[Life is Good] Chapter 60

As I stepped into Captain Stacy’s office, I was surprised to find not only her but also a journalist I recognized from that unforgettable night—when my mom had been taken hostage. Eddie Brock was just getting up from a chair, offering me a polite smile and his hand for a handshake.

I instinctively mirrored the smile before remembering—right as I clasped his hand—that I was wearing a helmet. Damn, I should start figuring out how to project emojis onto my visor or something.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Salamander," Gwen’s mom greeted me with a warm smile. "This is Mr. Brock—you might remember him from that night with the press."

"Good afternoon, Captain Stacy, Mr. Brock. Good to see you both. I read your piece in The Daily Bugle, and I wanted to thank you for the kind words."

"You’re welcome, anytime," Brock replied, his smile seeming genuinely friendly. "So, how do you feel about a follow-up? Captain Stacy mentioned you’d have some free time and weren’t opposed to the idea. Maybe grab a coffee at a nearby cafe and—"

"No, no, no! Absolutely not a cafe! Not like this!" I practically flailed my hands, stabbing a finger at my helmet for emphasis. Brock looked baffled, so I quickly clarified. "I was this close to being torn apart for souvenirs just now! Let’s just grab some coffee here at the station and talk in an office or something."

"Torn apart by who?" The captain’s expression shifted from composed professionalism to genuine surprise, her eyebrows shooting up before knitting together in something sterner. "My officers? For souvenirs?"

"No, no, nothing like that," I raised my hands in a placating gesture before she could start disciplining people for crimes they hadn’t committed. "I, uh… made a bit of a mistake. Got out of the car about two hundred meters from the precinct, and, well… let’s just say I got swarmed." I hesitated for effect, watching both Captain Stacy and Brock’s brows lift in curiosity. "People started doing horrible things to me…" Another tiny pause, just for drama. "Mostly selfies. Group selfies. Solo shots. Videos. They shoved their phones in my face, asked for my number, painted my visor in lipstick—" I gestured vaguely at my helmet. "Your officers actually saved me. Literally carried me out of there, for which I’m eternally grateful."

Both Stacy and Brock burst into laughter. The captain’s expression softened, and Brock… yeah, his eyes gleamed just a little too much. Suspiciously much. I suddenly got the feeling that introducing him to Jubilee would be a terrible idea. Then again, maybe journalism was the perfect career path for her—if only she could curb her addiction to exaggeration.

When Blanc joined our crew, Jubilee had managed to convince half the school that she was here to build me a giant humanoid mech. Honestly? If I hadn’t known the real reason, I would’ve believed her. I mean, technically we had an invisible jet. So why not a mech? Either that, or she’d end up in the tabloids, spreading wild conspiracy theories in the best traditions of Ren TV,(1) screaming about how Lenin was a mushroom and how we were all about to experience a WAAGH.

"Alright, then," Stacy chuckled. "Better not tempt your fans." I opened my mouth to argue—because honestly, I seriously doubted that most of them were actual fans, more like people chasing chaos—but decided against it. "Grab a coffee, and I’ll have a room set up for you. When it’s time to head to the training grounds, I’ll send someone to get you."

Sure enough, they found us a coffee machine, where a young officer, eyes far too amused for my liking, handed over two cardboard cups with way too much enthusiasm. From there, we were led to an office—looked like someone’s usual workspace, but there weren’t any loose papers on the desk. Everything was neatly stored away, the place looking… slightly uninhabited. The setup was vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until I spotted a framed photo of my family on the desk that it clicked.

Mom Betty’s office.

She was still in the hospital, though we expected her to be discharged for home recovery any day now. I hadn’t been in here for a while—Mom always preferred bringing me to the shared workspace. So the girls could get used to me and recognize my face, as she’d put it. Still, I should probably start coming in every six months or so—there were a lot of new faces around, though I did recognize a few officers.

"You don’t mind if I record this, do you?" Brock asked as he sat in one of the visitor chairs, holding up a voice recorder.

