The door to the Monet household shut quietly, locking back into place as Damien stepped outside, confident his presence was unknown and would remain so. Not having fingerprints to leave anywhere certainly helped.

The dress tucked under his arm was the most mundane and unique thing he'd ever been asked to steal, much less deliver. It had been folded neatly into a box, wrapped up with a silky black ribbon, something he'd been instructed not to damage.

A red light blinked in the corner of his vision, seated somewhere behind his actual eye and implanted into the nerve that fed information into his brain. He ignored it, leaving it flashing as he sprinted away from the abandoned house and down the street. While there were no eyes watching the house, and no cameras either as far as he could sense, that didn't mean he wanted to be hanging around a convicted felon's house.

At the street corner, he approached a black SUV. It unlocked before he touched it, and he ducked into the passenger seat. There, he finally gave his attention to the red light. The moment he selected it, a line of text appeared across his vision, the letters scrawling almost too fast to be read.

Do you have the package?

Yes, Damian typed back. It gave him an odd sense of double vision, trying to read the words he typed out against his prosthetic hand as they appeared inside his mind. No matter how good he was with tech, his understanding failed the moment you incorporated biology into the mix. A constant failing of his power.

Maybe if he'd be able to bridge that gap, he'd be doing more than delivering dresses for Vora Monet.

Good. You know where to deliver it.

The light and the message vanished the moment he read it, fading back into silence. Biting his lip, he debated sending another message, but chose against it. Conversation had been strained with her since the arrest, and he didn't want to anger her. She'd cool off eventually, once he was able to help her. Until then, he just had to keep doing what she asked. One day, she'd appreciate just how much he could do for her.

He started the car, filled with everything he was taking with him to New York. A few thin pillows and a balled up blanket in the backseat, along with a backpack and a cooler full of food. His guitar in the trunk, along with his clothes and a few pieces of gear he was bringing along. Not much, though he hadn't had to leave anything behind.

The perks of living on the streets, he guessed.

No one noticed as he pulled out onto the street, each house on the block too absorbed in itself to pay any attention to the lonesome black car. Good thing too, considering it was stolen. Well, Vora had allowed him to steal it a while back, which basically meant she'd given it to him. Still, stolen.

The engine ticked loudly, his belongings rattling in the backseat. With annoyance, he flipped on the radio, cranking the sound up so loudly he'd probably go deaf by the time he reached his destination. That was fine, just another issue to add to the pile that made up his body.

His prosthetic hand tightened around the steering wheel, alongside his biological one. Keeping his awareness open, he could sense every turning of gears and shifting of ligaments inside his arm, down to the electrons that fired off to mirror nerve activity. It mostly worked, though he couldn't feel as much from his hand as he could before the accident. At least it wasn't constantly in pain anymore. Phantom limb was a bitch.

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Damien let out a growl as he pulled up to a stoplight. In the distance, the Tower of Unity shone with white light, a beacon in the dark.

God, he thought, they're so proud.

As he started moving again, he pulled himself together. He wasn't usually this bad, mind wasn't usually this jumbled, memories bouncing around like ping pong balls. It was all because of this stupid program, one he wasn't supposed to get into in the first place.

Shortly after Vora had been locked up, the heroes had captured Damien. He'd just wanted to find out where they imprisoned her, but their computers were better than he'd anticipated. Instead of throwing him in prison with her, which he'd considered would be the worst case scenario (as well as the one he'd most hoped for), they'd decided the right move was to stick him in community service and recommend him to the Unity of Heroes training program.

How egotistical did you have to be to look at someone who tried to hurt you and go, yeah, you. I want you.

He'd thought it was insane, and messaged Vora, thinking she'd laugh at it. Instead, she asked him to apply. For her. To keep an eye on her daughter. To help her get out.

Damien parked in front of a dark farmhouse, standing out like a sore thumb amid all the modern housing around. If he got caught now, he'd be kicked from the program for sure.

Maybe he should.

Vora's voice in his mind, telling him how proud she would be if she did this for her, kept him from acting foolishly.

Reaching into his glove box, he pulled out a small camera, the modifications to it almost unnoticeable.

Setting it against the window, he peered through it, seeing into and through the house, looking for heat signatures. Satisfied the house was empty, he lowered the camera and put it away, then grabbed the dress box and stepped out of the car. He expanded his power sense as he walked toward the front door, scanning for anything surveillance related that could get him caught. Not sensing anything with his technopathy, he approached.

He sprinted to the front door, gripping the box under one arm, using his biological hand to activate a tool he'd added to his prosthetic. A light popped up on his hand, blinking blue quietly. When he pressed it to the door, it unlocked.

It wasn't hard to unlock the front door. The arrogance of heroes would always astound Damien. Did they really think they were that impervious?

He stepped inside, keeping his footsteps light as he moved down the wooden floor. He wasn't certain what room was Vivainne's, only that she was living with the hero, until the end of the week. He'd only ever met Vora's daughter once, though she talked about her constantly.

He wanted to be talked about like that.

Peeking through doors, he finally found one he knew immediately to be Vivianne's. He stepped inside, glancing around the space once before laying the box on her bed. It was different from her room at the Monet house, but not by much. This room was smaller, without as many belongings or decorations. It wasn't bad, but it was in a stranger's house.

She'd given up all that Vora could offer, for this.

He placed the package on the bed and turned around, leaving everything the way he'd found it before sprinting back out to the car. Packing himself inside, he took off, pulling onto the highway despite the late hour. If he was going to reach New York in time for the hero training program to start, he needed to start driving.

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