Part Twenty-Six: Consequences
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Another Way
Part Twenty-Six: Consequences
[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
PRT ENE Director's Office
Director Piggot
"Hold up a moment, Armsmaster." Emily located a recorder and set it running. "What were Marchioness' words exactly?"
"One second." Armsmaster seemed to concentrate for a second, then nodded fractionally. A recorded voice began to play back, in his own voice.
"Well, I'm not one for puns, but if anyone could be said to have turned the tide, it was you and your … what did you call it again? Mr. Bloom?" There was a brief pause. "Uh … just a question … it can't …"
"Travel?" That was Marchioness. "No, he's very likely going to spend his time soaking up the sunshine in Florida. Now, if someone else threatens Orlando or the local area with large-scale destruction, he might wake up again and deal with it, but I can pretty well guarantee he's never going to show up in Brockton Bay."
The recording stopped, and he nodded to Emily.
She pressed STOP on the recorder. "And that was all she had to say about it?"
Slowly, he rubbed his chin. "She did mention that the plant entity could theoretically get into contact with her if it really needed to, but that was about it."
"Alright then." She suppressed a shudder. The footage of this … Mr Bloom … standing up and hurling Leviathan out of sight was only made more terrifying when it lay down again … and utterly vanished. Within seconds, there was no trace that it had ever existed. Then and there, she resolved never to visit Florida. "Just one more thing to cover."
"Yes, ma'am?" Armsmaster's tone never shifted, but she was reasonably sure he knew exactly what she wanted to ask.
"The origin of this creature. Do you think it might be something that was there before but was only woken up by Leviathan's attack? Or a cape, Triggered by Leviathan? Or …" She grimaced, not wanting to even air this concept, but knowing it was something she had to do. "… did Marchioness create it?"
"Before we even get into this," Armsmaster said carefully, "I want to make a few points. First: Marchioness has never done anything like this before, anywhere in Brockton Bay."
"That we know of," Emily countered grimly. "Roots go underground as a matter of course. Could she have done something like it, here?"
He shrugged. "Theoretically, sure. Realistically? I sincerely doubt it. Healing is a long, long way from creating an entire sapient plant-based entity. It's a considerable jump from one to the other. Second: Marchioness was busy for almost the entire time she was down there. Locators for the armbands indicate that she never left Marquis' side. And for a lot of the time, she was healing the casualties of the battle."
Her lips tightened. "Which was specifically the duty she'd already said she would carry out. We all know she's only doing it because that keeps her and Marquis out of the hands of the PRT or the Protectorate."
"I think you do her a disservice, ma'am." Although she was nominally his superior, his censorious tone was impossible to miss. "She and her contingent went above and beyond. Purity—I mean, Palatina—was right there in the middle of the fight, handing out the damage as hard as she could. The only cape deaths were the ones Leviathan deliberately killed on the spot. I saw members of the Mercia literally diving into tsunamis to rescue injured people … and succeeding. Cooperating to lift rubble in the ton-weight range while Legionnaire's ghosts dragged people to safety."
"You admire them," she said flatly. "You admire what they've done."
"Not for the fact that they're villains," he countered. "But because they showed up despite being villains, did what they said they were going to do, and did it damned efficiently. Did you know, Marquis even equipped them with pony bottles of air before they went down to Florida? Five minutes isn't much, but it can be a life-saver when you're trapped underwater."
Emily wasn't an idiot. She could read the room. Armsmaster wasn't about to think the worst of Marquis and Marchioness, even with this alarming new development to worry about. "Understood," she conceded. "So what's your personal view on the origin of this Mr Bloom, and what we should do about it? Because you know I'll have Director Lane of Forty-Four and Stackpole of Fifty-One asking me some tough questions, and that's not even counting the Chief Director." PRT Department 44 was based in Miami and 51 in Tampa, and she wasn't certain which one would try to pull jurisdiction over Orlando.
"I don't believe we can do anything meaningful about it, ma'am," he said bluntly. "From what Marchioness described to me, the thing is a vast plant-based distributed intelligence. The very most we could manage against it would be to mildly annoy it, and cause it to contact Marchioness and Marquis for assistance. If we leave it alone, it will leave us alone."
The subtext may as well have had a neon light flashing next to it. We do not want to annoy Marquis and Marchioness. Emily could kind of understand the reasoning, but at the same time it rankled her on several levels that she couldn't do anything about it.
"Very well," she said. "Dismissed. I'll await your full report on the matter."
Pretending to relax, she leaned back in her chair and watched him leave the office. The door closed, which allowed her to shut her eyes and massage her temples with her fingertips. Okay, how the fuck do I handle this?
The answer was as obvious as it was unpalatable. Put it on the pile with the rest of the shit, and deal with problems as they come up. A long sigh left her lungs. Same old, same old.
At least we don't have anything like that here in Brockton Bay.
She didn't know that for a fact, but she could certainly pretend.
Marchioness
"All right, then." Earl looked at the map of the city which was already spread over the table. "Lung has made his move. He failed, due to Abigail and Marcus, but he needs to learn just how bad a mistake that was. We are taking the fight to him. Or rather, I am taking the fight to him."
"Wait, you're going to take him on alone?" Justin blinked as everyone turned to look at him. "I mean, that's … he's dangerous. He fought Leviathan, for crying out loud. Nobody can take him one-on-one."
"That's what he's led everyone to believe," Earl said firmly. "And that's what he believes himself. I'm going to put that to the test."
Claire took a deep breath and stepped up alongside him. "I'm coming, too."
Earl nodded. "Yes, you are, but not to fight Lung. You're going to have a different job, one that's just as important."
When her father spoke in that tone of voice, she knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, she was interested in what role he had in mind for her. "Which is …?"
Resting his knuckles on the table, Earl looked around at the assembled group. "We will be sweeping through ABB territory. The Mercia will be tasked with locating and subduing Lung's men and women, and bringing them to Claire. She will, in turn, be 'persuading' them to abandon Lung's cause. All but two of you will be backing up the Mercia, and helping dig the ABB out of their hidey-holes."
Abigail tilted her head. "All but two? Earl, darlin', I had no stomach to fight a monster, but you cannot be leaving me out of this battle as well."
This time, he chuckled. "And I never intended you to. I will welcome you into our ranks for this. No, the two who aren't coming along will be Kayden and Marcus."
The two thus named stared at each other, then at Earl. Marcus went to speak first, then paused and ceded the floor to Kayden.
"Why?" she asked bluntly. "Is it because I nearly died? I'm fine now. Claire healed me up."
"Yes, you're fine," he conceded. "But how are your power reserves? You once told me that Claire couldn't refill those, and you ran yourself dry today."
"I have some," she protested. "There was sunlight after Leviathan went away, and after we got back here."
He shook his head. "Not enough. This fight is likely to last into the night, and I will not have you going into harm's way with just vapor in the tank. Please, sit this one out."
"Argh." She clenched her fists. "I hate it when you're reasonable like that. Okay, fine, but the moment this meeting's over, I'll be sunbathing on the roof. Just in case."
"And I would have it no other way." He looked at his young clone. "Marcus, you had a question?"
"Yeah." Marcus grimaced. "Am I being sidelined because I screwed up? Is this some kind of punishment?"
"What? No." Earl shook his head. "Yes, you made mistakes. Everyone does. It's part of the learning curve. But you survived, and you're the wiser for it. No, this isn't a punishment. This is so that Lung continues to believe he's only ever faced me."
Marcus blinked. "Oh … oh. Oh, I see. He'll think you're off your game, and he'll get all overconfident."
"More overconfident, but yes." Earl smiled dryly. "There is a saying to the effect that one should never interrupt one's enemy while they are making a mistake. I prefer to ensure that they make the mistake in the first place; that way, I know exactly when and where it's going to happen. And because he's made an incorrect assumption due to your actions …"
Abigail let out a bark of laughter and slapped the table. "An' that's the Earl Marchant from the old days, sure enough. Never let an opportunity slip by, do ye?"
