Replica

The bell above the door jingled cheerfully as I entered Paul’s shop, the familiar sound bringing a momentary smile to my lips. The warm, inviting atmosphere enveloped me, a stark contrast to the chaos I had embraced just days before. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting golden rays over the shelves lined with vinyl records, guitars, and vintage memorabilia. The scent of aged wood mixed with freshly brewed coffee filled the air, creating a comforting embrace that grounded me.

Paul was behind the counter, immersed in setting up a new turntable. He glanced up and greeted me with a nod. “Hey, Liz! You’re back!” His voice was warm, filled with genuine delight.

“Yeah, I figured I should help out more,” I replied, my smile a bit more authentic this time. “Plus, I can’t spend all day wallowing, can I?”

“Exactly!” he said, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’m around if you have questions.”

I wandered to the back of the shop, where the chaos of my thoughts was beginning to settle. The familiar rows of records, with their colorful covers, were like old friends, reminding me of simpler times. As I sorted through the stacks, my mind drifted to the plans I had begun to formulate.

This was a temporary haven, a normal life I was trying to reclaim, but it felt increasingly difficult to do so. The memories of that night—the moment I took control of my own power, the rush of adrenaline as I fought back—were like an itch under my skin. Each day, I found myself thinking about the tether I had formed with the mugger, how I had turned the pain back on him with a single touch. What would it mean if I began to explore this power further? What if I could become something more?

I pulled a record from the shelf, its cover depicting a serene landscape—a tranquil beach at sunset. The contrast was jarring. I longed for that serenity, but my mind was occupied with thoughts of a new identity. I needed to create a persona, someone who could move through the shadows without being seen. Someone who could use their power not just to survive, but to fight back.

“Okay, let’s brainstorm,” I muttered under my breath, glancing around to ensure no one was within earshot. I needed to find a name. Something that resonated with my newfound purpose but also kept me hidden from the eyes of MetaPol and other metahumans.

What would I call myself?

Shadow Weaver? That had a nice ring to it, conjuring images of someone who could blend into the dark. But it felt a bit too mystical, like a character from a fantasy novel. Too long, too pretentious sounding in a sense.

"…Not me, not the image I want..." I whispered under my breath, a habit I’d always had when my thoughts were in overdrive.

"Mirage?" I considered. That had a certain appeal. Something elusive, like a trick of the light. But it felt too illusory, too fleeting. I wasn’t an illusion—I was real, and the power I wielded was tangible. I wasn’t vanishing into thin air; I was becoming something more.

The hum of the turntable in the background was soothing, but my mind raced ahead. I caught myself staring at a vinyl record on the shelf—David Bowie. The cover was familiar, his iconic face staring back at me, one eye shadowed, the other bright and alert. Bowie had always been a chameleon, changing his persona with each era, each album. He was never one thing, always shifting, always adapting.

That idea resonated with me. I wasn’t just the Liz who worked in a record shop anymore. I was something more now. Something that could change, adapt, and mirror whatever was thrown at me.

Mirror.

That wasn’t it, but it was close. I rolled the thought around in my head, and then it hit me.

"Replica." I whispered the word aloud, feeling it settle on my tongue. It was perfect—something that could reflect back, mirror the pain and power of others. A copy, but not an illusion. Real. Solid.

I liked it.

“Replica...” I tested it again under my breath, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. It was simple, effective. It gave nothing away, and yet it described exactly what I could do. I wasn’t the original force in this world of chaos, but I could become a reflection of whatever tried to hurt me. And I could turn that power against them.

My thoughts wandered further as I sorted the records, the monotonous task allowing my mind to continue its wandering. I needed more than just a name—I needed a costume. If I was going to step into this new identity, I couldn’t look like an average person off the street. The heroes, villains, even the vigilantes like New Moon had costumes, something to separate them from the ordinary people they protected or fought against.

But I didn’t want something flashy, nothing that screamed for attention like the garish costumes of Gravitas. I needed something sleek, something practical. Something that let me move through the shadows without being seen.

A dark cloak? No, too dramatic.