"Not at all. Makes things easier," I nodded, watching as he set the device on the desk and started the recording.

I took the chair across from him, both of us pointedly ignoring the empty seat meant for the office’s usual occupant. Pulling off my mask, I activated my face’s glow, prompting Brock to squint slightly in disappointment. I dimmed the light enough to obscure my features while keeping it from blinding him. We both took a sip of coffee, then got started.

Eddie mostly asked about my life—not my identity, not where I lived, just how I spent my time outside of being Salamander. I answered honestly but carefully, keeping names, locations, and dates vague.

Lived like any normal guy. Went to school. Gained powers. Got kidnapped by women in military uniforms with no insignias. Was rescued by mutants. And what happened to my kidnappers? Nothing. Not a scratch on them—they were disarmed and left where their transport was intercepted.

Then, I told him about living in hiding, staying with mutants, about Stryker’s people kidnapping children, the experiments and torture, the army stepping in, the rescue, and the return to my people. The official story—carefully curated by Charlene—was that the government had saved those poor mutants, not a bunch of mutants storming a military base and starting a mini-war with legally recognized authorities. A neat little PR move to keep things looking clean and to prevent fueling mutantphobia. Even Magneto, despite her grumbling, had agreed it was the smart approach.

I also threw in a small detail—that I wasn’t the only male mutant there. That one of my fellow captives, someone with powers similar to mine, had suffered far worse. Given how I’d already very publicly lost my cool a while back, practically growling at the spec-ops officer, I doubted this extra tidbit would hurt. If anything, it was a good opportunity to divert suspicion away from Tobias and onto some poor, nameless mutant. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be fooled, but it might be enough to slightly muddy the waters for everyone else.

From there, I talked about how much the rescue had meant to me. How these soldiers had pulled kids out of captivity, treated our wounds, fed us, clothed us, warmed us, and returned us to safety. And how, after that, I decided I wanted to help people.

And then, I wrapped it up with something I genuinely believed.

"Not everyone will throw a rock at you just because you’re a mutant. Some will stand beside you. And many of the people who were there with me that day will always remember that fact."

Hell, I almost inspired myself with that speech. By the end, I was practically preaching about how, in both human and mutant communities, there were always those who wanted peace. People who wouldn’t turn their backs on someone in need. People willing to help however they could.

We talked for a while—Eddie and I had long since dropped formalities—until he hit me with an unexpected question.

"Salamander, that night, when you were asked about your faith, you said something… unusual: ‘I believe in Humanity and the Emperor.’ I think our readers would be interested in knowing—who exactly is the Emperor?"

"Oh, nothing dramatic," I shrugged, scratching the tip of my nose, ready to start weaving some top-tier bullshit. "A long time ago—don’t remember when exactly—I either read a book, a short story, or maybe watched a cartoon. Very motivational stuff. It was about the evolution of Humanity as a species. The main theme throughout was the idea of uniting us—people—as one strong, indivisible Humanity. No racial divisions, no nationalism, no pointless hatred. Just progress. Growing together, getting stronger, wiser, overcoming challenges side by side. The idea was that, eventually, we’d conquer space, colonize new worlds."

Yeah, I wasn’t about to dump the grimdark horrors of Warhammer 40k on him. No need to mention hive cities, forge worlds, or an entire galaxy locked in an endless meat grinder of war. One thing is humanity united—a whole other deal is oceans of blood with floating islands of corpses. No, thanks.

"The Emperor wasn’t so much a man as he was a symbol—a figure that united everyone and led them forward. I just like the concept of a unified, strong humanity, you get me, Eddie?" I took another sip of coffee—shockingly decent, actually. "A world where, together, we could accomplish incredible things. So yeah, I believe in Humanity, truly and completely, and as for the Emperor? In my eyes, it’s just a metaphor for leadership—someone who can guide us toward becoming better. And if, in the real world, that leader happens to be an Empress, well… doesn’t matter to me. The result is what counts."