"I wouldn't be the businessman I am if I did." He leaned over the map. "Now, we'll do our best to contain them within their territory. Claire will drive through the middle with Justin's ghosts ranging ahead for scouting purposes. Robert will maintain this pincer arm, Abigail will take the other side, and Jonas will provide the lid on the bottle. I will remain with Claire and Justin until Lung is spotted, then the rest of you keep the rank and file honest while I engage him."
Claire listened as her father laid the plan out. It was simple and elegant, making use of prominent streets for advancement directions. "You've had this in mind for a while, haven't you?" she asked suspiciously.
He nodded. "Just because it wasn't the time to remove Lung from the board didn't mean I couldn't plan for it. Do you believe you're up to the task of taking away his power base?"
By which he meant removing the loyalty to Lung while leaving the rest of the mind intact. "Absolutely." She'd had plenty of practice, after all.
"Good." He dusted off his hands. "Let's get to it, then."
Legionnaire
It was weird having so many points of view, but Justin could handle it. None of the ghosts gave him a detailed view of what was around it—the fewer, the better—but he was able to scout out the buildings surrounding him as he advanced down the street with his detachment of Mercia. Instead of the plate armour and spear of Crusader, he wore a basic idea of what a Roman soldier would have, and carried a shortsword. Behind him, almost as though they were out for an evening stroll, came Marquis and Marchioness.
One of the ghosts entered a room containing people—at least, he figured they were people instead of furniture when they jumped up and started attacking the ghost—so he pointed. "Three," he said. Three of the Mercia broke off from the group and ran toward the building. They didn't bother with the front door or even the fire escape, instead choosing to scale the frontage using a level of parkour he wasn't sure was humanly possible.
When they entered the room, his ghost stood back to block the door. The Mercia were very good at what they did, but their job was much easier if the prospective targets couldn't get away. The fight, if he could call it one, was over in seconds; afterward, the Mercia dragged the subdued ABB members down the stairs in the same manner as an exasperated adult returning a stubborn child to bed.
Marchioness went to meet them, the Mercia flanking her to deter snipers. She was basically bulletproof, but why tempt fate? She went from one to the next, briefly laying her hand on their foreheads. Once she was done with them, she stepped back and they were released.
"Wh-what—?" stammered one.
"Go," she ordered. "Back to your families. Lung's reign ends tonight."
They didn't need telling twice. All three scrambled to their feet and bolted in different directions. Marchioness nodded to Marquis, and they resumed their advance.
"Incoming," Justin warned as one of his perimeter ghosts watched a bunch of figures run by. "Seven Mercia, with passengers, from Knight Errant."
It never failed to amaze him just how much Marchioness could improve the base human condition. He himself was far more durable than he had been before joining up with Marquis, but these guys were basically inhuman. During the Leviathan fight, he'd watched them running at street speeds over flooded terrain, bringing downed capes in for healing. Impressive as hell, and just one more reason why he was so damn glad he'd chosen to join when he did.
The Mercia dashed into sight a moment later, zip-cuffed prisoners slung over their shoulders. They paused to dump the ABB on the sidewalk, then reversed course and headed back the way they'd come. Justin kept a lookout with his ghosts as Marchioness moved to deal with the latest delivery; any potential ambush would likely fail horribly, but there was no sense in taking chances.
Abigail
Now, this is the life.
Eyes peeled for ABB markings, Abigail ran the rooftops alongside the Mercia, grinning in the cool evening air as she matched them step for step and leap for leap. Her power enhanced her body and turned her into every athlete's impossible dream, but it seemed her little Claire acushla had learned how to do the same with Earl's own men.
Already they'd flushed out and sent several of Lung's finest over to Claire for 'persuasion', as Abigail chose to call it. It was a valid tactic; they had neither the means nor the desire for keeping prisoners long-term. All they really wanted to do was bleed Lung of his men with as little in the way of harm to innocents as possible. If Marquis was to be taking this territory, then it was never too early to begin fostering goodwill.
"Fifteen to Beltane." That was the radios they all carried, with earpieces so that nobody had to fumble with them while running. "Found a warehouse with markings, and guards outside. Looks like a gathering place. Grid thirty-two-A."
"Beltane to Fifteen, on my way." She looked around, trying to recall which way that grid square lay; the Mercia to her right pointed. "Beltane to Marquis; 'tis running him to ground we might be doing. I'll be keepin' ye posted."
"Understood. Take care." And that was the man all over. He said what he meant, and meant what he said.
"Roger, copy an' all that military jazz." She let go the earpiece button, and leaped from the rooftop. Twisting in a way that would've been impossible before she got her powers, she caught a streetlight and swung off it, then stuck the landing on the wall of the building across the narrow roadway.
Without so much as a pause, she swarmed to the roof of the new building, sprinted across the flat surface, and cleared the dividing alleyway with never a qualm. In her element now, she headed toward the location she'd been given, instinctively mapping out her path before she ever got to it. To her, a rooftop was a runway, a parapet was a springboard, and an irregularity in the brickwork was an open invitation saying, "climb here!".
When the warehouse came in sight, she saw at once why Fifteen had considered it significant. The prominent ABB gang tags on the outside might have been an indicator, but the four armed men standing out at the front sealed the deal. There was something going on inside, something she wanted to see.
She was a shadow in the night, a whisper on the wind. Fast as a thought, smoother than oiled silk, she jumped from rooftop to rooftop until she reached the last gap. Too wide to leap across, it was bridged by a single power cable. Below was unyielding concrete and armed guards; before her, the resolution of her curiosity.
Pfft, she told herself. Who wants to live forever, anyway?
For all the bravado of her thoughts, she was cat-cautious with her foot placement. She advanced across the open gap, allowing the cable to impress itself on her soles through the thin shoes she wore, the better to gauge her balance. It was well that darkness had advanced sufficiently for her not to be silhouetted against the sky above; should one of the guards see her, she would make a fine target.
Finally, she reached the roof of the warehouse. Moving as silently as she was able, she sidled up to where a skylight promised visibility of what transpired below. The promise turned out to be a lie, as the glass was grimy from exposure to decades of Brockton Bay pollution, but she had other options.
Abigail generally carried little on her person during her forays, the more to keep her hands free and limbs unencumbered during a tight spot. The wrist-wallet containing a selection of lockpicks she left alone; the rusted-shut lock on the skylight needed a little more than that kind of finesse. Conversely, the pistol she carried holstered in the small of her back would count as overkill in this case.
However, the small pry-bar she kept strapped to her right thigh and the tanto blade sheathed to her left, promised to be much more useful. She'd selected the tanto for its strength and durability, as well as its ease of maintenance. While she could use it to stab people (and had done exactly that, more than once) to her that was more of a useful secondary function.
Wedging the pry-bar under the skylight, she applied leverage until the aged wood creaked and a wide enough gap opened to slide the tanto in until its triangular point was nestling against the locking mechanism. Then she extricated the pry-bar, spun it end for end in her hand, and thwacked it against the pommel of the tanto, somewhat like a hammer with a chisel. Or rather, in this case, exactly like a hammer with a chisel; there was a muted crack as the tanto smashed through the rusted metal, destroying the integrity of the lock and releasing the skylight.
She paused for a long moment, listening for shouts of alarm or the drumming of running feet. None came, so she eased the skylight open—requiring the use of the pry-bar for the first few inches, until the hinges got the idea of what they were meant for again—and peered within.
There stood Lung, along with about a dozen of his men, clustered around a selection of cars. Nobody was looking up, which didn't overly surprise her. In a building this old, creaks and cracks had to happen all the time when they settled.
"Beltane to Marquis, 'tis Lung himself I'm lookin' at," she murmured into her radio mic. "Larger than life an' three times as ugly."
"Marquis to Beltane, just to verify. You have positive identification of Lung at grid thirty-two-A." Earl's voice was intent and focused.
"Aye, to be sure an' all," she said. "I'd know that ink anywhere, an' the mask is still dented from when I smacked the great lummox with your car."
"Good. We're on our way. Keep me posted. Guardsman, Knight-Errant, start pushing in toward thirty-two-A."
Abigail tuned out the responses, focusing her attention more on what was happening below. Between his accent and the rumbling tones of his voice, his words were hard to make out, especially within the echoing confines of the warehouse. But his body language told a story she was able to read.
