Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone by Christopher Andrews Page B

were finally  issued.
    Mark checked his phone. “A short one. Looks like the rogue’s got a kind of force field bubble strong enough to stop regular cop bullets.”
    Michael nodded, keeping his eyes on the road as he ran through a red light.
    “Force field ...” Mark mused. “Sounds like it could be a flashy kinda fight. Lotsa pizzazz ...” He gave Michael a hopeful, sideways glance.
    Michael couldn’t help smirking. “Go ahead. I know you’ve been dying to.”
    Grinning ear-to-ear, Mark unlatched his seatbelt and climbed over the seats into the back. He pulled a black, folded garment bag up from the floorboard and unzipped it to reveal a glossy crimson suit. He whispered, “Yes!” as he started undressing ...
    During the previous quarterly meeting-of-the-minds, Davison Electronics had presented the PCA review board with a new protective fabric, which, in laymen’s terms, they had dubbed “micro-chainmail.” Far lighter and fantastically more flexible than Kevlar, Davison’s spokesman, Alan Russell, proposed outfitting all PCA field agents with the material and, once proven successful, perhaps even to the military and nationwide police forces as well. A sample of the fabric was passed around as Russell spoke, eventually making its way to the lowly Lieutenants in the back row.
    As soon as Michael saw the shiny material up close, he suspected that he had seen it before, worn by a certain masked vigilante of note. He had smiled as he passed it over to the next person, pleased that the aforementioned party was willing to share and not monopolize such an advantageous invention.
    Unfortunately, it was not to be. The micro-chainmail was tough, but it was stopped by a truly immoveable force: Budget . The penpushers in Washington, those who never, ever stepped into the field against a rampaging paranormal rogue, deemed the material “too expensive for mass production” — as had been the case far too often throughout history, they considered dollars more important than people. Many PCA officers railed against this decision, Takayasu and Shockwave among them, but in the end, it didn’t change anything.
    But not too long after this debacle, a package was left on Shockwave’s doorstep; said package contained the glossy crimson suit. Mark later admitted to Michael that, when they very first met Vortex, he had joking-but-not-jokingly asked Vortex about getting a costume of his own ... and Vortex had evidently remembered their exchange. The red outfit was less “snazzy” than Vortex’s own — no mask, no cape, no symbol on the chest, and no gloves or boots, so as to not interfere with his shockwaves — but Mark had still been quite pleased.
    Shortly thereafter, Michael received his own package: A new, custom-fitted trench coat, lined with the micro-chainmail. But while Takayasu very much appreciated the gesture, and made sure to voice this appreciation the next time they met in the field, he found the coat too heavy, especially once he added his usual complement of anti-paranormal gadgets to the inner pockets. He tried to make do once or twice, but it just hindered him too much (he had no idea how Vortex ran around head-to-toe in the stuff — not to mention the cape!). They had finally compromised with a bulletproof vest-style lining, so that at least his torso was protected in combat.
    Speaking of combat ...
    Cutting a hard left, Michael pulled into the parking lot of the three-story apartment complex. Several police cars were controlling the entrance, and they were waved through in a hurry. The press was beginning to arrive as well; the uniformed officers were successful in keeping them at bay, but they were already snapping pictures and shooting video from afar. Civilians were emerging from the complex’s main thoroughfare in trickles and spurts, most of them looking stunned or in tears, and the police were escorting them away.
    When Michael stood up from their car, the press photographers started snapping