camera footage, in principle... Should we go to the police?"
"Ha-ha-ha..." Chris burst out laughing immediately. "Ha-ha... ha?" He deflated just as quickly under the considerably less amused looks of Jessica and Kramer. "Wait, you're serious?"
"What's the problem exactly?" Mr. Kramer frowned.
"Because the police are about as useful as a..." Chris couldn't find the right words, so he just caved. "Fine, do whatever you want."
Chris had a less than rosy attitude toward any representatives of the government.
First, he'd grown up at the very bottom of an American ghetto, full of gang codes and various stereotypes that hadn't emerged from nowhere. Chris was white, sure, but he'd grown up among Black people. And whatever anyone thought, both the police and the "ghetto" had grievances against each other — justified, depending on which side you were looking from. You could say wariness of the police was a conditioned reflex hammered into him from infancy. Even though he'd never done anything illegal.
Second, he had significant grievances against "the government apparatus" as well. Though again, it depended on your perspective. Chris had been an orphan from birth and was therefore a ward of the state. Many people would tell him to be grateful for whatever he got, but Chris had felt firsthand the difference in social structure. Put it this way — two orphanages, one located in Harlem, the poorest and most dangerous neighborhood in New York, and another on Long Island, the wealthiest part of the city, are different. Very, very different. Even if on paper their budgets are supposed to be equal.
Don't go thinking there's no corruption in the United States. It exists everywhere.
But these particular grievances were of a purely "subconscious" nature. Because in fact, the state had supported him until adulthood. It was the "how" that was the issue.
In short, Chris was inherently biased against every cog in the government machine. Simply because the environment he grew up in had imposed its worldview on him.
"The police won't interfere in gang business," Jessica shook her head. "Especially when the only victim is one retired man and his cash, and no bodies turned up," the girl cast an inconspicuous glance at Chris. "Almost none."
"That's right," Mr. Kramer confirmed. "They'll come, file a report, open a case, but later... it'll all go quiet."
A synchronized sigh expressed their shared opinion of the imperfection of the government apparatus.
"One thing I don't get, old man," Jessica frowned, trying to phrase her thought more... tactfully. But tact and Jessica were two entirely different things. "Why the hell did they decide to shake you down specifically? They're Irish, you're Irish... doesn't that put you at least not on opposite sides of the fence?"
"Oh, Jessica," Kramer clicked his tongue emphatically. "You seem to be missing something. I am Irish. They are stupid mutts who screw each other in the backside."
"Right, right," Jessica nodded with a smile. "I think I see where this dog is buried..."
"Everything I have — I earned with my own two hands!" His fists clenched. "Through honest work! Blood and sweat! And these bastards simply figured that since I'm Irish, I must need their 'protection'!" Kramer exhaled his accumulated anger. "Bottom line, they came to me, offered their 'help' in exchange for a cut, and I told them to go suck each other off..."
"Apparently your counteroffer didn't sit well with them," Jessica nodded.
"Homophobes, most likely," Chris shrugged and shook his head. "And Mr. Kramer's offer came straight from the heart! And they just — tsk..."
"I'll close the shop for today," Kramer pursed his lips. "We'll see what can be done. When I need you in, I'll call."
"I'm not fired, am I?"
"No," Mr. Kramer smiled. "You handled it well. Though next time, best not to do it that way. They might actually shoot you..."
"Yeah," Chris smiled slightly awkwardly.
Coming out of the shop, Jessica and Chris arrived at a mutual decision. They needed a walk to clear their heads. And get to know each other better while they were at it, since they were apparently "friends" now.
"The old man likes you," Jessica shot him a probing look. "How did you two meet?"
"We were in the same psychiatric clinic," Chris answered after a brief pause. "He had post-traumatic stress disorder..."
"Right, he's a Vietnam veteran," Jessica nodded to herself and made a cautious attempt to learn about Chris. "And why were you there?"
"I..." Chris pressed his lips together nervously, trying to calm his quickening heartbeat. "Small stuff, here and there..."
"People don't get admitted for small stuff," Jessica made a fair observation. "Especially not for four years. From fourteen to eighteen. And then, in a remarkably convenient way, you were 'cured' right at the moment you turned eighteen, when orphans lose their government health insurance. I recognize our broken system..."
"I said it was nothing special!" Chris snapped, irritated.
"Relax," Jessica raised her hands in a peace gesture. "I'm just trying to understand the nature of your abilities. Maybe it's the classic scenario with a terrifying hospital run by a mad scientist?"