He was active but not agitated, indicating that he knew something was going on, but not the extent to which Marquis' forces had already depleted his reserves. From the movements of his hands, he intended to take action against someone else, and it wasn't hard to figure out who. The Empire Eighty-Eight was a spent force within the city, and the Merchants had vanished once Earl had decided to remove them.
That left Marquis and the Mercia.
"Beltane to Marquis," she said, a little more urgently than before. "If I'm not much mistakin' his purpose, Lung has a mind to invade your turf an' commence the murder until you show, an' this time end you for good an' all." As she watched, the ABB members started toward the cars. "An' it's due to happen now." She came to an abrupt decision. "I'll be delayin' 'em, howevermuch I can."
"Beltane, no!" Earl's voice was sharp. "We'll be there in minutes. Don't put yourself in harm's way."
"Last I checked, 'twas not the boss of me that ye were." Abigail slithered in through the gap in the open skylight. "Free agent an' all that. Catch ye when ye get here."
There were no rafters directly below the skylight, but a catwalk ran past a few yards to the side and down, but the trouble was, it was on the hinge side. Well, no matter. Catching the edge of the opening with her fingertips, she swung forward and backward once then performed a backward flip-and-twist that let her snag the catwalk with one hand.
Hanging there for a moment, she glanced back over her shoulder. Car doors slammed, and the first engine started. The large roller-door at the front of the warehouse began to rumble upward, opening the way for them to leave.
There was no time to scramble onto the catwalk proper, and find the stairs down. Looking downward, she spotted a stack of ancient crates that had probably been mouldering there since the days when this warehouse had been part of a going concern. From the looks of it, sometime in the first century BC.
Grabbing the catwalk with her other hand, Abigail swung back and forward again. When she released her grip, she was heading for the wall of the warehouse. She performed another flip-and-twist before she hit it, kicking off with her heels to redirect her momentum.
The crates were stacked two high; she hit the top one with enough force to crack it open and send splinters flying everywhere. However, she was already collapsing to absorb most of the impact and rolling forward off to land on the next one. That one merely shivered and threw out dust, but she was still in motion. The two hits, solid as they were, reduced her falling velocity to the point that when she reached the grimy concrete floor, she was able to roll to her feet as part of the move.
Hitting a dead sprint in two strides (she knew damn well she was going to feel those bruises in the morning, but those were the breaks) she drew her pistol but did not fire. She wasn't about to try to hit Lung; even in his unenhanced condition, he still had a Brute rating and a regeneration power that would shrug off low-powered bullets. Shooting him would just be a good way to piss him off with no way of dealing with the consequences. Neither was she shooting at his men, mainly because there were more of them than she had bullets.
However, one resource that he needed and had a limited supply of was car tyres. Unfortunately, while the tyres were clearly visible to her, and would make great targets, the angle was less than ideal for her purpose. One of the many pieces of esoteric information she'd picked up over the course of her (extremely) chequered career was the fact that a bullet-hole in the tread of a car tyre would deflate it far more quickly than one in the sidewall, and she needed deflation now rather than three miles down the road.
The roller-door was still rumbling and squeaking its way up on its runners; she suspected that it had last been greased about the same time as the crates had been stored within the premises. However, it was a large door and its age was telling on it. So far, it was only about two feet off the ground, with an ABB minion standing by the panel, his finger firmly pressed on the 'up' button.
In the next few seconds, the door was going to be high enough for cars to go under and she was still behind the pack, as it were. Without missing a step, she raised her pistol and shot the man at the roller-door. Clutching his shoulder, he let go the button and reeled away to the side; the door stopped, and so did the cars.
This was what she'd wanted, but now she had what she didn't want; the close and personal attention of every person inside the warehouse. Fortunately, she was behind the cars, so they couldn't easily shoot at her, but as heads (and arms, with pistols in hand) popped out of windows, it appeared that they were going to have a damn good try at it.
Crossing over behind the cars, she fired at every tyre she could see a patch of tread on. Most of her shots hit, and the cars began to settle, but it was far too soon to pull out the champagne to celebrate. A veritable fusillade of shots came back toward her, sparking off the concrete and whiffing past to end up who knew where.
She kept moving, sticking to the rear quarter of the cars and maintaining the lowest profile she could manage. Once she'd fired her last shot, she knew it was time to bug out. Besides, some of their shots were coming uncomfortably close.
Swerving abruptly—she didn't want to give them any kind of easy target, after all—she ran between the cars, facing them with the choice of holding fire or potentially shooting each other. Someone began to open a door in front of her, and she vaulted over it without missing a step. Hitting the ground on the full, she ran and dived, rolling under the partially-open roller-door as the ABB goons tried and failed to adjust their aim once again.
As soon as she was clear of the door, she came to her feet without slowing down, and not a moment too soon. While she hadn't exactly forgotten about the four men outside the front of the warehouse, they'd kind of slipped her mind in all the excitement. Which meant she was now facing four more guns, and this time they didn't have the disadvantage of shooting at awkward angles from inside a car to hamper them.
Her best chance was to keep moving; standing still right now was tantamount to suicide. She spun, dodged, threw the tanto at one man and her empty pistol in a flat spin at another's face, and bolted for the surrounding shadows.
Shots sounded, more than from just the two who weren't dealing with her missiles. Some came from within the warehouse, punching out through the thin metal of the roller-door. It didn't matter that they were firing blind; an unaimed bullet could be just as lethal as one carefully placed on target. Abigail just concentrated on getting out of sight.
A hammer-blow to her calf muscle knocked her off-balance, and she hit the ground. One guard was down and bleeding all over the concrete driveway, another was tugging at the tanto that had sunk into his shoulder muscle, while a third sitting on his ass, looking a little concussed. Only the fourth had come through unscathed; he grinned maliciously as he prepared to fire again.
The Mercia man was a blur in the night as he leaped from a rooftop and drove the last one to the ground. Others showed up mere seconds later, securing the other three and checking on their injuries. One knelt by Abigail to check her leg. "How does it feel?" he asked.
"Painful," she admitted. "I'm of a mind that the bone is fine, though."
"I'm thinking the same. Looks like the bullet only went in an inch or so after breaking the skin." He quickly affixed a bandage to it. "That should hold you until Marchioness can look at it. I'm guessing you didn't opt for the full dermal weave?"
"Aye," she agreed. "It felt too confining, so it did. A girl has to be able to move."
"Well, you'll be tap-dancing again in no time." He stood up, helping her to her feet, and nodded toward the roller-door, which was inching upward again. "Here we go."
"Abigail." It was Earl's voice; Abigail looked around to see him, as well as Claire and Robert and Justin, standing at the foot of the driveway. And coming in from all directions, clad in the black long-coats that had become their trademark, pushing ABB members in front of them, were the Mercia.
Kenta
Lung growled impatiently and wrenched open the exit door beside the large roller-door. Simply standing there while it slowly ground its way upward was begging to be ambushed by anyone on the other side. He'd stopped his men from shooting after the first volley through the door, mainly because firing blind was a waste of ammunition. If the woman was gone, she was gone, but he'd had guards outside so they—
He stopped short, staring at the scene that greeted him. Things had definitely gone sideways.
There was a large fresh bloodstain on the cracked concrete apron in front of the warehouse entrance, that looked like it had come from one of the external guards. The guard, plus the other three (in various states of disrepair) were being dealt with off to the side by members of the Mercia. Where the hell did the Mercia come from?
What really got his attention, though, was Marquis, standing front and centre. The bone-clad crime lord was flanked by two men, wearing armour in two entirely different styles, each holding a sword. Behind the trio was a bunch of his own men, kept in check by more Mercia. The woman who had attacked them inside was being treated by Marchioness, but she was no longer his concern.
"Lung!" That one word, from Marquis, crackled with authority. "You wanted me. Here I am."
He felt the heat within his chest as he stepped forward. There was a fight looming, and his power knew it. Already, he felt the subtle hints that he was growing larger. "You're back already?" It was a taunt. "When you faced me just a few hours ago, you fled like a coward."