Leather? Maybe. Functional, tough, and easy to move in. But it needed to be more than just practical. It had to be subtle, blending into the city’s crumbling streets, yet durable enough to handle the chaos I was bound to face. But not too much, so that I could actually get hurt to dish it out to others.

“Need a good balance…”

I picked up an album from the shelf and stared at the cover without really seeing it. Black and silver… those colours kept coming to mind. Black for the shadows, for anonymity. Silver for the sharpness, for the tether that connected me to others. I imagined a sleek black suit—something that hugged my frame, flexible enough to allow for quick movements, but sturdy enough to protect me. Maybe with silver accents that caught the light just enough to remind my enemies that I was there, always a step ahead, always reflecting back their power.

A hood, maybe? That could work, something to shroud my face when needed, adding an air of mystery. Gloves, definitely– from previous experiences, I don’t need direct contact of skin to tether to someone–

I pulled myself out of the daydream as the bell above the door jingled again. A customer wandered in, an older man in a worn leather jacket, his eyes scanning the shelves. I straightened up, offering a polite smile as I slipped back into the role of “Liz the record shop assistant,” but my mind was still racing with ideas for Replica.

The man approached the counter, mumbling about an old rock album he’d been searching for, and I helped him find it, my hands moving automatically as my thoughts continued their silent planning.

I was no longer just a scared girl reacting to the chaos around me. I was becoming something else—someone who could fight back, who could move through this metahuman world without being noticed until it was too late. I wasn’t a hero, and I wasn’t a villain. I was something in between. A rogue, maybe?

The customer paid for his album and left, the bell jingling again as the door closed behind him. I let out a breath, my mind still buzzing with ideas. Where was I going to get the materials for the costume? I didn’t have much money, and fabric shops weren’t exactly on my usual list of haunts. Maybe I could use what I already had—old clothes, secondhand finds. I didn’t need anything expensive. The less conspicuous, the better.

The door opened again, and this time it was Paul who wandered over, giving me a curious look. “You okay? You seem a bit lost in thought today.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just... thinking about some stuff.” I tried to keep my tone light, but the weight of what I was planning felt heavy in the air. Paul didn’t pry, though. He just nodded and went back to fill in the storage.

As the day wore on, I continued to slip between my normal life at the shop and my growing plans for Replica. The duality of it all—normalcy versus the power I felt in the shadows—was strange but comforting in its own way. I could live in both worlds for now, but soon, I’d have to step fully into one.

I glanced at the clock, realising the afternoon had passed quicker than I expected. The shop was quiet, the usual hum of customers absent. Paul had gone to the back room, leaving me alone at the counter. I let my fingers drum softly on the wood, my thoughts drifting once again to my costume.

“...Something sleek, something practical," I whispered to myself again, picturing the balance of stealth and durability I needed for my new identity. The practicality of it all consumed me—every detail had to serve a purpose, not just aesthetic appeal.

Black and silver, that was clear now. Those colours had stuck with me all day, like they belonged to Replica as much as I did. The silver, I decided, would represent the tether, the invisible thread that tied me to others. A reminder of the power I wielded, a power that felt sharper than any blade.

The thought of the tether reminded me of the mugger’s face—his fear, his pain, his realisation that he wasn’t in control anymore. That feeling of control lingered in my mind. Was this how the metahumans felt all the time? Did they always walk through the world with the knowledge that they could bend reality to their will? I understood now how it could be intoxicating.

My eyes scanned the shop again as I tried to focus. Paul was still busy fiddling with equipment, but there was something grounding about the slow, familiar rhythm of the shop. The soft crackle of a record playing in the background, the smell of coffee lingering in the air—these small details kept me tethered to reality. The normal world still existed, even as I crafted a plan to step into a darker one.

But I wasn’t leaving this world behind entirely. I still needed it. I needed Paul’s shop for now—money for materials, a place to blend in while I prepared. That was the key. Blending in. Replica had to be more than just a name and a costume. She had to be invisible until it was time to strike. The idea of sneaking through the cracks of the city, unnoticed, made me feel... powerful. Like I could carve out a space for myself without anyone knowing until it was too late.

