Chapter One

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Mozart had made a habit of letting down reporters recently.

This worried Mozart, who, as a general rule, didn't like to disappoint anyone. But, when those reporters from Porilth called him up, they just wanted a new way to smear the Great Rosalind Thames, the Techno-Traitor, the Records Renegade, the girl who's "such a xenophile even her name is un-American!"

Mozart didn't want to give those people anything bad to print about Rosalind, though, so he told them nothing at all.

But then again, when the reporters from New York contacted him, they described her as a hero and a patriot, and he still turned them away.  So, maybe he just didn't like to talk about Rosalind in general.

The New Yorkers usually snubbed him after he said no. The Porilth reporters sometimes asked if they could do a home-town profile. Mozart always supposed that in a town of just over a thousand people, the one kid that went out and got a degree from MIT and a job working with superhuman defense operatives was newsworthy, but he disappointed them on that front, too. It wasn't really his fault; he worked as an IT guy whose tasks took place behind a computer-screen miles from the action. He knew they wanted stories of blood on his teeth and explosions that made his ears ring, but all he could offer was his opinion on the crunch factor in the orange chicken he liked to order in and the sound of clacking computer keys.

It was in the middle of navigating one of these frustrating conversations that he realized he had made it to the front of the coffee line, and the barista was waiting for him to order. In an effort to avoid being one of those people who rudely talks on the phone while ordering coffee, he mumbled a hasty "sorry, gotta go," to the reporter on the end of the line and instead became one of those people who rudely ends phone calls in the middle of someone else's sentence.

He exchanged niceties with the barista and then ordered five increasingly complex drinks, wishing for the millionth time that his team were less particular about something as basic as coffee. Flashing the barista a smile, he tipped well before they even began making the drinks, as both a sign of good faith and a prayer that they wouldn't mess anything up and make him awkwardly correct the order.

A few minutes later, he hurried down the bustling street, being careful not to spill the drinks. Even if the temperature had dropped well below freezing, he didn't consider splashing piping hot coffee all over his hands to be a particularly desirable remedy. Snowflakes continuously wafted through the air, sticking to his gloves like gum to a seven-year-old's hair. Headquarters stood a short distance from the coffee shop, and he only paused outside for a moment to assess the dingy little brick building that dared to house an operation tasked with saving lives.

It used to belong to an antique dealer, though no one could possibly tell anymore. The large front windows had been blacked out with paint, and the once-red door was scuffed and chipped within an inch of its life. A passerby could see no sign announcing the building's purpose, and the awning sagged worse than the pants of a 2000s teenager. 

Mozart knew the inside was better, but only because it was clean. With half the room blocked off for sparring matches and other large sections taken up by the conference table and other people's workspaces, there was barely enough room for Mozart to store his records and technical equipment. But his team was waiting for him inside, and this thought spurred him to enter and forget about the awning that bothered no one but him.

He opened the door to find everyone rushing about, a development that he found less than surprising. He saw Ryan preoccupied with lacing up his boots as Geneva dug through an array of weapons. He could hear Tambara speaking on the phone in the back, and Dot looked busy flickering in and out of tangibility. Tambara turned and noticed Mozart standing with the coffee. She didn't have to tell him what to do because he was already setting the drinks on the conference table and heading to his desk.

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"Location?" He asked, flicking on the old TV he'd wired into the city's surveillance system.

"26th and 4th," Tambara responded. He began fidgeting with the dials, tuning into the correct camera. Ryan was already standing, and Geneva was pushing Dot towards the door. By the time he pulled up the security footage, his team was already gone, and Mozart was alone with his computers.

Which was fine by him. After all, they were the superhumans, the heroes. He was just a kid with a computer science degree.

But, boy, were they in for a doozy this time.

The target, it seemed, was a bank. Dozens of police cars were already lined up outside, and several officers (he assumed they were officers--the quality of the video wasn't great) were moving around. He guessed there was some sort of hold-up inside, meaning it was a safe bet that there were hostages. Punching a button on his desk phone, he cradled it between his ear and his shoulder as he opened up his computer to begin looking for a way to access the bank's security cameras.

"Yes?" Tambara answered the phone.

"I'm searching for access to cameras inside the bank, but it might take me a moment. Do you know who is inside?"

"The robber has contacted police and identified himself as Fury, but it sounds like Edgar Washington. There are reports of flames spotted through the windows and he's the only known person with pyrokinesis who isn't currently incarcerated."

He didn't question her. She had never given him a reason to.

"Oh, and M?" She added. "Please jam the cell service surrounding the area. The police have already given him too much power. I don't want them to negotiate anymore until we get there."

"Of course," he responded, and then he heard a click as the line went dead, signaling the end of the call. They had no time to be polite when they were responding to a crisis, and Mozart quickly got to work.

Some minutes later, he saw his team arriving and exiting the car. He paused for a heartbeat to count all four of them, like some sort of strange mother duck getting her chicks in order.

Ryan emerged from the car first, easily identifiable as the team's tallest member. They called him Toxin in the field, on account of his blood being poisonous, though his real power came from his ability to grow and manipulate plants, using vines as a sort of weapon.

Next came Geneva, who went by Baba Yaga. Being Russian, she had always liked the stories of the witch, though to Mozart most of them seemed intended to be scary. But Geneva was often unafraid of things that really ought to have scared her. She possessed telekinetic powers:  fearsome when applied to knives, but mostly just annoying when used around the office.

Dot hopped out next, the youngest at seventeen, who they called Smokes on account of her ability to become intangible and walk through walls.

Finally, there was Tambara, or Dr. Tambara Akande, Ph. D as she introduced herself to people. She didn't have a codename because she wasn't the type of person most people were brave enough to attack, and anyone she had cared to protect had died in Nigeria. She could absorb kinetic energy and transfer it to use in counterstrikes. Mozart didn't really understand it, but she had tried to explain it once or twice.

They began talking to the police, and he answered his phone as a call from Toxin came through.

"Do you have eyes on the bank yet?" His voice crackled over the speaker.

"No, but I'm close," Mozart responded.

"Okay. Smokes is setting up her laptop here. Can you patch it through once you get it set up?"

"Of course."

A little while later, he made good on his promise, and his team moved into action. He couldn't do much now but monitor the situation, making sure everyone was accounted for and that the lines of communication stayed open. Still, he didn't lean back or stroll away to get coffee, instead sitting stiffly as he watched his team work. 

Mozart was the fifth team member, and no one really doubted that he was essential, even if his codename was lackluster. They always called him M when they were on a mission, and he supposed he should have been grateful. After all, with a name like Mozart, he couldn't be too difficult to track down if an enemy of the team wanted revenge. Still, he always pushed for something cooler, though all the honorifics he tried had met resistance to some degree. Tambara had rejected Captain M on the grounds that she was the team captain. Ryan objected to Professor M because it reminded him of law school, and while no one had an issue with Doctor M, it simply hadn't stuck.

So, Mozart was just M.

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