"I was busy." Marquis met his derision with a dismissive tone. "I didn't have the time or inclination to deal with you properly. Now, I do. Like I said before, are you going to be smart and walk away, or am I going to have to do something you will regret?" Raising his hand, he made a come-at-me gesture.
It was the phrasing that convinced Lung. Marquis had lost face from the earlier draw, so he'd brought all his underlings to try to scare his opponent off this time. The trouble with that tactic was simple.
Lung didn't scare.
Drawing in a deep breath, he let it rumble out of his chest in a rolling plume of smoke. Already, he was as tall as the highest point on Marquis' crown of bone. "The only one who will regret today, bone man, is you."
He couldn't see Marquis' face, but he imagined the man was rolling his eyes in an attempt to look and sound brave. "Big words for a small-time gangster."
The taunt sparked anger inside him. "I fought Leviathan!" he bellowed, raising echoes from nearby buildings.
Marquis didn't budge. "You lost to Leviathan," he corrected Lung. "Kyushu still sank. He won."
Lung's bout against the second Endbringer was a cornerstone of his pride. He'd been trying to cut Marquis down with words before he killed the man for real, but this was something he would not countenance. Letting out a roar of fury, he bore down on Marquis, claws sliding out of his fingertips, ready to rip and tear.
An instant before he reached Marquis, a wall of bone sprang up around the man in a move so smooth it had to be practised. Lung didn't care if he'd rehearsed the trick a thousand times; it might stand up against fire, but it would crumble before his claws. He struck at it, shattering the barrier into a thousand pieces ... but, like a magician's trick, Marquis was no longer there.
Too late, he heard the scraping noise of bone against concrete … from behind him. As he began to turn, a slashing blade took out both his hamstrings. He fell headlong, then twisted to look up at Marquis standing there behind him with a massive bone-bladed weapon, as large as life.
A cowardly attack. I will kill him, or die trying.
"You know, I watched the footage of the fight." Leaning casually on the weapon, Marquis watched him struggle to regain his feet. "What there was of it. And I noticed something interesting."
The sheer amount of rage sleeting through Lung's body pushed his regeneration into overdrive, and he was another foot taller when he stood up once more, his Achilles tendons already healing. "I s'vived that fight!" he roared, his mouth starting to deform and slur his words. "More'n you'll do here!"
"Oh, please," sighed Marquis, leaning aside just far enough to avoid a claw-swipe. "Leviathan let you live. You were making his fight easier, not harder." He spun aside from another blow, then formed the bone walls around himself once more.
Lung wasn't going to be caught unawares like that again. Spinning on the spot, he slashed his claws through where he figured Marquis would re-emerge. The strike was hard, fast, unstoppable ... and it hit nothing but air.
The bone blade, on the other hand, came whistling down past Lung's head, from behind. Lung had just enough time to realise that Marquis hadn't moved before it sliced his right arm off, just below the shoulder. Roaring in agony, he tried to spin around to disembowel his foe, but this time the blade severed the tendons behind his knees. He went down again, harder than before.
"While you were engaging Leviathan," Marquis continued, barely breathing hard yet, "your flame grew so hot nobody could approach. You kept everyone else out of the fight. The only one he had to deal with was you. And you couldn't kill him, or even do enough damage to drive him off. Congratulations. You helped sink Kyushu."
"NO!" thundered Lung, surging to his feet. "YOU LIE!" Not even bothering to grab up his severed arm and trusting in his regeneration to close the requisite blood vessels, he stepped forward but stopped short of weapon reach. Even a dragon could learn something once it was beaten into his skull a few times. Flames wreathing his body, feeling the familiar burn rising in his throat, he reared back and opened his mouth, ready to immolate Marquis with a fireball.
Faster than a striking snake, a needle-tipped bone spike shot from Marquis' hand, flickering in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. It covered the distance to Lung in rather less than the blink of an eye, spearing in through his open mouth. There it formed a plug then split off two branches, one going up and one going down.
Lung clawed frantically at the spike. He couldn't exhale fire with it in place; more importantly, he couldn't breathe. Snapping it off short, he worked his claws into his mouth, trying to get a purchase on the intrusive object. Stabbing pains in both his head and his chest told him that he had very little time to get it right.
And then, he was out of time. His right eye went dark as something erupted from the socket; a moment later, a bone spike bored its way out between two of his ribs, low on the right side of his chest, pushing aside metal scales as it did so. He fought for breath, trying to force some air into his labouring lungs past the blockage in his throat.
Suddenly, the blockage dissolved; he drew a long shuddering breath of air, then coughed mightily to expel the cloud of bone dust from his throat. Not sure what had happened, he was nevertheless not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He fixed his one good eye on his adversary and prepared to attack once more. All he needed was to get one good hit in ...
"Stop." It wasn't the word or the raised hand that stopped him. Rather, it was the sudden feeling of pain as spikes sliced into his heart and lungs, and a disorienting wooziness that threatened to put him on the ground again. He staggered, trying to understand which way was up. His flames flickered and went out.
"Wh ...?" He couldn't figure out how to say more than that.
The disorientation receded. "I have blades digging into your heart, lungs and brain," Marquis informed him crisply. "At any time I choose, I can shred them. Even with your regeneration, you would die. Do you understand? Nod if you do."
After a long pause, more due to having to remember how to nod than from reluctance, Lung nodded.
"Good." Marquis sounded satisfied. "This was never a fight. It was a demonstration of futility. Nod if you understand that, too."
Again, Lung nodded. He could do little else when his adversary literally held Lung's heart in his hand.
"You will disband the ABB," Marquis ordered. "They will cease operations in this city, tonight. You will return the protection payments you've taken. Nod if you understand."
There was no point in not nodding. But Marquis was a fool if he thought a simple nod was enough to force him to adhere to a forced agreement. That money was his, and—
Agony shot through his chest; he lurched and went to his knees.
"And we were getting along so well, too." Marquis shook his head. "It's a bad idea to lie to me. Nod if you understand."
Cautiously, Lung nodded. How did he know I meant to go against him? It seemed that Marquis' inflated reputation wasn't so inflated after all.
"One more time." Marquis' voice was implacable. "You will disband the ABB. They will cease operations in this city, tonight. You will return the protection payments you've taken. Your sex workers will be each given a cash settlement, their belongings returned, and allowed to go where they will. And you will provide information for locating anyone who has been abducted and sold on by the ABB. Nod if you understand."
He knew what that meant. Nodding now would mean truly admitting defeat.
It was only now, far too late, that he began to feel a kind of sympathy for everyone else he'd ever forced this kind of choice upon. He'd been just as demanding, or even more so.
Slowly, haltingly, he began to lever himself to his feet.
He was done. He knew that, now. No matter how hard he went at Marquis, the man had an answer. Strength was met with guile, weakness with strength. With Marquis' powers, he was inside Lung's guard, literally holding his vital organs hostage. Lung couldn't even lie to him; somehow, the man could smell an empty promise.
He could feel the collective gaze of his ABB on his back. They would be wondering what he was going to do, how he was going to get out of this. If he was going to get out of this. They had seen his defeat, his shame, his humiliation. He was no longer greater than them, in their eyes. He had fallen. His mystique was gone, forever shattered. His reputation was in tatters. Lung the Indomitable. Lung, the Dragon of Kyushu. He and his reputation had been almost casually dismantled by Marquis, in front of an audience of his own people.
Worse, now that his power base was gone, no matter where he went, the CUI would be looking for him. They would capture him, and drag him back to China to bend his knee before another unbeatable adversary.
All roads led to ruin.
He coughed, and spat blood on the concrete, then raised his one good eye to Marquis' face. "Fuck you," he rasped. "I will not." I will die on my feet, rather than live on my knees.
Marquis tilted his head slightly. "No?" he asked. The subtext was clear. There's no way back from this.
Lung raised his chin. "No," he affirmed. I know. Do it.
Slowly, Marquis nodded, as though he understood the thought process that had led to this decision. Perhaps he did; he certainly understood the art of war better than Lung ever had. The moment Lung had first decided to act against him had inevitably led to this point in time.
The long-handled axe appeared to be light as a feather in Marquis' hands; Lung barely had time for one last thought.
This is a good death.