What kind of material would I use? Something flexible but resistant. Again, leather was a possibility, but it could be expensive, and if I wanted to keep a low profile, I’d need to find something cheaper, for now. Maybe I could patch together pieces of old clothing, make it look like urban camouflage. Something pieced together from the scraps of the city itself—symbolic, in a way. A reflection of how I felt inside, patched together after the destruction, trying to rebuild.

“Liz?” Paul’s voice broke my concentration. I looked up to see him waving a hand in front of my face, a knowing smile on his lips. “You’ve been zoning out all afternoon. Everything okay?”

I blinked, forcing myself to snap back to reality. “Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking about a lot of things.”

Paul chuckled, leaning against the counter. “I can tell. You’ve got that ‘deep in thought’ look on your face.” He paused, eyeing me with concern. “If you ever need to talk, you know I’m here, right?”

I nodded, giving him a small smile. “I know, Paul. Thanks.” But the truth was, there was no way I could tell him what I was really planning. Paul was a good guy, and the shop felt like a safe haven, but the world I was about to step into wasn’t one he would understand. It was my burden to carry, my secret to keep.

I glanced at the clock. It was nearing closing time, and the shop had emptied out for the day. I could feel the weight of the day settling in, the exhaustion from constantly shifting between my thoughts of Replica and the routine of the shop. But I didn’t mind the exhaustion. It felt like progress, like each day I was getting closer to something concrete.

“Want me to lock up tonight?” I asked, already moving toward the door.

Paul waved me off. “Nah, I’ve got it. You head home, get some rest. You’ve been working hard today.”

I offered him a grateful smile and grabbed my bag. “Thanks, Paul. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The cool evening air hit me as I stepped out of the shop, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. I zipped up my jacket and started walking, my mind still racing with thoughts of Replica. Every step felt like I was inching closer to this new identity, like the normal life I had known was slipping further away. But I was okay with that. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

As I walked through the streets, I thought about what the name "Replica" truly meant. It wasn’t just about reflecting the pain of others—it was about adapting, about becoming whatever I needed to survive. Replica wouldn’t be defined by the rules of heroes and villains. She would exist outside of that system, moving through the shadows without anyone realising she was there until it was too late.

I reached into my bag, pulling out the small notepad I had started carrying around. I flipped it open, scribbling down ideas for the costume.

Material: Lightweight, flexible, but durable. Leather might be good for patches, but I’ll need something cheaper.

Colour scheme: Black and silver. Black for stealth, silver for the tether. Maybe some dark grey for contrast.

Mask: Something simple, but effective. It needs to cover enough of my face to keep me anonymous, but not so much that it hinders movement or vision. I just need to see and move as I want. A full-face mask attached to the rest of the costume would be better. Less risk of letting it go.

Hood: Not a good idea, would block my vision if I turn my head too fast.

Accessories: Gloves are a must. I don’t want to leave fingerprints, and they won't hinder my ability to tether. Boots with good grip for running.

I paused, looking over my notes. It wasn’t much yet, but it was a start. I had the framework of something. All I needed now was the materials and a plan for how to put it all together.

As I neared my apartment, I felt a surge of determination. This wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It was about taking control. Replica would be my way of doing that—my way of stepping into the metahuman world on my terms. I wasn’t going to be like the heroes or villains who left destruction in their wake. I would be something else, something more precise, more calculated.

Once I got home, I set the notepad down on the kitchen table and looked around my temporary apartment. It was still as impersonal as always. That too, would require funds. The “Meta Fight Disaster Relief Resources” wouldn’t let me live here forever… Lots of expenses, and little money…

I moved to the window, staring out at the city below. The lights of the buildings flickered in the distance, and I could hear the faint hum of traffic. Somewhere out there, metahumans were probably fighting, tearing through the city like they always did. But this time, I didn’t feel powerless. I wasn’t just watching from the sidelines anymore.

And maybe I could make use of that for more funds…