"Rein in your imagination," Chris shook his head. "I was at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. And nothing 'incredibly sinister' happened there. Normal people, normal doctors..."
"Well, if you think about it, you really couldn't have known where your powers came from. To activate them, you had to, well..." Jessica shrugged. "Die, essentially. But immortality's still pretty cool!"
"It's not immortality," Chris shook his head negatively. "I have ten lives left."
Hand of God: Twelve Great Labors [10/12]
SYNCHRONIZATION: 2%
"What?" Jessica stared at him blankly. "What do you mean ten lives?"
"Literally," Chris shrugged. "I can die nine more times."
"And then?!"
"And then I guess that's it?" Chris himself wasn't certain about the situation.
"You had ten lives?!"
"Twelve, to be precise," Chris corrected her. "Two I've already... well, spent."
"That makes absolutely no sense!" Jessica exploded with indignation. "Why exactly twelve lives?! Like you ate a cat as a kid, and then... another third of a cat or something?! Why that specific number?! How do you even know?!"
"I don't know," Chris answered in irritation. "Well — I just know that ten lives remain. After that, done. Finished."
"Can you try just a little bit and think about how you know that?! Who knows, divine revelation, a fortune teller, tarot cards, a seven-leaf clover up the backside of a stupid unicorn, or what?! Where did this number come from?!"
"I don't know," Chris answered nervously.
"Chris, come on, just try a little..."
"Fine," Chris sighed and closed his eyes, trying to reach toward... something.
SYNCHRONIZATION [????????] [Rank: Legendary]: 2.98%
"Nothing..." Chris swallowed hard. Sweat had soaked through his shirt and was running down his temples. "I don't feel anything..."
Phantasm [Rank: A]: Hand of God: Twelve Great Labors [10/12]
Your glory and your deeds have not merely struck the gods, they have entered history! So receive your reward! Now you are...
"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" Chris grabbed his head, yelling at the top of his lungs in the middle of the street. "I CAN'T SEE ANYTHING! NOTH-ING! I'M FINE!"
"Calm down, Chris!"
"I'M NORMAL! I'M NORMAL!"
"Okay okay, I get it!" Jessica grabbed his clothes and shook him, trying to bring him back to his senses. "You're fine, Chris! Everything's alright!"
"I'm normal?" Chris said quietly.
"Yes, you're normal, I'm normal, we're all perfectly normal," Jessica said slowly, practically syllable by syllable. "I'm Jessica, remember? Your new friend..."
"Friend, right, Jessica, right," Chris swallowed the lump in his throat. "Sorry..."
"It's nothing," Jessica laughed slightly nervously. "Happens to everyone, right?"
That incident killed any remaining desire to take a walk.
Jessica, taking Chris by the arm, headed home, trying not to accidentally trigger another... episode. Now the part-time detective was beginning to understand where the roots of Chris's time in the psychiatric ward came from.
Looking at her new "friend," Jessica decided to cheer him up and share a little about herself in the process.
"I actually have powers too."
Chris didn't react immediately, but it became clear that Jessica's revelation had pulled all his attention away from his depressive self-reflection.
"You have powers?" Chris asked, fairly skeptically.
"Yep."
"And... what kind of powers do you have?" Chris tried not to offend Jessica. "Like you're super strong and super independent? A super feminist?"
The look Chris received from Jessica carried a considerable degree of threat. But the girl, surprisingly, didn't choose to demonstrate her point on Chris the way she usually would.
Jessica walked over to a stove and, with unnatural ease and complete casualness, lifted it with one hand.
"See?" The girl rolled her eyes at Chris's gaping mouth.
"No way..." Chris was stunned. "NO WAY!" He transformed into a superpower fanboy. "Now it all makes sense, Jessica! Now everything is clear to me!"
"What makes sense?" Jessica frowned in bewilderment.
"At night you actually fight crime!" Chris said with excitement. "And your public image is just a cover!"
"What public image are you talking about?"
"Well, at night you fight crime, and so nobody figures it out — you pretend to be a pathetic, wretched drunk who's not far off from looking like a homeless woman!"
Jessica, restraining the urge to hurl the stove at Chris, said slowly through clenched teeth:
"No."
"Uh..." Chris smiled awkwardly. "You don't fight crime?"
"No."
"And the public image?"
"Yes."
"Got it..." Chris, doing everything in his power to avoid Jessica's gaze, gave a slow nod. "Well, you know, the fact that you don't care what other people think — that's also a kind of superpower in its own way..."
"Chris."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up. Just. Shut up."