End of Part Twenty-Six
Part Twenty-Six: Consequences
[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
PRT ENE Director's Office
Director Piggot
"Hold up a moment, Armsmaster." Emily located a recorder and set it running. "What were Marchioness' words exactly?"
"One second." Armsmaster seemed to concentrate for a second, then nodded fractionally. A recorded voice began to play back, in his own voice.
"Well, I'm not one for puns, but if anyone could be said to have turned the tide, it was you and your … what did you call it again? Mr. Bloom?" There was a brief pause. "Uh … just a question … it can't …"
"Travel?" That was Marchioness. "No, he's very likely going to spend his time soaking up the sunshine in Florida. Now, if someone else threatens Orlando or the local area with large-scale destruction, he might wake up again and deal with it, but I can pretty well guarantee he's never going to show up in Brockton Bay."
The recording stopped, and he nodded to Emily.
She pressed STOP on the recorder. "And that was all she had to say about it?"
Slowly, he rubbed his chin. "She did mention that the plant entity could theoretically get into contact with her if it really needed to, but that was about it."
"Alright then." She suppressed a shudder. The footage of this … Mr Bloom … standing up and hurling Leviathan out of sight was only made more terrifying when it lay down again … and utterly vanished. Within seconds, there was no trace that it had ever existed. Then and there, she resolved never to visit Florida. "Just one more thing to cover."
"Yes, ma'am?" Armsmaster's tone never shifted, but she was reasonably sure he knew exactly what she wanted to ask.
"The origin of this creature. Do you think it might be something that was there before but was only woken up by Leviathan's attack? Or a cape, Triggered by Leviathan? Or …" She grimaced, not wanting to even air this concept, but knowing it was something she had to do. "… did Marchioness create it?"
"Before we even get into this," Armsmaster said carefully, "I want to make a few points. First: Marchioness has never done anything like this before, anywhere in Brockton Bay."
"That we know of," Emily countered grimly. "Roots go underground as a matter of course. Could she have done something like it, here?"
He shrugged. "Theoretically, sure. Realistically? I sincerely doubt it. Healing is a long, long way from creating an entire sapient plant-based entity. It's a considerable jump from one to the other. Second: Marchioness was busy for almost the entire time she was down there. Locators for the armbands indicate that she never left Marquis' side. And for a lot of the time, she was healing the casualties of the battle."
Her lips tightened. "Which was specifically the duty she'd already said she would carry out. We all know she's only doing it because that keeps her and Marquis out of the hands of the PRT or the Protectorate."
"I think you do her a disservice, ma'am." Although she was nominally his superior, his censorious tone was impossible to miss. "She and her contingent went above and beyond. Purity—I mean, Palatina—was right there in the middle of the fight, handing out the damage as hard as she could. The only cape deaths were the ones Leviathan deliberately killed on the spot. I saw members of the Mercia literally diving into tsunamis to rescue injured people … and succeeding. Cooperating to lift rubble in the ton-weight range while Legionnaire's ghosts dragged people to safety."
"You admire them," she said flatly. "You admire what they've done."
"Not for the fact that they're villains," he countered. "But because they showed up despite being villains, did what they said they were going to do, and did it damned efficiently. Did you know, Marquis even equipped them with pony bottles of air before they went down to Florida? Five minutes isn't much, but it can be a life-saver when you're trapped underwater."
Emily wasn't an idiot. She could read the room. Armsmaster wasn't about to think the worst of Marquis and Marchioness, even with this alarming new development to worry about. "Understood," she conceded. "So what's your personal view on the origin of this Mr Bloom, and what we should do about it? Because you know I'll have Director Lane of Forty-Four and Stackpole of Fifty-One asking me some tough questions, and that's not even counting the Chief Director." PRT Department 44 was based in Miami and 51 in Tampa, and she wasn't certain which one would try to pull jurisdiction over Orlando.
"I don't believe we can do anything meaningful about it, ma'am," he said bluntly. "From what Marchioness described to me, the thing is a vast plant-based distributed intelligence. The very most we could manage against it would be to mildly annoy it, and cause it to contact Marchioness and Marquis for assistance. If we leave it alone, it will leave us alone."
The subtext may as well have had a neon light flashing next to it. We do not want to annoy Marquis and Marchioness. Emily could kind of understand the reasoning, but at the same time it rankled her on several levels that she couldn't do anything about it.
"Very well," she said. "Dismissed. I'll await your full report on the matter."
Pretending to relax, she leaned back in her chair and watched him leave the office. The door closed, which allowed her to shut her eyes and massage her temples with her fingertips. Okay, how the fuck do I handle this?
The answer was as obvious as it was unpalatable. Put it on the pile with the rest of the shit, and deal with problems as they come up. A long sigh left her lungs. Same old, same old.
At least we don't have anything like that here in Brockton Bay.
She didn't know that for a fact, but she could certainly pretend.
<><>
Marchioness
"All right, then." Earl looked at the map of the city which was already spread over the table. "Lung has made his move. He failed, due to Abigail and Marcus, but he needs to learn just how bad a mistake that was. We are taking the fight to him. Or rather, I am taking the fight to him."
"Wait, you're going to take him on alone?" Justin blinked as everyone turned to look at him. "I mean, that's … he's dangerous. He fought Leviathan, for crying out loud. Nobody can take him one-on-one."
"That's what he's led everyone to believe," Earl said firmly. "And that's what he believes himself. I'm going to put that to the test."
Claire took a deep breath and stepped up alongside him. "I'm coming, too."
Earl nodded. "Yes, you are, but not to fight Lung. You're going to have a different job, one that's just as important."
When her father spoke in that tone of voice, she knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, she was interested in what role he had in mind for her. "Which is …?"
Resting his knuckles on the table, Earl looked around at the assembled group. "We will be sweeping through ABB territory. The Mercia will be tasked with locating and subduing Lung's men and women, and bringing them to Claire. She will, in turn, be 'persuading' them to abandon Lung's cause. All but two of you will be backing up the Mercia, and helping dig the ABB out of their hidey-holes."
Abigail tilted her head. "All but two? Earl, darlin', I had no stomach to fight a monster, but you cannot be leaving me out of this battle as well."
This time, he chuckled. "And I never intended you to. I will welcome you into our ranks for this. No, the two who aren't coming along will be Kayden and Marcus."
The two thus named stared at each other, then at Earl. Marcus went to speak first, then paused and ceded the floor to Kayden.
"Why?" she asked bluntly. "Is it because I nearly died? I'm fine now. Claire healed me up."
"Yes, you're fine," he conceded. "But how are your power reserves? You once told me that Claire couldn't refill those, and you ran yourself dry today."
"I have some," she protested. "There was sunlight after Leviathan went away, and after we got back here."
He shook his head. "Not enough. This fight is likely to last into the night, and I will not have you going into harm's way with just vapor in the tank. Please, sit this one out."
"Argh." She clenched her fists. "I hate it when you're reasonable like that. Okay, fine, but the moment this meeting's over, I'll be sunbathing on the roof. Just in case."
"And I would have it no other way." He looked at his young clone. "Marcus, you had a question?"
"Yeah." Marcus grimaced. "Am I being sidelined because I screwed up? Is this some kind of punishment?"
"What? No." Earl shook his head. "Yes, you made mistakes. Everyone does. It's part of the learning curve. But you survived, and you're the wiser for it. No, this isn't a punishment. This is so that Lung continues to believe he's only ever faced me."
Marcus blinked. "Oh … oh. Oh, I see. He'll think you're off your game, and he'll get all overconfident."
"More overconfident, but yes." Earl smiled dryly. "There is a saying to the effect that one should never interrupt one's enemy while they are making a mistake. I prefer to ensure that they make the mistake in the first place; that way, I know exactly when and where it's going to happen. And because he's made an incorrect assumption due to your actions …"
Abigail let out a bark of laughter and slapped the table. "An' that's the Earl Marchant from the old days, sure enough. Never let an opportunity slip by, do ye?"