"That’s…" Brock paused, staring thoughtfully into his coffee before taking a sip. "A bit idealistic, don’t you think?" He gave me a small, almost apologetic smile, as if unsure whether he was being too critical.

"Call it faith," I shrugged, smiling under the glowing mask. "And unlike waiting for a miracle from the gods, this is something we can actually accomplish ourselves. I get it—people aren’t suddenly going to wake up one day and decide, in unison, to make the world a better place. You can’t demand that from anyone. Each person has to make that decision on their own. They have to want it. They have to start, and keep going, and not stop. I made that choice. The women in this precinct? They made theirs. Firefighters, doctors, cops, rescue workers—these people already make life safer. They save us from disasters, heal our wounds, protect us. Industry works for us. Research institutes push science forward.

"You see, Eddie, a lot of people are already doing their part to improve our world. And when I realized that, I just made my own decision—to do what I do best. To help people where my abilities can be useful. That’s my choice, my responsibility, my burden, and I carry it proudly." I sighed, spreading my hands. "Sorry if that was a bit all over the place—I’m not exactly a great speaker."

"No, I get you," Brock smiled, reassuring. "It’s a noble way to see things. And I like it. But you keep saying ‘we, people’. Some don’t consider mutants human. I’ve even heard theories that you might be a different species entirely…"

"That’s complete, utter, unfiltered bullshit," I cut him off, voice sharper than before. "We weren’t created by some mad scientist. We aren’t aliens from outer space. We aren’t magical creatures from another dimension. Mutants are humans, just like everyone else. We’re born, we grow up, and we die, just like any other person. We’re born into families—often human families. We go to school, fall in love, have sex, eat, sleep. We are people. And the only ones who think otherwise are idiots—sorry, but I won’t sugarcoat that. Some morons still believe redheads don’t have souls, does that suddenly make it true? No. Mutants are human. And with our abilities, we can be useful to society. We’re tools that, in the hands of the right master, can be used incredibly effectively."

"You said that a little too easily—calling yourself a tool," Brock tilted his head. "Don’t you think that’s… a bit degrading?"

"Some might," I leaned back in my chair, feeling oddly comfortable with the topic despite how personal it was. "But I just see it differently. You’ve heard the phrase ‘cog in the machine,’ right?"

Brock nodded, so I continued.

"We’re all parts of society, one way or another. Cells in the body of Humanity. I don’t see anything shameful in being useful to that body. Call it what you want—a cog, a tool, an organ, a cell—the meaning doesn’t change. It doesn’t stop us from being individuals, from having our own ideas and goals."

Just as Brock was about to ask his next question, a knock came from the door. A female officer peeked inside, briefly freezing when she caught sight of my glowing face, then relayed that Captain Stacy was waiting for me.

I slipped my helmet back on, bid Brock farewell, and he, in turn, handed me his card. "In case you ever want to share something interesting."

I assured him that I’d be in touch the moment I had something juicy, then headed for Stacy’s office. Damn, quick bastard. I huffed to myself on the way there, catching an odd look from the officer walking me out. Lazy journalists, man. Now they wanted me to call them and hand over stories on a silver platter? Pff. Let him chase the leads himself—movement is life, after all.

Waiting for me in Stacy’s office was an old acquaintance—Sybilla. Her expression was a lot friendlier than during our first meeting. She even greeted me without cursing, which, from what I’d gathered, was practically a miracle for her.

She led me out to the police parking lot, where a squad car was already waiting. We got in, and as the officer started the engine, we drove past the precinct’s main entrance—right past a huge crowd.

"Press and your fangirls," she explained, while I—completely baffled—stared at a couple of… very questionable posters.

One read: "I love you, Salamander! Call me, and I’ll love you all night!"—phone number included.

The other? Just a straight-up, bold demand for a certain physical activity with the sign-holder.

"What. The. Fuck." I muttered in Russian.

"Oh-ho," Sybilla cackled before seamlessly switching to Russian too. "Guess you’re not completely hopeless, kid." She nodded toward the posters with a smirk. "Better get used to it—these dumbasses are not going away anytime soon."

