“Operative NightHawk, on your left!”

The soldier, clad in the same style of metallic armor as the rest of his companions but with Navajo War Paint applied overtop and a feathered headdress crowning his head, jumped back. Just in time as bright green beasts burst from below, yellow drool frothing from their maws.

“Reptiods, mutated with acid breath! Spirits preserve us,” Operative SlamRock cried out, his emerald-green armor sizzling as the yellow liquid sprayed everywhere. “Going to need more than a four-leaf clover to get out of this one!”

“My ancestors spoke of such things,” NightHawk’s solemn voice hung heavy. “Truly this is a sign of nature being disrespected.” He reached down to the batons strapped to his thigh, an energy blade igniting at the end. His NightTomahawks. “We must correct this.”

“Can it with the nature talk,” spit Operative Coney. His blue armor was covered in bandoliers filled with oversized ammo, rockets, and grenades. A rocket pack was built into his back and twin launchers were on either arm. He leveled his wrist mounted Chain Missiles at the beasts. “Let’s frag the alien scum!”

“Did we rescue all the civilians?” Operative Ratchet asked, her long blonde hair flowing from the back of her helmet, vibrant red crosses decorated across her white custom armor. She had no weapons of her own, instead kitted out for first aid as a medic should be.

“We did! Come now boys, and let’s put these xeno-terrors where they belong!” Their leader came forward, gleaming red and gold armor, with his handsome face exposed. He held a great broadsword, glowing purple. “Where humanity calls, we go!”

“SUN Taskforce, sally forth!”

The screen abruptly cut off, Jordan groaning quietly. He could see his mother reflected in the black screen, annoyance on her face.

“Aren’t you getting too old for that stuff?”

Jordan got up off the floor, turning to her. “It was the only thing on.”

“Then read a book.” She grimaced. “That show is garbage.”

“It’s just a cartoon.”

“A cartoon that trivializes what the S.U.N. does and what they go through. That glorifies it as kids’ stuff. It can’t even get the damn name right.”

“Mamma, I don’t see what it matters. I know what’s real and what isn’t. Besides,” he paused. “Don’t the S.U.N. promote the show?”

When he was younger, he referred to the organization as the SUN, but over time she became stringent about him saying it ‘correctly’. Never really made much sense to him.

“That doesn’t make it good, JoJo,” she said finally. “Don’t want you getting the idea you should try to join those whackos.”

Jordan looked back at the dark screen. The Powered Operatives of the SUN series was a little younger than him. It started sometime in 1986 after things started calming down. Every episode boasted a full roster of different experts within the Supreme United Nations, with live action segments done by the real-life scientists. They would often explain the differences between the liberties taken in the show and the reality.

Earlier seasons were apparently a lot more serious, taking accounts from actual soldiers who fought the Megulon swarm in ’84. But then things changed in ’89 and the show got much more lighthearted and sillier. Supposedly each country had their own version of the show, some varying wildly.

Jordan shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like the worst way to live.”

“Well, that’ll be your choice to make when you’re older,” she said, crossing her arms. The action emphasized her cross more. “But the reality is nothing like the lies they try to spread.”

He let out a breath. More to himself than her, he spoke. “I don’t think I’d like taking orders from others anyway.”

“That’s one of the smartest things I’ve ever heard you say,” she said, smiling.

The light caught her necklace again. Curiosity burned in him.

“Mom, are we Catholic?”

Maria looked confused before her hand went up to her necklace. It was the only jewelry he’d ever seen her wear. She averted her gaze.

“This belonged to my mom. That’s all. I never liked the church scene. Too many of a certain type in those circles for my taste.”

This was the first he ever heard of his grandma. Maria didn’t care for talking about the past much. She mentioned she ran away from home at sixteen and shared some oblique tales of joining a biker gang for a few years. After that things got hazy.

“What kind of people?”

“Swindlers, backstabbers and manipulators. Schemers. There are so many people who hide behind good intentions. So many people who wear happy masks to disguise how ugly and bitter they are. They are miserable wretches who only live to make you do what they want and the moment you’re done, they’ll slit your throat. You’ll meet plenty in your life. Not just in religion, but all over.”

“What can you do about them?”

“Be vigilant, be mindful, and don’t trust a single one of them,” Maria paused. “I guess you’re old enough to hear this kind of talk. You’re going to be an adult soon, after all.”

“Doesn’t seem like it gets better,” he said. “I thought you were supposed to figure things out when you got older.”

“No. Only thing I’ve learned is how much I have to lose.” She stared at him for a moment. “What kind of man are you going to be with a momma like me?”

He thought about it. Grinning, he found his answer. “One who won’t break your heart.”

She never said anything, walking off to the kitchen instead. Jordan contemplated turning on the TV. He never was the biggest fan of the show, regardless of the complaints of his mom. Something about it seemed wrong to him. Forced. It was hard to put into words. It was artificial. Something about the action, about the characters, it rang hollow. Gia called it propaganda.

A knock at the door surprised him. He closed the distance and opened it before ever thinking twice. He half expected Steph, who kept her distance since that night two days ago. Instead, it was a much older woman. Not unlike Steph, she was blonde, though a much brighter shade. Also similar were her green eyes, catching the fading sunlight. That was about where the similarities ended. She was taller than his mom, wearing an expensive blue suit.

“Jordan Arnaz?”

Her accent was heavy, Jordan couldn’t guess what it was.

“Yeah,” his voice came out small. He hated the way it sounded.

“My name is Christine Ritter. I work with your mom. Is she here?”

Only his shock kept him from asking ‘where’. Not that he was given a chance.

“Come in.”

Jordan winced. The tone of his mother, now in the living room, was sharp and cold. She got like this a few times, sometimes because of something he did, sometimes not. It usually meant things were going to be heated.

He moved aside, Christine locking eyes with his mom.

“Maria. How are you?”

“Resting. I go back to work tomorrow, after I see this one off.” His mom circled around Jordan, draping her arm across his back.

Christine glanced at him. “You’re going on a trip tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Few days down in Houston.” Jordan looked between the two women.

“Funny,” Christine said. “I’m going to be there for work. Maybe I’ll see him.”

“I doubt you will,” his mom said. “He’ll have chaperones.”

“Well, that’s good. It’s always nice to know your children are safe.”

Jordan stared between the two, breaking away from his mom. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

“Good idea,” Maria said.

“Stay safe,” Christine never looked away from her.