"I wouldn't be the businessman I am if I did." He leaned over the map. "Now, we'll do our best to contain them within their territory. Claire will drive through the middle with Justin's ghosts ranging ahead for scouting purposes. Robert will maintain this pincer arm, Abigail will take the other side, and Jonas will provide the lid on the bottle. I will remain with Claire and Justin until Lung is spotted, then the rest of you keep the rank and file honest while I engage him."
Claire listened as her father laid the plan out. It was simple and elegant, making use of prominent streets for advancement directions. "You've had this in mind for a while, haven't you?" she asked suspiciously.
He nodded. "Just because it wasn't the time to remove Lung from the board didn't mean I couldn't plan for it. Do you believe you're up to the task of taking away his power base?"
By which he meant removing the loyalty to Lung while leaving the rest of the mind intact. "Absolutely." She'd had plenty of practice, after all.
"Good." He dusted off his hands. "Let's get to it, then."
<><>
Legionnaire
It was weird having so many points of view, but Justin could handle it. None of the ghosts gave him a detailed view of what was around it—the fewer, the better—but he was able to scout out the buildings surrounding him as he advanced down the street with his detachment of Mercia. Instead of the plate armour and spear of Crusader, he wore a basic idea of what a Roman soldier would have, and carried a shortsword. Behind him, almost as though they were out for an evening stroll, came Marquis and Marchioness.
One of the ghosts entered a room containing people—at least, he figured they were people instead of furniture when they jumped up and started attacking the ghost—so he pointed. "Three," he said. Three of the Mercia broke off from the group and ran toward the building. They didn't bother with the front door or even the fire escape, instead choosing to scale the frontage using a level of parkour he wasn't sure was humanly possible.
When they entered the room, his ghost stood back to block the door. The Mercia were very good at what they did, but their job was much easier if the prospective targets couldn't get away. The fight, if he could call it one, was over in seconds; afterward, the Mercia dragged the subdued ABB members down the stairs in the same manner as an exasperated adult returning a stubborn child to bed.
Marchioness went to meet them, the Mercia flanking her to deter snipers. She was basically bulletproof, but why tempt fate? She went from one to the next, briefly laying her hand on their foreheads. Once she was done with them, she stepped back and they were released.
"Wh-what—?" stammered one.
"Go," she ordered. "Back to your families. Lung's reign ends tonight."
They didn't need telling twice. All three scrambled to their feet and bolted in different directions. Marchioness nodded to Marquis, and they resumed their advance.
"Incoming," Justin warned as one of his perimeter ghosts watched a bunch of figures run by. "Seven Mercia, with passengers, from Knight Errant."
It never failed to amaze him just how much Marchioness could improve the base human condition. He himself was far more durable than he had been before joining up with Marquis, but these guys were basically inhuman. During the Leviathan fight, he'd watched them running at street speeds over flooded terrain, bringing downed capes in for healing. Impressive as hell, and just one more reason why he was so damn glad he'd chosen to join when he did.
The Mercia dashed into sight a moment later, zip-cuffed prisoners slung over their shoulders. They paused to dump the ABB on the sidewalk, then reversed course and headed back the way they'd come. Justin kept a lookout with his ghosts as Marchioness moved to deal with the latest delivery; any potential ambush would likely fail horribly, but there was no sense in taking chances.
<><>
Abigail
Now, this is the life.
Eyes peeled for ABB markings, Abigail ran the rooftops alongside the Mercia, grinning in the cool evening air as she matched them step for step and leap for leap. Her power enhanced her body and turned her into every athlete's impossible dream, but it seemed her little Claire acushla had learned how to do the same with Earl's own men.
Already they'd flushed out and sent several of Lung's finest over to Claire for 'persuasion', as Abigail chose to call it. It was a valid tactic; they had neither the means nor the desire for keeping prisoners long-term. All they really wanted to do was bleed Lung of his men with as little in the way of harm to innocents as possible. If Marquis was to be taking this territory, then it was never too early to begin fostering goodwill.
"Fifteen to Beltane." That was the radios they all carried, with earpieces so that nobody had to fumble with them while running. "Found a warehouse with markings, and guards outside. Looks like a gathering place. Grid thirty-two-A."
"Beltane to Fifteen, on my way." She looked around, trying to recall which way that grid square lay; the Mercia to her right pointed. "Beltane to Marquis; 'tis running him to ground we might be doing. I'll be keepin' ye posted."
"Understood. Take care." And that was the man all over. He said what he meant, and meant what he said.
"Roger, copy an' all that military jazz." She let go the earpiece button, and leaped from the rooftop. Twisting in a way that would've been impossible before she got her powers, she caught a streetlight and swung off it, then stuck the landing on the wall of the building across the narrow roadway.
Without so much as a pause, she swarmed to the roof of the new building, sprinted across the flat surface, and cleared the dividing alleyway with never a qualm. In her element now, she headed toward the location she'd been given, instinctively mapping out her path before she ever got to it. To her, a rooftop was a runway, a parapet was a springboard, and an irregularity in the brickwork was an open invitation saying, "climb here!".
When the warehouse came in sight, she saw at once why Fifteen had considered it significant. The prominent ABB gang tags on the outside might have been an indicator, but the four armed men standing out at the front sealed the deal. There was something going on inside, something she wanted to see.
She was a shadow in the night, a whisper on the wind. Fast as a thought, smoother than oiled silk, she jumped from rooftop to rooftop until she reached the last gap. Too wide to leap across, it was bridged by a single power cable. Below was unyielding concrete and armed guards; before her, the resolution of her curiosity.
Pfft, she told herself. Who wants to live forever, anyway?
For all the bravado of her thoughts, she was cat-cautious with her foot placement. She advanced across the open gap, allowing the cable to impress itself on her soles through the thin shoes she wore, the better to gauge her balance. It was well that darkness had advanced sufficiently for her not to be silhouetted against the sky above; should one of the guards see her, she would make a fine target.
Finally, she reached the roof of the warehouse. Moving as silently as she was able, she sidled up to where a skylight promised visibility of what transpired below. The promise turned out to be a lie, as the glass was grimy from exposure to decades of Brockton Bay pollution, but she had other options.
Abigail generally carried little on her person during her forays, the more to keep her hands free and limbs unencumbered during a tight spot. The wrist-wallet containing a selection of lockpicks she left alone; the rusted-shut lock on the skylight needed a little more than that kind of finesse. Conversely, the pistol she carried holstered in the small of her back would count as overkill in this case.
However, the small pry-bar she kept strapped to her right thigh and the tanto blade sheathed to her left, promised to be much more useful. She'd selected the tanto for its strength and durability, as well as its ease of maintenance. While she could use it to stab people (and had done exactly that, more than once) to her that was more of a useful secondary function.
Wedging the pry-bar under the skylight, she applied leverage until the aged wood creaked and a wide enough gap opened to slide the tanto in until its triangular point was nestling against the locking mechanism. Then she extricated the pry-bar, spun it end for end in her hand, and thwacked it against the pommel of the tanto, somewhat like a hammer with a chisel. Or rather, in this case, exactly like a hammer with a chisel; there was a muted crack as the tanto smashed through the rusted metal, destroying the integrity of the lock and releasing the skylight.
She paused for a long moment, listening for shouts of alarm or the drumming of running feet. None came, so she eased the skylight open—requiring the use of the pry-bar for the first few inches, until the hinges got the idea of what they were meant for again—and peered within.
There stood Lung, along with about a dozen of his men, clustered around a selection of cars. Nobody was looking up, which didn't overly surprise her. In a building this old, creaks and cracks had to happen all the time when they settled.
"Beltane to Marquis, 'tis Lung himself I'm lookin' at," she murmured into her radio mic. "Larger than life an' three times as ugly."
"Marquis to Beltane, just to verify. You have positive identification of Lung at grid thirty-two-A." Earl's voice was intent and focused.
"Aye, to be sure an' all," she said. "I'd know that ink anywhere, an' the mask is still dented from when I smacked the great lummox with your car."
"Good. We're on our way. Keep me posted. Guardsman, Knight-Errant, start pushing in toward thirty-two-A."
Abigail tuned out the responses, focusing her attention more on what was happening below. Between his accent and the rumbling tones of his voice, his words were hard to make out, especially within the echoing confines of the warehouse. But his body language told a story she was able to read.