"What the hell?" I instinctively switched back to English, because, holy shit, that was actually terrifying. The whole situation was just… way too off. Creepy as hell. And the owner of the second sign? Yeah, she was not the kind of woman you wanted fantasizing about you—pushing fifty and looking like she'd spent the last decade smoking two packs a day in a basement.

"What did you expect?" Sybil snorted, eyes on the road. "These crazy bitches are always the most enthusiastic. Honestly, this is one of the reasons your little superhero club keeps your identities under wraps. Imagine idiots like that camping out in front of your home? And that’s just the tame ones. Trust me, kid, as a male hero? You’re gonna get the absolute worst of the obsessed nutjobs."

"That’s… not exactly reassuring," I swallowed the much stronger words that almost slipped out. Not that I couldn’t curse—I absolutely could, and often did—but holding a conversation that was entirely made of profanity, the way Sybil did? Yeah, not my thing.

She just laughed. "Don’t sweat it, Salamander. We take care of our own." A brief pause, then, completely deadpan, "And if it comes down to it, we will avenge your violated honor. My girls already saved your ass from that mob of thirsty cougars today—so among us? No need to be nervous."

I groaned, rubbing at my face through the helmet. Sybilla, of course, just cackled. Then, with a sharp shift in tone, her voice went all business.

"Alright, here’s the plan: we get to the training grounds, I introduce you to the girls. Most of them are solid. Good officers, good fighters. I say most because we just had two transfers—some of our old crew got promoted, and we’ve got fresh blood filling their spots. One’s a veteran, the other’s a rookie straight out of training. And—holy fuck, learn how to drive, you Hollywood-ass donkey!"

The car jerked as some absolute menace on the road decided to execute a completely nonsensical maneuver for no reason whatsoever.

Sybil did not take it well.

For the next two minutes straight, she unleashed a torrent of profanity so creative that I actually found myself impressed. And trying—desperately—to remember some of the best phrases for later use.

Okay, so maybe I had underestimated her cursing skills. This woman had turned swearing into art, and right now? I was witnessing a goddamn masterclass.

When she finally finished eviscerating the other driver’s existence, she clicked her tongue and got back on track like nothing happened.

"So, yeah. We arrive, do introductions, get in some shooting practice, a little sparring, and then you’ll run a couple of training scenarios with us. Minimum plan is a hostage rescue and a breach-and-clear op drills. If we have time, we’ll throw in something extra. I know you’ve got some aces up your sleeve, so during the briefing, let’s hear your suggestions.

"As for how the girls feel about you? Don’t stress it. Most of them already respect you—you took down Scorpia and helped get the kidnapped girls out. Some think you got lucky, but they still appreciate the effort. Luck is a skill too, you know. Now, about the new ones—I can only vouch for the rookie, and she is so into you that she’s practically pissing herself with excitement. So if she asks you to sign her tits, just… don’t be surprised.

"As for the veteran? No idea. But from what I hear, she’s solid—did her time in the army, been with the SWAT team for years, got plenty of experience. Basically, as long as you don’t start acting like an asshole, you’ve got a good shot at fitting in with our crew."

I just nodded, filing all that away. Honestly, I was really curious to see how this would compare to the training I’d done with Yuriko and the girls. Probably not too different, but we’d see.

Just as I was mulling that over, my phone buzzed from its case.

"Don’t make plans for the weekend."

A text from Sensei.

…Huh.

I sighed. I already HAD plans, dammit! Muttering a silent curse, I shoved the phone back. Experience told me that replying would be pointless.

Yuriko had been stupidly generous during Penny Week, but right now? There was no way in hell she’d be budging.

And, well… that was on me. I could’ve warned her that I had my own damn schedule.

(1) Ren TV (Рен ТВ) - I think this link will answer all your questions https://www.reddit.com/r/ANormalDayInRussia/comments/1gpnjsq/a_russian_tv_show_hired_a_biologist_to_discuss/