He was active but not agitated, indicating that he knew something was going on, but not the extent to which Marquis' forces had already depleted his reserves. From the movements of his hands, he intended to take action against someone else, and it wasn't hard to figure out who. The Empire Eighty-Eight was a spent force within the city, and the Merchants had vanished once Earl had decided to remove them.
That left Marquis and the Mercia.
"Beltane to Marquis," she said, a little more urgently than before. "If I'm not much mistakin' his purpose, Lung has a mind to invade your turf an' commence the murder until you show, an' this time end you for good an' all." As she watched, the ABB members started toward the cars. "An' it's due to happen now." She came to an abrupt decision. "I'll be delayin' 'em, howevermuch I can."
"Beltane, no!" Earl's voice was sharp. "We'll be there in minutes. Don't put yourself in harm's way."
"Last I checked, 'twas not the boss of me that ye were." Abigail slithered in through the gap in the open skylight. "Free agent an' all that. Catch ye when ye get here."
There were no rafters directly below the skylight, but a catwalk ran past a few yards to the side and down, but the trouble was, it was on the hinge side. Well, no matter. Catching the edge of the opening with her fingertips, she swung forward and backward once then performed a backward flip-and-twist that let her snag the catwalk with one hand.
Hanging there for a moment, she glanced back over her shoulder. Car doors slammed, and the first engine started. The large roller-door at the front of the warehouse began to rumble upward, opening the way for them to leave.
There was no time to scramble onto the catwalk proper, and find the stairs down. Looking downward, she spotted a stack of ancient crates that had probably been mouldering there since the days when this warehouse had been part of a going concern. From the looks of it, sometime in the first century BC.
Grabbing the catwalk with her other hand, Abigail swung back and forward again. When she released her grip, she was heading for the wall of the warehouse. She performed another flip-and-twist before she hit it, kicking off with her heels to redirect her momentum.
The crates were stacked two high; she hit the top one with enough force to crack it open and send splinters flying everywhere. However, she was already collapsing to absorb most of the impact and rolling forward off to land on the next one. That one merely shivered and threw out dust, but she was still in motion. The two hits, solid as they were, reduced her falling velocity to the point that when she reached the grimy concrete floor, she was able to roll to her feet as part of the move.
Hitting a dead sprint in two strides (she knew damn well she was going to feel those bruises in the morning, but those were the breaks) she drew her pistol but did not fire. She wasn't about to try to hit Lung; even in his unenhanced condition, he still had a Brute rating and a regeneration power that would shrug off low-powered bullets. Shooting him would just be a good way to piss him off with no way of dealing with the consequences. Neither was she shooting at his men, mainly because there were more of them than she had bullets.
However, one resource that he needed and had a limited supply of was car tyres. Unfortunately, while the tyres were clearly visible to her, and would make great targets, the angle was less than ideal for her purpose. One of the many pieces of esoteric information she'd picked up over the course of her (extremely) chequered career was the fact that a bullet-hole in the tread of a car tyre would deflate it far more quickly than one in the sidewall, and she needed deflation now rather than three miles down the road.
The roller-door was still rumbling and squeaking its way up on its runners; she suspected that it had last been greased about the same time as the crates had been stored within the premises. However, it was a large door and its age was telling on it. So far, it was only about two feet off the ground, with an ABB minion standing by the panel, his finger firmly pressed on the 'up' button.
In the next few seconds, the door was going to be high enough for cars to go under and she was still behind the pack, as it were. Without missing a step, she raised her pistol and shot the man at the roller-door. Clutching his shoulder, he let go the button and reeled away to the side; the door stopped, and so did the cars.
This was what she'd wanted, but now she had what she didn't want; the close and personal attention of every person inside the warehouse. Fortunately, she was behind the cars, so they couldn't easily shoot at her, but as heads (and arms, with pistols in hand) popped out of windows, it appeared that they were going to have a damn good try at it.
Crossing over behind the cars, she fired at every tyre she could see a patch of tread on. Most of her shots hit, and the cars began to settle, but it was far too soon to pull out the champagne to celebrate. A veritable fusillade of shots came back toward her, sparking off the concrete and whiffing past to end up who knew where.
She kept moving, sticking to the rear quarter of the cars and maintaining the lowest profile she could manage. Once she'd fired her last shot, she knew it was time to bug out. Besides, some of their shots were coming uncomfortably close.
Swerving abruptly—she didn't want to give them any kind of easy target, after all—she ran between the cars, facing them with the choice of holding fire or potentially shooting each other. Someone began to open a door in front of her, and she vaulted over it without missing a step. Hitting the ground on the full, she ran and dived, rolling under the partially-open roller-door as the ABB goons tried and failed to adjust their aim once again.
As soon as she was clear of the door, she came to her feet without slowing down, and not a moment too soon. While she hadn't exactly forgotten about the four men outside the front of the warehouse, they'd kind of slipped her mind in all the excitement. Which meant she was now facing four more guns, and this time they didn't have the disadvantage of shooting at awkward angles from inside a car to hamper them.
Her best chance was to keep moving; standing still right now was tantamount to suicide. She spun, dodged, threw the tanto at one man and her empty pistol in a flat spin at another's face, and bolted for the surrounding shadows.
Shots sounded, more than from just the two who weren't dealing with her missiles. Some came from within the warehouse, punching out through the thin metal of the roller-door. It didn't matter that they were firing blind; an unaimed bullet could be just as lethal as one carefully placed on target. Abigail just concentrated on getting out of sight.
A hammer-blow to her calf muscle knocked her off-balance, and she hit the ground. One guard was down and bleeding all over the concrete driveway, another was tugging at the tanto that had sunk into his shoulder muscle, while a third sitting on his ass, looking a little concussed. Only the fourth had come through unscathed; he grinned maliciously as he prepared to fire again.
The Mercia man was a blur in the night as he leaped from a rooftop and drove the last one to the ground. Others showed up mere seconds later, securing the other three and checking on their injuries. One knelt by Abigail to check her leg. "How does it feel?" he asked.
"Painful," she admitted. "I'm of a mind that the bone is fine, though."
"I'm thinking the same. Looks like the bullet only went in an inch or so after breaking the skin." He quickly affixed a bandage to it. "That should hold you until Marchioness can look at it. I'm guessing you didn't opt for the full dermal weave?"
"Aye," she agreed. "It felt too confining, so it did. A girl has to be able to move."
"Well, you'll be tap-dancing again in no time." He stood up, helping her to her feet, and nodded toward the roller-door, which was inching upward again. "Here we go."
"Abigail." It was Earl's voice; Abigail looked around to see him, as well as Claire and Robert and Justin, standing at the foot of the driveway. And coming in from all directions, clad in the black long-coats that had become their trademark, pushing ABB members in front of them, were the Mercia.
<><>
Kenta
Lung growled impatiently and wrenched open the exit door beside the large roller-door. Simply standing there while it slowly ground its way upward was begging to be ambushed by anyone on the other side. He'd stopped his men from shooting after the first volley through the door, mainly because firing blind was a waste of ammunition. If the woman was gone, she was gone, but he'd had guards outside so they—
He stopped short, staring at the scene that greeted him. Things had definitely gone sideways.
There was a large fresh bloodstain on the cracked concrete apron in front of the warehouse entrance, that looked like it had come from one of the external guards. The guard, plus the other three (in various states of disrepair) were being dealt with off to the side by members of the Mercia. Where the hell did the Mercia come from?
What really got his attention, though, was Marquis, standing front and centre. The bone-clad crime lord was flanked by two men, wearing armour in two entirely different styles, each holding a sword. Behind the trio was a bunch of his own men, kept in check by more Mercia. The woman who had attacked them inside was being treated by Marchioness, but she was no longer his concern.
"Lung!" That one word, from Marquis, crackled with authority. "You wanted me. Here I am."
He felt the heat within his chest as he stepped forward. There was a fight looming, and his power knew it. Already, he felt the subtle hints that he was growing larger. "You're back already?" It was a taunt. "When you faced me just a few hours ago, you fled like a coward."
"I was busy." Marquis met his derision with a dismissive tone. "I didn't have the time or inclination to deal with you properly. Now, I do. Like I said before, are you going to be smart and walk away, or am I going to have to do something you will regret?" Raising his hand, he made a come-at-me gesture.
It was the phrasing that convinced Lung. Marquis had lost face from the earlier draw, so he'd brought all his underlings to try to scare his opponent off this time. The trouble with that tactic was simple.
Lung didn't scare.
Drawing in a deep breath, he let it rumble out of his chest in a rolling plume of smoke. Already, he was as tall as the highest point on Marquis' crown of bone. "The only one who will regret today, bone man, is you."
He couldn't see Marquis' face, but he imagined the man was rolling his eyes in an attempt to look and sound brave. "Big words for a small-time gangster."
The taunt sparked anger inside him. "I fought Leviathan!" he bellowed, raising echoes from nearby buildings.
Marquis didn't budge. "You lost to Leviathan," he corrected Lung. "Kyushu still sank. He won."
Lung's bout against the second Endbringer was a cornerstone of his pride. He'd been trying to cut Marquis down with words before he killed the man for real, but this was something he would not countenance. Letting out a roar of fury, he bore down on Marquis, claws sliding out of his fingertips, ready to rip and tear.
An instant before he reached Marquis, a wall of bone sprang up around the man in a move so smooth it had to be practised. Lung didn't care if he'd rehearsed the trick a thousand times; it might stand up against fire, but it would crumble before his claws. He struck at it, shattering the barrier into a thousand pieces ... but, like a magician's trick, Marquis was no longer there.
Too late, he heard the scraping noise of bone against concrete … from behind him. As he began to turn, a slashing blade took out both his hamstrings. He fell headlong, then twisted to look up at Marquis standing there behind him with a massive bone-bladed weapon, as large as life.
A cowardly attack. I will kill him, or die trying.
"You know, I watched the footage of the fight." Leaning casually on the weapon, Marquis watched him struggle to regain his feet. "What there was of it. And I noticed something interesting."
The sheer amount of rage sleeting through Lung's body pushed his regeneration into overdrive, and he was another foot taller when he stood up once more, his Achilles tendons already healing. "I s'vived that fight!" he roared, his mouth starting to deform and slur his words. "More'n you'll do here!"
"Oh, please," sighed Marquis, leaning aside just far enough to avoid a claw-swipe. "Leviathan let you live. You were making his fight easier, not harder." He spun aside from another blow, then formed the bone walls around himself once more.
Lung wasn't going to be caught unawares like that again. Spinning on the spot, he slashed his claws through where he figured Marquis would re-emerge. The strike was hard, fast, unstoppable ... and it hit nothing but air.
The bone blade, on the other hand, came whistling down past Lung's head, from behind. Lung had just enough time to realise that Marquis hadn't moved before it sliced his right arm off, just below the shoulder. Roaring in agony, he tried to spin around to disembowel his foe, but this time the blade severed the tendons behind his knees. He went down again, harder than before.
"While you were engaging Leviathan," Marquis continued, barely breathing hard yet, "your flame grew so hot nobody could approach. You kept everyone else out of the fight. The only one he had to deal with was you. And you couldn't kill him, or even do enough damage to drive him off. Congratulations. You helped sink Kyushu."
"NO!" thundered Lung, surging to his feet. "YOU LIE!" Not even bothering to grab up his severed arm and trusting in his regeneration to close the requisite blood vessels, he stepped forward but stopped short of weapon reach. Even a dragon could learn something once it was beaten into his skull a few times. Flames wreathing his body, feeling the familiar burn rising in his throat, he reared back and opened his mouth, ready to immolate Marquis with a fireball.
Faster than a striking snake, a needle-tipped bone spike shot from Marquis' hand, flickering in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. It covered the distance to Lung in rather less than the blink of an eye, spearing in through his open mouth. There it formed a plug then split off two branches, one going up and one going down.
Lung clawed frantically at the spike. He couldn't exhale fire with it in place; more importantly, he couldn't breathe. Snapping it off short, he worked his claws into his mouth, trying to get a purchase on the intrusive object. Stabbing pains in both his head and his chest told him that he had very little time to get it right.
And then, he was out of time. His right eye went dark as something erupted from the socket; a moment later, a bone spike bored its way out between two of his ribs, low on the right side of his chest, pushing aside metal scales as it did so. He fought for breath, trying to force some air into his labouring lungs past the blockage in his throat.
Suddenly, the blockage dissolved; he drew a long shuddering breath of air, then coughed mightily to expel the cloud of bone dust from his throat. Not sure what had happened, he was nevertheless not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He fixed his one good eye on his adversary and prepared to attack once more. All he needed was to get one good hit in ...
"Stop." It wasn't the word or the raised hand that stopped him. Rather, it was the sudden feeling of pain as spikes sliced into his heart and lungs, and a disorienting wooziness that threatened to put him on the ground again. He staggered, trying to understand which way was up. His flames flickered and went out.
"Wh ...?" He couldn't figure out how to say more than that.
The disorientation receded. "I have blades digging into your heart, lungs and brain," Marquis informed him crisply. "At any time I choose, I can shred them. Even with your regeneration, you would die. Do you understand? Nod if you do."
After a long pause, more due to having to remember how to nod than from reluctance, Lung nodded.
"Good." Marquis sounded satisfied. "This was never a fight. It was a demonstration of futility. Nod if you understand that, too."
Again, Lung nodded. He could do little else when his adversary literally held Lung's heart in his hand.
"You will disband the ABB," Marquis ordered. "They will cease operations in this city, tonight. You will return the protection payments you've taken. Nod if you understand."
There was no point in not nodding. But Marquis was a fool if he thought a simple nod was enough to force him to adhere to a forced agreement. That money was his, and—
Agony shot through his chest; he lurched and went to his knees.
"And we were getting along so well, too." Marquis shook his head. "It's a bad idea to lie to me. Nod if you understand."
Cautiously, Lung nodded. How did he know I meant to go against him? It seemed that Marquis' inflated reputation wasn't so inflated after all.
"One more time." Marquis' voice was implacable. "You will disband the ABB. They will cease operations in this city, tonight. You will return the protection payments you've taken. Your sex workers will be each given a cash settlement, their belongings returned, and allowed to go where they will. And you will provide information for locating anyone who has been abducted and sold on by the ABB. Nod if you understand."
He knew what that meant. Nodding now would mean truly admitting defeat.
It was only now, far too late, that he began to feel a kind of sympathy for everyone else he'd ever forced this kind of choice upon. He'd been just as demanding, or even more so.
Slowly, haltingly, he began to lever himself to his feet.
He was done. He knew that, now. No matter how hard he went at Marquis, the man had an answer. Strength was met with guile, weakness with strength. With Marquis' powers, he was inside Lung's guard, literally holding his vital organs hostage. Lung couldn't even lie to him; somehow, the man could smell an empty promise.
He could feel the collective gaze of his ABB on his back. They would be wondering what he was going to do, how he was going to get out of this. If he was going to get out of this. They had seen his defeat, his shame, his humiliation. He was no longer greater than them, in their eyes. He had fallen. His mystique was gone, forever shattered. His reputation was in tatters. Lung the Indomitable. Lung, the Dragon of Kyushu. He and his reputation had been almost casually dismantled by Marquis, in front of an audience of his own people.
Worse, now that his power base was gone, no matter where he went, the CUI would be looking for him. They would capture him, and drag him back to China to bend his knee before another unbeatable adversary.
All roads led to ruin.
He coughed, and spat blood on the concrete, then raised his one good eye to Marquis' face. "Fuck you," he rasped. "I will not." I will die on my feet, rather than live on my knees.
Marquis tilted his head slightly. "No?" he asked. The subtext was clear. There's no way back from this.
Lung raised his chin. "No," he affirmed. I know. Do it.
Slowly, Marquis nodded, as though he understood the thought process that had led to this decision. Perhaps he did; he certainly understood the art of war better than Lung ever had. The moment Lung had first decided to act against him had inevitably led to this point in time.
The long-handled axe appeared to be light as a feather in Marquis' hands; Lung barely had time for one last thought.
This is a good death.
End of Part Twenty-Six